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Chapter Text

Fire

"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire," Ferdinand Foch

Sansa Stark understood, with dreadful certainty, from the battle camp overseeing the remains of the Wall, that all was lost.

The fight for the living ended with the death-song of a creature of legend, and it ended with yet another death of someone precious to her.

Jon and his dragon fall in a suicidal rush- a blaze of fire meeting ice- his attempt to try to end it in one last action.

High Queen Daenerys had fallen just moments before, her great dragon roaring in a thunderous lament as a great lance of ice, wielded by the Night King pierced through both rider and dragon. It had been a horrific sight, watching as the ice spread through the small figure barely visible from such a distance. The Night King had aimed for the rider first, then through the Drogon himself. It had penetrated through both scales and flesh with sickening ease. Dark blood had rained upon the battlefield bellow, steaming, bubbling across wrights and humans alike. Even at such a distance, Sansa could see as the vivid black crawled up the enormous lance, as Drogon's enormous body was further impaled with ice, as if the spear was a channel, spreading ice from within. The splendent, quiet Queen Sansa had come to know had fallen like a stone with her largest dragon- not beautiful nor graceful as the small young woman always appeared, but ugly, a wretched thing that crashed amongst the hard ice and snow with a deadly crunch heard as far as the camp.

And she had watched as her first husband had screamed in grief, and with an almost mournful lament of acceptance. Dashing forward uselessly, he called out to the rear guard of their armies. Nearly all of them thundered after him. A slim hope, she knew, for some of the people of camp to flee. His brother, haggard and with gleaming gold hair had looked at her. Emerald eyes, seeking permission, she had seen, seeking permission to follow after his brother. Sansa could only nod then, heart in her throat she knew, that was death for him, and for the tall woman at his side. Jaime Lannister had kneeled, quickly, for a moment, unnecessarily, Brienne of Tarth falling into step a fraction of a second after him. They had kneeled in the snow, for what Sansa knew was the last time, in front of her. Ser Jaime had brought up Widow's Wail, red and black steel, across his chest in the Westerland sault, whilst Brienne, dear Brienne brought the blade high above her head in the style of the Stormlands. The two sworn to her had said nothing else and followed behind the rest of their fighting force.

Ser Jaime had gone to fight the dead. Ser Brienne, fierce, at his side, went to follow.

The last of the able body men and women set to fend off a tireless, unending force.

A fool's gambit.

And Sansa Stark had watched them go as the death song of Drogon fell to an eerie silence over the battlefield. She then had looked to the skies. Numb, fear, eyes straining to look for Jon against the dark sky. It had been difficult, to spot him in the dark, but she had found him. And the white, stolen child from the Mother of Dragons had roared in triumph, spewing icy death. And Jon, oh Jon, had decided to give one last effort, one last rush of fire and blood his blood, to try and give them all a chance. Ghost had howled and followed at the heels of the armies, leaving her side for the first time in moons as Jon fell as horrifically simple as his Aunt before him.

The last hope for the living died with the death of the last dragon. The death-lament of Rhaegal falling to nothing.

Winter has come. And we were fools to not be ready. Our words are from not.

Sansa now turned, hands shaking, almost ridiculously calm as Arya screamed in disbelieving grief. She rushed toward her tent, away from the doomed battle, away from the death of the last hope of humanity. People were screaming, rushing, fleeing, in the chaos of the craze certainty of what is the doom of the World, and Sansa found she cannot find it in herself to do much but turn her back. Her only comfort is that she had already organized escape to old, the young and the unwilling to flee to White Harbor, to Essos, away from Westeros. She had done what she could have done for her people, and now she must do one more thing for the sake of any people that were left. The armies of humanity were to be destroyed in the wake of eight thousand years worth of the Dead, and it was her choice now to make sure the majority of their armies were not added to the Army of Ice.

She reached her tent, kneeled by the heavy wooden chest that she had found in Castle Black, and brought out the small container of Wildfire she had hidden.

"Just in case," she had sworn to Tyrion, Ser Davos, Queen Daenerys and Jon(King, her king), "Just in case the Dragons fall, then we will fall with them in a blaze that will give time to those South,"

Jon as her brother-cousin- had hated the plan, had hated it. But as her High King, he had understood and simply gripped her arm in understanding and praise. She had seen in his eyes, in his eyes the wish she would never use it.

But as Sansa stared at the container in her hands, she knew his wish had been a childish one. The wildfire was almost innocent, to the point of mockery, the green murky liquid shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Her hands begin to tremble when rough, calloused hands touched her's. She looked up, to Arya, her wild, beautiful sister, who had grown into her long face, her large ears, and stern, long nose. She was devastatingly beautiful. Arya had become a well-muscled and willowy creature that was deadly and frightening. Invisible and lost, allowed to run wild with no pack to tether her home. Her not quite curls were sheared and close to her face, her grey eyes hooded with death and coolness gained from becoming a living, breathing weapon.

Sansa licked her lips at her stern face and the fact that she held a torch in her other hand.

"Together?" her sister whispered and her voice is thick, rough with emotion and grief she does not bother to censor.

Sansa sucked in a shaking breath.

"Flee. Take the rest of the people and run them as far South as you can, this is my plan, my burden. I will wait until you are clear," she whispered back because she just cannot lose anyone, and if her sister can live, if just a little longer, Sansa will be happy, "Run, Arya."

Her sister gave her a flat smile, her large gray eyes glittering with emotion.

"I'm done running, Sansa. The lone wolf dies. The pack stays together."

Unbidden, laughter escaped her throat, flat, ugly, and hateful. A thousand mistakes come to her then, a thousand moments that would have been so different if they had just been together.

"I wish… I wish we had understood that all those years ago."

Because she hadn't. She had been a Summer child through and through, a pretty little bird chirping innocently when she should have been a wolf, a sweet singing dove who wished for knights and songs. She should have had sharp teeth and claws ready, should have had the thought of family, duty, and honor, instead of dreams of golden, green-eyed babes and a gallant golden King. Her impossible, sweet dream that to this day haunted her with how much she had wanted it, how much she had kept that dream in her heart, and how much it had cost to have only the wish of the dream.

"Together?" her sister, whispered, again.

Sansa can only nod because she can see now that Arya is much like her. Too tired to continue. Doubtful of any sort of survival should they attempt to leave now. Sansa felt her sister relax, slightly, and Sansa can only stand and hold her sister's hand. They stand together and go to the first of the wildfire catches they had set about the camp. They grip their hands, clutched, tight, both trembling in the face of what is to come. She wondered if her biggest testaments of will are always done clasping onto the hand of someone else, and she knows this time, she will not live as she did when she and Theon had lept from the battlements at Winterfell.

"I love you," said Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."

Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister. Because there is no one left to be strong for, no one left to hide from.

"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce, and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."

"Together?"

Sansa nods, transferring the small catch of wildfire to their hands. They grip it so delicately, so carefully. Arya holds her torch high, ready to throw it in tandem with the wildfire jar.

"Together."

They smash the jar onto the hidden cache on the ground, and with perfect grace, Arya threw the torch after it. They watched as the wild green flames, a beautiful combination of emerald and jade dancing together, began to grow. It was frightfully quick to consume everything. They fall together as they rarely did as children, arms tight and pressing them as close as they physically can. As they clung to each other, releasing the last of their hope of surviving this endless Winter, Arya and Sansa let the tears of nearly a decade of struggle fall.

"What do we say to the God of Death?" whispered Arya, soft, a small bit of the one and ten girl she had been before all of this had started, "Today."

"I will not die in Ice, My King, My Queen. If the race of Men shall die because of the Others, it shall be in a blaze of Fire of our own making," she spat, because no longer would she allow any thing or one to determine her fate.

Jon, sweet Jon, looked at her with furrowed brows and narrowed grey eyes. Sometimes it just  hurt  so much to see how much he looked like her Father. And sometimes it hurt, even more, to confess to herself that she knew not whether or not she had forgotten the difference between her brother( cousin )'s face and her father's. If time had taken the exact shape of his nose, the shade of his eyes from her, as it had taken  everything  else.

"Sansa-" said her first husband, reaching forward with small hands. To comfort, or to reprime, she does not know.

She can only smile at him, faintly, wondering at his kindness, his determination for  good  despite the entire world being ready to mold him, and everything into greed and hate. Something in her expression is enough to stop him from touching her. And she is grateful he does not attempt it again.

"I know we cannot spare much of the wildfire. But it may come to this, and I will not leave the rest of our people to become an added legion to the White Walkers."

"I am in favor of it," said the High Queen, sadness in her violet eyes. She is staring at Sansa with intensity, her eyes glistening with what may be tears, "We cannot rule out the thought that we will be overwhelmed. Fire is preferable to Ice, Aegon."

Part of Sansa always flinched at the way Daenerys referred to Jon. It is not the name Jon used, and it was not what her father had called him. For Sansa, it always seemed like a desperate attempt at a connection with her nephew on the Queen's part. One that felt unneeded considering how much Jon returned her esteem.

Jon, oh Jon, sighed. A deep, terrible noise that is full of weight.

"So be it."

The fire reached her and Arya, and she cannot even bring herself to scream, and neither can Arya. They have died a thousand, small deaths in the too-short decade of the last of their lives. And Wildfire burned so hotly that all of their nerve ends blaze away before they can even form agony. It is all green, green, green, wretchedly close to the color of Lannister's eyes and she can hardly stand it.

So, Sansa Stark closed her eyes for the last time in blazing fire of her own making.

Chapter Text

Ice

"The noise resembles the roar of heavy, distant surf. Standing on the stirring ice one can imagine it is disturbed by the breathing and tossing of a mighty giant below," Ernest Shackleton.

Sansa Stark opened her eyes in the cold, utterly beautiful, and familiar place she thought forever lost.

It was not the physical place, exactly, but rather the people that made it home that she wakes too.

She does not realize it at first, as all she can understand is that she is breathing. Functionally able to bring air into her lungs and exhale it when the last thing I remember was the horribly brilliant dance of emerald and jade flames, the smoke filling my chest, and stilling my lungs. She loses herself in breathing first, unable to even register what is in front of her eyes. All she can do is bring one breath after the other. It is a startling, disturbing thing to suddenly have the ability to do.

A relief- perhaps- but mostly, Sansa is just stunned.

She stuttered into hacking and wheezing in her surprise. Her lips tremble with the effort, her chest burned as she took breath after breath. Shallowly, quickly, air pressing cooly against her lips and her chest. Then, despite her trembling breath, she registers what is above her.

It is both stone and wood, dark beams that cross above her in a rib-like pattern across the even darker stone. The beams, she knows with dead certainty, are made of Northern oaks: they are that distinct rich brown I have never found in Southern woods. The wood was ancient as well, and in true Northern design, they have not withered away to polished beams that blend seamlessly with the stone- the wood is alive with both the knots and whorls it had grown in life before it had been cut down. A reverence for the life given by the tree to house them. The traditional etchings of the language of the first men line the wood as a compliment, not a defiance of the life once held within the wood. She did not know the words well. She had little care for that language of the first men as a child, had found tedium in the mandatory lessons, one of the few in her girlhood. They had been too austere, too rough in structure to her, not flowing as prettily as Common or Valerian, and not used nearly as much as the two other languages she had been taught. They were hardly even spoken, in the North, and on her tongue, they had always felt too heavy, too rough for her to perfect. In adulthood, like much of the traditions of the North, Sansa had wished to know better but had not the time to understand.

But she remembers enough to recognized 'child' and 'growth' amongst the rough cut wood, to see the words of 'care' within the beams above her. She vaguely can guess the meaning of the rest, all above her, but cannot be sure. She only knows that the runes of the first men stand above her, sentries in protection. The dark stone was more precisely cut, the Mansory old, but ruthlessly symmetrical, and it took her a moment to recognize the stone as another Northern native, one mined for centuries to support and construct the majority of the Northern keeps, traditionally exported by some of the Mountain clans.

Where am I...?

She bolts upward as tears start blurring her vision in her sudden panic, in a way that she has learned to usually conceal-Something is not right, even with my control. But Sansa cannot stop the sobs threatening to tear her apart. Her hands clutch at her chest, feeling desperately at her heaving body, at the thundering bolt of her heart. She wonders, for a second without understanding why she is in such a small room when the last she remembered was killing herself with her sister, far from Winterfell. The wildfire. The wildfire is...Gone. Questions arise in her panic, in her incomprehension of what has happened since she and Arya had lit the flames. Where am I? Where is my sister? What has happened to the wildfire?

She forced herself to settle her breath. Forced herself to even out the heaving breaths she was drawing in. She dried her tears and squashed her growing panic with more effort than she could ever remeber needing. I am steel, I am a wolf, not a trembling dove in its cage. It took her minutes to settle herself. More than she had ever needed since she had first learned the power and the functionality of emotional control. It is only when she forced herself to bend her head between her knees and shut her eyes shut for a moment did Sansa manage to bring back some semblance of order to herself. Because she needs to just think and understand what in the seven hells and heavens is occurring, and what is causing her to blubber like a babe.

The bed she is in is large, she notes, clutching the material in her hands, trying to take in as many details as possible. It is large, a featherbed, and is lined with soft furs and even softer wools. The furs are of white, possibly winter hare or Northern fox fur, and are so soft. More Northern animals, once again. The wool is dyed blue, achingly close to Tully blue. A color she had avoided for so long. She needed to be not a vestige of the South, not an echo of her mother, but her own. All of this is expensive, fine to match the fact that I am in some sort of Keep, and with someone noting my Mother's House... Who would own such a thing? Possibilities whirl in Sansa's mind, and as her breath completely evens out she knows further exploring will give her the answers she needs. Cautiously, she stiffly tumbled out of the enormous bed, with admittedly fine if unfamiliar furs and unfamiliar wools, spine stiff and hands clenched. She tries to land like Arya had attempted to teach her- lightly on the balls of her feet, crouched low and ready to forcefully leap up. But she is inelegant in her roll, lands awkwardly and painfully against the stone.

And then Sansa is once again completely stunned at the sight of her much too small feet.

Sansa breathed a shuddering breath, straightened her spine, and looked at her hands. Too small… The hands… The hands of a child. But they- they must be mine. She curls and uncurls her hands to understand such a thing is really her's. Unease settled in her stomach, as she looked past her hands and sees her body. It is not what she knew. But it was fitting with the small hands and feet. The body that meets her sight in a sweat-soaked shift is thin and gangly. The form of a child. The limbs are long and her chest is flat, the belly soft with youth. Sansa forces herself to blink as if it will all fade as an illusion, before she realized, as she forced herself to touch her chest that this body is indeed the one she was controlling. She even wiggles her toes for good measure, but she cannot deny what her senses are telling her. I am in the body of a child, she reached for her head, and receives a handful of lush, silky hair if tangled. She drags it forward and shudders as the bright flame of her hair meets her eyes. It is paler than her memories, closer to copper than the richer pitch her hair had turned as she had grown older, but it is recognizable.

Sansa looks up, and it's by the glint in the early morning light, dawn, that she sees the mirror on the wall. It was a plain sort of mirror; sliver frame, with leaping trouts and prancing wolves amongst the bramble of soft winter-vines. It is plain, if slightly large, and Sansa knew that mirror. It had been a luxury she faintly remembered begging and pleading for months until her amused parents had granted. It had been a mirror she had adored, and a mirror she remembered had disappeared when she had returned to her rooms a few weeks after her father's execution. In its place had been a large, floor-length thing with prowling and roaring lions, golden frame with precisely cut red-colored glass, a luxury she had hated for what it had represented. I could not even reflect myself in the trappings of my House, I had to be the perfect Lannister woman to be. It is within that mirror, that she realized that she was within her childhood bedroom in Winterfell, and as she looked into it she was indeed inhabiting her childhood body.

For the girl staring at her in the glass is not her anymore, not the woman she had become. No. The girl in the mirror is a babe, perhaps eight name days or as far as ten- Sansa has forgotten how she had looked at that age.

She has rounded cheeks, full of youth and prettily plump, and her eyes are large things that looked almost odd against her face. Gone are the sharply shaped cheekbones of a woman, the bowed lips of peach, and the elegant tilt of her Tully blue eyes. She is so small, not the tall proud woman, full of fierceness, not the Red-Wolf of Winterfell, not the Queen of the North. No, what is looking back at her is the dove, the little bird she had been. A hand, a hand in the mirror lifts, and it is only when Sansa feels that hand cup her cheek that she realizes she had raised her hand to touch the face in the mirror. Her skin is soft, as is her hands, devastatingly so, not cracked and peeled with the cold of Winter, not roughly skeletal with the lack of food.

She blinked, wondering, for a moment, if she has gone mad with the coming of the Others and the Fire… And then she moved away from the glass, and quietly slipped out of her childhood room at Winterfell. Not a person in sight, not a soul meets her eyes. The halls are abandoned, the walls lined with paintings and tapestries long burned away from Theon's ill-fated betrayal, the Boltons' glee, and Sansa's reluctant need to dress the people pouring into the North. She wanders a whole Winterfell she barely remembered. It is not until she reached the door that she realized her feet had moved her to the room she had been occupying for nearly two years at this point. Not even a dragon queen had displaced her.

This is a spell or a dream. I must understand why I am so young and away from my proper place.

She threw the doors open carelessly and as much strength as she can muster, faintly annoyed as no guard stands outside the rooms. I will have words... She slammed the doors against the wall, a boom that echoed deep into the hallway. Two shapes callout in surprise from the bed, muttered oaths, a shirl shrike of surprise. They are tangled in the bedfurs and wools. Scramble in the enormous expanse, reaching for each other in a moment. And then they move to leap out of bed, two adults, a man, and a woman judging by their cries. People in my bed, she thought with cold fury, How dare they. One of them, a large, hulking figure of a man, grabbed at a sword next to the bed. And unsheathed it in a fluid, practiced motion, charging for her in a second. It is an enormous thing, larger than her current body, the blade. She watched with slight detachment as it swung in her direction. It froze mere inches from her head, gleaming dark metal just a hair's breadth away from her delicate head.

It is years of practice that restrain her fright and allows her for a second to merely blink at the gleaming, cool steal above her head.

She stared at the man, furrowed brow. Then she feels herself relaxing and understanding the fact that he had taken her bed. But who is with him?

"Sansa?" he said, bewildered and scolding.

For scaring him, or perhaps for appearing as she did. She should be scolding him, but she is too confused. He hastily lowers the blade, chest heaving in panic and fright. She cannot blame him. She looked at him, his grey eyes, his frown, and can only give a slightly furrowed brow in return.

"Jon… Jon something has happened to me," she told him, a little unnecessarily, after all, he has eyes, "I don't-"

"Sansa, sweetling?" and that voice- that voice she had never heard again. Oh, she had seen a poor imitation of it, a rasp and rattle of the Lady Stoneheart, but not… Not this.

The woman that comes around Jon, is fair and rosy, with red hair nearly to her knees in an elegant wave of fire. Kissed by fire, the Freefolk had called to Sansa, fondly, the Fire-Kissed, Red Wolf. The woman's hair is frightfully similair if a slightly paler shade. Her body is shapely, and for a brief moment, Sansa wondered if this is her mirror. The woman in front of her, dressed in a shift and hastily pulling a robe across her shoulders must be a distorted and softer version of her... Then reason wins out. Because the woman in front of her is older than her twenty name days, and there is a softness in her that Sansa had never had. She has a more rounded face then her, freckles across her skin, rose in her cheeks to Sansa's devastating Stark pale, and her hair has a slight curl then Sansa had never had.

Mother.

She blinked and is horrified at the fact that tears have started to fall from her eyes again. She has yet to cry since Arya had come to the Northern Camp against the Others, grey eyes cool, blade in hand. And today she has cried more than three times. First in death, then in a panic, now in affection. What is this?

"Sansa?"

"Mother," she said, voice high and impossibly hoarse at the same moment. Startled she can only gape at her before she looked to Jon, "Jon, Mother is back- she isn't Lady Stoneheart anymore… She's-"

"Sansa, stop addressing your father as such!"

Sansa paused at her mother's, her mother's shouted words.

And she looked at the man again.

A head, a head on a pike, and she feels tears in her eyes and she feels such rage. She moves forward, just a step, to push him to kill him, when a looming figure of the Hound warns her, protects her in that one, small movement. She stared at him, disbelief crawling in her throat. His brows are thicker, she noted, faintly, his eyes are a darker shade of grey than Jon's. His hair not as curly, but straighter, browner, and he is slightly shorter. But he has to be Jon. He can only-

"You are Jon."

The man blinked, brows furrowed.

"Sansa, I am Eddard Stark, your father," he said softly, a deep rumble of a voice. Not the soothing deepness of Jon.

She does not really know this voice.

If she had, it had faded with the laughter of lions. With the passage of too much time not allowed to even think of her family. More tears find her, they slip past her eyes, down her cheeks and she hates them. For they are weakness and they show a lamenting dove.

"But-But- He took your head. He made me watch as he thrust it through a spike. Made me look at what had happened to you and then he laughed," she whispered.

Her mother, let out a gasp of horror, while her father blanched.

"Sweetling, you had a nightmare."

This is the most beautiful nightmare I've ever had.

She stands in her thin shift, a small coolness trickled down her spine. If this is a dream is what she thinks it is-

"Robb," she whispered, suddenly.

She can only run.

Away, away from these people she had thought long lost. Her movement is abrupt, her small limbs feel stiff and unpracticed as she bolted away. And startled shouts follow her, but she can only run. She hiked up her sleeping shift to keep it away from her legs, uncaring of the unseemly sight. Because if mother and father are here if I look as young as I am- She slammed into the doors that had lead to Robb's old rooms. He woke much as her parents had, with a startled shout, tumbled out bed. Sansa feels her chest heaving as bewildered blue eyes look at her. He is so young. Hardly three and ten name days and she feels something give at the innocent look in his eyes or his wild mop of red curls. They had beheaded him, she thinks, just like father. Only they had made a mockery of the Young Wolf by sewing Grey Wind to the remains of his neck. Joffrey had jeered and laughed about it. Promised to serve me them both at my wedding with Tyrion before he threatened to rape me.

"Sansa, what is the matter with you?" he cried, and his voice breaks, not the man she had left in her doom trip South, but a gangly youth.

More tears. But suddenly, they are mingled with laughter, both joyous and hysterical. Because if Robb is here-

"Bran."

She ran further still, slipping just past her father's reaching hands as she to the next room.

This one she rushed into with hands out, reaching, grabbing, dragging at the already awake boy lounging in his bed. She rushed the startled boy, reaching, pleading that the stern, distant and mythical thing he became was gone from her younger brother. When he stands on his own feet, she gives more breathless laughter. His eyes are clear, innocent, and no longer entrenched with knowledge beyond human understanding. Tears fall, blurring, freely as she moves away from the confused boy, but not before kissing him gently on the brow with more laughter on her tongue. Vibrating on her lips in a joyous, insane song.

"Arya."

She is as free as the wind, a spirit of pulsing joy that gave her mobility and the means to slip beneath her father's waiting arms. She does so by sliding right under his feet in a striking movement that burns her pale flesh against the polished stone, tears, and rips at delicate linen of her sleeping shift. But she does not care. The slide has her laughing all the more, fueling her wild joy even as shouts follow her. Arya is already awake, spread across the floor in her sleeping shift, of all things playing. Like a child. And Sansa laughs and laughs, at the fact that Arya's hair is so long, or that her features are the awkward shape that she would grow into. Guileless, not cold, but innocent eyes stare at her. Sansa's chest is heaving, her eyes are prickling with unshed and shed tears, and laughter, both joyous and hysterical are bubbling in her throat.

Her sister, barely six namedays in form, stared, brows furrowed, clutching at a soft cloth toy of a wolf. It is so unlike the Arya Sansa knows, but it spoke of a younger, freer Arya that Sansa had missed and still mourned.

"What are you doing, stupid?" Arya said, suspiciously, a worried frown on her face. Her voice is high, a chime of bells, and utterly marvelous to Sansa.

She can only laugh in joy at the sight of her sister. Before sprinting away, towards the nursery. Rickon, little Rickon is there, barely three name days, alive and she breathed another laugh for her Wild little Wolf, lips pressing against his sleeping brow. Before she is running again, past her parents, screaming for Jon. Her King.

"JON!" She bellowed, laughter and tears escaping her, I never have to stop them ever again, "JON!"

A boy, just a boy, appears at the end of the hallway, barely dressed in trousers, not in the form of her King, not the man that had taken Winterfell back for her. Not the King that had fallen down with his dragon in a blaze of glory and fire and blood. But it is still Jon.

He is shirtless and so terribly thin, barely gaining muscle and all but scarless, wild tossed curls black and looking half awake. She breathed, a soft joyous laugh escaping her again as she ran as fast as her short legs could take her. He has just a chance to blink, to have his lips to fall slightly in surprise. And then she reached him. Slammed into the boy, so young, from a time of innocence in all of us. He grunts at her weight and is startled when her legs and arms wind around him. He barely kept his footing, barely suppressed a startled and filthy curse as he automatically moved to hold her up.

She only laughed at his clumsy movements. As he awkwardly started to pat on her shoulder, only focusing on the warmth of him. Please, gods, old and new, please let this not be a dream.

"SANSA!" shrieked her mother.

Sansa only laughed again, because why not? The tears flowing down her cheeks in a steady trickle. She kissed him, on the mouth, on the cheeks, on his forehead, on his nose, on his neck, any skin she can reach. Because Jon is here and we are all here.

"Jon. JON! YOU IDIOT! " she screamed in righteous joy and marvel because she had watched him fall, but all of that is behind them. She has been granted heaven, and nothing matters anymore, "Look at us, home, again!"

The boy, oh the beautiful boy, just struggled with her weight, lifting her awkwardly by her thin thighs. She can only press herself closer, kiss after kiss on his brow, on his chin in her joy.

"S-s-sansa?" he asked, confused, and when she looked into his grey eyes…

She does not see what she expected. She saw nothing of what should be in those much too innocent grey eyes. Not the same warmth that she had gorged herself on after years of coldness, hate, lust, and dismissal. Not the small worship he gave to her for coming back to him, to be the first of their siblings to reach him after years apart. Not the confidence of the man dead and risen again, not, her King.

She blinked, the joy in her chest deflating just slightly, just enough for Sansa to pull slightly back.

"Snow, you put my daughter down right now!" and that is her lady mother, fierce, cold and disdainful.

Panic clawed at Sansa. She locked her ankles around Jon's waist, jumping to wind her arms around his hilariously scrawny neck, tighter, panic giving her strength. He gives a frightful wheeze, but Sansa can only hold on tighter. Because this is Jon.

"NO!" she howled like the wolf she is. She bares her teeth and clings as her mother pulled on her arm, nearly sending them off balance. But Sansa cannot let go. She will not, "You can't take him away from me! I watched him fall- I watched him die. I watched him be taken from me like everyone else. Give me this."

"Sansa, you had a nightmare-" her father, her father pleads, and she stared at him, looked at him truly.

For he looked frightfully young. Barely two decades older than her age. His eyes are wide and staring at her in shock, in fear so potent she can feel it in her bones. His face is pale, his hands are reaching.

Sansa blinked again. Clung harder to her King.

"No," she whispered back, tears falling down her cheeks, she does not think they will ever stop, not here in this beautiful confusing place, "No, father. You don't understand. This is the dream. My heaven. My family whole, their innocence returned. My blissful Summer days after my haunting Autumn and the dreadful Winter come to kill us all."

Her father stared at her, brows furrowed. Dark grey eyes, stern, so familiar yet not, look at her. They are Arya's eyes, Sansa realizes. Not, Jon's, his are a shade lighter, and Sansa cannot fathom why she never realized her sister had their father's eyes. The man is looking at her with clear fear, and Sansa sets her jaw automatically. For when men and women look at the Queen in the North, they will not see weakness, nor will they see helplessness.

"Jon, son, put her down," said the man.

She growled, locking her ankles tighter. Jon, Jon gave a slight wince of discomfort, but she cannot help but cling. Please, please let this be real and mine again.

"Has she gone mad?" and that's Arya, small, blinking at her with that curiosity that always had Sansa frowning and irritated, but she found to be glorious now. And Sansa cannot see anything of Invisible Wolf in her sister, as she blinked up at her and Jon, grey eyes wide and slightly afraid, "Did Sansa hit her head?"

"Father, what is going on?" Robb said, softly, frightened and wide-eyed as he came up behind her father's shoulder, the Young Wolf, she remembered, staring, "Should I fetch the Maester?"

She stared back, thighs clenched around Jon, and she realized her breath has gotten fast again, and she wondered what this really is… I don't care. I don't care what this is, this is all I ever wanted in so long.

"Sansa, sweetling," Her mother pleaded, hands reaching out, face wild with fear, not with the eerie stillness of death and rotting flesh, an apparition that had come to them seeking justice and revenge, Sansa had burned her herself in order to lay her Lady Mother to rest, "Let the boy go-"

"What in the bleeding seven hells is all this racket!?"

Sansa gasped at the sight of Theon Greyjoy, whole, handsome but so very young came stumbling into the hallway.

He paused, no doubt at the odd sight of most of the Stark family disheveled and in their sleeping shifts, in the position of her with Jon. The boy in front of her is not the broken wreck of a creature with no semblance of self or dignity. Not the half-broken man coming back to himself in small bursts, not the brave thing that had flung himself off the walls of Winterfell with determination and self-loathing and regret with her in order to save her.

She stared. And stared.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Stark, Lord Stark," he stutters, realizing that they are present, blanching slightly.

A hand, Sansa's hand, reaches, faintly in his direction. A silent plea, that Theon simply stares at, uncomprehending.

"Theon," her voice is soft and is brimming with her joy.

"Sansa has gone mad!" Arya pipped up, again, going over to tug impatiently at Theon's sleeve.

Unbidden, a peal of delighted laughter leaves her, for the Invisible Wolf had been quiet and calculating. Not outspoken and blurting. Her laughter, so queerly high, rings out to uneased silence of her family around her.

"Sansa, if you… If you are unwilling to part from Jon?" started her father, at her sharp nod, he continued, "Than will you both come to my solar? Sansa… You can further explain-"

"Only Mother and you and Jon?" she whispered, and its because if she spoke any louder she feared she will only laugh or cry. I can barely do more than that at the moment.

Her heart, she realized, is beating, rapidly as her mother ushered everyone to bed or to go dress. Quietly, Sansa still in Jon's arms, is ushered towards the familiar path of the Queen of Winterfell's solar. The hallways are familiar, yet not. For it is the Winterfell she had known before- the one she still had dreams of- the one before King Robert had come calling for her father's service as his Hand. It is ancient and hallowed, whole and untouched by fire. Or forever stained with the blood of those foolish enough to arouse Ramsey's attention. It is clean, dark stone adorned by unbroken windows, old wall hangings destroyed in Theon's foolish play of manhood line the walls. In walking alone, Sansa had vaguely noticed this. In walking in Jon's arms, Sansa felt a blow at each familiar sight. Her eyes roam, flitting between the sights she longed for, and the faces of her young King, her forgotten father, and the whole face of her mother. Her mother followed behind them, face carved into worry and dislike as Sansa clung. Her footsteps echo the beat of Sansa's heart. Quick and hurried.

In the room, Sansa realized she cannot cling to Jon forever, much as she wanted to. The boy had struggled with her weight, and his face was red with effort and so utterly confused. What a fool I'd been to him. How did I ever look away from him? She slipped down him, realizing with a jolt that he is still so much taller than her, more than two heads, and she frowned as she missed the fact that her head had reached his chin, within distance to always reach down and press a kiss to her temple. Now, he would have to bend down to kiss her brow as was his habit. Eyes, grey, innocent and worried, so utterly bewildered, staring at her. Searching for something in her features she cannot name.

Summer boy. I can see the summer snow and gentleness of innocence within those grey eyes.

She blinked, slowly, before she frowned.

"Jon," she said, firmly, and her heart clenched at the fact that he flinches, "I love you, dearly."

Wild, confused eyes stare at her with hunger and hope. She reached, hand tangling with his, calloused and rough and already dwarfing her hand.

"I- I love you as well Sansa," his voice is hesitant but warm.

And despite the indifference she had always shown him, that is true. He loves her back. Sansa smiles, wide, and reached on her tiptoes to kiss both cheeks before she turned to her father. He was sitting in her chair. No, not my chair. He is the lord. This is the Lord's solar. Not the Queen in the North' is not my place to dwell in now. Her mother, frowning, eyes narrowed at the display, no doubt, stared at her with disbelief. Both of her parents are.

Her paragons and invincible figures of her Summer days. Dead and mutilated in her horror-filled Autumn. Grief for them rose in her, and she wondered, with dawning realization if this is no dream.

They do not remember. In my heaven, they would remember so they could forgive a Summer Child's foolish mistakes.

"Sansa," began her father, the Quiet Wolf, she thinks, remembering his moniker distinctly, his voice steady, deep and his face still, "Will you please tell us what has caused you to behave… To behave so strangely?"

"Father, Mother… What year is it?" she asked instead of answering. Because I must know.

Her parents exchanged glances, brows furrowed. Her father turns to her, and he frowns.

"The year is 295," he answered, slowly, voice calm and soothing.

Sansa gave a bark of laughter, hand coming to her lips in surprise. Then, she wobbled to a nearby chair, dragging Jon with her, and he stood awkwardly next to her. She stared at their intertwined hands. At the uncalloused and pale, useless hands that only know how to sew. And the slightly tanner hands that are already strong and ready to fight.

I… This is not a dream.

She breathed, deeply, feeling the air in her lungs and in her chest, her rapidly beating heart. She closes her eyes. Relished the feel of Jon's hand in her's.

Life. Not green wildfire. I  am alive. Everyone… Is alive. Three years before everything was lost.

"Father… Mother… Jon. I closed my eyes in the year 305 in a fire of my own making," she grinned, savagely, not a sweet girl of ten name days, not a child of Summer, but rather the Queen in the North, The Red Wolf, as she opened her eyes. She who had been broken down by cruel Winds of Autumn and reforged in the Ice of Winter,

"The North Remembers."

Chapter Text

Wind

"Yes, you can lose somebody overnight, yes, your whole life can be turned upside down. Life is short. It can come and go like a feather in the wind,"

Shania Twain.

Eddard Stark can only stare.

It is not often that he is taken aback, not truly. A by-product of his naturally reserved nature, of horrors, early suffered, Ned was not one to be stunned. How can something shake me when I have already lost so much, so early? He prided himself on his composure, for the most part. On his ability to take the information given to him, no matter how shocking, and keep his reaction close. It had served him well since he had ascended into his role as the Lord of the North.

But now, for the first time in a long time, he is taken aback.

And he can only stare at Sansa, mouth slightly open in his surprise.

"The North Remembers."

It takes him a moment to understand the words that left his daughter's lips. The North Remembers? It takes yet another to be taken aback by the way she said it. For it is said fiercely. Passionately and with a surety that sounded out of place from his eldest girl. She was prone to sweet fantasy, to be highly excitable, but Sansa was never one to speak in such a manner. She spoke quickly and high, she spoke adamantly and with a giggle on her lips, but she never spoke like this. With her Tully eyes narrowed and brimming with something he found familiar, but could not name in her. Her small teeth were bared in a smile that was more of a snarl, fitting for any Stark, perhaps, but never for his little Sansa. Sansa was his most innocent child. With her dreams of Summer filled days South, with a handsome husband and a thousand babes at her feet. She believed in Knights, and in Songs, with all the wisdom of her age, with an innocent adoration that he found it hard to begrudge her of them. How can I break such innocence, how can I expose her to the cruelty I know she will see with time? But not for a while yet, not while I live, not while she is with me.

"The North Remembers," she repeats again, voice brimming with emotion. These words sounded foreign in her voice, does not sound like his Southern child, the clearest reflection of her proud Tully mother. The North Remembers... But what does it remember? How can she say she is from the future? 'I closed my eyes in the year 305 in a fire...' Prone to fantasy as she is, that is not something Sansa would say.

Sansa was always the most foreign to him, he can admit. He did not love her any less than any of his other children. But she was the hardest for him to connect with, the hardest to interact with as a result. Her loves and pastimes were things he had little experience in, little patience for. And in return, his eldest girl was the most uninterested in the land that had borne her, the one most likely to leave the North. And much as it pained him to think, the one least interested in him. Oh, she asked for attention, for praise in her pursuits, but she did not relish it from him, not truly. Her gaze more often than not drifted to Cat, to her Septa, to the other gentle girls that sat in her circle. With many young children to care for, he admitted that Sansa tended to not hold much of his attention in return. His gaze drifted to young Robb and morose Jon, to try and instill responsibility to his eldest boys. It went to sensitive Bran and his reckless climbing, and to fierce Arya and her mischief and her frustration of failing the pursuits his wife implored her to learn. Her wild defiance like that of another beloved girl, with her grey eyes and brown hair. It looked to little Rickon, just beginning to form his own self. It moved to posturing Theon, seeing his first forays into manhood, wondering how he had held him since boyhood...

It did not often go to the quiet, dutiful child that Sansa was.

Despite this divide, Ned loved his most delicate child. And he knew her, as well as a father knew any of their children. Knew her enough to know when joy lit her eyes when frustration curled on her lips. When tears filled her eyes when she was ready to wail if her siblings pushed her too far. She was his most expressive child, the first one to laugh her joy and cry her sorrows. Now, something was strange in her face.

Her expression was not one he knew Sansa to have.

She was a stranger in front of him, with that expression.

Her face is as it always is a miniature of Cat, touched with Northern features of his own house; red-haired, long and if perhaps in disarray as he had not seen it in many years, skin pale as snow, round with youth and beauty. But there is that fierce curl to her mouth, pearly teeth exposed over dry lips, a furrow to her brows. And her back- her back is straight, not the attempt of a child in perfect posture or practice of a Lady, but in confidence, in defiance over something he cannot name. And her eyes. Her lovely Tully eyes, framed with thick copper lashes... Her eyes. Her eyes, blue and normally as soft as Summer skies, are hard, gleaming with darkness. A darkness... A darkness that I've sometimes see in the eyes of men that have seen war.

In his own eyes when he looks into a mirror.

They are a stark contrast to Jon's eyes -promise me, Ned- wide, round with youth and though slightly shadowed, are not the coldness and grief and pain of someone who has seen too much. But that is not Sansa. That is not his daughter. But he cannot deny that is what is looking at him from his daughter's eyes.

She has just had a nightmare, he tells himself, as he takes in that queer expression his daughter holds. His babe has had a nightmare so dark it has frightened her in a way she has never been before. She has had a nightmare. But her eyes, her eyes tell a different story then his mind can tell him. This is beyond a bad dream, something whispers to him. Something cool pools down his spine, unease, and fear for his daughter starts to press into his heart. Fear for things he cannot understand start to press into his mind.

Ned Stark was not one to believe in fantasy, in the unnatural. There is enough horror in the world to see creatures in the dark. But in Sansa, I can almost-

"Sansa," and that is Cat, mouth agape, eyes wide.

But Sansa is not finished. She raises her hand, a still, graceful gesture of command. Automatically, no matter how comical it may seem coming from a girl of ten name days, and Cat stops speaking. More stunned than anything at the gesture, he is sure but stunned enough to stare at Sansa with wide, shocked eyes. Sansa lowered her hand, a measured breath escaping her. She then stands, slowly, measuredly in a graceful movement. It should have been comical, her standing in her mused sleeping shift, with dirt and tares lingering in the pale linen where she had slid against the polished stone in her mad dash across the family wing of Winterfell. She should have looked like a babe mimicking her mother, with the way she moves.

But there is true, soft beauty in the motion. In the way her legs flex, the way her chin moves, parallel to the ground the entire time. It is strange, for Ned to see, so used to such movements being disrupted in Sansa, her chin wobbling in her excitement, her back slouching in fatigue for holding itself for too long. She moves perfectly, however, easily, with not a flaw that one so young should have. Even her expression shifts from the almost savage happiness to that of serenity. Poised. Lips relaxed, brow soft.

She does not let go of Jon's hand, even as she guides him into her vacant chair. It's a tender gesture, one that Sansa has stopped displaying with any of her siblings, so intent on decorum and proper behavior of a Lady. Her hand lingers on Jon's arm, and Jon is so confused at the attachment from his most distant sister, as is Ned. He is not blind at the stilted indifference she had begun to display towards Jon for the last few years, approved by his wife, nor the hurt in Jon's gaze as he looked after her. Her eyes linger on his face, even as she untangles her hand from his. Those blue eyes, as crisp as frost, follow the planes of his face. The dip of his furrowed brow, the confusion lingering in his grey eyes. The softness of his cheeks still rounded by youth, something Ned thinks disguises his father's high cheekbones less and less every year. Sansa's hand lifts up, small fingertips grazing across high cheekbones, cupping the side of his face slightly. Cat, seemingly unconsciously, makes a stilted noise of protest.

Sansa's expression stays clear of any real emotion, but something in her eyes shifts, as they flicker to Cat. Her small hand falls, but only after she gives Jon's cheek a soft squeeze. And it lands firmly on to his bare shoulder. Jon is visibly startled by the gesture, eyes locking onto it, but he makes no move to remove her hand. Sansa turns to Ned, her lips parting slightly in what seems to be an inaudible gasp. They close, softly. A polite, easy face looks at Ned.

"Father, Mother, Jon," Sansa said. Her voice seems to relish their names, seemingly savoring them on her tongue. Dips and moves in a cadence that is a gentle glee. She almost sings the names, pronouncing each syllable with a reverence that has him blinking, "Please, I am afraid I have come to you from an impossible place."

"Sansa... what was it that you said, that you come from the year 305?"

Ned's question lingers in the air. Impossible, madness, to claim such a thing. But he knew he had not misheard Sansa. My daughter claims to have come from ten years in the future. He tries not to let his thoughts move to the fact that she nods, firm. Her eyes blaze with more emotion, desperation, and what he thinks is hope as she looks at him. Her hand on Jon's shoulder, trembles, and squeezes so hard that his son flinches. At the movement, Sansa relaxes her grip. Drops her hand completely, and lets them fall primly in front of her in a perfect clasp. Jon's grey eyes follow the path of her hand, and his hand half lifts to reach for Sansa. Sansa steps forward, closer to Ned, not noticing Jon's lingering hand that falls to his lap.

"I beg for you to believe me. I… I have lived for the next ten years already. I have… I have been graced. By the gods or something else, I cannot say. But I have lived until my twentieth name day, and I died… Only to awaken in my old bed today. I have come back."

Tears linger on copper lashes, but Sansa blinked them away. Perhaps she did hit her head. I cannot think of a nightmare that claims the life of ten years.

"Sansa, how can we believe you?" he says, quietly. He is tempted to dismiss her. To call for Maester Luwin.

But something stops him nonetheless. Something tells him to wait. Listen. So Ned waits.

The girl's eyes dart to Jon before she looks back to Ned. Her expression does not shift, does not change, not as far as he can see. But he can almost see a flicker of emotion in her large eyes. It is unsettling, to suddenly see Sansa stoic, and so composed, especially when she had been so emotional before.

"Father. I know things. Things about both of you that I the child that went to bed last night did not know."

Her eyes flicker to Jon once again. More cold seeps into his spine, and he straightens sharply.

'Promise me, Ned.'

"Oh," and Cat speaks, soft and worried, "Sansa what could you possibly-"

"I know who Jon's mother is."

No. Let it all be a lie. Let it all be that Sansa simply has had a bad dream.

His wife straightens, as does Jon, eyes wide as his wife's eyes narrow. Sansa only looks at him, steadily, surely. Her expression, serene, shifts, falls softly. Sorrowful, a painful thing to see in a child that young, especially because to him it does not look right on the Summer child he knew. This was not the sorrow of a ruined dress, or of excluded from her siblings' rougher playing. It was a deeper sorrow, darker, unbefitting of his innocent daughter.

"Father," she says, and her voice softens, gentles in a soft reverent tone that he has only heard her use to speak of knights and songs, "You promised to protect her son when she laid dying. You swore to her because you loved her so much, that you have done what no one thought you can ever do. You lied."

She knew.

Impossible. No one can know, no one-

"Promise me, Ned," she whispered, his daughter, and it was an echo of his little sister.

An impossible echo, words she could not possibly know. She even pitched it as Lyanna had, desperate, pained as if she was gasping for her laugh breath. Blood and blue roses. Blood red hair and blue eyes stare at him, eyes of his eldest daughter, they are not innocent. They are worn and used, so impossible old. He stands, suddenly, turning violently around, tears stinging in his eyes. Cat only falls limp, against his desk, as a high keening sound of grief escapes him. Tears come to his eyes.

"You cannot know this," he gasps, bracing himself against the mantle of the fireplace. Stares into the ashes of the grate, so early that he had yet to make a fire...

An ill-thought tourney. A young woman who was so sure the future given to her would be horrible... Stubborn pride and readiness to right the wrongs of the world no matter how reckless. A forgiving, coveting, stupidly enamored Prince. A hopeful sister who saw escape and love like a song.

"No. No, I cannot. Unless what I have said is true. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, dead in the year 305, revived in my body in this year of 295. I have knowledge of things the Sansa of your yesterday could not possibly know... Things that until today only you, Father, and Lord Howland Reed knew. Please, father, believe me."

He turns again, chest heaving, as he stares at his daughter. He cannot say a word. He is stunned at the fact that she knew of Howland, he is stunned by the steadiness of her gaze.

"Sansa… I- Say it," and Cat hisses, her voice hoarse fierce, "Tell me that woman's name."

Sansa looks at him, brows furrowed before she looks to Jon. She touches the boy's face. Gentle, small digits caress a soft gesture. She reaches downward and clasped his hand again. Squeezed it softly, gently in a loving way.

"Only if Jon wishes for you to know, Mother," Sansa replies, calmly.

"Do not tell him!" he pleads her begs his eldest daughter because he promised. And he will not risk anyone else's life, nevermind that his eldest daughter seems to know the darkest, deepest secret in him, "No one can know Sansa-"

Hard eyes flash, and she moves away from Jon, storming to Ned, that small, lithe child of ten name days, holding herself tall and she pushes him, as hard as she seemingly can. It is not a hard push, as she is such a thin, reedy child, but the action stuns him all the same, sends him tumbling to the ground.

"You died without telling him," she hisses, and those hard Tully eyes gleam with rage and sorrow as she looms over him, "You died without telling him or anyone. You died at the hands of a mad boy in front of me. I saw your head roll. I saw them force it upon a pike, as that mad boy cackled and jeered and made me watch. Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf, you cannot leave Jon to not know the truth of himself. Of his parents because you have done it before and no good came of it. He ran off to the Wall and left his family. The lone wolf dies."

"Sansa have you completely lost your mind?!" screams Cat, straightening from the desk.

His eldest daughter turns, a queenly grace he realizes, dazed, as she looks at him. Lips pull back, gleam white and for a moment he swears his most graceful child snarls like the direwolf upon their sigil, even more fiercely than before. She is not even near her mother's height, but she seems to stand taller nonetheless, staring her down.

"Catelyn Stark of House Tully. You doomed us all. With your brashness and impulse, you threw the Kingdom into a civil war that ravaged the lands. And all because you trusted the wrong man… That man took me. Molded me. I thought he was saving me, helping me escape from being a hostage. But he was just another jailer. Who touched me, kissed me, and would have raped me if it was not better for himself to sell me off to a man who did. Who destroyed me and made me small and into pieces."

"Sansa," whispers Jon, pale, eyes wide, and the girl stills, wide-eyed as she stares at the boy.

"Jon, oh Jon, I'm so sorry," she whispers, and her face crumples, her eyes, already red-rimmed, shine with tears, "You are innocent and young. I should not speak of this in front of you."

She breathes, deeply, dabbing at her eyes with hurried fingertips, before she looks at Ned. She holds out a hand.

"Father."

He stares at her and takes her small hand. Smooth, soft, and uncalloused. She heaves him up with a lot of effort, even as he does the most work.

"Sansa… Say the name," he whispers, soft, hesitant, but as he looks at that small face, he realizes that what she says could… Could be true, "Say her name and I will believe you. In everything."

If she could just say the name then he would know for sure. She breathes, deeply, chest still heaving, as is his. She squeezes his hand, looking up at him. Tully eyes soften. The hardened face of someone who has lead others relax, and it turns into a mummers show of youth and the daughter that had gone to bed the night before. She looks at Jon. Who eye's flicker to Cat before he gives a hesitant nod.

"Lyanna," she says, clearly, and something in Ned howls, as she turns back to his nephew by blood, "Jon. Your mother was my Aunt, Princess Lyanna Stark who married Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in a handfasting ceremony, a second wife to the Prince. They… Loved each other. So much. And it cost them everything. As she laid dying, your mother made her brother swear to protect her son, Aegon Targaryen at all costs from Robert Baratheon. Father swore it. He took you as his own, called you Jon Snow to protect you from the fury of a man that smiled at the death of your half-siblings."

Jon falls back, into the chair. He goes paler still. And Cat. Oh his Cat, stares at him, mouth open.

"Ned," she whispers, voice hoarse.

Her eyes are wide, with the implications. At the realization that the shadow woman she has hated for so long is not a woman, he had been so in love with. He had loved her- loved her dearly, and it had been that love and the love for his wife that had kept his silence.

"I did not know you," he tells her, truthfully, "When I came back with Jon. All I knew was that you were meant for Brandon. And when I grew to love you, I could not doom you with the knowledge if it ever came to light. I was content with being branded a traitor if only you didn't fall with me."

Tears fall from his wife's eyes.

"But… I would have kept the secret Ned, you have bid me to be cruel and hate a child so dishonorably because of your 'protection'! Family, duty, honor!"

"Cat… Cat I am so sorry. Your disdain was his armor. His shield. I promised my sister on her deathbed to protect him at all costs."

"From Robert! Not from me!"

"Enough," and that is Sansa, sharp, and though her voice is high with youth, something in it makes them stop.

