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It didn’t take Sansa long to realise that things would not be as she hoped.

Being back at Winterfell, returning to her home, was meant to be better, a respite from all she endured.

The still bleeding wounds of of heart from the losses of her father, her mother, her brothers, from Ayra and Jon, though she still kept hope her sister was out there somewhere. Those ever bleeding wounds would be balmed once she was ensconced within the high walls of her childhood home. Once she was within the safety she had so foolishly left so long ago.

Even the indignity and shame of being brought into the care of those who murdered Robb and her mother, those who broke faith with House Stark, those who committed treason against their King, it was a price she would have paid if it meant being safe in Winterfell’s walls once more.

Besides Littlefinger was sure that Stannis was on his way, she wouldn’t actually have to marry Ramsay.

But Littlefinger had left Winterfell, along with all the guards and knights who’d escorted them both North.

In another story this would have been a moment of triumph, or a moment of relief at least. She was no longer trapped under Littlefinger’s calculating looks and lingering gazes. She no longer had to suppress a flinch when a whispered ‘Cat’ reached her ears in the dead of the night. There was no more Sweetrobin to placate and manage all the time trying to keep her cousin away from Littlefinger as she wore the skin of Alayne. There was no more Harry the heir, she was no longer in the Vale.

She was home.

The red and pink banners of the flayed man fluttered in the wind.

She was in the castle that had once been the heart of her family.

It had once been the heart of the North.

Perhaps it still was.

But it didn’t feel as it once did to Sansa.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Her father’s words echoed in her head, she didn’t know how long it had been since her kin last walked these halls, since they had all broken that promise, though perhaps she had been the first to.

In any other story there would be cause to rejoice, the princess had been freed from her captors, she had been brought home and an army was said to be on the way to deliver her justice.

But this wasn’t any other story, it was Sansa Stark’s story.

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She hadn’t expected the wedding to come so quickly.

It was foolish of her.

She was the key to the North.

The Boltons wouldn’t risk her slipping through their fingers, she imagined her disappearance from the capital after Joffrey’s death had long since reached them, by then.

They would want to learn from the Lannisters mistakes.

That had been more than proven, Sansa was acutely aware as she lay prone in what had once been Robb’s chambers, what had once been Robb’s bed.

She didn’t dare move, save for breathing, she did not dare even cry or attempt to cover herself, lest she wake the body beside her.

She was a woman wedded and bedded now.

Something she had dreamed of once, before her eyes had been opened to the truth of such things. The same foolish girl who dreamt of crowns, and court, and golden haired babies.

Before she knew intimately the kiss of violence and the touch of pain.

Her marriage could not be annulled now.

The bloody sheets beneath her would be paraded as proof of the legitimacy of the union, proof of her shame.

The idea almost made Sansa want to laugh.

Even if the marriage hadn’t been consummated who would annul it for her?

Cersei would be all to happy to hear news of her now, or perhaps she would try and force Roose Bolton to move her and Ramsay to the Dreadfort, if she didn’t think it better to add Sansa to rumoured collection of Stark skins kept in the Dreadfort.

Stannis would have no reason to help her, for all anyone knew she had willingly returned to Winterfell and tied herself to the Boltons. Even if she was given the chance to plead her case, Stannis considered himself to be the rightful king of all Seven Kingdoms, to the point of kinslaying if the rumours were true, and she was, King in the North, Robb Stark’s sister.

Perhaps if she were able to get before Tommen and plead her case, he would grant her the mercy of an annulment, he’d always been a sweet boy and she’d always been kind to him, but that would require Cersei, and the Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard not to execute her the moment she showed her face in the Capital.

And the King in the North was dead.

So no, even if the marriage hadn’t been consummated, Sansa knew there was no chance for an annulment.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t even know how legitimate the marriage was. Was Lord Tyrion dead? Surely he must be for her to be remarried, but had there ever been any confirmation?

She and Ramsay Snow Bolton were bound till death in the eyes of the Old Gods.

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Winterfell was both like and unlike how she remembered it, from a distance it seemed unchanged, it stood as it had for eight thousand years, but once she really looked the changes made the castle almost unrecognisable. Winterfell hadn’t been repaired from the Ironborn sacking, or perhaps some of the damage came from the Boltons taking her home from the Ironborn, it was burnt stone and broken windows and walkways all the same.

The glass gardens, what had once been Sansa’s favourite part of her home, a paradise all of her own, hadn’t survived either, nor had anyone bothered to rebuild them. She couldn’t decide how she felt about it, on one hand it was a part of her home that she wouldn’t have to share with her captors even if they only existed now in her head. But even the foolish girl that had all but run from Winterfell knew the importance of the glass gardens especially now winter was almost here.

Lord Roose seemed to expect her act the perfect Lady Wife to his son while in public, or perhaps the perfect hostage, Sansa didn’t think he saw much difference between the two in his eyes. Fat Walda wanted a friend, or vapid companion for her, someone to live in the same world of delusion as she, blind to the real world. Those roles at least didn’t interfere with each other much, in fact the perfect courteous wife, the stupid little bird were familiar skins for her to don. A perfect porcelain smile melded to her face whenever she left Robb’s her rooms, Lord Roose preferred for her and Fat Walda not to speak during mealtimes, the only real time she was in his presence, it was an unexpected boon for Sansa. She certainly preferred it to the hours spent in Fat Walda’s company where bell like laughter and bird song would spill from her lips like a fountain.

Still, Lord Roose and Fat Walda, she could endure.

But Ramsay didn’t want a Lady Wife or a stupid friend, Ramsay wanted a plaything, and like any undisciplined child, he would tear his toy at the seams and rip all the stuffing out and he wouldn’t realise he no longer had a toy to play with until it was already gone.

Ramsay preferred to terrorise her nights, that was when he was able to get her all to himself but that didn’t stop him from taking his delights during the days if it so struck his fancy, or if he was bored of the kennel master’s daughter.

There was no place Sansa could go and not have eyes on her be it from the Bolton guards that manned every gate and hallway, her new husband and goodfamily, or the castle staff. Those who looked at her with everything from contempt to pity. But there was one place where the gazes didn’t weigh so heavily on her, where only one pair of eyes looked upon her, the godswood. Fat Walda kept the new gods, Lord Roose didn’t pray and Ramsay knew no gods, none of the servants would dare interrupt her time at prayer, thus the godswood became the closest Sansa would ever get to solitude. It wasn’t freedom or even peace, but it was something.

There was a bitter irony to the godswood being her only solace, it took her far too easily back to the Red Keep, but even the knowledge that she was in Winterfell was little help, the very place she was sold to her brother and mother’s murderers.

Still, she would sit below the Weirwood tree as she remembered her father would and she would pray silently for as long as she could. She thought perhaps, once at the beginning, that she could stay out in the godswood forever, perhaps she would freeze and sleep in the arms of her father’s gods and awaken once more reuinted with her family.

She did fall asleep in the godswood once, but instead of the visages of her lost family, she was greeted by the wisps of steam rising from the hot springs, when she woke.

She was later greeted by Ramsay when she eventually made her way into the castle.

Ramsay and Myranda. All to happy to take whatever they wanted from her.

Despite everything she still prayed in the godswood, under the watchful gaze of the Heart Tree.

Sansa hadn’t spent as much time in godswood as her siblings growing up, she had split her worship between the New Gods of her mother and the Old Gods of the North.

All the time she spent in the godswoods of the Red Keep and the Eyrie did little to connect her to her father’s Gods as neither had Heart Trees to pray before, so she would seize the opportunity that had been denied to her for so long.

It was foolish perhaps, to put her faith in the Gods still, after everything.

But deep down Sansa knew she had always been a fool.

(she had trusted Ser Dontos and so many others after all)

She had put her faith in her mother’s gods once, she had followed their teachings and doctrines, been devout in her worship, but they had never once answered her prayers.

Not even when blood was spilt of the steps of their Holy Sept.

So she would learn her lesson.

She would place her devotion elsewhere.

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Everyday Sansa would silently pray to the Old Gods, sat below the Heart Tree as her father once had.

No matter how busy her day was, no matter how much the symbols of Ramsay’s regard for her, ached and pained her or how long it took for her to hobble from the keep to the Heart Tree. The bite of the cold did nothing to deter her, everyday she sat below the Heart Tree and prayed.

She prayed for many things.

She prayed for a saviour.

Or the means to save herself.

She prayed for the end of her torment.

For the end of the Boltons.

She prayed for her family.

For peace for those she’d lost.

For Arya and Jon’s safety.

For them all to come back to her.

She prayed for Lady.

For the Old Gods forgiveness that she’d let Lady die.

She even prayed for Theon, the pitiful creature he was now.

She prayed for his end, though she didn’t know if it was for justice for her brothers or for his peace.

Sansa prayed until she ran out of prayers to give and then still prayed some more.

She would weep some days, in her appeal to the Old Gods, her wounds would weep with her too on days when Ramsay was particularly rigorous in his attentions, her blood would soak through the snow and soil into the roots of the Heart Tree.

And one day…

One day, the Heart Tree wept with her.

Weirwood sap, crimson as blood, trailed slowly done the bone white trunk of the Heart Tree.

The eyes which had always seemed so austere, so severe to Sansa wept just as she did.

About a moon’s turn had passed since the Heart Tree started weeping when something else happened.

To Sansa’s knowledge no mention had been made of the change to the Heart Tree, she wasn’t even sure if Lord Roose knew of the change, to her knowledge he’d only entered the godswood once.

Dusk was setting in when Sansa finished her prayers, being out after dark would be taken as an invitation to hunt her down by her husband. As she flexed her stiff fingers and readied herself to stand her eyes caught on something. There, hanging from a branch of the Heart Tree, nestled, almost camouflaged by the Weirwood leaves, was a fruit. As deep red as the sap that spilled from the Heart Tree’s eyes, the fruit was round and shiny and oh so enticing.

Sansa scanned her surroundings as subtly as she could despite knowing that the nearest guards were posted outside the entrance of the godswood. Her eyes returned to the fruit almost unwillingly as she strained her ears for any sound of Ramsay, Myranda or the hounds. Only when she was sure there were no witnesses did she allow her hand to reach up and pluck the fruit from its branch. Once it was in her hand, Sansa’s eyes returned to the face of Heart Tree, searching for any sign that she shouldn’t have taken the fruit.

All she felt was an increasing temptation to bite into it.

So she did, as the Heart Tree watched over her.

After the first bite she pulled the fruit from her mouth.

The flesh was as white as the bark of a weirwood, though the juice ran red.

But the taste, it was odd, unlike anything she’d ever tasted, it wasn’t pleasant as she’d perhaps been expecting. But as she chewed more and more, the taste began to change, it became sweeter and more delicious and she ate and ate the rest of the fruit until only the slightest bit of core was left.

Sansa wiped the fruits juices from her lips and skin and gave a final silent prayer in thanks before returning to the keep.

The wind howled in her ears as she left the godswood.

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Sansa hadn’t known what to expect from the Old Gods’ gift, there didn’t seem to be much difference at first, except now that she dreamed.

Every night she would fall into a fitful sleep and open her eyes in a different part of Winterfell, sometimes she’d be in the kennels or the rookery, other times she’d be balancing on the walls or tree branches, or even scurrying through hallways that seemed so much bigger than they actually were when she was asleep. Once she spent her dream running through the Wolfswood and woke up with the taste of blood in her mouth. Though that sensation wasn’t exclusive to that dream.

Such dreams were not unfamiliar to Sansa, not entirely at least, though it felt so long since she’d last had one like it. She first had them in the Red Keep and they followed her to the Eyrie, few and far between as they were, but these were the first she’d had since being back in the North, the most vivid and frequent too.

Then came the day she sang for Fat Walda.

Sansa hated singing for Fat Walda, at best it made her feel like a mummer, at worst it made her feel like a fool, no matter how genuine Fat Walda’s praise for her voice was. But her goodmother was heavily pregnant and soon to enter her confinement, so she would not deny her.

It started as it always did, with Sansa and Fat Walda in what had once been her mother’s solar, the door wide open. Fat Walda on a heavily cushioned seat and Sansa stood before her in the centre of the room.

In all truth, Sansa’s voice was not what it once was, Ramsay loved her hear her scream, perhaps he knew how she loved to sing once and took a perverse pleasure in making her wreck her vocal chords. Not that Fat Walda seemed to notice how scratchy her voice had become, given how often she requested Sansa sing for her.

But not that day, that day her voice came out smooth and sweet and honey, there was no pain or struggle to make the notes leave her mouth as they should, instead she could scarcely remember a time where singing had been easier.

By the time she finished her first song Fat Walda’s eyes were glazed over and she was slumped in her chair.

After her third song there was a huddle of servants gathered outside the solar, clearly all in the middle of various chores and errands, eyes all glazed over like Fat Walda’s attention solely on her voice.

When her voice quieted, her unexpected audience sluggishly bid her continue.

“Another day,” she told them as her eyes scanned the hallway beyond, “go back to your chores now before you are missed.”

it took some cajoling, more than she would like in all honesty, but eventually she was left with only Fat Walda for company.

The moment Fat Walda bid her leave Sansa fled.

Sansa wasn’t entirely sure of what happened that day in Fat Walda’s solar only that whatever magic had come over all those who heard her voice, had come from the Old Gods.

She didn’t dare sing again until she was well out of hearing range of the rest of the keep.

Until she was sat below the Heart Tree, in a cradle of the Weirwood’s roots.

Instead of praying silently she sang her prayers and thanks to the Old Gods, expressing her gratitude for the gift they’d bestowed upon her.

And she would make use of it, after so many years of her prayers being ignored, of her pleas falling on deaf ears, the gods had answered her, even though she did not deserve it.

She refused to waste this gift, like she wasted Lady.

She would show her devotion to the Old Gods, and she would free herself from her captors.

As she sang, birds began to flock to her, perching on the branches of the Heart Tree listening to her song. As time went on other animals crept over to her as well. Foxes and hares stilling and listening as they gathered round the Heart Tree.

Sansa realised then it wasn’t just people that found themselves enraptured by her voice.

As she left the godswoood that day, the wind carried the faint sound of a wolf’s howl from the Wolfswood.

Soon thereafter Sansa began to plan.

She knew her voice, her songs enraptured people, made them want to be near to her voice, at least.

But it didn’t seem to control them, not entirely at least.

Fat Walda and all the servants who’d heard her sing seemed much the same as they ever had before that day. Sansa also had concern over how much convincing it had taken for the servants to take their leave of her, of how much time it had taken for them to settle into themselves.

She would need to test this gift of hers.

She started with Theon, the pitiful creature he was now.

Ramsay often left Theon to attend her when he desired neither of them for his amusements. That was an amusement of its own for Ramsay, Sansa believed.

But the long hours spent recovering from from Ramsay’s attentions were often spent in the company than none other than the thing Theon had become.

Sansa sang quietly from where she lay on the bed, her voice the only part of her not pained, she couldn’t risk her song travelling beyond the room’s walls, she couldn’t risk the Bolton’s ire at finding servants crowded on the other side of the door.

It didn’t take long for Theon’s eyes to glaze over the same way Fat Walda and the servants’ did.

By the time she’d finished her second song Theon had crawled out of the corner of the room he usually kept to when it was just the two of them, slowly inching toward her and her song.

“Stand up,” she sang her instruction, eyes locked on his.

It was a deceptively simple thing, but Theon never stood up anymore, he all but crawled everywhere, back bent over, keeping himself as small as possible, as invisible as possible.

But though it pained him clearly, Theon followed her instruction almost immediately, straightening his legs and uncurling his back until he stood before her, his eyes still glazed over.

Sansa practiced everyday with Theon, giving him simple instructions that he would follow.

She gave herself until Fat Walda gave birth to practice and decide.

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Sansa continued practising her songs on Theon and moving on to some of the other castle servants as the days and weeks went on.

She discovered that even after she stopped singing, people would still be susceptible to her words for a while as long as what she asked of them kept them close to her voice. She also discovered that people could break themselves from the trance her voice put them under without her intervention, though it took significantly longer. She found out that people remembered their actions when entranced by her but they didn’t seem to question them once they were themselves again.

Sansa didn’t dare believe that a saviour would be coming for her, not after the boon the Old Gods had already granted her.

Besides the closest thing to a saviour she knew of was Stannis, and the more months passed since Littlefinger left her at Winterfell the more her belief that Stannis was coming dwindled. Maybe Stannis was dead already, winter took so many, perhaps Stannis had been dead before Littlefinger brought her north. Littlefinger had been her only source of news since she left the Eyrie and Ramsay and Lord Roose did not discuss matters of politics or the North in front of her.

Sansa refused to entertain the idea that Jon might come for her, not when he refused to break his vows for Robb, his King, brother and best friend. Perhaps if she had been Ayra there might’ve been a chance that he would ride down from Castle Black, but she was just Sansa, not his favourite brother or sister, just the girl who’d been pulled, and then pulled herself away from him, who always addressed him as her half brother. As a young child she thought it kinder than calling him her bastard brother, but now Sansa regretted making any distinction between Jon and the rest of her siblings.

Once she made peace with the fact that she would have to save herself, Sansa had to work out how exactly she would save herself.

She briefly considered stealing a horse and supplies and making for Castle Black, despite everything Jon would shelter her, she was sure. Would that hold the same for the rest of the Night’s Watch? They were sworn to take no part in Westerosi politics, perhaps the Lord Commander would take pity on her, she could not say. But that would only be temporary, she’d still be married to Ramsay and the Boltons would descend upon Castle Black the moment they knew she was there. The Lord Commander would surely turn her over to her husband at that point, rather than risk battle over one girl.

No, running to Jon was out of the question, she had to sort things out herself.

There was only one way to free herself from her marriage, unless she were to run away to Essos and even then she couldn’t be sure that Ramsay wouldn’t cross the Narrow Sea to get her back.

She would have to widow herself.

It occurred to Sansa once Fat Walda entered her confinement, that her birthing Lord Roose a son could complicate things.

A lot.

Rasmay was smart and cruel and calculating, but he could also be erratic and hotheaded, prone to bouts of anger.

He was also insecure, insecure about his place as his father’s heir, insecure about his bastardy.

If Fat Walda gave brith to a son, it was almost certain that he would do something rash.

The question was whether Sansa would stop him. If Ramsay killed his father, it would one less captor for Sansa.

But if he directed his anger at the babe…

Sansa needed to act before Fat Walda entered her labours.

Sansa went about her days as she always did, drawing as little attention to herself as she could. Now that Fat Walda had entered her confinement she spent more time in the godswood, praying as she always did, but she now prayed everyday for a sign of when to act. When she would be most successful, when her actions would cause the least harm to anyone else. She visited Fat Walda in her confinement for a short time everyday, as any gooddaughter would do for her goodmother, monitoring how long it seemed to be until her labours began. Despite having three younger siblings, it was only Rickon’s birth she truly remembered, still she kept track of things as best she could. Now at mealtimes it was only her, Lord Roose and Ramsay, Sansa ate silently as she always did, nibbling on small portions, her body struggled to handle much food these days, before waiting patiently for dismissal. Rasmay kept her nights as he always did.

Sansa believed herself to be right, in acting before Fat Walda gave birth, though she was unsure if she’d be able to. The longer Fat Walda’s confinement went on the more vicious Ramsay became, the more he spoke of hounds and hunts, going so far as to take her down to the kennels and have his way with her there. Everyday she woke up feeling weaker than she had the night before, everyday the ever growing litany of wounds on her body pained her more, to the point that Lord Roose had the Maester attend her when the midday meal was interrupted by her blood soaking through the bodice of her dress. It was the first night she spent away from Ramsay since their wedding night.

Still, she brought herself before the Old Gods everyday and prayed for a sign.

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Fat Walda’s labours began during the evening meal.

Sansa was sat close enough to Lord Roose for her to hear Maester Wolkan whisper the news in his ear, and even if she wasn’t, the way that Ramsay tensed at the news told her everything she needed to know.

It was as a good a sign as she was ever going to get.

When it seemed that both Ramsay and Lord Roose were finished with their meals Sansa opened her mouth.

“Lord Roose,” her voice was soft but that didn’t stop every eye in the hall from shooting to her, she didn’t dare look at her goodfather as she faced him, “may I pray for a smooth and easy birth for Lady Walda.”

The hall was silent, though Sansa could barely notice it over the pounding of her heart. Never before had she spoken during a meal she shared with Lord Roose, everyone from the lowliest servant to the captain of the guard knew that she was not permitted to. The silence went on so long that Sansa was sure that he was going to have her punished for her impudence, she could only hope it would be Lord Roose punishing her. She could hardly imagine what Ramsay’s sick imagination would come up with when given the explicit permission and support of his father.

“You may,” the words were so quiet that Sansa almost missed them, but this was an opportunity she could not squander.

So she opened her lips and began to sing.

She sang louder and more powerfully than she had in years, all her passion and desperation and yearning for freedom channelled through her words, through the notes that she formed.

She did start with a hymn to the Mother, for Fat Walda and her babe, but then she moved onto Northern songs soon after.

Sansa sang four songs before she dared attempt to move Lord Roose and Ramsay. Their eyes were glazed over but focused on her, their bodies slumped in their seats, like every other person who’d heard her songs. Every servant and guard in the hall was entranced by her voice too, dazed and still, their only intent listening to her sing. So as Sansa began her fifth song she took a deep breath and led Ramsay and Lord Roose by the hand and left the hall.

Sansa knew the halls of Winterfell like the back of her hand, she doubted she could forget them if she tried, but never before had walking through them been so perilous.

Hopefully never again would they be so perilous.

She led the Lord and his son to the godswood, the journey was longer than she would like, but she moved so much slower than she used to, and she moved slower still then since she refused to risk her voice wavering when so much depended on her songs.

Eventually she came before the Heart Tree, hand in hand with Ramsay and Lord Roose, song still spilling continuously from her lips.

“Kneel before the Gods,” she sang, her hands leaving theirs and moving to their shoulders to guide them down.

They went willingly, pliant as the moment she’d started singing.

Sweat started to bead at Sansa’s brow and temples, despite the bite of the wind and the snow that covered the godswood, the was the moment of reckoning, the moment of truth.

This could be her freedom if she was brave enough to seize it.

Sansa bent down over Ramsay and found the flaying knife he always kept at his hip.

She knew it would be there, she was more than familiar with it.

Now that the knife was in her hand Sansa hesitated, so much so her voice almost trailed off. She refused to risk anything going wrong now that she was so close. So she sang a song she knew she could sing in her sleep, she sang of brave Danny Flint. It hadn’t been a favourite of hers growing up but she’d known it all the same. It seemed fitting in a way for that moment.

The knife gleamed as she held it before her, as it reflected the glistening snow surrounding her.

The question was who to start with?

The question was would having someone die beside you be enough to break free from her song?

The question was who would she rather risk surviving?

Who’s wrath?

The question was could she even do it?

Could she hold someone’s life in her hands and could she take it?

Sansa had seen many people kill throughout her life, she’d known many more people to die, some had even died for her.

But never once had she been the hand that killed.

The man that passes the sentence should swing the sword.

Those were her father’s words and the words of many Starks before him, they had never been meant for her, but she’d known them all the same.

Sansa took a deep breath and steadied herself as song poured from her lips and stood behind Ramsay and positioned his knife before his neck.

She steadied her shoulders and sliced.

Flesh parted as smooth as butter and blood poured from his neck like a fountain.

Ramsay fell forward, blood watering the roots of the Heart Tree and Sansa moved behind Lord Roose before she lost her nerve.

He hadn’t changed from his position kneeling before the Heart Tree, but Sansa was more hyperventilating than singing now, though her breaths still managed to push out some notes. She refused to trust the compliance though, Lord Roose had to be something of a mummer if he was able to betray Robb.

The cut to Lord Roose’s neck wasn’t nearly as deep and precise as Ramsay’s instead it was quick and panicked, but it bled all the same. Lord Roose soon joined his son in watering the roots of the Heart Tree as their bodies lost all colour and began to turn cold.

Sansa finally stopped singing.

Instead she fell to the snow and wept, she wept in relief, in disbelief, in panic, she wept, and wept, and wept.

Eventually when she had no more tears to cry she had to decide what to do next. For all her little tests and experiments with her song, she’d never truly let herself believe she might be successful, she’d never allowed herself that bit of hope.

But it was all thanks to the Old Gods, her eyes met the eyes of the Heart Tree gazing down at her and she knew what to do next.

Of the stories Old Nan had told her and her siblings growing up, her favourites had always been of brave knights rescuing beautiful maidens, of romance and courtly love, but she’d still listened to the scarier stories, of the First Men and the times that the Old Ways had still been practised. When her ancient kin still made sacrifices to the Weirwoods, she knew what they were supposed to look like, especially for a traitor’s death.

It took multiple tries for her to roll Ramsay and Lord Roose over, and more strength than she really had to spare too, but Sansa was determined.

She might’ve condemned her father to death, but perhaps now she could help truly avenge her brother and mother.

She made quick work of their shirts and surcoats slicing through the fabric rather than unlacing, she didn’t think she had the dexterity to use her fingers then.

Then on each of them, she sliced from the nave to the chaps, cutting deeply through layers of fat and muscle, trying to steady her hand as best she could. Sansa took a deep breath as she put down the knife and knelt over Ramsay’s torso, she took another deep breath and closed her eyes as she plunged her hands into his stomach and grabbed hold of whatever she could. His intestines were long and slippery, longer than Sansa had imagined, it felt as if an age had passed by the time she had them all. Without ceremony she stood and began to hang them on the branches of the Heart Tree, praying with all her might that the Old Gods would appreciate her worship and look kindly upon her.

When she was done she did it all again with Lord Roose.

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The moment she left the godswood, Sansa began to sing again.

She couldn’t risk unwanted notice of her being covered in blood, instead had some servants ready her a bath. She bathed alone, the water slowly turning pink the longer she sat, her eyes stayed glued to the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the destruction wrought upon her body. She contemplated burning her dress, she doubted it could be salvaged, and it stank of death, but it had been her mother’s, from long ago, likely from before Sansa had been born. All her dresses in Winterfell now, had once been her mother’s.

She left the dress in the end, it wasn’t the priority for the moment, and may yet have need of it.

Sansa’s voice carried through the halls of the castle as she walked, her song entrancing everyone she passed. She first went to the Lady’s Chambers to see how Fat Walda faired, though she was still at the beginning of her labours. She then summoned a small group of guards and had them build a pyre outside Winterfell’s walls, working to the tune of her song.

Sansa refused to have Ramsay and Lord Roose buried within Winterfell’s walls though it was only inside the walls that the ground was soft enough to dig thanks to the hot springs. As such the bodies had to be burnt. Once the pyre was built Sansa had the guards carry the bodies from the godswood and lay them on the pyre. She was the one to set it alight.

Once she was sure the fire was strong enough to resist the wind and snow she and the guards made their way back inside. As she walked passed the kennels she was reminded that she still had use for her mother’s ruined dress.

That night Sansa slept in her old childhood rooms. As she fell asleep she could’ve sworn she’d heard a wolf’s howl.

Things in Winterfell changed quite quickly after the death of the Boltons.

Fat Walda’s labours ended the eve after they’d started, gifting her a son, though the birth had not been easy for her, she was confined to her bed under the watchful eye of the Maester as he did everything he could think of for her recovery.

Meanwhile Sansa set to work, she didn’t want to kill anyone else, as much as they deserved it, killing Ramsay and Lord Roose had been enough for her. But she knew the necessity of it. Though not all the castle staff were truly loyal to the Boltons, there were those that were, those that would not squander the opportunity for vengeance and slit her throat in her sleep. She executed them all as traitors, though not nearly as elaborately as she had with Ramsay and Lord Roose.

She sequestered herself to the godswood after the executions, praying for comfort or perhaps absolution, she wasn’t entirely sure what. Only that she cried and she prayed and she wanted her family with such deep yearning it ate at almost all of what was left of her, leaving her hollow and aching. She curled up in the cradle of Weirwood roots and sobbed, for nothing and everything. She stayed there still except for how her body shook with exhaustion and let time wash over her.

Until she felt hot air puff over her face.

Sansa opened her eyes only be greeted by an amber gaze that seemed so familiar to her yet not quite right.

The direwolf was bigger than Lady had ever been, but perhaps she was close in to what Greywind had been, or perhaps to what Ghost or Nymeria might be now. She hoped both wolves were still alive and that one day Nymeria and Arya would reunite. She hoped Ghost and Jon were keeping each other safe at the Wall. The wolf must’ve been fully grown or at least close to it, Sansa had next to nothing to base her guess off but it was the size of a horse with fur as red as her hair, or perhaps a Weirwood leaf.

Sansa stood slowly and carefully before raising her hand towards the direwolf’s nose and waited to see if she’d lose a hand. Luckily the wolf seemed to take a liking to her, sniffing her fingers before licking them, and allowing Sansa to scratch behind her ears. For the first time in years, a genuine delighted laugh spilled from her lips as stoked her direwolf’s fur, soft as Lady’s had once been. It was only then that something in the background caught her attention, a second direwolf with fur so white it blended almost seamlessly into the snow. In fact she might not have noticed it at all, if not for the single piercing blue eye it had. As she took a step toward it, ready to introduce herself as she had just done with its companion, the wolf darted away running until she lost sight of it in the snow. The red direwolf didn’t seem nearly as skittish as her friend not when Sansa could feel the warmth of her body as she hovered around her.

Sansa said one more prayer before the Heart Tree, a thanks, before heading back to the keep.

Now that the Boltons were gone, Winterfell seemed so much more alive.

Now Sansa heard what the servants whispered about her, they spoke of magics and sorcery, spells and sacrifices.

She refused to let it bother her, they weren’t exactly wrong, nor were they shedding a tear at the death of their previous Lord and his son, nor were they shying away from her.

Besides she had Flame with her to keep her company and keep her safe, the red direwolf had been shadowing her steps since she’d followed her out of the godswood. Sansa had been tempted to lock them both up together in her childhood rooms and forget that the rest of the world existed, but there was still work to be done.

She had the Maester send a raven to every keep in the North and Castle Black, all of them bearing the same message.

The Boltons are Dead.

Their treason against their King has been answered.

Come and see for yourself.

Winterfell belongs to the Starks.

Winter is here.

Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

Sansa decided against giving herself a title, she needed to know who would back her claim first and what claim they would be backing. She also didn’t know which Houses broke faith with House Stark and betrayed their King beyond the Boltons and the Freys, as much as Joffrey had enjoyed punishing her for Robb’s every victory and as much as he took pleasure in lording Robb’s death over her, both the Lannisters and Littlefinger had made sure she had as little information as possible about the War of Five Kings and the North.

She’d also wanted to send a raven to her uncle Edmure, or perhaps her great uncle Brynden if either were still alive and at Riverrun, but she didn’t want to risk it being intercepted, nor did she know much of anything of the state of the Riverlands.

Sansa had yet to ask Maester Wolkan about it, he was far too preoccupied tending to Fat Walda. But beyond that, as much as she knew that Maesters were to have no loyalty but to the House they were serving, trust did not come easily to her.

She knew her ravens would likely bring assassins to her door or all manner of trouble, but she needed the Lords of the North in one place and to believe that the Boltons were gone, if she was going to do anything. So ravens carrying scrolls stamped with the grey direwolf of House Stark flew across the North.

Fat Walda’s body succumbed to the stress of the birth two sennights after her babe was born.

Chapter Text

The strain of the birth, and likely life as a Bolton, Sansa could admit, had been more than Fat Walda’s body could handle. Sansa had elected not to tell her former goodmother of their joint newfound status as widows, not when her recovery was so delicate and Sansa could hardly predict how such news would’ve affected her. Not that Fat Walda had been lucid enough to request Lord Roose’s presence on the occasions Sansa had visited her. Sansa had urged Fat Walda to name her son a sennight after the birth, though it had taken a lot of patience and convincing. Sansa had been there when the exhaustion finally took her, offering Fat Walda what comforts she could. Then she’d had the body burned on a pyre in the same place she’d burnt her husband. Colmar Bolton was the new young Lord of the Dreadfort and ward of Winterfell. He spent his days in the care of his wet nurse as Sansa worked, but she made sure to set aside time to visit him in the nursery each day.

Sansa moved into the Lord’s Chambers after Fat Walda’s death, the room her parents had actually shared when she grew up. She left her childhood rooms the moment the servants assured her that they’d ridden them of any evidence of Lord Roose’s stay in them and began the process of clearing out the Lady’s Chambers. Little by little, Sansa was destroying all the evidence that the Bolton’s had ever stepped foot in Winterfell, let alone taken it and ruled from it.

Once the ravens were sent, Sansa really started to get to work now her home was hers once more, she had to make it resemble such as much as she could. It needed to be a clear reminder to the whole of the North of what House Stark had once been what she wanted to bring House Stark back to. As much as she wanted to cover every mar from battle the castle had borne in the years she’d been gone, there were bigger priorities.

She began making inventories of all the food and grain stores, she needed a plan if she was to feed her people this winter. Sansa did have the damage to the castle inspected, she needed to know what was still serviceable and what was in need of repair. She even inspected the armoury and spoke at length with the master at arms, it wasn’t something she was particularly knowledgeable about, but she was not so arrogant to think that there would be no repercussions to her taking back her ancestral home. But the thing that lifted her heart most, the thing that made Winterfell a little less the background of her nightmares and a little more the home she’d been dreaming of, was recovering and mending of all the Stark banners.

There were very few in the castle, Sansa suspected that most of them had been burnt the same way she burnt the Bolton banners that desecrated her home. Still, that only meant she had to commission more to be made, a worthy price to pay for the solace seeing the grey direwolf hanging proud and true gave her. Though nothing gave her quite as much solace as her newest companion.

Sansa knew she had Flame to thank for how smoothly the transition of power in Winterfell went. The Old Gods of the North may not have had the strict doctrines of the Seven, but those who followed them still had their superstitions. The entire North had known that the Stark children had been blessed with direwolf pups as children, the first of their kind to be seen below the Wall in centuries. It was seen as a sign of regard from the Gods, perhaps it had been a reward for still keeping the Old Gods despite being raised by a Lady Stark that worshipped the Seven and a Lord Stark that was raised in the South. Who could say? But for Sansa, to have been blessed with two direwolves despite being the reason Lady died, well that was a sign clear as day not just of the Old Gods regard but of their favour. Paired with all the rumours of Sansa being blessed with queer magics from the Old Gods, to take action against her was all but inviting the wrath of the Old Gods.

Despite knowing all this, knowing it was a fools errand to try and kill her, not only would an assassin have to get through Flame but by killing her they’d be plunging the North back into the chaos they were barely now escaping. Sansa couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder, despite all her efforts she still didn’t feel safe. She felt free from Ramsay’s tortures and depravity, it was true, she felt more human that she in years, no longer the perfect porcelain doll puppeteered to dance to a tune of someone else’s making.

But she was alone and without allies. That was why she needed the Lords of the North to come to Winterfell, she couldn’t abandon the Keep so soon after taking it but she still needed to prove herself a worthy ally to what was left of her father’s and brother’s bannermen.

The ravens she sent out were the source of some of her anxiety, Sansa could admit to herself. She’d spent long hours with Maester Wolkan once he was no longer caring for Fat Walda. Her nearest bannermen, Houses Cerwyn and Tallhart had declared for House Bolton even if they hadn’t had a part in the Red Wedding. Would they come and declare for House Stark or would they try to rid the North of the last of the Starks?

It was familiar title, but one that made Sansa uncomfortable to think about. It had weighed heavily on her throughout her time in the South, from the moment the news of Robb’s death got to her, it was all she’d been known as. Jon barely existed in the eyes of the South despite having her fathers blood, being his eldest living son and Arya was long since believed to be dead. Sansa tried to keep faith, keep hope that her sister was still alive, disguised, perhaps masquerading as a boy somewhere with her sword and her breeches, but even she struggled to decipher how true her faith was.

Then Theon made his confession, he’d been so sure she was going to kill him when she found him, even now Sansa didn’t have a clue what she would have done in that moment. But then the words started falling from his lips between sobs and wails and whimpers, the whole dreadful story. Theon hadn’t killed Bran and Rickon when he sacked Winterfell, the boys who’d been all but brothers to him, instead they’d escaped and he’d killed two smallfolk boys in their place. There was a part of Sansa that felt she should have executed Theon for the two boys that died in Bran and Rickon’s places but bile rushed up her throat at the thought of killing another person so soon after she’d killed so many. Instead she banished him from her presence, he wasn’t barred from the castle, instead Theon had to keep to the places where she wouldn’t see him, until she had the strength to look at him and decide what to do.

Sansa didn’t dare entertain the thought that Bran or Rickon were alive. They’d been so young when last she saw them, Rickon barely out of infancy and Bran a boy of eight crippled from his fall. Even with their direwolves with them to protect them from danger, how could a direwolf protect again sickness or the many other dangers that couldn’t be crushed between their jaws? It didn’t bear thinking about, but Sansa knew her younger brothers likely succumbed to their deaths lonely in wilds of the North and winter.

One by one over the course of the moon’s turn the Lords of the North arrived at Winterfell. As familiar and recognisable their banners were, the faces that greeted her were more often of strangers than not. Very few of the Lords were the same ones she’d grown up knowing.

Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart arrived first as she’d predicted, and though they ate her bread and salt, it did little for her comfort or to ease her mind. Lords Glover and Manderly arrived next along the baseborn son of the late Lord Hornwood, the last of the Hornwood blood as she understood it, his sister having suffered and died at Ramsay’s hand, before she came back North. The arrival of Lords Glover and Manderly did bring her some level of comfort, Lady Glover had declared for Stannis by her understanding and though Lord Manderly had publicly sided with the Iron Throne he also greeted her with the heads of Freys that had infested the Merman’s court.

There was a bitter sweetness to greeting Lord Manderly, the only current Lord of the northern bannermen that had been such under her father. Trips to White Harbour had been frequent growing up, it was a favourite place of both her and Arya’s, for all the sailors brought to the city, stories of far off lands and wares from them too.

Lord Manderly was unmistakeable in his appearance, his rolling house coming through the gates of the castle, stopping before Sansa in the courtyard, where she had greeted every lord to arrive so far. Sansa was dressed in Stark grey, another one of her mother’s dresses she’d tailored to fit her, her hair was up in a northern style she’d been unable to appreciate as a child and a heavy fur over her shoulders just as her father always used to wear. Flame was sat on her haunches behind her, her massive maw resting on Sansa’s shoulder. The rolling house groaned as Lord Manderly heaved his way out and it was not long before they were stood each other.

“By the Old Gods and the New, Lady Sansa as I live and breathe,” he looked quite as if the breath had been stolen from him as he took in the sight of her, his eyes flicking to Flame, visibly nervous at her presence.

It was not lost on her that she was only greeted by her given name.

“Well met, Lord Manderly,” Sansa greeted with a small smile, stepping forward out of Flame’s reach, “it has been many years since we last met in White Harbour but I am glad to say you are much as I remember.”

“Well met my Lady,” Lord Manderly took one of her hands in his own as if to check she wasn’t a spectre of some sort, “you have grown into the very beauty of your mother.”

They proceeded with guest right almost immediately after greetings but it was not lost on Sansa the way Lord Manderly and his men scanned the castle with wary eyes, as if they were waiting for the flayed man to come for them. So she endeavoured to put their minds at ease. Only Lord Manderly joined her in the godswood, the rest of the men waiting at the entrance as they followed the New Gods as their Lord did, still the pair slowly made their way to the heart tree.

“‘Our way is the old way,’ those were words my father made sure his children never forgot,” Sansa spoke conversationally as she walked arm in arm with Lord Manderly through the snow, “it was one of many lessons he taught us. When we were small, before any of us knew the true horrors of the world, Old Nan would tell us scary stories, tales of the Age of Heroes, tales from when the Old Ways began. The lives of Starks long since passed, Brandon the Bloody Blade, Theon the Hungry Wolf.”

“The very same stories I had my children and grandchildren brought up on,” Lord Manderly agreed.

“I didn’t like those stories, not really, though they were always favoured by my brothers,” Sansa admitted, “I still managed to learn many lessons from them all the same,” Sansa paused as they reached the clearing, the heart tree in Lord Manderly’s view for the first time, “Lord Bolton and his son committed treason when they betrayed and killed my brother, their King, so I had to give them traitor’s deaths.”

Lord Manderly’s face was dumbfounded as he processed her words and their implication. She didn’t blame him, though she was tall, she was slight and weak, most days it was still a struggle to walk from the keep to the godswood and back again, though she could no longer let it show. Her guests, each and every one of them that would answer her raven, would be assessing her, testing her mettle, seeing if she was up to muster or if they found her lacking, she would not allow herself to be found insufficient. She was a woman and a gentle one at heart, scarred though she was, she shielded her kindness so it would not be taken from her as everything else was.

“The gods made their judgement and used me as their instrument, to bring the Bolton’s to justice, to have them answer for their crimes against Robb, my mother and every man murdered at the Red Wedding,” Sansa gave Lord Manderly the same explanation she gave Lords Tallhart and Cerwyn when she brought them before the Heart Tree too after their arrival.

She had considered waiting until all the lords had arrived to explain the fate that befell Lord Roose and Ramsay, to have her father and brother’s bannermen learn with each other the events that occurred when they turned their backs on her in Winterfell. But it became clear from the day the Cerwyn banners arrived in Winterfell, that that could not happen. The men of the North had to be assured that they hadn’t been led into a trap, that answering her call wasn’t walking directly to their deaths.

Bringing them to the Heart Tree was the most assurance she could give them, Lord Roose and Ramsay’s innards hung across the branches like grotesque decorations, even now with Lord Manderly, so long after she’d first hung them, they had not deteriorated nearly as much as she’d expected. Winter preserved them or perhaps it was the will of the Gods since it didn’t seem that any birds had been pecking at them. There were other advantages to showing them as soon as they came to Winterfell, it showed them that she was not as weak or helpless as her stature might imply, she also knew that many of them saw as the second coming of her mother, in her looks in her clothes, she would easily be mistaken for a delicate southron lady, this was a reminder unlike any other that she was of the North.

“They are gone, truly?” Lord Manderly finally found his voice.

“The blood of Lord Roose and Ramsay was gifted to the Old Gods along with their innards as you can see,” Sansa explained, “their bodies i burnt on a pyre outside the walls of the castle.”

“And Lady Walda?” he asked.

“The birthing bed took her,” Sansa bowed her head.

“And the babe?” he pressed.

“A ward of House Stark,” she answered.

Lord Manderly nodded seemingly satisfied and the pair turned and started to make their way out of the godswood.

When they reached the entrance Lord Manderly nodded to one of his men who quickly scurried off in the direction of the courtyard.

He then turned to her, “Lady Sansa I have a gift for you, though not the loveliest you’ve ever received l’m sure.”

As he spoke he led her back to the courtyard where a small number of Manderly men were waiting with a box and with a nod they opened it. Sansa was greeted by the sight of four severed heads in Frey livery.

“We caught them on the journey, word of your raven spread through White Harbour quicker than the currents of the White Knife, my maester is not the most trustworthy sort, a Lannister of Lannisport,” Lord Manderly explained, regret painted on his face, “I have men loyal to me keep as close an eye as possible on him, but it is impossible to monitor his every move.”

“I thank you for the warning and for the gift,” Sansa regarded him and took one of his large hands between her own, “though it is not beautiful, it warms my heart like nothing else to know that there are those who would still prevent harm from coming to me out there.”

“There are more of us out there than you might think,” Lord Manderly spoke lowly and Sansa offered nothing but a warm smile back to him.

Chapter Text

One by one the Lords of the North came through Winterfell’s walls to be greeted by Sansa, each one was offered bread and salt under the ever watchful eye of Flame, her ever present sentinel. Each one of them brought to the godswood to behold the macabre sight of the Heart Tree. As time went on it seemed that every major northern House had a representative come to verify the truth of her raven. Some she knew were unlikely to choose to ally with her like Houses Dustin and Ryswell, she knew that there was no love lost between Lady Barbrey and her father and that she too would likely be affected that same regard considering she killed her good brother. Sansa had briefly considered whether to bring up the rumour that Ramsay killed Lord Roose’s first son and Lady Barbrey’s nephew, Domeric. But she didn’t think it was so secret that Lady Barbrey would never have heard before, nor did she think that the pain it would cause her would be worth it for such a tenuous and reluctant alliance.

Other arrivals brought Sansa much more peace, when the banners of House Reed were first spotted in the distance, it gave Sansa some measure of relief, she knew her father had considered Lord Reed to be one of his closest friends though she’d never met him. She could only hope that Lord Reed had stayed true to her father’s memory in a way King Robert hadn’t. When the banners of House Reed arrived at Winterfell, Sansa’s relief only increased, as part of Lord Reed’s party were Lady Maege Mormont and Lord Galbart Glover who’d been sent north by Robb before the Red Wedding and had apparently been hiding in the swamps of the Neck in Greywater Watch ever since.

There was a small flicker of hope that Sansa tried to bury deep in her heart when the Umber banners were spotted on the horizon. Last Hearth was the closest keep to the Wall, if anyone would have news of the black brothers it would be the Umbers. Other than Skagos which she hadn’t really expected a reply from, Castle Black was the only place she’d sent a raven to that she’d had no word from. That is to say no recent word, she’d learnt from Maester Wolkan and had it confirmed by Lord Manderly that Jon had been made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. After learning that she’d been sure Jon would send a representative, someone who would bring her some news of her brother, surely he’d at least want news of her too, even if he wouldn’t come down from the Wall himself. Sansa tried to take heart and not lose hope, it was long leagues between Winterfell and the Wall and the roads were treacherous in winter, if a black brother were to come he’d surely be after all the other lords.

Sansa was waiting in the courtyard with Flame, wrapped up in Stark white and grey as the Umber banners made their final approach. It seemed like every other occasion in which she greeted her father’s and brother’s bannermen until Flame lifted her great maw from her shoulder, brought her head back and howled. Sansa’s eyes snapped to Flame concern wanting to crease her brow, Flame rarely made a sound in public, she and Sansa would howl together in her dreams of hunting in the Wolfswood, she would snuffle and whine and make noises when it was just the two of them in her rooms, but in public Flame observed in silence. Before she could think too much on it an answering howl carried over to her ears and Sansa’s eyes snapped in that direction, the direction of the banners. It wasn’t long until a dark blur broke through the column and came bounding across the final distance to Winterfell a single horse breaking from the column to follow after it. The dark blur wasn’t a horse though it was similarly sized and sat a rider, it was all together something far more familiar and like a hazy image from a distant dream.

Perhaps Sansa did know what it was, though she dare not put it into words, she was not sure she could handle voicing the notion even in her head and then being mistaken. Instead she just held her breath and stared the blur down as it grew larger and larger and nearer and nearer, eyes willing it to come ever quicker. The courtyard emptied quickly as the dark blur approached people unwilling to be in the way of such a great beast that seemed to have no intention of slowing down, soon it was just Sansa and Flame waiting alone.

The rider practically flew from the beast’s back, the direwolf’s, the moment they crossed into the courtyard and then there was a something much more human flying at her.

“Mama!” the boy with hair as red as hers wailed as he threw himself her, his arms grabbing anywhere for purchase.

Sansa staggered back a couple of steps before she regained her balance, Flame behind her, stopping them from toppling over to the ground. It was only now that she had his face in her hands, that her fingers were tangled in his red curls that Sansa truly allowed herself to look at his face and recognise him for who he was.

“Rickon,” Sansa’s voice caught and tears welled in her eyes.

He was so grown up, he’d barely grown beyond infancy when she first rode south and now he looked like Bran, he looked like her earlier memories of Robb. Last time she’d seen him she would still carry him around the keep, they’d tour the glass gardens together and she’d teach him about the plants and let him nibble the edible flowers when no one was watching. Now she just gathered him up in her arms holding him as close to her as possible as he sobbed into her chest. Sansa’s own tears fell silently into Rickon’s hair, the overwhelming relief that not only had Theon told her the truth, but that Rickon had somehow managed to survive all these years on his own. Her knees threatened to buckle and bring them both to the floor.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought both her and Rickon’s attention from each other. A stranger walked towards them both with hesitant steps, she was clearly the lone rider that had broke the Umber column after Rickon, though she wore no livery of any kind. Before Sansa could speak Rickon did, his face breaking out into a joyous smile.

“Osha look,” he spoke in the Old Tongue, “I found Mother, she came back to me.”

Now the tears threatened to pour from Sansa’s eyes anew but for a very different reason. It had been years since she’d spoken the Old Tongue, they’d all been raised on it as well as the Common, most of the smallfolk outside White Harbour spoke the Old Tongue better than the Common so Father insisted they knew so they could better know their people. Sansa still understood it well enough, the newly identified Osha looked at her with something akin to pity in her eyes, Sansa couldn’t blame Rickon, she refused to. Not when she was wearing her mother’s dresses and she was so much older than when she’d last seen him, not when he’d been so young when she rode south, not when she could’ve had a babe only a few small years younger than Rickon if Lord Tyrion had consummated their marriage when the Lannisters wanted him to (as he’d clearly wanted to), not when she’d carried Rickon around as her babe more than Mother ever had.

Sansa cleared her throat and blinked back her tears before speaking.

“Rickon,” she kept her voice soft and gentle despite being out of practice with the Old Tongue, “I’m not Mother, I’m Sansa, your sister.”

“You’re not Mother?” Rickon’s arms dropped away from her and he took a step back, Sansa let him go even as her heart shattered.

“I’m your sister,” she reminded him just as gently, “you had many brothers and sisters, do you remember?”

He seemed hesitant but not unwilling so Sansa kept speaking, “Robb was the oldest, had red hair like you and me, then there was Jon, he has dark hair like Father, then there’s me I used to carry you on my hip and sneak you sweets. After me, there’s Arya who used to play in the mud with you, and then there’s Bran who used to climb all the towers before he had his accident and was crippled. we all had direwolves like Shaggydog,” Sansa nodded to the black wolf that had quietly crept over to them at some point, “Do you remember us, your family?”

Rickon nodded slowly and Sansa couldn’t be sure if he was only doing it to placate her until his gaze moved behind her and he said, “that’s not your wolf.”

And despite the pain Lady’s memory brought Sansa couldn’t help but smile.

“No Lady died,” she agreed, “but the Gods were kind and granted me Flame.”

She brought a hand up to scratch behind Flame’s ear.

They were silent for a while as Rickon regarded her, he didn’t move any further away from her and she had to take that to mean something good.

Then eventually Rickon said with a small voice, “you used to feed me flowers.”

And Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, “I did, you used to like eating them.”

Welcoming Hother Umber and his banners had been beyond tedious when all Sansa wanted to do was take Rickon away and keep him safe in the keep, but she needed to thank them for bringing Rickon safely home to her. When she took the Umber bannermen to the Heart Tree a part of her wanted to spare Rickon’s eyes the sight, but her little brother refused to let go of her hand and she couldn’t really bring herself to let go of his either.

Once she had the Umbers situated in the Guest House she summoned a bath and fresh clothes for Rickon and started to lead him to her chambers.

“Wait,” he dug his heels into the ground and faced away from her, “Osha come with me.”

Osha who’d yet to say a word but had been following the pair of them as faithfully as Shaggydog and Flame, opened her mouth to speak.

“You may join us if you wish,” Sansa offered before she could get any words out.

She may not know this Osha but she clearly brought her youngest brother a great deal of comfort and for that alone Sansa owed her thanks beyond measure. It was also clear to Sansa that Osha was quite uncomfortable in the courtyard, though whether that was due to being unfamiliar with such a great keep or some other reason, she hoped that being somewhere a little more private and warmer would help.

Sansa bathed Rickon herself, despite his initial protests, as she had many times when he was a babe, all the while asking how Osha and Rickon came to be in each others company. Osha herself was hesitant to speak but Rickon was all too happy to tell their tale as she scrubbed the grime from his skin. Osha was apparently a wildling woman that had crossed the wall, Robb spared her life when he caught her and made him Rickon’s minder. When Theon sacked Winterfell it was Osha along with Lord Reed’s children that ensured Bran and Rickon’s escape. For that alone Sansa would do everything in her power to make sure this Osha always had a place in Winterfell. Then she learned how her brothers had split up Bran going beyond the wall with Hodor and Lord Reed’s children and Rickon and Osha going to Skagos.

“That’s why we came back,” Rickon explained, “a raven came to House Magnar saying the Starks were in Winterfell.”

Tears started pouring down Sansa’s cheeks at that, the notion that her words had actually brought some part of her family back to her, it was the most precious thing she’d ever known. Sansa washed Rickon’s hair and dressed him in clothes that had once been Bran’s.

Rickon sat beside Sansa at the head table for the evening meal that night, with Hother Umber as their guest, all the while the rest of her father’ and brother’s bannermen expressed their joy at Rickon being alive and returned safely home (there was no mention made of Bran or Arya).

The last thing Sansa did before retiring for the night was assuring Osha that she was welcome to stay on as Rickon’s minder if that’s what she wished, it was clearly what her brother wanted, but if not Sansa would find work in another part of the castle for her or she was free to leave if that was what she so wished.

“Think on it this sennight,” Sansa said in the face of the wildling woman’s dumbfounded shock, she couldn’t blame her, Starks had been executing wildlings that came below the Wall for millennia but for all this woman had done for Rickon, and the high esteem Rickon held her in she wouldn’t even think of it, “there’s no need to make a decision immediately.”

Rickon had barely been out of the nursery when Sansa had ridden south, in the moons leading up to King Robert’s visit to Winterfell, he’d been transitioning to sleeping alone and Sansa had taken to designing her little brother’s rooms like a duck to water. She didn’t know exactly how much time had passed between her leaving Winterfell and Bran and Rickon fleeing but she doubted Rickon remembered his rooms if he struggled to remember her. Instead of leaving her little brother to sleep in an unfamiliar place, when he refused to refused to let go of her hand, she led him up to her own rooms.

Scars that she hadn’t lat herself acknowledge when she’d been bathing Rickon now seemed to glow in the firelight as she dressed him for bed. There was a pure wrongness to the sight of someone so young having skin marred in such a way, it had Sansa swallowing back bile and blinking back tears. Her only comfort was that Rickon’s scars were not nearly as many as her own, nor were they all that similar in nature. Skagos was a dangerous place, Sansa had to remind herself, it was harsh and full of perils like cannibals, Rickon’s retelling of his life since he’d left Winterfell didn’t particularly contradict the scary stories that they’d grown up on. It made sense that his time away had left scars as much as Sansa misliked thinking of it.

Sansa herself dressed for bed in one of the adjoining rooms to the bedchamber, at first she’d thought of simply dressing in the darkest part of the room, but Rickon’s eyes were too sharp and her face was the only part of her that had been left unmolested over the years. She’d never dressed so quickly in her life as Rickon hadn’t taken well to her absence, seemingly somewhat convinced she’d disappear forever if she was out of his sight. She’d have a privacy screen installed in her bedchamber the following day, she’d decided as she’d calmed Rickon down enough to convince him that she wasn’t leaving, and if she had things her way she’d never leave his side again.

That night Sansa slept peacefully, curled around her youngest brother, Shaggydog stretched across the end of the bed.

Chapter Text

Sansa should have taken the white direwolf’s appearance as a warning, or perhaps an omen.

She probably should’ve thought about it more altogether, two fully grown direwolves so far south of the Wall was unheard of. Even Lady and her littermates were only so many because their mother had borne them in the North. Two wild and fully grown direwolves were something altogether different. But there had been no reports of a direwolf terrorising the smallfolk and Sansa had been so busy with Rickon’s unexpected return and managing the Lords of the North, she’d hardly had the time to check on baby Colmar Bolton, let alone speculate on a direwolf she’d seen once for less than a minute.

Since returning to Winterfell, Rickon spent most of his days doing as wished (mainly playing with Shaggy and Osha, who’d decided to remain as Rickon’s minder) as long as it was within the bounds of the godswood. It was clear that Rickon had almost no memory of being a High Lord’s son let alone a Prince, though he’d only just began learning his manners when he escaped the sack. Sansa’s youngest brother was also very unused to being inside during the days, or around so many people and perhaps more concerning (for her guests at least) Shaggy also seemed to share Rickon’s anxiety. As much as she probably should, Sansa couldn’t yet bring herself to put Rickon in formal lessons, even though she knew it would help her case if Rickon were to be seen acting more like a young lordling than a wildling.

But the pure joy and freedom that shone like a light through every part of Rickon when she got a spare moment to watch him and Shaggy romp about the godswood gave Sansa a kind of peace she hadn’t felt in years, a feeling that she used to take for granted without even knowing it. No, lessons could wait until the lords were gone, the transition would be easier for Rickon anyway if there were fewer people in Winterfell. As it stood the only time Sansa required Rickon to be on his best behaviour was when he would join her every night at the head table for the evening meal. Mostly he would just eat quietly doing his best to mimic her table manners, sometimes he would ask the occasional quiet question and for the moment Sansa wouldn’t ask anything more than that.

Sansa still prayed in the godswood everyday, though not for nearly as long as she used to, when she had time to spare she would be with Rickon, watching over him, but most often she was managing the Lords and their bannermen. Now that most of the major Northern Houses had representatives, they were only waiting for the Mountain Clans and House Mormont (and a black brother if Sansa dared to hope, and how she dared, now Rickon was back with her), the tension was really starting to rise. Oaths sworn and broken, blood gone bad and feuds forged in all the years since her father’s murder (the North was fractured and all because of her actions). It was the first time the North had really been brought together since Robb called the banners but instead of being united to one cause, everyone was taking the opportunity to air every grievance, to flaunt every betrayal.

It was exhausting, but Sansa had to be there, the Lords had to see her take charge, they had to see her bring about peace and order. They had to know she could moderate and negotiate because even if winter would keep the might of the Iron Throne away from the North, when Cersei found out that the Bolton’s were dead (if she didn’t already know), winter wouldn’t last forever and divided as it was the North needed someone to bring together so they could last the winter itself. Sansa hadn’t been raised to be the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, ruling over Westeros’ largest kingdom.

No, she’d been raised to be Queen of Seven.

If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

She may no longer be in line to be queen but she still had a people, a kingdom to look after, a responsibility and duty of care. As much as the world abandoned her she wouldn’t abandon the North.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

She wouldn’t fail her people.

Sansa wasn’t sure she’d ever get tired of watching Rickon, it was invigorating after all her trials too see how alive he was, he may be wilder than a boy should be, he seemed more wolf than boy at times, but there was still an air of innocence about him that Sansa wanted to preserve as long as possible. He’d been through his own trials and seen his own share of horrors, Sansa was certain, but perhaps her little brother was just stronger and more resilient than she, to retain his innocence where she couldn’t. A welcome development was that Osha had started to stand near Sansa when they were both watching over Rickon, every so often she would even share a humoured glance at Rickon and Shaggy’s antics with her, though she still only ever spoke when absolutely unavoidable. Sansa didn’t care for wildlings, no Northerner ever did, but for all this wildling woman ever did for Rickon when she could’ve so easily abandoned him, to Theon, to the Bolton’s, to winter and the land, she had Sansa’s every thanks and her respect.

They were deep in the godswood when it happened, far off the path from the entrance to the Heart Tree as Shaggy and Rickon chased each other and Sansa and Osha followed at a sedate pace. First an enormous splash broke the tranquillity of the godswood quickly followed by an ear piercing screech that stopped everybody in their tracks.

Sansa turned in the direction of the sound, not that she could see much through the dense woods, so she quickly ran towards the path to get a better understanding of the source of the noise, Flame on her heels. It turned out to be unnecessary, as she came to the path an impossible image was painted across the sky. A green dragon soared across the sky, larger than any creature she could conceive of, scales glistening with water and apparently having burst through her godswood pool.

Sansa allowed herself three seconds to freeze and try and comprehend just what was going on before jumping into action.

1.

2.

3.

“Rickon! Osha!” Sansa turned back to the trees to find the pair and Shaggydog sprinting towards her, her voice quickly turning hoarse from shouting as loud as she could in the Old Tongue, “get back to the keep get inside now and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe!”

For a second Sansa feared that Rickon was going to refuse and argue, that he didn’t understand the severity of the situation, Sansa herself could barely understand it. But maybe there was something in the terror plain in her expression that had him think better of it, only nodding and allowing Osha to lead him back to the keep. Sansa almost went to the pools of the godswood to investigate before thinking better of it, even with Flame to protect her it was a fool's errand to investigate on her own, instead hurried back to the keep, following after Rickon and Osha.

By the time she made it to the keep everything was already chaos, everyone had seen what she had, a dragon larger than a ship emerging from the godswood and soaring across the sky. Sansa climbed onto the ramparts partly to get away from the chaos and panic in the courtyard and partly to get a better view of the situation at hand. The first thing she noticed was that the dragon had landed in the snow, far from the castle but still within seeing distance. The second thing noticed was the smallfolk of wintertown swarming and clamouring at the gates of the castle.

She had to act.

Coming down from the ramparts, Sansa found the nearest group of guards and began giving out orders.

“Have the Great Hall cleared and readied for the smallfolk to take shelter, once it is ready then have the smallfolk escorted in,” she started with her first priority, “and have each present House send one representative to my solar to discuss our current situation.”