She walks, natural as can be, to Ned's chair. She sits and looks at all three of them. Cat and Ned, with their heaving chests and red faces, to Jon, who, Ned realizes with a start is wide-eyed and completely too quiet.

"Sit. Now."

They sit, Cat makes sure to be as far away from Ned as she can. Sansa shifts and he realizes that she looks all too comfortable at the head of the table of the Solar of Winterfell. Coldness seeps in his spine at the implications, because Robb, Bran, and even little Rickon are in front of her in the line of succession.

"I am sorry," she began, quietly, but there is command, grace, and authority in her voice, "I have come to you all from horrible times. I have taken your Summer life and blew it away like sand in the wind. For nearly all of my adult life I have lived in harrowing times, and I died because of it."

She looks at them, eyes focused, fierce.

"We all made mistakes. All of us. Father, Mother, Jon, and the Stark family suffered because of it. The pack scattered. And we all died for it," she started, voice high, still so impossibly sweet in her youth, but harder, darker in sorrow and what Ned realizes is true unrelenting grief.

Tears fall again, from her eyes, as she speaks in that soft, but firm voice.

"You, father, you were killed, the Quiet Wolf silenced. The Seven Kingdoms flew into civil war over your death, and the North rallied for independence for your unjust execution. Mother you- were killed. And Robb died with you, the Young Wolf, in his prime, first King of the North in centuries cut down by destroyed Guest Rights… Bran, Bran became something so… Other. Inhuman with his connections to the Old Gods. Lost to us, he became not a Wolf, but something else, the Three Eyed-Raven… Was not Bran anymore. Arya… Arya disappeared, into nothing, and came back harder, colder, an assassin trained in the way of death, the Invisible Wolf. Rickon, the little Wild Wolf died beyond the Wall. And Jon."

She looks directly at Jon, mouth softening, eyes as well. Summer skies return to Tully blue.

"You... You were the second King of the North. The Wolf Risen again. I was a prisoner for years and was used so horribly before I broke free and came back to you. And you… You helped me. Gave me the title of Queen and we took back the lost Winterfell, I am the Red Wolf because of you, I would become Queen of the North, under High King Aegon and High Queen Daenerys."

Ned's worst fears are confirmed, and he feels disbelief at the fate of his children and wife. Cat, Robb, and Rickon dead, Bran and Arya lost. And Sansa, he could tell, was changed beyond anything. A Queen looks at him from behind a child's face, and it sends shivers down Ned's spine.

"How… How did it all end?" he whispers, and he is the only one who seems to be able to speak, "If you were Queen, how did you die?"

Sansa looked to him.

"Winter came. The Others, they came back after eight thousand years. Jon died fighting them. Arya and I- Arya and I, well, we… We burned. We took wildfire and burned the last of the Northern survivors who could not fight as our army came back to us as Wrights or fleeing them. I took Fire over the death of Ice."

"Madness," whispers Cat, desperate, she turns to Ned, "My love, please, please tell me you cannot believe her. Please."

He looks to Sansa, Queen of the North, Red Wolf, sitting so regal, but so impossibly small in her young body.

"Cat. She knew of Lyanna. And only two people in this world knew of it until today."

"Ned, please-"

"Mother… Petyr Baelish of the Fingers. He fought Brandon Stark for you. And the first Wild Wolf nearly killed him if not for you asking him to spare Petyr."

Cat stares, as that was something that was not common knowledge, seven hells, Ned had not known until Sansa had been born.

"You used to go swimming, naked, with Aunt Lysa," a distinct look comes to his daughter's eyes, "It was your secret, a pack between sisters to be scandalous and alone. But Petyr was always watching, always looking to you."

Cat flushes, then she blanches.

"What? How do you know that? How?"

"Petyr told me. He was quite drunk. He told me how he always wished you had asked him instead before he begged me to swim with him."

Understanding dawned on him, as it did to Cat.

"He… He's the man I trusted who caused my…Death? The man who wanted to rape you? Petyr, little Petyr?!"

A grim smile, that darkness he had seen comes back in full force.

"Oh, mother, he did not want to rape me. He has always wanted you. When you… Died, I was all that was left. We look so much alike, after all."

Silence came to them, and Sansa looked to Jon, her face softening.

"Jon," she says, and the boy jerks, "Go. You have learned much. Too much, in such a short time… And… Promise me, you will tell no one of what was spoken today."

His son, for he is his son, looks at his eldest daughter, dazed.

"But Robb-"

"Promise me, Jon. Robb will know in due time, he is the heir of Winterfell. But for now, it is between us three."

Ned winces.

"I-I- promise, Sansa."

Sansa smiles, sadly.

"Go."

The boy blanches again, before he nods, gives Ned one last look before he flees. Ned looks at Sansa, and she sighs.

"I have burdened him with too much. He is no longer my King," she whispers, looking to her hands in a nervous gesture that Ned recognized.

Some of my daughter remained, somewhere beneath this Queen, this hard woman is the girl that went to bed last night. I have not lost my Sansa. She has only come home older, wiser... And to save us.

Relief, beyond belief, hits him, despite all the implications of everything that has come to him this morning.

"Sansa… You needed him," says Cat and her voice is distant, in shock, "He… He saved you?"

Sansa looks up at his wife.

"Oh mother, he didn't just save me. He gave me everything when I thought I would never have anything again. He took this broken thing, piece by piece, and raised her up to be a queen, joint Queen of the North until he became High King with his Aunt. But… Jon is not that man. Not my King. And if I have anything to say of it, he will never become the man that gave me my crown ever. Not as I draw breath."

Ned sucked in a breath.

"What do you mean?"

Sansa smiles, savage, and knowing.

"Winter is Coming, father, and this time, this time the Starks will rise together instead of scattering upon the wind. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the Lone Wolf dies, but the Pack survives."

Ned looks at her, at his daughter, changed overnight, at those haunting Tully eyes that of a queen behind that young face. Those words… The words that were impossible for her to know.

The Summer child who loved songs and knights is gone. But… But she is still my Sansa.

"What must we do?"

Chapter Text

Snow

"You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow,"

Amy Lowell.

Jon Snow knows nothing.

That is the only truth that is real to him now.

In the morning, when he had woken to the commotion outside his small room, he had not expected his life to be completely uprooted. He had rushed out, not bothering to grab a shirt, rushing to reach the startled shouts and pleas outside his room at such early an hour. Life at Winterfell was peaceful, and it was rare for Jon to hear so much distress. He had longed to have a sword with him, something more than a simple knife as he had left his room, but he had resolved to do what he could to help.

He had expected an intruder, or perhaps a servant caught stealing, or a guard chasing out some sort of wild animal.

He had not expected his Father and Lady Stark in their sleeping shifts, shouting, running about the family wing in a panic, his brothers and sister Arya lingering by their rooms' doors with confused expressions. He had never seen the Lady of Winterfell in anything less than her full dress, pressed and clean and perfect, let alone in her sleeping attire. He froze at the end of the hallway, eyes wide at the sight of his family in obvious distress, in panic...

With Sansa of all people in the middle of it.

Her hair had been wild and unbound from her usual careful and strange arrangements, unbrushed for the first time in a very long time. It had struck him as queer, to see her hair so messy, knotted, and a riot about her face. Even more unsettling than to see Lady Stark, his most proper sister was in her own sleeping shift. Since she had been five namedays, he had never seen Sansa in anything so rumpled, stiff with what he could guess was dried sweat and covered in small rips and dirt on one side. She looked a mess, she looked half-wild.

But it had been her face that unsettled him the most. Flushed with exertion, tear-filled eyes so wide she looked manic. Her small face had changed when she had seen him, blossomed into the sweetest, surest smile had had ever seen in his sister, let alone directed towards him.

Her calling his name in such a way had been shocking. So lovingly, happily, and her tears finally spilling over her full cheeks. He had barely registered his shock as she had charged him.

Her jumping on him had been unthinkable, her kissing him everywhere she could reach had been confusing, and her joy of seeing him had been strange, at the least. Sansa Stark was his sister, but after a certain point, she was also a lady, and in being a lady, she had decided to follow in her Mother's footsteps. That meant that she had little time and affection for her bastard brother. She was never unkind, as she was to Arya, but she was so distant that it did not matter. When she spoke to him, it was with politeness, it was with a courtesy. But they might as well be strangers, for all her politeness matter. Jon could not even recall the last time they had spoken when she had reached for him calling his name.

And she had clung to him then. Without pause for etiquette, without censure of her Mother's reaction. With the fierceness of little Arya. Sansa had held him with the surety and clear affection of Robb. With desperation that he had never witnessed in anyone, at least not directed to him.

Her story, in the Lord of Winterfell's solar, had been fantastical, horrifying, and completely impossible.

Returning from the future. Dying by her own hand- Being ra- Knowing who his mother was... And subsequently my true Father. All his life, he had the certainty of being a bastard. He had endured the scorn of his father's wife. The scorn of having to walk a step behind his brother Robb, of watching his little sister Sansa drift away from him for the sake of appearances as she understood what the word meant. Of watching Theon sending him looks of superiority. Now, as he sits before the tomb of Lyanna Stark, he knew nothing he had ever known was true. His mother. Princess. Married willingly to Prince Rhaegar, the man she loved. Even history is wrong, a willing captive. A secret marriage went horribly wrong...

The Crypt of Winterfell is a quiet, cool place, hallow, and his breathing, the only noise he hears, echoes loudly against the vaulted ceiling, against the faraway stone. He wonders why Arya loves to play here, amongst the old Kings of the North, stone faces pale, watching, direwolves curled at their feet in an awareness. He cannot see the appeal. The faces of the Lords and Kings of the North are snarling, aggressive, and unwelcoming. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him, those icy eyes of Kings past, his ancestors placing judgment on the present. He felt uneasy... Unwanted here. Perhaps it is because he is a dragon, not a wolf, that they stare so disapprovingly, so unhappily. Torrhen Stark may have taken the knee to Dragons and he was of that family, but before him were the Kings that had fought fiercely against everything that had come for them.

The Kings and Lords of the First Men and the Andals.

He feels small, amongst Lords, Kings, and ghosts. It is not as warm, here, in this enormous, cavernous place as it is in the Keep proper, but warm enough that his breath wasn't visible. Beyond that he is a child of the North, it would have to severally cold for it to bother him terribly. This was nothing. He huddles in his cloak, regretting the fact that he had not bothered to dress beyond his cloak and boots, not even bothering with a tunic nor simple shirt. It wasn't terribly cold nor freezing, but he still felt a coolness along his skin, huddled in his cloak, wrapping it tightly around him.

Before, he never spent much time in this place, for he had no reason to, never having known any of the people his fath- Uncle had buried here. He had mourned without knowing, his Uncle, Grandfather, what he thought to be his Aunt certainly, but... Not keenly. Not with knowledge and true grief. They were memories of his fath- Uncle. Distant, sweet things that sometimes seemed to weigh the Lord of Winterfell down. The young woman's grave in front of him is a pretty, fine thing. Finely made. Lovingly made. Strange, as she is one of the few female statues, a strange thing for his fath- Uncle, to have done for his sister. A gesture usually only made for Kings and the Lords of the past. But it was a gesture of true love, perhaps a brief, cryptic nod of what she had been before she had died in the Tower of Joy. A Princess of the entire Seven Kingdom, perhaps even Queen had she and the Rhaegar had lived.

He looks up at that carved woman, beautiful and still, but inhuman grace. If he were to see the women carved in stone before him, he would not be able to recognize her. For this is a pale imitation of her. And she looked so young, frightfully young amongst the bearded faces of Lords and Kings. She was only four name days older than him. Barely a woman, if that, old enough to have him and die because of it, but not much older. He will never know her face, nor his true father's. That hurts more than anything, the knowledge that Eddard Stark is not his father.

That his entire life is a mummer's farce.

He had not been entirely content with his life as the Snow of Winterfell, the one blight in Eddard Stark's honor. But he would do anything to remove the knowledge from his mind. To be that bastard again, for it made him insignificant, an unimportant note of a Great House. But he was the son of a prince, the grandson of a King, the Mad King's grandson. His mere existence called Eddard Stark a traitor, endangered his family to be labeled the same. And the rest! Madness is what he can think to rationally explain Sansa's wild tale of being of the future. But… But Sansa had never looked at him like that, looked at him at all once she understood the meaning of the name Snow, of the word bastard. Never looked at him with so much esteem and love, since she had been but a babe toddling after him and Robb and Theon.

He looks at the still face of his mother dead, because of him, due to his birth. And wonders if Lord Stark, as his Uncle, protected him for his own sake, not just for the promise he said to his late… Mother. If he was worth any of this.

Can I dream of the Wall with the knowledge of who my mother and father are? With… What Sansa said came of me leaving?

"I had a feeling… That you would be here," says a soft, voice, and he turns, rapidly.

Sansa.

The Little Lady of Winterfell, the most Southern in attitude of all the Stark children. She was… Different, it was the best way to describe it. She was looking at him with warm, loving eyes when before they had been narrowed with childish unease and dislike. She is now dressed, in a dark, drab dress that does not match her recent wardrobe of silks and lush fur that she had demanded a few name days past. It fits her very illy, hanging too short, just to her upper shins, and too taunt across her broadening hips and shoulders. But she looked comfortable, despite this, with a great fur cloak -her father's- draped across her shoulders, grey and dwarfing her ridiculously. Her hair, a tumble of red fire, is bound in the simplest braid he has seen in a long time, only one, draped across her shoulders. A spark of color, amongst the dark. She smiles and holds out food, a tray, piping hot soup, and what looks like hot cider, bread, and, he sees with humor, lemon cakes and it makes his stomach growl.

"I-"

"I came here often, after… He told me the truth," she says coming to sit next to him. She cares not of dirt or dust upon the floor, pays no mind to it at all as she leans against him, pushing the tray into his lap. The Sansa he knew would wrinkle her small nose, and whine about what the dirt would do to her dress, and how a Lady does not sit on the ground, but this Sansa is not moved or is uncaring of it. She is also a warm against him, firm and unbothered in the gesture of affection, just like Arya would be, "For it was proof of what I had come to learned. The most beautiful songs are based on horrible tragedy."

Old eyes look at him, from behind his sweet sis- cousin's face.

"Did I come? The… Other Jon?" he whispers, wondering.

Sansa nods him, smiling softly.

"When he could, he was very busy. I made flowers once, out of cloth because we could not spare space in the glass gardens after a point. Roses, out of a childhood dress of mine. He asked them to be blue..."

Her eyes drift. Far away. Unfocused and seeing something he cannot.

"Sansa, I can't be sure if I can believe you," he whispered to her, "What you spoke of- It is too incredible. Madness."

She looks at him with tired eyes.

"I understand. I must seem mad. But ask me anything, and I guaranteed to know it… The Other Jon and I spent hours just… Talking. I'm sure I know you better than you would expect from… Me."

"What do you mean about that?"

She raises a single, fine brow, and that looks much more like his most distant sister. Proud, proper, and elegant as she tried so hard to strive for. But now it seemed to come so naturally, not the fumbles of a girl of ten, charming and with merit, but ill practiced. Now they are natural and easy to her.

"I have treated you horribly, Jon. Distanced myself from you the second I learned what it meant to have someone named Snow in the family," she said voice soft and regretful, "But when I needed you most, it did not matter to you. We are brother and sister, and I will never abandon you ever again."

Jon felt the fool for the heat in his eyes, at the ardent way she was looking at him.

"But we are not. Eddard Stark isn't even my father. We're… Kin, yes, but not brother and sister."

She smiled, hand, so small, touching his cheek.

"It doesn't matter. We grew up together. Your blood is my blood. We are Starks. And as Starks, we stay together."

He felt more heat, a trail of tears slipping past his resolve.

"I- You. I am not that Jon. The Jon that you love so much," he said, desperate to understand.

"No. No… That Jon is forever lost to me. But you," her other hand raises, to his other cheek. Her hands were warm, a blaze against his skin, "But you are still my brother. The boy who snuck me lemon cakes from the kitchens at odd hours when I had nightmares, the boy that played dolls with me even as Robb laughed at you. The boy that cried when Arya was born."

"I didn't cry," he muttered, automatically.

Sansa grins.

"You cried. She was the first Stark to have grey eyes like you and father."

"You were so young when she was born-"

"I don't remember. The other Jon told me of it."

He looks at her and then sighs. He shrugs uncomfortably away from her grip, and she lets her hands drop neatly to her lap. She was touching him so much now, without hesitation or disgust at the 'living sin'.

But I suppose I'm not that. She said Rhaegar and Lyanna were married.

"Tell me something that Sansa could not possibly know?"

She looked down at her hands, wringing the fingertips together before she looked back to him.

"Eat. Drink, and I will tell you of things."

Jon looked at the trey before he picked up the spoon and slowly began to eat. The soup was good, of course, as was the cider, and the bread. She had brought him some of the nicest things served, not rare for him to eat, but the fact that she had brought him his favorite soup, one made of chicken and kernels of corn, made him wonder if she asked them to be made. Even the bread was perfectly buttered and toasted to a near char, as he liked it.

"Hmm. You sneak Arya out at night, teach her archery. You let her use your younger practice bows."

He pauses, spoon midway to his mouth. She wiggles her brow, a sly grin on her face, and gestures to the spoon. He eats.

"You could have spotted us," he said, utterly reasonable.

She looks at her hands again.

"When you were two and ten, Theon made you go to the brothel out in Wintertown."

Jon freezes. He looks to his sister, flushing bright red, all the way to the roots of his hair. His cousin only smiles, faintly.

"Of course Robb, you and Theon were kicked out for being uppity lordlings much too young to deal with whores, coin or no."

"No one knows of that."

She inclines her head.

"Are you not ashamed of me?"

Sansa blinks.

"Why would I be?"

"For going into a brothel!"

Sansa laughs.

"Once upon a time, a whore was my greatest ally," she said sadly, "I care not what people do with their lives or bodies, Jon. The finest people in the Seven Kingdoms, with the finest breeding and noble past times, have committed atrocities. While the lowest of the low did wonderful things..."

Sansa looks at him, and again, Jon is struck with how old the look in her eyes was. It was hard to see because she was so young, but something about the way those large blue eyes looked at him sent shivers of unease down his spine.

"Finish your soup at least, Jon. You haven't eaten anything all day."

He looks down at his soup, and downs it quickly, before bringing the bread up to his mouth. He chewed quietly, before he placed it down, and sipped at the hot cider, which was sweet, with extra cinnamon as he liked it. He made a show of eating his bread as well before he looked on at the two lemon cakes. He grabs one and offers it to his sister, who accepts it with a brilliant smile.

"And how did you get those?" he asks.

"The cooks always have them for me, I have found out. Of course, I nearly had them scrambling when I came into the kitchen. I haven't done that since I was very young, apparently, Gods! I'd forgotten what they tasted like. Lemons were put to better use, of course, during Winter. Excellent vitamins..."

She ate the cake slowly, seemingly savoring every little bite. It was a stark difference to Sansa he remembered, as lemon cakes were the only thing he ever saw her devour like a child, quickly, messily, and with a soft joy. He remembers when he saw the icing on her face, the jellied lemon's sugar on her lips, that the little girl that toddled behind him and Robb was still there. He blinked at the difference and frowned at his own cake before he started to eat it. He passed the cider to her, wordlessly, when she had finished the cake, and she drank, without hesitation, the girl who would so regularly wrinkle her nose when he passed her so much as napkin during meal times.

"You… You really aren't the Sansa I know."

The girl blinks before her head whipped up, and those old eyes widen.

"I-"

"You're so different."

She nods, sadly, a soft smile on her face.

"Yes. I had to be."

"Do… Do you miss being who you were? The Sansa that I knew?"

She looks at her hands.

"Yes. I wish… I wished so long to come back to who I had been before my innocence was killed from me. But I… I also appreciate what I've become."

Her eyes look far away. Distant. Still.

"Where was Robb? You said you were hostage for five years. But you said he was King in the North, surely-"

"He had a war to win, and I was just one person. One person in face of the North and the Riverlands. And then Robb was dead," her voice was flat.

"I- He should have broken my Night's Vows and gone for you!"

Sansa looks at him. Understanding dawning, she only sighs. Her face is still, even, and does not so much as twitch.

"He would've died trying. I was a hostage in King's Landing, Jon. No one could save me there."

"Why don't you blame them?!" he screamed, standing abruptly, the tray and the rest of the bowl, as well as the last of the hot cider, fell to the ground. Tears came to his eyes again, but they were fueled by anger, not affection or acceptance, "For what was done to you! You- you were r-rap-"

They fell, drop by drop, as he was unable to finish his sentence. Sansa sighed, standing calmly. Her fingers automatically dusting her ill-fitting skirt. She looked at him, face still maddening even. Why did it not crumble, as it had before in the Solar? Why did she look so composed?

"I did. Sometimes. When they were beating me for every victory that Robb won from the army of the Realm."

Jon flinched, horrified.

"When they touched me for being a pretty little thing when he forced himself into me. I hated everything and everyone for not coming for me," she said with strength, with a darkness that made Jon reel back, "I dreamed of it, of being a tragic girl in a song, rescued by a Knight, by her King brother. But life is not a Song. I saved myself, Jon. And sometimes that is the most important thing. No one came for me, at least not in time. But I saved myself."

He looks at her, at her heaving chest, at her flushed face, at the tears she holds back. Uncaring, but slightly hesitating, half expecting rejection, Jon launches himself at Sansa, bringing his arms around her. She does not hold the same hesitation and holds him back. She is so small, his sister. He can feel the delicateness of her thin limbs, of her frail shoulders, and his stomach turns at the thought of anyone touching her illy. She was always the most sensitive of all of them, crying in frustration or unease, and someone was willing to take that person and break them apart… And in a way, they already had.

"See?" she whispers, against his chest, "You are Jon, you may not be my King Jon. But you are Jon and that is more than enough for me. I love you."

More tears and he is grateful that she does not mention it, even as they drop into her red hair. Silently, Jon Snow makes a vow.

I vow that my family will survive what is to come

"I love you, too… Sansa."

Chapter Text

Summer

"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade,"

Charles Dickens.

Arya Stark thinks that her elder sister has gone mad.

In the last few moons, since she had gone screaming down the halls like a mad girl she most likely is, Arya had noticed that there had been a serious shift in Winterfell itself. Winterfell was always the same. Arya thinks it had been the same for near all the time it had been standing, housing Starks and their people in summer and winter and autumn and spring. Arya has lived very little, but she was a big girl that knew enough. Life in Winterfell is boring. It did not change, it did not become something else. Not unless something was terribly, terribly wrong. Since the day Sansa had been running around like a chicken without its head... Winterfell had changed.

Like a shadow had fallen on the Keep, taking away light and happiness and ease.

Servants whispered about the incident. Her few friends had started to ask what the little lady Sansa had looked like, running around screaming, instead of asking to play with her. They asked again and again whether or not Sansa had been foaming at the mouth, or if she had been speaking in tongues, or if she had done it naked, as everyone said she had. Hardly anyone had actually seen Sansa gone mad, but everyone knew it had happened enough to guess or make up how it had happened.

The people in the Keep stared at those in House Stark as if waiting for them all to go mad as well.

Guards had been placed at the end of the hallway of all their rooms, and it made it that harder to sneak away at night and just do fun things. Children did not linger in the Keep unless they had a job, and Arya had lost many friends to their parents wishing to keep them away from any child named Stark. She had also lost the rest of her friends for talking about Sansa because only Arya was allowed to say such mean things about her sister. Especially now that she was mad.

Her parents had changed.

Arya watched her parents and knew they were sad, or angry or scared for Sansa, or all three. Ayra could see it in their faces, in their actions since Sansa had gone mad.

Her Mother barely looked in Father's direction. She, for the first time that Arya could remember, was sleeping in the rooms next to her normal ones, the one meant for the Lady of Winterfell. Instead of staying with Father because she loved him so. Sometimes she would sneak into their rooms at night, and lie next to them. Robb had whined, face tight about being a near man, and having his mother watch him at night. Bran had been sweetly pleased if embarrassed because he was big as well. Rickon babbled in annoyance. Arya herself had allowed her mother to bring her close to her chest whenever she came at night. Allowed her mother to press her face into her hair and pretend not to feel her sob. Arya had wondered as her mother had run her fingertips through her hair if Sansa being mad meant that their mother was scared for all of them. She could hardly stand not being near them, reaching for Robb's thick curls, yanking Bran off the wall as he had started to climb, held little Rickon constantly on her hip. Pressed her hands on Arya's shoulders with trembling fingers. It was an odd day for her lady mother's eyes and face to not be red with stress and tears, her hands reaching out to touch any of her children, except for Sansa. Her own mother could not bring herself to touch her mad daughter.

Father was hardly better, his face like stone all the time. Her father was a serious man, and it was a rare day for him to make silly faces at them. But since Sansa had gone mad, he hadn't even smiled. It had moons. And her father did not smile. His face had lost color, fading from a soft pale to almost grey in the sunlight. His beard was growing, wild, and gnarled. And he had lost weight, cheeks sunken in slightly. He cried too, Arya knew, from hiding near the godstree one day. His weeping had scared her, his voice a wail as he had kneeled before the bleeding face and beat his chest in sorrow. She hadn't known her father could cry. She hadn't known her father could suffer so loudly, so strongly, when all her life she had known him to be still and calm like a mountain in the face of a storm.

And it was because her sister had gone mad.

Gone mad and changed most of all.

Sansa had gone quiet and still. She did not laugh. She did not smile. She did not weep as she had that day. She barely even spook. Father was like stone- Sansa had become stone. Cold and without life. She had gone from being obnoxiously giggly and beautiful smiles and all the mess that everyone praised, to nothing. As unaffected as summer snow before it touched the ground, as untouched as the stars. She was no more expressive than the statues of their kin, down in the Crypts.

Sansa the statue was kept away as if her madness would spread amongst the Stark children. She was always with Father, always at his side, within arm's reach. Constantly with some form of parchment or scroll or book in hand, Sansa followed the Lord of Winterfell, and sometimes it's Lady and rarely talked to anyone else. She would trail after Father and Mother, and they would look back to her, frequently. Father especially seemed to be always looking at her. Looking at her perfect, pretty stone face and... And Arya knew he was looking for the girl she had been. And he would not find her. Arya had seen how often Father would look at his small shadow and watched his face fall. Looked at her, and lift a hand, as if to touch her, but drop it before it came too close. Father didn't seem to be able to touch his once-perfect Sansa either, now that she was mad.

Sansa had also been relieved of attending her lessons with Septa Mordane, which Arya thought was stupidly unfair. Septa Mordane was horribly upset at this development, of losing her star and easiest to handle pupil during what had once been their daily lessons.

It seemed to upset her more than the prospect of Sansa going mad if Arya was honest.

It had been sudden and with no explanation -at least spoke because everyone knew why- and the older woman was severely upset. She pleaded with their Mother to have Sansa return after what many in Winterfell thought to be only a severe change in her education as a noble Lady, with no luck on her part.

"Sansa is a fine young Lady, Septa," their mother had murmured, calmly, "Her education in the Seven, sewing and dancing is over for now. You have done a wonderful job with her."

Septa Mordane had insisted that Lady Catelyn come to their morning lesson, and it appeared to Arya, as she watched with clear eyes, that it had been in hopes that mother would bring Sansa along to see what she had been missing, or to see the mad girl for herself.  Sansa, before she had gone mad of course, had been one of the few of the girls in the household that enjoyed her lessons with the Septa. Enjoyed the way she showered praise for breathing, more like. Septa Mordane was trying to coax the girl back, Arya knew. From a conversation overhead with Maester Luwin,  Septa Mordane seemed to think that her Sansa's madness could be prayed away, or poured into her sewing and kept in check. And she was trying, she knew, to find her once charge and bring her back underneath her care.  Septa Mordane could barely speak to her sister, as Sansa was constantly with her parents or politely excusing herself from most company.  Septa Mordane had had enough of trying to corner Sansa alone, it seemed, and gone directly to their mother to set her ambush.

But, her mother had not come with Sansa, appearing alone, looking somewhat annoyed by the request, but trying to be courteous and disguise the fact. Septa Mordane was reaching, furrowed brows, as she actually placed down her sewing to look at Lady Catelyn seriously.

"But my Lady, surely you cannot think that Sansa is completely educated. The girl is a wonderful student, certainly, but she is still young. And from her outbreak the other day-"

Septa did not say the word mad, but Mother's face darkened, turned serious, and pinched at the mention of the day where everything had changed.

"Her father and I have decided that Sansa needs to understand how a Noble House is run from our perspective. She cannot do that here, Septa. We have decided that the best solution is to have Sansa follow us both."

"My Lady-"

"If Sansa will return, it will not be soon, Septa Mordane. Her duty is elsewhere… Now, if I am no longer needed, please excuse me, there are many things I must attend to."

Her mother had left with an even nod, but a flurry of skirts that indicated her impatience and reluctance of meeting with the Septa. Lips pursed, the older woman had turned, face blank, but jaw tight as if she was grinding her teeth, to Arya.

"Lady Arya," she stated, primly, standing to check over her needlework.

Arya had winced and lifted her gnarled mess with reluctance.

Septa Mordane had sighed.

"Your sister had this stitch down in less than two days," muttered the Septa, "Restart this mess, child."

Something curled in Arya's stomach, as the other girls tittered, and as the Septa shook her head in disapproval again, tsking as she went back to her own sewing. She did not even mention the fact that Jeyne's stitching was nearly as bad as Arya's, nor did she mention what Arya had done wrong in the stitch. Arya clenched her fists before she started to remove the cloth from her hoop.

Jeyne Poole, too, was horribly upset over the fact that Sansa had stopped talking to her in favor of her 'duties' with their parents. She begged Arya to tell Sansa to come back, and when Arya had shrugged and dismissed the girl, Jeyne had collapsed into large, messy tears. Arya did not like Jeyne. She was too eager to follow Sansa or the Sansa they had known. Too eager to laugh at Arya, because Sansa had. But she did feel sorry for her too. Sansa had been Jeyne's best friend, and now... They were nothing.

Arya had seen when Jeyne had come up to Sansa in the Great Hall only for her sister to stare at the girl as if she didn't know her:

"Sansa, you must beg your mother and father to return you to our lessons, you must!"

Her sister had stopped, looked at Jeyne with a furrowed brow, face not falling into idiotic delight at the sight of her best friend. She had only looked at the other girl, the smallest of a puzzled expression on her face for a fraction of a second before her face turned smooth as polished stone. When Jeyne had rushed forward, to hang on Sansa's arm as she always had, Sansa had paled, alarmingly so, dodging out of the way with a quickness that had Jeyne sprawled on the floor.

Jeyne had cried out, crying at her scraped knees and ruined stockings…

But Arya had been looking at Sansa.

Her face, still smooth as stone, had lost more color. And her chest had been heaving, quickly as if she struggled for breath. Jon had rushed forward from his place at the High Table. Jumped over it in his rush, stumbling in his boots as he came over to Sansa. He was slow then, made sure that Sansa saw him, before placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. His grey eyes had searched Sansa's face, and when she had looked at Jon, Sansa had just shaken her head once. As if confused, her brow furrowing just a little. Jon had blinked, frowned, and leaned forward to press his forehead against Sansa's. Arya had never seen Jon show such affection to their often prissy sister, and never had seen Sansa take such comfort from such affection at all.

"Jeyne just misses you, Sansa," murmured Jon, seriously, looking at their sister with concern.

Sansa blinked before she nodded slowly. Her hand, came up, pressed against his cheek softly. With an easy affection that Arya had only seen Sansa show their Mother, and maybe baby Rickon. It was a soft, easy motion. As pretty as a dance, the way Sansa moved. She leaned into Jon's forehead, eyes closing slightly as her fast breath eased. She then stepped back, hand still holding Jon's cheek.  She looked back at Jeyne, staring at the crying girl for a moment. Then, finally, understanding dawned on Sansa's face.

"Jeyne... Jeyne Poole… Jeyne, I'm sorry. You startled me. I apologize for the reaction… It's been so long since we've spoken, hasn't it?" her voice had been clear, soft, and sweet.

Arya, from her place at the head table noticed this, brows furrowing at the strange reaction on her sister's part. She went over, gliding in that new walk of her's, better than mother's prime walk, and helped Jeyne from the floor. She had smiled at Jeyne… But Arya had thought that the smile didn't quite meet her eyes.

Arya's brothers' lessons with Maester Luwin had increased, as had her's, to a stupid amount, and Arya wonders if Sansa going mad is the reason. Maybe her mother and father thought if their children were bored to pieces, they would not go mad themselves. Her own lessons with the Septa had decreased, much to her pleasure, because they were horrible. They went from being every day after a horrible day to only being only twice a week, cut even further from nearly three hours to only one. But she was expected to have more with Maester Luwin instead, three a day, sparsed throughout the day, seven hours total. Seven hours of lessons every day! Even eight when I have to go to the Septa! She liked Maester Luwin better then Septa Mordane- He didn't favor anyone, not even Robb, as the heir. And he didn't frown at her so much, even when she fidgeted so much. Nearly every day she was sitting in with the boys and was forced to learn much more than before. Arya did like how different the lessons were- she was no longer just limited to learning dances and specific stitches with a few lessons with Maester Luwin.

But if she was forced to recite the entirety of the houses of the Seven Kingdoms again she was kicking the snickering Robb in his shin, and Jon couldn't block it this time.

"Focus, Lord Robb," said Maester Luwin, voice creaking, but steady, "Now if you please, tell me what the best diplomatic solution."

Robb's red brows furrowed. He absently picked at a spot on his chin. Arya thought they were funny, and part of her had hoped that Sansa's spots were worse than Robb's, at least she had before her sister had stopped being... Herself.

"I don't understand. Why would it not just be best to storm the Keep? The proposed army has better numbers, better arms. It would be easy to overwhelm them, wouldn't it?"

Arya own brows furrowed, as she stared at the map and the pieces in front of her. She thought Robb was right. But from Maester Luwin's expression, her eldest brother had gotten it wrong. The old man sighed and gave a small shake of his head.

Arya was frustrated, at the fact that what she had thought was wrong. This isn't better than my lady's lessons. Why can't I just be good at something?

Bran's leg was jiggling up and down in impatience, and his eyes were glazed over as he looked out the window. He wouldn't answer, she knew. He liked stories and lessons about knights, more than these theoretical lessons of battles. He would barely listen when it came to these things. Arya liked them well enough, but Maester Luwin never asked her any questions. Only to the boys. She thought much as he didn't scold her, and didn't favor one of them over the other, he didn't think she would know. She was behind her brothers and Theon after all. Theon was picking absently at a thread on his breaches, clenching and unclenching his spare fist. Jon was staring at the map, dark eyebrows scrunched together in concentration.

"Robb's right," said Theon, absently, "The invading army even has enough ships to surround them on their left side by the sea. Wouldn't take long to conquer the place. Ships conquer everything."

Maester Luwin sighed, his mouth quirking in slight distaste. Arya frowned. She had never noticed that the Maester did not like Theon. She didn't like him much either, he was annoying, but she didn't understand how set Maester Luwin was against the eldest boy in the room. She wondered who else did not like Theon.

"But the Keep has rations for up to five years," said Jon, softly, "The invading army has two, with their larger numbers, as they have the same amount of rations. Their walls are tall, well built. Even from the sea's side. The invading army has little to no access to any easy points to get into the Keep. Not to mention their escape and merchant routes are tied off. Diplomacy may be the best option."

Robb straightened, blinking.

"Well said, Jon," said Maester Luwin, lips twitching, "Now, Lord Robb, what is the best solution?"

"A parely?" he said, sheepishly, "Possibly a treaty?"

Maester Luwin nods.

"Good. Never underestimate relations between Houses. They can make or break someone's rule in war. Now, what terms should be negotiated?"

Jon had changed as well. He had not changed much- but it did not matter how little he changed. What mattered most was that Jon no longer looked at Arya, and instead looked to mad Sansa. Sansa had taken Jon. She had taken her favorite brother.

He was quieter than before, something Arya had not expected to be possible. He didn't smile as often either, something Arya blamed on Sansa's madness. Jon, unlike Robb, Bran, Ricken, and Arya, was not pulled away from Sansa. Jon was allowed to go near her. He was expected to be with her if the look on Father's face was any indication. Because whenever he looked at Jon and Sansa together, he seemed to breathe easier. His shoulders would drop, relax, when Jon's hand clasped Sansa's, or when Sansa would send the smallest smile to Jon. Even her Mother did not seem to think it odd to see Jon and Sansa side by side. Because the Lady of Winterfell looked at Jon Snow and Sansa together, and she did not blink, she did not scowl, as she would have before. She only looked on with a furrowed brow, and sometimes with eyes that seemed to held tears, but said not a word. Robb, Bran, Arya, Theon, and even little Rickon were kept apart from Sansa. But Jon Snow was Sansa's shadow, as she was father's. Jon walked with Sansa when he was not in the training yard or in their shared lessons. Jon obviously was very uneased with all the ways Sansa seemed to attach herself to him. But still, he stayed with her. He reached out to hold her hand, to whisper in her ear, and to walk with her. He hardly looked away from Sansa, grey eyes unwavering, sad, and... Determined. He had no time to play. He had nothing to do but follow after Sansa.

And their secret archery lessons at night had stopped as well. Jon was constantly 'busy'. Because of mad Sansa.

"But you promised!" she begged, already dressed in her cloak and boots. She stared at Jon, as he carefully combed his unruly curls. He pulled it back, careful to tie it back in a small bun with a silver ribbon.

Grooming himself to be with Sansa, Arya knew. He took care of his usually unruly hair, now, combed it more often than not. She remembered the day Sansa had looked at him, given the softest laugh that had not been heard in the Keep for nearly four moons, and touched a wayward curl that had been sticking straight up. Sansa had reached out, and pushed back his curls, brought a sliver ribbon from her own hair, and pulled it back from Jon's red face. She had smiled small, so small she barely upturned her lips. And Jon had smiled back as if she had given him something impossible and brilliant, instead of a shadow of something that had once been so commonplace, his grey eyes shining.

His grey eyes looked at her now, not shinning, not happy. Annoyance was in those eyes, she saw, and in the smile he gave. That smile was small, tight. It was forced. Not the easy smile that Jon would have given Arya before. His smiles were hard to come by, and more often given to the little mad lady of Winterfell. Even with Sansa not in the room, she took Jon away.

"The Lady and the Lord of Winterfell have asked me to come to see them tonight, Arya," he said calmly in return, adjusting his clothes.

They were nicer than anything Arya has ever seen Jon wear. This doublet embroidered finely, meticulously showing a snarling white direwolf against a dark grey, with gleaming red eyes made from what Arya thought to be glass beads. It was a nicely made doublet of velvet and silk, and usually, Jon would not have bothered with such things. Arya knew he was given his own allowance, just as she was, and that the older Stark children were all responsible for managing their own clothing. She knew Sansa constantly spent her allowance on bolts of silk and finner velvet, delicate thread, instead of the hard spun and more practical wool. Jon saved his money for good things, like sweets or a knife or more arrows. Jon had not bought this silly velvet, so fine and gleaming even in the dim light of the fire. This fine and complex embroidery, which she knew were beyond the seamstress' of the Keep's old hands, was not something he would have thought or cared to do. It was the most beautiful thing Arya had ever seen, better than Mother's nicer gowns, and not what Jon would have chosen for himself.

She had also seen candlelight underneath Sansa's door each night she had come see Jon and been sent away. Arya wondered when her sister given him the doublet. Septa was wrong to think that sewing would take the madness away, for Sansa is still not Sansa. She has surpassed herself in skill completely, and she is still mad.

"Jon?" came a quiet voice, soft and cool.

Sansa walked in without knocking, a cloak around her shoulders. It was a dark thing, too large for Sansa's slight frame. Worn and used. It was a contrast to the finery that Jon wore. Arya wondered why she had stolen that cloak from father. And why Father had not taken it back. She keeps taking things and no one says a thing. It wasn't even cold, inside the Keep, but Sansa always wore that cloak, swam in it. Arya thought it was strange, to see her sister who had once been effortlessly, stupidly pretty, hide in colors she had refused to wear before. Black cloak, with a grey fur that swallowed her shoulders and made her red hair stand out even more. Arya hadn't seen what Sansa wore underneath their father's cloak, but she knew from the hem that would peak out of it sometimes that it was usually a dress that Sansa had outgrown, too dark and drab for the girl who wished to shine bright in the dark halls of the Keep, no matter how impractical and bothersome. No matter how easily the clothes could tare and rip, or get ruined in rain and snow.

"Oh," Sansa said, calmly, turning to stare at Arya. Her face was still, even, as it always was these days. Something about it always made Arya uneasy. She felt small, and unsure in the wake of the statue her sister had become. It wasn't like looking at someone's face, it was too still, to hard to find what she was thinking. It wasn't Sansa.

Sansa always smiled, always laughed, and constantly and easily fell into tears. Not anymore. The madness had taken that away, Arya was sure. Taken her perfect, full smiles. Taken her red face that came with annoyance, taken away the way she had shinned so prettily. Arya had hated Sansa for it at times, but she would take her stupid older sister, with all her prissiness and boring airs, her annoying perfectness, if only it meant that Winterfell would go back to normal. If only she would have her sister back.

"Arya, it's late. Do you not have lessons in the morning?" Sansa said, and she made no mention of how Arya was dressed in Robb's and Jon's old clothes. The old Sansa would have made an enormous fuss.

But the new, mad Sansa didn't even blink. Arya pushed down a scowl, at the fact that Sansa was scolding her, even as she came to take Jon.

"Jon… Jon and I were going to play in the Godswood… He promised," she lied, frowning.

Delicate red brows drew together. And Arya was surprised to see Sansa look at Jon with a frown. She looked at Jon and shook her head slightly.

"Jon, go with Arya."

"But-"

"I'll make your excuses, go. Arya needs some time with you."

Something gave than, in Sansa's newly stilled face. Something sweet and soft and so pretty that made Arya want to cry. And she wanted to cry harder still in confusion in the fact that Sansa was trying to get Jon to be with her. She hated that it felt as if she was giving him order, that firm way she said it as if it was only by Sansa's choice that Jon would go with Arya now. But then that soft thing in Sansa's face was gone, as quickly as it'd come. And the statue came back, stone polished and without a crack. It was ugly and Arya hated it.

"No. The Lady and Lord of Winterfell asked me to be there. It's important. Arya, tomorrow."

It was always tomorrow, never today.

Arya was upset over the changes in the household, about the changes to her stupid older sister. She wanted… She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she didn't like the way things were now. She did not things could be the same again, not with Sansa being as mad as she was. But maybe she could get something to be the same as before. Because she felt so... Small.

She felt small and unseen.

She was so far behind in comparison to where the boys were in their lessons, in the lessons she still needed to be a stupid, proper Lady, and Jon didn't talk to her as much anymore. She felt very alone, and Bran was no help, what with his books and constantly climbing to places she couldn't reach in her dresses. Rickon was a baby of course, and Robb had Theon. She didn't want to be with mad, statue Sansa, even if she was ever allowed near her sister. And Winterfell itself had been pushed into a large frenzy that Arya had never seen before. Servants rushed when once they walked. They went that way and that way, picking supplies, drying fruit, and meat. Men went to the woods, picked trees, and brought back wagons full of coal and fabrics and furs. The Keep itself was like an overturned anthill, everyone darting about in a mad scrambling. Ravens flew beats of their dark wings constant on a horizon. Men went off as messengers on horseback, so much so that it seemed as if the stables were constantly empty.

It was as if Sansa's madness had lit a fire underneath the Keep, much as she had pushed a shadow over the Starks. Smoke and fire have filled Winterfell at the madness of Sansa Stark...

It was as if Arya was standing so far apart from everyone else in the wake of that. Standing behind her brothers, her Mother, and Father, standing as they strove ahead, with no one looking back at little Arya Underfoot.

In it all, Arya had no one.

Arya had no one.

She walked into her room, after another day of hiding in the Crypts, absently trying to get the dust out of her hair, and the tangles, so her mother wouldn't notice when she came to brush her hair for the night after her bath. In her room, she noted with surprise that someone had already set up the bath, a warm thing so hot that the water steamed against the air of the already warm keep. No one ever did that for her, no ever thought ahead for Arya. She always had to go ask someone to prepare it, and watch their annoyance at the dirt on the hem of her dress, eye her wild hair and shake their head at the wild girl of House Stark. Arya blinked, walking carefully to the copper tub set in the middle of her room.

"Arya," Sansa said, smiling, sitting on Arya's bed.

The smile was small, but it was a smile, a rare thing to see on Sansa's face these days and it reached her bright blue eyes. Arya blinked, freezing at her sister. Not in the cloak, not hiding at all. Her dress was not one Arya had seen before, a soft grey dress of finely spun wool. It was so simple, with a high collar. The only decoration was a slightly shimmering sliver thread, embroidered snowflakes that was the most complex thing on it, at the collar, at the end of her sleeves, and at the hem. It was pretty. It was... Too simple. No ribbons, save for the single one keeping Sansa's hair out of her face. No pretty flowers, no pretty flare to the straight, practically skirt. It was not an ugly dress. But it wasn't Sansa.

Sansa the Mad stood elegantly and in a single movement, blue eyes intent on her. Arya stared at her mad sister, eyes squinting. Sansa's arms were full of a bundle, so she couldn't press down her skirt, leaving it wrinkled. She didn't even notice it.

"Sansa, what are you doing here?" Arya asked, suspiciously. Because she didn't want her here. She did not want to look at the girl who had changed so much. Who didn't feel like her sister anymore.

Sansa paused mid-stride, blinking. She held the bundle to her chest, something made of cloth, a dark grey so dark it was nearly black. Arya could see that it also had fur, what looked like a white fox, an expensive thing to find. Sansa had bought that before she had gone mad, Arya remembered, and stated she wanted it for a beautiful cloak made by her own hand.

"I brought you something. A present. I apologize for not being quicker, my duties with mother and father have taken much of my time," Sansa said quietly, looking at her with that clear smooth face, eyes lingering on Arya's.

Arya stared and wondered when was the last time Sansa had given her something.

"It isn't my name day."

Sansa's face stood still. Something in Arya's stomach crawled. She should be mad, she should say I'm ungrateful. But she's not even bothered.

"I know. But it's important that you have it… Especially for tomorrow."

"What's so special about tomorrow?"

Another smile, a small thing that eased that thing in Arya's stomach. She smiles at Jon... I didn't know she would smile at me.

"A surprise for you. Come, let me see if I got the fit right."

Arya walked forward, cautiously, and watched as Sansa unfolded her bundle across the bed.

It was clothes, something Arya expected as a gift from Sansa. But they were not what Sansa would have given her nonetheless.

It was a fine cloak, that dark grey material, trimmed in that fine white fur. It was meant for Sansa, not me, she used it for me? It had simple embroidery, like that of Sansa's dress, but different, square runes of the First Men, just like the one that Arya made a game of finding in the wooden beams of the Keep. There was also small, short boots of fine supple leather, trimmed with that white fur and gloves to match. That would have been expensive, Arya knew, even as she looked at the simple heel and the comfortable fit of the gloves. Arya blinked, curiously, at the doublet Sansa was spreading out, its velvet, a bright, luminous silver stitched finely with what looked like a grey direwolf, caught in a howl, similar to Jon's new one. The eyes, also made of beads, were a dark yellow. The doublet was fitted tightly and with long sleeves, with matching breeches, dark grey to match the cloak. Ribbons, stitched with simple little wolves, also grey against sliver, were set to the side.

"Well?" asked Sansa, hands twisting together, "Do you like it?"

Arya blinked.

"It… It isn't a dress?"

Sansa blinks before a smile filled her face. It was larger, softer than Arya had seen in the moons since she had gone mad. And Arya nearly did cry at the sight of it.

"No. Trust me. A dress is the wrong thing for tomorrow. This, this is perfect. Come on, you can try it on after a bath."

Reluctantly, Arya went to get her laces at the back of her dress and struggled a little. Without her asking, Sansa went to help, gently undoing the laces in the back of her dress.

"You're full of dust," she muttered, absently.

"I was in the Crypts. Playing."

"Alone?"

Arya said nothing, only tensed. Sansa's hands stilled before they resumed their work.

"Have you been alone a lot, Arya?"

Arya's lower lip trembled, and her eyes stung, but she refused to cry. Not in front of Sansa the Mad.

"Ever since you went mad. No one's around. Everything's changed."

Sansa hummed. Her hands were still gentle, still careful not to hurt Arya.

"I haven't gone mad."

"But… But you don't act like yourself. I never see you cry or laugh anymore. Before you went mad you cried and laughed at everything."

Sansa was quiet and she simply helped Arya lift her dust-filled dress over her head. She carefully arranged the dress as Arya turned to her, across her dressing screen, shaking her hand across the surface of the woolen material to clean it slightly.

"Of course you would notice," said Sansa, absently, going for Arya's dresser. She picked up her hairbrush and turned back to her, "You always see things very clearly, don't you, Arya?"

Arya squinted at Sansa, with her still face again. Suddenly her still face eased, into a smile, larger, brighter than before. It reached her eyes.

"If I told you I went mad, what would you say?"

"It's either that or you're a grumpkin, and you stole the real Sansa. If you did I want her back. She's stupid but she's my sister."

Laughter fell from Sansa's lips, bright, happy. Something of a knot that Arya didn't know she had in her heart eases, and she felt her own lips twitch slightly before she started laughing herself.

"I missed that sound. I can't remember the last time you laughed with me, Arya."

That stopped the laughter on Arya's part, and she looked to see Sansa's face had fallen into something sad, her lower lip trembling slightly.

"You have Jeyne."

Sansa shakes her head, reaching out to place a hand on Arya's face. Absently, it seemed, she rubbed at the dirt there.

"Jeyne is my… Friend. But you are my sister. That day, when I was screaming like I was mad made me realize that. Now turn around, I have to brush out those tangles before your bath. You are not trying on your new clothes that filthy."