The guards nod and take their leave to carry out her orders immediately and Sansa headed in the direction of her solar.

It didn’t take long for the Lords of the North to fill up her solar, they all saw it too.

“my lords we’ve all seen what appears to be a dragon fly over and land just beyond Winterfell,” Sansa began once everyone was settled, “I brought you here as counsel as we decide how best to move forward with this situation.”

The room descended into a cacophony of sound and chaos as people argued what the creature was.

"The dragons have been dead for centuries so it can’t be a dragon," Lord Flint of Widow's Watch declared.

"But what else would you call a winged creature such as that?" Lord Tallhart argued.

"Surely no one is denying that their very eyes could see?" Lady Barbrey snorted.

"But what of the rumours from the east," Lord Cerwyn pointed out, "that Daenerys Targaryen hatched dragons?"

"Yes three dragons, not one," Lord Glover reminded them. 

"There could be two more coming," Hother Whoresbane pointed out.

Lord Manderly looked a moment away from making the sign of the Seven, "Gods forbid."

"The rumours from the east have only existed for four years," Lord Locke tried to reason, "are we really saying that a dragon could grow to that size in such a short time?"

"Well how familiar do you consider yourself to be with the lifecycles of long extinct creatures?" Lord Norrey scoffed.

Sansa was sorely tempted to sing just to get the Lords to stop arguing and calm down, she wouldn’t though, despite her frustrations it wasn’t worth taking the power over a man’s own body.

Instead she just settled for, “My Lords!”

Her call was sharp and high, underscored by the low and primal growl rumbling from Flame next to her as she snarled at the arguing Lords. The Lords fell into silence their attention once more on her rather than each other.

“We can discuss the specifics of the creature and how it came to be here later,” she continued in a level voice, “at present there are more pertinent things to discuss, like if it had a rider.”

The dragon or whatever it was had been at the wrong angle for Sansa to see anything but its belly when it flew by Sansa and by the time she saw it from the ramparts it was too far away for Sansa to spot a rider. Luckily her question was far easier to answer than the previous. Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart as well as Lady Dustin claimed to have seen a rider while Lords Reed and Glover claimed to see a saddle though they didn’t see well enough to confirm the presence of a rider. Still it was enough to justify acting under the assumption that the beast had a rider.

Which presented the issue of parley.

No one wanted to be eaten by a dragon.

“My Lords I would not ask you to risk your lives and the lives of your men without a willingness to do the same,” Sansa tried to placate the lords, “I will ride out also to parley with whoever controls the beast out there.”

“My Lady though we appreciate your willingness to serve the North,” Lord Tallhart spoke, “you are the last Stark, you must stay where it is safe.”

“I am not the last Stark,” Sansa disagreed, “Rickon yet lives and is safe within these walls.”

“And is more beast than boy,” Lord Ryswell sneered, quietly but not quietly enough as both Sansa’s and Flame’s eyes snapped to him at his words.

“My Lord you go too far,” Sansa said quietly, voice colder than ice as Flame brought her lips back over her teeth in a silent snarl.

The room fell to silence and all eyes were on Lord Ryswell.

“Forgive me My Lady,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “our current situation has me out of sorts.”

Sansa said nothing but inclined her head, he’d spoken freely his true thoughts though perhaps he’d forgotten his surroundings, it made little difference to her.

“The fact remains that if the rider is able to control the beast,” Sansa continued with the meeting, “then our chances at a peaceful resolution are significantly higher.”

In the end it was decided that the parley would take place at Winterfell and that outriders would be sent to confirm the presence of a rider and if so retrieve them. In the meantime Sansa was tempted to visit the smallfolk, they should’ve been settled in the Great Hall by then, she wanted to put them at ease as best she could but she had little else to help with but give empty platitudes, it would be better to visit when parley was finished, as she would have something certain to give them. Instead she visited the nursery, the young Lord Bolton was awake and in good humour round faced and rosy cheeked he resembled his mother more than his father but he’d yet to develop the characteristic looks either of his Houses were known for, Sansa hoped it stayed that way, for his sake at least. Colmar Bolton was a happy babe, he liked to be cuddled and played with and spun around in the air, Sansa sometimes wished to sing to him as she used to, to children and babes, but she didn’t dare now she knew what her voice could do. Still, there was an innocence in Colmar’s eyes that Sansa didn’t think had ever been present in Ramsay’s even as a babe.

All too soon was she interrupted by a servant sent to inform her that the riders were returning and she placed little Colmar down in his cradle, leaving him in the care of his wet nurse and made her way to her rooms. She had her maids lay out a dress of Stark white and grey for her, another of her mother’s old dresses but one she’d embroidered Flame and Lady running together on the hem, something more formal and less worn than the dress she’d worn to follow Rickon around the godswood. She sent Flame to find Rickon wherever he and Osha were, as an assurance she hadn’t forgotten about him and all the extra protection she could grant him should it be needed, the many swords of the Lords of the North would have to be enough for her.

Sansa would have liked to use the Great Hall but as it was occupied, she would meet the mysterious rider in the courtyard and they would parley in her solar. It wasn’t long before the riders came through the gate with a stranger among them. The stranger was tall and lean, Sansa noted as he came down from his horse, but what really caught her interest was the silvery blonde hair that flowed down his back and a single amethyst eye, the other covered with an eyepatch. He was dressed in sodden green riding leathers, so dark they could easily be mistaken as black, embroidered with the sigil of a golden three headed dragon, with a sword secured to his hip. It all painted a familiar, if extremely anachronistic picture.

There was a long moment of silence as the pair silently assessed each other.

“My Lady,” one of the Stark bannermen who escorted the stranger to her castle spoke up, “this man claims to be Prince Aemond of House Targaryen.”

The disbelief and scorn was not in any way disguised in the man’s tone and honestly Sansa could not say she disagreed but there were bigger things at hand.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the guard, “you’ve done a great service bringing our guest back to the keep, all of you,” she smiled at each guard in turn, “you may now return to your posts.”

Without much fanfare Sansa welcomed her guest and proceeded with guest right before sending their apparent prince off to be situated in the Guest House “you’ll catch your death if you don’t change your clothes soon.”

“Thank you my Lady for your hospitality,” he said with a wry smirk though it didn’t quite mask the chatter of his teeth.

The Lords of the North quickly regathered in Sansa’s solar to discuss the latest revelation.

"The male Targaryen line was wiped," Hother Whoresbane burst out.

"So he’s a dragonseed then, what does it matter when he has a dragon with him?" Lord Flint of Flint's Fingers suggested.

"Dragonseed? surely you jest it’s clear as day that that’s Aemond One-Eye," Lord Ryswell argued.

"And how do you explain the One-Eye came north from the watery depths of the Gods Eye almost two hundred years after his death?" Lady Maege sneered.

"Well he looked half drowned didn’t he?" Lady Barbrey scoffed.

"If we are to believe his word and that’s Aemond One-Eye come through time by whatever magics," Lord Reed put forward carefully, "then that makes it Vhagar that’s currently resting beyond the walls of the castle."

The room went silent at that, Vhagar Queen of Dragons, second biggest recorded in Westerosi history second only the the Black Dread itself. Vhagar who was said to be so large a horse and rider could walk through her jaws and down her throat. Vhagar who was said to breathe fire so hot she could melt stone in seconds. It would certainly explain the size of the beast even if it opened up a whole other wealth of problems.

Before discussions could go any further their subject was announced at the door.

“My Prince, I hope you’ve settled in well,” she greeted him and directed him to sit.

“My Lady,” he ignored the presence of the rest of the Lords, his eye only trained on her, “your household is most attentive.”

They exchanged few pleasantries beyond that, she could see how being relegated to the sidelines irked at her Lords, the same way that being so unceremoniously interrupted irked at them.

So she addressed what she deemed to be the crux of the issue, “My Prince, how exactly did you come to emerge from the pools of my godswood?”

It was the main reason she was hesitant to entirely disregard the idea that he was the identity he claimed, looks aside. Though there were many stories among the smallfolk especially, about how Winterfell was able to stay warm even in the deepest and darkest of winters. But Sansa knew that it was not because there had been a dragon hiding under her castle for thousands of years keeping it warm.

He was tight lipped about it as to be expected with such a large audience, “The will of the Gods by my best guess.”

According to his tale, he’d just come from his death in the battle above the Gods Eye, he’d plunged into the waters surrounding the Isle of Faces as history had taught her but then emerged in her godswood.

“Are you in need of a maester my Prince?” Sansa asked, “if you’ve just come from battle?”

His eye pierced her with a queer look, at her inquiry and suddenly she was reminded of Flame’s friend, the direwolf with silvery white fur and a single blue eye. According to the histories when Prince Aemond lost his eye Queen Alicient had it replaced with a sapphire as the only thing precious enough to be placed in its stead. Sansa glanced at her guest’s eyepatch and wondered if the histories were true. But more importantly she realised, the role she may have played in bringing him here, she had thought the Gods were done answering her prayers when they gave her Flame and her song, but perhaps this was another boon they’d seen fit to grant her too. Not that it made sense to her, she’d long since freed herself from the Bolton’s. Why would the Gods send him now?

“I’ve no need of a maester,” he told her, “the waters cleansed and healed me.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that, perhaps the Old Gods had looked kindly upon him as they had her, though she couldn’t imagine why, according to the histories Prince Aemond had been a follower of the Seven and more than that he was a known kinslayer. Why the Old Gods would give him their regard she couldn’t say, but it was not for her to question the will of the Gods, especially after all they’d granted her.

Instead she said, “My Prince, you have travelled a great distance to come here, please be free to rest at Winterfell, you have quite the ordeal to recover from.”

“My Lady you are kind,” he started slowly, his eye pinned on her face assessing her, “but as things are, I should not like to impose on Lord Cregan’s hospitality without first speaking with him.”

The words were carefully chosen, a test, both for her and his suspicions. Sansa had been careful to not address anyone by name and in turn made sure she was not addressed by name in the presence of the apparent prince. According to the histories Prince Aemond had never travelled to the North during his life, so she hadn’t expected the names of any of the Lords to raise concern for him. But the Starks of his time ruled over the largest of the Seven Kingdoms and were the Wardens of the North, their names a Prince of the Realm would know. Cregan Stark had had a baseborn sister Sara Snow, presumably who Prince Aemond assumed her identity to be. So it came to her to inform him of his apparent travel through time.

“Cregan, son of Rickon, the Old Man of the North, died some ninety years ago aged a hundred years,” she informed her guest calmly before turning her voice more kind, “My Prince, I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and it is the three hundred and third year after Aegon’s Conquest.”

Sansa studied the apparent prince’s face as she spoke, first confusion flickered across his expression that soon morphed into anger before settling on a plain blankness.

Chapter Text

It took quite a bit of convincing for Prince Aemond to believe that they were being truthful about the present year. Including but not limited to having Maester Wolkan show him some of the histories and chronicles regarding the Dance of Dragons. In all honesty Sansa still wasn’t convinced that he believed them but he’d retreated to the rooms she’d set aside for him so it was a non issue.

There had at least been some success with parley, just as her guest who Sansa was becoming ever more convinced was in fact Prince Aemond Targaryen as he claimed, he also claimed his dragon to be Vhagar. He’d also assured them that Vhagar would be no threat to them or the smallfolk of Wintertown as long as they kept their distance and Aemond was free to attend her. Sansa was somewhat offended at the notion that she might keep him confined to the castle, she may be keeping an eye on him but he wasn’t her prisoner. Still being able to assure the people of Wintertown who had taken refuge within her walls that the danger had passed and they were safe to return to their homes eased her heart. She’d also released Rickon from needing to be present for the evening meal for the time being. She needed a better read on Prince Aemond before she trusted him in her brother’s presence.

Sansa didn’t really know what to make of her guest Targaryen prince, she remembered her lessons of the Dance of Dragons growing up. Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer, he killed his nephew, the Prince Lucerys Velaryon, at the beginning of the Dance and died attempting to kill his uncle, the Prince Daemon Targaryen in the battle above the Gods Eye, he’d ruled as prince regent for a year before razing the Riverlands and taking a witch as a lover. Sansa couldn’t really hold the association to magic against him considering own magic, but the rest was enough to make her wary. It didn’t help that the North’s last interaction with a Targaryen set off Robert’s Rebellion, not that she could hold him responsible for the actions of his descendants either. Sansa opted to reserve judgement for the time being, if her theory was correct and the Old Gods had sent him to her, there had to be a reason and the Old Gods had yet to fail her so she would not disregard their will, she would not break faith with them yet.

The Northern Lords weren’t happiest at the presence of their unexpected guest but they grudgingly accepted his presence, especially when he kept largely to himself. Despite all their bluster when he’d had first emerged from her godswood, no one wanted to be the first to suggest turning him out when the Queen of Dragons rested just beyond their walls. They all knew of Harrenhall, many of them had even beholden the ruin with their own eyes, they wouldn’t risk the same fate for the heart of the North, not least when so many of their leaders were within Winterfell’s walls.

It came as quite a surprise the first day that Prince Aemond joined them in the Great Hall for the midday meal, he sometimes joined them for the evening meal but rarely did he make his presence known during the day unless one were to seek him out in the library tower or his rooms. Still, Sansa offered him the guest’s place at the high table as she did whenever he deigned to join them for a meal. He kept to himself as was his wont to do, it was only once the meal was over that he sought her company for the afternoon. She granted it, curious as to why she was of interest to him now considering more than a sennight had passed since their initial parley.

He didn’t make his intentions known immediately, but Sansa could feel the heavy weight of his attention on her. Even without speaking, his presence was constantly known to her, he stayed as close to her as could still be deemed appropriate between an unmarried man and woman though considering that she was now a widow, the tenets of propriety were not nearly as restrictive as they were for a highborn maiden. Sansa could almost feel the heat emanating from his body they were stood so close together. Though that could be her imagination or hyper awareness. It was the closest anyone save for Rickon had been to her since she’d widowed herself, it didn’t make her tremble with fear in the way she imagined it might have, usually a man grown being so close to her boded nothing good in her experience. Mayhaps it was because she knew herself to no longer be powerless, she had her song, she had Flame and she was sure even Shaggydog would come running to defend her should she scream despite not being his master. Or perhaps it was because Prince Aemond had been brought forth by the Old Gods, surely after all they’d done to ensure her survival and grant her power they would not send him to take it all away from her again, not when she was so faithful to them that she’d watered the Heart Tree’s roots with her own lifeblood.

“You introduced yourself as Sansa Stark of Winterfell to me,” he brought her from her thoughts as they walked around the keep together, her arm crooked in his elbow.

“I did,” she agreed, “it is who I am.”

“No title?” he questioned with a slight quirk of his lips.

Sansa realised then what he’d been studying in the library tower for all the days passed, she’d assumed he’d been reading of the Dance of Dragons, learning the tragedy that befell his family after his death. But now she knew he’d been learning the history of this time as well, all that befell her family, and her too.

“Some see me as a Lady, others as a Princess, others still, see me as far less than either,” she answered non committally.

“And yourself?” he asked, “what do you see yourself as?”

“I’ve been many things in my life my Prince,” Sansa told him, “a future queen, a High Lady, a traitor’s daughter, a bastard, a whore, a toy. It is not for me to decide what I am.”

“There must be some you prefer over others,” Prince Aemond urged.

“Of course,” she agreed though she left the matter there, “to answer your true question though, the Iron Throne has broken faith with the North twice in recent history, two different Wardens of the North were unjustly executed by two different Kings in less twenty years before the North declared its independence.” she looked out to the vast snowy plains of the North at the thought of her father, how she failed him and the North, “I leave it to the Lords of the North to decide.”

He seemed to accept her answer in quiet contemplation, though Sansa didn’t for a second believe that he would leave it at that.

“If you’ve been reading the histories you must know by now that House Targaryen is no more,” Sansa eventually broke the silence that they’d fallen into on their stroll, “yet there are rumours from the east that Daenerys Targaryen is the Queen of Mereen.”

“The last of my House,” there was something unidentifiable in his tone as he spoke.

“I could grant you safe passage from White Harbour if you wish to join her there,” Sansa offered, “though you’d have to disguise yourself most likely.”

Cersei wouldn’t a Targaryen on Westeros live.

“The last of Rhaenyra’s descendants, all we would share is blood and I find it to be of little consequence all things considered,” he scoffed his eyes on the distant figure of Vhagar, before turning his gaze to her, “I don’t know how long I was in the water for after we crashed into the Gods Eye but for all that time, perhaps almost two hundred years, I only saw one thing.”

His gaze pierced into her, rooting her where she stood. Prince Aemond wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, he wasn’t the golden prince a foolish little girl once dreamed of, but he was striking with an angular face and pale looks contrasted by his dark clothes and eyepatch, as a foolish little girl she would have found the scar that slashed through his eye unsightly, but it was nothing compared to her scars as a woman grown. His remaining eye was difficult to look away from, otherworldly and amethyst, it clung to her like nothing else, noting the slightest of movements even down to every shallow exhale of her breath. The weight of his undivided attention was a heady thing.

“What did you see?” she could barely push sound past the breath on her lips.

“I saw a woman, fair, with hair the colour of flames,” he brought his hand up to touch one of the loose locks that fell down her back, “she looked like a Weirwood tree but more beautiful than the maiden made flesh.”

Sansa stopped breathing all together.

“By the time I emerged in this strange new land, so far from where I came, I knew the image of this spectre better than I knew myself,” he continued, “I knew not who she was, or if she was even real, only to be brought back to the keep I had risen from to be greeted by my haunting beauty made flesh.”

Sansa could barely hear him over her heart beating like a drum in her chest.

“If the Gods have indeed brought me here, they have also told me their will, so by your leave I will remain,” he finished.

Blood was rushing through her ears and her mind was racing and Sansa could not yet form words so she settled for a jerky nod of assent. Prince Aemond took his leave of her then, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles and leaving her to herself on the ramparts. Once he was out of sight, Sansa retreated to her chambers and dismissed the maids. The moment she was alone save for Flame’s quiet companionship she fell to her knees and sobbed into her fur.

Chapter Text

Prince Aemond’s reclusive nature became a thing of the past from that day forward. He didn’t impose himself on her, nor did he act in any way out of the bounds of propriety. But anywhere she was between the morning and evening meals, he would soon find himself. It was only when she was at prayer that he would make himself scarce, save for the days that he’d leave her presence of his own volition to attend Vhagar and the whole of Winterfell would see them take flight. The prince didn’t keep the Old Gods, she thought he might keep the New as his mother did, but she’d never seen him enter her mother’s small Sept though it was open to any who wished to visit. But with his newfound constant companionship and the assurance both of how he’d comported himself during his stay at Winterfell and his apparent fondness for her, her hand had been forced in a way she’d been trying to avoid.

She knew she’d be unable to keep Rickon’s presence a secret indefinitely, but she’d was glad for the time she’d had to take stock of Prince Aemond, even if she had mixed feelings about what she’d found. Sansa didn’t favour banking on his apparent regard for her personally, being shared to her younger brother, she’d prefer assurances of a more solid nature, but Prince Aemond had never displayed a violent nature, save for the night of his arrival where several crashes were reported to be heard from within his rooms in the Guest House. It was understandable all things considered, the circumstances were truly unpredictable and the only of their kind, so Sansa did not hold that night against him, especially when he kept the violence contained to himself. Nor had the Prince displayed irrationality save for his, fascination with her, which wasn’t something Sansa liked when it came to ensuring Rickon’s safety and protection. Given all that she knew of Prince Aemond, all she’d learnt from the histories and all that she’d observed of him in the time since his arrival at Winterfell, it was better to reveal things on her terms than to have him discover by himself and believe that she’d deceived him.

Prince Aemond was ready to take his leave when they reached the entrance of the godswood as he always did, but instead Sansa bid him stay with her, as she wasn’t going in to pray. They didn’t stay on the path for long, instead following the trail of foot and paw prints in the snow. It wasn’t long until the sounds of Shaggydog and Rickon reached their ears. She could feel Aemond’s arm tense where her hand rested on it and she reassured him with a gentle smile. All too soon they arrived at their destination and the trees parted to the sight of Rickon and Shaggy rough housing in the snow, watched over by Osha and Flame. Flame was the first of the group to notice them quietly padding over to the pair.

Sansa felt Prince Aemond reach for his sword but she stilled his hand. She didn’t blame him for his reaction, calm as she was, Flame was still a wild animal the size of a horse, but she’d wanted it known that it wasn’t necessary.

“My Prince, this is Flame,” she introduced the pair as she scratched behind her wolf’s great ear, “she won’t harm you, she was gifted to me by the Gods.”

“Forgive me,” his hand left the pommel of his sword, “she looks to be a wild animal.”

“She is,” Sansa confirmed, “but she’ll do no harm to anyone who is not a threat to me, or my family.”

With her final words her eyes dragged over to Rickon who’d noted her presence by then. He and Shaggy were no longer playing in the snow, but instead were watching the newcomer with wary eyes, both crouched in the snow, Sansa could plainly see the matching tension in both of their bodies, ready to pounce and attack at a moment’s notice, should it be needed. With a smile and an encouraging nod she urged Rickon to resume playing again, that is was safe for both of them and she’d protect him if need be.

“This is Rickon,” she motioned to her brother, who’d resumed wrestling Shaggy, red curls laden with snowflakes, falling into his eyes, “forgive him for not introducing himself, my Prince. When Winterfell was sacked, he escaped with Shaggydog, his direwolf, and his minder Osha, for more than three years they roamed the wilds of the North, he is only just getting used to having a family and home once more, let alone learning his manners and he only speaks the Old Tongue.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” the prince reassured her, taking one of her hands in his own, “he is a resilient boy, I’m glad you have him back.”

“Come my prince,” Sansa began to lead them back to the path, using their movement to take her hand back, Flame becoming a third shadow following them, “there is something else I wish to show you.”

She led them to the Heart Tree next, still decorated by the Bolton’s innards.

“I was under the impression that sacrifices to the Weirwoods were no longer practised in the North,” Prince Aemond said when they stopped before the Heart Tree.

He didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the sight before him, there was no hastily hidden grimace on his face, nor did he make the sign of the Seven in the face of true Northern worship. If anything his eye was alight with curiosity as he took in the Heart Tree.

Sansa turned her own attention to the Heart Tree, everyday when she came to pray in the godswood, or when she would show the Heart Tree to her guests, she forced herself to face the sight of the innards decorating the pale branches. She had to stand by her actions no matter how distasteful they might be, she couldn’t hide away from them, especially when she did not regret them. Very few who’d known her as a child would think her capable of such gruesome violence, she herself wouldn’t have, but such was the way that life had tempered her.

“In most circumstances,” Sansa agreed, “when my father was executed I was kept in Kings Landing as a ward of the Crown, after King Joffrey was poisoned at his wedding feast I was taken to the Vale for my own safety and my first husband was charged with Joffrey’s murder. My aunt was Lady of the Eyrie and her husband grew up as a ward to my mother’s House, he had me pose as his baseborn daughter for a time until he brought me North and sold me to the men that betrayed my House and murdered my brother and mother.”

She looked away from the weeping face of the Heart Tree and instead turned to her companion only to find him already looking at her. His eye boring deep into her very soul.

“My second husband was a cruel man with a vast imagination, he used me as he wished without reproach. It took all my strength to ask the Gods for their, pity, their mercy, their aid, any of it, all of it, I would have taken.” Sansa continued the much abridged tale of her life since first leaving Winterfell, she was sure some of it the Prince had learned in his own studies of the present time, but she needed him to know it from her. “Eventually the Gods used me as their instrument to bring him and his father to justice for their crimes, their treason against my brother. It was all I could do to pay them homage for freeing me from the cruelties of men.”

“My Lady,” Prince Aemond breathed, he moved so he was facing her, his hand coming up to brush her shoulder.

“My Prince—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, “in private at least, you must call me Aemond.”

“Aemond,” she corrected with a sad smile, “there’s no need to placate me with sympathies and empty platitudes—“

“I would have burnt your husband to a crisp without a second thought for what he did to you,” he interrupted her once more, “his father and every person in this keep that stood by as you suffered too. I would dedicate my life to hunting down everyone who ever wronged and bathe my sword in their blood.”

“My husband is dead,” she said firmly, stopping his diatribe, “and I am far from many of the people who’ve wronged me over the years, there is no need to hunt them down when the Gods come for us all eventually.”

Sansa could hardly bring herself to take his words at face value and exaggerated or empty promises had been wounds in her heart far more than they’d ever been a balm to it. The declaration was nice, if intimidating, the idea that there was someone in the world that might be willing to go to any length for her. But Sansa knew the dangers that nice things might hide.

“It is not enough,” Aemond insisted, “I see how their cruelties hurt you, they must feel that pain turned back on themselves.”

“Aemond you have no responsibility over me,” Sansa tried a different angle, “you are not my father, my brother or my husband, what little is left of my honour is not yours to defend.”

“It doesn’t matter, the Gods named me your champion,” a new wave of determination crashed across his face, “If you wish for me not to be a suitor then I will not be, but the Gods have tied me to you.”

“But that was not your choice,” Sansa argued, “we are all beholden to the Gods, yes. But that does not mean you must dedicate your life to me.”

“But I am willing,” he insisted emphatically, “I would give you everything in this world, but my soul is already yours.”

“My Prince—“

“Aemond,” he corrected

“Aemond,” she repeated though she got no further than that, Sansa was at a loss for words.

There was a part of her, the foolish little girl who still lived deep down in her heart, that truly wanted to take Aemond at his word. That wanted someone to be her champion to save her from all dangers. But there was another part of her, much more cynical and jaded, part of her moulded by Joffrey, Cersei, Littlefinger and Ramsay that could not risk accepting such a promise safety and protection only to find it gone the next minute, pulled like a rug from under her feet. There was a part of her that wanted to trust Aemond, to trust blindly in the Gods will, if they had in fact gifted him to her. In a way he was like a prince from a song brought before her by the gods and magic, swearing sacred oaths to protect and cherish her. But she didn’t know Aemond yet, not truly and she’d felt too sharply the wounds caused by her misplaced trust to trust blindly again, even at the Gods will.

“I ask nothing of you,” Sansa told him eventually.

What more could she say?

“And my suit?” he asked, his eye boring into her own.

“It is not you I am opposed to,” she started, her eyes fleeing his gaze and finding purchase on the pale roots of the Heart Tree, “but the touch of a man has never been kind when I’ve felt it.”

Aemond’s touch was so soft that it was a moment before she registered his fingers gently lifting her chin, bringing her back up to his gaze. He’d moved closer but there was still enough space for Flame to walk between them if needed, though he leaned down toward her to lessen the space even more, his gaze holding her in place, unwilling, unable to take a step back or lean away.

“Then I shall wait until you are ready to taste kindness.”

Chapter Text

Aemond didn’t retreat from her after their clash in the godswood, if anything he somehow found a way to spend even more time with her. But he continued to pay her every respect and kindness. It actually got to the point that Sansa actually preferred his presence to that of her Lords, though that was more due to her Lords than Aemond. Now that the last of the major Houses of the North had sent a representative to Winterfell they were waiting for her to call a meeting. She had been given a small grace period when Alysanne Mormont was reunited with her mother, there had nary been a dry eye in the courtyard when mother and daughter embraced for the first time in almost five years.

The joy in Sansa’s heart had been bittersweet, the ever present reminder that she’d never have such a reunion with her own mother made itself particularly known to her then. But unfortunately for her Lords, it had only made Sansa more firm in her decision to wait, she only needed a few more days. Bear Island was longest journey from Winterfell of the Northern Lords but not the longest journey of the North. She was sure some of the Lords had realised what she was waiting for, or rather who, despite the fact that she’d never spoken it aloud. Lord Manderly knew almost certainly, all the Northern Lords knew Jon had been voted Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, they’d known longer than she had, surely he’d send a representative of sorts.

The Lords were getting antsy though, she wouldn’t have much longer until they forced her hand. At least she’d brought Rickon back to the evening meals, it quieted Lord Ryswell’s muttering if nothing else. Her closer association with Aemond hadn’t gone unnoticed either, a blind man could see the high regard he held her in, something else she’d have to answer for when she inevitably called the meeting. She wasn’t entirely sure how to handle Aemond’s high regard for her or him as a potential suitor. It had been so long since she had been given the choice to entertain a suitor that it almost seemed a novelty. She hadn’t given any thought to a suitor before Aemond brought the notion to her, she had far too many other things that needed her attention namely Rickon and the North. The thought of a man being close to her in such a way brought bile up her throat and she didn’t expect that to change. It wasn’t even just thoughts of Ramsay that caused the reaction in her memories of Joffrey, Lord Tyrion and Harry the Heir did the same, then there were the ones that hadn’t even been her suitors in an official sense.

The thought of a suitor even one of her choice wasn’t something Sansa could entertain then and probably not for a long time either. She could only hope that Aemond’s patience wouldn’t run out the way others had. It made her sad and slightly wistful, Sansa didn’t dislike Aemond as a person, his focus on her was somewhat unnerving, but she’d found his company surprisingly pleasant. The surprise was not only due to her personal aversion to being in the company of men, especially if they were alone, but also due to what she knew of him from history. Sansa had no doubt he had a capability and even willingness to commit the atrocities the Maesters attributed to him, she even knew that he would do it all again if given the reason enough. But there was far more to him too, she wouldn’t describe as gentle, but he was quiet, and studious perhaps considering all the time he spent in the library tower.

Aemond also wasn’t particularly sociable despite how much time he spent in her company, Sansa found that simply being in her presence seemed to satisfy him. She might not even notice him with how quiet he was if she didn’t find his mere presence so large. He was like an ever present spectre, silent and observing but always in her eye-line, in her awareness. Rickon didn’t seem to mind him either, but that was probably more to do with the fact that he only had to greet him formally during the evening meal, for the most part if Aemond and Sansa came across Rickon during the day they let him be and Aemond never sneered at his idiosyncrasies the way she knew some of the lords were wont to do when she was out of sight. Osha still stared, more glared, at Aemond with open suspicion whenever he came across her and Rickon during the day, but she was the only person in the keep other than Rickon that Osha was anything close to friendly with.

But relatively speaking Sansa’s life was going quite smoothly for the first time in years. Yes she had a hundred new problems coming to her everyday, curmudgeonly lords that grew more impatient with her with each minute, a wild little brother who she would somehow have to turn into a lordling if nothing else and a slightly obsessive admirer. But she had autonomy, for the first time in her life she could make the decisions about her life and she had the knowledge to make good ones and the power to enforce them. It was enough that the looming horizon that threatened her autonomy could be put aside for the time being, Sansa could actually allow herself to enjoy and appreciate her freedom.

There had only been one blip.