It sounded so much like how Sansa used to be, that Arya didn't respond, only turned around. She expected Sansa's hand to be rough, as she went through her hair. Sansa used to like to finish things quickly, well done but quick. But Sansa was as patient as Mother always was, mindful of not pulling her scalp too harshly. She even helped her out of her small clothes and shift and helped scrub her hair, like they used to do when they were younger, and shared baths. When Arya had dried herself, she slipped into both small clothes and Sansa's present.

It fit her well, perfectly. Sansa brought a large mirror, the one from her room, and showed Arya what she looked like. She… Looked like a boy, almost, if it weren't for her hair, still drying in loose curls over her shoulders. But the clothes looked good on her, she looked... Different, she seemed to stand straighter in the doublet and breeches, and everything was very easy to move in. Even the boots were not as stiff as they should be, supple and smooth.

I could follow Bran!

"I had to guess with some things. The ribbons are for your hair, to pull it back. If you need help tomorrow, you can call for me and I'll braid it."

"It's…"

"Fit for Nymeria, the Warrior Queen, I bet?"

Sansa grinned at her, toothy, eyes gleaming. It was the first time in moons for Sansa's smile to be so easy, so wide. Arya's lips twitched, but she felt confused.

"What?"

"Never mind, you'll understand. I'm having the seamstress make you simpler ones of course, but this one, this one had to be special for tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

Blue eyes sparkled.

"A surprise, Arya. I cannot say. Goodnight."

Quickly, she darted forward and pecked her cheek, before she left the room. Arya carefully undressed. She was mindful of the doublet, careful to move the velvet back into place, instead of leaving it inside out as she normally would for any other clothing. She even was careful of the cotton undershirt, fingertips flowing the tight stitches. Sansa made this for me. She was thinking of me. Arya placed it across the dressing screen, tossing her dress into the basket of dirty clothes. She then fell asleep staring at the strange, nice present that her mad sister had given her.

In the morning, after she had broken her fast, she was instructed to go to one of their larger rooms, just off of the Great Hall.

Arya followed the instructions, shifting somewhat uneasily in her new boots, and the way that people stared at her. Sansa was actually walking with her, When they had actually shared lessons, they would walk together. Not touching, sometimes bickering as they went. But unlike before, she wound her arm with Arya's. She hasn't done that since Septa Mordane told her that a Lady holds herself apart from others, even when Jeyne would drag at her arm. Sansa's eyes followed everyone around them. She stared at anyone who pointed, at anyone who dared speak badly of Arya. Because of that, Arya made herself stand tall, to feel at ease in her new clothes, as she walked into one of the larger rooms off of the Great Hall. Only one person was there in the recently empty room, all the furniture had been taken away, or pushed against the wall. He was a small man, skinny like her, with the darkest skin she had ever seen. He was also bald, beardless, with a large hook nose. And he was staring at her, frowning.

Sansa let go of her arm, gave her a smile, and nodded encouragingly before she gave her a peck on the cheek again and left the room without saying a single word. Arya stared after her, brows smashed together.

"You're late, boy," said the man after a moment voice thick with an accent that Arya had never heard before.

She frowned, shifting uneasily as she turned to look at the man.

"I am not. I was to come to this room after I finished breaking my fast. I finished breaking my fast just now," she countered, lifting her chin, "And I'm not a boy. Who are you?"

Lips twitched on the man's face and he lifted a single, finely arched brow. She noted with fascination that he had an earring in his left ear that swung as he walked forward to her, hands behind his back.

"I am Syrio Forel, and I am to teach you the Water Dance."

Arya felt her heart sink. Was her surprise a dancing teacher? How very like the old Sansa to make her new clothes to make this happen. Maybe she is just mad if she thought I would like this.

"Did my father hire you?"

"Yes," said the man, carefully, circling her, "He paid quite a good amount of dragons to bring me to this cold land."

Arya followed the man with her eyes, following his movements as her brows drew together.

"Why? Septa Mordane knows all the proper dances. You don't need to teach me them."

Lips twitched in that tanned face, and large nostrils flared as he laughed. It was a rich laugh, smooth and easy.

"Oh, the Water Dance is not for a dance hall."

Suddenly, the man's legs shifted, just slightly, and his hands, lightning-quick, brought out a wooden sword from behind his back. Before Arya could even react to the 'blade', the strange man, Syrio Forel, had smacked her against her hip. Arya yelped, jumping back. The man, Syrio Forel, smiled. His dark eyes sparkled, his mouth opened into another smile.

"It is a deadly thing. Now, child, which is your sword hand?"

Arya stared at the man, who was staring at her expectantly with a smile on his deeply tanned face. Slowly, her lips pulled up into a smile of her own in response.

Now, this is a surprise.

Chapter Text

Love

"True love doesn't happen right away; it's an ever-growing process. It develops after you've gone through many ups and downs, when you've suffered together, cried together, laughed together," Ricardo Montalban.

Catelyn Stark of House Tully loved Eddard Stark.

She loved her Lord husband, in the nearing two decades since they had wed.

It had not been a love so easily given, she is the first to admit to herself. It was not the marriage, nor the wedding she had dreamed of, as a child. When she had been a girl she had spent days dreaming of it. Days of thinking of her dress, her maiden's cloak, between lessons and paperwork and manning her brother Edmund and sister Lisa, and little Petyr. Little Catelyn Tully, young and dreaming, had imagined a large celebration, frivolity, and beauty, with all of the Riverlands in attendance in the Riverland Sept. She had imagined herself the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms, the envy of all, with a fair husband to match. Wistful, far-off dreams of a wedding much grander than she knew were feasible.

Since she had been but a girl, she had been promised to Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, future Lord of the North. She had had her wonderful match, her own promise of being the Lady to the Warden of the North.

He had been handsome, all those years ago, when she had first met him. Tall, loud, brash, and fierce. Wild in a thrilling way to her, she who was so innocently unused to men like him. With his loud voice, his wiggling brows, the proud set of his shoulders as he went about Riverrun. She had been so ready, so accepting of the spouse chosen for her, that tall, proud man, with his broad-chested, muscled arms, with the piercing grey eyes and the ready smile about his bearded mouth.

When Petyr had challenged him, watching the bout for her honor, for her hand had been thrilling. Flattering and showcasing the prowess of who they called the Wild Wolf- When Brandon had won so simply and spared the dear boy who was her friend, she had felt her attraction fall to love as easily as anything. Mercy was such a hard thing to give and Brandon Stark as wild, uncouth as he could be, had granted it so readily with a word from her as if she was the tempering hand. His conscious. She could see her life with him, so easily, so readily, he the Proud Lord, she the sweet Lady at his side, his mercy, his love. Dreams of grey-eyed babes, of sweetly-face children from him, had made her so ridiculously happy. She had spent moons dreaming of the man, the fierce man, hands stitching elegant handkerchiefs of favor for him, silver fishes dancing with grey wolves. She had spent just as much time on her Maiden's Cloak and wedding dress, careful of each and every detail for her magical day.

Then news of his death had come and his younger brother, Eddard, 'Ned' as he was known, had come to be her husband instead.

Her wedding had been swift, with only the household and the men that Lord Aryn had brought with them in attendance. It wasn't her day, it hadn't been a grand feast, something cobbled together, barely four courses, their anticipation of what was to come making practicality call for the readying of their stores in the war to come. Lysa had been next to her, married in the same ceremony. A thrown-together affair that had not been about Cat nor her husband, but the calls of war to come.

He was not as tall, not as handsome, Ned Stark.

That had been her first impression of a boy she barely remembered she had met before, for her focus had been Brandon, not what should have been her good-brother.

He was shorter, quieter. Drabber. Not rash. Not fierce or so well comported as Brandon. Oh, he was perhaps more polite, but he did not have his elder brother's charisma, his magnetism. Nor Cat's easy love, only her empathy at his loss and the reassurance of what little she had heard of his temperament. And she could not see this person battle for her hand so readily as Brandon had done. But duty and family compelled her, so she had married that quiet boy with uneasy and certainty of the war to come. His companion, Robert Baratheon had been rallying for war, and the Lord of the Vale, Jon Aryn was ready to rage against the crown for the sake of his two fosterlings.

She knew what she was then, more so than when her father had mentioned the growing ties to the North through her marriage to Brandon. A political marriage, a political hold for the North and the East, an assurance of arms. The Riverlands would throw their lot in with the Rebels. Family, Duty, Honor.

But he had been gentle when all her Septa had told her would only be pain and endurance. He had not been savage, unpracticed as he was, but he had waited and whispered for forgiveness when she had cried out. Soothed away her hair, calloused hands trembling against her brow. He had hardly said a word beyond asking for forgiveness, had hardly made a sound but soft pants of need. But all of his touches had been gentle and in that first coupling part of Cat's heart had gone to that quiet boy as she had looked into his dark grey eyes.

And he had left Riverrun to fight a war, his seed inside her, and part of her wondered if he would never come back.

Robb had been beauty in flesh for her. So small limbs, blue eyes so much like her, blond hair quickly falling to vivid red. A gift from her husband, "An heir to Winterfell," her father had said, and more of her heart had gone to Ned Stark, so far away from her. For if they could make such a thing as Robb, together… Perhaps they were not so politically forced together after all. Perhaps she could love the man who was fighting so gallantly to avenge his kin, to find his sister.

Then the war had been won.

A dynasty dead, a babe, and assurance of her legacy in her hands...

And Ned had another woman's babe in his arms, so lovingly, when he had never held his own trueborn heir.

Rage, betrayal had stung and Cat had resigned herself to a loveless marriage, at the humiliation of a bastard in her own home. A living sin. Her strange new home, wild and cold, people indifferent and disliking of her, a Southern woman, a strange unpracticed and too different of their ways. She tried, she threw herself into duty and in defense of her own honor, in making both noble and smallfolk alike understand she was no usurper or dismissive of their traditions. Ned built her a Sept, on coming to Winterfell, despite how much the rest of the North did not want it. She was the pagan, the outsider with her strange Seven and weird worship. But he built it anyway, insistent at giving her her place as the Lady of Winterfell. He remarried her before the heart tree, to cement their marriage in the eyes of the North. A gesture of good faith, of acceptance of her difference when everyone was so ready to rally against them.

Time passed.

Sansa was born and the expression on Ned's face had made more of heart go to him, as he had made the bells of Winterfell and Town ring out in a joyous triumph of the life they had made together. It took more children, Bran, Arya for her to understand how insanely in love she had fallen with Eddard when, he, for a second time, ran off to fight King Robert's War. He was not Brandon, nor his substitute He was… More. Brandon had been the first sweet love so easily given. Eddard was true love hard-won and long made by years together, by the blood shared of their children coming into being. Built stone by stone through years of joys and sorrows.

And it is her love for her husband and his children that made her so frightened of what has happened to Sansa.

"Sansa," asked Cat, softly, "Were you in love with the High King?"

Sansa starts. Red hair in her simple braid jumps, as Sansa's head raises. Her eyes lock on Cat, blue and bright as any jewel. They do not gleam, they do not sparkle. Her face is completely still, perfectly composed save for her arched brows raising just slightly. She looks at Cat from above her final designs for more glass gardens strewn across the desk she now had in Ned's solar. It was too cramped to work on a single desk together, so two had been added.

"The worse was the fact that the Winter stores were practically non-existence… The War of Five Kings wrecked the realm, tore it apart, and when Winter came, most wrights came from those that starved to death," Sansa had said, matter factly, "Keeps wrecked, small folk scattered, unable to till the land and most traded halted. While most of the fight was south of the Neck, the North was not spared with so much of its forces down South."

Ned is looking down at the ancient plans, so old that some of the ink has faded to nothing. He looks to her plans, crisp and precise and built upon her apparent knowledge of constructing more glass gardens in Winterfell. His brows are furrowed, as Caitlyn fights the urge to say something. Ned simply looks up and stares at Sansa.

"Do you have any idea how expensive this endeavor will be?"

Pink lips flatten for a moment before Sansa's face clears into a still mask. It grew more perfected with each day, that unmoving face. Placid, easy to fall into an empty if perfect smile. The Bas-  Jon , is staring at the designs with black furrowed brows, and for a moment Cat thinks she can see more clearly how much he looks like his biological father. She rarely met Prince Rhaegar in life, and cannot recall if she had ever spoken directly to him more than a polite congratulations during his wedding to Elia Martell. She had even kept her distance at the bedding ceremony, uneasy at the thought of touching that silver-haired man that was so…  Beautiful.  But from her brief acquaintance, she remembers a withdrawn, quiet man with constant sorrow shadowing him. And she can see him in this boy, in the serious, quiet way he held himself so tightly, warily, and she wonders with more than a little remorse if that wariness is her own doing.

"Oh, very. But that is just one thing that must be done. It is a priority," blue eyes flicker up, "The North is fertile, but has little time during its natural growing season, even during Summer. Our reliance on Southern crops is an issue. We cut off that reliance, the more the North can become more independent if the South falls to War again. If we can install a glass garden in every Keep-"

"Sansa, that is not feasible, nor are many willing to invest-"

Blue eyes gleam.

"Than we give them a reason too. It's only one thing for now, but it is an important start. We remind them of our words, of the fact that the Summer has nearly been a decade at this point. Winter is always sure to follow fiercely in response. If King Jon and I could get the North to achieve this during the Southern War and during the winds of winter, in peacetime at the height of this summer, we can do the same. We must be smart- such a thing will cause alarm to those who export to us. The Reach and the Riverlands will not a cut of their profits without good reason or a substitute of income."

Cat is often more stunned at the way that Sansa carries herself nowadays than her tales of the dark future.

Now, the seemingly young girl blinks, and Cat fights the urge to fidget beneath her daughter's eyes. Which makes her feel ridiculous. The stillness and compartment of a woman of twenty in the body of one of ten, as Sansa claimed, was entirely unsettling, regardless if it was true or not. It gave the girl an air of eeriness that even Catelyn as her own mother couldn't deny. To have it directed to you unsettled one deeply, especially if the remembered the cheerful, lovely summer child who had once worn that face. The question of where her daughter's affection lead in light of Jon's identity and role in her life has plagued Cat for weeks, still, moons later.

Even as Sansa slowly spun her tale of terror and loss and they all made careful, well-thought-out plans for what was to come in only three years. And the years after. They spent weeks furiously plotting(Cat had no other word for it), furiously thinking of the best way to prepare without shaking the realm into unsteady suspicion. Glass gardens, dragon glass, Arms, food storage, expansion of the Keep for the coming Winter, filling the ranks of both armies and the Night's Watch, trying to some extent to police the political situation down South, dragons. The events, that Sansa had told them broadly more or less affirmed that the realm was insanely unstable if the death of three men could potentially destabilize it so much.

Somewhere, in her heart's of heart's, Cat did not believe that Lysa could murder her husband. That Petyr, little Petyr could pit her husband's House, her House, against the Lannisters. That he had, and still lusted for her in the unhealthy way as Sansa had described. For she remembers Family, Duty & Honor and part of her will always think that Lysa and Petyr must as well. But Cat stands by her husband first and foremost, and her children and she will, while not completely believe, follow. She is waiting, the words of her husband's house, now truly her's, rang true enough, and while the madness of her own daughter murdering herself and her sister in a blaze of wildfire and waking back in time still made her doubt… Catelyn could not deny her second words.

Winter was coming.

And the Starks would not fall to its white winds.

Her daughter laughs, slightly, a soft thing of genuine mirth that is much rarer for Cat to hear, and it nearly breaks her heart.

"Answer me honestly, sweetling… I have no judgment for your feelings over your cousin-"

"Mother," says Sansa, a voice, firm and unyielding odd in that of a child ten name days, "I… I could have loved my King, perhaps, as a man, but he was my brother first, and I relished that in him when we found each other again."

"But there was a chance? The way you speak of him as if he hung the stars and the moon-"

A shadow falls across summer skies in her daughter's eyes.

"I have never felt romantic love, mother. Never in my life. I thought, perhaps… My original betrothed, I thought I loved him in the beginning. But I only loved the image of a golden, gilded King and golden perfect babes. Never the boy. "

Unease comes to Cat at the thought of the bastard of incest living as Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. She, again, knows not if it is true but Sansa believes, and more importantly, Ned believes, he who ignores signs from the gods, he who was so practical and unshaken by omens and so, Cat will follow. Family, Duty, Honor. Perhaps it's those omens that she so trusted that made her more eager to follow her daughter's words, to heed them however skeptical of their truth.

For her babe is gone from in ways she had never wanted, that is the only truth she knows in the face of everything, regardless of the merit of the future she predicted would happen if they did nothing.

"I-"

"I… I had some chances, I think, of what could have grown to true love. Father, just before we were to flee, he told me he wanted someone who is brave and gentle and strong to marry me and Arya when the time came. Which King Joffrey was not. I had only wished I had listened to him when I could."

Cat watches her daughter… And wonders.

"Chances?"

Another faint, distant smile.

"A… Warrior in the King's employee tried to do me a gentle act, in educating me. Tried to open my eyes when I so soundly wished to close them in the face of my situation… My first husband was strong, in sparing me the marriage bed unless I wished to join him, despite… My status as a hostage. He was unstoppable, so determined against the world despite how much it was set to hate him. And Jon was brave, unyielding in command of the world fallen to madness."

Three men, two unnamed, which is something that Cat does not miss in her daughter's speech.

"But.. I was broken, long before I had a chance to find love... Into little pieces. The High King put me back together, but it was not a romantic gesture. I was his sister. Even when he had no reason to call me such after the indifference I have given him all our lives."

Cat started, heart aching.

"Don't blame yourself, mother. I… Was too harsh with you, a few moons ago. When I told you of myself. You believed in people you loved when you were young. You had no reason to mistrust them… No matter what the outcome was."

Sansa sighs, a weighted thing before she returns to her work. Cat stares at her daughter before she does the same. Ned comes to them after many moments of practical silence, beyond the scratching of the quill across their parchment. His face is drawn tight and his hands are nervously on his belt, a nervous habit few noticed.

Sansa stands, immediately, as does Cat.

It is hard to look at him, even if there was no doubt to Cat that she loved him. For a lie of three and ten years is still a lie of three and ten years. She forgives it, to some extent, in wake of their circumstances, for they had been but strangers when he had returned from the Tower of Joy with the bones of his sister and her babe, but she doesn't think she cannot forget. Lyanna was not Ned's long-lost lady love, but a woman has still haunted their marriage for the lies she had made necessary. Ned had never placed true trust in her and it hurt her more than she could stay, even if the words of her father's house-made her understand him. Family, Duty, Honor. But she had become family as well and the lies were a price she did not know she could pay.

"The rest of the replies of the Lords of the North have come."

Sansa does not move, even as Cat strides forward, hands trembling. Automatically she reaches for her husband before she lets her hands drop.

"And?"

Ned frowns, face grim as his hands tighten their grip on their belt.

"They come, all of the North's houses, big or small are coming within the next fortnight. The Lords of the North shall gather at Winterfell to discuss the issue of the coming Winter. A council of the all the North for the first time since the Ironborn."

Sansa smiles a small, pretty thing that does not meet her eyes.

"Any news back from the Citadel?" she asks, calmly moving over to the small table to the right of the solar, pouring wine in her father's cup and offering it to him.

Ned takes it but does not drink. He simply holds the drink. Stares into the wine.

"None, yet, but soon. I believe your projections will come back confirmed from their first few letters. All of Westeros will see that Winter is Coming… A long one."

Sharp blue eyes gleam.

"And King's Landing?"

Something tightens in Ned's face. He looks away from the wine, even as he places the cup down delicately.

"No word from the King. The Hand, however, has given credence to our worry and tells us that we have the full support of the Crown once the Citadel confirms everything. No one can accuse us of instruction."

"Good. They will anyway, but they will be reluctant to act with the words of the King. I must take my revised plans of the glasshouses to Maester Luwin and our new resident glassblower, if you are to excuse me, I will only be a moment, Mother, Father."

Sansa leaves the room in a flurry of dark skirts and after a most elegant curtsy. Catelyn admires her form just as much as she is annoyed by her leaving her alone with Ned. She had taken residence in the rooms of the Lady of the House, unused for the majority of their long marriage, and had little reason to be alone with her husband for moons with Sansa and Jon constantly at their heels…

"My lady?" his voice is soft, deep and after years of marriage, achingly comforting.

She sighs.

"Ned."

Grey eyes look to her, sorrowful and something pulls in her chest.

"Will you… Will you still stay by my side, Cat? I need you."

Ned is a man of few words- to say such things must have been a struggle. Her lower lip trembles, but she refuses tears. A lady does not fall apart.

"Yes. I am duty-bound."

"I ask not for duty."

She looks at him, her husband, who has never betrayed her with another woman but instead hidden something that would kill them all instead. She is not sure if she preferred Jon Snow to be a bastard instead of a princeling of a fallen dynasty. Resentment does not heal in face of the truth and sometimes when she sees Jon she is still angry, still frustrated. Still hateful in ways she knew not possible of herself- she was a proud woman but she had always thought herself to be undeniably kind. Jon Snow had shown her the worst parts of her and Cat did not like them. To know that her anger and hurt were misplaced did not reveal her of them, the lie only made her hurt more.

"I know."

"I only meant to protect you and the children, if the worst came to be."

Cat looks away and sighs.

"I know."

"Can you not… Find it in yourself to forgive me?"

She loves him. She has been in love with Eddard Stark for so long, so many years spent together in spite of their happenstance of marriage, and sometimes in her darkest, yet happiest moments she is so glad that she married him instead of Brandon. She sighs and lets the tears fall as she strides forward. Her forehead against his. He is kind, gentle, and strong. What they both want for their children, it seems. He is not what she had wanted, since girlhood, but better.

More.

"I already have," the words are true and gently said. Even as her hurt and rejection threaten to consume her, "But I need time, my love."

Ned says nothing, only kisses the tears on her cheeks as they fall, every single last one. As always his actions speak more than his words.

Chapter Text

Earth

"There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast,"

Charles Dickens.

Sansa Stark kneels before the godstree, before the heart.

She had always been a pious child.

To both the old and new gods. But she is honest enough to say that it was mostly the new gods, that she had given her loyalty to, so intent on her mother's religion. There had always been a beauty to it. A rhythm to it that the old, dubious, and nameless gods of her father had lacked to her. There was something in omens, signs of divinity that were so much easier, so much more frequent in the wake of the Seven. That like many of the Southern mannerisms her mother brought to her life, Sansa had grown to adore them. She knew them well, learned both song and tenants. Knew them on her lips and in her heart, youthful and believing. She had been devoted, happy to kneel with her mother within the seven-sided room in the Sept her father had lovingly built for her, praying to them all in hope of… Something. Of destiny. Of things, a noble maid of her standing was due from the gods.

She wanted happiness. She wanted love and perhaps a song to be written about her. She wanted glittering golden babes and the praise of all who saw her splendor.

She had often prayed Maiden, once, innocent and free, that protected and beloved beauty. She had prayed for a good marriage to her beloved prince, to be as beautiful as Queen Cersei... Then she had prayed to the Father Above, for justice, for the understanding of her father's guiltlessness, to right the horrible injustice and misunderstanding. Then she had prayed to the Mother, for protection, for mercy from her beautiful, horrible captors in the golden, stinking cage of King's Landing. She had prayed to the Warrior, for Robb, for her brother to be the gallant hero within her story, she his beloved sister rescued from the monsters in golden cloaks. She had prayed to the Crone, for wisdom, for guidance in a world full of shadows and uncertainty. In the wake of the Second Long Night, she had prayed to the Smith to mend their fragmented world, so precariously kept together by her, the High King and Queen. And in her darkest moments, she had prayed to the Stranger, to take her away from the pain, to give her peace in a world so sharp and cold.

Her prayers had never really been answered by the Seven, much as she thought of them in her years of hostage, in her last few years as Queen of the North alongside Jon.

The old gods… The old gods were a bit different. She had… Never prayed, very seriously to them. They were darker. Vaguer then the Seven. Then the faith so clearly written. For the old gods were more distant. They were numerous, endless. Unnamed and impersonal. Not prettily pressed in a package she understood. Perhaps it was always an innate fear of the unknown that had made her so inclined to the gods of her mother.

Perhaps it is why she had been so unsettled to see them through the gaze of her brother.

Seeing Bran had been… More than unsettling. In the Second Long Night, her brother was other. Eerie and much too removed from humanity. Standing before that almost man, wanned face, covered in furs and astride atop of Summer, she had seen little of the little boy with the love of knights. Seen so little of what had been her brother. When he had looked at her, those blue eyes held little to no recognition. Little to no love for what they had been just a decade prior. Bran had been lost… His body tethered to the land by a tenacious strand, his eyes… His eyes had been as if he had been flying so high above her, so connected to the mystical side that she had so ignored until she had been confronted by the Others, by the wrights come to consume any creature of warm flesh.

"Sansa," the voice was flat, and her heart beat as if it were to leap from her chest.

She clung to the wall, eyes wide, her hand on the blade she had hidden within her sleeve. In the darkness, that enormous wolf form, walked with sinuous grace, its eyes shining like lamps in the dim light. The man upon him was thin, emaciated, his hair was long and unkempt, was so dark red it appeared black. Perhaps it was just the low light, or perhaps it was truly so red. Like the blood of man's heart.

His eyes shone the same way as the wolf he rode.

"Who are you? What do you want?" her voice does not flatter, does not shake. But she is shaking. She cannot stop. She had awoken in her bed only to see the maw of some great beast above her, teeth gleaming.

Fallen out of bed with the years of knowing of blows to come. Reached for her dagger, and ready to scream-  The man does not blink. His unlikely mount only moves forward. When she sees his eyes- the  color  of his blue eyes, she nearly screams once again as she realizes the impossible.

"Bran? Bran is that you?" her voice breaks, her heart, beating so fast, nearly stops. She does not dare hope. She had already lost Robb, Arya, and little Rickon.

The thin man upon the dire wolf does not smile, as she almost does. His expression does not change. Better a mask than her.

"Fire. Fire will come for you and Jon and Arya. I must be with you all when it comes."

He says not another word. Only directs his great wolf, larger than even Ghost, away. She follows on his heels, calling calmly for Jon, even as her heart refuses to settle.

It is the memory of Bran that made her come here, to the godswood. To kneel before the heart tree in her father's way. For he had been connected to this and that was more proof than she had ever received from the ever comforting Seven.

She breathes, deeply cool air nearly burns her lungs, as she looks upon the carved face of the heart tree. She had often been unsettled by it, felt something looking at her through those crying eyes, felt a tension in the glorious flow of red sap against that pale bark...The prayer of the old gods is done in silence, not in the song, not in pretty words written and blessed for you beforehand. But in your own words, in your own merit, a secret pack between you and them. And as she looks at the bleeding face, she wonders if these gods will listen more. She wonders if they are what brought her here as well, more than the memory of Bran, the hope that something greater than her will listen. She digs her hands into the earth before it, decaying red leaves and dark, rich earth crushed between her pale hands. Her head, before bowed, lower even further as she presses her head against the rich smelling earth.

I know not if you brought me back. But if you had please allow me to better equip us to deal with the coming of the Long Night, of the Winter to kill us all… Please do not let my coming be for naught.

"Sansa?"

She gives a thank you, heartfelt and silent before she lifts her head from the ground. She does not turn at the voice, looking at the tree before her as it cries its sap. She wonders if the gods have listened.

A breeze, light and warm, goes through the trees, rustling brilliant red leaves and her own unbound hair. A whisper of the summer that still holds the world.

I hope that is your answer.

"Father," her voice is calm, sweet, and does not change inflection.

"I… I wondered where you had gone," he stutters, and his voice is tired and worried.

Before she would never have heard that in his voice or had been too innocent to read such difference in his stern voice.

She stands. Her feet, bare and slightly red from the cold, dig into the earth, relish the feeling. Before she would not have dared to do such an uncouth thing, to be so unladylike to walk upon the earth with bare feet. Now she finds, despite her thick armor, that she can indulge herself in the small things she had dismissed in childhood.

"Did I worry you?" she asks, carefully, moving forward. She slips into her stockings economically, and then her boots, ignoring the pressing feeling of… A gaze from the direction of the heart tree.

Her father looks tired, so early in the morning, beard growing slightly unruly in the past few moons. It hurts to have done this to him. But she preferred him tired to dead.

"Some. It unusual for you not to be in the Solar before me. When I heard from Jory that you had passed him towards the godswood-"

"I am sorry. I should have left a notice."

He only nods, jaw tensing.

"You pray to the old gods?"

Sansa allows a small smile.

"I always have. Perhaps not as well as I should have. But they are a comfort… It reminded me of you."

Another reason to think of them... Of the father lost.

He nods again. Her father is not a man of many words. She had never understood, before, as a child. Always was frustrated with his lack of speech. She thought him distant, if doting, removed, unlike her mother. She had so loved her mother. Loved how easy it had been to talk to her, and her lack of stern or dark moods. As a child, she could never understand the peace that silence could bring. She relishes it now, in the quiet contemplation. She understands it now. She loops her arm through his, marveling at the difference in height. She has always been a tall child. But now she hardly reaches his elbow. She feels so deceivingly young at times. They begin to walk, away from the tree. They are midway through the wood when her father speaks again:

"Robb is in my solar."

Sansa pauses mid-stride.

"Is it today?"

"It will not take long for our bannermen to come to our call. He must know when they are here. We must stand together… The lone wolf dies."

Sansa can only nod.

"Wise, father. We should have told him long before now..."

"We were all reluctant to do so. It is a burden I do not wish for any of my children… But I can see the folly in that wish."

Sansa squeezes his arm. She cannot say anything in the face of his quiet sorrow. It is a noble thing, to wish to protect one's children from the horror of the world. But that is a sweet sentiment that destroyed them once. They, in face of the things to come, cannot be summer children to be slain so readily by white winds. She squeezes his arm.

"He will be prepared father. He will not fall. Not this time."

Robb is indeed waiting for them in the solar, along with her mother and an ever nervous Jon. Her father sits in his chair and looks at her expectantly. She is nervous, the only one standing. But that does not stop her any longer. She breathes, deeply, before she looks her brother straight into his familiar eyes. The eyes that all her siblings save Jon and Arya had.

She tells her tale, for the second time.

When she is finished, Sansa unsure of what her brother, Robb is thinking as he stares at her, their parents, and Jon. All of them, save her, have a grim face.

So laughter is not what she expect.

But she cannot blame the boy. While not immature, Robb is still just a boy of three and ten, and her story, even to herself, is more than a little ridiculous. Their lives now are not fantastical, not riddled with omens. Robb was so much like Father- practical, not one too much stock in changing winds or the shift of the sky's color. He knew the Seven well but did not put much stock in the superstitious. He is a boy that is well suited to be an heir- smart, more than a little handsome and he was educated more than well.

But he is still impulsive at times, temperamental and his golden heart made him oddly naive and optimistic in moments. All attributed to his youth and not level of skill. He, after all, is still the same boy that would have, had she not been present, take on the likes of Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister and succeed in nearly all of his subsequent battles. It was diplomacy that ruined him and subsequently the majority of the North, his youthful naivety that believed in true love and that all slights could be forgiven…

Her hands clenched the pelt that had once belonged to Grey Wind, it was soft in her hands, and she is reminded vividly of Lady, so small in comparison to this, just before she had begged father to let her say goodbye to that sweet little animal. She realizes that she cannot even cry, eyes dry as she stands, Grey Wind's pelt pressed closely to her chest.

"Pretty thing," rasps the man who had a hand in the slaughter of the Young Wolf King. He is an old man, much to Sansa's surprise- though she knew Walder Frey to be old, in her nightmares she had always Walder Frey to be more monstrous- But he is just a man, small wheezing and wrinkled, "Come closer and I will show you how to scream, just like your mother."

Jon's hands come to his blade, his eyes narrowed. No matter that he and her mother had not loved each other, the insult is for her and he rises to defend her. Sansa smiles, pressing her hand on his arm. She appreciates the gesture on her King's part, but it matters not what this man says to her. Words are wind, especially as she circles around him like a she-wolf stalking his prey.

"He will not die upon the block," says Queen Daenerys, voice tight. Sansa looks to her, and watches as the Khalasi snarls, much like her dragons. Outside, Drogon's roar rattles the Twins.

"Yes, my Queen," she says, she turns to the Frey Lord, smile sweet as the Maiden, "My King, may Ghost do the honors?"

The old man, so small in reality, so old and more than a foot in the grave, cackles all the way to his execution space, throwing insults and sexual advances on her and the High Queen. She simply keeps smiling, that polite, perfect smile as they bring him before his kin in the courtyard, upon the dais. She holds onto Grey Wind pelt, and prays, to both the old and the new gods to let the spirit of the Young Wolf be at peace, to go to mother and father, to Rickon and Bran, and to wait for her and Jon and Arya as Walder Frey's screams fill the air, as his body is torn apart by Ghost before a horrified crowd of men and women.

Drogon's fire soon follows.

He was a child of Summer, as she had been, and she does not resent the nervous giggle that escapes him at the end of their speech, nor as it falls into larger laughter. Nor when it dies slowly, or as he looks wide-eyed to their father. He blinks, red brows furrowing.

"Surely you jest-" he stops mid-sentence, mouth dropping. Then he closes it. He stares at Father's still face, at the grave pull of his mouth and the way he looks steadily at his heir.

"Robb… Fa- Uncle believes," says Jon, quietly, "I believe."

Robb stares at Jon then, as Father places a hand on his shoulder. His expression is completely innocent and bewildered of a boy losing his best friend. He is hurt and more than a little upset.

"Snow. Snow you're my brother."

Jon smiles, small.

"Technically it's Aegon Targaryen, Stark," the joke is small, but all Sansa can be grateful that Jon can make the effort.

"Aegon? After the conqueror? Aunt Lyanna did you a disservice."

"It was after his half-brother," says father, softly, "The poor babe that died in such a way... Lyanna asked after Elia and her children when I came to her… She thought it appropriate when she learned of their fate. A remembrance to the siblings Jon lost."

Robb stares.

"I-"

"Please Robb," she says, calmly, "Please believe. "

He looks at her. And though she never saw her brother again after that ill-fated trip South… She sees it. The man that this boy would turn into- the man that would become the first King of the North since the Dragons had come to Westeros. The Young Wolf cut down before his time, the man she never got to see. She sees that man in this boy of three and ten. She sees what would have inspired the North and it hurts all the more that this boy would be cut down so young, would be taken from this world because of love.

"What must we do?"

Chapter Text

Steel

"There are three things extremely hard: steel, a diamond, and to know one's self," Benjamin Franklin.

"You fear blades," said an accented voice, deep, but light.

Sansa Stark did not flinch at the sudden approach from the Sword Master, Syrio. It was close. Her body was young, full of inconvenient reactions and ungainly form, especially her face, so free with its emotions, but her mind was sharp and cool as the hard woman she had become. So her only reaction was her fingertips twitching in the direction of the small blade she had in her sleeve. Perhaps a moment of too much stillness. Turning, carefully away from Arya hard at work at her lesson, she looked up at the slightly taller man, face placid.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, evenly. Her voice at times still startles her, the highness and the liveliness she tries to temper.

Lashing blades, meant to protect, meant to shield her, a lady, noble maiden. Instead, the shining knights smiled, baring teeth like lizard lions, gnashing teeth and glowing eyes taking in her pale, young body with eagerness. Bared before them like a meat to the hounds. They hit sharp and true, swinging with increasing force as wildfire eyes stare on with growing, rapturous pleasure. The grin upon his face is something she loathes, for it is nothing like the forced, stilted smiles he had graced her when he had to be kind to her.

The man, Syrio, someone she could only vaguely recall looked to her, a single dark brow raised. She had only ever seen the man in passing, of course, so sure in her superiority over Arya to know that she did not need a dancing master, as she had perfected all of the courtly dances favored by both North and South by the time she was nine name days. It was only later, in the last days that the still, quiet Arya had whispered about what he really been.

"He wasn't exactly a dancing teacher," Arya had said, faintly sharpening her long thin blade, Needle. Her face is marble, her eyes hard moonstones, but something gives. Something so small that if Sansa had not been trained to do so, she would have missed it.

It is affection… Awe.

The awe of a child who loved the grand stories of Knights and exploits of warriors just as much as Sansa had. Only in a different way. Arya had loved the glory, the warriors, Nymeria the Warrior Queen… Sansa feels something there, a small, distinct longing for those innocent days, so long gone. She has changed so drastically these years past- but Sansa can never remove herself completely. Some part of her will always long for the Winterfell she long lost. For the sweet child, she had been and had to leave behind…

And all of the people she had lost...

Little Arya Underfoot, messy, angry Arya with twigs in her hair, glimmering grey eyes and so ready to snap and pull. Nothing like the composed, angry woman she has become. She has gone from steel, to a leaf in the wind, to a wrathful shadow.

Arya's other weapons lay around her on coarse fabric, short knives, both steel and dragon glass, thin long needles coated in something vividly vicious. All gleaming blades. So many that Sansa wagered they were more than three dozen blades, along with Needle and her second, larger sword that she had yet to name. A gift from one of their smiths, Arya's one-time companion, if she recalled- Gendry. Gendry Waters, a bastard from King's Landing. The man that sometimes Brienne looks to and cannot bear. His look is Baratheon, his face shockingly like the well-dressed man Sansa vaguely remembers as the King's brother, Renly. But Sansa thinks him more handsome- for his face is kind, his manner even more so.

Nothing pompous, nothing artificial in his manner.

Sansa avoid looking at the bigger, thicker, nameless sword, instead of watching as her sister carefully passed her stone across her thin blade. It makes a sharp, familiar sound. She is reminded of her father, sharpening and cleaning Ice until it gleamed dark, a potent beauty that even she could not deny, much as she paid little mind to swords in those days. She misses the blade, and at times when she looks at Brienne's Oathkeeper part of her wishes to snatch it away from her sworn shield's capable hands. Break it into a million pieces and reforge their ancestral sword. Especially whenever she is near Jaime Lannister, who had left the twin blade in his son's care.

For it will always be a desecration of her family's treasured blade. Even with the glittering lions removed, the rubies struck away, a plain, iron dire wolf replacing them… even if it is now used to defend House Stark. Or what little remains of it. A legacy of four hundred years was struck away and reforged as a mockery and show of power. Red and black blade, gleaming the influence of the house on the Iron Throne. And that will always remind Sansa how their family had been torn apart.

"Oh?" asked Sansa, blinking in surprise. It is the only change in her face. The rapid flutter of her eyes.

"He taught the Water Dance- A sword form. He said a true dancer could move across water without disturbing it. I wished I had learned it properly."

Arya sword form is not inelegant. It is still… Silent and deadly. But it is not a dance. It is honed, tight, but not fluid. As shadow, as constant and controlled. As far as Sansa could see, anyway, as someone ill-versed in such things. She only carries a small blade in her sleeve as an emergency measure, not because she knew how to wield it well. She wished, at that moment to allow herself to furrow her brow, or twist her hands together in her lap, but she did not. She, instead only lifted a single brow.

"Father was wise."

Arya looked up, carefully, grey eyes narrowing.

"He should have made you attend. Maybe you could have escaped with me."

Sansa allows a small, still smile to pass upon her face. It is acceptable humorous to allow that little slip.

"I would not have done it. A lady does not use swords. It is up to our father, our brothers or Lord Husband to protect us," it is an automatic, perfect answer, ladylike answer. She is too well trained to say anything but, "And you would have been so angry at having to share the activity, as I would have been forced to attend."

Arya looks at her, eyes relaxing. She doesn't even scowl at her answer, as the old Arya would have done. She just looked at her. Then she returned to her sword and did not speak again for the remainder of the night. Sansa returned to her needlework. She ignored how her hands trembled.

It had only been in passing mention, but Arya had seemed to become the girl that Sansa remembered, not the hard woman she had become. It was for that reason that she had made sure that Syrio would teach Arya to defend herself again. She was so young- just six name days- but it was important. It was so important. In this life, she begged her father to arm his daughters in the ways best suited to them. Sansa was no swordswoman and while she thought herself craven for it, she doubted she would ever be. She did not have the temperament, nor the will to reach for a blade. Thin white scars across her back, raised and marred skin. Arya would be even better prepared than in their first try at this life. Sansa herself could not deny she was curious, but uneasy at Arya's progress. She was so young. It was why she made an effort to come and see her sister, at least once a week in her busy schedule. With Robb better informed, she had even less time to herself, trying her best to hon her brother into the man she had never met...

Now, Sansa tried to avoid the urge to lick her lips, curling her fingers tightly in her long flowing sleeve instead at Syrio's question. At his steady gaze.

"You, lady. You do not like blades. You flinched when I brought forth the true steel blades to check balance," said the Braavosi man, that brow still lifted, "Looked away with far eyes."

Sansa does not shift from foot to foot as her young body wished to. She only lifted a single brow at the man, mirroring his expression.

"Oh?"

"I am curious, why one daughter would wish to learn and the other not. Especially since the North has such a reputation for female warriors, rare here in Westeros. I have my answer. Fear."

"I am a Lady," she says, automatically, demurely, dipping her head in a courteous nod. It is a gesture to acknowledge how ridiculous his suggestion is, in a polite way, "It is not my place to touch a sword."

The Dancing Master, Syrio hums. Something in his eyes is kind, and something in them sharp.

"Fear should never be ignored, girl. It should be conquered."

Sansa fights a grimace. Her face is unused to being placid, unused to her mask and her expressions slip far more than she would like. It is not natural for someone often to try and be expressionless or so poise all of the time. But if Margaery can master it by the time she is six and ten, then in this life Sansa would master it now.

"But fear keeps you alive," is her reply, distant, unaffected.

The Braavossi man laughs. That kindness in his eyes grows. It is almost pity, perhaps understanding that lingers there.

"Survival. Yes. One thing. But what of living? Fear stills you, keeps you. That is not living."

Be sweet and chirping, be pleasant and still. So much fear keeping me complacent.

She blinks.

Is all I want survival? What did that get me? A cold, cruel disposition. A sweet mask to show the world. I don't want to survive. I survived for so long…

I want to  live.

"I am not like her," she gestures to her sister, standing so still, one leg folded into the other, arms wide with too heavyweights in each of her hands, teetering so unevenly. But there was a glint of delight in her eyes.

I did not realize I missed that until now.

Arya had been lost, a little, in the passing moons. Sansa could not help but feel guilty. Arya was too young to know why Jon was pulling away, not exactly by his own choice. She had ruined that, in telling him the truth. Sansa regrets it to some extent, but as always her brother rose to the occasion. Unlike before he was now burdened with a purpose- a knowing that made him determined to an unhealthy degree(not that Sansa was any better) and made him neglect. She felt for Arya, lost in the activity in the great game with nobody to turn to for reassurance. She needed this, not just to defend herself, but so Arya would know she was not forgotten. Arya needed this.

The Invisible Wolf… Will not fade into the cracks like before. Not be swallowed by nothing, by  no one.

"I do not ask you to be her. I ask you to try in your own way. No one person dances the same. We know the same steps, the same movements, but each performance is unique. Yours."

The man stares at her, and Sansa stares back. She licks her lips, allowing herself that slip.

"I… I do fear blades. But can you take that away from me?"

The man stares at her before he smiles.

"I will make your sword part of you. Familiarity will take your fear away."

Sansa curls her fists in her long sleeve.

"I must attend to my duties. But, I will ask my father to give me the morns before breaking my fast. Away from your lessons with Arya, so your attention does not wane from her entirely. Is that acceptable?"

The man nods. His smile grows wider. Fuller.

"Tomorrow, lady."

Something clenches in her stomach. It is not a pleasant feeling, but she is determined to push past it. If this will help her, help her let go- Then she must force herself to do it.

"Tomorrow."

She nods to him, before she leaves, smiling faintly at Arya who grinned excitedly back, her dark grey eyes shining with a mirth that Sansa is sad to think was ever rarely directed to her. She is halfway back to her father's solar when she sees Jon and Robb, carrying an arm full of scrolls. Faded and aged. She walks to them, hands extended as she takes half the burden from Robb. He stumbles, in surprise at first, before he readily lets her hold some of the scrolls in his hands. She hums, falling into step with her brothers.

"What's all this?" she asks, quietly.

Jon sighs, next to them.

"Father wants the yields of our current glass gardens from the last hundred years. He wants to make a final projection of the new glass gardens for the gathering of the North."

She hummed.

"I suppose I will have my hands full in the next few weeks," she murmured, wondering if she would have time to go to Syrio. Perhaps she would need to wake before dawn, instead of at dawn to attend to her duties.

Sansa pushed back a sigh.

"Years, you mean. We only have so long before winter is here," was Robb's flippant response. He sounded exhausted and quite put out.

Sansa felt her lips twitch.

"Have I burden you, Robb?" she asked, nearly laughing.

"With too much, Sansa. Tell me again, something good."

Bright, Tully eyes, the same ones in her own face, looked to her. They were not altogether cheerful, but held a shade of darkness… Her own doing, she guessed. But it was not jaded as her own nor father's, simply more understanding of the world they lived in.

"Every battle he ever engaged in," she says, simply, "Was won."

She does not have the heart to say what those victories cost her.

"Look at that Snow, a great general."

Jon rolls his eyes.

"Yes, yes. But who was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

"Must you poster?" was her question.

"Sansa," said Robb seriously, "We are boys. It is in our nature."

At that, she could not help but let out a laugh. It felt so strange to laugh, in her mind, but in body, her body of ten was quite used to it. It filled the corridor, loud, unrestrained, had her horribly flinching in some ways, but felt so good that she did not temper herself. Jon and Robb joined her, and like many things in this beautiful, glorious past, had tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the sound of their laughter. It was… Foreign a sound to her, from herself, from them, together, and she is heartbroken at the remembrance that they never met again after they parted from each other at fifteen. She had forgotten their friendship, how deep that brotherly connection had been…

At how close they had all been, before the King's court had come to Winterfell…

"Jon," she said, losing tact and any pretty words, "You must speak to Arya again. Spend time with her."

Jon stumbled, nearly dropping all of his scrolls. He looked back at her, squinting his grey eyes.

"Why? Arya's fine, and I have so much to do-"

Sansa stepped forward, taking his scrolls from him.

"She misses you. Duty is important, my brother, but so is Family. She doesn't understand and I suspect she will not understand until we tell her. But that won't be for a while yet. She only sees that you're pulling away."

Jon stares at her, lower lip trembling.

"But-"

"Snow," and that's Robb, dropping his scrolls altogether, reaching over to clasp his shoulder, "She has a point."

Jon gives a sigh.

"It's unfair when you both are of one mind," is his only response, before he gives a nod, and starts making his way back the way they had come.

Sansa only smiles, pleased. Work they may have too, hard and long, but to neglect each other she could not stand. It was such a divide that had made her hesitate to be parted from the Queen and Joffrey… And subsequently caused her greatest horror. She would not allow such a history to repeat itself. Robb lets out a chuckle when Jon is out of their sight.

"It is all sorts of frightening on how well you can get him to do things."

Sansa looks at the scrolls scattered at his feet with a raised brow in response. Robb readily picks them up, stacking them in a neat little pile.

"And now I follow. Very odd to be the eldest all my life and suddenly not be," is Robb's continued musing, looking at her.

She can only raise another brow at Robb, both shooting to her hairline. He gives a nod before he sighs out:

"I feel but a child to you, Sansa."

"It is something that I cannot enjoy, sweetling. I know not what caused this. All I can be is grateful," she whispers, quietly.

She starts to walk, again, towards the solar.

"Tell me something else… Something good."

He always asked. Never for the bad… Just the good of the future. He wanted to see the good in the world, even after she told him of the bad that was possible. She admired that in Robb, in the true… Goodness, her brother held.

"I believe he was deeply in love. Before he died. Very, very deeply in love."

Robb can not quite smile. But there is a hint there, a small twitch of his lips that cannot fully form.

Chapter Text

Strength

"The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection," Thomas Paine.

The sound of steel against steel has something in Sansa's stomach twisting, sharply, a feeling so strong she feels bile rise in her throat, crawling its way with a burn. It wasn't an unfamiliar sound. In fact, until recently, Sansa had thought the sound so commonplace, so integral to the Force of the North that she had dismissed it. Hardly ever registered it as men and women trained in vain to try and save humanity from the death brought by the Second Long Night. She knows not, now, in the body of child how that sound had become so sinister within the light of the sun she so long missed.

Perhaps, in her body of twenty namedays, she had been able to suppress her ill feelings so much better, honed, a cool mask that she had earned. Perhaps in the wake of the peace of the Winterfell before they came had allowed these fears, these anxieties buried down deep to rise to the surface. To plague her more vividly.

Sansa found that none of these reasons really mattered to her. All she knew is that her jaw is clenched so tightly she felt the ache all the way to her temples. Breathing through her nose was soft and forcibly slow, and her hands were clenched in a mummer's show of a demure clasp in her lap. Knuckles white, hands trembling with the strain. Her eyes blinked rapidly, the memories of steel against her delicate flesh, of moments of the camp of the North against the Others muddled together in rapid succession:

The sound of steel against her flesh was too familiar to her. The sharp whistle of the sword as it was swung rang in Sansa's ears, followed by the dull thud of the flat of the blade smacking against her bareback. It rang in her ears again and again. The series of blows was a mixture of a dull, deep-seated ache that rattled her teeth in her skull and the sharp pain of the sharp sides of the sword pressing into her skin. She breathed deeply as she dared, trying not to move too much as the blows kept coming, as she felt her blood start to well up, a hot sticky trickle down her back.

She was strangely numb to this at this point. Even the showing of her breasts to green eyes made her feel… Nothing. The shame of before, the sheer  hatred  at this forced humiliation was gone. All she felt absently was the tears that she still shed as the blade hit against her back, again and again, an echo of the sensation of her blood going down her back. She cannot stop the tears. It is a reaction of her body against pain, natural and all too sweet for him. He watches it all, a look of faked solemnity as he proclaims her a victim of traitor's blood.