Sansa still slept with Rickon in her bed every night, she knew she should put him back in his rooms or perhaps Bran’s rooms would be more suited to a boy Rickon’s age. but the only time she’d suggested having his own rooms Rickon convinced himself that she was trying to get rid of him, trying to leave again. He’d been so distraught that Sansa refused to bring it up again though she knew she had to at some point. As much as she didn’t mind having Rickon in bed with her no matter how much he kicked and left bruises on her legs (she far preferred them to the marks others had left on her body) and as much as it made it easier to comfort Rickon during his nightmares she knew they couldn’t stay like this forever, she couldn’t coddle him, not through winter, let alone the chaos that was the current state of the Seven Kingdoms.

So when Sansa woke in the dead of one night she first assumed it was Rickon waking her be it on purpose or by accident. It was only after a few moments had passed that she registered the noise, her name being whispered across the bedchamber. Rickon was fidgeting in bed beside her but deep in sleep, if Sansa had to wager a guess she’d say he was dreaming through Shaggy’s eyes the way she often dreamt through Flame’s. But Rickon wasn’t the source of the noise, so Sansa rose from the bed slightly and scanned the room. As she moved the noise stopped but the glowing embers of the hearth and an open shutter granted her enough light to make out the outline of something huddled in the corner of the room and a pair of eyes.

Familiar eyes.

Eyes she knew far too well.

“Theon,” Sansa hissed as she rose from the bed, careful not to wake Rickon and covered her shift with a bed robe, “what are you doing in here? How did you get in here?”

His eyes looked toward the open shutters.

That explained one thing, though she was shocked Theon still had the strength and skill enough to climb through the window of her bed chamber.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Sansa,” he started the repetitions again, he was almost rocking himself with his knees pulled up to his chest.

Sansa crossed the room to get a better look at him.

“Theon,” her voice was soft but harsh, she didn’t appreciate an intruder in her room in the best of circumstances but there was a reason she hadn’t sought him out in all this time, “what are you doing in here?”

Theon merely whined and shook his head, unable to answer her in any real way. Sansa despite herself, despite everything felt an overwhelming wave of pity for Theon, the thing he was now scarcely resembled the young man she’d grown up with.

“Theon,” she placed her hand on his shoulder hoping to rouse him from whatever demons had a hold on him, she was about to ask again what he wanted but before she could Theon finally spoke himself.

“Sing Lady Sansa, sing,” he was begging her, he repeated the words over and over again until they were all she could hear.

Sansa felt sick, she stumbled back a couple of steps lest she actually empty her stomach on Theon. Not that he noticed, he was in a trance begging for her song. She had done this, she’d taken someone already as broken as Theon and shattered him into even more pieces. She didn’t know what to do, he was begging for her song like he needed it to breathe, but was it not her song that put him in that state to begin with?

“Theon,” she tried to order him away, “you must leave now.”

But he was unmoved by her words, he far preferred his own, “Please Lady Sansa, please, sing please.”

Seeing no other option, Sansa led Theon out of her bedchamber and to the adjoining solar, if these were the consequences of her song she would not risk Rickon hearing. She sang to Theon quietly, just the first tune she could think of but from the first note the difference was instant. The moment her song left her lips Theon ceased his begging quieting down to listen, his body stilled too, no longer rocking and shaking. The entirety of his being was focused on her voice, basking in every last second of it. He looked at peace.

Sansa sent Theon away after one song she wouldn’t risk any more with how many people of importance were in the castle. Instead once she was sure Theon was gone she returned to her chambers, closed the shutters that were still wide open bathing the room in moonlight and climbed back into bed, curling around Rickon and holding him close. Silent sobs wracked her body as the tears flooded down her cheeks.

What had she done?

She would have to sing to Theon again.

Aemond left Vhagar to herself far more often than he used to when they were in Kings Landing or Harrenhall. His old lady might not be best pleased with the climate of the North but the open space and freedom she clearly took advantage of after so many years in the dragon pit. Still, he would take her out every so often, they would fly across the North taking in these unfamiliar lands his lovely Sansa would inherit.

He was also scouting for something else, he always went further North with Vhagar though never for a distance that would require him to camp before returning to Winterfell. He misliked the idea of being away for too long. For his old lady these trips were largely for hunting, older dragons could go longer without food than a hatchling but they also required a far larger quantity of food. He wouldn’t trouble his Sansa with feeding a dragon the size of Vhagar when he knew she was balancing so many other responsibilities already. Feeding Vhagar would be an undertaking at the best of times but when winter was fast encroaching and food seemed scarce, people would not appreciate months worth of meat going down the gullet of a dragon in a single day. Luckily, there was said to be a wealth of flesh that no person would want for themselves, well perhaps that wasn’t entirely accurate considering some stories of the North he knew.

It was some hours flying before they came across their goal in a manner of speaking, a small group, less than fifty men in tattered livery, struggling to march down the kingsroad. They had no horses nor wagons or supplies more than what they could carry on their backs, it came as little surprise to Aemond. what took his interest was the figure that headed the group and the gold and red crown fixed to his brow. This must be Stannis Baratheon and what was left of his army, the man who should’ve inherited the Seven Kingdoms after King Robert’s death. Aemond knew it was largely believed by his Sansa and the northern lords that Stannis and his forces were believed to have perished in the harsh climate of the North. None had believed that a southern army and its southern king would survive the march from the Wall to Winterfell especially without the aid or knowledge of the northern Houses.

The group stopped when they noticed him in the air, it was of little matter, his plans held no reliance on what Stannis would do. The paltry excuse of an army had no scorpions, even if they had, Aemond highly doubted their ability to pierce Vhagar’s scales. Without any preamble Vhagar dove down toward them, the cries of panic were a familiar song to him. Vhagar didn’t even bother with roasting the men with her breath as he knew was her preference, instead she merely swooped down and swallowed as many men could fit in her gullet. It only took a couple of tries before Stannis Baratheon and his army were gone, not that there was much of an army to speak of to begin with. The taste of human flesh wasn’t a particular favourite of Vhagar’s, though he knew she rather enjoyed the hunting aspect of eating man, she found the panic and terror in the face of her amusing, after so many wars human flesh was something she was very well acquainted with.

It was no less than they deserved in Aemond’s mind, this was the force that was supposed to save his lovely Sansa and liberate the North. But they had been too, weak, pathetic, ill prepared to do so, keaving his Sansa ti be forced to liberate herself. Perhaps had this so called king, Stannis Baratheon done as he was supposed to Aemond would have spared him the fate of being Vhagar’s dinner, especially if he’d first come across them protecting his Sansa. But they hadn’t, instead they had been all but crawling through the snow, and even if they had, Aemond and Vhagar were here now, there was no use for them any longer.

They turned back to Winterfell when Vhagar was done eating, rather than search for more men. The rest would be dealt with at their leisure likely already frozen to death in the cold, even if they weren’t, their leader was dead.

He didn’t speak to his Sansa of his and Vhagar’s trip that day he knew she wouldn’t question Vhagar’s eating habits unless she started fielding complaints from her lords or her smallfolk alike and Aemond was taking measures to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

Chapter Text

The day a lone black rider was spotted coming down toward Winterfell from the north gate Sansa wept. She couldn’t help it the very sight of him whoever he was caused tears to stream down her cheeks, Jon hadn’t forgotten her, he’d sent a rider on his behalf.

“My Lady why do you weep?” Aemond asked, as she tried to compose herself, handing her a kerchief.

It took a moment for her to dislodge the lump in her throat so she could speak, “Jon, he sent a rider to bring word of us back to him.”

“He is your brother and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Aemond pointed out, “why would he not?”

“I wasn’t as kind to him as i should have been, growing up,” Sansa left it at that.

It was like a collective breath the entire castle had been holding had been released at the sighting of the black brother. It had got to the point that even the lowliest servant was aware that she was waiting for a representative of the Night’s Watch. Strictly speaking there was no need to include the Night’s Watch in decisions of the North. Well, their knowledge was always of value but they couldn’t be a part of the decision making, as the Night’s Watch took no part in the politics of Westeros, including the North. Still a representative of the Night’s Watch was often called to Winterfell in dire times to give his counsel and considering the state of, well everything, Sansa did consider these to be rather dire times. So she was justified in waiting for the Night’s Watch, even if the decision was unpopular.

Sansa waited in the courtyard to greet the black brother as she had for every one of the representatives of the Northern Houses. Though there was far less fanfare awaiting the oncoming black brother than any of the Lords, in the courtyard there was only her, Flame, Aemond and a servant holding the tray of bread and salt. The rest of the castle kept itself occupied in other ways.

The black brother hardly slowed as his horse came galloping through the gate, he sprung from his horse demonstrating an agility that was disguised by heavy layer of bulk that made up the Night’s Watch furs.

And then she saw his face.

And she knew it.

All the years that passed by but she hadn’t been able to forget.

Familiar thing that is was.

Their eyes met and Sansa lifted her skirts and took off running to close the distance between them, barrelling straight into his arms. She felt more than heard her small oof he let out as he tried to keep them upright. But none of that mattered when his arms circled around her keeping her close.

Jon’s face was still dour as it had ever been she could see through the tears streaming down her cheeks, even as he was smiling she could see it.

But more than that, “you look like father.”

His knees buckled at that and they both went crashing to the ground, it didn’t matter though, not when Jon had her in his arms, safe and secure, whispering her name over and over like he thought she would disappear if he stopped. She didn’t know how long they stayed there uninterrupted in the courtyard, though she was sure they’d gathered quite the audience of onlookers. People wanting to know what could possibly make Sansa Stark lose her composure, as if there would be any other reason.

Sansa looked to his face again, drinking in the sight of it after so long, how it had changed, how it had remained the same. Jon’s face was serious in the same Father’s had been, it had grown and aged since she’d last seen him but still so Stark. The biggest difference of all were the scars adorning his face, from forehead to cheek slicing across his eyelids, as if something had been scratching or clawing at him, she’d always known that there was danger at the Wall, she shouldn’t have been surprised that it had left its mark on Jon.

It was only the sight of Shaggydog prowling into the courtyard that drew Sansa away from Jon, Aemond a few steps behind, leading Rickon and Osha to the edge of the courtyard. She was surprised that Rickon had allowed Aemond to lead him out of the godswood to somewhere so public. But considering how much more menacing than usual Shaggy was acting, she didn’t think Rickon was all that happy with the change to his routine. Aemond was speaking quietly to Rickon clearly trying to convince him to join them, but her little brother held firm.

“Jon,” she turned back to her older brother, still holding her in his arms, “Jon, come, there’s someone we must go to.”

After that first raven to Castle Black remained unanswered, Sansa didn’t dare risk a second, out of fear it had been intercepted and the rest would be too. She knew the value of a trueborn son, she wouldn’t risk bringing unnecessary danger to her door not when she was shielding Rickon. But that meant that Jon didn’t know of the mercy that the Gods granted on their family, despite all that the Gods had taken from them already.

He was hesitant to let go of her, confused as she pulled away, but she gave him a kind, encouraging smile as she stood and he soon followed suit. Sansa took her brother’s hand and and led him over. She could tell that Rickon would rather hide in her’s or Osha’s skirts than be subjected to the scrutiny of the courtyard and its inhabitants, but she could also see how his pride wouldn’t allow him to even at as young as seven years old.

Sansa knew the moment Jon saw and recognised Rickon, the way his breath hitched, the way his hand held hers so tightly she could feel her bones grinding together. She knew he wanted to run to Rickon and hold him in his arms the way he had held her. But she could also see how Rickon shied away from them and it seemed Jon could see it too. So they walked together in careful measured steps until they reached Rickon stopping a good distance before him, enough that Shaggy could fit between them if Rickon felt he had to call him.

“Rickon,” Sansa crouched slightly and squeezed Jon’s hand, still clasped with hers as she heard his sharp inhale of breath, “This is Jon, he’s our brother, he’s Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but now he’s come to visit us.”

Rickon still looked unsure and hesitant, but he knew Jon from her stories even if he didn’t know his face. So she opened up her arms for him to run into, allowing for her and Jon to hold him together. Rickon stayed in their hold for longer than she expected but eventually she felt him start to fidget so she stepped away so he could go back to Osha.

Sansa took a moment to regain her composure before addressing the courtyard at large. Where it had only been her, Aemond and a singular maid when she’d first stood to greet their lone rider, now the courtyard was full, all of her guests and as many of her servants that could risk leaving their duties for a few minutes were gathered together, the avid audience to her family’s reunion.

“My Lords,” she addressed them all, “if you’ll allow, my brother, the Lord Commander and I will take our leave of you now, but we shall rejoin you for the evening meal.”

There wasn’t a single Northman that would deny her this, she knew, but putting the decision in their hands would bolster good will among them. She looked to Aemond then, he wasn’t a Lord of the North, but she still wanted his assent, he gave it freely and she thanked him with a gentle smile. With the Lords of the North’s unanimous assent, she led Jon and Rickon into the keep and to her chambers.

It was clear that Rickon didn’t remember Jon not really, he hadn’t remembered Sansa either save for small snippets of things, he’d been so young when they both left Winterfell. But it didn’t matter when Rickon could bask in the love Jon so clearly had for him, just the notion of a family that loved him and cared for him was something he held onto with all his might. They spent some time together, just the three of them and two wolves basking in each other’s presence, the most Starks together in one place since Robb called the banners and rode south.

But eventually their little bubble peace had to be shattered. Rickon was playing with Shaggydog on the floor before the hearth, paying his brother and sister little mind now he was sure they’d be going nowhere. Sansa and Jon shared a look from where they were sat together across the room. Now they’d have to talk. She kept her story simple, only telling him the bare bones of all that occurred since she’d ridden south, she was sure his imagination would fill in the blanks as well as her words could. Sansa was also sure he did the same as he told he his of life since he first rode north of Winterfell.

There were certain things that couldn’t be glossed over like how she actually managed to kill Ramsay and Lord Roose, “I sang to them and they entered a trance, the gods granted me the power to lead them before the Heart Tree and feed their blood to the Weirwood roots.” or what the great beast resting outside Winterfell was, “a dragon, a man claiming to be Aemond One-Eye emerged from the largest pool in the godswood on the back of a dragon he claims to be Vhagar, I’m inclined to believe him.” Jon gave her a disbelieving look at that, but who was he to tell her differently when Aemond had a dragon larger than any creature she’d ever seen.

Then she asked him why he’d sent no reply to her raven, and Sansa realised just how much he’d been keeping her.

“My sworn brothers mutinied and killed me, they stabbed their knives into my chest and left my body in the snow,” Jon whispered eventually, his eyes pinned to the wall.

“But,” Sansa didn’t understand, “you live? You sit before me and I see you breathe.”

“A Red Priestess of R’hollor, an adviser of Stannis,” he began to explain, “she was at Castle Black when the mutiny happened, she used her magic to breathe life back into me.”

Sansa was at a loss for words, part of her scarcely believed his story, he was so alive in front of her and someone having the power to make the dead live once more, she could hardly bare to think about it, everyone else who might still live if only they’d known a Red Priestess. But could she really deny Jon, knowing all she knew, having experienced the Gods magic and miracles herself, when she was already housing another that appeared to have been brought back from death and in far more spectacular circumstances than Jon? And yet there was a bone deep weariness to him that hadn’t been present the last time she’d seen her brother all those years ago. She believed her brother even as it pained her to know that another member of her dwindling family had almost been lost to her. That left her with only one thought.

“What happened?” she asked, “What could have possibly been so bad it caused a mutiny?”

Jon looked at her then and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her at all.

“I let the Wildlings through the Wall,” he breathed eventually, eyes on the floor, refusing to look at her.

“Jon,” she all but gasped, she was shocked, aghast even.

If there was anything that would cause the Night’s Watch to mutiny against their Lord Commander, it would be allowing the Wildlings into the North, the very thing they’d been fighting to prevent for millennia. She didn’t understand why he would do such a thing.

“I had to,” he insisted, “the Others are coming, the only way we all survive is if we’re all south of the Wall.”

“The Others?” she repeated praying she’d misheard him or she was having some sort of misunderstanding.

The Others were gone they had been since the Age of Heroes. Father used to say that the Wall made men see things and lose their minds if they weren’t strong enough to bear life at the edge of the world. But Jon didn’t look like he’d lost his mind, and he’d always been strong even when they were young, he’d had to be.

“They are coming, with their army of the dead, wights raised to fight for them in the tens of thousands,” he looked at her then as he explained, and she saw no lie or deception in his eyes only truth and resignation, “the Wildlings knew first, they came running south to get as far from the danger as possible but it was not far enough. I saw the army of the dead at Hardhome I fought the Others trying to bring the Wildlings to the Wall. Those that died in battle were raised the moment their bodies turned cold, turning their swords against their kin. And it will happen to everyone that doesn’t come south of the Wall.”

Sansa swallowed as she took in the information, she looked to Rickon blissfully unaware of the horrors Jon described. She thought of what he and Osha told her of Bran, that they’d split up so he could go beyond the Wall because his dreams had been urging him north. With Rickon’s return the hope that Bran would at some point follow had begun to bloom against her will. Bran was a cripple, trapped in the Lands of Always Winter, where even the most hardened rangers easily died. It was too greedy to hope that the Gods would deliver her Bran when they already brought her Rickon. And now if what Jon was telling her was true, if Bran was surrounded by not only the harshest of winters but walking dead men and demons of ice. What hope was there that he’d make it back to them?

She couldn’t bear to bring up the idea of Bran being beyond the wall to Jon, she couldn’t imagine that if their younger brother came to Castle Black he’d have let him cross.

“The Others, their wights?” she asked instead, “if you fought them it means they can die.”

She needed some hope after everything she’d just learnt.

“The Others only die when killed with dragonglass, obsidian, or Valyrian steel,” Jon explained, “their wights can die when set aflame.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, fire at least was in large supply, but Valyrian steel was one of the rarest metals in the known world, obsidian was almost as rare in the North. Her mind went to Ice for the first time in years. The last time she’d seen it, it had been in the possession of Ser Ilyn Payne, still coated in her father’s blood. He hadn’t bothered to clean it, the thought still upset Sansa now, her father cleaned Ice after every use. Ice had been the largest sword she’d ever seen, save perhaps for the Mountain’s, it had been so large that Lord Tywin had it melted down and forged into two swords, since then she’d only seen half of Ice, in Joffrey’s possession.

“I wanted to settle the Wildlings into the Gift,” Jon broke her from her thoughts, “they can farm the land and build their villages, but the Northern Lords will never keep the peace on my word but if you’re Wardeness of the North, perhaps then both our words will be enough.”

“I can’t,” she told him with a sad smile.

“The Wildlings will keep the peace,” Jon insisted, “there will be no raiding, no raping no killing, they’ll keep to the Gift, they just want to live.”

“I meant that I’m not the Wardeness of the North,” she explained, “I don’t have the power to order the Lords.”

“If Rickon is Warden, then you are his Regent,” Jon said.

“There is no Warden of the North,” Sansa interrupted her brother, “or if anyone it’s currently little Colmar Bolton, Fat Walda’s son. The Lords have been getting impatient, waiting for me to call a meeting so we can determine the direction of the North before winter truly settles in.”

“Why haven’t you?” he asked.

“I was waiting for word from you.” she smiled.

Some time passed before Sansa took it upon herself to say the words she’d been been wanting to for quite some time.

“Jon,” she took his hands in her own, though she averted her eyes from his face, “I beg your forgiveness for how unkindly I treated you when we were children, it was unfair and cruel of me not to be a sister to you as I was to the rest of our siblings.”

He gathered her up and wrapped his arms around her before she could even finish speaking, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“We were children, there’s nothing to forgive,” he spoke into her hair, “and you were kind in your own way.”

From there they were able to move onto easier conversation topics, or at least ones that didn’t pertain to the end of the world as they knew it.

Flame had entered her chambers at some point, all the servants of the castle knew to let her through any entry way she wished so she was free to roam as she liked though she tended to stick to Sansa’s company. She appraised Rickon and Shaggydog first, glancing at them as they napped in a pile together in front of the hearth before taking stock of Jon. She stared down the newcomer next to Sansa though he held her gaze before quietly padding over to her mistress, who gave her a smile and scratch behind the ears.

“Who’s this?” Jon asked with a small smile.

“Flame,” Sansa smiled back, “the Old Gods led her to me beneath the Heart Tree after they used me to free Winterfell.”

“A protector and companion,” he gave Flame his hand to sniff.

“She’s not Lady, gentle as she was,” Sansa admitted, “but she is just as beautiful and I love her the very same.”

“I’m sorry you lost Lady,” he said quietly.

“It was what I deserved for placing my trust in Joffrey and Cersei,” she replied.

“Sansa—“

“And what of Ghost?” she interrupted before he could say anything more, Jon hadn’t mentioned losing Ghost in all the tales he told her of the years gone by so she was as sure as she could be that Ghost still lived.

“I left him at the Wall to help keep the peace while I’m down here,” he explained.

Sansa nodded but said nothing at the reminder that Jon would only be at Winterfell temporarily. Perhaps she could bring up the fact that he gave his life for the Night’s Watch surely that meant his vows were fulfilled, he could come home and be with his family. But it was more than vows that kept him at the edge of the world, it just wasn’t who Jon was to leave his sworn brothers to face demons and creatures of old by themselves. But perhaps if they beat the Others, perhaps then Jon might choose to come home.

When it came time for the evening meal the last of the Starks entered the Great Hall to the sound of a roaring cheer, the Lords of the North were already waiting for them and treated their arrival with more exuberance than they’d had in some time. Sansa knew part of it was due to the Lords feeling as if they were no longer stuck in the odd limbo they’d been in when she’d been waiting for a black brother she had no evidence was coming. There was restored faith that soon things would start happening soon things would be set to rights.

That evening she sat at the head table with Jon and Aemond on either side of her as was their rights as her brother and honoured guest, the entire hall politely ignored that Jon bearing the name Snow meant that technically he shouldn’t have been sat where he was, and Rickon on his other side. Flame and Shaggydog settled themselves below the table stretching out beyond the length of it together, silently watching the hall, their ever present sentinels. Sansa tried not to be too concerned that Rickon wasn’t sitting next to her, he always did for the evening meal, where she made sure he dressed like a proper little lordling and he ate what she ate and drank when she drank, quietly copying her manners to the best of his abilities. He seemed fine with Jon if even more closed off than usual as he dutifully tried to copy Jon. Jon who had either picked up on Rickon copying him or was employing his best manners since he was dining at Winterfell’s high table. Either way he was being actively conscientious of the way he ate, she could tell he was no longer used to employing such manners, she supposed he wouldn’t be at the Wall where members of any Houses let alone Great Houses were so few, saying nothing for what life must have been like beyond the Wall with the Wildlings.

The evening meal at the high table was a particularly quiet affair, save for whenever a Northman would make their way over to greet Jon and congratulate him on his return and reunion with his family. Jon would greet them politely, he hadn’t forgotten how the son of a High Lord was to behave, but reservedly, as had always been his way whenever he was in company beyond that of his siblings. It was a quiet affair overall, none of her dining partners were particularly exuberant conversationalists especially not in public and quiet meals were a familiar friend to Sansa. Instead of trying to urge anyone into a conversation they’d reluctantly have only for her sake, Sansa simply allowed herself to bask in the quiet pleasure of dining with companions she chose, people’s who’s company she enjoyed, who’s presence she’d been dreaming of.

It was just as the evening meal concluded that Sansa announced that she’d be calling the representatives of all the Houses of the North to a meeting two days hence to allow Jon the time to recover from his journey.

Arryn banners were spotted riding for Winterfell the following morning.

Chapter Text

Aemond hadn’t made his presence known to her by the time the morning meal concluded, a rather abrupt change in routine for them, when Sansa inquired with one of the servants that attended the Guest House, she was informed that Aemond had ridden out before dawn and that Vhagar had been seen soaring the skies.

When she was also informed that there were Arryn banners riding for Winterfell, she wished Aemond had picked a different day to ride Vhagar.

He was coming back for her.

Instead of greeting the knights of the Vale in the courtyard as she had every one of her other guests, Sansa waited for them in the Great Hall. She summoned the Lords to join her as well, she and Jon sat side by side as the Northern bannermen lined the hall. It was some time before the knights of the Vale arrived, the wait felt longer than it had for any of her other guests, the trickle of dread down her back increased with every passing second. Even Flame resting at her feet and the warmth of Jon sat beside her did little to put her at ease. Rickon was safe in the godswood at least, with Shaggydog and Osha, they’d kept him safe in the wilderness for almost four years, he’d be safe in Winterfell.

Sansa wasn’t so simple that she had thought that he would just forget about her, but she had no idea how long he’d meant to leave her in Winterfell, moons? Years? Decades? His plans pertaining to her had always been large and grandiose, but lacking in fine detail when relayed to her. Perhaps news of her retaking Winterfell had reached him and he felt now the best time to return, though she knew not how he’d talk his way out of what he’d done to her, only that he would. Or maybe something else had happened, some move of Cersei’s or something else in the south that urged him to look north. Maybe it was every reason she could come up with or none of them. She wouldn’t know until he arrived, and even then she knew better than to expect the full truth from his lips.

Sansa sat up straighter when she heard the commotion of the knights of the Vale entering the courtyard, triggering others in the Great Hall to do so too, the tension her body particularly noticeable. More minutes passed before they came, presumably he took issue with her greeting him in the Great Hall, rather than somewhere more intimate.

He was announced before she saw him.

The Lord Protector of the Vale.

He entered the Great Hall with a small retinue following behind him, made up of various members of the Houses of the Vale, Bronze Yohn Royce stood out most to her, she knew he took no joy in the current company he kept.

“Lady Sansa,” his arms were out in greeting, a smile on his face, he only had eyes for her, “you seem to have more of your mother’s beauty every time I see you.”

“Lord Baelish,” she kept her voice neutral, a genial expression on her face.

Littlefinger seemed as if he were going to come right up to her at the head table, only sight of Flame at her feet keeping his own in place.

One of the Northern Lords cleared their throat in the silence that fell, Sansa thought it might’ve been Lady Alys though she couldn’t be sure.

“Lord Snow,” Littlefinger greeted her brother, his smile dimming slightly and his arms returning to his sides, “how gladdening it is to see you both reunited after so many years apart.”

“What brings you North, Lord Baelish?” though it was Jon who asked the question, Littlefinger’s attention shifted back to her.

“When the truth of the situation in the North became known to us in the Vale,” he began to explain to her, “Lord Arryn called his banners to ride to his beloved cousin’s aid, though it seems we rode too slowly to aid you with the Boltons.”

“I remember my time with Lord Arryn in the Vale most fondly,” Sansa smiled, adressing the retinue at large, “distinguished, Lords and knights of the Vale, please be welcome in the halls of Winterfell.”

Littlefinger smiled back at her.

They proceeded with guest right then, and though the Lords of the North did not seem happy with this most recent development, they were resigned to it. Jon especially didn’t look happy, not that he’d ever had a particularly open face, but his scowl was certainly deeper than she’d usually known it to be.

It wasn’t long before Littlefinger approached her for a private audience as expected.

She granted it of course, and led him away to her solar, Flame following her heels.

Neither of them spoke until they were secure in her solar, a woman, a man and a direwolf.

“Lady Sansa—”

“Did you know?” she cut him of, letting her anger and betrayal and hurt seep into her voice as she saw him brace for the vitriol he expected, “Did you know what he was? What you were leaving me with?”

“Lady Sansa—” his tone had moved from apologetic to placating.

“Did you know?” she repeated, unrelenting.

“The rumours of the depth of Ramsay’s capacity for cruelty only reached me once I’d arrived back at the Eyrie,” he told her.

“Capacity for cruelty,” she scoffed, “is that what you consider it?”

“His cruelty,” Littlefinger amended firmly.

“You knew something of it then?” Sansa prodded.

She could practically see the list of excuses, apologues and platitudes running through his mind.

“I knew of his disregard for common girls,” he admitted, and she believed that was a fraction of the truth, though how large a fraction she couldn’t say.

“His disregard for any but himself and perhaps his father,” Sansa muttered.

“I would not have brought you North had I believed he would treat you as he did,” he insisted.

To an extent she even wanted to believe him but then, “you know of how he treated me?”

“I can make guesses,” he said.

She was sure he could.

“Some things perhaps,” she agreed, “but Ramsay had a vast and varied imagination, and no one willing to curb it. Did you know it took the blood from one the many ‘gifts’, as he called them, that he left me, bleeding through my dress during the midday meal, for Lord Roose to allow the Maester to attend me? The only night of my marriage that I spent away from the attentions of my husband.”

“I cannot imagine the things you have suffered, Lady Sansa,” he said eventually.

She almost asked if he wanted her to enlighten him, but instead she asked, “You rode north after the truth of my marriage became known to you?”

“Sweetrobin and I both wanted to come to your aid the moment word got to the Eyrie,” he insisted, “I only wish we had been quicker. Still, now that we are here, we will help you feel secure in your home once more,” he insisted, “the knights of the Vale are at your disposal, as am I.”

Sansa could hear the words he didn’t say aloud as well as the ones he did, Littlefinger, Sweetrobin and by extension the Vale was declaring for her, as the Lady of the North if nothing else. Now that she was no longer the last Stark especially, now that there was more Stark blood in Winterfell than there had been in years.

“I’ll have to send my deepest gratitude to Sweetrobin,” Sansa said, “how is he fairing?”

“He is sickly, still, but he misses most deeply,” Littlefinger informed her with a frown, “the entire Vale has felt your absence, when word got around of our little deception and that you and Alayne were one and the same, Ser Harrold was most eager to ride North with us.”

“Harry is here?” she looked at Littlefinger, “I didn’t see him in the Great Hall.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I had him stay in the Eyrie as part of Sweetrobin’s guard.”

That made more sense to Sansa at least, she’d learned all the many looks that entered his eyes whenever he’d seen her and Harry together.

A wave of relief started to pour over her, when the door to her solar burst open.

Sansa turned to the source of the unexpected noise, only to find Aemond in the doorway, he looked slightly windswept, still in his green riding leathers, she’d have to sew him some new ones, better suited to the northern climate when got eventually got some spare time on her hands, she absently thought.

Aemond’s amethyst eye was staring the pair of them down, taking in the sight before him, she could practically see him putting the pieces together, from the new banners in the courtyard to certain things she’d told him in their talks. As for Littlefinger, he was at a loss, but calculating, it wasn’t often he was interrupted in any of his dealings, she could all but see him trying to identify the newcomer.

Before either man could speak, Sansa did.

“My Prince,” she walked over to him and looped her arm in his on the side of his sword hand, “may I introduce you to Lord Baelish, the Lord Protector of the Vale and Warden of the East, the Regent to my cousin Lord Arryn.”