Sansa stares wordlessly ahead, through her tears, voicing her hurts with small whimpers and moans that brought those green eyes a new light, new delight at her pain. She faked it, too numb to feel anything really, but knowing too well what her part was. Staying silent made Joffrey furious, made him push his Kingsguard into swinging their blades harder. So she performs for him, makes the noises, just another mask she wears to protect herself. Eyes, hundreds of eyes of the court stared at her, some looked away, but most did not. Most looked with hungry eyes at her rosy nipples, curiously morbid and awed at the way her once smooth and creamy flesh of her back was turn molten and purple, shades of green and yellow of healing bruises fading, the red inflamed flesh of ill healing, the crimson of blood flowing down it all in delicate trails.

Sansa forced herself to blink, to breath deeply.

Brienne's Oathkeeper landed harshly against the neck of a Wright, cleaving it cleaning from its shoulders. It was a dull, cracking sound. Sansa felt the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust, as chips of frozen blood fell onto her face, as she watched those unnatural eyes glow blue and cold. Brienne smashes its head beneath her large boot in the following movement. She brushes off the blood with impatient, gloved fingertips, trying not to scream as Jaime Lannister gripped her arm, pushing her harshly off of her mount in a desperate move. She lands on her feet, not quite nimble, stumbling away from her nameless horse. His lone hand is quick to reach for his blade, drawing it with a sharp sound that rings for a fraction of a second before he hacks into the incoming Wrights who had attacked her horse in horrifying quickness.

The poor beast is spared but sports long red gashes across its side. Sansa moves forward and smacks it across its rump, sending it riding ahead as soon as she assesses that it would not be able to carry any of them to safety. She hopes it makes it back to the gates, leagues away. Jon and Arya alike would recognize the horse she had begun to favor if anything. Around her, the outer people of the camp gather as many weapons as they can, torches and axes and swords. Women and men alike come forward, sounding alarms at the newest attack. She is thankful she had chosen to keep the children within the relative safety of the walls of Winterfell.

"Their patrols are getting too close to the outer camp," cried Brienne, lips red and chapped from the cold so common now, part in anger, "You should not have risked yourself, my Queen!"

Sansa bites back the snarl in her throat as she watches the monsters come in greater numbers. Her trips to Wintertown within the walls of Winterfell to distribute supplies were commonplace, but it was not  enough.  She knew that the people outside of the walls resented those within, unrest clear and desertion a problem that they could not afford. But there were so  many.  In its semi-ruined state, there was no way that they could house every person who was fleeing from beyond the remains of the Wall. The Free-Folk, those few survivors from the Night's Watch, not to mention the Houses from across the Seven Kingdoms and the High Queen's own army that had all gathered to Winterfell as a means to stop the Second Long Night. She had begun to go out into the camps in hopes of boosting morale and settling some of the unrest, delivery supplies, and assurances.

"You know as much as I that this was necessary," she tells her sworn shield, her voice, for once, dips in frustration. She loathes to explain herself, least of all to anyone who isn't Jon or Dany or Tyrion.

She knew her limitations as 'Queen'. She knew her title was empty and pending. She knew that she was simply a symbol- the eldest, 'true-blooded' surviving child of Eddard Stark- the gentle child so cruelly kept away from the North. A banner to rabble about, to cry and cheer for. But her duties amongst the people were the largest. High Queen Daenerys, bless her gentle heart, was constantly called foreigner with her commanding and unrelenting fortitude. Too strange, too out of the bounds of normal and acceptable femininity of most of Westeros( And how Sansa admired her for it ). Jon, though beloved, was a man and meant to be at the forefront of the war effort in the eyes of many. Such a duty was something that fell to her shoulders, she who despite the circumstances of the recapture of Winterfell, was seen as the gentle Westeros lady, if of the Northern variety.

"The Wench is right, your Grace," said Jaime, his voice, quiet and subdued, "You should no longer make these rounds."

Sansa looks to him, watches as he lifts his forged, steel hand, pointing across the snow.

Blue eyes, not of a Wright stare across the field, a little too tall for a man, even one of giant's descent. Sansa feels her blood turn to ice, at the sight of the Other who commands this platoon of Wrights. Hands tremble a fraction for a second, but she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, copper, and iron, hot and almost sweet in her mouth.

I am warm and alive yet.

"No," she mummers, half to herself, half to her sworn shields as their blades sing against the frigid air, "That is exactly why I can never stop."

She straightens her already straight shoulders, hand half clasped to the dragon glass dagger within her sleeve. She breathes the frigid air, so cold that it burns her lungs. She  relishes  that burn relishes how it signaled that she was still  alive .

"GLORY FOR KING JON, GLORY FOR QUEEN DAENERYS!" She cries, clear and loud, deep from the pit of her stomach. She has no intention of using her blade unless as a last resort, but she understands the theatrics of raising her own blade high above her head, unsheathing it quickly, watching it glitter in the firelight, "GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEEN!"

The resulting cry of the campers, despite everything, lighten her heart. They roar, like direwolves in the wind, crying for their King and Queen. When they call her name as well, she is pleased, the simple, twisted bronze circlet on her head never lighter. Iron, steel, fire, and dragon glass sing as they are raised in the air in a cacophony that promised death to the creatures coming to slaughter them all.

"GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEENS!"

She felt half caught between her memories and the display in front of her. Ice, in all its glory, a dark gleaming beauty, slashed through the air with deadly force. It was such a large blade, so long and board, that in most hands, she knew it would be swinging, slashing mess. No better than a slab of iron or a club. In her father's hands, however, after nearly five and twenty years, Ice was no slab of iron to slash about. It was controlled, precise movements, long-reaching, and powerful strikes even to her somewhat untrained eye. He was power and control, precision and heavy blows. Against Syrio's shorter, thinner blade, it was a large contrast. Syrio danced, about, his untamed blade an extension of himself, a limb that weaved and dipped between the harsher strikes of Ice. He was precision and grace, beauty and death in every light, moving step.

They hardly touched, as Syrio danced around her father, but when they did the sound of steel against steel raised the fine hair on the nape of her neck.

Breath Sansa, a voice, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her King, older and soothing, rang through her head. She took a steadying breath, through her nose, and forced her hands, clasped in front of her, not to tremble, Breath Sansa, a different voice. Higher, steady, the woman Arya had become. Firm and even, Sansa took another breath. It is merely an echo, a comfort to remind her when she had been among people touched with horrors beyond what she had ever expected in her life as a Lady.

She takes strength in those, in the memory of people lost. While she has gained the innocent version of them, the last of her family, the one to stand through their own horrors were forever lost… She was glad for it. So glad to be back in Winterfell and prevent their fates.

But she thinks part of her will always mourn them no matter what.

"Not bad, Eddard Stark," called Syrio, smiling, his white teeth a startling contrast to his darker and tanned skin. He lowered his sword, his nameless blade, and gave a flourishing bow.

Her father said not a word, lowering Ice, his breath rapid as he nodded his agreement to the Former First Sword of Braavos. The only other indication of his pleasure was the slight twitch of his lips to signify his enjoyment, he returned the bow, politely with a shallower movement. Not out of disrespect, but because her father was really that out of breath and could hardly bend at the waist. Arya, beside her, had, unconsciously as the spar had progressed, leaned forward, her grey eyes wide and her small mouth slightly parted in awe. She vibrated in her seat, hands twitching in her impatience.

"That was amazing!" cried Ayra, lunging to her feet. Sansa, despite her own feelings, could not help the smile that appeared on her face at her sister's enthusiasm. Grey eyes sparkled, pale lips parted in awe, and Sansa saw a ghost of the woman she would become, softer than her memories, but just as achingly fierce and beautiful, "Sansa, wasn't that amazing?"

"Yes," she spoke and noted with relief that her voice showed no indication of her distress, she was getting better at tempering herself. She stood, brushing her hands gently against her soft-spun trousers, "That was very well done, Master Syrio, Father."

"Too tense, yes?" asked Syrio, pointedly, as he turned to her. He was still smiling, but his dark eyes were so intent, so focused on her nearly flawless mask, "Arya leaned forward to see better. You leaned back."

Sansa felt the need to scowl. The Braavosi man read people so incredibly well and despite her best efforts, she was no exception. It was part, she was sure, of being such a good swordsman. Such a good teacher. But it was not something that Sansa didn't enjoy nonetheless, so used it in the last years of her adult life to be able to hide her true emotions from anyone, even those close to her. The fact that Syrio could see so through her fragile mask bothered her more than she cared to admit. If one man could see her, whose is to say that more would not?

Her vulnerability in face of the likes of Petyr Baelish or someone just as observant as him… She knew she was fighting her own body's natural reactions, knew that she was allowed to be more relaxed in the general safety of Winterfell… But…Part of her, most of her, still relished the safety of her courtesies, of the control that her captivity of the Lannisters and later Petyr and Ramsey had forced her to adopt.

"Sansa?" and that was Father, his mouth forming a frown.

She bites back a sigh.

"I never expected steel to sound like that," she replied, calmly, "It unsettled me."

Understanding was in her father's eyes at her calm admission, while Syrio raised a brow.

"Though you are a long way from using live steel, Sansa Stark, you must not let this hold you back," Syrio, deliberately sheathed his sword, before he went to his pack. He removed two short daggers, simple but beautiful things made of delicately wrought handles and slender blades. They were beautifully simple, without true subjects of adornment, just lines in patterns that she vaguely recognized as Braavosi.

He extended them to her, handle first and sheathed. Reluctantly, she took them both. They were heavier than the dragon-glass dagger she had used to keep in her sleeve but lighter than the current steel dagger she had in her boot. I perhaps need to get my own instead of some reject from the Smithy.

"Run them against each other. Hear the sound. Let it fall away from you."

Sansa licked her suddenly parched lips.

"I will ruin your fine blades."

Syrio gave a casual shrug.

"I care not. Do as I say. Girl!" he said, turning to Arya. Arya was bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager, "Take out your blade. We shall see if such a demonstration of Westeros sword-forms versus Water-Dance has taught you anything."

Arya beamed, already retrieving her wooden practice sword. Sansa took that as her own prompt and sat back on the floor, daggers in hand. She had only had a handful of lessons with Syrio, none of which involved the actual use of swords, even the wooden training ones, but rather instead conditioning of her body to support the Water Dancing form as she was much older than Arya and 'set' in her ways. Most of it had to do with speed and endurance of holding a blade without tiring and her balance(the one thing she was better at than Arya at this point), but some had to do with Syrio's vague knowledge over her fear of swords.

Her most difficult one to date was to hold actual swords to choose a sword from Syrio's rather extensive collection to find something suitable for her (A sword would eventually be created for her, or so said her father in regards to her and Arya, but only when they had mastered the form to some extent to take into account their physical ages). Her hand did not stop trembling for the entire process and Syrio had not said a word to it, only stared her down as she went through blade after blade. She thinks he had pitied her but had forced her to go through every blade until she had found one, longer than most blades, but needle-thin and feather-light in her hand. It had taken all she had not to throw the blade away from her, as Syrio had nodded his acceptance.

Something about this exercise, however, felt more terrible.

Breathing deeply through her nose, Sansa ran the steel daggers against each other. The sound, though softer than the sound of two full-sized swords slamming against each other, was similar enough. Nearer to her than the clash of Syrio's and her Father's spar. It sent something down her spine, a cold trail of spiders, made her stomach turn. Sansa forced herself to make the sound again, allowing herself a frown and furrowed brow of concentration at each sharp swipe. Sweat beaded on her brow. She forced herself again, holding herself as still as possible to prevent herself from flinching.

"You did not tell me you feared blades," said her father, calmly, as he sat next to her.

He crossed his legs, a heavy bundle slung over his shoulder and Ice in hand. He did not look to her, only began the process of inspecting the ancestral sword with care, hands running along the blade's flat, trying to find imperfections in the dark gleaming steel after the spar. Part of her wondered as she watched her father set to clean and polish the blade if her Uncle Brandon would have been as meticulous with the care of the blade. What little she knew of him, made her think of a man that would have been ill-suited to be Warden of the North, a Wild Wolf. His foolish actions, in her mind, to challenge the Prince to a death battle over his sister only assured such a thing to her. She thinks, despite how horrible it was, that it was best that it had fallen to her father to rule the North in his stead.

Sansa made a deliberate move to look away from her father as he turned to look at her, focusing on the gleaming steel in her hands. It was beautiful, in a strange way, these instruments. Gleaming beauty, flawless shine, and careful craft that even she could admire. But she knew all too well the pain such beauty could inflict. She sets her jaw and she ran the blades together again, harsher than before. Sparks flew.

"It did not seem important," she says, quietly.

And it hadn't. It hadn't been important in her future-past, she had mustered through it, nearly unaware of it. So much for her to do, so little time to linger in anything, let alone her silly fears. Now it would have to be put aside again. Sansa was nothing if not good at wearing her masks and soldiering through things like this. Her father sighs, a heavy gust of emotion.

"It is important to me."

Warmth came to her chest, tears to her eyes at the simple words. Her father reminded her of her King- a reflection as before her King had reminded her constantly of Father. Simple assurance of the love and care she had so missed in her time away from the North. She pushed back all sentiment with another harsh drag of steel against steel.

Later. In the dark of your bedroom, where you can properly reval in this love. Not yet Sansa, not today. You still have so much to do.

"Father… I assure you, this is just one more thing for me to do."

He hummed.

"It is not something you have to do alone. Sansa," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Allow me to bear this burden with you as well. It is just one more thing to share between us, is it not?"

She blinks. Opens her mouth to protest, and do so violently.

The lone wolf dies, and that is pure Bran in her mind.

She tenses before she lets herself slump. Wordlessly, though not without cursing herself for her very human weakness, Sansa presses herself against her father's side. She runs the blade against each other again. It is not a cure-all. The sound eats at her mind and makes her stomach turn still. But it eases something in her all the same. Her father's warmth is not all curing.

But it is enough.

She runs those blades together while Arya learns the proper steps, and then she is taught how to care and sharpen blades with those daggers. Syrio does not take them back, even after they are sharpened to perfection. Instead, he instructs her to keep them close and when she has time to run them together again and again. He even gives her a belt, to hold them to her person. To care for them as she cares for her hair or her dress. Reluctantly, Sansa agrees, before she leaves her sister to her much longer, and through the lesson, both her and her Father leaving more or less at the same time, only pausing for a moment to their chambers to at least remove some sweat and changing out of their training clothes, Sansa herself relishing the change back from her well-tailored breeches into a proper dress.

Despite everything, she feels more comfortable in her dresses. She, over the last few moons, had, as a sort of side project, had taken to remove any traces of childish influence from her wardrobe. Sansa, child though she may appear to be, was very decidedly not one. She made a point to keep the clothing appropriate, never making anything too daring nor too adult, loathed as she wished to. But she had at least taken to remove the influence of her childish adoration for the South. She redid her image as she had in the future-past, taken in the influence of Northern designs of gowns, of patterns of wild wolves, and simpler, more geometric stitchwork. Straighter cuts, covering and secure, tight and regal and more taciturn. Jewelry non-existence save for a silver locket with the running direwolf of her sigel and a ring with the same design with the leaping trout of the Tully banner added a gift her mother had made for her at her seventh name-day, that fit on Sansa's tiny thumb.

Her love of silk and lace, though present, was delegated to only dinner gowns meant for feasts instead of everyday use. Her delicate slippers were discarded for well-worn, supple boots more appropriate for the outdoors of the North. She took care to dress well, as always, aware of the image she projected. A grey gown almost white, soft and rich velvet and delicately spun linen and wool, in layers meant to protect her against the cold, stitched with running wolves(her family's wolves, all along her hem), with blue winter roses, the exact shade of Tully blue stitched carefully among the wolves. She had arranged her hair mostly down, a careful tumble of fire pulled back in a braid around her head, a mimic of the simple crown she used to wear.

She looked… Young. Painfully so, as she carefully assesses herself in the mirror. All that looks at her is the sweet bird that left Winterfell to die. For a moment she felt a disconnect to her reflection. Sansa looks at her round cheeks, at her large doe eyes, and at the cherubic plump lips. And she feels lost and wondering if it had all been a dream, after all. But then she sees pieces of herself, a hint of her long neck that looked odd in a child, the slight strength of her cheekbones from around the layer of childish fat. And her mannerisms helped to remove the child she had been. But her reflection, to Sansa, was just another mask she had donned. Just another one to use to her best advantage to correct the future that was possible.

She steps out of her room after she had carefully pinned her long, grey fur cloak, over her shoulders, touching the large snarling direwolf pin that holds the cloak against her. She was placing her fine fur-lined gloves when her father left his rooms, changed into the doublet she had created for him, a large mother wolf stitched snarling upon his breast.

"Only a few Houses left," says her father and she sees that his arm extended. It is almost comical how much taller he is than her. But she reminds herself that come a few years she would be only a few fingers span shorter, "I expect them to be within our Walls by nightfall. The feast shall begin, and on the morrow, we will begin discussions."

She takes his arm, strong and what had been a distant memory to her. Sometimes she is overwhelmed by it. But at the moment, she is only feeling settled.

"Indeed. Any further word from King's Landing? A delegation perhaps to oversee the changes in the North?"

"Nothing of the sort, Sansa. The King's Hand has declared this a local matter completely, with the approval of the King," spoke her Mother, beyond regal in a pure blue gown, stitching a mixture of red and grey of her sigels, with direwolves and jumping trouts made along all of the dress.

Sansa admired her mother's work and the contrast her fair Mother made against her Father's simple grey and white attire, as she delicately threaded her arm through his arm. She felt something at ease at the gesture. The estrangement between her parents had distressed her, especially in the wake of what she knew was a happy relationship, broken so horribly as it had. One of the few I know of.

"However, I received word from my Father, your grandfather. He says he wishes to better discuss any changes to our trading agreements in person. I believe he's also using this excuse to make my brother Edmund take a little charge of Riverrun."

"It's been so long since Grandfather has come," says Robb, cheerfully, extending his arm to Sansa. She moves away from her parents, and notes with amusement that her brother was dressed almost identical to their Father, save for a single line of stitchwork in of red and blue geometric work of around the collar of his doublet, with Grey-Wind stitched howling against his breast. Some of her finest work- even as when she had had a steadier hand.

"I don't remember him," she mentions, as for her, it had been perhaps four and ten years since she had seen him last. She had vague memories at best.

"He was tall and red of hair," said Jon quietly and she smiled as he threaded his arm through her's. His doublet was pure white(he would never take the Black) and the stitchwork on Ghost was so fine, done in a slightly darker shade of white that she could not help but beam at how well he wore it.

"Well I've never met him," chimed Bran, cheerful and voice boisterous. He was so young, she thought with a sigh. Summer was on his breast, stoic and the calmest depicted of the wolves.

"Yes, you have. We just don't remember," said Arya, rolling her eyes. She wore her own doublet as well, looking smart and fiercely comfortable.

Sansa had provided the girl with a few dresses because part of her would always wish for her sister to try and look somewhat like her station demanded. But Arya had yet to wear them as far as Sansa could see, the young girl content in trousers and doublets.

Some things never change.

"Everyone hush. We must look smart."

So they did, a pack, all matching clothing that screamed of both wealth and of unity. Before the Gates of Winterfell, they set a table of bread and salt, of water and wine, waiting as they had for the past few days for the rest of the Houses of the North to come into their protection, to attend their Lord's command. Sansa, wondered, as all of the delegations of the last Houses of the North came past the gates of Winterfell if this was how Robb felt when he called the banners. The sense of both anticipation and fear, the calculated way she made note of their attire and form of transport, of the number of their entourage. To see all the banners of the North within its walls was both heartening and made her feel so tired in that moment. While the majority of the Northern houses had arrived well in a timely manner, the lack of urgency of their Warden being held captive had lead to a few stragglers.

When she sees him, it takes a moment for her to steady herself, to remember that it cannot possibly be him, as she watches the sigil of vivid red against pink. Our blades are sharp. Once, those had been her words as well, if by force, but her words nonetheless. Winter is Coming. Hear Me Roar. I have had many words, and they have all shaped me to some extent. And it isn't until he dismounts, next to his traitorous father, that she realizes the differences. Because Lord Bolton smiles at the young man, and he is much too old to be Ramsey, as he looked to be six and ten already. Tall and broad, standing in the sunlight, she realizes that it is the brother slain by another. Perhaps she is colored by her memories of his bastard brother, but she thinks him softer looking, she would say kind if she trusted anything with the name or connection of Bolton.

She blinks, rapidly as she watches Domeric Bolton shift uneasily on his feet, looking about Winterfell with interest. His eyes, light and almost silvery, are keen, the pull of his mouth open in what looks like appreciation. His hair, dark and long, hangs handsomely and easily past his shoulders. When his father touches his shoulders for his attention, she sees happiness in Roose's face and a smile upon Domeric's, returning his father's expression. She blinks, having never seen such an expression on the Lord of Dreadfort face so… At ease.

Ramsey more than likely murdered him. Or so said Theon. I must save him and keep Ramsey as a bastard with no resources.

She made a point not to stare at him, nor his father. It did not mean she was unaware as they made their way to the Stark Family and watched as they made the exchange of salt and bread. She nearly sneered in the wake of that, but made no outward reaction, simply dipping her head politely as they passed, a long line of other bannermen needing to do the same meaning that the courtyard was too full for them to linger. Though she did note that Domeric cast a lingering glance to her. It is logical, she thought, for him to look at me. I am the eldest girl child of his liege lord, it would be odd for him not to think of me as a potential bride. Especially since my father has made no inclinations of a Southern marriage for me. But the man was six and ten and she ten namedays, his interest was more a curiosity than sexual attraction. She took comfort in that- and that his words would never be her's again.

In the end, the Boltons were one of many and they passed with no incident. But for Sansa, something eased in her stomach to see them being so passive figures. And I will keep them there.

The rest of the Houses of the North came, and with them, they adjourned inside, heading to their rooms to prepare for the feast that her mother and she had arranged for the night of all the North within the walls of Winterfell. Sansa shed all of her attire, applying light perfume, and re-did her hair into something a little more elaborate, held up by steel combs of snarling wolves, something she vaguely remembers ignoring most of the time before they had been taken away in King's Landing by Cersei. Her dress was a fine silk one, but simpler than her welcoming gown on purpose, just white, pure, and threaded with the grey of her house in geometric patterns and grey Myrish lace.

She leaves her room to spot poor Arya, in a dress, loose and free following. It is a match to Sansa's, save for less lace, and a touch more ribbons that Sansa had thought would look handsome on a child of six-namedays. Arya's expression, however, leads her to believe that she rather be back in her trousers.

"Mother made me," she says by explanation, tugging unhappily at her long, loose sash, which was supposed to be tied neatly, around the girl's thin waist.

Sansa finds herself smiling, a true one of sheer delight at how free and uncensored her sister was at this age. She walks forward, hands reaching. She fixes the sash, careful to keep it from constricting Arya, tying it smartly in a bow, before she let it fall against her sister. Careful, her hands' flutter, smoothing down curls and slightly out-of-place hair.

"You look lovely."

"Don't lie. You're the pretty one."

The accusation is plain, the self-depriment even more so. Sansa only turns her sister around. Grey eyes look at her, wide and soft. The hurt of childish jealousy and years of tension, already present between them so early in their lives… Sansa wonders at foolish youth. At how time changed your perspective.

"I love you," says Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."

Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister.

"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce, and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."

"If I recall, Father is quick to say how much you look of Aunt Lyanna."

Dark brows furrow.

"So?"

"She was said to be beautiful. How can you not be pretty as well?" she reasons, carefully.

Arya looks at her, really looks at her. As always, Sansa sees the wisdom in those grey eyes, a certain ability to see the truth. She smiles, slight, there, and Sansa's heart is lighted. They find their siblings a little way's down the corridor, dressed as they are in even finer clothing than the day, standing about to enter the Great Hall in something that gives semblance of ceremony. When her parents emerge, well paired, Sansa stands between Robb and Jon, arm looped through their arms as Arya and Bran settle behind her, little Rickon she knows, is already in bed, and Theon is already at the feast as per his own request.

"Sansa?" that's Robb, uneasily next to her, walking carefully behind their parents.

"Yes?" she mummered, softly.

He blinked, his arm curled around her's as they made their way to the Great Hall. Jon was stoic and uneasy with the thought of being allowed equality so outwardly, but it had been at her mother's and her own, insistence.

"He called the banners? All of them?" he was careful to censor his words, as Arya and Bran walked behind them.

The awe in his voice, the disbelief, made her almost smile.

"Yes. For his father's sake."

Robb smiled and laughed, shakily.

"It feels like it would have been so much for one of five and ten to handle."

"He became King. Make that what you will."

Robb's hold on her arm tightened. Jon, next to them, just sighed.

"So did his brother."

She allows a cool smile.

"As did their sister. Circumstances lead to everything, and they handled their burden as best they could."

"Some more than others," mummered Robb, furrow tightening.

"Hush. No frowns when we enter the Hall. Please."

Robb, young as he was, did a fair job of schooling his expression as they entered the Hall. Sansa had seen it full, many times in her time leading Winterfell with the High Queen and King, but there was a difference, she thinks, in the general air. The roar upon their entrance was like thunder- shaking the very walls, the majority of the people looked both well fed and well dressed, and their eyes… Their eyes she did not see the same despair she had so commonly seen on the expressions of people. She does not realize she had felt the same despair until it is lightened by the sheer amount of fierce people she sees before them, alive, full, and unharmed by the Southern War. All of them cheering for her father, for their Lord, the man they would have gone to war for. The man they respected and would follow more than an untested boy.

There is hope. The North is not yet divided. Be damn anything South of Riverrun. Dany can cause them all to feel her might, I will guard these borders for the Queen. Winter is Coming.

And it will meet us all with both fire and blade in hand.

Chapter Text

Gold

"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost," J. R. R. Tolkien.

"...be it as it may, I believe we should still address the situation of Winterfell," started the Master of the Coin, voice cool and smooth.

The look on his face and the way he shifted in his chair is what makes Jaime Lannister start to pay attention to the somewhat mundane and tedious turn of the Small Council. It is a sharp look, hiding something that is plain to Jaime, what it was, he couldn't say. To Jaime, Baelish's voice always sounded oily, always a little too smug for a whore monger and an upstart who had somehow weaseled his way to the Small Council. Or so said Cersei, who would never dignify the minor lord with even a passing glance. For his part, Jaime thought it was perhaps that for a brief period of time, Jaime had known Petyr Baelish of the Fingers as a boy.

And he had been a bit of a little shit then, too, if only less better at hiding it. Jaime had not known the appeal that the fair Tully sisters had placed on the small, quiet boy with too arrogant an air, who claimed to anyone who would listen to be capable of taking the maidenheads of both of the girls. And still did to anyone who would ask him. Perhaps it was because he was just that annoying, with his lilting voice and smug attitude. Either way, any noise from the man made Jaime want to cut off his ears.

But it also made him stop staring at the tapestry across from him, imagining how nice it would be for an assassin to pop out of it so he could do more than stand in full armor, and pay better attention to the discussion in front of him.

"Winterfell?" the King, said, bewildered. In his surprise, his strong wine, a sour ghastly thing that it was, spilled down his large chest. The King had little taste, and that was definitely reflected in the choice of wine, no regard to flavor, but rather only on potency. The closer it was to poison, the better it was in the King's mind.

It was an odd day, reflected Jaime, For the King to be so gracious to allow his presence amongst the Small Council. It had something to do, no doubt, with the situation up North. Frankly, Jaime gave neither a damn nor care to what the frostbitten nose of the likes of Eddard Stark did with the rest of the Northern wild men. But the King, more in love with the thought of his fellow fosterling than any sane man, was more than a little anxious to do something resembling ruling in the wake of the apparent distress that the North was soon to find themselves in. He had made a show of attending more meetings, at least once a week, much to Jaime's boredom, but it was also a rest from having to listen outside the King's chambers. He did, however, had to wait on the King's increasing questions of his 'brother's' goings-on in the North.

Winter was Coming, had been the opening line in the Warden of the North's address to the King, along with some other precise mathematical calculations from the part of their Maester, as well as preliminarily notes from the Citadel of Oldtown to verify the growing concern. Something that his lovely sister had frowned at, holding the stolen letter within her fair hand. She had read it aloud to him, but Jaime had been more than a little distracted by how her fingertips had trailed down his bare chest, going lower and lower. All he knew for certain was that Cersei was 'Uneasy to see what those savages are plotting.'

"Yes, your Grace," said Littlefinger, a small smile appearing on his face, "It concerns the sudden shift of their need for stockpiling. I fear that it will stagnate the economy."

It seems someone else is concerned about what the North is plotting, not just you sweet sister.

"The North has the full support of the Crown, Ned knows what he's doing," dismissed the King, waving his great meaty hand, thrashing about the wine from his goblet.

Jaime entertained himself by watching the awkward shift in the two younger Baratheon brothers. Renly, better schooled in the matters of presentation, only furrowed his brows for a second, but Stanis, unwilling and uncompromising, visibly grit his teeth at the loved remark from the King. The jealousy that Eddard Stark inspired between the three brothers always astounded Jaime, but also made him wish to laugh. If he had not been standing guard, he would have.

"Your Grace, perhaps Petyr is wise to issue caution," said Jon Arryn, carefully, voice firm.

Despite himself, Jaime felt his brows raise in surprise. The old Falcon is questioning his oh so honorable fosterling?

"Jon- Jon you dare insinuate-" the King threw his goblet aside in a predictable moment of fury, pushing back violently from the table. It skidded forward due to the Baratheon's monstrous strength and the goblet smashed against the wall, the gold bending, the small jewels chipping, the dark wine spilling across the stones.

"My King, sit down," came the sharp reply.

Jaime took a step back, hand on his sword's hilt. Robert, the first of his name, again, predictably narrowed in on the Hand of the King, stepping forward in a menacing tilt, fists clenched. It would have been more menacing if the sheer amount of fat that rested around his stomach wasn't there, jiggling as it did. Due to his considerable height, and long unkempt beard, the movement had some merit. But of course, the Hand of the King did not even flinch at the rage so potent in a boy he had practically raised.

And what a fine job he did.

"I insinuate no such thing. Ned does indeed know what he is doing. However, the implications of the entire North gathering for the sake of a harsh winter is something that we all must take into account."

"Indeed," came the feathery, high voice of the Master of the Whispers, "My birds are few in the North, loyal and uncompromised as the people of the North tend to be. So distrusting of strangers… But there are plenty enough still. And they whisper, oh how they whisper."

The King, face red, sat, thunderously down. Jaime took a step forward, hand on his hilt, prepared to act on any order. The King's recent and new cupbearer, the son of his Uncle Kevan, Lancel all but launched himself forward with a new goblet, wine-skin ready to refill for the King. The boy was barely nine namedays, but his pouring was steady as he poured into a secondary goblet he had at the ready, apparently already used to the tantrums the King was prone to throw.

"Well, get on with it then. What do they whisper?" barked the King, downing his wine again.

Jaime tempered the urge to wrinkle his nose. Varys was another character that the King deemed worthy that the Lannister Knight disliked. Though Jaime had little care for the intrigue and mess that filled King's Landing and made a point of keeping out of the struggles of power, even he disliked the amount of information the eunuch had. It was a dangerous thing to be, well informed. And the man was always well informed.

Besides, his various perfumes always made Jaime's nose itch.

"Oh, strange things. There has been a shift, in the House Stark," mused Varys, pleasantly, eyes sparkling in what was something akin to delight, "The education of their children has changed for the sake of the long Winter to come, all of the eldest, even the bastard boy is being prepared with intense lessons and duties. It is an odd day for my birds not to see the boys, the heir Robb, and bastard, and their eldest girl child, Sansa, trailing behind the Lord and Lady."

"So he's educating his children," stated Stannis, a frown on his face.

"Yes. But it is a sudden change," agreed, Baelish, voice carefully, "Cat, of course, would never neglect the education of her children, but the intensity is concerning. Especially such attention to a bastard of all things. I wonder how poor Cat could stand such dishonor unless of course, she knows of some plan for the bastard. Some would suspect-"

"Don't finish your words, Baelish," is the growl from the King.

The thin man gives a placating smile and dips his head.

"Of course, your grace."

"Ned explained it to me in very specific terms. His Maester made a mention that it had been yet another year of Summer, and Ned made inquiries of when to expect the Autumn and of course the coming Winter. His Maester Luwin specifically stated to find a rare pattern in a long summer past five years. A very short Autumn to follow, and an even longer Winter, possibly double as long as the Summer. You can see where that would concern any man, we have had near a decade of Summer, and no sign of Autumn," stated the Hand, firmly, "When I said to give caution I meant for the Kingdom as a whole, not specifically for anything that would come from the North. Ned and Cat are pragmatic people and see a hardship for their children, natural-born or not, to bear in the coming years. I believe their accelerated education is proof of that. Something I will take into account when it comes to my own child."

Renly took that moment to answer the Hand, dramatically leaning forward on the table, hands splayed in a way that caused his rings to catch the light of the torches.

"Something that the Tyrells have taken notice as well, due to their own Maester running similar calculations. My squire, Loras, has mentioned that his family is expected to have discourse with the House Stark over their agricultural agreement. It is said they will be looking to visit Winterfell themselves within the coming moon."

"I believe that Lord Hoster is seeing fit to do the same and is preparing to visit his family in the North," interjected Varys, a thoughtful look on his large, round face.

For the first time in a long time since he had been forced to attend these meetings behind the King, Jaime found that the lot of them seemed agitated and concerned in a way that had little to do with the King's want to bankrupt the whole Seven Kingdoms with his extravagant hunts, feasts, tourneys, wine, and whoring.

"More people gathering at Winterfell," said the King with a slight grin, "Makes me want to pay old Ned a visit myself."

"I do not think Ned would appreciate that, your Grace," started Aryn, smiling slightly, "I believe he already has his hands full with guests if Hoster and the Tyrells see fit to go and partake in salt and bread with the entire North already within his walls."

"Must be driving him spare, Ned was never good with a lot of people."

If he mentions Stark one more time in such a tone, I believe I will be ill.

"Indeed-"

Jaime went back to staring at the tapestry of some battle or other. Bored as the conversation fell to taxes and such things that would have to come in the wake of the shift of the economy. Maths always made his headache, and he suspects it was Tyrion who would have been pleased by all the talk. He was dismissed a few tic marks later, just before the King retired to his more regular activities in his chambers and glad of it. Weary of standing witness to the messes of yet another King, for another night.

At least the women do not scream in terror. How it grates on the ears.

"Hello Uncle," said a voice, soft and sweet.

Jaime shifted, hand touching at the hilt of his sword. He turns quickly, face shifting into sternness and anticipation. He is more than a little surprised to see Tommen, small as he was, dressed in nothing but a shift and a yellow quilt wrapped around his frail shoulders. As always, something close to discomfort came to him in the presence of his sister's children. He stood not even to his waist and was barefoot. He wondered, for a moment, how the boy of three namedays had managed to escape the confines of his nursery. The boy gave no hint of the oddness of him being in the corridor.

"Hello nephew," he said, awkwardly. But he tried to dispel it, an easy if forced smile coming to his mouth, "What has you awake so late?"

Green eyes, the same shade as his, the same shade's as his mother's, looked at him carefully. In the torchlight, they looked all the darker, almost black. His delicate, golden brows furrowed, and he shifted slightly, making the thick curls that adorned his head bounce. It was a comical, sweet sight, and he wondered faintly as he looked at what he assumed was his mirror at that age if he too had ever looked like that.

"I… One of my kittens has gone missing," the words were careful, clear, and Jaime noticed that the boy had yet to slur.

I am so unobservant that I did not notice that the boy could speak clearly?

"Kittens?"

"Y-yes. I was gifted a kitten for my coming nameday from Uncle Tyrion. But it has gone missing. I thought I saw it pass through here."

It is the most Jaime had ever heard Tommen say. Does he like animals? The most he would associate with the boy was the fact that he stuck so closely to little Myrcella, to the point that he could hardly tell the two apart, had it not been for Cersei's instance at dressing the little princess in such elaborate gowns.

"Perhaps it would be best to wait until the day to search for the kitten. You can even coerce many more servants, them being awake an all."

The little boy looks up at him, before he nods, slowly.

"Perhaps. Will you take me to my rooms, Uncle?"

Jaime hesitates before he reluctantly gives the little princeling a nod. The boy takes the opportunity to reach for him. It is almost comical, how high his hand can reach up, which isn't very high at all. Jaime debates it before he reaches down to bring the prince up in his arms. It is an awkward weight, and it is obvious to Jaime how ill-prepared to have a child in his arms. It takes a moment before the boy falls into a comfortable place on Jaime's hip. The boy's arms come around Jaime's neck and it took all of Jaime's willpower not to react to the gesture of affection. Carefully, Jaime made his way to the vague direction he knew the boy's rooms to be, in the Maegor's Holdfast.

Some part of Jaime noted that it was close as physically closest to the Queen's room, other than the first Prince's bedroom.

He moves to set the boy down, within his small bed, but the boy stops him by squeezing Jaime's neck. Carefully, the boy pressed his face into his hair.

"I wanted to see you," the boy said softly, "Uncle, I am happy to see you."

Jaime blinked, surprised, setting the boy down as his grip slips from around his neck. The boy was frowning before he squared his shoulders.

"I needed to see you, Uncle."

Jaime is first surprised by the gaze the boy gives him, so firm as it is. And then he is surprised by the fact that Tommen wished to see him, out of everyone. He would think his mother, even Myrcella would be his source of comfort above him.

"Ah. Of course, you can see me whenever you wish it-"

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course-"

"Even if Mother says no?"

Jaime blinked, rapidly at the way he looked at him, still so firm, searching. Something in him, something he tried to bury on his better days, soften.

"Of course, Tommen."

The boy just keeps looking, hardly blinking, the dark green eyes unwavering. Then he smiles, a large smile that highlighted how the boy of three namedays, soon to be four, was missing teeth.

"Thank you, Uncle."

Chapter Text

Sapphire

"A purer sapphire melts into the sea," Alfred Tennyson.

Sansa understands that there is a beauty to no longer be the one that was looked to in terms of authority.

The sense of anonymity offered to just be a girl, who is not Queen or even Lady of the North, in however lesser capacity she had been, is something that is a relief to Sansa. It is a strange feeling, to fall back into being perceived in a role she had long outgrown, that of the eldest girl child of the Wardon of the North. Just a little lady. The amount of power, the number of expectations placed upon her were completely set back. In the eyes of strangers, all she was expected to do, marry for the sake of her House, to learn to run a household, and make children upon her flowering. As someone not yet flowered, with no breasts nor hips, she was not the object of lust nor true political intrigue, just a sweet small thing that was favored and praised for beauty and whatever grace she could muster. If perhaps mocked for my Southern appearance. While that was not her true purpose, she was dismissed and disregarded because of what she looked like, the Lords of the North looked at her with vague interest, but with no real weight to their gazes. Just like before. No one beyond her family looked to her and saw power or someone who held sway over those that were in power.

That was left to Robb, the male heir, and to some lesser extent Bran, who was the immediate heir after that, to confront. To Jon, who was suddenly of more interest for his prominent and unmistakable place at the side of the Lord of Winterfell and his Lady.

Hardly anyone looked her way as Lady Sansa Stark. It was strange. To be so overlooked. To no longer have to strive for a certain image of fortitude and poise, to reject the Southern tenants she had learned with her Mother to remove any image she had cultivated as a young child before her captivity. She had taken the mantle of a Queen gladly, upon reclaiming Winterfell, upon Jon being declared King, upon his decision to raise her alongside him. But it had been a mantle nonetheless, made only more stressful when Daenerys had come to them, dragons and hoards at her back, the threat of the Others on all of their minds. Despite the fact that the last Houses of the North had never considered her for such a position-

Sansa had been queen, ruled alongside Jon...

"They call me King, but this is your home, Sansa. You are Father's last trueborn child. You are queen if they so wish for a child of House Stark to lead us," said Jon quietly, afterward the chorus for the King in the North had finished ringing after they had adjourned to the Solar their father used to occupy.

They share it and have been sharing it since they had reclaimed the remains of the Keep that used to be their home. It is but a skeleton of it, a hollow where once was full and theirs. Sansa looks to her brother, grown as the man that he is, tall, broad, and steel-eyed commander. Were it not for the slight curl, the blackness of his hair, the softer jaw, and higher cheekbones, she would think him their father. It blurs with each day she spends with him. As Jon becomes a fresher memory. Some days, she looks to the corner of her eyes and it is not him she sees, but rather their father. If it were not for her own control, she thinks she would have slipped and called him such. Her lips are parting slightly, the only semblance of reaction that is so automatic, that she cannot stop it. It pulls slightly at the split at the corner of her mouth, still healing, but Sansa does not allow the sting, burning as it does, to be outwardly displayed. She breathes deep through her nose.

"Jon… I do not think that is what matters. You are the one that they see fit to lead. I do not believe they wish for a captive girl to be what leads them. They only see weakness," she says this in a calm, pretty voice, hardly changing in inflection.

His reaction is discomfort, as always, at her lack of expression beyond the pretty placid mask she holds so well, shown in the way his brow furrows, how he looks slightly away from her. His fists, scared, calloused and so large, clench. In any other man, such a movement would have had her holding back a flinch. But not in him. Not anymore.

"They are fools."

If she had been so inclined, that vehement declaration would have made her smile. As it was, made something warm in her chest. It was a completely foreign sensation, or at least, it feels as if she has never felt anything like it. She had almost forgotten such a feeling, the feeling of being praised, and esteemed, not for empty flattery, but honest true praise. She sees it in his eyes, grey, dark, so like Arya's, so like their father's.

"They call you King."

"If they are so inclined, then they will call you queen. Queen in the North. That is what I will declare, that is my answer to their proposal of taking Robb's title. It is not mine, but yours. I care not that you were taken from the line of succession. You are the only rightful Stark."

A queen is an inherent power. Or so the likes of Cersei Lannister and even Margaery Tyrell would have believed. Sansa sees it differently, she who would have held the title if she had been married to Joffrey, would have been queen. But it would have meant  nothing . It is a position that could hold power if you were so inclined to wield it and if you could get others to let you. Cersei had tried, vehemently, to take that mantle and hold power over the Seven Kingdoms as no woman had before her, and in many regards, had failed miserably. She had no true purpose of being a queen. To her, Cersei had been constant in the desire to control her own life, and consequently those of the people around her, for an ignorant belief that with power came absolution. Came peace and glory.

But… Sansa believes, perhaps, just perhaps, she could be someone who wielded the power of a queen well. She would use the power of a queen to better her subjects, to lead them in the coming Long Night. But she also believes that Jon is more than deserving of the opposite mantle of being King, more than deserving and able to wield it as a man, and as someone who had fought the paranatural horrors she had only caught glimpses of.

Two areas. Two minds… Two things to consider when it came to the control of the Kingdom of the North.

"I have a better solution. Take Robb's crown. Be King in the North and I will be Queen in the North. The last of the House of Stark, ruling, together. No one has ever said the King and Queen would have to be spouses. What say you, Jon?"

Grey eyes. Their family's eyes, look at her, and the surprised smile that responds to her is vicious as Ghost, as fierce as the biting wind that howls across the hills and planes of what had been their brother's Kingdom.

But in the same moment, she cannot forget how heavily the crown had felt on her brow. She may have not been Dany, with her dragon children and unyielding determination to conquer all that which she thought was her right, nor Jon burden with the protection of all things of warm flesh and blood, but she had still had the mantle to care for all those within their domain. She had still been the one to delegate supplies, the egos of whoever was within their armies, the one to try and keep the people at peace in uncertain times. She had been the sweet queen- the Queen with humanity against the grander High King and Queen with magic and tales fight for songs.

The red wolf of the North come home to be the lady to them all.

She is no longer in the same position of symbolism.

And it eases her, the knowledge that she is the source of change amongst the Houses of the North, but they do not know it. Their gazes do not linger, do not focus on her. She sits upon the High Table, between Robb and Jon. And their gazes switch to between her father and her brother, sometimes her mother, but almost always slip past her after a moment. She is not outwardly acknowledged by her father, as the Lords of the North, and whomever they deemed fit to attend such an important call from the liege Lord. I am the silent Hand, the counsel of the Lord above all others, and they will not know nor ever guess it.

It is, she can admit, a boon to not be the one that the looks of disbelief and defiance are directed to. It was something she does not miss.

"And I suppose the fact that the only available glass blower in the North is within your employee is no matter of consequences, eh?" said Lord Bolton, frowning. His voice was a grave thing, deep and full of barely concealed contempt. Looking to her father with cold eyes.

Sansa felt her quill still, for fraction of a moment, having used the pretext of being the one to record the events of the meetings as an excuse to her 'delicate' presence as one lord had put it. Her father did not frown. He simply stared at Lord Bolton, his own eyes flashing with dislike and his ire. Her Father knew his potential as a traitor, if not the full extent of his actions, and had promised to keep only an even and wary eye on the skin flayer. If only as a prudent precaution. He had done a remarkable job on not acting on his more honorable impulses in wake of the people that had turned their backs on his Kingly son in the future. The long game is more important. And Father can play it if he is tempered and made to see sense. How else would Jon live as he did, with no one vocally questioning the bastard of the honorable Warden of the North?

"For once I agree with Bolton," rumbled the Great-Jon, a man she barely remembered, his enormous hand coming to stroke his unkempt beard, "It's an expense we can do without, Ned. If we just keep trade up during winter, the glass gardens would be a pretty thing that wastes space. Best keep us all connected as it is."

Without looking, Sansa nudged Robb beneath the table with her foot. Her brother took that as his cue and cleared his throat.

"The glass garden is to ensure absolute protection for each Keep. What use is trade if the roads are too dangerous to travel in fierce winds and scattering blizzards? What use is a stalk pile that dwindles with each day? Starving people is your legacy when your supplies are reduced to nothing. We place the glass gardens in each Keep for the independence of each House in the circumstances that a long Winter can bring," said Robb, loud, clear, and firm.

Great Jon raised a brow, an indulgent look on his face. Grinned in a mocking, and indulgent way that had her own hackles rising.

"And what do you know of Winter? Summer boy, you have never felt those winds, never seen the world consumed by night and cold."

Robb shifted uneasily in his seat, his jaw tightening. Sansa places a calming hand on his knee, squeezing slightly as Robb forcibly exhaled. He almost turned to her. But he caught himself just in time. For everyone not directly involved in their family had no idea she was someone he would turn to for strength. And she was deliberately keeping it that way so as not to undermine his authority as the future Lord of the North. Something her mother in the future would fail to do herself.

"Winter is Coming. Those are my house words. That is what I know, summer boy that I am, and will ensure that mine and yours adhere to them."

Sansa squeezed his knee in approval. It was a strong return if the look on Great-Jon's face was any indication.

"He knows his words," said her Father, calm, supporting her brother with a firm look, "And it is those words that made us decide on the policy of the glasshouses. If the glassblower is the concern, Lord Manderly, I am sure, will be willing to aid anyone who wishes to hire their own outright. But the mandate stands. Every House in the North shall have glasshouses sizable enough to supply itself in an emergency."

The large, portly Wyman Manderly, in green and golden, looks to her father, stands, his knees creaking, his large form trembling, as he bows, and then gives a careful nod. It causes his many chins to wobble, and there is a general air of suppressed laughter or amusement at the overly stately gesture. But Sansa sees the way his eyes gleam, dark, intelligence and shrewdness. She understands that the man is glad to be directed too by his liege Lord. He had been loyal, and upon his rescue by her sister, one of the first of their banners to stand with House Stark against Bolton. He was a smart man and had long stood in council with Jon and her. In the past were his House and he whole, would be important to them once again.

"Whatever Lord Stark commands, I am sure that I am able to help any House find such aid if they so wish it," his voice is boisterous, his critique of any that would so distrust them is even more so.

Sansa nearly smiles, when her mother, nods graciously at the larger lord, her eyes gleaming as well.

"Any profit from our personal glassblower, of course," says her mother, brisk, lips in a careful smile, "As stated with our proposition, will go to reparations of the roads and the upkeep of the major points of trade between the houses of the North. To use our glassblower is to help the North as a whole, not to line our own coffers."

Bolton's jaw sets, and he opens his mouth to argue, had it not been for his son, Domeric, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sansa makes a deliberate effort not to stare at the brother of her second husband. Great-Jon is still running his hands through his beard.

"Well, that's settled. Now, I want to talk about this initiative of-"

The general air of reluctance, squabbling, and some argument continue, well into the afternoon from their early morning session, and Sansa's hands fly across parchment after parchment, as the Lords of the North make concessions, bicker, loop back on prior agreements, and discussions. Though the respect for her father is clear, the lack of urgency, despite their projections, is something she cannot unsee. The lack of hope in her memories had been the largest obstacle, and it seemed now, it was instead the lack of true understanding of the danger of what was coming for them. She had expected this to some extent, but it is no less frustrating to see in the faces of so many Lords she had never seen past her thirteenth name day, and especially in the few Lords she knew would have survived to see her and her brothers as their ultimate sovereign.

I see only summer fatten fools and unknowing men and woman set for the slaughter, be it in Southern Wars or at the hands of the Others. We are only yet announcing our means to protect the North from winter, not creatures made of ice and snow set to kill them all. What will happen then? How many will stay willfully ignorant? How many will refuse arms of dragonglass and call us superstitious fools seeing snarks and grumpkins?

Her hand is inked stained and cramped, but she dutifully continues, until her father calls for a recess. Sansa cleans and sharpens her quill as lords and ladies alike filter out to stretch their legs as food is brought into the Great Hall, the only space large enough to host their entire lords of all the houses in the North in mass to hold their meetings. Robb, next to her, quickly downs the only goblet of wine he had been allowed at the meeting, and Jon, on the other side, is pressing his palms, into his eyes. Little Bran has already run off, determined to not return, her mother has left to coordinate the servants for a meal for everyone once they return, and their father is left at the tallest seat, frowning down at the parchment in front of him.

"How, in the name of the gods, old and the new, does anything ever get done," mummers Robb, reaching for Jon's goblet, "I have seen better peace made between Rickon and Arya. And they have yet to reach ten namedays between them."

Sansa intercepts him with a pointedly raised brow, hand over the lip of the goblet. He quickly sighs but makes no more movement for the wine. Even if he is eying her own poured and untouched one as well.

"By a great deal of compromise, Robb," she says, carefully, before she pushes the goblet to her other brother.

He had yet to drink anything or eat any of the small foodstuffs that had been along the tables for everyone to partake in. It had been, in her memories, a sign of stress in the High King, to not touch any food or drink in front of him, and she hopes to break it in his younger counterpart.

"And patience. Neither of which any of the Lords seem to be eager to have in terms of this," says Jon, with a scowl.

He ignores the goblet until she pinches his arm. He sighs before he takes a careful drink. It is not even strong wine, which is why she had allowed Robb to down his own as he had, but even then her more morose brother grimaces as he takes drink after drink. She pointedly pushes towards him a platter of cheeses and salted meats laid out. He wrinkles his nose at her but reaches for a piece of bread and cheese. Robb does the same when she looks at him with a raised brow.

"It must be all of us with patience. This is but the first day of true discussion, my children," states their father, gravely, turning to them.

His expression is calm, and his movements are even more so. His eyes betray his concerns, and so does the way his left hand is fisted against his knee.

"If we must," agrees Robb, running a hand through his dark auburn hair.

"I had just hoped for more agreements today," argues Jon, frowning.

"It is a simple lack of danger," Sansa says, jaw tightening, "They do not see the urgency of it all-"

"They will, Sansa," her father's voice is firm, without argument.

In spite of herself, Sansa feels something in her relax at the assurance. Many would have called me a fool, to be assured. The likes such as Cersei and Petyr would have mocked my reaction. But I do not care for their opinions. Not anymore.

She is saved from answering to him when Jory comes up to her father, with a furrowed brow and a frown on his face.

"My Lord, there is a woman asking to enter Winterfell," started Jory, matter-of-factually, "She is appealing directly to you to enter."

Her father blinks, his own brows lifting in frank surprise.

"Why does this require my attention?"

Jory shifts, uneasily.

"The woman is in full plate armor, My Lord. We believed it wise to ask if we should allow her in."

Sansa starts so badly, that she accidentally knocks the goblet of her wine off the table, a crash that causes whoever is in the Hall to look at her. She stares at Jory, uncomprehending before she realizes what he has just said, truly understanding his words.

By the old gods and the new.

Her breath hitches and her father turns to her sharply in surprise.

"Sansa?" his voice is calm, but there is an urgency upon her reaction.

She is aware of the gaze of all upon her. Not vicious nor unrested, but rather curious as to why the Lord of Winterfell would be so bothered by the reaction of his eldest daughter, young as she is. She is aware of all of her family turned to her in alarm at her seemingly out of character and violent reaction. Sansa only stands, gracefully and quickly as she can in the pool of weak wine, gripping her fine skirts with trembling fingers. She turns to her father for a second but finds her voice lost. He looks calm, but she can see the muscle working in his jaw, just beneath his beard. A tell of his worry upon her reaction.

Say something!

"Excuse me father," is the best she can say. If… If this is- She boldly picks up her skirts and starts running without another word.

Surprised shouts come, but she is already out the great doors to the hall, to the gates when anyone thinks to come after her. She is running. Hard. Fast. As fast as she can as her mind races for the thought of a woman in full plate armor wanting to enter Winterfell. Because that is impossible. Impossible and possibly- Sansa skids to a stop at the sight of the person within the shadow of the gates of Winterfell. Upon a great horse of brown coat, two guards next to her, her armor-covered chest heaving as if she was mid-argument. Sansa's hand comes to her mouth before she lowers them.

"What is the meaning of this?" she calls, her voice, so soft and high, is ridiculous when she tries to place authority in it, especially when she is so out of breath, but she cares not, because her calls accomplish what she wanted.

Sapphire eyes, bright bold and so much more lovely a shade than her's, look at her.

Sansa wishes to weep at the sight of Brienne of Tarth, her mind spinning and in confusion, alarm, worry, and sheer joy. A turbulent storm within her at the unexpected appearance of one of her sworn shields. She knew Jaime Lannister, being who he was, would more than likely never be that to her again. But Brienne. Brienne, Brienne of Tarth could be her's again, if she were to come up with a clever way to bring the strong woman to her side. She had yet to call for her, to think of a perfect excuse to bring this woman to her. Her sworn protector, her confidant in odd moments. One of the few people that the harder Arya could smile at that was not her and Jon…

Sansa stares, her chest heaving as she makes her way forward, head high, heart trembling.

"Let this woman through," she demands, "The gates of Winterfell do not turn strangers away from the shelter of our walls!"

The guards, reluctantly, allow the woman, horse and all, to pass. She makes a striking, and odd figure, dressed in gleaming full mail and plate, pale, straggly blonde hair, longer than her memories, half-heartedly pulled away from her face with a leather tie. Brienne dismounts, heavily, eyes never leaving Sansa's face, just as Sansa cannot keep her gaze away from Brienne's.

"My qu-," her voice is warm, thick and achy with feeling even as she stumbles over her words, staggers a step forward, hands reaching automatically, something in Sansa howl's in sheer shock and possibly a relief, "Sweet lady, pardon I have come a long way-"

Sansa is a cold creature of calculation… But she was still a young woman that would relish and hold warmth and love close to her romantic heart. The implications of that stumble-

"Brienne," her voice is thick with emotion, her eyes swell with tears she always tries to suppress, "Brienne, is that you?"

Please let it be true.

The older woman freezes, eyes, her beautiful eyes, so large and deep, widen. She is younger right now, her face not as scarred, only but a young woman of five and ten. Not quite as tall, her large nose not yet broken, as it had in the future. She is still gangly and well-muscled, but slighter than the woman in her memories. Sansa feels as if her heart will leap out of her chest. Brienne, as always, sees to never censor herself as Sansa did, and allowed large, full tears to fall down her freckled face.

"I thought- I could only hope when I saw the announcement of movements in the North. That I was not mad, that someone- Someone else- I had to come," tears fall from dark, sapphire eyes, "I had to come and fulfill my vow."

She is running, as is Brienne and they meet halfway, gleaming steel against fine wool and velvet, hugging so tight that Sansa cannot breathe. She is even lifted off the ground.

She doesn't care. For its Brienne.

They fall, together, to their knees, in sobs and warmth.

"My queen," it is a whisper in her ear, revenant and heartfelt.

I am not mad. Even if I knew it to be true, part of me had doubted.

"Ser Brienne."

She cannot say more for she feels as if she is about to burst. It takes them a moment before they come apart. They yet hold hands, tightly grasped. Gauntlets against ink splattered fingers.

"I am not mad," whispers, Brienne, and she smiles.

Her smile is crooked, her teeth twisted in places, but it's her eyes that show how beautiful she is, so large and warm.

"No," whispers Sansa, a beam on her own face, "You are not. We are not."

"Sansa- Whoa!" and that is Jon, breath in a gasp.

He is standing stunned. Brienne stands, abruptly, bring Sansa with her. Her hands tremble within Sansa's before she makes a staggering step towards Jon.

"My King," whispers Brienne, softly, so much so only Sansa, so close to her, hears.

She kneels before Jon, right there in the courtyard. Any good feelings coursing through Sansa immediately dispense, especially at her own foolish actions to show such emotions to what should be a stranger. She grows pale, hands coming to tug desperately at her sworn shield's hand, still in her.

"Brienne no, not here," she hisses, desperately, eyes flickering about.

Birds, she tries desperately to misinform birds with false songs, either those that belong to the Spider or the Mockingbird, but she is no god, no real spymaster much as she wishes she was. While she knows her secret to at least be safe, and of the new intentions of the North, she doubts this gesture from the Maid of Tarth will be hard to read for any spy. Such respect to a bastard boy of the Lord of Winterfell? From a stranger from so far?

"My-"

"My dear friend," she says easily, politely through her teeth, whipping quickly at her tear-filled eyes, "I am sorry to inform you that this is not my eldest brother, Robb. This is my second brother, Jon."

Brienne is not a woman of great slyness. But she is not a great fool. She rises, face flushed, horribly ruddy.

"My apologies, my… Friend. I thought it-"

"Do not fret," says Sansa, easily, squeezing her hand, without knowing how much of the gesture could be felt through her armor, "Quickly, you have traveled long and far to be here. Jon, sweetling? Would you gather, Mother, father, and Robb into the solar before the afternoon meal? I wish to introduce them to my friend from the South."

She tells him of the importance, with just her eyes, and Jon gives her a quick, firm nod. His eyes go to Brienne, curiously, before he makes his way back to the hall, without another word.

"Come, Lady Brienne," she says, even as her true title touches on her lips, "The guards will take your horse to the stables."

Questions in her eyes, but much used to her directions, Brienne follows Sansa without protest, hands at her sword, falling into step behind Sansa as she always had. Sansa, reluctant to allow such a gesture to be seen, falls back a step herself, winding her arm around Brienne's. They walk in hurried silence, to the Solar that the elder Starks had claimed as their own, beyond the Lord and Lady that ruled the keep. They are the first to arrive, and Brienne takes that moment to turn to her with wide, eyes.

"King Jon does not-"

"No. It is just me, Brienne. I awoke a few moons ago as I am, in this body ten years too young. Just after… Just after Arya and I lit the wildfire in the camp. I knew I could not allow the world to stay the course that lead to my death, so I have done my best to save the North in these passing moons."

Brienne's eyes close, her expression is anguished.

"When I failed you, you mean. I should have stayed within the camp-"

"My protection was better served with you fighting the Others. We discussed this," she retorts, eyes narrowing at the look of pain on her protector's face.

"It mattered not in the end. I would have better felt to die with you, my Queen, than in ice and blood. I died in a battlefield too far away from you and your sister. I failed my vow."

Emotion is something Sansa relished and prided herself in suppressing. Tears were in her eyes, that she desperately blinked back.

"You were with him, in the end, serving your vow to protect me. In the end, you owe nothing to me, nor my mother. Brienne, as happy as I am to see you, surely your death and mine have signaled that vow fulfilled?"

Brienne did not stop her tears, falling easily down her freckled cheek.

"Your Grace," says Brienne, blinking, "I will always protect you. Not just for my vow to Lady Stark, but for you. You are my Queen. I will be your guard, your sword and shield until I no longer draw breath. That is my vow. My eternal vow."

"A strong vow, my Lady."

Both she and Brienne turn, to see Sansa's father, standing at the opened door of the solar. Brienne blinks before she harshly swipes at her eyes with her steel-covered hands.

"You look too much of the High King," says Brienne, quietly as her father, closed the door, "To be anyone but Eddard Stark."

Her father frowns.

"I am Eddard Stark. But the way you know me as is concerning."

"I beg your pardon, my Lord-"

"You bring troubling things, my Lady. One more person knows of the future that haunts my daughter. Who is to say who else brings the memories?"

Sansa, knowing the wisdom in her words, clench her fists, heart hammering.

"Father-"

She is stopped from answering as the door opens again. Robb, Jon, and her mother file in, closing the door behind them again. They look at Brienne curiously, even as the older woman flushes furiously, and ducks her head slightly, deferring to Sansa to announce her as she saw fit. Sansa sighs, before she straightened her shoulders, turning to them once they were settled within the room.

"Jon, Father, Mother, and Robb. May I present to you Sir Brienne of Tarth, my sworn shield, one of two of my Queensgaurd. She… She is like me. She remembers the same future as I do."

The silence is heavy. But is broken quickly.

"...Ser Brienne of Tarth, welcome to Winterfell," her mother smiles, warmly, even if her blue eyes are entirely alarmed, "Sansa has told us much of you."

Brienne's eyes widen. Immediately, she goes to kneel once again, falling hard to her knee in a movement that shakes the cobblestones, as the large woman is in a full suit of armor. She presses her eyes tightly together, not looking up at Catelyn Stark, her lower lip trembling in emotion.

"My lady," her voice is trembling, emotive and speaks of how sensitive a soul that Brienne is at the sight of her mother, whole… Human.

"My Queen, I beg you, no!" Brienne is crying. She is a warrior… But she is also a creature of great feeling and emotion, strangely naive. Sansa envies her for that.

Sansa lifts her torch, watching the bloated, rotting thing. For the first time in a long time, tears fall from her eyes. She cannot look away from… It.

"Sansa, I'll do it, please, look away-" says Jon, voice thick and shaking.

"I saw father's head on a spike, Jon. I was forced not to look away then. This is my choice now."

The thing that calls herself Lady Stoneheart simply watches, grey eyes, flat, listless, caring not either way. The blue eyes, the blue eyes that nearly all her and her siblings shared are gone. Stripped of color. Turned so flat, lifeless, nothing is in those eyes,  nothing.  It is worse than Wrights. That eerie, unnatural blue at least shows the life of the Others. This, this thing shows no life. The pull of its mottled flesh is the only thing that shows emotion, its mouth, bloated and distorted by moons of unsteady rot, are pulled into a mockery of rage.

"She means for revenge, My lady," says a man, a man that had come with the… The remains of her mother, "She is your mother."

Sansa wished it to be true. But this. This.

"This is not my mother."

She thrusts the torch into the body's long, dried hair. It goes up surprisingly quickly in a flurry of flame.

"Brienne, rise," commands Sansa, after a moment, gently, placing her hand on her shoulder.

"My queen," mummers Brienne.

Sansa sighs.

"I am no longer queen of anything, Brienne."

Brienne frowns.

"You will always be queen, to me, your grace."

They stare at each other, for a moment, Brienne, tears still on her long lashes, frowning, while Sansa returns the gaze with a bland expression.

"Well. This clears something up for my own peace of mind. Sansa isn't mad," says Robb, after a beat.

Sansa blinks.

"You followed my words and still thought me mad?"

Robb grinned.

"No. You have changed too much and know too much to be anything other than what you claimed. But it has broken whatever strangeness and unease comes from the knowledge that Sansa is not the only being with knowledge of future events-"

Robb paused and then frowned at the unease that crossed everyone's expression.

"Well, Stark, you truly have botched that up," said Jon, clapping him on the shoulder with a roll of his eyes.

"Come what may come," says her father, with a stern face, "The North will be better armed, nonetheless."

"But with all this change… Will this not signal to everyone who remembers that the North holds someone changed, as it did for me?" questions, Brienne, an alarmed look on her face.

Sansa feels her heart seize at the… The thought of certain beings knowing the future that could come as she did. Ramsey, Petyr, by the gods old and new, Ceresi…

"Surely we would have seen the effects ourselves?" said her mother, clenching her jaw, tightly.

"If we acted first then perhaps it would cause any other party reluctant to show their hand," argued Jon, frowning, "That is if they are people that are opposed to the interest of the North as its own kingdom. Or if they are in a direct position of power to act."

"Then have we showed our hand too soon ourselves?" said Robb.

Sansa breathed, deeply.

"We acted with what was the most prudent. With Brienne, this changes nothing beyond further precautions when dealing with the South. We have shown that someone within the North remembers, and that cannot be changed. Come what may come," Sansa says, quietly, "The North will be ready."

Chapter Text

Friendship

"One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood," Lucius Annaeus Seneca.

"I don't think I ever told you, Brienne," his voice was soft, almost tender, and she hated him for it, hated the fact that he was calling her by name, instead of wench, because it was as if he was admitting defeat, "I claim Sansa as my salvation, but you..."

She presses tightly against the red that runs through her gauntlets, pressed tightly against his side, and she knows it cannot be in vain, can not-

"Shut up," she hisses, and she is surprised at herself but desperate. Her patience is thin, her heart is beating so hard it will leap from her chest, and her throat is hoarse with what she suspects are tears and horror. She's never been a pretty crier, and in this cold, she is right scared she is going to chip her nose off or her eyelashes if the tears and snot freeze.

He chuckles, it is a wet sound, and his teeth, perfect and straight are coated with his own blood. Golden hair is matted with it. She knew he was coughing blood at one point before she had thrown him behind a rock, but she cannot remember if the blow to his stupid golden hair had been his blood or poor Pod's who had been mauled right next to him.

"I always thought I would die with her. We entered the world together. But she's already gone… I am glad it is with you, with a friend."

"Stop it- I swear- You will not die, we have to return to her grace's side, we must-"

"Brienne..."

Green eyes, green eyes she should hate are emerald, so emerald-like the fruitful summer greens she suspects she will never come, not with the dragons and their riders felled, not with the wildfire that is running rampant. So hot she feels it through her carefully constructed armor for the cold, feels sweat running down her back, even if the camp is so far away. She sees something in his gaze. Something so like the wildfire, yet dimming at the same time.

"The Queen swore to lit the fire herself. She's gone. She… She would not place the burden on anyone else. Amazingly brave… Brave. It was an honor to serve a Queen that was so brave. That was good for once."

Something cracks, something shatters in Brienne and she can barely breathe.

"Don't you dare Kingslayer," she snaps, and she is feeling sharp, jagged, and furious, "Our oath is still to our Queen and to Princess Arya. We will find them. You just have to stop your needless bleeding!"

He just chuckles again. A hacking wet sound.

"Will you keep fighting?" his voice is calm, his green eyes are more so, dimmer, dimmer than they should be, "By my side?"

Part of Brienne wonders that it is in death that Jaime Lannister finds peace. Not by his sister's side, not in battle, not with the salvation of his honor, but in death. Fuck you for it, Jaime.

"We have a vow to fulfill. I will make you see it through, Jaime."

Green eyes are growing dim. Dimmer and dimmer and she thinks she hates him, as she had before.

"Good. Good…" his voice grows softer, dimmer as his eyes, and Brienne is still pressing her gauntlets into his side, even when she suspects the blood itself is no longer flowing, "Good good..."

Good is the last word Jaime says.

Brienne, for a moment, cannot believe it. She had seen the man, pus-filled stump, stand up to a bear, for her. She has seen him let go of the woman he had loved all his life, let her go, for himself, for the vow he made to a woman he had no reason to keep beyond his own conscious. She had seen him serve by her side, bow once again to a sovereign as their personal guard, despite the horrors he had seen at the hands of the four Monarchs before. She does not think a slash should be enough to do him in. But he does not move, eyes, half-open and heavily lidded, grows so still, and his smile, his smile is still there, blood coated teeth and all.

Until his hand twitches.

Those eyes, emerald green like the grass of the hills that lead to the sapphire waters of Tarth, bloom into an unearthly blue. Glowing, almost beautiful had it not been so monstrous. The blood-coated smile, still there, grows wider, and the body of Jaime Lannister staggers to its feet. And kneeling, Brienne sobs, even as she scrambles for her sword.

Brienne is sobbing when she wakes.

Not a completely odd occurrence. She had certainly woken up in her ill remembered bedroom in Tarth sobbing. Sobbing and in and wheezing. Clawing at wounds that had yet to occur in her young body.

Now, it is dark, she is not sure of the hour but knows it to be not long after she had fallen asleep. The air is not quite cool in her mind, against her heated skin, but it still raises goose-flesh across her arms as she feels it, her body, as it is, now unused to the cold that the North can bring. Not as cold as the Night, not as cold as it could be, but still it is not used to it. Her shift is soaked with cool sweat. A hand, small, so small and fine-boned that it feels as if it will break at the slightest touch, runs through the strands of the dry hair she has yet to cut. The gentle tug is as delicate as a butterfly batting its wings, so slight, Brienne hardly registers it as she tries to settle her uneven breathing and the restless tears that fall from her eyes.

"Shhh. It's alright," comes a soft voice, warm, but high-pitched. It is almost familiar, yet not, but it is enough to help further still her frightened breaths.

Brienne shifts, uneasily, in just a shift, eyes swollen and aching, and her face hot with her shame.

"I beg your pardon, your grace," she whispers, turning to look at her queen, small as she is, "Did… Did I wake you?"

Queen Sansa as a child was small, much smaller than Brienne would have expected at this age, as the queen had been tall enough to reach her chin, she who was so tall in comparison to most men. So small that Brienne suspects she, in her body of five and ten, would be able to shield her completely within her arms and lift her with more ease than before. But the queen, despite her diminutive size, is still cradling her. Her legs and arms, thin and warm, are around her larger bulk like a vice, beneath layers of soft furs and velvet. One hand is running through her hair, fingertips delicately threading through the rough blonde strands, while the other is carefully curled around her shoulders.

"No," she says, her voice, soft, barely audible and calm, sweet as bird song, "I was already awake when your shoulders began to shake."

A still, calm expression is all that Queen Sansa gives, and Brienne wonders how that has not changed in their strange rebirth in the past. She doubts her words are true, for as early as she recalls that the young queen would rise and attend her duties, she was not accustomed to this early an hour, the sun not risen, and Brienne wonders at the simplicity of being able to tell the hour by the sun again. She has unsettled her main charge, she knows, the day before, despite their happy reunion… I do not regret coming to fulfill my vow. But I wonder how much unrest I have brought upon the Queen's mind with my presence? How do her worries increase with the knowledge of more of us from the future? She feels twice the fool and swallows dryly.

"I apologize. Its… My memories come to me and I-"

"Brienne, you are not the only one who dreams."

Brienne swallows again, thickly, before she nods her understanding, but unable to shake the shame of being so weak in front of the one she is supposed to be protecting. The night before, she would have stood watch, wanted to stand watch for her queen, knowing that she was before her, but had instead been ordered to 'Rest after so long a journey. We will establish your place as my sworn shield soon enough, but first, you must be my secret friend due to happenstance and a confused raven.' Brienne understands her Queen's need to protect the North and understands that her coming to the North would have been more carefully planned out had Queen Sansa known of her own return to the past, but cannot feel uncomfortable having to play a part.

She was no great mummer, nor comfortable with the need for deception. But she would do what needed to be done to stay by her charges' sides.

"Still, your majesty," she says, licking dry, cracked lips, "I do apologize. You were not expected to have such a bed-fellow."

She smiles. It completely changes her fair face- softness the sternness of her cherubic mask of politeness. Her eyes, a dozen shades lighter than her own, and much more beautiful shine with warmth.

"But I am glad to have you, here, Brienne. So glad," her voice wavers, thick with her joy, and like the day before, Brienne is surprised to hear the joy that comes from her.

Not because she thinks her unfeeling, but because Sansa allows herself to act on the affection that she rarely permitted herself to display in front of anyone when Brienne had known her.

"As am I to be here, my queen."

Fair, red brows furrow.

"You have to stop addressing me like that. It is a dangerous thing to be called with so many eyes upon us. The North is being watched, I am sure, with all of its movement, not to mention all of the Lords who look at us within our own lands. I have many ahead of me in the line of succession, Brienne, and to keep that true, I will gladly never be a queen again. So please, old friend, refrain."

Despite the obvious command, Brienne finds herself shaking her head. Rarely did she disagree, but in this, she would.

"It is what you are."

"It is what I was," she mummers in return to Brienne.

"You cannot change your baring, your grace, nor who you are to me."

The young woman wearing the mask of the child sighs.

"If you must, I ask only amongst the older members of my family. My parents, Robb and Jon are the only ones that know at present. No more public show of such deference, if you please, Lady Brienne."

Brienne nods. Takes in her old title with ill grace, she knows. She had been Ser Brienne at her death and still felt it her mantle. But her Queen commanded. And Brienne would follow it. She may have slipped yesterday- overcome as she was- she would not do so again.

"As you command."

The young queen smiles, slight, before she rises, with ill grace, rolling out from under furs and velvet in a slight tumble. It is a movement ill-suited to what Brienne thought was her true mental state of being a lady of twenty namedays, but it all startling fitting of the youthful body of a girl. She seemed to relish the movement. She too, was in just her shift, her hair, red as flame, a wild tangle growing steadily past her frail shoulders, nearing her slight hips. She steps on cold stones without a flinch. And for a moment Brienne appreciates the fact that she is seeing her so relaxed, so at ease in a way that she would have thought impossible once before. Their time apart had seemed to help her queen, and Brienne was so glad.

"And I ask you to address me as Sansa in public. We are friends, if nothing else, Brienne."

Warmth blooms in Brienne's chest. Her queen is still smiling, true and Brienne could count the number of times she had done so on her hand.

"Of course, Sansa," her voice is shy, but she cannot deny the happiness that comes with the request.

Sansa nods.

"There are soft cloths and a basin of water, as I am afraid it would be unfair to request two baths at this hour," she directs, to a small counter, not directly commenting on Brienne's sweat-soaked appearance, "And we will settle you with proper attire once your position is settled. I am sure you found a few things appropriate for the Summer weather so far North, but I also trust you have something comfortable to wear otherwise?"

"I managed to arrange for some clothing to be made before I left for Winterfell. My father was kind enough to allow for such when I stated my intent to leave to the North. A few changes of clothes, but not enough to consist of a full wardrobe."

"How did you explain it to your father?"

Brienne sighed.

"I was not sure how to properly explain it. I only could say that I was compelled to try my hand of being a sworn shield, and thought the North to be a good place to try, kinder as they are with woman warriors. It was all I could say."

"You did well not to speak of the future."

Brienne swallowed.

"I am bound to keep your secrets, be your console, and I believe that it was part of it."

"Thank you," she said quietly, "You had no guarantee of what you would find here, Brienne."

"You are welcome. I had hoped to find someone else with the memories, with some many changes wrought… It is well and good that my hope was realized, and that it is you I found."

Without another word, Sansa lifts her own shift over her head, unashamed and used to being bare before her, a wordless gesture of trust as she sets her sleeping shift within a basket of unwashed clothes. Brienne is ashamed that the sight of the Queen's scarless back nearly has her bawling. Brienne has to take a few moments to collect herself. Queen Sansa is there, mummering and comforting, naked as her nameday, as if Brienne is nothing more than a scared child against her.

She feels it.

Yet not.

Hiccups and roughly presses her hands to her eyes until the tears stop.

When Sansa is satisfied of her state, she goes to remove her small clothes, as Brienne rises, hesitating, before she too lifts her own shift above her head, depositing it in the same basket, before making her way to the pitcher and soft cloths, soaking one carefully before cleaning herself best she could. Practically spoke to remove her small clothes, and she did so, as Sansa had wordlessly turned her back, a silent show of privacy. She remembers my shyness. Sansa was already dressed by the time she turned back around in a clean set of small clothes, much to Brienne's surprise, in fitted trousers and a loose tunic. She was running a comb through her hair quickly untangling it.

"Dress as if you go to train," she commands, a slight smirk of humor appearing on her face.

"Of course," Brienne responds, brows furrowing in her curiosity.

When she was dressed, Brienne searched for a tie for her hair and blinked as Sansa gestured for her to sit in the stool in front of her vanity. Wordlessly, she followed her command.

"May I braid back your hair?" she asked, softly.

Brienne blinked.

"I- Yes. Thank you. I have been meaning to cut it."

Sansa hummed.

"It is strange to see it so long," she replied, "A change."

"At this age, I was still trying to be something of a Lady, a pretense for my father. Once my last engagement fell through when I was six and ten, I sheared it off. My father said nothing to it, but I was so relieved to stop pretending."

Words seem to fall from her lips without censor. She does not know if it is because she knows that Sansa would not cast judgment on the course of her unconventional life, or if she feels that Winterfell is a safe place that takes her choices and understands them. Sansa hums, running carefully through her dry hair with a brush instead of a comb, precise, easy movements. Whenever she reached a knot, she was gentle, placing a warm, small hand against her scalp to ease the pull required to undo it.

"I will find the appropriate sheers if you so wish."

"Thank you."

Sansa made quick work of the longer strands, pulling it back in a sharp braid, that circled Brienne's head held in place by small steel pins, tight and taciturn that left not a strand in her face. The only real adornment was a single ribbon, holding a few of the shorter strands away from her face, a single thin band embroidered with running direwolves. The effect was very different for Brienne, so used to the more flowery effects of arranging hair of the South that had been so ill-fitting in her attempts as a youth, but this suited her far more. Sansa then did the same to her own hair in quick strokes as Brienne left the seat before the vanity and retrieve her boots. Sansa did the same once she was done with her hair, before, she went to gather what, Brienne was surprised to see, two twin daggers that fit in a belt around her slim waist.

"You arm yourself with more than one dagger?"

Her Queen's practice was one hidden in her sleeve, not two worn openly on her hips.

"More than that, but you will see that soon, come, my lesson awaits," and in that moment, Brienne saw something she had never seen in her elder charge, a mischievous look to her eyes that was far too light-hearted to the person she had been. It was a very Princess Arya expression, she realized with a jolt of surprise.

Despite her unease, Brienne finds she is glad of the ease that her queen shows. She follows her, hand on her sword she wears on her hip, the entire way, falling into step next to her, one arm laced through her's, instead of behind as she wishes to, but even in the shadows of the morning hours, Sansa is insistent. They go to a large, cavernous room, where a man is waiting for them, a small man with tan skin, a large nose, and an earring swinging from one ear. He raises a brow at Brienne, before looking to Sansa. Brienne's grip on her sword hilt tightens.

"What more do you bring for me?" asked the man, and Brienne is struck with an accent that she thinks is Braavosi, having heard it a lot from some of the men the High Queen had brought with her from Essos, "Eh?"

"A friend, Master Syrio. Lady Brienne of Tarth, she is a friend that knows swordsmanship, she is from the South, in the Stormlands."

"Oh? And does she know how to wield the blade she holds at her side?"

"She is one of the finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms."

Brienne feels her cheek heat, blinking rapidly at the calm assertion.

"S-Sansa boasts for my sake," she replies.

Sansa smiles.

"She is much too modest. But she has traveled far and does not wish to be apart from me. I will take my water-dancing lesson, and Brienne will do her own training if that will be agreeable with you?"

The man, Master Syrio, just nods.

"Well, girl leave your swordswoman alone and learn," he says, calmly.

Brienne is astounded even further when Sansa proceeds to follow the strange man's instructions without protest, without a word. She stands, she stretches, before Brienne can recognize the fact that her eldest charge is learning to defend herself, learning stances and positions that fit well with the thin wooden blade that the man gives her before he begins to circle her with his own practice sword. It is further than a precautionary dagger, or even two. The man, Syrio, barks, orders, and critiques stances, her stamina, and other such things without hesitation, without guile. She takes the hit of the wooden sword from the man without flinching, her eyes only tightening as he hits her soundly on the legs, the hips to tell her where she needs to fix her stance. Sansa takes the lesson, listens, nods, and asks questions, careful, probing, and acknowledging her lack of skill.

Brienne absorbs this for a moment, hand tight on her hilt before she takes an evening breath. She is taking the means to protect herself, to better herself. If I recall, her greatest grief was the fact that she was unable to protect herself when the people in charge of that failed to do so. It will never be her strength, I can see that, much as she is trying. But she need not be a true warrior, if ever she may falter, I will be there to defend her. That is my vow, is it not?

Brienne licks her lips, heart settling in ease and understanding at the course Sansa is taking before she moves to start her own training.

She works herself well and hard, compensating for her loss of both height and muscle, sure in her ability to re-train her body to the same level of prowess that would defend her charges well. She is unaware of the time that passes, but she does move, quickly, with the sound of the door opening, side-stepping quickly to stand in front of Sansa. Her chest is heaving, her brow is full of sweat, but Brienne is prepared for whatever may come.

Grey eyes, large, innocent, startle Brienne, as she quickly lowered her sword.

Princess Arya.

"Good morning," the girl chirps, her gait is smooth, but still touched with the restlessness of a child, and she is smiling, curious as she looks at Brienne.

"Good morning, Arya," says Sansa, voice, warm as it was when she spoke to Brienne, even warmer, calmer, and she seems to be more out of breath than Brienne is, "It seems my lesson is over. Thank you, Master Syrio."

"Keep an eye on your hips girl, and try and lose your hesitation, you will never be quick to attack, but you must attack some of the time."

"Yes, of course."

"And you, big girl, Brienne?" starts the man, starling Brienne as he had yet to really address her, "You do well to stand before a friend."

Brienne swallows thickly and nods.

"I will always do so."

The man gives her a calm, assessing look before he gives a smile. His teeth are blindingly white against his tan skin.

"Good. Good. I will also say that you must not always rely on your strength, stronger than you are than most women, you are still a woman. Learn to be quicker."

Brienne blinks, slightly affronted, but knows his advice is just that- advice. He is not commenting in malice or to jeer at her. He is simply offering advice.

"I will take that under consideration."

"I will also ask for a spar, yes?"

"It would be my honor."

"Who are you?" and that is Princess Arya, a child, and as Brienne turns to her, she realizes how different she is from the woman she knew in just a glance.

"I am Brienne of Tarth. I am Sansa's friend."

Dark brows furrow.

"You don't look like you'd be Sansa's friend."

Brienne blinks.

"Arya," scolds Sansa, voice, not quite sharp, but instead exasperated, something that is tempered by what sounds like true fondness in her voice.

"What? She has a sword-and- she looks like she cannot sew!"

Sansa gives a laugh, and Brienne, as surprised as she is, can only laugh as well. So this is who you were, before I met you, Princess. I suppose I can see what else I must protect.

"I cannot sew very well, if at all," she agrees, calmly, smiling easily at the young child, who turns to her, but she resists the urge to cry at the look of completely… Ease and just… Goodness, she sees in the girl, "But Sansa finds me a friend beyond that."

"Arya, Brienne, and I met because of a raven I sent to inquire over some silk that was said to be less costly from White Harbor was confused, and instead was sent all the way to Evenfall, in the Stormlands. It was a lucky twist of fate that it landed in Brienne's hands."

"I agree."

"She wrote to me, and we have kept a steady correspondence ever since. She is my very first Southern friend. She wishes to be a knight."

Princess Arya's eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell open with quiet surprise.

"A knight?!"

Sansa gives a small smile.

"Isn't it wonderful? Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Knight, it will be a beautiful song."

The look that the girl gives her sister is akin to the look most people would give to the dragons that the High Queen had brought to Westeros.

"It is," the girl, grows timid, for a moment, as expected to be scolded, but when Sansa only keeps smiling, she practically vibrates in her place, "Do you think I could be a knight as well?"

Brienne is amused, and both conflicted at the innocent question.

"Convince mother," is all Sansa says, and a small giggle escapes.

Grey eyes grow determined, grow steely, and she sees a glimpse of the creature the princess would have been- the same grit, the same sheer will to survive.

"I will."

Sansa nods, comfortably.

"I wish you luck," she said calmly, "Brienne, do you wish to train more, or do you wish to follow me to break our fast?"

Brienne understands the hidden question. Stay with Princess Arya, or stay with her?

"You can both stay!" blurts Arya, excitedly, "We can train together."

Sansa blinks rapidly before her mouth falls into a brilliant smile.

"I cannot stay for your entire lesson, Arya, but I think I can manage a little longer. Let me just inform Father that I will be slightly tardy to our morning meeting… Mayhaps, I can drag Jon to join us."

Arya nods, her hair, long and not quite curls, bouncing in the movement. Sansa makes to leave, and a decision is made, Brienne nods to the once(future?) Princess, and her teacher, before she follows after Sansa. They walk in silence, in that silence, Brienne can hear that the Keep has come to life, they fall easily into step with each other, and once again, Sansa places her arm in Brienne's in an easy show of friendship. It is not quite what they had in the future, too many things had wished to take her queen's life to allow such ease... But here, in this summer, Brienne allows herself the luxury.

"Training, my lady?" Brienne brings herself to ask.

She never questioned Sansa, never in terms of anything but her safety. She trusted this woman-girl? with everything beyond it.

"Master Syrio convinced me. I thought it prudent."

Brienne feels her earlier thought confirmed, in the way that Sansa squeezes her arm in slight affirmation. In affection.

"I am glad," said Brienne quietly. Her training as a queen had been sporadic, and unfortunately, someone always needed Queen Sansa Stark with the Second Long Night so close to them all.

"I will never be a warrior. But I do not need to be," said Sansa softly, and a small smile appeared on her fair, innocent-looking face.

"No," Brienne mummers, "Not with me here."

Sansa squeezes her arm again.

"No. Not with you here, Brienne."

Chapter Text

Innocence

"Once a child is confronted with the concept of death there's a certain innocence that goes," Patsy Kensit.

Robb Stark thinks, sometimes, that he will wake to find the girl that had been his sister, looking back at him once again, each morning he enters his father's solar.

He dreams of it sometimes. He dreams of her smiles, soft and eager, so easily given. He thinks of the way she had walked, how she had bounced just so, so slightly, a movement that was on its way to becoming a graceful walk. He thinks of how she had been so easily frustrated by Arya, of how red she would turn when their younger sister would tease and pull. How she would cry with frustration when he refused to play a knight to her princess or fair maiden, and how she tried so desperately to imitate the grace their mother had in her every movement, held back by the restless energy of someone so young.

But with each passing day, he finds that the dream of his sister reverting back to the child she had been, just a few moons ago, will never occur. She was forever lost in a twist of time, a twist of fate and will of the gods. Old or new, he is not sure, just and warranted, he knows not. The only thing he can understand is that Sansa is truly grown in mind, and he feels perhaps he has fallen short in response, as he claimed, to suddenly no longer be the eldest amongst the children of the House of Stark. He looks at her, sees a calmness, a determination that looks foreign on the features of the girl he had known. Gone is the restlessly pretty girl who would coerce him into games of Southern chivalry and would stuff lemon cakes into her mouth with a glee that interrupted her try at being a perfect Lady.

The knowledge that had she not come back, that he would claim himself, King, (even at the urging of other lords), at just five and ten, then lose that Kingship within a year or two, Winterfell in ashes, his younger brothers scattered upon the wind, his elder sister captive, his younger sister lost, he and his mother and father dead-

It makes him wonder. So many things. About himself, about the future they are trying to change...

Am I worthy to be Lord of Winterfell? Or should it ever come to it, Prince beneath the Stark banner? Sansa claims Northern independence is paramount in the Second Long Night to come, if not inevitable with all the mess that comes with the Iron Throne, and while she has not outright said she plans for such an insurrection, in all but words has she claimed the North to be its own Kingdom. In her eyes, am I to be King in her grand plan if fate shall see fit to take our Father again?

On the days that he feels the lowest, of the words that fell from his sister's lips fester within his mind the most, he thinks not. Too young, not enough respect from the Lords that honored his Father, he sees with sharps eyes how dismissive they are of him now, how dismissive they are of all of them, young as they are, and even more so because of their Mother, the words 'Southern', following freely through lips that do not think they are being watched like a curse. He sees it in the way they look at him, see this boy of three and ten trying to speak as their future Liege Lord, and he sees that he is lesser in their eyes.

How can I ever expect to be anything if I was a boy slated to lose the Winterfell, loose his life? The boy they called King, Sansa said that they called him the Young Wolf, even as a King. How could I ever be as Father is to them, respected, loved, and esteemed?

He understands, keenly, that he will always be at a disadvantage to the men that would be his to command, for he has not earned their respect as his father had. Without urgency, it is a wonder, really that what would have been his future self had managed it all. He thinks without the righteous fury that had been provoked upon his father's death- never, as long as he held breath he would see to it that his Father died old and grey in bed- to cause any sense of respect from the men that were so much older than him. Hopefully, if Sansa's presence could do anything in changing the future, it would be so Robb did not have to take that mantle any time soon.

Old and grey in his bed.

"What's wrong with you, Robb?" came Theon, coming to where Robb was leaning against the wall, within the training yard.

Automatically, without his mean, Robb felt his jaw clench. The boy he would call brother, despite the strange happenstance of their friendship, looked at him with just a raised brow, his bow in hand. Expression somewhat concerned, hidden beneath the arrogant look of confidence that Sansa had told him was all a facade. Part of Robb could not believe that Theon would take Winterfell from him, under any circumstance, nor be so cruel as to kill two innocent children, even as a ruse to spare the boys he had been raised with, but… He supposes circumstances were not as he had always seen them. Theon would always feel apart from them, and he does not think that is a bridge they can truly gap without true efforts on both their parts. He does not know what to do in regards to that. He had offered Theon friendship, best as he was able, had never treated him any different, if slightly less favorably than Jon, who was truly his brother-cousin- fucking kin.

He did not know what else Theon wanted from him.

From them all.

The circumstances of what would happen to him- Sansa had been so vague of that, just had stated- just had stated that after the Boltons had taken Winterfell, Theon had been taken prisoner; 'And had not been the same when I found him there. Especially after what happened to poor Jeyne just before my arrival. I do not think he could have been, the same, after that. I never saw him again, after he helped me escape.' But Robb had been intelligent enough to read between the lines, known that from the look in her eyes, from the way her hands had come to her lap, that Theon had not met a happy fate after his short term conquest of Winterfell. And Sansa had pitied him- and even perhaps forgiven him to some extent for destroying the home his Kingly counterpart had trusted him with.

It must have been grave indeed, for such a betrayal to be met with any sort of forgiveness.

And because of that, Robb had no idea what to do with the boy that could betray him.

"Nothing," he replied, and he tried his best to smile, tried to ease the show off too many teeth, "Just happy to have a moment of rest, I suppose."

Theon, he noted, hardly responded to his statement, only tightened his eyes, his smug grin still in place. Now that Robb was looking, he could see how truly strained it was.

"Your Lord Father has been working you to the bone, Stark, I have seen little of you."

Robb fights the urge to snap, to say something less than complimentary, along the lines of not wanting to be seen with the likes of him. He struggles with himself. Theon is not to blame for things he has yet to do, just the same as I cannot continue to berate myself for what is a future that will never come to pass. But I cannot settle this hurt, this betrayal. He is saved from responding by Jon, who walks over with an even look on his face.

"Finished your paces?" Jon asked, quietly.

Robb gives a terse nod. He had ruthlessly pushed himself through the paces before the light of dawn had even come and had been in a sweaty heap before the arms Master, Ser Rodrik Cassel had even entered the yard. Robb had made sure to demand the man work him even harder before Theon and Jon had come in sometime after dawn. They had had no room to speak, no room to interact, as Ser Rodrick had been instructed by their Lord Father to increase their training to the extreme, another by-product of Sansa's change, no doubt.

"Father wishes to see us before the morning meal."

"Not much of a message to give, Snow, if your father demands your council every day." says Theon, voice a touch mullish, "And I thought a ride through the wolfswood would help ease whatever snit you've been in."

Robb sees it, at that moment, the look in Theon's eyes, of how upset he is by the growing distance between them. Theon turns to stalk away. Robb blinks, for a moment, before he sets his jaw, and focuses on the retrieving back.

"Theon," he calls, and when the boy he thinks of a brother turns to him, he sees hurt and negligence he has allowed to pass between them since he learned of the possibility of betrayal. Feel my anger I may, but I won't allow for it to become so strained between us. Nor will I ever let him go back to his father, "Why don't we go for a ride tomorrow outside the castle gates, just before breakfast instead? I need to get out of the Keep- there have been so many people. I feel as if I have said pardon me more times than I can count, or nodded my head in greeting to the point that it will fall off."

Theon grins, briefly, an expressive thing that looks genuine before it settles into something more arrogant.

"Aye. What say you Snow, want to ride with us?"

Jon's eyes, grey and even, flicker back and forth between them before he nods.

"Let me see if I can get Sansa and Arya to come, even Bran."

"Well, if you wished to be slowed down, I suppose," muttered Theon, rolling his eyes. But he does not look displeased at the notion.

"We can make an event of it. A picnic before the first meeting," says Robb, as cheerfully as he dared.

Theon rolled his eyes again, but he looked a touch more pleased nonetheless.

"Alright Stark, we have a promise. I'll see if I can find some horses for your sisters. They don't ride often, do they?"

"No. In fact, I cannot remember the last time any of them rode."

"I'll find some docile ones then. You take care of the food. And if you can manage, get some wine. With the mess the kitchen is in with all of our guests, it'd be easy to nick it," he grinned.

Robb felt his own grin come automatically.

"We'll see."

"Don't let me down, Stark."

Only if you don't do the same, Greyjoy.

He walked, nodding his goodbye, Jon next to him. They walk in silence for a beat, heading towards their rooms to change and head for the daily meeting of the household. The halls are quiet, as most wouldn't rise for another hour or so. Robb feels a tension fall from him at it. They reach the family wing without encountering a single soul, and Robb is glad for it. Pretext it may have been to go riding out with Theon, he was not lying to say the Keep had been over-crowded and felt too close quarters with people he hardly knew. He feels strangely lost, before he takes his place at the high-table, before every meeting, feels small amongst so many people that were evidently supposed to respect and defer to him. How the hell he had handled it at five and ten as a fucking King, he'll never know.

"So you've decided," Jon's voice is quiet, even as they enter the wing of the family.

"What do you mean?"

"To forgive him. Even after all that you know him capable of."

Robb sighs.

"He's done nothing. Whatever was done in the place that she comes from, it hasn't been done. Theon has done nothing."

"Neither have we," says Jon, voice even quieter.

Robb stops. Stops and looks at his brother. Because no matter who your father is, no matter your mother, you are my brother. And just like in Theon earlier, he sees something in his eyes. It is a mirror, he wagers, of what he feels. As if they are looking up a mountain, with nothing but their bare hands to climb it, the haunting words of someone they loved, of horrors to come, as their only motivation. The burdens of a future that had evidently killed them, or perhaps the burdens of the knowledge of being Kings, however, short a time.

"Jon?"

"We know the parts we would have played. And all the mistakes that we would have made."

Robb felt his jaw clench.

"We do."

Jon gives him a measured look, a funny smile on his face.

"I've made so many vows to myself since Sansa told me of this… I wonder if you have done the same?"

Old and gray in his bed.

"Yes. A few."

"I thought so."

Robb grins, and he has no doubt that his smile is as queer as his brother's.

"So what does that mean, eh?"

"That we make sure to keep them."

They look at each other, and Robb can see a little bit of what Sansa sees, whenever she talks of the man she called the High King. And in himself, Robb can feel something as well- A bit of what he is sure is what his future counterpart had used to try and avenge his father.

He saw and felt a man. A son, a brother.

A King.

With promises to keep.

Old and gray in his bed.

Chapter Text

Grace

"Grace is the beauty of form under the influence of freedom," Friedrich Schiller.

Sansa had long come to the conclusion that she was a graceless rider.

It is more evident to her, however, as she stares at the soft brown mare that Theon had procured from the stables, that she at ten namedays, she was even worse than she had been at twenty. She cannot recall, really, if she had ridden much at this age, or at all, really. She had not been fond of horses, for their smell, and had no place to really travel before her family's journey to King's Landing. On occasion, from her vague memories, she recalled small trips with the family, which had become so infrequent after the birth of Rickon. Who would have thought I would have missed such rides? Longed for those forced trips and moments with my family? She had been clumsy, if adequate equestrian, and had skirted by on whatever short rides she had been forced to attend. In her later years, horseback had been a harsh requirement of speed and stealth, and later the only mode of transportation left to her.

At least until we had to sacrifice our horses to feed ourselves. The glass gardens production was just not enough to sustain every person, let alone a population of horses.

She suppresses a frown, as she watches Arya- little Arya, so much younger than her, who like her has hardly ridden more than her at this point, jump onto her own small pony without aid nor block. It is clumsy, but she still more or less grasp the mechanics of how to mount within a few seconds of examining the stirrup, and true to her slightly wild nature, she is astride like a man, rather than correctly sitting with her legs aside. It looks a bit ridiculous, really, as she is in a riding habit that is fit for a young girl of her station, the long soft brown skirt that was now bunched across her waist, the only thing preventing it from being scandalous was the fact that she was wearing trousers underneath, instead of proper stockings. Arya has never been one to let something such as wardrobe, nor her lady's saddle, stop her. Sansa, at that, does not suppress the small smile of humor.

Some things do not change, I see, sister.

"Lady Sansa?" asks Brienne, and she is already kneeling in front of her, hands cupped together as a step for her. It had been normal, for Ser Brienne or Ser Jaime to aid her in mounting whatever horse could be spared for her.

Sansa shakes her head, a slight furrow in her brow before she forces her face to relax.

"Let me attempt to mount myself," she commands, gently, and Brienne gives her a swift nod, the newly shorn head glistening in the soft morning sun.

It is soft yellow and looks as soft as newborn chick fluff, and on Brienne's broad face, familiar to Sansa. Despite her youthful face, it looks more akin to what they were. Part of Sansa is envious. What would it be to have the body I left in flame and ash. Sometimes I look at my reflection and see nothing of who I became. Just a soft child that made so many mistakes, playing at being a Northern woman… But at the same time, she is glad to be looked as a child. The weight of men's stares, so long endured, is all but gone. Never in her life, has Sansa been so glad to be overlooked, to be dismissed as not a worthless woman or a sexual object, but instead an innocent child with no chance of being a player in any sort of game.

Brienne steps back, just a pace, brows furrowed, hands hovering and at the ready, in case that Sansa makes a fool of herself.

"As you wish," Brienne says softly, nodding gently.

Sansa turns back to the horse and sets her jaw in slight determination. I must become accustomed to it, as no wheelhouse nor liter will be so ready to use most of the time. I must be self-reliant where I am able, just as I was forced to do before. Now it will not be forced- It will be done with ease. She tries to copy her sister's movements, leg and all, as she doubts she can mount as is due to a lady without making a fool of herself. She nearly falls, but for her own determination, she waves off Brienne and comes to be astride the horse, like a man. She arranges her skirts quickly, the reflexes of a grown woman needing to guard her body compelling her, pressing her green skirt as proper as she could, hindered by the back seat of her saddle.

The first thing she notes is that it is far more comfortable than to sit side-saddle, even without a stirrup in the correct place, and sighs in reluctance.