She kept a tight grip on him as she spoke. She didn’t know how true his declarations had been on his desire to kill everyone that had ever wronged her, but she knew that this was not how she wanted to test his word. Considering the way his shoulder twitched and his hand flexed, her resolve to keep a tight grip on his arm only grew.

“Lord Baelish,” she continued with a beatific smile, “may I introduce you to Prince Aemond Targaryen, son of Viserys I.”

“Son of Viserys I?” he smiled as he tried to make sense of her words, “that would make you almost two hundred years old, and long dead, famously so too.”

“It does,” Aemond agreed stiffly, “by the will of the Gods I was revived and brought North.”

Sansa could feel the tension running through his body as he stopped himself from taking action, though what kind of action she couldn’t be sure, beyond knowing he was completely still as she kept a grip on his arm.

“Prince Aemond, emerged through one of the pools of the goodswood some sennights past, on the back of his dragon,” Sansa provided a more in depth explanation.

“A dragon?” it was clear that Littlefinger was about to note the lack of fire breathing reptile but Aemond spoke before he could.

“Vhagar,” he smirked, expressing the same pride he always did when speaking of his dragon, “I took her flying before dawn this morning but she rests outside of Winterfell, easily visible from the ramparts.”

“What a miracle from the Gods indeed,” Littlefinger settled on a smile, “to revive such legendary figures.”

“Indeed Lord Baelish,” Sansa agreed.

Littlefinger’s eyes look back and forth between the two of them, noting every detail and filing them away for another time, before speaking, “ Before I take my leave of you Lady Sansa, I have glad tidings to share, your great uncle Brynden has retaken Riverrun, you might find his wisdom most helpful, were he to come North.”

“I’m sure,” she agreed, “but what of by uncle Edmure?”

“He’s still being held at the Twins, I’m afraid,” and to his credit Littlefinger did sound sorrowful, just as he had when discussing what became of her marriage.

“Then that will be my great uncle’s focus,” she pointed out, “I should not like to jeopardise uncle Edmure’s chances for freedom.”

“Of course,” Littlefinger smiled despite misliking her answer, “I shall take my leave of you now, Lady Sansa, Prince Aemond.”

Sansa waited until the door to her solar was closed and the sound of footsteps trailed beyond her hearing before letting go of Aemond’s arm.

“Thats the man that brought you North?” he all but spat, turning to face her, “the man that sold you to your sencond husband?”

Aemond was beyond furious, the sight made her breath hitch.

“It is,” she saw no use in denying.

“And you had me stand there and do nothing,” he sneered.

“Well I couldn’t be sure what you’d do,” Sansa defended.

Aemond wasted no time in declaring, “I would have run him through and fed his remains to Vhagar.”

Sansa looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“He is protected under guest right, the same as every other guest in this castle,” her voice was harsh and unyielding, “I will not have it broken.”

“So I’m supposed to take no action while he sullies the air around you with his presence?” he wasn’t happy about it but at least he was no long threatening death.

“Did you not reign as Prince Regent for a year?” Sansa asked, “you know better than to think you can just kill High Lords as you like without bringing about disastrous consequences.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t keep you safe from,” he stubbornly insisted.

“Then don’t kill him,” she was unyielding, “irregardless of the consequences it would wrought, I will not have the sacred laws broken in my halls.”

Aemond was about to speak when the door to her solar opened again.

“Sansa,” it was Jon who sought her out this time, looking from her to her company, “Prince Aemond.”

“Jon,” she bid him enter.

“I wanted to talk about Littlefinger,” Jon got straight to the point, even as he eyed Aemond.

Of course he did.

She’d known he would.

“He must stay,” Sansa got to the crux of the issue, “Littlefinger isn’t someone we can afford to offend.”

Jon looked about as happy at her declaration as Aemond did.

“No harm will come to him,” she informed them both, “He will be treated with every respect he’s owed and a High Lord and Warden of the East.”

“You can’t possibly want this,” Jon implored her.

“It has been many years since what I wanted meant anything,” she reminded him with a sad smile.

Placating Jon and Aemond were rather similar tasks all this considered though Sansa could tell that there was something else on Jon’s mind, something he refused to speak aloud, or perhaps in mixed company.

By the time she left her solar, she’d acquired three shadows to go along with her true one.

As much as she would have like to gone to Rickon in the Godswood there was someone else she needed to speak to first.

It didn’t take long to find Bronze Yohn, what took the largest chunk of her time was convincing Jon and Aemond that this was a conversation better had on her own, there was no convincing Flame but despite her direwolf being the size of a horse she was far less conspicuous than her other two shadows.

Bronze Yohn didn’t seem all that surprised when she approached him for a conversation and gave his assent easily enough.

“Lord Baelish spoke true when he said how you resemble your mother,” he declared, “but the parts of you that are your father are just as clear to those who know what to look for.”

“My Lord I must beg your forgiveness for how I deceived you during my time in the Vale,” Sansa kept her eyes on her hands clasped in front of her as she faced the Lord of Runestone, “Lord Baelish convinced me that if anyone outside he and I knew of my true identity that the Lannisters would come to kill me as they did my father, mother and brother.”

“Do not apologise for that child,” he waved her words away, “More’s the fool Lord Baelish for thinking that none would know a child of Ned Stark when we saw her, when it was us who raised him.”

“Still I feel that I took advantage of the kindness of the Vale with my deception,” Sansa doubled down.

“A fraction of the kindness you would’ve known, had the people guiding you let you know that we would have kept your confidence,” Bronze Yohn reaffirmed, “not only as the daughter of a beloved remembered ward, but the cousin of Lord Arryn, had you known to come to us as yourself we would have shielded you, we certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to sold to the bastard of the Dreadfort.”

Sansa wanted to take heart at Bronze Yohn’s words, wanted to believe them to be true, a part of her did, but a part of her also remembered Aunt Lysa trying to shove her through the moon door.

Still she’d done what she’d come to Bronze Yohn to do, mend the potential for a positive relationship between them that Alayne had fractured.

Chapter Text

Howland Reed came to him when the knights of the Vale were dismissed. Like the rest of the Lords of the North he wanted to speak with him, though there was an air of urgency about him that hadn’t been present with all of the others. Jon had no desire to speak with the Lords of the North not when he knew they wanted to discuss politics, who had what and who ruled where, like a bunch of quarrelling children, all of them. Things that didn’t matter. Not when the Others were coming, there’d be nothing left to fight over if they lost to the threat beyond the Wall. Sansa wanted him to wait until she called all the Lords to meet before bringing up the Others with anyone aside from her. He grudgingly agreed, as much as he needed everyone to know as soon as possible so they could begin to prepare, he could understand the benefit of informing the North all at once. Sansa had a head for politics in a way that didn’t, she’d been running the North single-handedly with nothing but her word and a direwolf for months, if she thought it best to wait he would listen.

Lord Reed was undeterred by his scowl or his clear reluctance to talk or pay him any mind. But in his distraction, Sansa had disappeared from the Great Hall, Jon scanned the room and found that Littlefinger, the little weasel, also was nowhere to be seen. Jon left the hall with little fanfare and began searching the halls for any evidence of where Sansa had gone, but she’d vanished like a spectre.

Lord Reed found him once again then and begged only a small amount of his time. It was the older man’s determination in the face of Jon’s complete disinterest that had him grant the man his time. Lord Reed led him to his rooms in the Guest House, stating the need for privacy.  

He wanted to find Sansa.

He shouldn’t have left her alone, especially not with Littlefinger.

“Lord Snow, it has been many years since I last saw you,” Lord Reed started when they arrived back at his rooms.

“My father spoke fondly of you,” Jon said stiffly, deciding against commenting on the use of the Old Tongue but responded in kind, “he thought of you as a true friend.”

“I was a friend to Ned and to the rest of his siblings from the day I met them at the Tourney of Harrenhall,” he agreed, “I followed Ned all throughout the Rebellion, I was there when he brought you back to Winterfell.”

That brought Jon up short, there had been a part of him, of course, that had known that Howland Reed had was there when his father fought in Robert’s Rebellion, he’d grown up on stories of those years with the rest of his siblings. But it hadn’t occurred to him until then that Lord Reed might know the answer to the question that had been burning in his heart his entire life.

“Do you know who my mother is?” he barely heard the words pass his lips.

He didn’t care if his mother had been a camp follower or just a pretty face after a particularly hard battle. He’d long since made peace with the fact that his mother had to be someone of low birth for his father to ever refuse to speak of her. Of the woman who made the most honourable man in Westeros forget his honour. It didn’t matter for she would be his mother.

“That is why I wished to speak,” Lord Reed answered him, “at the end of the Rebellion, Ned and I went to the Tower of Joy to bring Lyanna back to Winterfell.”

“You fought the Sword of the Morning,” Jon knew this story.

“By the time we found Lyanna she was in a bed of blood and fading fast,” the grief was etched into Lord Reed’s face, “but there was a babe in her arms.”

Blood was rushing through Jon’s ears, loud as the crashing of waves, as he began to realise what he was being told.

“With her last strength Lyanna handed the child to Ned and bid him protect the babe from all harm, to love him and raise him as his own,” Lord Reed’s eyes were kind as he looked at him, “for a son of Rhaegar Targaryen would never be allowed to live.”

Jon would have collapsed had Lord Reed not grabbed him. It made so much sense but at the time no sense at all. The Lord of Greywater Watch was still speaking but Jon was barely able to take then words in, thoughts were racing through his mind so fast he became dizzy. That his father, no his uncle, would protect him from the King, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, by passing Jon off as his own. That his aunt’s, no his mother’s, last actions would be out of love for him. Then he thought to who his true father must be and Jon felt bile rise up his throat, that he was the product of rape, the get of a man who kidnapped a young girl, practically still a child, the same age as Sansa was now.

He was the grandson of a madman who burnt his uncle and grandfather alive.

The distant screech of a dragon echoed in Jon’s head and he fled.

He needed to find Sansa, his sister, no his cousin, his family.

He prayed she would not turn away from him once she found out, that she wouldn’t look at him and see the dragon’s stain and find him lacking. He needed her, she and Rickon were all he had left, he didn’t even have the Wall anymore, not after what his sworn brothers had done. Sansa was the first clear thought he’d had when Melisandre brought him back, everything was so hazy until he’d read that raven’s scroll, there had been a lack of tangibility to reality, not even the words of Dolorous Edd stuck with him. The very world could have fallen away from him like water off a duck’s back, until the very moment he’d seen her writing and read her words.

Even after all these years past Jon had recognised Sansa’s perfect hand immediately fit with all the swirls and flourishes that she’d been practising for years. Then the words themselves grounded him unlike anything else, she was home, Winterfell was hers, she’d avenged Robb and freed the North. She was summoning him back, she was there and she wanted him back at her side. The last time a Stark had summoned him to there side, it had been Robb, he’d almost abandoned his vows for him, but he hadn’t and now Robb was dead. There were no Starks left at all, for all he knew, except Sansa. Now Sansa was calling him home to her just when he’d lost the home at the Wall.

Sansa was all he had, but her words had felt like more than he’d had in so very long.

He needed Sansa to accept him, even as she learnt the truth of him, he needed her and Rickon and their little family of broken pieces. If she turned him away, he couldn’t blame her, but he doubted he’d be able to go on either.

When he opened the door to her solar Sansa wasn’t with Lord Baelish as he feared, but for Jon her current company was worse. He didn’t disbelieve Sansa when she had claimed that Aemond One-Eye had been revived by the Gods, how could he when he too had felt the kiss of life? But that didn’t mean he trusted his identity. But looking at him now all Jon could see was a Targaryen, Targaryen eye, Targaryen hair, Targaryen build, Targaryen beauty. Even the way he looked at Sansa, studying her so intently, always just on the edge of her space, like a predator that would eat her up entirely if only given the chance to strike. Was that how Rhaegar had looked at Lyanna? Was that how all Targaryens looked at Starks?

He couldn’t tell Sansa not now, not while he was there. But Jon couldn’t leave her not with him, he refused not, not when he looked at them and saw the way he looked at Sansa. His eye was always on Sansa and when it wasn’t his attention was clear in his body language, always angled toward Sansa, never far from her, it was a claim. The Targaryen was a predator and had decided that Sansa was his prey, there was a challenge in his eye every time it met another’s, just daring them to go near Sansa. He was a dragon and despite all of Sansa’s kindness, despite all that she’d suffered, he just couldn’t leave her be, he just had to try and take her for his hoard. Jon had to stay, he had to be with her, but he needed a reason or Sansa would just send him away. So he spoke to her of Littlefinger.

Hours passed before he was able to get Sansa alone, but he followed her faithfully throughout the day, much as he’d prefer it she be followed by wolves alone. At least when he sent her away for short periods of the day he sent the Targaryen away too, he would have refused had she done otherwise. How was he to keep her safe if she was alone with the biggest threat to her? There was a deep satisfaction in Jon when Sansa finally took her leave of the Targaryen for the day, she could tell Jon had to speak to her, on a private matter, that he wouldn’t rest until he’d faced her judgement.

They were in her chambers, what had once been his father’s, no his uncle’s, and Lady Stark’s chambers, he wondered if the ghosts of the castle saw them come again in that moment. There had always been whispers of how Sansa favoured Lady Catelyn and how he favoured Lord Eddard growing up, they’d increased by a tenfold now that they’d reunited. Jon couldn’t help but feel that it was some sort of sick jest from the gods, in more ways than he’d ever admit.

“Lord Reed approached me earlier today,” Jon told her, unwilling to risk the Common Tongue considering of Winterfell’s current guests.

“Did he want to know about the meeting?” Sansa asked him with a frown.

“No,” he shook his head, “he told me who my mother was.”

“Oh Jon,” she closed the distance between them and took his hands in hers. “Who was she?”

There was a gentle kindness in her eyes when she looked at him, she’d known as well as her siblings, his cousins, how the question of his mother had haunted Jon throughout their childhoods. There was no hesitance in her, nothing that recoiled at finding out who it was that caused the stain on her father’s honour, she risked shattering the memory of her father with a quiet determination, for him. It was a kindness he’d never be able to repay.

“I’m not your brother,” the words left him without his permission and he scrambled to explain himself as Sansa opened her mouth to deny him, or argue against his words, “my mother was Lyanna Stark, my father,” he spat the word, “was Rhaegar Targaryen. my mother’s last wish as she died on the birthing bed was for her brother to raise her son as his own and him safe.”

“She named me Jaehaerys,” he choked out his final confession, the last thing he’d heard before he fled Lord Reed’s company.

He wanted to look away from her then, sure that she would see his shame stained on his skin, but if he looked away he would be untethered, he would awash in a sea of black nothing with only the hand of death to catch him. So he begged and pleaded with his eyes that Sansa would not turn her back on him, that she would not shun him.

“You are a Stark,” Sansa was firm, her eyes boring into him, rooting him where he stood, “no matter what name you carry, the Wolfsblood flows through your veins as it does the rest of us,” she squeezed his hands, keeping them together, “Ned Stark is the man that raised you and he raised you as his son.”

Her words, her hands that he clung to, she, was a lifeline.

Chapter Text

The meeting would take place, Sansa knew the Northern Lords would not abide by any more delays. But the arrival of the knights of the Vale did complicate things. They were guests, they weren’t of the North, but Littlefinger had publicly implied that the Vale had declared for her. Even if they weren’t in the meeting, their presence in the castle cast a heavy shadow. Then there was how Jon complicated things, through no fault of his own, he couldn’t help that the Others were coming, nor could he help that his mother was Lyanna Stark. But all together it boded for a very complicated meeting.

She gathered the Lords of the North to the Great Hall, two days after Jon’s arrival from Castle Black, as she’d promised. Littlefinger and Aemond were both in attendance, not by her invitation but she knew better than to turn them away, at least they kept to separate sides of the hall, both on the edges of the room, rather than at the head table with her and Jon where they’d been for the evening meal the previous night.

Small mercies.

“My Lords,” Sansa stood and addressed everyone, “we are gathered here today, to discuss the future of the North, how best to move forward after so many years of chaos, change and unrest. But before talks begin, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch brings word from the Wall, grave tidings that I feel it pertinent to inform you all of before any decisions are made.”

She sat down and gestured for Jon to stand.

“The Others have risen,” he told everyone without preamble, “the army of the dead marches south from the Lands of Always Winter. The brothers of the Night’s Watch have seen them, fought them. I fought the Others at Hardhome, I saw the army of the dead, bigger than any single military force in Westeros, far more than a hundred thousand strong easily. An army that does not tire, that does not know pain. The Others are impervious to all but dragonglass and Valyrian steel, their Wights only destroyed by dragonglass and fire.”

Jon sat down when he finished speaking and the hall descended into chaos.

Surprisingly or perhaps not so much, there was little denial that Jon spoke true, that so many years at the Wall broke his mind and now he was seeing demons of legend in piles in snow. It was quickly agreed that no son of Eddard Stark would make such dire falsehoods. The panic stemmed from the fact that the armies of the North had been decimated by Robb’s campaign, from the rarity of obsidian and Valyrian steel, from how complicated it was to wield fire as a weapon in open battle, especially in winter.

“Yes because we’ll just be able to rain fire down on them,” Lord Flint of the Mountains scoffed.

Well…

Sansa’s eyes found themselves on Aemond and she wasn’t the only one looking in his direction. Sansa hadn’t had time to really ponder the threat beyond that Wall, not with the arrival of the knights of the Vale the day previous, but it struck her then that this might be the reason the Gods revived not only Aemond, but his battle hardened, fire breathing mount. The second largest dragon in Westerosi history. The true reason the Gods brought him North.

It made far more sense that the Gods would breathe life into him once more for this, rather than for Sansa herself as Aemond believed. Destroying creatures of legend would require another creature of legend to do so, and Aemond and Vhagar had died in the Old Gods’ domain, the Gods Eye was their last true stronghold in the South, perhaps that was why Vhagar came back rather than Balerion. Perhaps the Gods had only shown Aemond Sansa because they knew that Jon would come and tell her of the Others. She’d certainly have a better time trying to convince Aemond to help than Jon would, she couldn’t be sure the pair of them had ever held a conversation with each other, or if they communicated solely through glaring.

“The taste of battle is a familiar friend to Vhagar,” Aemond addressed the hall, all attention on him.

He said nothing beyond that not that Sansa had expected him to. but his non committal words were enough to settle the Lords of the North for the moment, hopefully it would last until the end of the meeting.

It was a starting point for Sansa at least, if this was the price that the Gods were exacting from her for all the boons they’d bestowed upon her.

“We will of course have to bring evidence, if we are going to make allies of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa assured the Lords that it was not her intention to have the North fight this war alone.

Proof would be necessary in any case, as much as the Lords of the North appeared to take Jon at his word, it wasn’t worth the risk of banking on it, the stakes were far too high to allow the Lords of the North the chance to abandon this cause.

She glanced to Littlefinger only to find his eyes already boring into hers. She hadn’t expected him to be all that happy with this current development, not that he’d let that stop him from making it another rung in his ladder.

“The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos,” Lady Barbrey reminded them all, “The Riverlands are decimated, the Westerlands and Stormlands have no leaders and Cersei would see us all fall to the army of the dead before she lifts a finger for the North.”

Sansa couldn’t speak against her, she wasn’t wrong after all, Sansa’s presence alone would be enough reason for Cersei to leave them all to their fates, they would need a way to gain support without having to go through her, the Queen Mother, the Dowager Queen, whichever title she was using these days. Tommen was a sweet boy, a kind boy, or he had been when she’d last known him, he’d send aid if they could convince him, but she’d doubted that it would be possible with his mother tugging at his strings.

“It’s not fighting for the North, it’s fighting on the side of life,” Jon pointed out gruffly, “if the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk can come together to fight against the dead then we must at least parley with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Wildlings?” Hother Umber asked in disbelief.

The rest of the hall started to rumble with disgruntlement at that.

“I brought them through the Wall rather than leave them to die and be brought back as Wights,” Jon scowled, “we need every fighting man we can get.”

None of the Northern Lords looked happy at Jon’s declaration, Hother least of all. The enmity between wildlings and Northmen was strongest with the Umbers, Last Hearth having borne the bulk of wildling raids through the years.

Something would have to be done about that, especially if Jon was set on his plan of settling the Wildlings in the Gift.

Sansa shifted the subject before things got permanently derailed, “the threat from beyond the Wall is not all we are here to discuss.”

She had some ideas of how the rest of this meeting might go, though which would bode best for the North and her family she couldn’t say. It was a good thing that Osha was keeping Rickon to the Godswood, he wouldn’t react well if this meeting were to go anyway but smoothly and she highly doubted it would, the last thing any of them needed was Rickon or Shaggydog attacking one of the Lords for being too abrasive in regards to them.

Lady Maege stood at her words before any of the other Lords could make their wills known.

“Before the Red Wedding, King Robb entrusted Lord Galbart and I with with a mission to retake Moat Cailin from the Ironborn,” Lady Maege addressed them all as she faced her and Jon at the high table, “he also entrusted us with his will, the order of succession should he fall in battle.”

Sansa hadn’t known that Robb had written a will, let alone the contents of it.

“We will hear my brother’s will,” she told Lady Maege, before the Lords could stay too long in the discomfort of the fact that it wasn’t battle that had taken Robb from them.

“The will was written in the two hundred and ninety ninth year after Aegon’s Conquest, with the understanding that Princess Arya and Princes Bran and Rickon were dead,” Lady Maege looked at her directly then, “after you had been married to the Imp.”

Sansa knew what was to come then, what Lady Maege was warning her to brace herself against.

“In establishing the order of succession, King Robb disinherited the Princess Sansa and legitimised his brother as Prince Jon Stark, naming him as his heir, should he die without issue,” Lady Maege addressed the Great Hall.

The air was forced from Sansa’s lungs even as she knew it had been coming.

The Great Hall fell to silence.

Sansa could even understand why Robb had done it, he wouldn’t risk their father’s kingdom falling into the hands of the people that killed him. He wouldn’t allow the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, going to the people he was actively at war with. The kingdom ruled by the Starks for eight thousand years, an unbroken line, of course Robb wanted to protect that. But that was no balm to the hurt, it didn’t cushion the betrayal at being entirely disinherited. Sansa could only thank the Gods that it hadn’t become public knowledge that she’d been disinherited when she was still in the Capital, when her claim was the only protection she’d had, thin as it was. It had been all she could cling to when she’d had no true friends, allies or protection, it may not have stopped the flats of the Kingsguard’s swords against her back or their mailed fists, or even Pycelle’s wandering hands. But it had shielded her from worse things, that she knew with an unwavering certainty. The echoes of Joffrey’s unacted upon threats sounded in her ears. What was the life of a foolish little girl to a kingdom’s future? All her prayers begging for Robb to rescue her, she should have known better than to think they’d ever had a chance of being answered. All the years she’d spent telling herself to be brave like Robb only to find out he’d left her to her own fate, taking her meagre protection with him. Maybe if she’d known better she wouldn’t feel her heart cracking in two.

“My Lords,” it was actually Jon that broke the silence at Lady Maege’s revelation, “I will tell you as I told Stannis when he offered me Winterfell in exchange for my support of his claim, Winterfell belongs to Sansa, the eldest living trueborn child of Eddard Stark, I would not steal her claim.”

“If it is King Robb’s will, we are bound to carry it out,” Lord Galbart pointed out.

“Are we?” Lord Ryswell questioned though she was under no illusion that it was for her benefit, “the North is no longer an independent kingdom, we knelt to the Iron Throne and Roose Bolton was made Warden of the North. Does that not make Robb Stark’s will void?”

“Look around, there are no more Boltons left,” Larence Snow, the last of the Hornwoods, pointed out, “we’ve all seen what’s left of them.”

“There are no more Boltons left?” Lord Ryswell questioned, “Lady Walda was with child before she died, close to term as I understand it.”

All eyes shifted back to the head table, she’d been able to keep Colmar Bolton’s existence quiet but she knew it would become public knowledge eventually.

“Lady Walda was able to birth and name her son before the birthing bed took her,” Sansa told them the truth, “Colmar Bolton is a Ward of House Stark. You are free to visit him in the nursery if you wish.”

She wouldn’t be known as a murderer of babes or pregnant women.

Sansa almost expected Lord Ryswell or Lady Barbrey to suggest making Lord Colmar Warden of the North as his father had been the last. Technically the babe had the only legitimate claim, if the North was no longer an independent kingdom and if one took Tommen to be the true king. What a thing, that next to a bastard, a girl and a child, that a babe younger than should be named, might have the best claim to the North. But that would bring into ceonversation how Roose Bolton became Warden of the North. They didn’t risk bringing up the Red Wedding to the people who suffered most from it.

Instead Lord Flint of Widow’s Watch said, “Lord Snow is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he is bound to the Wall.”

“My place is at the Wall,” Jon agreed, “were you name me, I would abdicate to Sansa.”

“It was Lady Sansa who brought us here,” Lord Manderly spoke, heaving himself up, “Lady Sansa who took Winterfell back for House Stark!”

There were murmurs of agreement throughout the Great Hall.

“It was Lady Sansa who freed the North of Bolton Rule,” he continued, “Lady Sansa who ended a rule of cruelty and depravity that haunted these lands, Lady Sansa avenged the Red Wedding, not only for her kingly brother and mother, but for all of us! Us who’s sons, brothers and fathers died for Bolton’s betrayal. Here in our lands of wind and ice, where the Old Gods of the Forest still stand tall, memories are long! House Manderly has never forgotten all that House Stark has done in welcoming us here. Our memories are long and never fickle, it runs in the veins of all the blood of the Nroth. We do not forget, nor will we start to now! The North remembers!”

By the time Lord Manderly finished the hall was cheering along with him.

“The Red Wolf!” Lady Alysanne stood and cried out.

“The Red Wolf!” the rest of the Lords echoed.

The sound made Sansa want to cry, instead she swallowed as she felt the weight of responsibility resettle on her shoulders. The title was not one she was expecting, though she took to it gladly, of all her siblings she’d been considered the most southron, the wolfsblood hadn’t flown freely through her veins the same as the others. Even Bran, who’d always dreamed of being a knight before his accident was still said to have her wolfsblood in him. They’d all known that as the firstborn daughter, Sansa more than anyone else would have to marry in the South, especially when she’d been a scant few months younger than Joffrey, so a proper southern Lady she’d had to become. But now Sansa had no desire to leave her home again, the wolfsblood and ice flowed through her veins, just as courtesies made her armour, she hoped perhaps if Arya, her she-wolf sister, could see her now, she might be proud.

She was about to address the hall when Jon appeared in front of her, she hadn’t noticed him move.

Slowly and with great determination he drew his sword and knelt laying his sword at her feet.

Sansa stopped breathing.

“Lord Manderly speaks true,” he addressed the entire hall but his eyes were only on her, pinning her in place, “It was Sansa Stark who was left here without friend or ally, in the clutches of the men who killed her family and betrayed the North. And while we were all scattered across the kingdom it was Sansa Stark who singularly avenged the Red Wedding. It was Sansa Stark alone that got justice for all the blood spilt. It was Sansa, eldest, living, trueborn child of Lord Eddard Stark, eldest, living, trueborn sibling to King Robb Stark, that rallied us here at her word, she who made ally out of enemy and has already started restoring this kingdom to its true glory. For that, I name her my Queen from this day, till her last.”

One by one each of the Lords of the North laid their swords at her feet and swore their oaths of fealty to her. By the end only Aemond and Littlefinger remained standing in place.

“The Queen in the North!”

“The Red Wolf!”

“The Queen of Winter!”

Her Lords’ voices echoed and thundered throughout the Great Hall. Louder than the hammering of her heart, deeper than the sinking stone in her stomach. Was this how Robb had felt when he was named King in the North?

“The Queen in the North!”

“The Queen in the North!”

“THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

Chapter Text

“What were you thinking?” the words were out of Sansa’s mouth the moment the door to her solar closed behind them. The Old tongue all but spitting curses.

“He shouldn’t have disinherited you,” Jon scowled at the wall.

“And crowning me was your solution?” Sansa was flabbergasted.

“Yes,” he stubbornly clenched his jaw before turning to face her, “I spoke truly, if the rest of the Lord’s disagreed, they never would have sworn their fealty to you.”

Sansa sighed and turned away from Jon.

“It won’t make allying the Seven Kingdoms against the Others any easier,” Sansa said eventually, “It will make it much harder in fact.”

“You rule as a queen anyway, I just gave you the title you deserve,” Jon pointed out, “It hasn’t lost you any allies yet.”

That was true so far, Littlefinger did not seem displeased by this turn of events, though she could never be too sure. She had no doubt that the Lord Protector of the Vale already had a thousand plans in the works on how to make their current circumstances most favourable to him.

“That alliance did not come freely,” Sansa reminded Jon, facing him once more, “it won’t stay freely either. And there is a difference between ruling as a queen, as you put it, and actually being queen.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, “but a queen is what you were raised to be.”

“I’ll name Rickon my heir,” she told him.

Though she knew he understood what she wasn’t saying too.

“And raise him into a proper little prince,” Jon teased with a small smile.

She returned it with a smile of her own, “Being Queen has never been easy.”

They both fell into silence then, finally taking a moment to process such a monumental change tot their lives. Though perhaps it wasn’t as monumental as it first seemed, Sansa had never thought to be Queen in the North, Jon was right in saying that she’d been raised to be a queen. But being Joffrey’s wife, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms was something far different to being Queen in the North, Queen of Winter in her own right. Though she certainly knew now which she’d prefer. The Lords of the North though, they’d been all but frothing at the mouth for the chance of their independence, enough to name a boy of fourteen namedays their king, enough to name a girl their queen. It should have happened at the end of the Rebellion, it likely would have if not for her father’s friendship with King Robert. Things might have been so different though had her father pushed for the North’s independence after the Iron Throne murdered three Starks, perhaps there would be three more Starks alive this day, perhaps Sansa would have never been left alone to fend for herself in the South, perhaps her family wouldn’t be a shadow of what once was. Or perhaps King Robert would have exacted a betrothel between her and Joffrey as the price for Northern Independence and she would have been left alone in the South no matter what.

She could never know for certain, but she did know that it didn’t so to dwell on what might have been.

“You could have let them crown you,” Sansa said eventually, “You could have stayed here, at home.”

“My place is at the Wall,” he shook his head, “I would not be known as the bastard that stole his sister’s claim.”

“It wouldn’t have been stealing, it would’ve been carrying out Robb’s will,” she disagreed, “You died for the Night’s Watch Jon, surely that means your vows are fulfilled.”

“I’m no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch, aye, no matter how many of them still name me their Lord Commander,” he nodded, “but my place is it still at the Wall.”

That at least, gave Sansa hope that one day, eventually, Jon might come home to stay.

“It might’ve been Robb’s will,” he said eventually, “but it still would have been stealing, I would not allow them the opportunity to take anything more from you.”

She walked up to him then, she was going to take his hand but he opened his arms up to her instead and she all but fell into them.

“Thank you,” she breathed as she felt him stroke her hair.

“Robb’s will doesn’t have to be disregarded entirely,” she said after a moment, “you can be Jon Stark, by his will and mine.”

Jon said nothing aloud, only squeezing her tighter.

Eventually they parted and they had to move onto more immediate topics of conversation.

“I can’t send a ranging beyond the Wall to bring back a Wight,” Jon told her with seriousness, switching back to the Common Tongue.

“Jon the rest of the Seven Kingdoms isn’t like the North, they won’t take you at your word,” Sansa insisted, “You’ll need evidence if you’re to rally a fighting force the size you want, we don’t even the guarantee of the knights of the Vale.”

“The knights of the Vale came North for you,” he frowned, “they’ll fight if you bid them.”

“They came North to fight against the Boltons, not the Others,” Sansa insisted, “they will need evidence too.”

“I cant send a ranging,” he repeated, “they won’t return, I cant risk the men.”

“Is there a distance beyond the Wall a body has to be to be raised as a Wight?” Sansa asked, if Jon couldn’t risk the men, perhaps there was another way to get evidence.

“No,” Jon shook his head, “the Others come for all bodies beyond the Wall.”

“What did you do with the mutineers?” she asked.

“Executed them before I rode for Winterfell,” he answered, “The ice cells are all but empty.”

“But there are still prisoners?” she checked.

All but empty implied that there were still prisoners at the Wall, even if they weren’t the mutineers. If that was the case Sansa didn’t relish in what she was about to suggest, but to be a prisoner at the place where all crimes were forgiven and forgotten to those who took the Black, surely a prisoner there had to be particularly heinous.

“I left Cregan Karstark alive,” He shrugged, “I was more focused on coming back to you.”

Sansa knew of House Karstark’s treasons from Lady Alys though she’d been unaware that any Karstark aside from Lady Alys herself who technically was no longer a Karstark still lived. If anyone, she’d have thought Arnolf Karstark would more likely live having travelled to Stannis’ Baratheon’s side, though she assumed both men had fallen to winter by this point. But if the last man to bear the Karstark name was alive and in Jon’s custody that could be of use.

“We can send ravens to Castle Black,” Sansa decided, “Have some trusted men execute Cregan Karstark for his treasons, and leave his body just beyond the Wall, close enough that he can be retrieved when he is raised.”

“Sansa,” he looked at her with such deep sadness, mourning for the foolish little bird that died so long ago.

“If you can’t risk the men, then this is the way,” she gave Jon a hard look, “he committed treason, against two different kings he offered his fealty to no less, the punishment for that is death, not to mention the whole business with him and his father trying to steal Lady Alys’s claim from under her. At least this way, we might gain some allies from it.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“With our current positioning we need to show strength,” Sansa reminded him, “if the Lords lose faith in my ability to rule the North, if they don’t believe I can meter out justice and punish betrayal, they will turn on me far quicker than they ever did Robb.”

“Sansa I wouldn’t let them—”

“It’s not a matter of what you’ll let Jon,” she interrupted him, “I cannot prove myself and win the Lords’ faith in battle so I must do so by other means, they will not be so quick to betray me if they know that the Queen’s Justice extends to ending Houses.”

It was a cynical way to consider things, something that didn’t come naturally to Sansa but rather the result of many hard learned lessons over the years. There would be many hard times ahead of the North with winter and war on the way, she would have to reflect that if she was to ensure the survival of her kingdom.

She must be Queen of Winter in all ways.

“We need all the men we can get,” Jon reminded her quietly.

“And this will do that,” she stayed firm, “punishing those that betrayed Robb will both endear the Lords to me and act as a warning against turning against me and having evidence of the Others is the only way we’ll convince the South.”

“I know,” he admitted quietly and then Jon’s eyes found her only it was as he was seeing a version her that was long since dead, “I just hate that this is the type of queen you have to be.”

“A queen is there to serve her people,” she rested a hand on his, “I must be whatever it is my people need.”

They went to Rickon next, he needed to know how much his life was about to change.

He was in the godswood, covered in mud, with rosy cheeks and a smile so wide he might as well have been baring his teeth, he probably was.

He looked so much like Arya that Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, she felt her heart shatter into pieces.

She and Arya might’ve fought like anything, but they were sisters, they fought like only sisters could, and they loved each other in a way only sisters could. What she’d give just to know her sister was still out there. What she’d give just to get her the message that she could come home.

Sansa gathered herself and crossed the short final distance to Rickon, he’d already noticed them, his attention, leaving Shaggy and Flame in favour of them.

She sat down in the snow, having already changed into a dress she kept specifically for minding Rickon in the godswood.

She beckoned him over to her side by patting the empty space of her cloak next to her, her little brother ran over and cuddled into her side.

“We just had an important meeting with the Lords,” she told him in the Old Tongue, “they named me their Queen.”

“That makes you a prince, Rickon,” she stroked his hair and spoke gently, “You are also my heir, you’ll be king after me.”

Rickon said nothing but she could see him take in the weight of her words as well as anyone could at seven namedays.

“It isn’t easy being a queen or prince, we have an entire kingdom to look after,” she explained quietly, “you’ll have to start lessons soon, so we can learn how to serve our people.”

“Can I still play in the godswood with Shaggy?” he asked her with round eyes.

“Not all day, everyday, as you do now,” she warned him, “but yes there will still be time to play with Shaggy.”

It seemed to be an amiable enough compromise for her wild little brother.

She’d also have to move him to his own rooms too.

“Your Grace.”

She and Jon were returning from the rookery when she heard it.

In all honesty she’d been surprised it took him so long to come to her.

“Lord Baelish,” she turned to greet him, stilling so he could catch up to them.

Sansa knew well enough from his body language that Littlefinger wanted a private audience with her, unfortunately the current turn of events did necessitate a talk between the two of them, many talks in all likelihood so she silently led the way to her solar in the Great Keep.

“The title suits you,” he commented, once the door had closed behind them.

“Thank you my Lord,” she smiled at him, “but being Queen is far more than a title.”

“Of course,” he agreed, “you know that more than most.”

They descended into silence, just the three of them and Flame in her solar, she and Littlefinger sat together, Jon glowering in the corner. She paid him no mind, so Littlefinger appeared not to either.

“You’ll have to start putting together a court,” he commented.

“I think there are far more pertinent issues for me to address regarding the North, than court,” Sansa replied archly.

“Perhaps but you’ll need Ladies at least,” he pointed out.

“Ladies yes,” she agreed, and her mind went to Jeyne Poole.

It had been their dream when they first rode south that when Sansa married Joffrey and became Queen Jeyne would stay at court as her first Lady in Waiting, that way they’d stay together forever. She’d long since given up trying to find out what happened to Jeyne, after being blocked at every turn for so long, be she in the Capitol or the Vale, news of what had come of her closest friend stayed beyond her grasp.

Sansa broke herself her melancholy thoughts, “I’ll likely keep Lady Alys and Lady Alysanne here as my Ladies, Lord Manderly will likely send for one of his granddaughters to join them.”

“I’m sure Sweetrobin would be happy to send you some Ladies if you need,” Littlefinger suggested, “Lady Myranda, perhaps, since her kin is already here.”

“Sweetrobin is too kind, but I wouldn’t ask it of him,” she was also fully aware that the offer didn’t come from her cousin, “I’d not ask his fealty either, the Vale is my ally not my subject.”

“Of course not,” he smiled easily, placatingly, “I wouldn’t wish to imply otherwise, in fact I wish to work toward a lasting and prosperous alliance between the North and the Vale.”

“As would I,” she smiled.

Despite the fact that Littlefinger was sat across from her, Sansa could still feel his presence looming over her, the pressure of his hand directing her this way and that.

When Aemond came to her she’d been expecting it, somewhat.

She’d known he’d seek her out, though she couldn’t predict when he would.

Jon had still been with her when Aemond came, but he’d looked so uncomfortable at Aemond’s presence that she thought he might leave, he didn’t, though for whatever reason, he kept to himself.

Sansa couldn’t imagine how strange it must be for Jon to be around Aemond, his ancestor, a constant reminder of the other half of his blood.

“My Queen,” Aemond had no issue ignoring Jon’s presence, save for a slight frown when his eyes passed over him.

Aemond only had eyes for her though, crossing the length of the room to meet her.

“My Prince,” she greeted him.

“I hope you’ll not hold my not bending the knee against me,” he said.

“Of course not,” she smiled at him, “I’d never ask you to swear fealty to me.”

“You haven’t asked anyone to swear fealty to you,” he pointed out with a smirk, “and yet people just do it anyway.”

“Fealty is best when sworn freely,” she told him.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, “but there are few with the power to make so many men swear their fealty so freely.”

“There are few opportunities for so many to swear their fealty so freely such as this,” she countered.

He nodded at that and seemed to take some time to think on what he wanted to say next.

“I hope you don’t take my not swearing fealty as a lessening of my regard for you, your Grace,” he said eventually, “only that I believe there is a better way for me to serve you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, both curious and apprehensive to hear his answer.

Instead of speaking immediately he gently took one of her hands in his own, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles with a delicate touch, with the same heated intensity that he examined every other part of her with. It wasn’t something Sansa was used to being on the receiving end of, in her experience, men who paid as much, or even half as much, attention to her as Aemond did, were hardly so gentle or delicate about it.

For a glimmer of a moment Sansa thought he might bring her knuckles to his lips.

She even wondered what it might be like.

“To make the world see you as I do,” Aemond said simply.

Chapter Text

Being Queen was no easy thing, this Sansa knew. Being a good Queen was even harder.

If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

They were the words of a child, one who didn’t know winter, one who was still learning war, but they carried a hope that Sansa clung to.

She would make her words truth.

Sansa appointed Jon in charge of all military based things, while she focused on the coming winter. Really she shouldn’t have considering he was still publicly considered to be the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, even if Jon himself tended not to acknowledge that position anymore, but giving a sworn brother an official role within her Kingdom was technically a conflict of interest. Not that any of her Lords spoke against it, if they’d learned anything during Robb’s rule as King in the North, it was a reminder that even in their youth Starks were bred for leadership. Besides giving Jon an official position, one of leadership and power no less would be a visual consolidation of power and united front for all the potential claimants to the Throne of Winter.

Sansa didn’t truly believe that her Lords and Bannermen would try and overthrow her, not least so soon into her rule, but the oncoming winter and war could encourage such rash decision making if she was found lacking as a leader. Having Rickon, the one with Westerosi inheritance laws on his side, as her official heir would quell the development f dissent in the form of support for his claim. There would be no need to overthrow her in Rickon’s name when he would be king after her anyway. Giving Jon a position of power would have much of the same end result. Not that any of them would allow wars to be waged against each other in their names but it was best to have such things publicly known, even if she did maintain that it was only minimally necessary.

Without a true council yet she brought matters before the Lords of the North, of course the Lords of the North were not the only ones present for those meetings. Her primary project for the moment was the restoration and expansion of the glass gardens, she knew well enough that Winterfell’s glass garden had been imperative to keeping the North fed through any winter, let alone one as harsh as this one was predicted to be. More than that, the Bolton’s rule over the North had left them all woefully underprepared for winter, the smallfolk most of all. The construction of the new glass gardens would bring work and trade to the North, as she had Lord Manderly source the sand needed to construct the large sheets of glass. She had word sent across her kingdom that she needed glassblowers and metalworkers in quick supply. It would help the North in the short term, until the first crops were ready. She had her bannermen appraise her of the states of their grain stores, what supplies they had left from the harvests, so she could take stock and devise a plan for them to be rationed out properly so they would survive a long and harsh winter. Luckily, true winter hadn’t yet settled in and the ground in the southern parts of her kingdom was still soft enough that winter crops could be planted and harvested.

It would have been her preference to enter trade negotiations with the Reach for grain, but her becoming Queen as well as her knowing how imperative it would be to try and sway the Reach’s armies to Jon’s side. Well it didn’t put her in the best position to be negotiating with Willas Tyrell from. Sansa only knew him by reputation, and the daydreams of a trapped little songbird, but she knew his family quite well and that was more than enough to caution her. There was a part of Sansa that briefly considered pushing Jon’s claim to the Iron Throne, if Jon was King her list of problems would become significantly smaller, it would facilitate trade, the southern armies would be oathbound to march North and fight against the Others, with Jon on the Iron Throne she would have some faith that they would survive winter. But Starks didn’t do well in the South. Nor did the North have the strength to march on the South and claim the Iron Throne in his name, even if they did Sansa knew Jon would refuse to turn his back on the threat beyond the Wall, even to help fight against that very same threat. The resemblance between Jon and her father was enough to stay her hand.

Sansa had been fashioned a throne of her own, pale wood of the Weirwood, leaves carved into it rather than hanging from its branches. She’d only allowed the commission to go through so she could compensate the carpenters of Wintertown, it was not only the Lords of the North she had to restore the faith of, she needed the support of the smallfolk just as much. Every sennight Sansa would journey to Wintertown with a small retinue, sometimes just her, Jon, Aemond and Flame and she would pass out loaves of bread stamped with the crowned direwolf to the smallfolk that lined the streets. She needed her people to know that she would not let them starve, that she cared for them, that the Starks were back in Winterfell and things would get better. She remembered the Bread Riots. Soon she would start bringing Rickon on her trips to Wintertown, her people would know that their prince cared for them too.

Sansa Stark, had stories, and a high harp, and innocence.

The Traitor’s Daughter had pretty courtesies, and prettier tears down porcelain cheeks.

Lady Lannister had a golden cage, and golden claws around an ivory neck.

Alayne Stone had dark hair, flirtations and skin of steel.

Lady Bolton had faith, piety and songs.

The Queen in the North had a crown and a new sigil.

It was all Sansa, all of it and more.

The crown was of two metals, with nine swords of iron (like Robb’s, like all the Kings of Winter before them) on a bed of bronze Weirwood leaves. Her sigil was a crowned red direwolf, Sansa had designed it herself on one of the few rare evenings she could spare time for embroidery. She’d practised it too, the first copies of her sigil to grace Winterfell were all by her own hand, many thought the sigil to be Flame, or even her as one of her new monikers, they weren’t exactly wrong either. But Sansa knew even if no one else did, that though the wolf’s fur was red for Flame, her eyes were that of her kind, gentle Lady. Perhaps then it was her, the blend of who she’d been with what she was now.

Jon had wanted to start training to Smallfolk in arms almost immediately after she’d been crowned. She understood his desire to, they needed an army, and they needed one trained well enough to fight the dead. The longer the Smallfolk had to train, the better they’d be, but they needed a loyal army too. So she’d dissuaded him of that idea, they needed to wait at least a moon’s turn to build up the trust of the Smallfolk once more. They were working at a deficit so they had to prove that the Starks were still worth fighting for, the Smallfolk had to see that they were worth risking their lives for. Sansa had to improve their lives before Jon could start asking for them.

In the meantime though, Sansa would order Theon to start training with his bow once more when she next sang to him. As a child Sansa had cared little for anything regarding warfare or weapons training but in a household surrounded by so many men and boys, and Arya, it was impossible not to pick up a few things. Like the fact that longbowmen were far more valuable than crossbowmen even if crossbowmen could be trained in haste and the best longbowmen dedicated many years to developing their skill. Of course she knew that the best archers in Westeros were the Crannogmen who prided themselves in their ability to camouflage themselves in the Neck and strike at their enemies from a distance and when the time came she had no doubt that Lord Reed would send his best men to defend against the dead.

But the best archer in Winterfell, that title had belonged to Theon Greyjoy for many years before she’d ridden south, it had been one of many things he’d prided himself on. The thing she’d heard about most, considering it was his most appropriate point of pride for the young daughter of the Warden of the North to hear about. Sansa had no doubt that having Theon retrain with the bow, even after having gone so many years without using one would be far better than having anyone else train new archers that Jon would eventually recruit, perhaps with enough time he’d even return to his old standard of skill. She hoped that giving Theon such a purpose would be beneficial to him nonetheless, no doubt it would help regain his strength, and perhaps even have him standing up straight by his own volition rather than her song. More than that though, Sansa hoped that giving Theon, not only a weapon, but access to a skill he’d once cherished so much would help him regain a sense of power and humanity.

The state of the Northern armies was a contentious issue for her bannermen, Jon needed all the men he could get. Greybeards would happily march for him, they would march to an honourable death, fighting for an honourable cause, under the command of honourable Ned Stark’s son. Their families would pray for their peace and keep their memories alive speaking of happier times. But Jon needed more than just Greybeards, what was left of them, he needed real fighting men, but those were in short supply. That meant he needed greenboys, ones to be trained to fight against and die at the hands of the dead. Her Lords didn’t like it, no one liked sending little boys to die in battle, but they understood the necessity of it. Still even if they trained every man or boy able to bear arms over the age of ten as Jon wanted, men were still in short supply. They all knew it, it was a hard reality and even harder not to be disheartened by it. It was why Lady Alysanne with the backing of Lady Maege declared that Bear Island would train everyone able to bear arms above the age of ten, regardless of gender. Neither Lady Alys nor Lady Barbrey spoke against her but Lord Tallhart did.

Sansa could understand the distaste at the idea of sending little girls to die on a battlefield, she could also understand Lady Alysanne’s pragmatism and the fact that it was not such a novel idea to her as it was her other bannermen. The women of Bear Island were skilled warriors just as the men were, it was a necessity when they were so vulnerable to Ironborn raids and had such a small and isolated population.

More than anything, Lady Alysanne’s words made her think of Arya, and the little sword that she’d tried so hard to keep hidden from her when they’d been in Kings Landing, but subtlety had never been the strong suit of Arya Underfoot, despite her sneakiness. Sansa had found the sword and Arya once, practising forms she didn’t recognise with it, when Arya realised she was being watched, she had begged Sansa not to tell Septa Mordane, or Joffrey or Cersei. Sansa hadn’t promised her sister anything that day, hadn’t answered her pleas at all, but she’d kept her silence all the same. It was the joy on her sister’s face that had kept Sansa’s mouth shut more than anything else, the same joy she had recognised on her own face when she embroidered, or sang or danced, it was more joy than she often displayed when she was in Sansa’s company. Sansa thought to her sister and knew that had she been in Winterfell, she would be right beside Lady Alysanne, arguing with Lord Tallhart, she knew that were her sister ever given the choice to die in the birthing bed or the battlefield, she would choose the battlefield every time.

The scraping of Sansa’s throne against the stone floors had the hall descending into silence, though it did not stop Lord Tallhart and Lady Alysanne from glaring at each other as they awaited Sansa’s final verdict.

“The entire North cannot march to fight the army of the dead,” Sansa started, her voice firm, projecting across the length of the hall, “some must stay behind to secure our holdfasts and keep our towns and villages, I will not be opening the conscription to women of any age,” Lord Tallhart looked triumphant and her declaration, Lady Alysanne, defiant, “However, any woman that wishes to volunteer to fight the army of the dead, is free to pick up arms and be trained as the men will be.”

Now the triumph was Lady Alysanne’s, Lord Tallhart and many of the other Lords did not seem happy with her declaration, but she knew to some level it was a farce. Sansa was under no illusion that they secretly favoured her declaration, but she knew they were resigned to it, not only because of just how much they needed fighters but because female warriors were not a phenomena limited to Bear Island in the North. In most places in the North when a woman chose to bear arms, few though they may be, the men mainly chose to turn a blind eye and carry on as they were.

Chapter Text

Sansa had been hoping to get a moment to herself by visiting the nursery, after finishing her daily prayers before the Heart Tree. It was a bit of an overdue visit anyhow, considering how busy she’d become since being named queen, that opportunities to check on little Colmar Bolton were becoming few and far between. Unfortunately, it seemed that fate had other plans for her, since the nursery was already occupied when she arrived. It was a bit of a surprise, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been, she had publicly told all her vassals that they were free to visit the young Lord of the Dreadfort, to see for themselves that he was not being mistreated. But according to all her reports none had done so until that day, it seemed.

Lady Barbrey was facing away from the door, cradling baby Colmar swaddled in her arms, gently rocking him as she cooed down at him.

“Lady Dustin,” Sansa greeted announcing her presence.

“Your Grace,” Lady Barbrey spun around quickly to face her, drawing some excited babble from the babe in her arms, “he looks happy.”

“He is a happy boy,” Sansa agreed with her appraisal, before adding, “perhaps he knows that he has yet to inherit either of his parents looks.”

Lady Barbrey smiled at her jest but soon her face took on a far more serious mien, “He looks well cared for.”

Sansa’s face became just as serious at that, at the fact that Lady Barbrey expected that not to be the case, that she believed that she would mistreat a babe.

“I am more aware than most of the concept of the sins of the father being passed to the child,” Sansa reminded her coldly, all of Westeros knew she’d been a prisoner of the Lannisters and perhaps not the entire scope of her mistreatment but certainly some aspects of it, “it is not something I would wish upon another.”

“No I suppose not,” Lady Barbrey didn’t seem particularly repentant of her accusation but she seemed to accept Sansa’s words all the same.

As a peace offering, perhaps, Lady Barbrey held little Colmar out to her and Sansa gently took the baby into her own arms and started rocking him gently to placate him after being so unceremoniously moved about.

The weight of the babe was more substantial than she remembered, it was a good thing, it meant that little Colmar had better chances of surviving what was to come. Though it worked to highlight just how long it had been since Sansa had last come to visit him, before long he’d be so big that she would only be able to hold him for a few minutes at a time.

She eyed Lady Barbrey as Colmar began to calm, the Lady of Barrowton was someone who’s motives Sansa struggled particularly to uncover, her actions in recent years had appeared to be somewhat contradictory.

“You’re surprised that I supported your claim,” Lady Barbrey surmised.

Support might have been an exaggeration, Houses Dustin and Ryswell were the last of the Northern Houses to swear fealty to her, but she hadn’t spoken against her being named queen.

“My father never hid your disdain for him,” Sansa told her.

“I’m not surprised,” Lady Barbrey shrugged, her disdain for Ned Stark was common knowledge in all parts of the North, “but as you say sins of the father, there was no love lost between your father and I, but why should that be passed down to you?”

“I also killed your goodfamily, your sister’s husband,” Sansa pointed out, in some ways it was worse than her father’s slight against Lady Barbrey.

“The boy was a mad dog that needed putting down, as for his father,” Lady Barbrey paused and looked at her dead on, “I may have preferred him to others, but it didn’t mean I liked him, or favoured his rule of the North.”

“Your House was of the first to declare for him,” Sansa stopped rocking little Colmar to look at her flatly, “and unlike others he did he did not kill your kin to gain your compliance.”

“No, instead he was my kin,” Lady Barbrey matched her look, “and who would you expect to hold the North when there are no more Starks left in it.”

“So it was a practical decision on your part?” Sansa questioned, shifting little Colmar in her arms.

“By some measure,” she agreed with an easy shrug, “I will not pretend that I was not vindicated to hear that your father’s line was ousted from the North.”

At least she wasn’t lying blatantly to Sansa, not that it made her trust her words at face value.

“But you backed my claim once we returned,” she pointed out.

“The Starks have held the North for eight thousand years, the North would not have kept them if your blood did not make worthy liege lords, or kings,” she reminded Sansa, and it was true enough, the North’s loyalty to House Stark had been hard earned, “my grievances with your father do not change that and if what your half brother says is true, that with winter will come war, the North will need its strength to survive.”

“So another practical decision on your part then,” Sansa concluded, it wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

“Men will often lose themselves to vengeance to feeling wronged, but for women, things are not so straight forward, we cannot just pick up swords and head out on a quest for noble vengeance, we must look at the bigger picture always,” Lady Barbrey said.

It was something Sansa understood, making a decision she found distasteful, or a decision that sacrificed her pride to ensure her survival was something quite familiar to Sansa.

“I’ve found that to be quite true,” she agrred easily, “survival isn’t always ensured by killing your enemy.”

“It is not your grace,” Lady Barbrey nodded before looking back to little Colmar in her arms. “What will you do with him?”

“Raise him as a lordling,” Sansa answered simply, “then I will do what is always done in circumstances such as these.”

Lady Barbrey gave her a long look at that, though she couldn’t tell if it was surprise that she would share her plans, or the nature of those plans, or some other consideration entirely. But Sansa had little concern at sharing when plans, not when those plans were simply adhering to a long held tradition of the North and would be the assumed course of action in any other set of circumstances.

“You’ll be wanting to find a husband soon then,” Lady Barbrey said eventually.

There was a look Sansa couldn’t quite decipher on Lady Barbrey’s face then, it was neither pity, nor sympathy, perhaps it was something closer to understanding. Though their circumstances were quite different, both she and the Lady of Barrowton were widows ruling their lands in their own rights. Sansa could easily imagine just how many marriage offers Lady Barbrey had to fend off over the years.

“No,” Sansa denied firmly, marriage was not something Sansa would be considering for herself for a long time, even then only if it became necessary, “I’m hardly the last Stark and besides even if I married tomorrow it will be some time before I’ll conceive.”

Sometimes she wondered if her body would ever be healed enough for her courses to return, or if she even wanted them to.

“The Prince is still far too young and the Lord Commander has sworn vows,” Lady Barbrey pointed out, and she wasn’t entirely incorrect.

“Then it’ll be some years before it becomes a true consideration,” Sansa informed her firmly, “besides with war on the horizon its hardly the appropriate time to be making such plans.”

“I suppose not,” she agreed.

Lady Barbrey took her leave of the nursery not long after, leaving Sansa alone with little Colmar.

She was very determinedly not thinking of the potential suitor she had on the other side of the castle waiting only for a word from her.

*** financial advice

“What troubles you, your Grace,” Littlefinger’s voice was soft as ever, and closer to her than it ever should be.

“Many things Lord Baelish,” Sansa answered turning to face where he stood beside her as they looked down on Winterfell’s courtyard.

It honestly wouldn’t have been her preference to involve Littlefinger in matters of the North at all, but she needed him to feel that he still held her confidence to prevent him from going over her head with his plans too much. She was certain that he had plans involving her that he wasn’t consulting her about but she knew that they would only increase if he felt he no longer had any amount of her trust, and Sansa had found that she far preferred having some control regarding matters of her life and future. There was also the fact that his knowledge as a businessman and former master of coin might genuinely be quite useful to her.

“Well then, allow me to pledge my service to alleviate your troubles,” he said easily, as if he were the answer to all her prayer, she had no doubt he wanted to present himself as such, “this should be a time for you to rejoice you have your home back your brother back your enemies have been defeated and are queen.”

“My enemies have been defeated?” she scoffed with disbelief, “some perhaps, but it now seems that I have more enemies than ever, Jon speaks of an army bigger than any single military power in Westeros, possibly bigger than all of them altogether.”

Littlefinger hesitated before speaking then, “If it’s true.”

“Jon wouldn’t lie not about something as grave as this,” Sansa shut down immediately.

She knew that her public declaration of needing proof of the army of the dead would have spoken to Littlefinger as her casting doubt on Jon’s claims but she knew that for anyone outside the North, and especially Littlefinger with the largest whole military force in Westeros, to believe Jon’s words, proof would be required.

“You know him far better than I,” he capitulated easily.

“Roose Bolton left this kingdom in a ruin and not only do I have until the white ravens arrive to prepare for what appears to be the longest, harshest and coldest winter in centuries,” Sansa brought his attention away from her family and toward where she wanted it, “but also the potential eventuality of Jon marching every willing and available soldier up here to fight the dead.”

“I hear your glass gardens are doing well,” he told her, “I hear the men are preparing to harvest.”

Whether it was him trying to placate her or endear himself by appealing to her pride, Sansa wasn’t sure, most likely a combination of both.

“They are, and there have been many occasions where they have been the reason that the North has gotten through harsh winters,” she agreed, “but even with how I’ve expanded them, with war and winter ahead of us it seems unwise to hope that they will be enough.”

“You could announce a grain tithe to help offset the strain on you,” he suggested.

“I can’t raise taxes not this early,” she denied, “my kingdom needs to see that being under my rule is beneficial to their lives, if I want their support.”

“Then you may have to resort to buying grain or trading for it where possible,” he put forward instead.

“Which would mean trying to establish trade with Essos before winter,” Sansa sighed, “and having enough grain brought here before the White Knife freezes over and that’s before considering the coin that must be spent on horses, arms and armour, let alone repairing the castle.”

Establishing trade with Essos was likely the most feasible option, which really did not fill Sansa with all that much faith since she had no contacts in Essos and actually travelling between the North and Essos would soon get quite difficult. The White Knife freezing over wouldn’t close trade entirely but it would slow things down significantly.

“Essos only?” Littlefinger questioned.

It took Sansa more effort than she cared to admit to keep her face neutral at that.

“How willing do you think the remainder of the Seven Kingdoms will be to trade with us?” she questioned right back, “especially with us asking to aid them with the threat beyond the Wall.”

“Then you must make them desire to trade with you, your Grace,” he pitched, “you must make it seem an attractive outcome.”

“Attractive enough to engage with a kingdom in open rebellion against the Iron Throne?” Sansa reminded him of the current circumstances.

“Cersei’s grip on the Seven Kingdoms is far from secure and the whole of Westeros knows it, we are proof of that very fact,” he pointed out.

The Lord Protector of the Vale (and Lord Paramount of the Trident depending on who one asked) allied with the Queen in the North.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet evening in the solar adjoining Sansa’s bedchamber, they’d retreated there after the evening meal, she Jon and Rickon were all on a fur before the roaring hearth bathing them all in orange light. Rickon was piled on top of Shaggydog, looking for all intents and purposes like he was trying to become one with his direwolf. Actually at a closer look, the eyes of both direwolf and boy were a milky white rather than the blue and green that they should have been. Sansa wasn’t entirely sure how concerned she should be at the fact that Rickon warged into Shaggydog as often as he did, he didn’t appear to be getting stuck inside the wolf and it did seem to give her little brother quite a lot of comfort to be one with his direwolf in that way. She left them be, Rickon would fall asleep soon if he wasn’t asleep already and he’d be warging through the night anyway as they all tended to do. Sansa was sat next to Flame, gently brushing through her fur until she’d pulled all the tangles from it, the activity was particularly relaxing pass time for her, something she had dearly needed. Jon was watching over them all with a look of content, quiet as he ever had been, though not nearly as morose as he tended to be these days.

Sansa didn’t really want to burst their little bubble of family time with talks of business and politics, but both she and Jon were so busy during the days that it was a particularly rare thing for them to see each other without the additional presences of any number of lords, guards or servants.

“Jon if you are truly to do this, bringing the Wildlings south, I will not try to deter you,” she told him, “if you think it the best course of action then I believe you. But I would ask something of you.”