"Theon," she calls, somewhat unhappily, gripping tightly at the reins, "Is it possible to find a normal saddle, instead of a lady's saddle?"

Brienne raises a broad brow, gentle surprise, but she sees understanding in her beautiful eyes. It wasn't as if Sansa had been afforded the luxury of a lady's saddle all the time. But the Greyjoy ward's mouth falls open, his shock for a moment removing the small smirk that is so prominent on his face. At eight and ten, Theon Greyjoy was just one cusp of true manhood, and while Sansa had never seen him as handsome, his arrogance taking him to be so unattractive, there was something heartening in seeing him… Whole. Like most times, when she sees the before, the boy before the wrecked creature that Ramsey had made, she feels a certain fondness, and unease all in the same moment. Because despite the events that had taken Winterfell, the hell that had found him afterward was not something she would have wished for him.

No one deserved Ramsey.

You could betray us. In order to prove yourself to a man, you remember from boyhood, to remove the stain of being nothing but a hostage... But if we show you just a little more love, will you side with us instead? Will you ignore the call of your homeland? I am not sure.

"I agree with Sansa," says Arya, frowning down at her own, "This saddle is stupid."

Theon's mouth comes to a close before he gives a sharp nod.

"I'm sure I'll find something."

Sansa dismounts and nearly falls flat on her face. She manages to catch herself against the horse and waves off Brienne's hovering hand. She, despite her internal age, cannot stop the small flush as Arya lets out a loud snicker. Had she been her body's true age, she would have screamed at her sister for- For, well, making her feel embarrassed. Instead, she managed to force a soft giggle, because Arya is only a child with childish humor that was not meant to be cruel. Arya hopped off of her pony in a bouncing dismount, her snickers blending with Sansa's practiced giggles. Her little sister shifts and gives her a small smile, which Sansa's allows herself to return. Their small moment is taken from them as Theon takes the reins of Sansa's horse, and Brienne, frowning, but not saying a word, goes to attend Arya's.

She follows the Greyjoy into the stables careful of her riding skirt and her boots, Arya bouncing behind her, with Brienne at their heels. Brienne helps Arya, showing her the proper way to unsaddle her small horse, voice soft as she explains the buckles. Sansa watches as Theon removes the saddle they had found to be proper, some remnant of a lady child past, in better condition than she would expect. Sansa wonders, but is not sure if it is her personal saddle, memories of nearly a decade long faded. She suspects it is, but cannot know for sure. I never rode much, never bothered to be any good at it. Only expected to be led by my gallant lord. She pays careful mind of what Theon is removing, her brows intent.

"Wouldn't you prefer this saddle?" Theon's question is soft, and he doesn't look at her as he removes the small, dainty seat, making a show of heaving it off of the gentle mare, leaving the pale blue blankets as he went to examine the racks for another saddle, "You shouldn't let how everyone else rides make you think less of the proper way to ride."

"I should," she replies, allowing another small smile to appear.

Theon looks back at her, brow raised. A curious look in his eyes. Such a stark difference from the dead look that had greeted her in Winterfell so long ago. Such a difference from the skittish fright that had filled them when she had whispered his true name in sheer surprise.

"Aye. You want to be a proper lady, do you not?"

"I am a proper lady," she says, gracefully dipping her head. That much has not changed, from when she had been a traitor girl of traitor's blood or but a bastard girl in name, she had been a lady, damn what anyone else said, "But I also wish to be a proper rider."

Theon smiles, a sort of a smirk.

"Need more than a saddle to be a proper ridder, there."

"That comes with practice."

"Not much practice time, with all your airs there, Sansa. I should help you learn to ride nice and proper."

If she had been but a child of ten, such a comment would have flown above her head. She would have thanked Theon prettily, but with ill ease at his expression. As a woman of twenty namedays in her mind, something close to cold fury enters her, as she watches the turn of his mouth turn into that lean, clever smile of his. It was the smile that always made her ignore him, the boy-man that Robb always had at his heels. He had always made her uncomfortable, made her annoyed that this future Lord was so… Unlikeable. So rude. So uncourteous to her. She understands the innuendo of his words, the laughter in his eyes at what he no doubt believes is a clever quip.

She watches, out of the corner of her eye, as Brienne goes stock still, her back stiff as she straightens out. Her sworn shield turns a fire in her eyes, her hand going to the sword on her hip.

Sansa knew she had to defuse the situation and gives Theon the prettiest, soft smile she can hope to give despite her own disgust at his words.

"How kind of you, Theon, if I ever have a need for an instructor, you will be the first I call. I heard you were a fine archer even from horseback, so you must be an excellent rider to be so steady. Thank you for the offer."

That gets a smile from him, a true one, softer, easing his usual smirk. Just a boy making jabs because otherwise, no one is listening to him.

"Alright. Anytime you need it, Sansa."

A finely gloved hand goes to hesitantly cup her cheek, in an awkward but startlingly affectionate gesture.

He turns away from her quickly and lifts a small saddle, worn, at the very back of the small area of racks. She sees that the back of his neck is flushed with his pleasure, or perhaps embarrassment at the compliment, or even his forwardness with physical affection, or his own boldness of words against someone he sees as someone being so young. So many insecurities. She turns to Brienne, sees how tightly she holds her jaw and her sword before she gives the slightest shake of her head. Brienne frowns before she gives Sansa a sharp if dissatisfied nod in acceptance. No doubt, if pushed too far her sworn shield would stop holding her tongue even if Sansa commanded her to cease. It had been a frustrating constant, of trying to ease Brienne's well-meaning if the unnecessary defense of any insult directed her way.

The saddle that Theon picks is old, made of soft, supple, and worn leather. It is stitched with thrones and pale faded five-pointed leaves that must have been bright red at one point, the leaves of the hearttree. Snarling direwolves line the head of the saddle. It was a strange mixture of masculine practicality and delicate female beauty in the stitching.

"This should fit," says Theon, measuring against the other saddle. It was a bit bigger, obviously meant for a woman instead of a young girl, but adjustable enough in the stirrups to match her height, so it would be serviceable.

"Thank you, Theon, for arranging this."

"... It was Robb's idea," he dismisses, but his chest is slightly thrown out nonetheless.

"Thank you nonetheless."

Robb, Jon, and Bran arrive, two large saddlebags in hand each, just after they have finished preparing all of their horses. They are grinning, ear to ear as they attach the large saddlebags to their horses. They surprise her by clapping Theon on the back, Jon lifts Arya into a circle, before passing her off to Robb, and they both plant a loud kiss on Sansa's cheeks. Bran simply watches on with a large grin, his eyes blue and alive. It eases her heart every single time, to see the humanity in her younger brother.

"You're cheery," she says, softly, as she clumsily remounts.

Both Robb and Jon swing up gracefully, easily.

"Father's given us the entire morning off. Some of the older Lords are going off for a quick morning hunt- the usual deer herd was spotted too nearby to pass off," says Robb, cheerfully, "They should be back by early afternoon with some venison."

"... We thought it would be nice, for a break away from so many strangers," said Jon, with a much too casual shrug, "So father approved for the long ride with just the family. Or well, some of us, anyway."

Sansa hesitates.

"Will mother and father need me-"

"No. Our instructions are clear. We are to ride to a specific glen that father says is lovely this time of year," Robb says, stern.

Sansa nearly protests, but Brienne's hand on her arm is a soft, but perhaps needed reminder. She gives her sworn shield a look. Brienne gives her a soft if knowing smile. Sansa forced a breath. Enjoy things you did not before… Spend time with those you missed. Winter is Coming, but I know when. She returns her nod and a small amount of her smile.

"If it's just family, why is she joining us?" says Bran, curiously, looking at Brienne, who looked out of place amongst them with her lovely armor.

Brienne flushes as she mounts, and shifts uneasily in her full plate on her tall mare, easily the largest horse amongst them. "I need to strengthen myself- I tire much too easily in a full set." Her sworn shield is the epitome of someone who struggles with social graces. Once, it had made Sansa somewhat frustrated to encounter someone so innocent of the nuances of social interaction, or so blindingly determined to ignore them. Later, Sansa had grown to find the awkwardness charming, and refreshing in the wake of having spent the majority of her adulthood with schemers and snakes. The more she had come to know Brienne, in the last two years of their lives… The more she had come to rely upon, even care for this woman.

She had become family.

That had been precious in the Second Long Night… Now, she could never deny Brienne as being so important for her, especially since she had come to Sansa once again. Sansa knew how little the rest of her family knew of Brienne. Jon and Robb knew her through a second-hand account, and trusted her for the esteem she showed the older woman. But her younger siblings and Theon knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she had been seen following Sansa. She was a strange Stormlander, and she could swing her sword.

"She is my very dear friend, like family," replies Sansa, smiling.

Arya grins brightly, eagerly nodding. Her younger sister had come to care for her already, and Sansa suspects it has something to do with the fact that Brienne had taken to staying with Arya through her morning sword practice.

"Odd for you to find such a friend," comments Theon, leering at the physically younger woman, "Where'd you find this one, eh, Sansa?"

Brienne visibly grits her teeth. Theon was exactly the wrong type of person to interact with her serious sworn shield. He, in some ways, was like Ser Jaime- an arrogant handsome male that has been built from birth to understand their importance in life. But in the end, he was just an insecure boy playing at being a man, a hurt boy used as a pawn in the grand Game that was Westeroian politics. But such plays would annoy her honorable friend, especially since she was not as forgiving of Theon's role in the future possible events as Sansa was.

The fact that he took nearly nothing seriously for the sake of his persona would make it worse.

"I'm just saying- If anyone should be here it should be Jeyne. She's been hanging around me asking about you, Sansa. She cries so much."

Sansa blinks and just shakes her head. She had mixed feelings over her childhood friend. Innocent Jeyne, who had been so excited like her, to go to King's Landing. Poor Jeyne, caught just as Sansa was, but in a more precarious situation. She had not the thin protection of being engaged to the new King, however much he had disliked her, she had not the thin protection of being the eldest daughter to a Great House. She had been sold off as if she was Arya to Ramsey, the fake she-wolf. Sansa mourned the girl she had loved so dearly in girlhood when she had been brought to Winterfell at last.

Jeyne's body, flayed, hanging over the open gates had greeted her home after a stifling ride at a brutal pace, following behind her latest captor guising himself as her husband. He watched her gleefully, explaining who was on the gates with malicious glee. A sign hanging around her neck, warning of any more fake wolf cunts to enter the domain of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North.

But the girl, the young child that greeted her here in the past?

"Jeyne is needed by her father this morning, I had already invited her," she returns stiffly.

Jeyne had been displeased with her when she had invited her, and part of it had to do with Brienne hovering behind her. The sheer dislike that the young girl had thrown at Brienne had been very visible, and the jealousy even more so. Her face had been red and pinched, tears hovering in her warm eyes. Sansa had no idea how comfort the child that Jeyne was in a way that would please her. Sansa's memories of her time with the girl were vague at best. Poor Jeyne had faded just as her father had, the only stark memory of them had been what was left of them, mutilated but horribly recognizable.

With her current duties, and who she had become in the course of her life… Jeyne was just no longer someone that Sansa could seriously interact with. Her family, young as they were, were what had she had wanted for so long. Jeyne the girlhood friend was something so removed from her, such a faraway memory she had not clung to. Sansa's only goal was to try and give her family a better fighting chance of the coming turmoil. She made concessions, made the effort to understand her family as she hadn't before. And both those priorities made relationships that had been so valuable to her in childhood fall away.

"Let's go," calls Arya, impatiently.

Theon rolled his eyes, a flash of uncertainty on his face, but made no other comment. With a couple of guards along with them, the younger part of the House Stark save baby Rickon, made their way out of Winterfell. It was a lovely day, the Summer evident in the small dusting of snow that littered the ground, no doubt set to melt by mid-afternoon. The temperature was evenly cool, not enough for furs and warm enough to get away with light cloaks to keep away the wet that any snowfall would bring. They kept an even, steady pace, easy conversation flowing between them all as they rode towards their destination. Sansa, as horrid as she was at ridding, found herself at the back of the small party, watching as Brienne conversed with Arya with large, delightful gestures on the part of Arya and quiet amusement on the part of their sworn shield. Jon and Robb surrounded Theon and she saw their choice and eagerness to try and sway the man from becoming a turn-cloak.

"Sansa," said Bran, quietly, startling her. Expertly, he slows the pace of the horse, and she admired the young boy of five namesdays being such an easy rider. She must look like an oaf in comparison.

She turned to her younger brother, giving him a polite smile. His eyes were bright, alive and her heartfelt light because of it. He was so human that Sansa's heart ached in joy.

"You… You seem different lately," he said, but his face was not concerned nor alarmed, merely curious.

"I know I must seem so," she replies.

Bran, unlike Arya, was not so confrontational of the changes that had happened to Sansa. He left the comment sit in the air for a moment as if he was weighing it.

"Are you alright?"

The question was innocent, from a brother who only saw a drastic change and no reason.

"Yes," Sansa could not lie, not to her family if she could help it. Bran would understand, when he was older, he was the second heir, until Robb had children of his own. Sansa hoped to tell them all, even Rickon, what had occurred to her and Brienne. Who she really was, what had happened to all of them...

But not yet.

She would leave them to their Summer filled dreams yet. They were too young. Not old enough to keep their tongues, not old enough to understand the horror that could befall them all. She, Father, and Mother had agreed. They would learn of the truth of what House Stark truly was working for, survival against the South, against the Others, against Winter, once they had turned three and ten, the same age as Jon and Robb had learned of the truth. It would give them time to be children and the fewer people who knew of the future and of Jon's true parentage, the better in Sansa's opinion. As much as she wished to tell her younger siblings, she could not.

"I'm glad Sansa. You seem… Not happy. But… Focused," said Bran, as he struggled to phrase his view of her.

"I am both," she replied, honestly and she gave him a kind smile.

Those blue eyes, light and still human, sparkled.

"You and Arya do not fight. Mother and Father look to you. Robb and Jon don't play as much," his tone was questioning, but not accusing.

Are all us Starks that observant?

"Winter is Coming, Bran. We have to be ready for it. Mother and Father need me for that."

Bran was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting somewhere beyond the horizon, the grip on the reins of his pony tightened slightly.

"Everyone is going to fight over this Winter, aren't they? Every time we go into the Great Hall everyone is so… Angry. And bored of talking. But not you Sansa… You are focused."

Sansa feels… Something. Not quite heavy, but tangible in the air. And it comes from her brother. Her heart speeds and Sansa reaches to touch Bran on the arm. The feeling persists. And Bran reaches to grip her hand. His hold is impossibly delicate against her small hand. His eyes are far away and seem darker, grey instead of blue. Sansa dares not breathe as those eyes turn to her.

Bran smiles.

It is a wolvish, savage sort of thing.

Then he blinks. And the air is clear and light. His eyes are an innocent and bright blue that matches her mother's, and his savage smile turns into a quizzical one. He looks to their gripped hands, brows furrowed in confusion. Sansa controls her breathing and gives his arm a squeeze. Bran returns the squeeze as she withdrawals, her mouth dry.

"Sorry, did you want something Sansa?"

"No, Bran. I think you were falling asleep in your saddle. I reached out to steady you."

Bran gives an embarrassed grin, his flush emphasizing the scattering of freckles across his face.

"Thank you, Sansa. I'm going to ride a little faster to keep myself awake."

"Do not ride too ahead of our brothers."

He gave her a grin, again, and rode ahead without a word. Sansa stared after him, heart still galloping in her chest. I knew this to be a possibility. What did Arya say, once? Sometimes it was as if she was Nymeria herself in her dreams, and she would know things because of it… Feel things that escaped me. The same thing with Jon with his aunt's dragon and Ghost. It must be magic I lost because of Lady's death. Is magic within the blood of the First Men and the Andals? Will I lose my younger brother to that magic once again? And worst of all… Is there nothing within my power to at least keep some of the boy that wished to be a gallant knight? Sansa shook her head, once and squared her shoulders. All thoughts to bring to her parents, her brothers, and Brienne. I am not alone. She allowed whatever worry that had come to her aside. She would assess this with others later. At the moment, it was all for enjoying the Summer morning with most of her siblings.

Sansa stayed at the back of the party for their short ride, silent and enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her skin. It allowed her to observe her family openly and enjoy the sight of them healthy, whole and happy. Brienne would send her looks, but Sansa would wave towards Arya. That was a friendship that had never fully bloomed, and with a less jaded Arya, Sansa knew Brienne would find true kinship. They were so strikingly similar and Sansa was glad for both of them to bond. Arya's true innocence would do Brienne good to recover from the horrors of the Future, and Brienne would make a fine role model for Arya, as honorable as she was.

The boys, she was also pleased to note, were bounding as boys only could, heckling and boasting, and Theon's face looked the most relaxed she had seen in a long time. By the time they had made it to the clearing, the dew of the morning had gone, but it was early yet. It was a small break in the woods, away from the direction that the herd of deer had been traveling to, and was full of fragrant flowers that sparked color. A distant stream gave off a musical babel and Sansa's heartfelt content as she watched her family dismount with such open, relaxed faces. She could not remember if this had ever happened before, or if she had thought it tedious and unimportant before...

They took great pains of laying out the treated canvas for the ground, before placing out softer wool blankets on top, forgoing the furs as the morning was turning out to be a warm one. The standing guards gave out platters and the boys unloaded their saddlebags. Arya and Bran chose that moment to be unhelpful and run around as Sansa and Brienne organized their meal to the best of their ability. The meal was simple, but a filling cool porridge, sliced ham and toasted bread, fresh and dried fruit, and bread slathered in various jams.

Robb revealed a wineskin, winked at their amused guards who turned a blind eye, and the Reach Gold was passed around to those who could stomach it. Sansa politely declined, as wine was never something she had found particularly appealing, especially in the wake of how much the Lannisters had enjoyed it. Besides, I like my wits about me. Arya dared a sip and spat it out straight into an unsuspecting Theon's face, which caused the older boy to chase the girl around amid their laughter.

He caught Arya by the collar of her riding habit, who was howling in laughter even as Theon threw her over his shoulder, spanking the giggling girl in his displeasure. Brienne tensed, automatically going for her steel sword, but at the shake, of Sansa's head she stood down with a scowl. The guards, people Sansa did not really remember, shifted uneasily. Their faces were stern, their grips were tight on their spears. One of the guards stepped forward, with a scowl on his face. At the jerk of her head, Robb waved them off, brows furrowed. Theon unaware, or perhaps long used to such behavior, dumped Arya, who was still laughing despite the spanking, unceremoniously on top of a laughing Jon.

"That's enough of that," scolded out the elder boy, wagging his finger at her, "You ruined my doublet and wasted good wine, Underfoot."

Arya, red from her giggles, stuck out her tongue. Then she scrambled off of Jon.

"That stuff is foul," she said with all the wisdom and certainty of the child she was.

"You're not old enough to understand," replied Theon, flushing.

"It just makes you stupid."

Theon, realizing he was arguing with a child, rolled his eyes, and picked up the discarded wineskin, which had been kicked by Arya and Theon alike, the Golden wine had spilled onto the grass.

"What a waste," he said, mournfully, but it was clearly meant as a jest.

He checked the skin, but it was all but empty. He sighed and tossed his head back to drink the rest in a deep swig.

"Is that all you brought Robb?" Theon asked as he tossed the empty skin aside.

Robb shrugged.

"It should have been enough for just the morning, Theon."

Theon gave out another sigh, dropping heavily to the ground in slight disgust. A silence fell across them, but it was comfortable as a fire in a hearth. Sansa felt the most relaxed that she had in a very long time, all looming thoughts of Winter and what Bran had done pushed away for the moment.

Winter is Coming… But not yet. Not soon. I can enjoy this.

Or she would if Theon had not opened his fat mouth and made her remember more unpleasant things.

"More people coming to Winterfell, Robb. These Tyrells, from the South, where is your Father putting them all?"

Sansa frowned at the reminder, shifting slightly. Robb shot her a look. At her silence, he answered Theon with his own words. Sansa could see a reliance from her elder brother starting to form, and she was trying to curb it. Much as she liked her opinion and direction being valued, Robb could make solid decisions. He had won nearly every battle he had ever fought in the future- she was only there to make sure he lived to win whatever war would come their way.

"Theirs is a small party, apparently, as a courtesy to our full castle. Winterfell is large enough. I mean, my grandfather is coming as well."

"We'll never have a moment's peace," grouched Theon, "Northern lords. Southern Lords. What's next, the bleeding King?"

"Father is supposed to be his friend," called Bran, importantly, "Maybe we will see him soon."

Gods not soon.

"Know anything about the Tyrells?"

"Their words are Grow Strong!"

"Growing Strong, Bran," corrected Sansa, gently, "Their words are 'Growing Strong', their sigel is a golden rose upon a greenfield. They are High Lords of the Reach, field the seven kingdom's greatest army as the most populous Kingdom, a fleet to rival that of King's Landing by their bannerman and have one of the most fertile lands of the Seven Kingdoms. They are a rich house, second only by the Lannisters of the Westerlands."

Bran stared at her blinking, Arya, Theon, doing much the same.

"How'd you know all that?" asked Theon, loudly, brows furrowed.

Sansa gave a delicate sniff.

"Well, I pay attention to my lessons."

Theon stared at her before he rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you dream of finding their heir handsome, and a knight? Fancy yourself the future Lady of High Garden, do you, Sansa?"

She gave a measured blink.

"I wouldn't expect Lady Sansa to find Lord Willas appealing," snarled Brienne, tersely. She was not pleased with the coming of the Tyrells, and was only so calm about it because she knew that Loras had recently been sent to squire with Lord Renly. When she had heard the story of the poisoned hairnet, Brienne had quite cemented her dislike of the opportunistic family, "He is more than ten years her senior… And could never be a knight."

"Why not?" asked Bran, curiously.

"I heard he was a cripple," whispered Arya, "I heard the guards talking."

"Wait. That's right, the heir of High Garden is that idiot that got himself injured his first Tourney," said Theon, a chuckle in his voice.

"It was a horrible accident," corrected Brienne with a snap to her voice, and Sansa realized that her sworn shield had been present. She continued, much to everyone's surprise, "I was a girl when it happened, just your age Lady Arya. The opposite rider, Prince Oberyn Martel knocked him clean off his horse- but his foot caught the stirrup as he fell and his horse fell atop of him. He was just a boy, barely old enough to hold the damn lance… Pardon me, Lady Sansa."

Sansa waved her hand, having heard worse from her brothers and Theon all morning.

"So you've been to a Tourney?" asked Bran, excitedly.

"More than one."

"So you've seen knights?! Met them?"

"My fair share of them, yes, Lord Bran."

At that, both Arya and Bran turned their attention to Brienne. Eyes sparkling, as she told of the knights she knew and how they were. Sansa let their enjoyment flow and settled back to be silent and observe her family once again.

"You can't marry a cripple, Sansa," said Theon, eyes sparkling with humor.

Jon shot her a look. She couldn't quite read it, but she could see his unease and the way he was searching her face for something.

"She can marry who she likes," interrupted Robb, sternly, before he gave her a crooked grin, "As long as he's a Northerner."

She pressed her lips together. She had married twice in her life, both marriages done without her true consent. When all this mess with their bannermen and the Southern lords was settled, she would need to broach the subject with her parents. Father once promised me a good man, a man who was kind, gentle, and strong. With all that has happened to me, I know he will grant me an even greater requirement... My own choice in the matter. I will never marry any man that I do not choose for myself.

"I'll marry no one, just to spite you all," she joked, deadpan.

That caused both Theon and Robb to let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Ha! That I doubt. Sansa Stark not marrying anyone- That is a poor jest, Sansa, did you not say your nameday celebration last that you wished for your parents to betroth you to someone?"

"I was young and foolish."

"You are still ten namedays, Sansa."

She gave a soft, smile.

"I suppose I am."

And isn't that a wonderful thing? To be so young again, my whole life ahead of me?

Chapter Text

Flowers

"The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure," D. H. Lawrence.

Sansa fights the grandest urge to fidget as another wheelhouse of the South comes into the courtyard of Winterfell once again.

The entourage of armored men upon horseback, both the parties of the Tyrell and Tully flood past the gate, glidded and glittering figures after the beautiful structure pulled by a dozen or so white horses. Golden roses in a field of green and leaping trouts upon a blue river and a bank of red mud, jumping on rich banners, flowing in the wind along with the lightest of summer snow. The parties, she guesses, must have joined midway on the road to Winterfell. Stumbled across each other, no doubt, on the King's road. The parties seem to move apart, eying each other warily, blues, reds, and golds, greens go through the gates of Winterfell in a clear divide. They split in almost synchronization, riders and carts of supplies pulling away from each other as fast as they can in the large outer courtyard. In their haste, their somewhat stately beauty is lost, the perfection they try to impart is left lesser.

They have no quarrel, yet there is always such a tension in the Houses of the South.

The flashes of armored men lead the front of all the parties, gilded, shining armor that would have had her ecstatic at this age before, a stark contrast to the men of the North that had come before them, with leathers and mail covered in fur and taciturn wool. Dark to garish color. Practicality at war against frivolity. Scaled armor of the Riverlands plays another contrast to the inlaid, decorated plates of the Reach, and cloaks of velvet of silk are draped across or behind elegant parties of the South. Tully mud-red, Tully river blue. Tyrell thorn green, Tyrell pale gold. They all look… Beautiful. As if they had leaped from the songs and stories that had so held her admiration and attention as a girl. But appearances are only one thing. Anything can be outwardly beautiful, much as she pained her to think, Queen Cersei Lannister had only ever been surpassed in beauty by Queen Daenerys. Even King Joffrey had been beautiful.

It just leaves a sour taste on her tongue, to see something that would have had her besotted come to Winterfell, with her cynical mind to kill all enjoyment of it. These knights, these strange men in armor, the words of the Hound come to her mind; All men are killers. Even if she knew the men lined in drapped in mud-red and river-blue would die for her as a slightly removed daughter of the House. And that the Roses had no need to harm her to further their goals quite yet-

They still make her uneasy.

For this is a change. And nearly all of them are strangers or years removed from when she had known them. But what is Sansa to do? She knew changes of the North would affect the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They are not independent yet. And this is the price. The South crawling their way past the North of the Neck.

Be steady. Be sure. It is the only course we can take. Winter is  Coming.

The great Lord of Highgarden Mace has not come, a slight some would say, to send only his crippled heir, his second son, a daughter, and elderly mother, but Sansa acknowledges that it is the very opposite. And is glad if wary for it. Lady Olenna had no doubt had no wish for her foolish son to muck up an important trade agreement. Her eyes flicker from face to face, most unfamiliar, and lock onto one of the few she knows. She has come as well, the girl who wanted to claim her as a sister. Lady Margaery is the only face that is truly familiar… She is a beautiful thing, even as young as two and ten name days, a lively looking thing that shifts uneasily in her saddle. She could almost be bouncing in it, if it not for her own restraint, as it was Margaery is shifting restlessly. Her curls, Sansa notes with some petty satisfaction, are not quite as tame as they would be in a few years' time, pretty enough, but wild by both the Northern wind and that of someone who has yet to find the perfect way to manage one's hair.

Her face is clear and pale with rosy undertones. Her riding attire is expensive and completely impractical silk lined with what seems to be only a little fur of some sort of brown animal, green and vividly decorated with golden roses of her sigil, hand-stitched no doubt by her own steady hand. Her cloak, thick but unlined, is all but useless in wake of the snowfall that had started but a few hours ago, more than likely not treated to be waterproof. The icy crystals line it and the girl looked half-frozen. But even as two and ten, she appears as lively as she always is, that shy and sweet smile on her face as she looks around with polite interest.

"She… Died. I believe," Ser Jaime Lannister is quiet. He is always quiet when he speaks to her.

He looks at her, he always does, straight in the eye. Had she been a weaker person, even just a little, the sight of that horribly familiar green would make her look away. For they are Cersei's eyes. Joffrey's eyes. But she does not. Had he been a more craven man, even just a little, he could not bear to look at her either. For she is his salivation, his restoration in himself… And he came much too late to save her completely. He had come for the innocent girl that had been smuggled out of King's Landing… And come instead to find a hardened woman. She thinks that eats at him, even as he serves so faithfully with Brienne as her guard.

"How?" her voice is not soft, nor does it tremble. It is placid and normal volume as if she were inquiring over something mundane, instead of the death of someone she had once called her friend.

"Cersei. She always hated the girl. Jealous, I'd expect, of how beautiful she was. Of her ease… At everything. The smallfolk, manners. She always raged about her… And I believe she began to suspect about Joffrey's death, or perhaps she was using that as an excuse to justify her need to crush the Tyrells."

The memory of his death is not a happy one. Sansa had been too numb to really rejoice in it. The fact that she had been used as a pawn for it made her furious in retrospect. But now she can rejoice in the lack of feeling that Jaime Lannister has in his voice over the death of his natural son. Love is poison indeed if one cannot even bring to feel anything over the death of a child that is a product of that love. She knows not why, but Sansa feels it as a victory over Cersei Lannister to see Jaime Lannister so indifferent over their son's death.

"One cannot be 'growing strong' if one does not have roots. Margaery was their seed to the throne," she said simply, quietly, "Beloved beyond that. It would be war at her death. Cersei digs herself quite a grave… And the rest of the Tyrells at court?"

Jaime sighs heavily, shifting uncomfortably.

"I know not. With Tommen's death, I hear Cersei grew more unstable. My leave before that more than likely did her no favors in that department. If any survived, it was because they fled."

Sansa's heart beats fast. She knew not Margaery's real fate, beyond vagueness from Jaime Lannister, something she found dubious at best, even how he had changed and even on how he had wanted salvation and restored honor in the face of the Second Long Night. But there is something heartening in seeing the girl alive. Margaery had tried to help her, in her own way, even it would have benefited her family above helping Sansa. The fact that she had thrown Sansa to the lions just moments later- She does not think that it had been done with personal malice. But practicality, and though Sansa knew not how deeply Margery had been involved in the King's poisoning, she knew it had not been a plot hatched personally by the girl. I can thank that to Petyr and Lady Olenna. How much you confessed to me, in the end, Petyr. How much you thought me yours. Behind her, Brienne shifts uneasily, walking forward, pressing her full lips to Sansa's ear.

"My queen," it is barely a whisper, but it is an encouragement. Sansa would never be Queen again, but it was a title that reminded of what she once was, and she cannot begrudge Brienne's use of it.

For Sansa takes strength in that, releasing a breath she hadn't known she held in a soft huff. She gives her sworn shield but a glance, nodding slightly in thanks. Her hands, hidden in her cloak reach out to touch against her friend's hand. Brienne has never been a creature of great slyness nor gyle- she beams in response before she steps back at the further approach of the two parties. Their fingertips part after one last squeeze.

Her eyes flicker away from the Maid of Tarth, to the man she remembers in the barest of recollections. She had met him once, or twice, perhaps, before her turn in King's Landing. Vague memories of him come to her mind, of praise for her delicate nature, for her sweet smile and her appearance so like her mother at that age. Hoster Tully is not quite old, as she would think at fifty, but he seems… Weathered. It is the best way she can really think to describe him.

He is a weathered and tired man, wrinkles, while not deep, line his mouth, his eyes, his thick, calloused hands. He shares her mother's eyes, her rosy complexion, and that shock of red hair, but they seem to be wane, dull and flat in comparison. Lesser by stress and what is possibly the early stages of his coming and fatal illness. He still stands tall, broad, and slightly fat, the young man he once was implied in the way he easily gets off his tall horse. The current Lord of the Riverlands is yet not bedridden, as he would in a few years' time, being so ready to meet his goodson on trade negotiations, not rendered weak quite yet. But his countenance is not one of vitality or long life. It is no wonder that this man would die in the wake of his illness and leave the Riverlands to her untested Uncle.

She is distracted from her grandfather when she notices one of the armored clad Tyrells, helm with a brilliant green plume but otherwise indistinguishable from the standard armor of the party, go to aid one of the men at the head of Tyrell's party, just ahead of Lady Margery. She blinks as the young man, roughly her mental age, comes down from the saddle, leaning heavily against the horse. One leg is bent, slightly, and the young man makes a point of not placing any weight upon it until his unbent leg is firmly on the ground. It is ringed with a strange brace of metal, bronze, and gold. The knight hands him a cane, a gorgeous thing of fine golden wood, tipped with actual gold and intricately carved with small roses, lined with gold leaf.

Willas Tyrell. The heir of Highgarden, she thinks her lips twitching away from her polite smile into a frown, My would-be husband. I had many of those. He is not as beautiful as Margaery nor Loras, is the first thing she notes. The second is that he is a tall, slender man, with brown hair that matches his siblings, though his curls are shorn close to his head, and the eyes that go to their party are more gold than doey brown, sharp and somewhat narrowed. He has no beard on his finely sculpted face but is slightly tanned. He is handsome, despite not being as fair as his siblings, she notes, somewhat amused. She would not have been opposed to the marriage to this man if she had ever seen him.

But, I wonder, who are you like, in true character? Are you monstrous like Joffrey and Ramsey, or falsely sweet like Harry, or cool and calculating as Petyr? Or perhaps even more rare a creature, and have some gentleness as did Tyrion and the Hound?

The door of the wheelhouse of the Tyrell is tossed open, almost violently, and she feels her back tense as the Queen of Thorns is aided down from the steps by Lady Margaery, who almost inelegantly dashed for the door. They move together as one, arm and arm, some selective ladies of Highgarden leaving behind the old woman, like colorful birds of Essos fleeing their cages. Lord Willas falls into step next to his sister and his grandmother. The knight falls into step on the other side of Lady Olenna. Ser Garlan, then, spouse to Lady Leonette Fossoway… How different from Loras, with so little decoration on his armor! His armor is almost plain, save for the imprint of two Tyrell golden roses on his breastplate, and the brilliant plume of green on his helm. His cloak is a practical dark green, and unlike most, seems to have done well against the summer snow.

The ladies and the few knights fall in line behind the main branch of the Tyrells. Cousins, no doubt, or perhaps prominent bannerman's children who were fostering at Lady Olenna's feet. For the Tyrell's the party was indeed small, as Robb had told Theon, only three ladies of noble birth and three knights beyond Ser Garlan. It was subdued, a party of ten. Their soldiers were a single platoon, and Sansa believed that many of those men were to be directed to sleep outside in tents, as the keep barely had enough room for Lords and Ladies, let alone their men.

The roses moved in sync towards them, as a cohesive unit, a strong contrast to the lone figure that her grandfather creates as he makes his way towards the assembled House of Stark.

Roses do indeed grow strong. They are together, ready, and they come plotting. How tedious.

"Welcome," it is her father that speaks, and Sansa felt uneasy as these guests look at them all with undisguised interest. "To Winterfell, House Tully, House Tyrell."

"Let's get the salt and the bread over with," is Lady Olenna's helpful grouch, voice sharp if pleasant, "This cold could kill me and there's too much to be done."

As always Sansa feels a sense of both respect and hesitation in her at the character of the wise, shrewd old woman. Her inclination to a lack of prosperity always unsettled her. And that seemed not to have changed.

"My lady, we are to partake it inside. It is our wish to simply greet you within the courtyard."

"Queer to want to freeze yourselves for our sake. For Hoster, I understand, but for us, we know each other not, boy."

"It's not that cold," and Sansa almost wishes to groan as Arya speaks up, brows furrowed.

Love her sister as she might, she finds it most confronting that despite everything, Arya had the infuriating knack for Sansa to want to throttle her at her social gaffes.

Lady Olenna's keen gaze moves straight to her sister. Something in Sansa wants to step in front of her, but she reframes. Olenna Tyrell is not harmless. She is not benign. But neither is she needlessly cruel. Arya is safe. For now. It is with that in mind that she gives a slight shake of her head, rolling her eyes for her effect at Brienne, who looked as if she wished to step forward. Her sworn shield gives a slight nod as well, an uneasy, but true smile appearing on her lips at her silent command.

"Oh?"

"It's only summer snow. That's not cold. Winter is Coming- but it isn't here."

Amusement flickers across the wizened face of the Queen of Thorns. Enough that the old woman actually smiles at Arya.

"Hmph. So the Starks can bear this? Wonders how this horrible land can become so cold in what you call summer. No wonder you Northerners want to undermine trade negotiations that have been in place since before your birth girl if this is only summer."

A cold sweat starts at the back of Sansa's back.

You come to see to the affairs of the Reach- that has never been in question- but what else do you seek to find in Winterfell's walls? Southerners are a paranoid lot. Do you think insurrection? Do you think the ever-loyal friend of Robert Baratheon has thought himself better suited to be King? What do you expect to find here in Winterfell? Or perhaps even more horrible, one of you remembers the Future that could occur.

"Please, grandmother-" starts Lord Willas in a pleasantly deep voice, but of course, the Lady Olenna is not deterred by anyone.

"Well. Let's introduce ourselves inside, and then we can settle in as your most unwanted guests. We can get settled and adorn in your Solar on the morrow, Lord Stark, or perhaps somewhere larger if all the other Lords of the North are determined to be here. We have not come all the way from the Reach to only exchange niceties."

Sansa bites back an annoyed sigh as they move into the warmer walls of the inside of Winterfell. The Southerners, both her grandfather and those of the Reach immediately begin to remove their cloaks, letting out surprised exclamations of the warmth that Winterfell provides. Her father greets her grandfather quietly, before extending a hand to them all. Lady Margaery, she notes, is eying both Robb and Jon who stand next to each other, switching between her handsome brothers with curious, eager eyes. And then her eyes land on her.

Another sweet smile blooms, her cheeks, red from the lingering effects of the cold, emphasize her eager and sweet expression.

Sansa returns the smile. It is not completely warm, but she tries her best as she tries to ignore the memories that this young girl was a part of.

We could have been sisters. Would have been if her schemes had just been swifter. Would you have used me then, had I been the wife of your brother? Or would I have been safe, in High Garden, until I sprouted roses from between my legs for both an heir and for Winterfell?

"My wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, Lord Willas, Lady Olenna."

"You've aged well, Catelyn Stark. Five children have yet to ruin you, I see. What good news for your daughters' prospects."

Her mother blinks, expression tight at the comment. Her father, forewarned of Lady Olenna, continues the interactions with a fraction of a pause. The only indication that the comment irked him was the way his jaw clenched minutely.

"My son and heir, Robb."

"I would think you only Tully boy, were it not for that pale skin and that long nose. Handsome are you not? It will serve well to enchant the ladies I have brought with me. What fun for you and them."

Robb flushes as the ladies behind the Tyrells titter in amusement. Vividly, ducking his head at Lady Olenna's comment.

"My son, Jon."

"Ah. Another handsome fellow. Pity you are only a natural son. But be pleasant to my ladies as well, by all means."

Jon, as Robb, flushes, but Sansa sees the clench in his jaw at the comment of 'natural' son.

"My eldest daughter, Sansa."

Sansa smiles again, dipping into a perfect curtsy, Lady Olenna's eyes, oh her eyes narrow in slight calculation. A smile appears on her face at the same moment. Sweat, cool and unrelenting drip down Sansa's back.

"What a pretty thing. How old are you girl?"

Sansa just stops herself from licking her lips. She keeps her perfect curtsy, polite, and somewhat deep.

"I am ten namedays, my Lady."

"Oh, what a sweet voice you have. Just a little younger than. You will do nicely for a playmate for my granddaughter."

She looks away from her, towards her father. In a second, she has settled a roll for Sansa and dismissed her. Sansa can see the way she looks at her that, can see that the Queen of Thorns has plans for her.

A friend for Margaery, so much easier to spy upon us Starks through the view of a child. A possible spouse for Willas- I am one of the few unmarried daughters of the Wardens if the only one beside Arya. A candidate to eliminate as I have a claim of betrothal to the Crown. Father and King Robert are long-time friends, and Joffrey is only a year older than myself. A stronger connection then the Reach who fought for the Mad King. I wonder if you were behind the plot to have Cersei and her brood eliminated and Margaery as a pretty offering in her stead... Or was that just foolish thought of Renly and Sir Loras, as Petyr implied?

"I would be delighted. Poor host I would be if I would deny your request, my Lady," she speaks quietly, but firmly, voice a sweet as chirp as could be. She lifts herself in the same moment, chin parallel to the ground, "But I am afraid that I have so many duties in the wake of so many guests within the Keep. I will, of course, endeavor to do my best to accompany her around those duties."

The Queen of Thorns, ready to dismiss her, after her statement, stops and looks away from her father. Sansa smiles, prettily, the mask that had been wavering in the wake of emotion, forms perfectly. The sweat on her back stops, as does her unease. I am what I am. And no sudden change of my flesh can ever take that from me. Sansa was giving herself a reason to ignore Lady Margaery if she asked a question or inquired over a subject that could expose something best-kept secret. Eyes, firm and direct look at her, and the confidence of what she appears to be settles on Sansa's shoulders. She gives Lady Olenna the innocent young girl that is besotted with her parents, that is duty-bound to do what is asked of her, and that has little time to cater to the needs of every guest with the castle so full.

"Oh, well," the Queen of Thrones is never unsettled, and she leaned against her cane with a sweet smile that is all teeth, "To be left with responsibilities at such a young age. You must be quite dutiful to your parents."

Sansa keeps her smile and dips her head.

"It is an honor to be of use to my parents in as little as I can aide them."

Lady Olenna Tyrell keeps her smile but shifts a brow so high.

"And is this how things are in the North," she all but barks, turning to her father once again, "Children related to duties that take all their time? Is no enjoyment allowed to them?"

"My children understand the need to do what is needed for the sake of the House. Their words are Winter is Coming, but they also know Family, Duty, and Honor."

Roses may have their thorns. But wolves have teeth and claws.

Lady Olenna looks somewhat surprised, but she does not lose her smile.

"How good of them. Well, my bones are old and tired, and I see my grandchildren are in no better state, despite all their youth. Finish your introductions, we shall do ours, and we will adjourn to whatever chambers you have left for us, Eddard Stark. Near the Ravens, I wager, with all its smell and pomp! We will take it, we cannot be choosy with such important matters to discuss."

Arya is frowning but gives an acceptable curtsy when their Father gestures to her.

"My second daughter, Arya."

"Yes, yes. The one that knows the difference between Summer and Winter. Did you forget the difference between trousers and a skirt, girl?" Lady Olenna is looking at Arya's thin legs clad indeed in one of her finer breeches.

Arya gives the Lady a stronger frown.

"Of course not-" Sansa gives her sister a careful nudge with her shoulder, "My Lady. I like them best, is all. Skirts get in the way of my sword lessons."

Sansa suppresses a sigh as Lady Olenna's brows lifted high on her wrinkled face.

"So it is true of Northern woman- you hold the swords as surely as your men! And you lady of so many responsibilities, do you play with swords as well?" She turned her gaze to Sansa again.

Sansa debates for a moment before she gave a careful nod.

"Yes Milady, but unlike Arya, I have little grace with it. It is a serviceable exercise if anything."

Let the world know. I could hide my use of the sword, but it will serve no real purpose. Enough people, even if they knew I could wield the sword, would assume I could only do so to the extent of holding the thing upright. Many people underestimate Brienne, no matter how obvious a warrior she is. What will they think of I, the pretty thing with such thin limbs?

"Even the one like a lady uses the sword!"

"It is a queer practice," said Lady Margery, voice soft and pretty. She sent Sansa a wide smile, "But it sounds as if it will be enjoyable, Grandmother."

Lady Olenna gave a laugh.

"Will you beg your father for a sword, little rose? He will think he has four sons, instead of three!"

"If she wishes for lessons," came the voice of Ser Garlan, as he removed his helm, "Perhaps you should squire for me, sweet sister! I am in need of a good one."

He was handsome, as Sansa had long suspected. But he was different from the sweet slender look of Ser Loras. He was broad and heavily tanned, and his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken. But his smile, wide, was as soft and shy as his sister's underneath his neat beard. He shared the amber eyes of his elder brother, and Ser Loras's beautiful full curls. She envied how even spending hours within the helm, his chestnut curls were in reasonable order.

"You only wish to order me about."

"Perhaps you will learn than to be silent in formal introductions! Pardon my excitable grandchildren, Lord Stark," remarked Lady Olenna with amusement.

Her father took that as his que and waved his hand.

"I have six children, Lady Olenna. I am as surprised as much as you that they have been so well behaved. My third son, Brandon, and my fourth son is Rickon."

At that Lady Olenna gave Bran and Rickon a wrinkled smile. It was the closest to sweetness Sansa had ever seen in her face.

"And what sweet lads they are."

"I have my Ward, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and the Lady Brienne Tarth of the Sapphire Isle with us as well."

Lady Olenna and the Tyrells looked at the additional members of the Household and raised her fine brow once again.

"A yes, the prize of the Greyjoy Rebellion. You look well boy, for a hostage!"

Theon grimaced and stumbled his way through his bow. His face went pinched for a fraction of a second before he forced a careless smile. It was Robb's turn to speak out of turn. He turned red in the face and placed a hand on Theon's arm in reassurance.

"He is not a hostage to us," he said fiercely, "But another brother."

Theon blinked and looked at Robb before he glanced at the hand on his arm. Lady Olenna hummed.

"Indeed. And what of you Lady Brienne, what brings a Stormlander so far north, in such fine armor for a woman, have you adapted to Northern customs so quickly?"

Brienne flushed.

"I am a friend of the household by chance, my Lady. And I wish to be of service to Lord Stark's daughters… As their protector."

A knowing look crossed Lady Olenna's face. She turned sharply towards Sansa's father. For a fraction of a second, she could see sympathy in those sharp eyes. Without words, Sansa knew Lady Olenna had come to the conclusion many would over the sword lessons and Brienne acting as a sworn-shield.

That Aunt Lyanna's fate is the reason for the oddity. An overprotective father would explain Brienne's continued place with me, with us and perhaps will give Arya a better chance to behave as she likes. In this lifetime, I will give my sister the means to be herself without censure.

"A prosperous house indeed. I suppose that means it is our turn- Go on Willas. Tell these strangers who have come to bother them, I am sure they are bursting with curiosity, instead of wishing they could greet their grandfather with affection."

The heir to High Garden gave his grandmother a fond if slightly exasperated smile.

"Forgive my grandmother, Lady Olenna's honesty, House Stark. She is known as the Queen of Thorns, and only because she is so ready to provide her opinion, as rude or unwanted or inappropriate it can be. I am indeed her grandson, Lord Willas Tyrell, heir to High Garden."

He gave a rather elegant bow, for all that his leg bothered him. He rose with the same elegance, and gave a smile that was much sharper than his siblings'. He extended a hand to Ser Garlan.

"My younger brother, Ser Garlan."

Ser Garlan gave an exaggerated flourish with the arm that did not hold his helm and bent as far as he could muster in his full armor. He sent Bran, who looked at him with a wide-eyed admiring look, a wink. Lord Wilas rolled his eyes.

"And the beautiful girl to the fool's left is my most beloved sister, the Lady Margery."

Lady Margery gave a wide, sweet smile again, and bounced in an eager if too energetic curtsy. Sansa gave her a smile in return and waited patiently for the rest of the Ladies and Knights to be introduced. All cousins, Sansa realized, four lesser Tyrells and two Redwynes. Sansa realized that they were not part of the party to come to King's Landing, all those years ago. The only change is Lord Willas and Ser Garlen- their friends, or confidences? Sansa had expected Lady Leonette, at the least, as the future wife of Ser Garlan, but she suspected the engagement had either prevented her coming, or she had yet to be added to the fold of the Tyrells.

"That's enough of that. I am old and tired and will retire until tomorrow. We will talk then, Lord Stark, about what is it exactly you and the North want for Winter. Come along children, aid an old woman and rest yourselves- pretending all that sailing and riding has not exhausted you to your bones. Foolishness will not impress our hosts."

The entire Tyrell party bid polite, if overly familiar goodbyes, and once again, Sansa felt something ease as they left their presence, guided by servants to the overcrowded guest chambers.

"Cat," said a warm, deep voice.

Sansa turned to see her mother rush into her father's embrace. She held tightly, and in that moment Sansa knew that her mother wished to tell her father everything- About Sansa, about Aunt Lysa and Petyr. But beyond lingering in her father's comforting embrace, her mother said nothing. She'll keep her promise, father made her swear on the grave of her mother over keeping my affairs to only those who held the blood of Stark. She pulled back, holding his hands in her's.

"It is good to see you father," she muttered, warmly, and Sansa heard the emotional exhaustion in her mother's voice.

"My Cat, you have no idea what good it does me to see you," wane blue eyes searched her mother's face, "But you look tired. Have you been working her too hard, Lord Stark, with Winter coming?" her grandfather turned to address her Father, his great scraggly red brow furrowed.

"No more then I worked myself, Lord Hoster."

Her grandfather indeed took in her father's exhausted appearance and made an irritating hum in the back of his throat.

"You look as old as me. This Winter has you Northerners scared witless, I see."

Her father gave a grim nod, ignoring the jest, to be honest.

"More than you can know, Lord Hoster. More than you can know."

Her grandfather searched her father's face for a moment before he gave a careful nod.

"We will do our best to sort this out, Ned. If you say Winter will be bad, it will be bad. You are not known for theatrics nor duplicity. The Riverlands supports you- within reason of course."

"Of course, Lord Hoster."

"Now. I have learned all you names good and proper because of your lengthy introductions, now I want my grandchildren to come properly greet their grandfather."

Jon stepped back, standing with Brienne and Theon as they stepped forward to embrace and greet their grandfather properly. Sansa herself gave him a careful kiss on the cheek, wondering at the type of man willing to trick his own daughter into drinking moon tea for the sake of personal honor. She also wonders if he had let her Aunt Lysa marry Petyr the moment she had become with child, how the world would have changed in response… Sansa knew for certain that Petyr would have crawled his way up anyway, though perhaps Aunt Lysa's life would have ended at a much sooner point.