“Anything,” he answered immediately though he did not hide his surprise at her words.

“Settle the Wildlings in only Brandon’s Gift, not the New Gift,” she requested simply.

He seemed confused by her words, she didn’t blame him, it likely wasn’t what he’d expected, it also wasn’t within her authority to request such a thing technically.

“I can,” he nodded, “but can I ask why?”

“For one it’ll chafe on the Umbers and the Houses nearest the Wall less,” Sansa began to explain, “which will hopefully lessen the chances of us killing each other before the Others get a chance to.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” he agreed with a pained look at the thought of how easy it would be for them Others to come south only to find their job done for them by all the infighting within the Seven Kingdoms.

“I also have plans for the New Gift,” she admitted.

“Plans?” Jon asked, curiously.

“Nothing worth mentioning until they’re more realised,” she told him, it wouldn’t do to give anyone false hope of anything.

“Then I shall keep the Wildlings to Brandon’s Gift,” he told her easily.

“Thank you Jon,” Sansa smiled, abandoning Flame’s brush to squeeze his hand, “and no matter what, ensure they know that should they leave Brandon’s Gift then they will be subject to Northern justice, the same as any of my subjects.”

“Of course,” he nodded.

It wasn’t long after that that Sansa finished grooming Flame and Jon carried a sleeping Rickon off to bed while a milky white eyed Shaggydog plopped himself in front of Sansa and started nudging at the brush beside her. Sansa couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, as she obediently began to brush through Shaggydog’s fur, not when Rickon routinely put up such a fuss at having his own hair brushed through.

“It is curious that we find ourselves here so often,” Sansa said to the silver haired prince beside her as they stood before the Heart Tree together.

Aemond had begun joining her in the godswood after her daily prayers, he was the only person in Winterfell outside her family and Osha that dared to enter the godswood at the same time that she was at prayer. It was the best opportunity for the two of them to have a few moments alone throughout her busy days.

“It is?” he asked.

“I find that Southerners mislike our places of worship,” she explained, “let alone being before a Heart Tree such as this.”

“I have no quarrel with your Old Gods,” he moved to assure her, before smirking, “quite the opposite in fact.”

“Southerners think us savages with no understanding of civility, closer to Wildlings than themselves,” Sansa had never forgotten how her Gods had been spoken about by the courtiers of the Red Keep, there had been little incentive for people to mind their tongues in front of her, “though I suppose such a sight as this, does little to despell such beliefs.”

She eyed the last remnants of her sacrifice, still hanging from the Heart Tree’s branches.

“Violence is not such a thing to make me recoil,” Aemond pointed out, taking a step closer to take her hands in his own, “certainly not from you and yours.”

“So I’m to believe that you find this, what? Endearing?” She asked disbelievingly.

Sansa knew that Aemond wouldn’t balk at violence, but that was hardly the same as the disregarding the South’s opinion’s on Northern customs in her mind.

“I was raised only on the Faith of the Seven your Grace, I studied the Gods of Old Valyria of course,” he began to explain to her, “solely for scholarly purposes, but the actual worship of the gods of my ancestors was reserved for those not begotten of my mother’s line.”

“So you wish to express that same scholarly interest in my Gods,” Sansa could believe that, Aemond was incredibly scholarly, he’d likely be able to forge many rings at the citadel if he so wished.

Still there was something sad to the picture that his words created, Sansa had grown up worshipping both the Old Gods and the Faith of the Seven and though as a woman grown she placed all her faith in her father’s gods, she could not imagine growing up in an environment where she didn’t have the choice to follow whichever faiths she wished. It was truly ironic, the way that the South viewed the North as barbaric and intolerant when Sansa knew that if she wished, she would have been free to always follow the Seven, the same way that Theon had always been free to follow the Drowned God. It wasnt as if the North went about pulling down Septs the way that the South cut down weirwood trees.

“My interest in the Seven only ever extended to understanding the benefits of an alliance with such an institution,” he continued, “even my interest in the Gods of Old Valyria had much more to do with grasping what had been denied to me than any inherent faith. In my experience it is better to put one’s faith in one’s self or in those around them.”

Aemond having no real faith in any gods was odd, but did explain a lot of his history if he had no fear of divine retribution.

“And yet, you still favour my godswood,” Sansa pointed out.

Aemond took a step even closer to her slowly lifted a had up to caress her cheek, Sansa allowed the touch, even leaning into it, ever so slightly.

“How could I not, when it was your Gods that delivered me unto you, in this very godswood?” his voice was so close that Sansa could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, “that alone is enough to make me a believer.”

There was something quite overwhelming about being told she was the reason for his faith, that his belief in the existence of her Gods came from her. The depth of regard that Aemond displayed for her was something she’d never known from another person, that she’d never even seen between two people. There was something particularly heady about the way he openly displayed the ways he allowed her to influence him. More so because she wasn’t trying to influence him, or exercise any power over him, he had been a most courteous guest, what need did she have to do so?

It was a feeling unlike any other.

“Do you not regret it ever, being thrust into this strange place and time?” Sansa asked him, taking a step back, putting some more space between them.

Aemond fell silent at her question but allowed her to move out of their almost-embrace.

“There was little awaiting me should I have survived the battle against my uncle, a niece and nephew I would have liked to protect,” Aemond began to speak just as Sansa convinced herself that he wouldn’t, “but beyond that my sister had flung herself to her death in her grief, my elder brother was a fool, unfit to rule and we held little love for each other; Daeron I suppose, though like with Helaena, there was likely little I could do to prevent his death; and then what a witch claiming to be pregnant with my child.”

“You do not believe the child to be yours?” Sansa asked, all the histories claimed the child to be Aemond’s.

He shrugged, “It could have been mine just as easily as it could have been another’s.”

Sansa’s heart wanted to crack at the way he spoke of his life before being brought to her by the Gods, a part of her regretted asking at all, though she imagined her thoughts would not have been much different had she been delivered to a different time when she was still within Ramsay’s or Joffrey’s grasps.

“My Prince, I am sorry for the grief that you must feel,” Sansa began squeezing his hand that was still enveloped in his, “and that I am the one to bring those feelings to life within you, the loss of family is a pain most acute.”

“There is little need to despair your Grace,” Aemond tried to reassure her, “the war would have ruined my niece and nephew whether I was present or not, as all war leaves its scars on all children as for my sister I think that final fall beckoned the first peace she knew in years. Now she is in the arms of whatever Gods grasped at her mind.”

“The pain still lingers no matter how we try to rationalise it,” Sansa argued softly, taking a step closer to him in the hopes it would give him some measure of comfort.

“It does,” he agreed.

The pair fell into a contemplative silence at that, there was little that could be said in the face of the grief that accompanied the loss of one’s family.

“I do not think it so strange that one would find this endearing,” Aemond spoke again eventually, circling back to the beginning of their conversation, utterly ignoring how it had ended.

“Rotting innards?” Sansa raised an eyebrow.

She had many thoughts regarding the fate she’d given Ramsay and Lord Roose, most of them were somewhere along the lines of vindication and justification, none of them particularly spread into the realm of endearment.

“The display is a little macabre, I admit, but it is also a display of strength,” he turned to face her head on and Sansa became acutely aware of how little space was between them, “your strength, proof for all to see that you withstand, overcome and defeat your enemies. The lengths you are willing to go to for your freedom and the freedom of your people.”

“My Prince, you credit me overly,” she whispered, her eyes on the ground below them.

“I do not, I speak truly, there are many who could not overcome all that you did. You, your Grace,” Aemond’s hand came below her chin and lifted it so her eyes came up to find his own, “are a marvel.”

“I have many fears and weaknesses, my Prince,” she denied his words.

It was the truth either way, her body, though slowly regaining strength, was still frail; she still had many powerful enemies who would stop at nothing to see her life turned to dust and ash.

“Aemond,” he corrected as he almost always did when she used his title, “and yet you still persevere, it is admirable to the highest degree, you strength is quiet,” he brought his hand to slowly trail up and down her arm, his touch was soft but still felt like lines of fire burning through the thick material of Sansa’s dress, “you are quiet, your Grace, yet still you command all within a room just by entering it, it is a most entrancing thing to watch, and to experience.”

“I do not believe any are entranced by me,” she swallowed, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, “they only know that I am the only truly available option.”

At least now that she’d stopped singing for anyone aside from Theon.

“You underestimate yourself,” Aemond said softly as he looked down at her, he was so close that it would take less than a second for their faces to touch, “I would have you see yourself through my eye, if I could.”

Sansa’s heart started thundering with both anticipation and trepidation, would he come closer still? Did she want him to?

“I fear I would be a pale comparison to the tapestry your words weave,” she just about managed to gather herself to say.

“Now we must disagree once again,” he whispered and Sansa couldn’t help but let her eyes stray to his lips as they moved, “for I believe I would be hard pressed to find an artisan skilled enough to capture your true likeness.”

The last man she’d wanted to kiss her was Joffrey and he was a boy more than anything, since then she’d had a number of boys and men kiss her (and do far much more and worse) some had been worse than others, none had been particularly wanted. But with Aemond there was a part of her that though it might not be so bad. He’d promised her kindness and he’d promised patience, he was living up to one of those promises already, would it be so bad to give him the opportunity to live up to the other?

Before Sansa could decide, the sound of a throat clearing broke them from their moment, Sansa quickly stepped away from Aemond and looked around to find Jon standing about ten paces away from the pair of them, a deep scowl that was becoming evermore familiar since their reunion painted across his face.

Jon’s sudden appearance burst her and Aemond’s bubble, the moment they’d been losing themselves in was gone, carried off with the wind.

Sansa silently led the two men out of the godswood and into the keep, them both automatically falling in step behind her. There was more work to be done anyhow, far more important things for her to do, than entertaining such thoughts of girlish whimsy.

Chapter Text

Aemond had gone from taking every available minute in her company, to constantly disappearing and reappearing again hours later.

He was planning something, of course he was planning something, he’d all but told her he was.

But Sansa didn’t know what. Yet.

He didn’t seem to take issue with the fact that she’d been named queen, openly at least, if anything he seemed more attentive of her when they now shared each other’s company. Though she could see how he misliked their lack of time alone. There was a part of Sansa that missed the quiet peace they’d shared when they used to spend days strolling around Winterfell, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on it, now she was the Queen in the North, officially the Lady of Winterfell, there was always someone needing her attention for something, there was always another responsibility and little time for quiet strolls.

Not to mention that both Aemond and Jon had positioned themselves as her shadows, despite how they both knew the other’s presence grated on them, they both insisted on following her around throughout the day. It grated on Sansa too, the constant tension, like a taut bowstring whenever the three of them were in each other’s company. Neither Jon nor Aemond spoke when the other was present, nor did they relax in the way they would when they were just with Sansa, instead she had two silent sentinels that seemed a second away from coming to blows with each other. She didn’t think Jon’s mislike of Aemond was personal at least, she thought it was more that Aemond was a Targaryen and he was still coming to terms with his true parentage. With Aemond she thought it was because he took issue with the fact that time that she used to spend with him was spent with Jon, not that she’d stopped spending time with Aemond, but she’d wager he felt like Jon had taken something from him. Sansa thought both of them were being a little ridiculous. She had hoped that all the time the pair spent in the training yard would help things but if anything it had made their animosity worse.

But she allowed them to trail after her anyway. Part of it was a lack of sworn shield, there were none other than Jon and Aemond that she trusted to shield her back, and even then the trust was not yet unconditional, having them flanking her meant she could put off the decision of a true sworn shield, at least until she knew her Lords and bannermen better. It was also because the pair of them, especially when with Flame, cut an intimidating enough sight that it discouraged many from seeking her company except when necessary.

Aemond had taken to flying Vhagar more and more often, he seemed to be flying further afield, gone for increasing hours every trip, though he kept his purposes to himself.

Her council meetings seemed to birth a new problem each time she had one, though this time she knew it wasn’t actually a new problem rather just Jon’s patience running out.

“Your Grace,” he was before her, rather than next to her as he usually was, the empty chair beside her throne was more ominous than it should be, as was the use of her title rather than her name. Sansa almost thought Jon was going to kneel so he was eye level with Flame and Shaggydog, she’d taken Rickon on as her cupbearer to help him get used to not only council meetings but composing himself appropriately in public, but to help him learn the Common Tongue also. She knew her brother didn’t enjoy his new responsibility but at least council meetings weren’t every day.

“I want to settle the Free Folk in the Gift,” Jon announced to them all and Sansa held back a sigh as the Hall fell into a cacophony of denials and disagreements.

She placed a hand on Rickon’s wrist, from where he stood beside her, a subtle reminder to keep his temper, especially since she could feel the low agitated rumble of Shaggydog’s chest.

“Lord Commander, the Gift is the land of the Night’s Watch, I have no authority over it,” she reminded her Lords.

“And yet I still come before you,” Jon told the hall, “I know the storied history of our two peoples but we must work together if any of us are to survive, so I would ask your counsel and assent, even if I do not need your permission.”

Sansa could almost see the raising of her Lords’ hackles at the reminder that Jon was merely doing them a courtesy.

“Kill them all, burn the bodies and be done with it,” Hother Umber called out, unsurprisingly.

“We need all the men we can get,” Lady Alys Karstark reminded him, “Why kill able and willing fighters?”

it would have been surprising, considering Karhold had likely suffered the most from wildling raids after Last Hearth, had Sansa not known that Lady Alys was married to a wildling chief herself.

“They’re wildlings!” Hother roared to the undercurrents of agreement, before pointing at Jon, “He should have killed them all long ago.”

“I will not kill innocents,” Jon looked at Hother.

“They’re wildlings,” Lord Cerwyn scoffed,.“What innocents?”

“Women and childrent,” Jon pointed out evenly, “I would not put them to the sword for being born on the wrong side of the Wall.”

Sansa allowed Jon to negotiate with her Lords a while longer, she knew they need the chance to air their grievances if the wildlings were to be allowed to exist in peace in the North.

Eventually when she’d heard each Lord say their piece, sometimes more than once, and she felt Rickon start fidgeting beside her more than usual, a sure sign that his temper would soon run out, after witnessing some of the insults against Jon.

Sansa called for silence before addressing Jon, “Lord Commander, you have asked for my counsel. Will you hear it?”

“I will your Grace,” Jon answered.

“I would not ask the Wildlings to kneel, but they will be beholden to Northern laws and Northern justice.”

That, at least, seemed to placate her Lords a little.

“I would have you have those able to fight and work, man the empty castles along the Wall and bolster the numbers of the Night’s Watch,” she continued, “the women and children, those unable to man the castles I would have settle in the Gift and farm the land until true winter comes.”

She scanned the Hall noting how her Lords received her terms before bringing her attention back to Jon, “Do you find those terms agreeable, Lord Commander?”

“I do,” he nodded.

“My Lords?” she asked next, “do you find my terms agreeable?”

None of them were particularly enthusiastic about it, some outright disagreed, but enough were in favour of her compromise that Sansa was able to close the issue, with a heavy heart. Jon would be returning to the Wall soon.

Sansa had hoped that she’d be able to end the council meeting shortly thereafter, she wanted time with her family now she knew it to be so limited. But she was queen and what she wanted was the least of her priorities, so when Aemond, of all people, came before her she bid him speak.

“Your Grace, I wanted to inquire as to who holds Dragonstone?” he told them, and Sansa found the question a little strange for she thought he’d know the answer already.

There were some grumbles from her Lords but Sansa answered anyway.

“Dragonstone was given to Stannis Baratheon at the end of the Rebellion,” Sansa told him, “he’s held it for House Baratheon ever since. As far as is known to the North there has been little movement from Dragonstone since Stannis left the island for his campgaign,” she looked to Lord Manderly then as the lord most likely to know if that information had recently changed.

He nodded in agreement of her words, and cleared his throat to speak.

“Your Grace speaks true,” he spoke directly to her, “there was word of a number of ships stopping briefly at Dragonstone almost a year past before continuing on east, but since then only the expected population of merchants and fishermen have known Dragonstone’s port. There is little reason to believe that the Iron Throne would turn its attention to an empty island when the Royal Fleet has yet to be rebuilt since its destruction during the Battle of the Blackwater and now that the Redwyne Fleet has returned to the Arbor.”

It seemed odd to Sansa, that Cersei had not taken steps to destroy Stannis’ last stronghold especially with it being so close to Kings Landing and Stannis being so far from it. It did seem rather like the kind of symbolic victory Cersei would revel in, though she supposed, if there was no Royal Fleet, there was little Cersei could do. Lord Wyman’s words about the Redwyne Fleet did not escape Sansa’s notice either, she did not doubt that Cersei mistrusted the Fleet sworn to Lady Olenna’s family but she also didn’t think she would have willingly let them leave either. It was a surprising insight to Cersei’s tenuous grip on power now that Lord Tywin had died.

Sansa brought her thoughts back to the matter at hand and addressed Aemond once more, “It is presumed that Stannis and his army perished at the hands of winter, in the march from Castle Black to Winterfell.”

“He has,” Aemond confirmed, “I have been travelling throughout the North on Vhagar’s back these passed moons, I have spotted several bodies dressed in the livery of a stag inisde a burning heart, including one in a crown of red and gold metal, wrought to look like flame.”

Sansa looked at Jon then, the person who’d spent many moons in Stannis’ company, Sansa had met him on a few occasions when they were both in the Capital but she had hardly paid him any mind back then. Jon didn’t speak but he gave a singular nod of confirmation.

“Then it seems that nobody holds Dragonstone my Prince,” she said placidly, as her mind started racing to find solutions to this latest problem that had arisen.

“We’ll have to send out riding parties to burn the bodies.” though she didn’t know how they’d be able to determine that they’d found them all.

“Forgive me your Grace,” Aemond brought her from her thoughts, “but Vhagar has been taking care to ensure that none of the bodies we come across will rise again, she will continue to do so until there are none left.”

Somehow Sansa didn’t think Aemond was building pyres for Vhagar to light on his trips away from Winterfell.

At least it was one less thing for her to deal with, she knew none of her Lords would have been happy with her having their men brave the oncoming winter just to burn the dead.

“Your Grace,” Aemond continued, “I ask about Dragonstone because the island sits on a volcano, its caves are full of dragonglass waiting to be mined.”

The entire hall descended to silence.

It seemed to good to be true, that a currently empty island held the answer to one of their many prayers. More than that, they had a Targaryen there to claim the island, technically they had more than one. Sansa scarcely wanted to believe that such a simple solution to one of their biggest quandaries had just fallen into her lap, but Dragonstone itself was meaningless to Cersei and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, with Stannis gone it was but a relic of a dead House and a time gone by.

“I can claim Dragonstone as a Targaryen and the North will be free to mine for Dragonglass,” he told her and she wasn’t sure if he was asking her advice or her permission.

“Would Dragonstone be garrisoned?” she asked Maester Wolkan.

“With a small force perhaps,” he answered, “but the island is known to be largely empty.”

“A garrison for an empty island would be no challenge for Vhagar,” Aemond assured her.

“Of that I have no doubt,” she answered honestly, “but what of afterwards, Vhagar and the presence of a Targaryen on Dragonstone will not go unnoticed?”

And they did not have the men to spare to help him keep Dragonstone went unsaid.

“I don’t intend it to,” was all he said and it was clear he would say nothing more, to such a large audience at least.

“The North will of course mine the dragonglass on Dragonstone, if you take the island,” Sansa said eventually, “we will also support yours as the rightful claim to the island.

The council meeting didn’t last much longer, and Sansa couldn’t be sure how she felt about it by the time it ended. There was certainly renewed hope about them all at Aemond’s revelation, though it was clear that none of her Lords would believe it unreservedly until the raven came saying that Aemond had taken Dragonstone. The thought of both Aemond and Jon leaving her, made Sansa want to despair, it was as if she only just realised how familiar Aemond’s presence in Winterfell had become for her. Mayhaps it was for the best then that Aemond left, she couldn’t allow herself be be reliant upon him, even just his presence, she had to be able to stand on her own.

She wished she could say that she was surprised when news came that Shaggydog bit Hother Umber, instead she sent for the maester and decided to just be glad that the Crown Prince hadn’t actually been seen biting him..

She did smile when Lord Manderly later told her of how Greywind had once taken fingers from the Greatjon.

Sansa brought Jon to her solar after the council meeting, for a private aside, her lords probably assumed they were discussing logistics and how best to manage Jon’s duties in his absence, which wasn’t entirely inaccurate but it wasn’t all encompassing either.

“You’ll be going back north then,” Sansa sighed when they had both sat down and the door was shut behind them.

“Not immediately, but yes,” Jon absently gave Flame a scratch behind her ears as he spoke, “my place is at the Wall.”

The answer wasn’t one Sansa particularly wanted to hear, though she knew it was coming, it was selfish she knew, in the bigger picture Jon was best used sorting out matters at the Wall and keeping the peace between the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings, but now that Sansa had gotten him back it was proving very hard to let him go and he wasn’t even gone yet.

“Fine,” she capitulated, it wasn’t as if she had the authority to stop him, “but I have some I need done further North.”

“I do as you command,” he nodded

Sansa gave him a baleful look at his words, not only was he the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and in no way under her authority, more importantly he was her family, it felt wrong for him to supplicate himself like he was any of her subjects.

“You created a new House when you married Lady Alys to the wildling chief, did you not?” she checked.

Jon nodded in confirmation, “Aye, House Thenn.”

“I need you to go via the Karhold when you go back to the Wall, leave enough for the castle and staff to sustain themselves but the rest, anything of value must come to Winterfell,” she told him.

“Sansa,” he frowned at her.

Sansa ignored it, she knew it wouldn’t be a request he liked, but that didn’t change the necessity of it, “I’ll send a group of loyal men to oversee and protect the supply train.”

“You want to sack the Karhold,” this time, Jon was ignoring her.

“House Karstark is extinct, ended by House Stark,” she reminded him, considering that he was the main architect of this particular extinction, “this is what happens when one House ends another, what we’ve been doing for millennia.”

“House Karstark is not extinct yet,” Jon pointed out, and he wasn’t exactly wrong.

“It could be,” Sansa countered, neither of them knew if Cregan Karstark had been executed and put over the Wall yet, “it certainly will be by the time the supply train reaches Winterfell.”

“Then let me go to the Wall and ensure it before going to the Karhold,” Jon tried to compromise.

“You have too many responsibilities at the Wall to leave so swiftly after arriving it makes sense to go to the Karhold first,” Sansa honestly would have agreed to the compromise, if only to assuage Jon’s conscience if time wasn’t so much of the essence, but she needed as many resources in Winterfell as soon as possible.

“It feels underhanded,” Jon told her, he wasn’t quite complaining but he was certainly making his reluctance known.

“Mayhaps,” Sansa didn’t disagree, it wasn’t the usual way for these thing to happen, still she had to remind him, “but our House was all but destroyed and you have me preparing for war before we have even had a chance to recover.”

“The dead wait for nothing and no one,” Jon reminded her in turn, “I don’t want war but they won’t accept a bloody armistice.”

“And this is how we prepare Jon,” Sansa’s voice became firm, she needed him to remember that they were working toward the same goal, “it is only a matter of time before the white ravens come and by all estimations we have neither the food nor the coin to outlast the winter ahead so please enlighten me what is the point of us trying to beat the army of the dead if we all starve to death afterwards?”

They both fell to silence then, neither wanted to argue with each other, especially not when their time together had officially become limited and they certainly didn’t want to be arguing about matters they ultimately agreed upon.

“You’re right,” Jon sighed eventually, “what do you need from the Karhold?”

“Empty the vaults as well as the treasury, much of it will be Stark assets anyhow, so in a way it’s fitting that it will come home to us,” Sansa did her best to make her request seem less underhanded to Jon, “anything that might be of value, from tapestries to armour, even clothes it will be needed here. As for food and grain leave enough for whatever staff remains but the rest must come here.”

“Clothes?” Jon asked confused, Sansa almost wanted to roll her eyes in good natured exasperation.

“A well made dress can be far more valuable than a suit of armour it can be traded or potentially repurposed for when the true cold sets in.” Sansa explained to him, “once the White Knife freezes over and the snow drifts grow too large. We will have to make do with what we have and so we must have as much as possible.”

“It will be done,” Jon said with a firm decisiveness.

“Thank you Jon,” Sansa said with all the sincerity she could muster.

Jon nodded in acceptance and stood to leave.

“I must also request that when you return to the Wall you send you one that knows the threat beyond the Wall as well as you do in your stead to Winterfell,” Sansa called out to him before he could reach the door of her solar, “there is little we can do to prepare without a full scope of the issue.”

“You want me send one of the Free Folk here?” Jon looked at her as if she grown a second head, she couldn’t really blame him.

“In all honesty if prefer that you didn’t,” she told him truthfully, “one wildling in Winterfell is perilous enough as it is. I’m not sure Whoresbane could handle sharing the keep with another, but if needs must.”

“The brothers of the Nights Watch, those who have seen the threat in the way I have are needed at the Wall to keep the peace, it’ll have to be one of the Free Folk,” Jon told her somewhat regretfully.

“As I said if needs must,” she repeated.

She didn’t bother hiding her slight grimace at the thought of managing relations between her bannermen and another Wildling, Osha wasn’t such an issue but that was mainly because she kept herself away from practically everyone save for Rickon and herself.

“It’s not just Karhold,” Sansa tried her hand at making Jon feel better once more before he left her company, likely to exercise his frustrations in the training yard, “The Dreadfort will be experiencing the same treatment.”

Amusingly enough, that did seem to cheer Jon up a bit, he flashed her a small smile before taking his leave of her.

Chapter Text

Jon left first, back to the Wall, via Karhold, a few days after she’d sent men to recover anything of value in the Dreadfort.

It wasn’t easy.

The Starks said their real goodbyes the night before the morning Jon rode out, Rickon still slept in Sansa’s bed, so Jon retired to the Lord’s Chambers with them when the evening meal finished. They started in Sansa’s solar, all three of them on the floor in front of the hearth indulging Rickon’s every whim.

Rickon hadn’t taken it well when he realised that Jon settling the Wildlings along the Wall and in the Gift meant that Jon would have to leave Winterfell and would likely be gone for multiple moons. It was no help to reassure him that Jon would be coming back, that the trip was only temporary, that he wasn’t leaving forever. Why would it? Mother had promised Rickon that she would come back and now she was dead. Robb had promised Rickon that he would come back and he was dead too. Bran had promised that they would find their way back to each other and home, but only Rickon returned to Winterfell. It had taken Sansa and Jon so many years to return to Rickon’s side that he’d all but forgotten them and the Gods only new what had come of Arya. She didn’t think Rickon remembered Father at all, to him, Father was merely a series of stories and decisions of honourable Ned Stark that had shaped his life.

Sansa wasn’t even sure she wanted to promise Rickon that Jon would return when she knew it was not a promise she could keep, after all Jon was riding in the direction of demons of legend and death that walked. She did promise it though, pressing a kiss to her younger brother’s hair and sharing a hallowed look with Jon over Rickon’s head, the promise may have come from Sansa’s mouth but Jon was the one bound to keeping it. She almost wanted to bind him in her song. Would the very earth refuse to take him if Sansa sung out an order for him to return?

They spent a quiet night together, just family, just the three of them, bittersweet and delicate. It felt like Jon was already slipping through her fingers like grains of sand, despite the fact that he was right in front of her, she was grieving his loss before he was even gone.

Sansa tried to take heart that he would have Ghost with him when he arrived at Castle Black, but that only brought forth thoughts of the mutiny. How could she call Jon family and let him go back there? How could she call herself Queen and make him stay? It was the right decision, for the North, for all their futures, for them to have a chance to come home permanently and actually have a chance to live, she knew it was. But why did the pit in her stomach grow ever larger with every passing second then?

She and Jon spent the night telling Rickon stories, the way Old Nan used to tell them, though she had no doubt Old Nan had told them much better than they ever could, until the hearth was nothing but glowing embers. All the servants that looked after the family keep had been dismissed for the night. There were only Starks and two direwolves in that part of the castle that night. Since Jon’s return to Winterfell he’d taken up his childhood rooms once more, once she tried to offer him the Lady’s Chambers, but he’d outright refused to take her mother’s rooms even though they both knew full well that her mother had never slept in them. She had intended to offer him Robb’s rooms but the one time she’d tried, she couldn’t even get the words out her mouth, she still couldn’t walk passed the door, no doubt Jon had noticed that too. She’d given up trying to get him out of his childhood rooms, so far from the rest of theirs, after that, as much as she’d disliked it.

That night Jon slept in her chambers with her and Rickon. At first he’d tried to leave them and return to his own rooms, but then Rickon started wailing, convinced that Jon would leave Winterfell in the dead of the night and would be gone before he woke up. So she bid him stay and they laid in bed together, Rickon huddled between them, clasping one of their hands in each of his own, as if to make sure none of them left. That night Sansa didn’t sleep, instead she silently wept into the furs, overcome with a loss she hadn’t even suffered yet. She’d worked so hard to take her home back, so her family would be free to return, but now half of the family she had left was leaving her once more. She couldn’t scream and wail like Rickon, as much as she might’ve wanted to, instead she clung to what was left of her family for as long as she could as waterfalls of tears streamed down her face.

Just before dawn broke, when they were still protected by the dark she handed Jon a cloak, begging him to take it with red rimmed eyes. She’d made it as a replica of Father’s, as close as her memory could get to. It was a reminder to come back home to them. After a moment, he’d accepted it, holding it close to his chest.

The following morning it was the Queen in the North and her Heir, that saw off the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

Sansa, Rickon and Jon had been left locked up in Sansa’s Chambers.

The Queen’s face was blank but placid, waving him off like he was any other dignitary, as if this had been the end of a diplomatic meeting.

The Queen’s Heir was scowling into the ground, his lips twitching as if he wanted to object but knew he couldn’t, his hands flexed like he wanted to hold something but restrained himself.

The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was grim, a frown set into his brow as he mounted his horse, his eyes bored into the Queen’s but his face remained still and no words passed his lips.

Wolves howled as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch rode North, away from Winterfell.

It was about a moon’s turn later that Aemond left, when he deemed that he and Vhagar had recovered the last of Stannis’ army.

Aemond hadn’t deigned to inform anyone of the full scope of his plans going south, that didn’t mean he was so arrogant to think nobody knew.

Sansa.

His Sansa knew, he could see it in the way she looked at him.

Aemond looked at her and saw everything.

What a Queen she was, what a queen she’d been since long before a bronze and iron crown had ever touched her brow.

He hadn’t understood why the Gods had left him with nothing but darkness and visions of a woman more comely than the Maiden. Gods he’d hardly believed in before his death, not when he hadn’t been struck down nor smote after committing a cardinal sin. What belief was he to have in the Seven, when it was his own fiath in himself that carved the path of his life?

Though he’d happily admit his belief in his Sansa’s Old Gods now.

Then he’d been brought to Winterfell and she was there, it had to mean something, so Aemond had watched her, he’d read her family’s history as well as his own, he’d learnt everything he could about her.

And there was nothing he found lacking.

Her kindness in the face of every horror she’d borne was something Aemond had never known in another person, save perhaps Helaena, but there was a subtle strength to his Sansa that spurred from her kindness rather than in spite of it.

The little parts of her, she allowed him to know were priceless treasures, he knew how history depicted him, he knew it wasn’t all that inaccurate, and he knew all that she suffered. It was a miracle he hadn’t been barred from the castle immediately after he’d made his identity known.

It hadn’t taken long for the protective instinct to settle over him, once he’d spent some time in her company. Aemond cared little for people in general, peasants to nobles, they were all the same, unworthy of his attention in most circumstances. The number of people Aemond could genuinely say he cared for was so small, he could count that on both hands and still have fingers left over. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Daeron, and of course, his Queen, Sansa. Vhagar was different, the queen of dragons was a part of him, she was he, and he was she.

When Aemond’s eye landed on something he cared for, he became covetous, he knew himself well enough to admit it freely, he was possessive and devoted, his every move, his every breath, was dedicated to the object of his care.

And none had deserved his care more than his Sansa.

Even the Gods agreed, preserving his body for almost two centuries, reviving him, and taking him straight to her. They had made their will known and Aemond had always been raised to be pious.

He’d been brought to his Sansa to shield her back and slay her enemies, to be her champion. His Queen didn’t understand it, he knew, she struggled to take him at his word, she didn’t understand the urge, the living thing inside him that told him to be as close to her as possible until they were living in each other’s skin, that told him that he was the tool to realise her dreams. But it was okay, she would understand one day, he would ensure it, he just needed to make the world safe enough for her to trust him.

It wouldn’t be easy he knew, his Queen had seen far too much and was far too intelligent to give out her trust freely any more. Her mistrust of him gained his respect, just as the small pieces of trust she gave him earned his devotion. The world had not been kind to probably the only person alive to deserve the world’s kindness, so Aemond gave her all of his, little thing that it was.

His Sansa also had a lot of enemies, though of no fault of her own, she knew they were coming and she did her best to prepare. Aemond was happy to shoulder some of that responsibility for her, it had been far too long since he’d seen battle, he’d yet to even wet his new sword with blood, sharp gift that his nuncle had left in him, he wasn’t afraid of a challenge.

Aemond knew that going South was the way, when everyone else was looking North, despite the little desire he had to leave his Sansa’s side, especially now that her bastard brother had left and her time was now his again. He misliked how the bastard Jon Snow’s absence hurt his Queen, but he misliked the bastard Jon Snow even more and they way he looked at her, like his entire being hinged on her bestowing a kind smile on him. He misliked how the bastard Jon Snow took his Queen’s attention from him and how he always dogged her footsteps like a faithful hound.

But he could admit that the bastard Jon Snow wasn’t the person to earn the most of his ire in Winterfell.

When Lord Baelish ‘Littlefinger’ first approached him, he’d been suspicious, he hadn’t kept his derision of the man a secret, nor had he failed to notice how his own bannermen treated him, and his Queen’s bannermen as well. He hadn’t been happy when his Sansa forbade him from killing the man, but he’d obey because she’d willed it. He’d heared the whispers, listened to the claims that Littlefinger was the most dangerous man in Westeros, he watched how his Sansa reacted to him, and he’d kept his distance, observing, analysing, coming to his own conclusions. He’d been content to be a passive observer until the time came, but he saw how Littlefinger watched him too, he could practically see the plans forming in his mind in real time.

Then he’d known that Littlefinger knew his plans too, well some of them.

His intelligent Queen had been right when she pointed out that taking Dragonstone would gain the attention of the Iron Throne. Taking and even keeping Dragonstone, he knew he’d be able to do with just Vhagar, his magnificent old lady, but Kings Landing would be different. That, he’d need men for and he was unwilling to take them from his Queen, though he wouldn’t need many. Lord Baelish had offered him a number of the knights of the Vale in order to help sway the armies of the South to his Queen’s cause.

He knew what that meant.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to give his Sansa the world she deserved.

Besides, Vhagar had grown tired of eating frozen men.

It had taken Sansa longer than she’d care to admit to realise what Aemond’s plan was, how he was going to deal with the Iron Throne when he took back Dragonstone, Cersei would never let him live, she’d made sure he’d known that, that he would account for it. She’d done her best to explain that Westeros no longer feared dragons, they’d been gone for too long, even the smallfolk knew that they could kill a dragon if they tried hard enough. Whether or not he’d truly heed her counsel she couldn’t tell, both the things she’d said and left unsaid, ruling through fear never worked in the long term, especially not when the fear had long since been purged.

Still, the time Aemond had spent recovering the remains of Stannis’ army had given her some time to plan, there was little she could do about the South when she had so much happening in the North, but she could at least spare a raven, if only one, it had a long travel ahead of it besides, all the way to the other end of the Seven Kingdoms, all the way to Highgarden. She couldn’t be sure it would arrive in time for it to make any difference, but she had to at least try.

It was the sennight before he was set to depart that Aemond approached her. When he and Littlefinger had first told her that a portion of the knights of the Vale would be travelling South with him, it had been all the confirmation Sansa had needed of Aemond’s plans. There was not a single part of her that was surprised that Littlefinger had somehow wormed his way into things.

“Your Grace,” Aemond approached her after they had broken their fasts, “would you care to ride out with me?”

Really, Sansa should have denied him, there were always things that needed doing in Winterfell, things that required her attention. But now her Lords had started going back to their own keeps to secure them and their smallfolk for winter, Sansa’s attention was not in such short supply.

As much as she cautioned herself against it, she wanted to make the most of her time left with Aemond before he left her too.

“My Prince,” she smiled softly, “I would be delighted.”

It was true, she’d hardly ridden anywhere since she’d first been left in Winterfell, save for her short trips to Wintertown. But it was the curse of the Stark women to love horses, she’d never be as good a rider as Arya or her Aunt Lyanna, but all her horses had always been gentle creatures, beautiful creatures with an understated strength that had been so easy for Sansa to love. Riding lessons had been one of the few times she and Arya actually been able to simply just get along, doing something they’d both enjoyed, free from the judgement and stares of everybody taking the measure of the daughters of Winterfell.

By the time she’d changed into a riding dress, her horse was saddled and Flame was waiting for them in the courtyard. It didn’t take long after they’d set out for Sansa to realise their destination.

She’d been quite happy not meeting the dragon that had taken up residence in her kingdom, it had actually been her preference, believe it or not, to keep her distance from the fire breathing creature of legend that had been known to eat multiple mounted men in a single mouthful.

“My Prince…” Sansa started but trailed off when they stopped a short distance from the dragon, she did not know how to frame her question without causing offence.

“She will not harm you my Queen,” Aemond answered her unasked question for her, with the gentlest smile she’d ever seen grace his face, before dismounting and coming round to her side to help her dismount too.

“I wanted to introduce you to Vhagar before we left,” he told her as they walked over toward the beast, Sansa trying not to make the dragging of her feet noticeable.

If Aemond noticed he said nothing.

Flame, the traitor, stayed in the company of the horses, refusing to come within a hundred paces of the dragon, not that Sansa could truly blame her wolf.

“Vhagar,” Aemond called when they were so close that Sansa was warmed by the exhaling breath from the dragon’s nostrils, “dohaerās Vhagar.”

The dragon opened one great eye and seemed to stare her down, Sansa could feel her heart take up residence in her throat.

Aemond was speaking, but it was High Valyrian and even if it had been the Common Tongue, Sansa wasn’t sure she would have registered it.

Then the dragon raised its great head from where it had been resting on the ground to look down at her, and Sansa thought that this might just be her end, she prayed it wasn’t, she had a kingdom, and a people, and a family to take care of.

“The lust for battle is ingrained in Vhagar by now, I think,” Aemond took her hand and patiently coaxed her into facing him, “but I find she performs better when she knows exactly what she’s fighting for, or who.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, this was the most Aemond had alluded to what was to come, what they both knew he had planned. She should have discouraged him she thought, the potential consequences for what he was soon to embark in were, unpredictable and uncontrollable. But he offered her something no one else could, something no one else even dared.

“My Queen,” Aemond’s voice was low and firm as his eyes bored into hers, “I would never do anything that would allow you to come to harm.”

He spoke as solemnly as a knight making a sacred vow, before bringing her hand up to press a kiss on her knuckles.

She swallowed and nodded, for she could not speak, and butterflies took a hold of her insides, though she could not say why.

Slowly he turned her so she faced the dragon once more, and where their hands were still joined he brought them up to the dragon’s giant maw, his hand covering hers as they stroked the gleaming green scales.

“She’s beautiful,” Sansa managed to get out, and she was very proud that she didn’t squeak.

She spoke truly too, the creature terrified her, no doubt, but there was a majesty to her that could not be denied, the Queen of Dragons indeed.

“She is a great beauty,” Aemond agreed as he brought their hands back down to rest between them, still keeping his hand in hers, moving so they faced each other once more, “but I have known greater beauties, still.”

Sansa’s breath hitched, as his eyes stayed on her, taking in every aspect of her face, adoration written plain in his own visage.

When Aemond had first presented her with his suit it had seemed too good to be true, especially after all her previous suitors. She couldn’t understand what she had done to earn his adoration, why he felt her worthy of it, at first she hadn’t believed that it wasn’t a mummers farce of some sort, to whatever end, there always was one, but then more and more time had passed and unknowingly she’d let him earn small bits of her trust.

He hadn’t lied about the regard he held her in, like Joffrey, he’d saved his attentions only for her, unlike Harry, he hadn’t wanted something from her she hadn’t wanted to give, unlike Tyrion and Littlefinger, he hadn’t wanted a toy to execute his whims on, an animal to hunt for sport, like Ramsay.

He treated her like she was something precious and to be protected.

And despite herself, Sansa was starting to believe him.

“My Queen?” Aemond breathed, he was asking her something.

She realised what just a moment before it happened.

He’d been asking her permission.

His lips met hers in a chaste kiss, the gentlest she’d ever known.

It made her want to sign and melt against him.

Instead, she just closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment until they’d have to go back to the castle.

The day before Aemond was set to fly South, when his contingent of the knights of the Vale had already ridden ahead, Sansa invited him to her solar.

They’d had little time together between Aemond’s preparations to leave and her overseeing the next planting in the newly reconstructed glass gardens, certainly no time for anymore kisses, much as she would have liked there to have been.

“My Queen,” he greeted her as he was allowed entrance through the door.

“Aemond,” she smiled as she rose to meet him, once the door had closed behind him.

Instead of trying to steal kiss from her, as she thought he might’ve and would have secretly welcomed, he just softly pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“I have something for you,” she told him, once he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to release her hand now he had it, “to aid your journey south.”

She led him over to the table where she had in a neatly folded pile, three sets of riding leathers.

“One I embroidered with the golden dragon, the sigil of your brother, Aegon II,” she explained as he looked the leathers over with one hand, “the other two I embroidered with the traditional coat of arms of House Targaryen.”

“You embroidered these?” he asked, looking sharply from the leathers to her.

“I made them,” Sansa quietly admitted.

She’d often made things for her family growing up, she’d wanted Aemond to have some part of her with him when he went South. She also knew she had the best embroidery of all of Winterfell, after so many years of sharp pains, bleeding fingers and miscounted stitches.

“You made these?” he checked as he looked the leathers over with a newfound level of intensity, before looking back at her, serious as ever, “I’ll treasure these forever.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Sansa told him honestly.

He smiled at her then, something in his eyes she couldn’t quite decipher.

“There is something else,” Sansa said after a moment, as she brought forth the thing that had been burning a hole in her pocket, “I had hoped you might take my favour with you when you depart.”

She presented it to him, the crowned red direwolf bold against the white material.

Aemond gently took it from her, examining it for a moment before saying, “It would be my honour to wear your favour.”

They just stared at each other for a moment then, and Sansa’s heart began to race, and she found that with Aemond, she quite enjoyed the sensation.

“My Queen,” he started, using their still clasped hands to bring her closer to him, “I should quite like to kiss you agai—”

“Yes,” she interrupted him, before staring at her feet as a furious blush took over her face at her eagerness.

Slowly, gently, Aemond took her chin and lifted her face up to face his as he smiled down at her.

It was a rare thing to see a true smile grace his face so she greedily drank in the image, despite her embarrassment.

Just as softly as the time before, Aemond pressed his lips to hers and this time Sansa did sigh, and slowly he started to moved their lips together.

By the time they parted Sansa was breathless with delight, they stayed together in her solar a little longer, before Aemond took his leave of her, leaving a burning kiss on her cheekbone.

When the Queen in the North waved off the foreign Prince the following day, it was from an appropriate distance with no mention made of the development of their personal relationship.

When the foreign Prince gave his farewells to the Queen in the North, it was with a solemn dignity and a stiffness always displayed in public.

There was no mention made of the Queen’s favour flying in the air, secured to the foreign Prince’s arm.

Nor was there any mention made of the Queen in the North staying out on her castle’s ramparts, facing south, until the dragon had faded from sight.

Chapter Text

It was the cold feel of snow crunching beneath her, that told Sansa that this was a dream, and the colours confirmed it. This was the first time Flame had left the keep to prowl the Wolfswood in quite some time and Sansa knew something had brought her there. She could sense Shaggy in her periphery quiet as he was, they were stalking the Wolfswood together. There was something so freeing about dreaming in Flame, seeing through her eyes, feeling through her body, knowing that at anytime she might just run and nothing could stop her. It was something so precious to her now because she knew how precious it would have been had she had it before.

There was a rustling in the trees and she stilled, ears twitching in the direction of the noise. But the woods were silent save for the hum of life that sung its quiet song every day and night. Still, there was something that told her to wait, that this was where she needed to be.

The moon had moved from it’s position in the sky by the time she heard it again but this time she heard so much more. The rustling in the trees yes, but also the crunch of snow under boots and the low hum of voices.

Shaggy came over and stood shoulder to shoulder with her, his eyes milky white like she knew hers to be. They drew nearer to the voices their footsteps light silent on the snow, stopping on the edge of a clearing.

There was a small group of two leggers trying their best to dig through the frozen snow. Trying to bury something. She prowled around the tree line trying to work out what it was the were trying to hide. Then she saw two towers on fabric and sansa knew what was. There were no towers on their person rather just dirks and daggers secured at their waists, hidden in their boots. The men were speaking too, discussing their plans, it was harder to understand when she was like this, but she’d gotten enough to confirm her suspicions.

She heard Shaggy growl lowly beside her, they’d seen enough.

She leapt forward closing the distance between her and the two leggers in seconds, Shaggy right next to her, there was no time for them to prepare to grab their daggers and defend themselves. She tore them apart with her teeth until nothing remained of them.

Sansa jolted awake, bolting upright in her bed the taste of blood filling her mouth, coating her throat in all its stickiness. She panted slightly trying to keep herself from retching, trying to remind herself that it wasn’t actually her mouth as much as she felt like it was, that there was nothing in her belly, no matter how full it had felt just minutes ago. She looked over at Rickon, fidgeting but still asleep most likely still in the Wolfswood.

The moment dawn crossed the sky she rode out with a small riding to guard her. She needed confirmation much as she knew it to be true, if Walder Frey was sending assassins her way he would only be the first of many. It meant that word of her ascension had started to travel south. Flame met them at the edge of the Wolfswood, her maw dripping with so much blood that she could see it clearly despite the low light, and the trail of bloody paw prints in the snow behind her. The captain of her riding tried to convince her to turn back then. None of them had ever seen Flame in such a state of disarray, around Winterfell and Wintertown Flame always looked as docile as a fully grown direwolf could, here she looked as wild as she truly was. But Flame wasn’t urging her away from the Wolfswood, the danger was gone, Sansa knew the source of the blood, she could still taste it in her own mouth.

“Flame will lead the way,” Sansa informed her riding, hoping it might put them at ease to know that they weren’t to be just blindly combing the Wolfswood.

It didn’t seem all that effective, but they dared not disobey their Queen.

Dawn had turned to day by the time they came across Shaggy, black fur soaked in blood, sitting proudly by what little remained of his kill, eyes still a milky white. Sansa gave her brother in the direwolf’s body a stern look, he grinned at her, which did not help put her riding at ease, and trotted over to her, gently butting her hand with his head. she smiled at him despite herself and scratched behind his ears despite how it painted her glove with blood.

“You should not be here,” she reminded him, “you have things to be getting on with.”

He whined but Sansa stayed firm and eventually it was just Shaggy alone in front of her.

Sansa dismounted and the rest of her riding followed suit. All that was left of the assassins were splintered bones, weapons and ruined clothes on the bloodstained ground. The captain was already investigating the sight, it didn’t take long for him to discover the hidden Frey livery.

“Assassins, your Grace,” he informed her.

“Very well,” she replied solemnly, it was all the confirmation she’d needed, “we will have to prepare for the eventuality of more coming.”

He nodded and they all mounted once more and rode back to Winterfell.

Word soon spread throughout the castle of the queen’s early morning expedition, the state or lack thereof of the Frey assassins and gluttonous bloody maws of the Stark direwolves.

There was a reason Sansa hadn’t sworn the men to secrecy.

Walder Frey’s face fell to the floor, the sound echoing through the hall, revealing the face of Arya Stark underneath.

Arya Stark looked at Kitty Frey then, trembling thing that she was, barely older than Sansa would be now.

“When people ask you what happened here,” she told her, “tell them, The North remembers. Tell them Winter came for House Frey.”

Arya Stark rose and began to leave, there were many more people on her list beyond the Twins.

“My Lady, wait,” Kitty Frey’s voice was timid as she, but still Arya stilled waiting for her to say her piece, “What of the Prisoners.”

“Prisoners?” she questioned sharply, turning to face the newly widowed Lady of the Crossing.

“From…” she hesitated to speak, “from the Red Wedding.”

“They still live?” Arya asked surprised.

Kitty Frey nodded vigorously, “In the dungeons.”

Arya went straight down to the dungeons then, and found the cells full of people. Most she didn’t recognise but some she did.

The Greatjon she identified first, he was unable to miss, and though he was smaller than she remembered he was still larger than any other man in the cells, Wylis Manderly was easily recognisable too despite the years it had been since she last saw either. Then there was someone else, someone she didn’t know, but recognised with an almost painful certainty. The man was in a cell with a woman by his side, he was red of hair and blue of eye and he had a face so painfully familiar to Arya that she couldn’t breathe.

Edmure Tully. Beside him must be his wife Roslin Frey.

The last time Arya had been at the Twins she’d seen neither of them but that didn’t stop her from knowing them then.

It took a moment for her presence to be noticed, but it was Wylis Manderly that dared identify her, “By the Old Gods and the New, Arya Stark?”

She wasn’t surprised that it was Wylis that recognised her, it had often fallen to him to take her, Sansa, Wynafred and Wylla around White Harbour to see all that the city offered, when they had visited as children.

His words got everyone’s attention though, and Arya quickly set to work unlocking all the cells.

Arya Stark stayed at the Twins longer than she’d planned.

The former prisoners needed some days, some sennights in full truth, to regain their strength, Arya hadn’t planned on staying longer than it took to make sure they’d be looked after and opening the Twins’ armoury for them, but her uncle bid her stay, pleading with such familiar blue eyes that Arya couldn’t bring herself to say no.

She’d tried to convince them to stay at the Twins for some time, they couldn’t be in the Riverlands when Riverrun was besieged, going North would be no safer when the Boltons held Winterfell. That way she could slip away and continue her journey south. But no one saw things the way she did.

Instead not only did the Greatjon insist on staying with her, to the agreement of practically everyone else, but he also insisted that they should travel North to the Neck, that they would be harboured and hidden by the Crannogmen in the swamps surrounding Greywater Watch. Arya did not like this plan, but it seemed that she didn’t get a say, so she found herself travelling North through the Riverlands, avoiding all enemy forces, which was everyone, though there were fewer Lannister and Frey forces than she expected, she assumed them to all be at Riverrun. It wasn’t a particularly big party, barely more than a riding, but too big to take to Kings Landing, as if that had a chance of happening.

There was something about travelling through the Riverlands on foot with an unexpected party and sleeping under the stars that reminded her of a different time. Not a happier time, but a simpler time, where all she had to do was get to Robb and Mother and they’d go back South together and save Sansa, Arya would complete her list and they’d go back to Winterfell and be safe. It was a child’s dream, a foolish one, but a nice one. Now there was no more Mother, no more Robb and only the Gods could tell her what happened to Sansa, she hoped her sister lived still, that she’d escaped Kings Landing and gotten somewhere safe. The last she’d heard, Sansa had killed Joffrey and disappeared from the Capital, she didn’t think her sister had killed Joffrey, but if it was true, she wouldn’t have minded her sister taking that name from her list.

The moon was high in the sky, night long since fallen, when it happened, the crunch of leaves beneath her, the change in colours. She prowled through the trees silently, drawn to the smell of two leggers, the faint smell of smoke of a fire long since doused. Most of the two leggers were sleeping but there a few still awake, keeping watch, she kept to the edges of the camp, moving silently as the darkness of night kept her hidden. She stopped when she got to one particular two legger sleeping on the edge of the camp, a face she knew so well.

Arya opened her eyes to a pair of dark golden eyes staring down at her, eyes she never thought she’d see again, eyes she’d never let herself forget.

“Nymeria,” she breathed, slowly taking in the visage of her beloved direwolf.

Slowly she lifted her hand, and after a moment of hesitation, of asking permission, she sunk her hand into Nymeria’s soft fur and smiled as tears pooled in her eyes.

She stayed up the rest of the night with Nymeria.

At one point at Nymeria’s urging, they snuck away from camp. They walked for some time, but Arya didn’t mind, she would soak up every moment she had with her old friend, she marvelled at the direwolf’s size, as big as a horse, her legs alone were easily of a size with Arya herself. Relief like nothing else flowed through her as she truly processed that Nymeria had survived all these year, she’d had hopes, she’d had dreams, but now she had true proof in front of her. It was quickly chased away by guilt though, that Lady had died in Nymeria’s place, sweet, gentle, innocent Lady, who’d worn bows and ribbons and never hurt anyone. It was Joffrey’s fault, Cersei’s too for calling for Nymeria’s death, but Arya should have freed Lady when she freed Nymeria.

Nymeria stopped when they reached a clearing and Arya stopped with her, waiting for what it was that Nymeria wanted to show her to be revealed.

Then slowly, Arya’s patience paid off as pair after pair of eyes were reflected in the moonlight, just beyond the edge of the clearing. Slowly a pack of wolves approached them, larger than she’d ever seen before, there must have been hundreds of them that surrounded her and Nymeria, all showing deference to her direwolf.

Instead of returning to camp, Nymeria led her further away, to the mouth of a cave.

It was clearly occupied, there was a sword beneath her neck the moment she was within three feet of the mouth, Needle was out and trained on this latest enemy before the man could blink, they were at a stalemate, though that quickly changed when Nymeria let out an agitated snarl. The man looked warily between them as he slowly sheathed his sword and motioned for her to follow him inside the cave with a jerky movement.

Arya didn’t put Needle away but she did follow the man.

He was dirty and scruffy as to be expected for a man camping out in a cave in the Riverlands, but it only served to remind her of an older time, when she met the Brotherhood.

There were more people than she’d expected in the main cavern lit up in the warm like of the fire in the centre.

They were mostly men, all facing one direction, presumably where their leader was on the other side of the cavern.

When Arya’s eyes first swept to the far side of the cavern she thought she was looking at a corpse, its skin was an unnatural greyish colour and it looked oddly water bloated, more than that though, its neck seemed to be sliced in half in a great bloody line, its hair was white and brittle from what she could see poking from beneath its hood, and there were unhealed slashes from its forehead to its cheeks as if something had been clawing down its face.

Only when Arya looked closer did she realise that she was woman and despite everything, she was alive enough to be staring at Arya with her crimson eyes.

There was something about the woman that meant Arya couldn’t look away, everything was wrong about her yet there was something so familiar.

Then her eyes dropped to the crown beside her.

Nine iron swords on a bronze band.

She’d only ever seen it once before but she’d never forgotten it.

Arya’s gaze went back up to the woman, a horrible realisation falling over her, a truth she couldn’t deny.

The woman’s hand went up to her neck, pinching together where the skin was sliced separate.

“Arya,” she rasped, barely pulling the name together.

“Mother,” the cry was torn from her throat as she stumbled over to her mother.

Her dead mother.

Who looked at her and saw her and said her name.

Her mother who’s skin was too soft and spongy as Arya brought her hands to her cheeks.

Because her mother hand been thrown naked in the river after the Freys had murdered her.

It was a mockery.

Like this.

Her mother wasn’t alive, but she wasn’t dead either.

She was something else, a caricature.

Arya turned to face the men on the other side of the cavern then.

“What did you do to her?” it was somewhere between a roar and a wail, but loud enough to echo through the cavern either way.

She looked back at mother then, who’s eyes had never left her and the voices of the men washed over her, she couldn’t them or whatever excuses they were presenting her with.

It was just her and Mother and her too soft, too dead hand stroking her cheek with something like wonder.

Arya didn’t know how long they spent like that.

But eventually something had to give.

Mother’s other hand went back to her neck, pinching the skin there.

She only spoke one word next as her other hand left Arya’s cheek trailing down her side until it found home on Needle’s hand on her hip.

“Mercy.”

Arya Stark retched the moment she left the cave, emptying the little contents of her stomach.

She ran as far as she could from that cave, only stopping when she found a stream, first to wash the bile from her mouth, then to wash the blood from Needle, stopping every few seconds to furiously wipe the tears from her eyes.

Eventually she gave up and buried her head in Nymeria’s fur as sobs wracked her body.

When they got back to camp the first first fingers of dawn were painted across the sky and Arya had a plan. She needed a plan if she was going to get through the next few days, sennights and moons, she needed a plan if she was going to be travelling with Uncle Edmure acting as if everything was as it had been the previous day.

She wouldn’t be able to convince the men to turn around and go further south, not her uncle, not the Greatjon, not anyone, not when they had no army, and despite them all having weapons, they were hardly in a fit state to fight. Instead, she sent Nymeria and her pack south, to hopefully break the siege on Riverrun when they continued on their journey North, if nothing else, she might be able to give her uncle back his home, she might be able to take it back in the name of her mother. She told Nymeria to meet her at Greywater Watch when she was done at Riverrun but she couldn’t be sure her friend understood. She tried to make peace with the knowledge that she’d seen her one last time, that she hadn’t sealed her fate in freeing her all those years ago, but she desperately prayed to the Old Gods, the New, and the Many Faced God too, that this would not be the last time.

It was a smart plan she tried to comfort herself in Nymeria’s absence, it would be the wolves doing all the work, even if she was fit to fight unlike the rest of her company, but by going with them she’d only be slowing the wolves down.

It took some sennights to reach the Neck, slowly as their party moved, it took even longer to find Greywater Watch, even as winter came down upon them it seemed it didn’t stop the floating keep from moving throughout the swamps.

They were greeted by a recently returned Howland Reed and the tidings he gave them were enough for Arya’s heart to burst, the Boltons were dead, Sansa, Jon and Rickon were all alive, Winterfell was the Stark’s once more, Sansa had been named Queen in the North by Jon and the Lords of the North. Half of Arya wanted to head on for Winterfell immediately, the part of her that yearned for her family and her home. She tried to imagine their faces, Sansa, Jon and Rickon, how they’d changed in the years they’d been separated, did Sansa look like Mother as she had been, did Jon look like Father, did Rickon look like Bran? But the other half wanted to wait, wanted to see her plan through, free her mother’s home and wait for Nymeria to join her. Part of her hesitated because she thought her family might see her and she all she’d done and turn her away, that her sins were too egregious to be forgiven, or she thought she might not belong at Winterfell anymore, if Sansa was queen that made her a princess, what kind of princess could she be?

What would they think if they ever found out about that night in the cave?

In the end the decision was taken from her, her party needed time to recover before they could continue their journey further.

Lord Reed had offered her use of his rookery to send word ahead of them to Winterfell, but Arya declined and he hadn’t questioned her will. Part of her desperately wanted to send a raven to Winterfell, to get a raven back from her sister, to see proof that she was there in her perfect handwriting with all its swirls and flourishes. She wanted nothing more than to believe that Lord Reed was being honest with them, she had every reason to, Lord Reed had been one of Father’s closest friends. But she hadn’t survived this long without knowing to guard her back.

So they stayed at Greywater Watch and Arya all but wore holes into the floors of Greywater Watch as she waited, for Nymeria to return, for her party to gather their strengths, for something, for anything.

For five nights Arya dreamed that she was in the Riverlands tearing into Lions and Towers, for five mornings Arya woke up with the taste of blood in her mouth.

Moons had turned from their separation until Nymeria was by her side once more, but she hadn’t come North alone, she’d come with her wolf pack, though it was a little thinner their numbers were still in the hundreds.

Nymeria had also come with two people.

A woman taller than any Arya had ever seen with short blonde hair, dressed in plated armour, and a boy that looked to be a squire.

Arya was hesitant to trust their presence, despite having been led to Greywater Watch by Nymeria, not when she could see the Lannister Lion on the pommel of the woman’s sword as for the boy, Arya didn’t remember the livery of every House in Westeros, but she didn’t think she’d ever forget the livery of House Payne.

The woman turned to Uncle Edmure and his wife first.

“My name is Brienne of Tarth, I was sworn shield to your sister Lady Catelyn before her death,” she introduced herself and Arya’s breath caught, “I come from the Riverlands with great tidings, the siege on Riverrun has ended, the Frey and Lannister forces are dead and Riverrun is in the possession of your uncle, Brynden the Blackfish.”

She then handed Uncle Edmure a letter, stamped with the sigil of House Tully on black wax.

Brienne of Tarth then turned her attention onto her, she stopped before her and took out her sword before dropping to one knee and laying it before her.

“Before her death,” Brienne of Tarth began, “I swore to Lady Catelyn that I would find her daughters and bring them home. That I would serve them as I served her.”

She seemed to take a breath before continuing.

“I offer you my services, I would shield your back and keep your counsel, I would offer my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Arya swallowed before speaking, looking to Nymeria who stared right back at her.

“I have no need for a sworn shield,” she said and watched as the woman began to deflate. “Swear yourself to my sister in Winterfell, shield her back and keep her counsel.”

They would be going North with a far bigger party than they’d started with.

By the time Arya left Greywater Watch, word from the south had arrived.

There was a Targaryen on the Iron Throne.