I must do something about Petyr. His ambition will never end, and with his obsession with Mother, he will always try to drag the North into the South. But who can I trust to kill him? Brienne would never leave me and it would pain her to play assassin...

"You look much like your Mother did, at your age, little Sansa," said Hoster, warmly, as she pulled back from his grandfatherly embrace.

Sansa gave a careful smile. Such comments had long since held little appeal to her. Too much pain had been brought on her for her resemblance to her mother.

"Then I have much to look forward to, Grandfather if I look anything like Mother does."

He gave a warm smile in return.

"That you do. She looks much more like a trout, then a wolf," he called to her mother with obvious approval, "Though her playing with swords- She and her sister are true ladies, Cat, you should cease to indulge them on such a whim. They'll never get married with a sword on their belts!"

Arya snorted.

"I am not a Lady. Besides, water-dancing is fun, right Sansa?" protested her sister, before turning to her.

Her eyes were warm but pleaded acceptance. Sansa sought to return it with a large smile and by placing a hand on her sister's arm.

"It would be more fun if I could get to be half as good as you, Arya."

Arya beamed, almost glowed at the compliment.

"It is perfectly normal for a lady to have a sword," said Robb with a sniff, "I ask you to tell Lady Mormont to leave her sword down, and see what reaction you get."

Her grandfather sighed.

"I am telling you, a Lady of the South does not play with swords."

"Well, Sansa and Arya are of the North," countered her father, with a strain in his voice, "And I was the one that chose for the girls to learn."

Her grandfather stared at her father.

"I see. Well, you will invite interesting good-sons, then. Those who don't care for their Lady's bad habits."

"Well, I am never getting married," declared Arya with a stomp of her foot, "Boys are stupid."

At that, Sansa could only laugh as her Mother gave a slight indignant noise in the back of her throat.

"May we not talk of marriage for my children? Sansa and Arya are barely six and ten together, and it is much too soon for either of them."

Her grandfather gave a sympathetic hum.

"Cat was barely three and ten namedays when I promised her to Brandon. I understand your reluctance Ned, but such things come eventually. Children grow. Children leave home. Especially the daughters."

Sansa had begun to learn her father's expressions in the passing moons. Before, her father had always seemed so mysterious to her. So far removed from what she could understand. But with the perspective of grief, and the way she had learned to observe people in the Royal Court, and even coming to be so attuned to Jon who was so much like Father- well. Sansa saw something of a firece pain and raw determination cross her father's features.

"Not my children. Not soon."

Before, as a Summer child, such words have filled Sansa with dread and resentment of being trapped in the North. As the woman who died in Winter-

Sansa felt such a lightness.

Father will let me choose… Let me  stay  if I so chose it.

And Sansa had never loved her Father more.

Chapter Text

Flying

"It's only when you're flying above it that you realize how incredible the Earth really is," Philippe Perrin.

Tommen Baratheon, once first of his name, remembers horror.

He remembers on a horror so deep, so strong that it had crawled from the pit of his stomach until it had made its way to his throat, a thick, silencing thing that had coated in his mouth with the foulest taste. He remembers desperation in his heart as well- A desperation that had made it gallop against his breast bone in a frantic drum-beat. His hands, desperate, frantic, clawing at the rubble, of the still-smoldering remains of the Great Sept. His hands had quickly gone red and raw, blistering and cutting, but Tommen had hardly noticed. Only pushed more rock, only screamed orders more fiercely at the men and woman who were trying to find survivors.

He remembers Mother- golden, gilded thing that she had been, dressed in a fine dress of the darkest velvet, a veil long and dramatic, Myrish lace so fine and delicately spun it appeared to be made of spiderwebs. And he remembers as she descended down from her litter, the sway of her full hips, the way her golden hair, had been perfectly made within her golden crown, the perfect clasp of her small hands in front of her, sparkling with onyxes and deep black opals, glittering as rainbows in the hellish, greenish glow of the remaining wildfire.

The look in her eyes, vivid green as they were, had not been of sorrow.

Had not been the horror at the loss of the woman she claimed as her good-daughter.

No.

It had been pleased. It had been glittering in victory and triumph of a fallen foe. But she had been mine. She had been my Margaery, my wife.

He still wakes, shaking, at the remembrance of the beautiful woman that had been his queen, whose body had been warm and true beside him, and thought however many older she had been, had taken the mind to love him in the last few years of their lives. He remembers the way she had reached for him in odd moments, touched his golden blond curls in fondness, or gave a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, sweet and perfect and her. And he remembers as he saw his mother, standing as she was, the barely concealed smile in her perfect show of mourning, that she had never appeared so like Joffrey to him in that moment.

"Do not despair, sweet King," his mother had all but cooed, "We shall find the little Queen. We must have faith that not all is lost, dear son. We will search for our Queen, do not despair, son of mine."

Her eyes laughed even as tears fell from them.

His heart broke.

On return to the Red Keep, hours later, hands aching and split and bruised, with not even the remains of his wife to lay to rest, he was sitting in his painfully large bedroom, in soot-stained clothes. He saw bits of her in their shared rooms: the carelessly thrown robe across his side of the bed, the ruby jeweled pins he had gifted her for her last nameday past, the remains of her hair in her fine brush, the scent of roses about the room, from her bath, her fine oil perfume. Margaery always smelt of roses, fine, pure and soft. She was warm and sweet, and kind. Even-tempered in ways his mother was not, and she never lost patience with him and had even forgiven him when he had not declared her innocent after that whole affair with the disgraceful knight that had claimed to bed her.

"The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing ... go away inside," the voice of his Uncle- if that was what he really was- echoed in his head.

He had not believed him.

But he used his words, after all, looked without seeing. Looked without seeing to see the monster his mother was. Just as Joffery had been.  Now my wife is dead. If I had looked from the beginning I would have kept her away from Margaery.  Absently, Tommen rises, striding to his wife's vanity. His face, he notes, is just as soot-stained as his doublet, and he mourns the fact that he had finally had been losing remains of his childish fat about his face, and that just recently he had lost any distance between him and his wife, had  finally  reached her height.

But he pushes that aside, and carefully removes a few strands of her hair from her brush, brown, the color of chestnuts, and smooth in his hands.  Like warm silk, I would slowly remove your pins and tame the mane of his rose held atop her head.  He raises it to his lips, kisses the strands, before he leaves the room, through the secret door they had discovered together. He walks the secret passages they had found the time to explore together in the dark of night, back when he was too young for the relationship between man and wife, just married to a woman so much older than him.

He remembers how they had laughed, and how bright and shinning her face had been, so far above him, and when he just began to understand what it meant to want to reach up and kiss her laughing, red mouth.

He appears in his mother's rooms, careful of being quiet. He realizes he needn't bother to be quiet, eyeing the two bodies in bed, the strong smell of wine in the air, and how tangled his mother is with some blond westlander, looking spent. Vaguely, Tommen thinks he looks of Uncle Jaime. Not quite, the man much too  young  but similar enough in his face, in the blond hair. He recognizes him as a singer newly arrived in court, a little older than himself. He walks quietly as a mouse, either way. He reaches his mother's vanity, where he knows she will find it. He removes his crown, careful of the pins as he removes it, and sets it among jewels and cosmetics. It shines in the waning light of the nearly spent candles. It is a handsome thing of roaring lions, twined thorns, and antlers of a proud stag. It glitters gold and black, a show of his 'father's' House.

It had always felt too heavy for him, too uncomfortable on his brow.

Now I gift it back to you, MOTHER, you who fought so hard to keep it upon my head.

He turns to the couple on the bed. He wishes… Wishes for a sword at his side. He thinks of it. How the steel would run red with their blood. How it would coat white sheets in it. How  right it would be to kill her, justice-

"A King is best measured by not the Justice he gives," a voice sweet and warm in his mind, "But instead the Mercy he gives as well, my love."

A sob is pressed deep back into his throat and it only escapes him as the faintest whine that has his mother shifting slightly around the boy she keeps.  Mercy. Mercy Margaery… By the Seven why had you been so kind?  He leaves his mother and her lover be, and walks to the tallest tower with a balcony in the Keep. He is out of breath, the remains of his childhood of being overweight, but he does not care. He looks out, beyond the balcony, noting, faintly, that the sun has taken longer and longer to rise each day. It has yet to rise in nearly seven and ten moons turn.

Winter was truly upon them, as the Stark House's words said, it has come.  Kind Sansa Stark, who played with me and my cats, who knew what it was like to be hurt by Joffrey... Queen in the North.  Margery had become so quiet at the Raven from the North had come, her pale hands clutching at the armrests of her chair, her eyes blinking rapidly at the declaration- at the plea for help from the horror that would call from them all. Mother had flown into a rage and screamed herself hoarse because Uncle Jaime's hand had written the letter on behalf of the Queen he had sworn himself too, slightly wobbly but legible enough. The faint tales he heard from whispering people of the court, of what has been happening North of the Neck, of Monsters of Ice and Snow, of how long the Night has been-

None of it matters. I don't care.

Tommen climbs onto the ledge.

His boots grow closer and closer to the edge. His leg, hovering over the enormous height bellow before he lifts his wife's strands of hair to his lips once again. He steps forward, beyond the ledge.

And for a few moments, it's as if he's  flying.

The wind whips at his hair, long and carefully cut curls, just as short as his wife liked it. His eyes water against the course of surging air passing him… But Tommen feels as if he is  flying, to his wife, to her warmth and softness. Away from Winter and horror and pain.

Tommen, shifts, blinking rapidly, looking over the edge where he remembers he had taken his own life. He vaguely remembers hitting the ground. But not much beyond pain and increasing darkness. He had died laughing in glee at the thought of his Mother's face at seeing the last of her children dead, a gurgle of glee that had drifted from his broken teeth.

"I did not come back to you in the way I expected, sweet rose," he whispers, soft. His voice, high and faintly disturbing to him, as he feels more connected to the voice in his mind, the voice that was on its way to becoming deeper, cracking only slightly at times. How she had teased him for it, in that kind way of hers, how she had done so with a smile on her fair red lips, "Not yet. But I will find you. I will find you and make you my wife again."

The promise is solemn, said to the air, said to the very gods who his wife had so loved.

"Tommen?"

Tommen keeps a hand on the ledge he had flown from. He turns, and there he is, the man that he strongly suspects is his biological father.

"Hello, Uncle Jaime."

Tentatively, the man gives a smile. Tommen sees himself in his face, the way his jaw would strengthen, the way his eyes would narrow with the passage of time. He sees what could have been his own face had aged beyond four and ten. He thinks Margaery would have approved, as she had loved beautiful things.

"You do know that your Lady Mother is beside herself, now that you aren't present at the feast? It is your nameday celebration, after all. The entirety of the castle is being searched."

Tommen frowns.

Just turning four fucking namedays. Margaery must be two and ten. Mentally, we are much closer, at the very least. With the moons that have gone, I am five and ten now. But I will always be playing catch up to her physically. If I could endure such a thing before, then I can do so again.

"I got tired. It was so loud. And Joffrey was being unkind."

The word, of course, is too small to represent his brother. But what else would a child of four name-days say that was worse about his elder brother, even one as monstrous as Joffrey? If he had been any better a mummer, Tommen would have cried, played to his age. But he was not. He would feel too ridiculous to do such a thing, no matter his appearance. He had been King, after all. As the King of the future, part of him wondered what he should do beyond avoiding his monstrous brother… Joffrey had been a cruel King, and worst, a fool King. Tommen may not have understood such things when he had ascended the Thorne. But he had understood eventually.

Will I do what I must to save those I once claimed as my subjects? I gave up the crown. But what will Margaery think of me, if I leave it in the hands of my brother? Will she marry  him  to be the Queen she so desperately wished to be? And what of Mother? I gave her mercy once. But how long will I be able to stay my hand?

"Is that so," the amusement in Uncle Jaime's face, it is slight, but genuine as he comes to sit down beside him.

He does so with ill-grace, as he is dressed in full armor, and the plates creak as his legs splay out ridiculously. The only true thing of grace was the way his father carefully brings his white cloak, lifts it so as not to let it touch the ground. Tommen follows suit, sinking to the ground next to him, removing his hand from the ledge he had flown from. He dares to come close, presses against plate and mail as if he has the right to ask for such affection from the man that so desperately kept himself distant. His Father carefully places an arm around Tommen's shoulders.

Tommen had been careful, careful, and methodical, in an attempt to have some sort of relationship to the man that he strongly suspects had sired him. He had few good memories of the man the world called his father and all he knows that Robert Baratheon, from inheriting his crown and the crown of the boy he had called his heir, was that he was a fat fool and an ill spender, and the repercussions of his rule had lasted long into Tommen's own. He could not completely blame it on the man, as the practice had been encouraged by the people that had given him ill-council.

Just as they had given me before I realized the puppet they wanted for a King. Even Mother.

"Joffrey is ill-mannered and jealous for the attention I receive," he replies, kicking his feet absently. It seemed to be a side-effect of his coming back in time- his body was so full of energy, and it was all he could do to sit still most of the time.

"Oh?"

"He wants the attention on him, always. It's funny, really. He can have attention. I just wish to be left alone."

To be left alone as time passes until I can return to my wife. But the world is not so kind to let me sit and wait for such a thing.

"Good place to be alone, all the way up here."

That's why I chose to jump from here.

"I know. I try to climb here every morning," he says smartly, and because I can rid myself of this accursed childhood fat, grow strong and pretty, "The sunrises are beautiful."

His father hums.

"Never thought much of sunsets. It occurs every day."

His gaze is far away, and Tommen wonders how often his father goes away inside. Had he been a child, he would have missed the fact that his father was a lost, broken thing. I wonder, did you find peace when you left Mother's side? If you love her as I love Margaery, how could you leave her at all? Tommen remembers the distress, the rage his Mother had displayed when his Uncle had escaped in the middle of the night, only a note on his Mother's vanity explaining why or what he was doing. Tommen had not read the note, as his Mother had refused to part with it. But he remembers at times how she would have the same parchment in her hands. She had kept it in the bodice of her gowns, and her expression had always been a dulled sort of rage that would make something cold trail down Tommen's spine.

"I suppose. But the colors seem different every day."

"I will just have to enjoy one with you Prince Tommen."

Tommen smiled.

"I would like that very much, Uncle Jaime."

"I should take you back to your Mother…"

"I would rather you not."

"She can fret a little longer. The tower has many steps," returned his Uncle, a sly smile appearing on his face.

"Thank you, Uncle." Father.

"You are most welcome, Nephew."

Hesitantly, almost afraid, his Father reached out a hand to ruffle his messy curls. Tommen allowed the indignity and accepted the rare affection.

Chapter Text

Weeds

"Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them," A. A. Milne.

Willas Tyrell found Winterfell, despite its rather dire reputation South of the Neck, to be… Grand. It is not beautiful, exactly. Willas was an honest sort of man and if asked, he could not say that Winterfell escaped its reputation completely. Willas could see how such a place would hold little appeal for many of his fellow Southerners. It was not quite comely, too dark, too, well, stark against the landscape. As if it stood in defiance of the moors and hills of the North, of the wood that surrounded it. Of the cold that seeped into your bones and refused to remove itself from you unless you sought shelter in the warm walls of the Keep. Fantastically designed, ingenious the pipes that fill the walls with hot spring water. If only they would let me see the designs of the castle if just to admire the engineering. Never mind the advantage of learning the defenses of the Keep. It was a dark, imposing thing that spoke of independence, of solitude, ingenuity in adversity, and unbreakable strength.

There was something to be admired in those things.

High Garden, of course, is something of its direct opposite, open, airy, and beautifully fair that compliments the flat plains and lush of the Reach. High Garden invited you with its open pavilions, with its greenery and rolling waves of grain. High Garden was a luxurious tangled Keep that was splendent and comfortable. It said home to Willas- it was comfortable and beautiful. But there is something to be said of Winterfell's tall, firm walls, the warmth in it. Winterfell is a strong place, a strong presence and its people are no different. As he entered the Great Hall with his family, Willas found himself watching how the bannermen react to Lord Stark, the admiration and respect that is plain to see. There is true deference to him, even from the bannermen that are said to have a traditional animosity against the Starks. That is a feat that took a singular type of man.

Ned Stark is said to be an honorable man- a just man- in Willas's experience such a man is singular indeed.

Part of Willas, as always, found himself to be cynical of the existence of such a man, especially when it is a man with such a remarkable reputation. What dark secrets do you squirrel away, Lord Stark? But from his initial observation, Willas can say that Lord Stark is living up to his reputation of being a good man, if grim and taciturn.

With only one blight on his honor.

Willas sat down in the Great Hall of Winterfell with the usual exaggeration of his permanent ailment. It was a mummer's farce he had employed firstly to achieve added sympathy from his more traditionally chivalry loving father, as Willas had hated jousts and had little patience for them and wished to excuse himself from them for whatever time the injury would allow him. Later, during his horrifying realization of how permanent the injury that would require him to limp for the rest of his life, and require a special brace to prevent his muscles from withering away, his Grandmother had encouraged him to continue his exaggeration. Slyly paying the Castle's Maester to express the severity of the injury loudly and to anyone who could hear.

"Grandmother, I do not understand… Why have you told the maester to tell father that I will never walk unaided again?"

Grandmother Olenna gave a soft smile that was a contrast to the sharpness in her shrewd eyes.

"As a great heir, most men will look at you with anger, with envy. As a Lord, people will constantly suspect you. As a Tyrell, it will be worse. A man at the foot of a jape will draw less suspicion."

Willas understood with a swiftness that often made his mother proud, confused his father, and delighted his grandmother.

"Will it not lower our reputation to have a cripple for an heir?" his voice was not overtly hurt, but only curious. Despite his own apprehension over the matter, Willas had resigned himself to walking with a slight limp and already had ideas for a discrete brace to be hardly visible beneath his trousers.

His injury would be fairly minimal and if he trained both horse and his upper muscles enough, he would ride in a bout again, fairly easily. It would please his father if anything. Grandmother snorted, as was her wont, and gave him another smile. This was not sweet, but pure sharpness that became the woman he heard call the Queen of Thorns.

"My dear grandson, your offish father has a love of watching grown, trained men prance about in these bouts, chasing the old glory of reckless boys trying to lance one another. Since he is now too fat to ride him in them himself, he has thrown you into them in his stead, with Garlen soon to follow. I know you to be better than the whole ridiculous, pompous affair."

"You did not answer my question, grandmother."

His grandmother gave a sharp laugh.

"But I have."

Willas looked at her, brows furrowed, puzzling through her words for a moment. Before he understood.

"Better to take a dip in our reputation, ease suspicion in my future actions and avoid participation in the Tourneys I abhor and remind father of my injury for the sake of Garlen's future participation."

Approval shone in shrewd eyes and despite the dour turn of his physical health, Willas allowed pride to enter his breast at the approval from his Grandmother.

"If only your father had half your intelligence as a child, sweetling."

The true relief of not being on his leg was somewhat minimal. Present, but minimal. As Willas sat, he noted that the Snow boy is near a replica of his Lord Father. Jon Snow, a young boy of three and ten that has inherited the House looks, something Willas had long observed in his cousins who claimed the name Flower. Though the difference in their appearance is made evident of the boy's more delicate nose, fuller lips his mother certainly was a handsome woman if her son was set to be so pretty, and the wild curls that the boy does not bother to tame. A Northern trait, I see, to not groom yourself. The heir, next to Snow is just as unkempt with his auburn hair, and unlike the Snow boy is slumped over the table, rubbing his eyes in tiredness.

Willas felt his lips quirk in sympathy, as he knew the boys had lessons before this meeting, and it was frightfully early already. Margaery had looked at the hour settled for the meeting and been fairly horrified, whilst Garlan had to adjust his own training time to be able to attend. He had mentioned, earlier, that both the elder Stark boys and the Greyjoy hostage had been already within the training grounds when he had arrived and had been finishing up by the time Garlan was mid-way through his own paces. The standing observation from his knightly brother from his discreet eavesdropping was the fact that every morning, the Stark Household held a daily meeting, no matter how early other matters were set on the agenda for the House. One that even the Greyjoy hostage was not privy to as he had stayed behind to perform duties with the Master at Arms. Neither had their Maester, if Garlen's quick visit to his surgery for a muscle paste was any indication. The fact that every member of the Household looked fairly alert in comparison to the younger Starks made Willas suspect that it was a family-only affair, most curious.

He watched intently and is surprised as Robb Stark sat straighter, setting his jaw as another comes to the great table. Sansa Stark walked carefully, he noted, walked carefully and with an unhurried grace that he found interesting to see in someone so young. It is a difference in how his own sister walked, her endless bouncing energy that Willas always found himself smiling at. She is actually well-groomed a rarity in the North for even the ladies if Lady Mormont and her daughters are any indication. Her hair is in neat, if plain braids that hold half of her hair out of her face, whilst the rest is an auburn river that fell beyond her shoulders. She sat delicately, between her brothers, and gave them a nod. Both boys turned to her, orbiting her like moths drawn to a candle flame. An easy affection is apparent in them, and Willas is surprised by the usually so restrained Northerners by the way the young girl is bestowed with a kiss on her cheek by both her brothers. The way a small smile bloomed on her face hinted on how she will surpass her mother's beauty and Willas thought of the similar fate that would befall his own sister.

The Stark heir and the Snow inclined their heads and speak, quietly, and the girl listened with a few delicate nods and murmured words in return. Then Lord Stark turned to his daughter, and Willas found it very interesting to see how the great Lord's shoulders relaxed at the sight. You are beloved, I see. Just as Margergy is to us. He wondered, with sympathy, if such a treatment and the sword lessons that both girls attend is a byproduct of the fate of Lord Stark's sister as his Grandmother had lamented the first night in the Keep, in the privacy of their given rooms.

Willas remembered little of Lady Lyanna, a combination of his young age and having paid her little mind in the Tourney of Harnelhel himself. Mostly besotted by the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree and the different horses. At least until the gallant Prince had trotted by on his magnificent black stallion and placed a crown of blue winter roses upon her head. He remembered thinking she had been pretty in a plain way, not the type of Lady he would have chosen, but that she had turned beautiful when she blushed under the Prince's careful consideration and given him a smile that had been so brilliant it had taken his breath away, young as he had been.

Lady Sansa, sensing his gaze, or perhaps having a habit of watching a room, turned to him. Despite her youth, Lady Sansa did not have an expressive nature, something he had first noticed upon her small smiles to his sister and her careful dutiful looks to her parents. She simply returned his stare with a politely quirked brow, before she turned away at the appearance of her mother. Lady Catelyn too, glanced towards her daughter and gave her a beatific smile that Willas could not help but find fetching. She was a great beauty, Catelyn Tully of the House Stark, and she remained so after giving birth to five children was a feat in itself.

"She would be a good match," mentioned his sister, simply, bringing his attention to the table around him.

He found it amusing and telling that the bannermen of Lord Stark had made the effort to leave left a large space between them and his party. The seats next to his party being empty by two, even though space was limited. But it at least it gave them some semblance of privacy if they spoke quietly. Especially if all the Northerners were inclined to be so… Boisterous in the morning. They threw japes and insults at each other with the same fierce temper, and looked warmly to the Starks.

"Oh, Lady Margaery?" he said, even more amused.

She let out her cheeks, puffed them in a most childish manner before she remembered herself and sat primly straight and gave him a good imitation of their Grandmother's arched brows.

"Sansa Stark. She would be a good match. She's going to be a pretty one."

Sansa Stark would be a good match, politically speaking, giving the Reach ties to the North, and looking so much like her mother, she would no doubt grow to be one of the greatest beauties in the Seven Kingdoms. But the ten and then some year age gap made him more than uncomfortable. Not to mention, that despite being the heir to Highgarden and being in need of marriage and a child of his own, Willas felt little to no remorse that Garlan was set to beat him in that regard. He had not found the right woman for the Reach, and he very much doubts he will meet her in this young girl.

"She is much too young," he tweaked Maergery's nose and chuckled at the huff she gave at the gesture.

"She's only a little younger than me."

"Exactly," said their Grandmother in a sharp voice, raising a brow at her, "And you only wish to take her back to the Reach with us for a playmate, not for your brother."

Margaery blushed a pretty pink, lifting her nose in the air. She gave a delicate sniff.

"She could teach me how to use a sword, and I can teach her how to use a bow. And to properly falcon- But she cannot be here. She has so little time. You have to rescue her Willas."

It is so painfully evident at times, how young his sister is. To be so busy as at such a young age would seem horrible to any young child, but to Willas it spoke of a trust given to all of the Stark children to do their house proud. In the wake of the coming Winter, he believed it to be prudent to demand such. He knew after this visit, his Grandmother would demand more of himself, Garlen, Margaery, and Loras for the sake of House Tyrell. Willas even suspected his youngest brother would be demanded from his squireship before earning his Knighthood, or Lord Renly would be 'pursued' to expedite his Knighthood to bring Loras home. Considering, how Loras's ravens had overtones of affection for the Stormlord, Willas also suspected that his younger brother would turn the demand into a request to stay outside the Reach for the sake of the House. He made a mental note to send his brother a Raven, to make his position with Lord Renly unshakably advantageous.

A rose in love bloomed too quickly and wilted too swiftly, or so said his grandmother. But from his own observation, Willas had long suspected that a rose in love bloomed, quickly, but also had the sharpest, most potent thorns.

"We didn't come to the North for a bride, little rose, but to better our relations in trade. You are here to learn on these terms, not to play."

Margaery sighed, unhappily, before she gave a nod.

"I'll just have to steal her away then, as much as I can," she said, with relish, her brown eyes shining. Margaery was obviously fond of Lady Sansa for however little they had interacted with each other.

Willas suspected his younger sister coveted the time of someone who had been denied to her, and the pretty look of the young girl to hang on her arm. His sister was just now making her own first inner-circle and all that entitled. Sansa Stark was no doubt a young girl's ideal companion in that regard. Exotic with her queer skill, beautiful and had unique customs of her own to contrast that of the Reach. A pretty, shiny new toy to flaunt to the rest of the cousins that constantly fought for a place against the only daughter of the Head Family of Tyrell. The fact that she was strangely stoic did not deter his talkative sister. He made a mental note to tell his sister that kidnapping the eldest girl of a fellow Lord was not the best of action.

Especially the daughter of this lord.

"You do that little rose, and tell me what horrible things her family forces her to do, won't you?" crooned his Grandmother.

Willas gave her an arched brow, but her grandmother only snorted at his unease at his grandmother so blatantly using her to spy on the inner workings of House Stark. But Margaery, of course, had been trained to do so since she was very small, and had always had a knack for ferreting out secrets. If House Stark had any, which Willas sincerely doubted after a few days of observation, Margaery would be the one to find them.

For himself, despite his natural distrust, Willas found that the missive sent out by House Stark over the coming Winter to be mathematically sound. Willas had little faith in people, but he found great trust in numbers and history. The numbers and history told him that winter was coming, and it would be a frightfully long one to match the fair summer they had been dealt. His father's speculation of House Stark gearing up for a rebellion had seemed plausible enough if you dismissed the coming Winter and considered the actions of most men. But by Lord Stark and by the grim certainty displayed by all of the Northerners, Willas was now half ready to dismiss any notion of rebellion from the North.

More's the pity. I have no love for the reckless King Robert and even less for his foolish and boisterous son. The few interactions between us were enough to last me a lifetime, young as he is, the thing that child needs the most is to be taken over the knee. And then there was the business with that cat...

"Maybe you should find yourself a bride," said Garlan with a sly grin, "You have lost to me on that race, brother."

Willas gave his brother a chuckle.

"I am a poor runner, Garlan, but I never entered the race to begin with. I have no urge to wed."

Garlan, two years his junior, shook his head.

"You are the future Lord of High Garden," he began, and the words you are acting Lord whilst father fitters away at schemes was left unsaid, "You must think of the son that will inherit that title from you."

Willas shook his head, giving his brother an easy smile.

"You are my heir, for now, Ser Garlan the Gallant."

"But not for long, Willas, you must give me a great-grandchild to bounce on my knee," said his grandmother with a firm stare, "Though perhaps you should not rob the cradle of Lord Stark's quite yet. His sword Ice is so frightfully broad and long."

Willas gave her an appeasing smile. But wisely, did not say another word. He knew his duty, he would marry some woman that would bring good tidings to House Tyrell, get a child on her, and so on and so forth. It was the pace of history, but with Garlan and Loras next in line after him, he technically had some excuse not to marry whatever woman was found for him. His father had not pressed him, unlike his Grandmother and Mother both, so Willas found he could skirt on that responsibility for a while yet.

Perhaps a few more years, even, he thought, faintly as Sansa Stark posed a quill readily above the parchment.

As if that was a signal in a mummers play, all the Lords ceased their talk and made fairly attentive looks toward Ned Stark in quiet anticipation and endless regard. Waiting, hand reaching for his own quill and parchment, Willas listened carefully.

Chapter Text

Patient

"Never cut a tree down in the wintertime. Never make a negative decision in the low time. Never make your most important decisions when you are in your worst moods. Wait. Be patient. The storm will pass. The spring will come," Robert H. Schuller

Ned Stark had the faint wish, just a faint one, to grab the two shoulders of the two shouting Lords and smash their two heads together.

Cat, Cat who was so elegant and the epitome of refined, who hardly lifted her voice unless seriously provoked, looked half tempted to do it herself. Perhaps that would cease the useless squabble between the two. If his wife dropped her elegance for but a moment. Jon and Robb for their parts looked at the screaming match with faint impatience and exasperation. Theon looked ready to call for more wine, he was so entertained. Bran looked uncomfortable with the conflict, kind child that he was.

Sansa for her part simply wrote with a calm expression.

She wrote furiously but impossibly neatly, her letters precise and with a slight flourish, quill a steady scratch across her parchment. He knew she only wrote the relevant dialogue between anyone, and which of their bannerman or guests had uttered it. The second pile of parchment was her general impression of those present, the nuances of their expressions, who would oppose what measure at what capacity, and which lords seemed to hold ill feelings to who beyond ancestral animosity.

Ned thought the first recording to be prevalent and useful. To know what was said by who against or for what made the negotiations of such things much easier, and a way to remind those amongst his bannermen who had an exasperatingly short memory what they had just agreed on. The second set of notes, however, gave Ned an impression of what his daughter had learned in her time as a hostage. Sansa had learned to be critically aware of others, to the point of being constantly analyzing the majority of the people around her.

"I learned in a den of lions for nearly three years to be aware of the moods of others. One ill mood led to beatings, the other to public humiliation and biting amusement at having little Sansa Stark beneath their heel. Sometimes both. After my escape, Petyr held me for two years in the Vale. Educating me to use what I had learned into becoming… Perfect in whatever role I had to take. A mummer must gauge her audience, learn how to draw their attention, and their moods to manipulate them."

If Ned ever saw Petyr Baelish, he had no idea if he could restrain himself from running the man through with Ice. He lusts for Catelyn, obsessed with her from boyhood, wishes to rule the Seven Kingdoms at whatever cost to the Kingdoms and would have taken my Sansa, my babe, and mold her to be a tool of such conquest. Ned felt little to no thought to suffer such a man. Roose Bolton, he could understand to an extent. Roose Bolton would have lost his son. And Roose held little love for Ned nor his way of ruling if holding a grudging respect. The ancestral bad blood between the Boltons and the Starks had obviously helped matters little. Walder Frey had long held an ill reputation of being a man who suffered little insults, invented slights by any men who so much as looked in his direction and had long been said to be resentful for the poor standing of his house. Sansa telling him that Lord Tywin Lannister had offered both Bolton and Frey to essentially have control of the Riverlands and the North made him understand what had completely swayed them to betray the King they had pledged themselves too. That was something that would easily sway most men. Theon had been as many boys were eager to assert their manhood with little to no understanding of the consequences and by all means more than suffered as a result. How much, Sansa refused to say, but the look in her eyes had been amongst the most haunted that Ned had ever seen, and that, was telling enough.

That made them all swayable men, ambitious men, but by no means destined to turn away from them.

And Ned had no wish to spend the rest of his life slaughtering every man that could turn turncoat. It would be a futile exercise. Sansa's knowledge of possibilities and advice simply had given them a list of men and women to sway to their own favor. Or to keep a close observation of. Not to murder outright for things they could do. It was a matter of honor, why kill those who have yet to turn against them? Why destroy that which had yet actively turned wrong? Especially those who had turned in very specific conditions. Unbidden, Ned turned to look at Domeric Bolton, the lad just entering adulthood. He was quiet, and much like Sansa was scribbling away at the parchment in front of him. Every other moment he would place a hand on his father's arm, or lean forward to whisper something in Roose's ear. He looked well enough, very northern, and spoke seldom to the Lords during the meetings. During the hunt he had ridden his horse with a grace that had impressed Ned, and been actively chasing the stag they had brought down, his lance being the first to pierce the hide. His lance being the one to strike it dead.

The pride on Roose's face had been evident, the love slightly less so, but had been present nonetheless.

The fact that he was but a boy and he would be killed by the man that would kill little Jeyne and Beth, maim Theon and hurt his daughter within the next few years made Ned feel strange. He seemed like such a young boy, despite everything. Too young to be murdered by his own brother. Sansa had only mentioned that the best course would be to keep the boy alive and away from his insane brother. Ned had few options regarding that, but the most obvious answer was to keep him at Winterfell. Roose would be amiable, Ned was sure, if it hinted at further prestige for his House. Signal him out some way that showed favor... Domeric Bolton looked up, silvery eyes keen and perhaps sensing Ned's gaze. The lad offered him a smile, and it was surprisingly amiable, surprisingly bright. Ned returned it and nearly laughed when the lad rolled his eyes at Lord Karstak and Lord Umber, who were currently snarling at each other.

The North would be very short of men if he went off killing people for future or possible slights, he thought, his resolve solidifying. Sansa had been very earnest of this. Robb and Jon had taken their own decision in trying their damndest to sway Theon to stay loyal to them. Ned had seen it, had seen their reaching out to the Greyjoy boy, and had felt his heart lighter for it. They would try, try for the sake of North, and for the greater good.

Petyr Baelish was another matter.

"Petyr was relentless until his death."

Baelish would never stop, Ned knew this as surely as he knew anything. Every action, every movement that Sansa had described had led Ned to gain an impression of a man with little love of anything, grand ambition for everything… He was the type of man to strive to rule everything, even if everything was dead. The fact that the actions of one man would destroy the tenuous balance of the Seven Kingdoms, lead to the death of the majority of his family, his men, his people- Unbalance the world in the wake of the Second Long Night to come… Ned had little doubt that such a man could not live, despite the fact that he was innocent of any crime that Ned knew of presently.

But what to do with such a man, so far away from here?

The letter from King Robert, tucked away in doublet, burned into Ned's flesh.

When Luwin had brought it to him, Ned had automatically hidden it away. A reflex of years of concealing details of grave consequences from his family.

… I want to see you, Ned. After whatever you need to arrange for Winter is done, send a raven to King's Landing. I am coming down, the entire court be damn. It's been too long since I've seen you.

King Robert coming to Winterfell three years too early was something Ned did not relish. For all intents and purposes, the man he knew the boy, as per Sansa's words, was long gone. Perhaps he has been gone since he sneered at the bloody cloak holding the babes of the man Lyanna loved. He had become too consumed by the past that never was and would bring dangerous people into their home. Queen Cersei was one, and would without a doubt be forced to follow her husband to visit them. Anyone else in the court was a possibility, and few in the Royal Court were neutral figures that would not see their actions as some sort of suspect. Varys with his whispers could be dangerous, take their plans, and see shadows and civil unrest in them when all they were working for was the salvation of North in face of the Long Night. Stannis and Renly and their possible future of wanting the throne. Baelish with his determination and ambition. Joffrey as a cruel claimant becoming King and setting chaos. A mere boy that would have taken my head.

In honesty, Ned was very much in the same mind as his daughter- to strive for the survival of the North and be damn anyone else. But unfortunately, their kingdom was a border between the rest of the world and the horror beyond the Wall. He could not dismiss the rest of the six-kingdoms wholesale either. Despite the relative independence the North held in comparison to the South, they were still connected to the current Kingship. Robert would come. Robert would come and unsettle all they were striving for, complicate matters of the North, and drag the South into their struggles whether they wished it or not. The South was already present, through Hoster Tully and the Tyrells. Everything was changing and despite her fore-knowledge, Sansa seemed all too aware of that, all too knowing of how that information was useful but not infallible. But the early coming of King Robert was an event that was even more changing and possibly disastrous.

Ned was certain he could convince the King to delay such a trip for a few moons after the rest of the North would leave Winterfell, but no more than that. Two years before Jon Aryn's death, at Ned's farthest estimation. Robert had never been patient, and Ned had gathered that trait had only become worse after he was crowned.

The thought of seeing Jon Aryn, possibly preventing his death-

Am I so selfish a man? To want the man who became like a father to me to live?

Ned could not lie to himself and think himself not tempted. His honor demanded he try something, anything, to keep the man that had practically raised him alive. It would keep the North out of the capital's affairs far longer, true, but in all instances, he was sure that Robert coming North would mean to leave his Hand behind. Any inquiry on Ned's part for his former guardian to come to the North, to abandon his duty, would seem out of character. Leaving the capital was something Jon rarely did, and a frivolous visit North on Robert's whim would be no exception.

No, he had already made his decision regarding Jon Aryn.

Jon would more than likely die by his wife's hands. And Ned would try to keep his own family alive in the wake of that. With Lysa as unstable as Sansa said, Ned had no doubt that even without Baelish, Lysa Aryn would become a kinsalyer as she had in Sansa's memories. The circumstances of her marriage horrified Ned and had left Cat very quiet for a very long time. Ned had no doubt that it had shattered some of the esteem she had for her father. The fact that she had kept a certain distance from Hoster since his arrival, despite her obvious longing to find comfort in him had only confirmed in his mind that Cat had finally begun to understand what had happened to their daughter as truth, instead of a delusion he had mistaken for truth. The fact that she had insisted her father not sit with them during the Official Negotiations, despite being family, as she would have demanded before, made Ned suspect that Cat had made her own decision as well.

"What is this foolishness that I hear I must sit with the Tyrells instead at your husband's right?!"

Lord Hoster's face was red, his weathered hands clenched.

"Lord Hoster-"

"I am asking my daughter, Lord Stark, on the issue of dishonoring me in front of the entirety of your bannermen. As I was told it was at her own insistent that I sit amongst the foreigners," he spat.

"You are not present as my Lord Father, but instead as a Lord come to discuss trade agreements. Please understand our need for separation. The Northern Lords would suspect us of favoring you to the detriment of the North and I wish nothing of the sort," Cat spoke with a firm air, her eyes staring straight at her father.

She was poised and standing tall. She looked everything a lady should look, attempting to not insult a Lord as she instructed him what to do. It was very composed for a woman who had been caught unawares. Lord Hoster had evidently heard of their daily family meeting before the discussions would begin and had come to them an hour later than the start, coming into the door despite the protesting guard who insisted he stay away. Poor Robb had stood with wide and startled eyes, a swear on his lips, Jon had hunched his shoulders to stay as unobtrusive as possible, while Lady Brienne had moved from her place away from the window to hover near Sansa. Ned had frozen at the Riverrun's Lord intrusion. Sansa had quickly covered their plans of importation of dragon glass, and their possible sources of smiths to forge them into usable weapons in mass, with her arm and hair in a way that made her look like a tired girl half-asleep, her lids drooping but looking perfectly surprised at the appearance of her Grandfather as she lounged over her desk.

Hoster looked confused, a little offended at Cat's words, even as his daughter moved forward to pour him a glass of wine. His goodfather took it and immediately drank from the goblet a displeased look on his face.

"But Cat, I am your father. Your Husband must favor me-"

"No, Father. Not if the cost is the detriment of the North. We stand just before the coming of a Winter that could be two decades, if not longer. We cannot afford to divide the North because of a perceived slight. You will sit with the Tyrells. It will not due for you to undermine Ned."

Lord Tully's brows furrowed, and he stepped forward. He smiled at his wife as if placating her, the image of a father ordering his daughter.

"You are Lady of the North. Has your father no place at your side? I had to learn from a maid of my seating and of this meeting of the Household that you neglected to inform me of. I would have thought my console would be worth more than a stranger," he cast an obvious and dismissive glance toward Lady Brienne and a frosty look at Jon, "...and a base-born boy."

It was Sansa who spoke next, shifting papers awry in a movement that looked completely natural, even as Lady Brienne moved in front of them to conceal them from Hoster. It spoke greatly of their relationship, of the fact that Brienne had learned their closed-off daughter to the point of following her direction without words. And it eased Ned's heart to know even in the face of such horrific circumstances, Sansa had found someone loyal to be at her side.

Sansa smiled sweetly and pretty and it was only because Ned had witnessed her true smiles before her remembrance of the future that he saw it for the empty thing that it was.

"Grandfather, Mother meant no insult. We wanted you to sit with us, we swear it," she said, voice sweet as a bird's song, "But what will it say to them to see a Southron Lord so esteemed in comparison? It means little to you, but us Northerns are an independent lot. We will sit together at mealtimes, just not during the meetings to make the divide clear."

Despite his obvious offense, Hoster smiled at Sansa's little plea, at the way she latched herself onto his hand, her two small hands clasping at his.

"Sweetling," Hoster's voice was warmer, calmer, "Can you not see how I should not be away from the family? What does it say about your mother if she doesn't want her father with her husband?"

Sansa kept her smile, squeezed Hoster's hand.

"Family, Duty, Honor. But in this case Duty must be ahead of the others. Our duty is to show our people that we worry for them, not have the esteem of another Realm on our minds. Would you not ask the same of us if it was the Riverlands?"

"Sansa makes a fine point, Father," interrupted Cat, softly, reaching over to place a hesitant hand on Hoster's shoulder.

"Cat-"

"The North must see we aim to serve them without Southern interference."

"... Very well, but I insist that I sit with the family during meals."

"You must sit with me grandfather," Sansa said.

Hoster looked at his granddaughter and his eyes went softer at the seemingly young girl in front of him.

"Of course, sweetling. You are such a clever thing, just like Cat at your age. She was all but running the Household, and I can see you would have flourished just as she would have."

Sansa smiled sweetly and fully, even managing a flush to her face as Hoster looked down at her with obvious approval.

The morning meeting went well, the two bickering lords soothed by his wife, with soft compliments, and than sterner words. They had finally moved on from the Glass Gardens to the improvement of the roads between the Keeps and the major points of trade of the North, to the slightly easier agreement between everyone. As most men left the hall to stretch legs, to leave room for the servants to clear the tables and fill them with the midday meal, Ned turned to find his daughter to show her the letter he still kept concealed in his doublet, and what he planned to do with such information. She was half-way out the hall, Brienne following swiftly behind her. Lady Margaery of House Tyrell was on her heel, a look of determination on her lovely face. She had dogged Sansa's steps since the Tyrells arrival in Winterfell, obviously determined for friendship and if Sansa were to be believed, information for what was really occurring in House Stark. But Sansa had, for the most part, avoided devoting much time to the Lady Margaery despite the girl's obvious inclination.

He followed them, watching with amusement as the flood of leaving Lords and Sansa knowing Winterfell so well allowed her to leave Lady Margaery behind. He followed until they were alone in the hallway, Lady Brienne at Sansa's side. It was in the hallway, with Sansa going to a window that overlooked the godswood, that Ned was struck with a feeling of… A feeling of warmth as Sansa closed her eyes, hands on the windowsill. She tilted her head slightly as if she relished the feeling of the light on her face as if it was everything good in the world. Light touched her face, basking the soft curve of her cheeks, the fair arch of her brow. It made her beautiful hair appear like metal in the sunlight, her pale and creamy skin so much paler and clear.

A look of serenity crossed his daughter's face.

It was a look that was rare. And it crushed something inside Ned to remove it from her face. He took a breath and stepped forward. Lady Brienne blinked at the sight of him and gave him a quick, functional sort of bow. He returned it with a nod, his eyes still on Sansa as she basked in the sunlight.

"I never knew sunlight could ever be removed from the world," she said quietly, without a sign she was alarmed by his approach.

"Winters can take the sun from us for a few moons at a time, even the milder ones."

She still did not open her eyes, and only sighed at his words.

"No sun will greet us, not for two years perhaps more."

Her past assertion of the amount of time the sun had left lingered in Ned's mind constantly. In the winters he had lived through, the sun had never been gone for so long, even in the North. Even in the harsher winters in his lifetime, the sun had disappeared for the maximum of six moons, before appearing constantly for the same amount of time. The prospect of being sunless for such a long time was a daunting one, and he had set Luwin on the research of plants that would survive in long periods of darkness, and so far most his research had yielded some success, and with the new heating system from the Keep extended to their glass gardens, no one within Winterfell would starve if they were prudent. And that he had little doubt his people were.

Ned sometimes thought of how his children had never seen the sun in the last two years of their lives. That Arya, Jon, Bran, and Sansa had endured darkness for two long years with dwindling supplies, more and more mouths to feed, and the monsters of their childhood fairytales clawing at them from all sides. With dwindling hope, and with Daenerys Targaryen coming to them with dragons and armies at her back. That they had lost the War against the Others in such darkness and conditions. Such darkness that no doubt had no chance of easing even if the Others had not defeated the North.

Sometimes when he looked at his daughter, he thought for all her resilience, for all her talk of surviving and banding the remains of the North together with her remaining siblings, that Sansa too, had lost hope. That she had only not the luxury of showing her loss of faith in surviving the Second Long Night for the sake of the people who had called her Queen. Now, here, he hoped that he could instill some life into her, that he could bring her faith and hope to what had once been his gentlest child.

"We will endure," he can only tell her, he swore to her. Swore to the very gods every day as they went to pray together.

Sansa gave a smile, warm and so hopeful it stole Ned's breath. That is what he wanted to see in his daughter's face. That was what he wanted her to able to be. Some of that little girl he had been raising up into this point. Some of that hope that had blazed so brightly when she had whispered, "The North remembers," all those moons ago.

"I dare say we might. You wished to speak to me?"

She opened her eyes and turned to him, that smile still on her small face. Ned swallowed, hand coming for the letter in his doublet, striding forward to hand it to his daughter. It was not a long letter, not truly if you excluded Robert's reminiscent rambling of the Greyjoy Rebellion, but Sansa read every line, examined every nuance of the curve of the letters written by some scribe as the writing was done in a hand that Ned did not recognize. Her fair brows furrowed as she finished, shattering her peaceful and beautiful smile. She looked up at him, her eyes darker in the wake of the news.

"The King wishes to come to Winterfell," she said, softly.

Ned nodded, shamed at the fact the man that had been like a brother to him would cause so much turmoil to his daughter. Blue eyes, once soft and open, looked dark and closed to him.

"This upsets you. The King, coming to Winterfell."

Her eyes danced with a million thoughts, her eyes flickered about as if searching for people who were listening to them. It was only until Brienne nodded that she returned her gaze to him, flat and dark.

"It does. But not as much as you concealing it from the family. How long have you had this?"

"I did so because I have been struggling with the knowledge of what this opportunity gives us. It arrived this morning, before the meeting."

She blinked, and though her face was closed and perfect like a mask, he knew that she must be confused by his words. He sighed. Ned had long thought to be an example to his children and to protect them from the darkness he knew was so prevalent in the world. But Sansa was not a child to be coddled from the darkness of the world any longer. In that, his counterpart in the future that was her past had failed miserably. He had tried to protect all his children and had thought he would be there to protect them for the rest of his life. He had never expected his life to be so short.

And for any of his children to be outside of the North for long until their adulthoods.

To see that his dubious protection would have blinded them and ill-prepared them for the world that lay outside Winterfell… Well.

"I believe it is time for your mother to write a letter. Connect to childhood friends."

Sansa sucked in a startled breath, and Ned could only look away in shame. He did not relish this. He did not want to be such a man that plotted and lingered in the muck. He had always striven to comport himself in a way that would inspire loyalty, to be honorable in all matters. That was the legacy he wished to give his children. It was the only way he thought to live, but when he had promised Lyanna he would protect her son he had set a precedent that he would stop at nothing to protect those he loved. Besmirch himself if necessary. Be treasonous to the man he had called his friend. Lie to the world to keep his nephew whole and alive. When he had seen this letter, he knew that an opportunity had arisen.

"Petyr was relentless until his death."

"Father. I believe you are right. Mother has told me she has thought more and more of her childhood in the wake of this long winter to come."

Sansa crumpled the letter, her small hands shaking as she turned once again to the window. She placed them there one hand on the letter the other curled into a small fist, the only indication of her displeasure at his concealment of the letter. Her profile looked completely at ease, but he knew that her mind was whirling with plans and adjustments to the prospect of the King coming to Winterfell before the death of his Hand, and the prospect of eliminating Petyr Baelish, as Ned had just proposed. Tentatively, he placed a hand on her's.

She flinched.

His daughter flinched at his touch and Ned wanted to run every man that had hurt her through with Ice.

"Forgive me."

"Do not conceal things from us. It will only divide us," was her measured response.

"I know. I fear that I have made a habit of it."

"You must break such a habit, Lord Stark," said Brienne, quietly, speaking for the first time.

Ned blinked at the fierce look on the young woman's face. She was a quiet person, Lady Brienne of Tarth. And though she stood out on the nature of her unconventional appearance she had made a habit of not speaking much, deferring to Sansa more often than not. Reacting to nuances of her daughter's command with the ease of someone who had done it for years. She rarely put forth her own opinion, and Ned had taken it for a young woman with little to say.

Now he knew it was because she had tempered herself for the sake of his daughter, and she had reached her limit.

"Queen Sansa has known much betrayal in her life, has known too many people concealing things from her for the sake of her comfort or for their advantage and-"

"Brienne, enough. Do not discuss such things in the open," her daughter's voice was sharp, and she met Brienne's frustrated gaze with her own even look.

Lady Brienne's upper lip trembled, and her face flushed in a blotchy way that unflattered her. She turned her head away as Sansa reached out and clasped one of her fisted hands. Then Sansa looked out the window once again.

"No fighting. No conflict between us. I have had enough of that in my lifetime."

Ned bite back another apology. Instead, he squeezed her hand as gently as he could, and Sansa's still expression thawed slightly as she leaned towards him. Without pausing Ned carefully embraced Sansa. And was heartened when she wound her arms around his waist. The tension had not left her body, entirely, but the fact that she made motions toward him made some part of Ned feel better.

"Father, promise me never again? I have been as forthright as possible. I do not want to see secrets tear us apart."

"Bran is still at risk of becoming the Three-Eyed Raven. I know not if we can prevent it."

Ned's hand trembled at the frightened look Sansa could barely conceal. He felt that was the most fantastic part of his daughter's tale, the parts that which she barely believed herself. She believed that the Southern Wars had killed them all in the end, she believed that Winter was Coming, but Ned thinks part of her did not believe what her younger brother had become.

"Are you-"

"He spoke to me. He spoke to me and for a moment it was the same. I pray it was just the Greensight, that it was not the Three-Eyed Raven seeking to take him for the sake of the Old gods once again, to whatever end it truly was for… But we cannot be sure. I know some things are unpreventable and I fear this may be one of them."

"What do we suggest?" asked Cat, voice tight.

"We keep Bran from losing the use of his legs for one. We make concessions if we must take him beyond the Wall ourselves. But we do not lose hope that his purpose was in our memories, not in our new future."

"I promise, Sansa," he said, thickly. Another promise Ned would try his damndest to keep. No matter what it would cost him, "I wished to tell you first in the event Hoster insists being a part of the household meeting."

Understanding passed through her eyes, and her eyes narrowed slightly as she pulled away. She gave a frim nod.

"Thank you, Father. Mother will... Mother will be made to understand?"

How will Cat react, to have to join in a plot to kill a girlhood friend?

"I am sure seeing him will be enough to convince her of what he is capable of."

Sansa took a shaky breath, and Brienne made an aborted motion as if she was going to press her hand on his daughter's shoulder. The swornshield only clenched her jaw and let her hand fall. She looked away, her eyes bright. Sansa hunched her shoulders but for a moment then threw them back and lifted her chin in an elegant gesture. She was stronger than steel, his eldest daughter, but it had so many facets and cracks that it could be torn apart at any moment. Fragile and strong. She was both infantile and adult in mind, and not for the first time Ned wondered if both she and Lady Brienne were a little mad for all they had witnessed and lost.

Ned felt mad, at times, from the horrors he had witnessed as too young a man. Seeing the caved chest of a man he would have called good-brother had he and his sister just been patient and spoken to someone; gasp and claw at his breath and whisper his sister's name in that pitiful, lovelorn way as he choked on his own blood. Seeing the red cloaks cradling the small bodies of the blameless princess and prince and the indifference Robert had shown them. When he had seen his sister bleeding on the birthing bed smelling of roses and blood and begging for the life of her son... When he had watched poor Asharya clenching Brandon's little girl in her arms, this small, dead, and pale and wane thing that had never breathed its first breath. A dead look in her violet eyes as she took her brother's sword. When he had held the ashes and cracked bones to bury his father and eldest brother, nearly three years after their deaths…

He knows not the horrors his daughter had witnessed. Oh, she had told the grand strokes- and in her most emotional moment, she had said what he suspects what had pained her greatly... But Ned knows the gentleness of his daughter had survived admission the cruelty she had endured. She had tempered her experiences or kept them silent altogether if they had nothing to do with the new future they were forging together.

A future Ned suspected would lead to War with the South no matter how carefully they tread, and a future that Sansa saw as unavoidable.

In Sansa's eyes, despite her words of unavoidable connection to the South… I think she sees the North is already its own Kingdom. I do not know if that makes me her King. By the gods, I hope not. I do not think she should see me as such with the entirety of my mistakes carved into her through the memories of a possible lifetime, or future. I know she still loves me as the flawed man she can so clearly see, and I can see the esteem in the way she watches me at times. But I do not think she sees the makings of a King in me. Ned was glad to not be such a thing. When Robert had taken the throne, Ned had been utterly relieved, wanting only Winterfell, his sister, and the babe he knew Cat had within her.

But with the changes Sansa so ardently sought, Ned wondered if Northern independence was the only solution when Robert died. Ned would gladly pass the crown to Robb if it came to such a thing. He had been King before in possible future, at five and ten, King in the North, with a crown of swords and runes of the First Men. Taken that title for the first time in three centuries. It would be fitting for Robb to be King. If he learned temperament from his future-counterparts actions, Ned had no doubt he would be a good king. Already, he was taking steps to be such a man.

"May I be excused?" asked Sansa, smiling wanly, ever courteous.

Ned gave her a nod, but not before leaning down to press a firm kiss on her brow. Her smile turned, not wane or forceful, but softer. Smaller, but truer than the one she had used. She gave a slight dip of her head as Brienne gave a crisp brow, and Sansa linked their arms. With one last fathomless look, his daughter and her sworn shield, Commander of her Queensgaurd, retreated.

Ned stared after them and replaced the letter in his doublet. His heartfelt unsettled and his mind ran in circles over what was to come.

Chapter Text

Distance

"Distance not only gives nostalgia, but perspective, and maybe objectivity," Robert Morgan.

Sansa Stark knew she should feel more tense, sitting in a sewing circle composed of mostly Southern ladies. In the wake of returning to the past, the horror of her life was affecting her more harshly than ever before. Her issues with live steel had made that evident to her, as her reaction to anyone approaching her too suddenly or without her notice. Perhaps it's my safety being assured that makes me stumble. Now that I am with my family once again, the small fears that I could not show for fear of being seen as weak, or fragile come to the surface… Or perhaps it is my younger body, so unused to being tempered that affects me so. Whatever the cause, sitting amongst the ladies of the Reach, reminded her keenly of her days South of the Neck. The memory of feeling utterly trapped, as she had often felt back then in her horror-filled days South, in the stinking heat of the Red Keep came to her keenly. She could feel the memories of such moments lingering in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her and consume her.

But it is not then, I am not a caged bird, I am a wolf amongst her pack, I have both my sharp teeth and my claws. These people are in my  den  and I have no reason to fear them.

But Sansa knew that is not entirely true. Much as she had grown, she knew that there was an echo of her when she had been that little bird. Plumage hangs about her, in the form of the pretty, soft silk of her dress she dons. It is the most delicate and childish thing that she has worn since she had awoken in the past, one of the few remnants of the Summer child's life she had taken over. My clipped wings of artful design, her hair is brushed to a shine in careful braids that were Southern in design that she had often donned at Cersei's feet, if less complex, and her high voice is her very practiced birdsong. She can feel herself fall to old, hard beaten in habits. She becomes the dove, partly, with the women and girls in front of her eagerly listening to her mummer's farce. They think me sweet, they think me pliable, without a thought if I can possibly be molding them instead.

These beautifully dressed ladies in their southern silks and pretty, empty smiles, hiding gleaming eyes and mocking pity in their words were curiously a comfort. They were not powerful in truth, and their attempts at swaying her would do little to the woman she was beneath her child's face. She was not stupid enough to dismiss them completely as it was exactly that folly that had lead to the downfall of so many people who thought themselves fit to rule. She did, however, quickly take in their measure and what she assumed they wanted. They are third cousins to Margaery, nearly too old to be unwed nearing their twenties, Daughters of Lady Bethany and Lord Mathis Rowan, not Redwyns in name, but instead of House Rowan, Beth and Jolen, the oldest daughters of the Goldengrove. They must be trying to tie themselves to the formidable Lady Oleana with their dresses, or show how interconnected the Reach is. Evidently part of Willas's inner circle as these women never traveled to King's Landing… Or is it because there was that scandal with their youngest sister? I cannot think of it at the moment, as Lady Margaery mentioned it only in passing...

The Queen of Thorns herself was presiding over these giggling girls with a firm hand as Sansa knew her capable of. The air of a dotting grandmother and elder she had perfected long ago, but the charm of a matronly lady was still as blunt as a cleaver. Sansa watched with a careful eye. The true power of Highgarden seemed almost subdued, to what Sansa remembered. But perhaps it was because she was not undermining Cersei, and instead contending with Sansa's Lady Mother instead. She seemed to hold actual respect for her Mother, which Sansa knew the same could not be said for Lady Olenna's opinion for the current Queen. There had always been genuine bite to her words in what Sansa remembers. Now, Lady Olenna did not simper to her Mother, but spoke with a pleasant tilt. Approval, or respect shone in her sharp eyes. And her barbs were more for her lack of concern with unwarranted social niceties than anything else.

Under Lady Margaery's ever-watching eyes, Sansa could not quite feel comfortable. They were frightfully warm lingering on her, unabashedly staring. And it was in that unpracticed, open way that Margaery looked at her that left her unsettled. I expect the woman I knew as a friend, the Lady with soft brown eyes that were far more calculating than most saw. The girl is too free with herself, her steps hurried, her mirth has to be more genuine, and her flattery is clumsier. Margaery as I knew her has yet to emerge.

It was the flash of their golden roses against green dresses, the azure of the Redwynes, and their rich grape that made her fall to the mask of the little bird. Her claws and fangs hidden behind her soft words and smiles. It was strange to don this armor she had thought abandoned. But a Lady's armor is her courtesy, and I can never completely discard it when it comes to people of the South. Sansa hoped to appear a fraction of the child she had been, if less vocal, and it seemed to have worked on the strangers and familiar faces alike. Lady Margaery chatted away without a care, leading the conversation with vibrancy, the few girls of the North that were not of House Stark that occupied the sewing circle watched the pretty girl of twelve namedays with interest, and delight. The older girls paid more mind to Sansa's mother, and Lady Olenna kept her words to her as well...

Sansa watched them all carefully, nonetheless. But especially Margaery. Sansa can not tell, not yet, if this younger Margaery truly wanted to know her. Her elder counterpart had always been kind to her, as kind as she could be, even when her plans to spirit her away to High Garden had failed… But Sansa knew as long as she held no rose sigil, that this girl would always have the interest of others above her, no matter how strong a friendship was claimed.

"He's a monster."

"Pity."

Even after all this time, Sansa knew not what she felt in retrospect, having been the catalyst in Joffrey's death, in both her words spoken to Tyrells nor holding the jewels within her hair that had caused his suffocation… In the end, Joffery being dead had meant nothing, as everything fell to pieces anyway. All the safety she thought would come with his death, with escaping the capital... She left King's Landing for another prison, another jailer, and Joffrey and Cersei were replaced with Petyr and her Aunt Lysa. Joffrey dying meant nothing, at least to her, even if she had inadvertently swayed the Tyrells to go through with Petyr's scheme.

Oh, she had no doubt Petyr had always planned it, had to plan it in order to sit in that hideous chair that everyone wanted, but it had been her words that had swayed the Tyrells, at least concretely. If she had played the sweet, stupid dove a little longer and trusted no one as she should have, perhaps she would not have ended up in Petyr's careful talons. She had been all too eager to entangle herself in the thorns of House Tyrell, lured in by pretty words and pretty faces, at the chance of escape… But she also knew Joffrey alive for more time would have been a much worse fate to the world at large. And Petyr would have stopped at nothing to spirit her away at that time. She had been a fragile, broken dove, not a disguised She-Wolf, and he coveted her so much as a reflection of the woman he claimed to love.

Would bes and perhaps had no place here, in the past- the present where redemption and living were available to Sansa. And she was able to push down any negativity she felt for these people, who were blameless for crimes yet to be committed.

Crimes she knew were never meant to punish her personally. She was simply a useful pawn, a girl who was the key to the North through succession, through marriage. A girl who knew intimately of the workings of King's Landing from the perspective of an outsider, a victim, a hostage. At the moment, her role had been set back once again. Sansa was a little girl to spill secrets of the possibly scheming North. A possible bride, once again, for Lord Willas. She was no longer a direct, moldable heir to the North, thank the gods, but her marriage was a link to the North nonetheless. One that would give the Reach a stronger bloodline, a link to the prestige of old that the former stewards had yet to achieve. And though the age difference meant more than it had during her time in King's Landing, as she had been technically a woman flowered, she could see that being pushed aside easily enough. It would not be odd for her to be engaged at such a young age, possibly spend time with her future goodfamily as a ward.

Jeyne's glare with her eyes red-rimmed as she clumsily and harshly pulling through her piece of embroidery, a botched piece of what looked like an attempt of a complex rose, reminded her of the hateful glares that would be sent to the broken dove's way. Traitor's blood. Bitch. Girl whose brother was slaughtering the men we loved, brother, father, uncle. Another parallel to her life before her return to Winterfell… She frowned, slightly at the girl who had once been her dearest friend, sitting next to little Beth, another girlhood friend, one she had barely remembered beyond the faintest recollection of being Arya's age and would sweetly toddle after her and Jeyne. The little girl had last been seen at the Dreadfort as far as Sansa could piece together from Theon's wild mumblings. After the death of the Boltons, the following raid at the Keep had yielded little survivors, and Sansa had not even been able to find Beth's body amongst the dead so unrecognizable they had been.

At this point, she was not quite Sansa or Jeyne's friend, having just started her lessons with Septa Mordane as per her father, Ser Rodrik Cassel's instruction. It seemed now that Jeyne had attached herself to her, and Sansa was glad of it. She had made one more attempt to mend the bridge the other day, but Jeyne was severely content on being crossed with her. And while it certainly pained Sansa for both the childhood friend she had lost and the young woman she had been forced to watch rot on the walls of her home, she could not say that she was entirely sure it wasn't for the better. If they were ever forced South again, perhaps Jeyne would stay behind, instead of journeying with her father and be left away from the serpent's pit that was the Capital. To be forced into a whore house in Petyr's schemes, to endure wearing Arya's name, and wed and die at Ramsey's hand before Sansa...

With Arya's leg pressed against her, and as she boredly pulled her plain white thread through her grey fabric, her small hoop in hand, Sansa knew that she had made her choice. My pack. My family must be what I have in my heart and mind first. Winter is Coming. Family, Duty, Honor. Childhood has long passed for me, as had the Summer of my innocence. These children cannot interfere with what must be done. I am sorry, old friends, I can only hope longer lives are acceptable in the wake of my lost friendship. Sansa had long mourned her friends, had long mourned the ease of their friendships. And she cannot deny that there was part of her that missed that still. But she had made her decision.

Brienne, next to her, pressed her trouser covered leg against her own. Just slightly, pressing against the silk of her gown in a movement that seemed unintentional, as she reached over to carefully hold her tea cup. It was small in her large hands, and a childhood of breaking things made her extra wary, Sansa knew from a conversation in the past. Brienne gave a deep sip, sending a look towards Sansa. A silent question, a silent reminder for Sansa not to be lost in her mind. Sansa gave the slightest smile, absently leaning forward herself to sample a lemon tart.

Brienne left her leg pressed against Sansa, as she set down her cup in a clumsily little move, and she returned to the acceptable attempt at her House's sigil, a talent that few knew Brienne possessed. Brienne was acceptable at many of the female pursuits, she was simply better at using the sword on her hip, and had little to no patience for such a thing. She sent another look Sansa's way, and Sansa could not help a soft smile of understanding toward her suffering sworn shield's part. She knew Brienne would rather be in full plate, hovering over her shoulder instead of seated next to her, but at Arya's large, begging wolf eyes, Brienne had accepted the invitation to sit for tea with their Southern guests.

Sansa herself felt calmer from Brienne's familiar reassurance, and with the familiar pull of thread. The meditative ease of repetitive motions Sansa felt herself settle again.

Wherever she found herself, sewing had long been a way to pass the time, to calm her shaking hands, to build herself armor in dresses and favors for whoever she had to sway to her favor for the sake of surviving. Arya-the-woman had laughed at Sansa when she had told her how adorning herself in the clothing of a Southern Lady, of a bastard had been her means of protection. It had not been one of mocking, nor of scorn, but instead of fierce understanding within her laugh. A certain bitterness in her sister's laugh. Once, her grown sister, near the end had mentioned, "If we had been in each other's places, we would have died within days." And Sansa had agreed with a beatific, flat smile, and as she sewed more clothing for the men and women guarding the remains of Winterfell.

"What a lovely, steady hand you have, Lady Sansa," said Margaery, smiling in that sweet way of her's, she inched forward, her own hoop displaying her intricate golden rose, in a way that made it visible to all in the room. For her age, it was beautiful and Sansa would have been incredibly set on learning the pattern, if it had not been one she had already learned from the lady before, "I have never seen such delicate stitches!"

Sansa's own work was an image of Lady, or what Sansa had always imagined Lady to be if she had ever grown to adulthood, a slender, delicate form with soft eyes. She gave the mentally younger girl a smile, sweet and empty, that pleased her nonetheless. A flush of pleasure highlighted the softness of her pretty face, at her smile. Sansa, keenly, pitied the girl in front of her. It was strange for Sansa to acknowledge, but she knew that the girl's ambition would lead her to King's Landing once again. Whether to usurp Cersei as Robert's Queen as Petyr told her had been the intent, or for Joffrey or Tommen or even Lord Renly, Margaery would go to the Capital eventually. Whether or not she would live through it, Sansa knew not.

"Thank you, Lady Margaery, I adore your pattern, I have never seen such full roses," she responded, and she ignored how Arya pulled impatiently on the white thread she was using, a huff escaping her lips even as she rolled her eyes.

It was simple and rough work, Sansa could admit, as Arya wordlessly shoved the hoop towards her, a furrowed brow of confusion and a frown on her face. Sansa simply pointed calmly to how Arya was supposed to make her white wolf, pulling back incorrect stitches easily, and though Septa Mordane was sending her a frown of both confusion and surprise, Sansa was focused on how Arya's face lit up in appreciation and understanding. The grey square cloth was meant as a handkerchief, and it was a gift for Jon, Sansa had no doubt. She had taken to incorporating Ghost in all of his wardrobe that she could get her hands on, declaring all the world to see that he was a part of their family. And it seemed that Arya, as observant as she was, was following suit. She also knew that Jon would be the one who would be the gentlest in receiving Arya's needlework.

"Yes, yes, my roses are nice enough, but the way you are making your wolf- it is as if he will leap off of your silk!" continued Margaery, beaming.

"Sansa has always been artistic and accomplished," mentioned her mother, softly, her hands quick and economical in her knitting.

"So learning a man's art has not lessened her skills as a woman!" Lady Olenna said, a twist of satisfaction to the pull of her mouth. Her sharp eyes were gleaming, and they had turned to look at Sansa in a pleased way.

Sansa remembers, quite vividly, how such a look of approval had pleased her. How such a look of warmth had given her hope. She had wanted to be family with this woman, she had wanted to wear the golden rose and be spirited away to Highgarden and be safe. But she also remembers how easily the woman had tossed her to the lions the second she had been of no use to her.

Her Lady Mother paused in her work, her fair red brows furrowing for a moment. She had been more than displeased at Arya starting her water dancing lessons. She had held her tongue when her husband had warned her beforehand, and refused to compromise, seemingly dismissing it as a lost cause. But when Sansa had taken up her lessons… Her mother had begged for Sansa to cease. Had begged for that one last part of the young Sansa Stark to remain… Or perhaps in her mind, to return her daughter from the stranger she had become.

"Please Sansa-"

"No. I am sorry Mother, but I have to be able to defend myself-"

"This is not like you-"

Frustration was a fair reaction, at this point for Sansa. It was strange, in a reversal from childhood, as it was more often then not that Sansa found herself more at ease with her Father then her Lady Mother. Perhaps it was because her Mother was so  set  in some ways. So eager to be the one who's council was heard above anyone else's.

"I am not the child who would never dare to lift the sword. I cannot stand aside if a conflict arises. I did so once. I paid the price of watching people I had known all my life die. I could never  physically  defend myself. I was at the mercy of each of my captors one way or another," Sansa said, firmly, eyes staring directly into her Mother's, "I do not want to do that again. This way I have some means of defense. I will never be excellent, but by no means will I be defenseless as I was before."

A muscle worked in her Mother's jaw.

"Your family will defend you-"

"I have the memories of a time when my own Lord Father could not do so," Sansa did not raise her voice. Did not snarl this. But part of her wished too.

And her Mother flinched back nonetheless.

"Lady Brienne-"

"Cannot be with me all hours of the day. And she has a vow to Arya much as she has to me, and she has no doubt wish to defend all of your children, now that they live again. If I can ease the strain… then I will be happy with myself."

"A man will be reluctant to wed you, Sansa. I only worry for your future."

What good is a man to me!? What future is mine that will cause me to be away from Winterfell!?

Sansa felt her frustration turn, to strife and rage at the course of her Mother's thoughts. She knew her duty as a Lady. She had known it since she had first learned to walk, knew that one day she would be away from her childhood home and marry.  I know it  all too well now, twice wed, once  savaged . Perhaps I will be granted a good, kind, and gentle man. Perhaps I will be able to choose him, as I hope I will. But that is not the future I find myself to have so soon.

But in this plea for this type of future to be the only in her mind, Sansa saw the hints of denial that had plagued Lady Stark through the changes brought to both the household and her children. Especially Sansa. Sansa's own heart ached for her Mother. She had never asked for a daughter from the future. She had no reassurance if any of Sansa's words of the future were true beyond a few things that should have been impossible for Sansa to know, and Brienne's appearance.

But Sansa would not play a part for her family. She was a wolf, she was Sansa Stark, and she knew what lay on the horizon.

"I do not need your approval, Mother, Father has already granted permission. This is yet another thing you must learn to live with. And if a man will not want me for wielding a sword, then he is no man at all. It is the same with Arya."

"Indeed not," said her mother, primly, her lips pressing her lips into a firm, thin line. Her next movement in her needles was rough, and the blanket for baby Rickon would perhaps not be quite as even as a result.

"This must be very strange to you, Lady Stark," continued Lady Olenna, sipping at her rose tea, in a delicate cup of fine porcelain, an import from Yi. And a gift to her Lady Mother, a set that was painted beautifully with delicate Tully trouts, silver and leaping above a red ring as the clay of their sigil and a soft blue river. Some of the pale river's swirls looked suspiciously like roses. Sansa was sure it was a purposeful thing as the set had probably been repainted to appeal to her Mother, "To have your female children be trained in such a brutish skill. Certainly a queer Northern practice! Poor Margery was attempting to have time with Lady Sansa, and the child was otherwise occupied with that Bravossi fellow."

Her Lady Mother's lips thinned, and she disguised the movement poorly by reaching for her own cup and taking a delicate sip of her fragrant tea. Another gift from the Reach. For coming with quite a haste, and seemingly with such a small party, the Tyrells had prepared a lot of gifts for House Stark. Some of them lined the large table in front of them. Fine tarts, made of exotic fruit and prepared by the few servants brought with them, were laid out on the small table between them all. Usually, it would be occupied by spare fabric, thread, and perhaps sometimes cakes and hot cider. Today their Southern guests had gifted their table with delicacies and Southern tastes. If she had been what she had indeed ten, this would have delighted Sansa. The array was impressive, considering the fact that they had limited space and time within the Winterfell's kitchen.

It seemed to Sansa that their sly Southern guest seemed to be attempting to make mid-morning tea a habit for them, perhaps to make tea another thing they imported through the Reach.

"It is a pastime meant for girlhood, Lady Olenna. I am sure Sansa will endeavor to spend more time with our guests," said her Mother in return, sending a pointed look her way.

Sansa's mind flitted, unbidden, to Petyr's most crucial lesson. 'Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do?'. She frowned, her needle pausing in the malicious thought. She knew her mother was not cruel, nor foolish to misunderstand their swordsmanship lessons. The argument of the other day, once again, was brought to Sansa's mind at the words. She can be impulsive when she is emotional. Did she not take Tyrion hostage with only circumstantial evidence? Release Ser Jaime in desperation for both Arya and I? Sell the King in the North for a bridge? A shiver ran down Sansa's spine. Is this your purpose?

She knew her mother's perspective of her claims were dubious. She followed their father's lead, as a dutiful wife would. And she performed her tasks well, but Sansa knew she was grasping for normalcy. Do you wish for marriage for me, mother? Her mother was not very adept at playing any sort of game, and her forays into Southern ways were unpolished, or perhaps rusty from disuse. Sorrow and anger wared in Sansa at the estimation of her Mother's purpose. Marriage to Lord Willas, perhaps sending me away to sit at the feet of Lady Olenna. Is it to secure my future, strengthen the North through the Realm's most fertile and tilled land, or some desperate plea for something of the girl I was to come back?

"Ah, so your girls will give up this pastime when they are wed?"

"That is not true. I will never give up my sword," said Arya, hotly, hands clenched tightly around her hoop. She said this with the wisdom of a child, and the certainty of one, "I'd rather not get married at all!"

"Arya," her Mother said sharply.

Arya flinched, and Sansa felt her press closer to her, automatically, at the sharp tone. Sansa soothed her sister quietly, pressing her cool fingertips on her delicate wrist. Arya did not sag into her. But she did press closer.

"What Arya meant to say is that not all girls give up the sword upon marriage or reaching adulthood, though some do. It is not a childhood pastime," she responded, cooly, "She meant no offense, Lady Mother, she was simply correcting you. I understand the custom is truly Northern and thus strange to you."

Tully blue eyes looked at her, wide with disbelief. It was never Sansa's habit to disagree with her parents, especially in public, even now. But this was something Sansa would not falter on. Swordsmanship was not something she liked, but it was necessary. Arya would be, arguably once she was trained, one of the best if not the best in Westeros, second to Brienne and Ser Jaime before the loss of his hand. So, Sansa only returned her mother's wide-eyed look with a steady gaze.

"I certainly do not plan on leaving my sword behind," Sansa said deliberately, smiling softly in a disarming way to the Reach Ladies, who hung on her every word, eyes glittering in delight with the tension in the room, "And Lady Margery, you have yet to admire the surrounding hills, would you be opposed with a ride on the morrow? I hear that some of the men are to hunt again, and I wager it will be the best time for a small party to enjoy themselves."

Her mother's lips pursed, her hands tight on her knitting needles.

"I would be delighted, Lady Sansa, and I must insist you call me simply Margery. We will be friends, I am sure-"

"Sansa," her mother said, sharply.

Sansa turned to her, hands still moving, and gave her a serene, poised smile. Her mother blanched. If you wish for a Summer child, you will receive a mockery of one.

"Lady Mother?"

Lips tightened, wobbled slightly on her Mother's fair face. Unbidden, Sansa's mind went to the face of Lady Stoneheart, whose expression had been constantly set in that very same tight line of anger. Sansa felt a chill go down her spine, and for a moment, she saw the remnants of her Mother again, brought back too late. Wrong. As Jon hadn't been. She saw the angry set of her face. The rotted, bloated mess of her once beautiful skin, the jagged cut on her throat, the putrid gape that exposed palid bone and muscle turned black, the angry whistle of her uneven breaths.

The look in her eyes was the same. The same anger, startling potency of it.

She breathed deeply, tightening her hands on her hope for a fraction of a second, before forcing them to relax.

"Invite your brothers for the ride," was what her Mother said, voice sharper still.

Do you wish Robb to be similarly pleased by our Southern guests? He should not demure in the hunt this time, he must bond with his bannermen… And marriage to the Reach is not our best option. The Lords of the North dismissed you, and still do, near two decades since you have married into these lands. We need strong Northern matches for most of us if marriage must happen soon… To connect south of the Neck had been Robb's folly before. Making Margaery the Lady of the North- improbable. Not with her Queenly ambitions nor the lands between the North and the Reach. She could claim herself Queen of the Vale, the Riverlands, the North, and the Reach at best. But why settle for such a gamble? What would she gain from siding with the 'rebels', when she could have the whole of the Seven Kingdoms? It would be a temporary alliance at best like with Renly, more so if the North is forced into Rebellion. What does the Reach care for us, so far away? No. It would be the same path of Renly, Joffrey, and Tommen. Margery will be a Queen of Stags and Lions and Roses until the Dragon Queen crosses the sea once again, or Cersei's madness manifests itself to strike her down.

Sansa inclined her head nonetheless.

"I will invite my own brothers," enthused Margaery, clapping her hands, eyes brightening, "Though I think Garlan will be more inclined to join the men in their hunt. Willas is very fond of leisurely rides, however!"

Sansa felt a sigh in her chest, but she did not express it. Do you wish for me as your goodsister? Is this sweet child the woman I once knew, murdered in the Sept by Cersei? Or is it Lady Olenna's behest that pushes a real child to discover our secrets? Her eyes flickered to Lady Olenna who was drinking her tea with a steady hand, eyes flickering to Lady Stark with a measured glance. Their eyes met and her Lady Mother gave a small smile of approval, which Lady Olenna returned.

Sansa quietly resolved to speak to her Father after the tea.

"I hope you have the right type of cloak," said Arya, sharp eyes lingering on the pretty and much too airy silk gown that Mageary wore with a wrinkled nose, "Summer snows are frequent and silks get ruined much too quickly."

Sansa suppressed a laugh at the poor way Margaery attempted to hide her distaste and upfront at the small slight.

"If not, Lady Margaery is welcome to borrow one of mine. We are of the same height," Sansa said simply.

Lady Margery perked up, a gleam in her eyes.

"I would love to measure the fashion of the Reach with the North. Will it be so much trouble to compare our wardrobe?"

"How unfortunate we cannot compare the fashion of the Stormlands as well," said Lady Jolen, said with sarcastic mirth," Lady Brienne has adapted to the fashion too quickly."

Jeyne laughed loudly, and little Beth giggled timidly. Brienne blinked and flushed. Sansa felt a flash of irritation. Brienne was not truly hurt, too much had happened to her for such a thing to bother her. But a lifetime of being ridiculed did not completely erase her natural reaction to the little embarrassment she did suffer.

"I was never considered fashionable in the Stormlands, my Lady," was Brienne's reply, her voice ever courteous.

"That I can see very clearly," said little Jeyne, loudly, eyes narrowed.

Arya scowled, and it was only Sansa placing a hand on her wrist that kept her seated at the slight against their friend. Brienne was perhaps Arya's first female friend in this life or one that would not be held back by the formality of serving her. It wouldn't do for her little sister to launch herself across the room and start swinging on Jeyne, even in defense of a friend. It would not do for her to lose her temper completely in front of these strangers.

Sansa felt warm if a little odd for the way Arya followed her lead so well. And the exasperated look her young sister sent her. Their relationship was not perfect as much as it pained Sansa still. Arya still expected her to fall back into chastising her harshly. Or to poke and prod at her perceived imperfections as she often had at this age to feel superior over being the strangest of the Starks, of being too Tully. Arya was also too quick to belittle Sansa, too eager to make fun of her actions. It was the beginning, however, of repairing their strained relationship at this early stage. They looked to each other now, and Sansa allowed her sister to be as wild as she liked, within reason.

The fragment of trust between them was growing and starting to flourish.

Though sometimes Sansa was ashamed to find that she would sometimes expect the older Arya. And found herself faltering how to treat the child she remembered, and clung in her darkest days. It was so odd, for Arya to be so… Uncontrolled. She was unruly and quick to anger. Quick to be ready to fight. But it was an innocent unruliness that came from being an excitable child. And Sansa did prefer it to the quiet cool control of her sister in her later memories. The Arya that would only show emotion to Jon, to some extent Sansa, and to the smith, Gendry. I must find him as well, he was loyal, and he was something to Arya. Friend, lover, it matters not to me. He was important, more so than Master Syrio, for he was alive till the end.

"Lady Brienne has adapted to the fashion of Bear island quite well, Jeyne," she said, simply, smiling wide, squeezing Arya's wrist in a quiet plea for patience, "It was a pity Lady Mormont and her daughters were not inclined to join us. After all, I am sure they would be pleased with someone else adopting their House's fashion."

The younger girl flinched and flushed from her forehead into the collar of her dress. Sansa kept her smile soft and innocent. Jeyne had, after all, insulted a noble family of import in the North, or at least that was what Sansa was implying. Lady Jolen kept her composure a fraction better than a child, but she did have the grace to flush slightly, blinking rapidly.

"Oh, well, I am sure you have enough range of fashion for the North, Sansa," said Margaery, brightly, trying to move away from the slight her cousins had made.

Sansa smiled slightly.

"I would hope so. I have made it a recent project to rearrange my wardrobe, taking inspiration from the different regions of the North. I even have trousers in the fashion of Bear island, like Brienne and Arya."

Jeyne scowled further, on the brink of tears, her face red as an apple.

"Would it be too terrible for us to perhaps switch during supper today? I have a dress that's color was not quite right for me- It would look lovely against your hair, Sansa."

And covered in golden roses, no doubt.

"I would be delighted to try it, perhaps I can see you just before supper? I have an appointment with my father, I am afraid."

"Sansa?" said her Lady Mother, surprised, "When did you make such an appointment?"

Sansa did not like to lie, especially to those she loved. But she was good at it. It was a skill she had used far too often not to be.

"Father asked for me just before the tea, Mother, I have delayed to be here with our lovely guests."

Margaery flushed in pleasure, her smile going wider in triumph at the implication that Sansa had sought to be with her above duty. Her Lady Mother's brow furrowed.

"He made no mention of it to me."

"Is that so?"

"Sansa, I will accompany-"

"Nonsense Mother, I know you have wished to speak more with Lady Olenna. Brienne, would it trouble you to accompany me? It is about time I take my leave."

"Of course, Lady Sansa," said Brienne readily, a frown on her face. Her gaze was on her needlework, but Sansa knew her feelings on the matter of any marriage coming either of the Stark's girls's way.

She knows of my own opinions of marrying after suffering through two unwanted ones.

She could feel the tension in Brienne. And Sansa wondered as she looked at her friend how far she would interfere with her Lady Mother. Brienne loved her, Sansa was sure, but she had known Catelyn Stark very little in truth. Only a handful of moons, at best, and she had been at Sansa's side for nearly three years. Seeing her Mother's attempts to manipulate Sansa's and Arya's life to such a detriment must be painful for her dearest friend. She had clung to the memory of Catelyn Stark, and in her darkest moments, Sansa wondered if that esteem had meant more to Brienne than her own feelings for Sansa.

"Can I go with you?" Begged Arya. No doubt, she did not wish to be stuck with their guests for too much longer.

Honestly, Sansa was impressed with her restraint at this point. Their mother stilled, her lips pinching, opened as if about to speak.

"If you wish, Arya," said Sansa first, smoothly with a smile.

"Sansa!"

Sansa kept the placid smile on her face.

"Yes, Lady Mother do you acquire something before we take our leave?"

A wordless expression of anger. Fury and sorrow crossed her mother's face. And Sansa knew it to be her own doing.

And she did not care. Do not think you can make my choices for me.

"If not, farewell, dear guests. It was a pleasure to sit with you."

With a deep curtsy and a flourish of a mocking smile, Sansa left the room, Arya and Brienne at her heels.

She walked evenly, calmly, even as rage was making her heartbeat furiously pound. She kept her expression pleasant, she kept everything inside her even as her mind whirled through all the possibilities of what her Mother would want for her and the rest of her siblings- and if, as she had done with Robb, she would risk undermining her Lord. Would she be capable of doing so? Was it her grief that turned her from thinking? Or has my Lady Mother always been this short-sided-

"Sansa," a small voice, and it was still odd for Sansa to hear Arya sound so young.

"Yes, Arya?" she kept her voice placid, even as she fought her old habit of rubbing her thumb against her palm.

"Why are you so angry?"

Her lips pinched together. And she nearly laughed. If Arya could realize her true emotions, then she was being a poor player right now. What would Lady Olenna have thought of me? Perhaps that I am not ripe for a seed to sow for her precious grandson?

"... Because Mother wishes to marry us off," she said, and she just refrained from snarling this. Arya was not to blame.

Arya blinked, and her brown brows furrowed.

"But… But you've always wanted to get married."

"Not like this," Sansa whispered, "I've always wanted to marry for love. And Mother- Mother wishes for something else."

"Sansa," said Brienne started, her voice cracking, "You cannot really mean this. Your mother-"

"My Mother, Brienne, is acting without the knowledge of her family, nor her Lord Husband, and it is an overstepping in framing me as the perfect bride to Lord Tyrell, and that leaves me furious."

"He's so old!" cried out Arya, suddenly furious for her, "You can't marry him!"

"It isn't just that, Arya. Mother is doing this without our consent- without father's consent. And if she makes a promise we cannot keep it could be dangerous. If she offends a Lord for a match that will not truly be made, it could cut off our trade or something worse."

"Will she make me marry someone too?"

"You are safe for now. It is Robb, Jon, and I, however, that are at the age where a betrothal would be acceptable."

Arya surprised her by crying.

She knew, logically, her sister was only six namedays. But she doesn't think she had seen her sister cry since the day Lady died on the Kingsroad. Sansa stopped in her stride and looked at her face. Grey eyes, their father's eyes, red-rimmed and bright. Her face was long and flushed, and Sansa saw the beautiful hints of the woman she would be in the soft nature of her trembling lips, in the flush of her cheekbones.

"It's not fair. You've just started to like me, you can't just go all the way to the Reach because Mother said so."

Sansa smiled, softly, at her sister's childish logic. She reached forward and pressed her lips against Arya's forehead.

"That's why we must speak to Father. He will, hopefully, be able to rein Mother in. If not- well. I can always run away."

I wouldn't. But perhaps this will calm my sister down.

"I would go with you!" snarled Arya.

"We could go to Tarth, Lady Arya," said Brienne, catching on with Sansa's intent, "I am an expert at dodging unwanted proposals."

Arya's eyes sparkled.

"We should go to Essos instead. I want to see the Titan of Braavos!"

Sansa smiled, even if she shivered at the mention of Braavos, the very place that had molded her sister into a vicious weapon- and one that had never known peace. She knows that Arya had still been fending off other faceless men until Essos had cut off all contact from Westeros.

"Maybe, Arya," she said softly, "Let's go talk to father."

This has been a conversation I have long put off.

Her father was in his solar, not alone, with Jon and Robb at his side. It was the recess of two days from the meeting of the Northern Lords, today and tomorrow, that had allowed the sewing circle to take place. And for her Lord Father to have time to consolidate the affairs agreed upon in the meeting. Sansa had held off this conversation. There were more important affairs than the marriage of relatively young children in the wake of the Second Long Night… But her mother had pushed her hand.

"Father! Mother wishes to marry Sansa into the Reach!" called out Arya, furious, and her tears still lingering on her pale cheeks, "And she means to marry off Robb and Jon too!"

Her father visibly jumped, eyes wide.

Sansa did not suppress her sigh and gave her startled father a grim nod.

"What?" hissed Robb, voice going hard.

He knew of course, of the Red Wedding and the ill promise broken to the Freys. And of her own disastrous marriages in broad strokes. He knew what this meant. He knew what this could bring them. Arguably, this was a sound alliance that one of them could make, but it wasn't something Sansa would advise to do. The Reach was too internally volatile and too eager to change their allegiance with the shifting of the wind. And it was evident that Robb, brilliant young mind that he was, saw the same.

"Sansa, explain," her father said, and his voice was hard and as brittle as ice affected steel.

"It is as Arya said, Father… Mother is making plans for my marriage, as well as Robb's, possibly. Apparently, the Reach is prime for an alliance made in the Sept."

Sansa had been thinking something cruder, but she was, one a lady, and two, Arya need not hear such language and be encouraged. Her father's face went from pale and wane to a furious red.

"What gives your Mother the impression that is anything close to acceptable?"

"... I believe she thinks it will be the best possible marriage for me, given the circumstances."

Ned Stark was many things, Sansa had found, in returning to the past and truly coming to see him as not just her Lord Father, but as a man. He was patient and fair, taciturn and withdrawn, serious and dutiful. And above all, devoted to the people he loved. Above honor. Above duty.

Above practicality.

"That is not for your Mother to decide without my consent. How long has she been pushing you to Lord Willas?"

"I was truly made aware of it today. However, it seems she might have hinted to Lady Olenna how inclined the North could be for this marriage to take place. And that Robb would need a Lady of Winterfell, possibly."

Sansa watched with something of fascination as her father's jaw clenched. It had been long since she had been reminded of King Jon through her father's actions, but in that moment he was just the same.

"Jon, escort Arya to her rooms. Robb, kindly escort your Mother to me."

Quietly, Jon gripped Arya's arm, despite her protests, and left the solar, Robb at his heels. That left Sansa alone with her father and Brienne. She strode forward and sat primly into the chairs in front of his desk. Brienne, as she did, took her place over Sansa's shoulder. Her father fell back into the seat of the Lord of Winterfell and gave a heavy sigh.

"You once told me," Sansa began, quietly, "That you would find a man to marry me, someone brave and gentle and strong. I have yet to meet any man who is not related to me, to be such someone who embodies all of those traits."

The look of sheer devastation on her father's face was hard to see.

"I know little of Lord Tyrell. I know him to be perhaps a fair enough prospect for the North's sake if ill-advised for the Reach's royal ambitions. The fact that Petyr called him boring gives me hope for him to be perhaps the best man of my rank to become my Lord Husband. I know that marriage is my duty as your eldest daughter, and I will not shirk it."

"Sansa-"

"All I ask, father, is that I will be included in the conversation… Included in the choice of my husband. I was not given such a choice before. Give me candidates, give me possibilities, and I will choose amongst them."

"Sansa… That will not be your fate. You are an adult woman in mind. I will not give you a list of men to choose amongst. You will choose your husband, someone brave and gentle and strong, and I will be glad of whoever you chose. Once, my sister was forced to make a choice. She chose illy because she thought perhaps it was her only recourse. I will not force your choice, nor Arya's. My daughters, my children, will have a choice. I will advise you all, but I cannot, will not take the choice away."

Sansa suppressed tears and drew strength when Brienne quietly pressed her hand on Sansa's shoulder.

"Father. I would advise that your children find profitable-"

"The North is not for sale. Its children are not for sale, Sansa. You are not for sale."

Sansa had nearly forgotten what it was like to be protected in such a manner. And she herself had forgotten that indeed, she was not an object for sale. Petyr's lessons had told her that everyone was for sale, in one form or another.

But she knew from looking at her father's face that it was the words of a cruel, pitiful man that only used people.

And that her father was better than that.

She was better than that.

"The North is not for sale," and as she said this, a smile, unbidden and the truest thing that had crossed her face in so many moons turn, formed on her face.

Her father beamed at her in return.

And Sansa's heart was at ease.

Chapter Text

Disillusion:

“There are times when I love the world and love everyone, and I want to talk to everyone, and other times when I feel really disillusioned, and like none of this is real, nothing is real around me,” Tali Lennox.

It was perhaps the greatest horror in this version of her life, that Brienne of Tarth realized that Catelyn Stark was not the woman she had known. 

The thought of the Lady Catelyn she had known made her mourn. It would always make her sorrowful. For she had clung to her image for nearly a decade. There were perhaps, aspects of her. Parts of her embedded in this young woman. The future version of the Lady of the North had not been completely different from her. But there is some things that are missing. Somethings yet to become. Or perhaps Brienne is now aware of absences in her in a way she had not before. Her stubbornness is different, not a determination as she had seen before, but instead a mulishness of her opinion. She gives console in authority, without quarter and with the arrogance of someone foreign to Brienne. Or perhaps Brienne is more familiar of her Queen, more familiar to her evenness, her calm, her willingness to hear the opinions of others, that she sees the faults she had ignored in the Lady she had served but briefly. 

She is certain of the harm that Catelyn Stark can inflict on her children. 

She is certain of it and also helpless in preventing it by honorable means. She is a stranger to this younger woman and has no power of dictating anything in her charges’ sides officially. She is also certain, however, if need be, she would indeed help Queen Sansa and Princess Arya flee the North. If another Stark girl must be taken for her own sake, I will do so for my queen. How much that led to parallels between the two girls and their tragic aunt, Brienne tried not to think of it.

And wonders with her knowledge of King Jon, the Baratheon drunkard of a King, and wonders at the decision.

She cannot blame Lyanna Stark for seeking escape. Had not Brienne done the same when Renly had offered her a place on his Rainbow Guard? She can blame the long-dead girl for the consequences of going half-cocked, however. And she knows it is those similar consequences that will prevent Sansa from doing the same if the need arises. She is many things, but one to shriek her duties is not what Queen Sansa Stark does. However, she defines her duties, because she is a queen.

“The Tyrells adore you. The heir has become interested in you,” insists Catelyn Stark. 

She has stopped looking at her Lord husband. Taken his questions and reprime with silence, with ruddy face humiliation, but had not directed a single word to him. Only let him speak his fill before she had whipped her furious gaze to Sansa. Her jaw worked, tightly, and Brienne thinks she is either about to cry or scream.

Sansa’s lips curl.

“I do not believe that Lord Willas is infatuated with a child, mother,” returned Sansa. Face serene, “In fact, I find that his gaze lingers on you.”

All her anger is simmering, writhing, Brienne can see. She wonders if anyone else can see it. Or do they only see the placid face, the even tone, and think her Queen calm?

"He is the only match for you-"

Even Brienne could argue against that. Sansa Stark was the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, beautiful and fair, and she could marry any Lord from the North to Dorne. She doubts any offer made for her hand would be given a negative. On parchment, perhaps, Lord Willas was indeed the best match that Lady Sansa could make without any legitimate young heir to Robert Baratheon’s. But there is more to consider, and if Brienne can see that, ill-versed as she is in politics, she does not know why Catelyn Stark cannot see it.

"Father has given his ruling, Mother. I will wed whom I please when I please. I plead you to stop your foolishness."

Catelyn Stark snarled. Snarled at Sansa. Brienne felt her entire body tense, and her hand went to her sword unconsciously. Because the face the Lady made was eerily reminiscent of the Stoneheart. Brienne cannot help but recall the horrible way her hair had caught flame, the shaking hand of Queen Sansa as she dropped the torch atop her body. Brienne shuddered. And felt her breath come in quick, short bursts. Brienne had blubbered like a child that day. Blubbered and wailed while Sansa could not. It was only later when the Red Witch had scolded the men that had followed behind Lady Stoneheart for not bringing Lady Stark back at all, had her tears stopped. And only then her horror had gathered and turned to fury in quick succession.

"Enough," said Lady Stark, "I have played this game enough with you, Sansa!"

Blue eyes flashed.

"Have you, Mother?" Queen Sansa did not yell. It was never her way to escalate an encounter. She smiled. Cold and every one of her teeth, "I am not a child. Be what I look like, I am twenty namedays in mind. I have lived five years without you, and you do not command me. It is father,  as you have thought to constantly throw into my mind when I was a child. It is my father who determines my fate, and later my Lord husband. You are neither."

Catelyn flinched. Flinched.

"I am your mother."

"And my father has declared that the North is not for sale. I am not for sale. "

"Sansa-"

"What will you do, for a handful of grain? The North is not poor, and the Reach is too internally volatile for us to make a permanent alliance. The Tyrells have royal ambitions, so Margaery will not be open for a marriage to Robb, and what minor lady would you throw at Jon?! The North already has thought itself slighted by House Stark once before because of your marriage to Father, Lyanna's betrothal to King Robert, and Uncle Benjen running off to the Wall. At least one of us will have to marry internally, and Robb has already set himself to the task."

Brienne hoped he found love. Love, for that, was what her Queen Sansa’s brother deserved. But he had resigned himself to only a lady of the North, and not to seek out his previous bride. To leave her peace whilst he strengthed the ties within the North. There was a sacrifice in that, Brienne knew. But she thought it was enough for the Starks to only sacrifice one of their children for their safety and assurance. Sansa had long paid that price, twice over, and she wondered how Catelyn Stark, any version of her, could demand such a thing from her queen again.

Lady Catelyn’s fists clenched. Her jaw worked furiously-

“I will take Sansa far away before another marriage is forced upon her,” she blurted. 

Lady Catelyn whipped around. Her mouth dropped. 

“And who are you, my lady, to take such liberty with my daughter?! A stranger-”

“You tasked me once with you daughters.”

“I-”

“After all of this, do you truly not believe your own child? Do you truly think her a liar, fanciful? Do you not see her eyes, and not see the horrors she has lived through? Do you not see me, stranger, who has thrown herself North, miles from home, without contact with your daughter, with the same memories of a time that has pasted but not yet, and not understand?” Brienne’s chest heaved, and she realized with a start she was on the verge of tears.

“Lady Brienne-”

“I am Ser Brienne. I have earned that title at your daughter’s feet. I have served my Queen in the end of Autumn, through the harshest of Winter in living memory. I may not be able to use it openly, but I will use it here.”

Catelyn stared at her. Her eyes were wide with her disbelief. Brienne breathed, sharply, forcing tears away.

“Would you be as cruel as your daughter’s captors? The Catelyn Stark I knew died to bring her children home. The Catelyn Stark in front of me seems determined to do the very opposite.”

Catelyn Stark shuddered.

“I- It is the duty of a parent to determine the matches of their children-”

“No,” spoke Lord Eddard Stark, voice firm and unyielding, “It is the Lord who drafts such alliances. You have over-stepped, Catelyn. At best, if the Tyrells take insult, they will decide to make their produce as hard to purchase as possible. At worst,  my lady, if they take insult, they will close their trade to us completely. They can survive the Winter without us, in that case. What if the magic of the Night King does not end the Winter?! Last our legends tell us, the Winter of the Long Night lasted a generation, and that was when they successfully beat back the White Walkers! We must have their grain to shore up our stores and give us room for our glass gardens to supplement, not completely supply us in that coming Winter.”

“The solution will be for Sansa-”

Eddard Stark was much like the Queen. Not quick to anger. Hardly one to raise his voice. It was part of the reason Brienne found herself glad to know of this man. Stranger that she was, as Lady Catelyn had pointed out, even she was shocked by how Lord Eddard slammed his palms on his desk.

“OUR CHILDREN WILL NOT PAY FOR OUR MISTAKES! SANSA HAS ALREADY LIVED  THROUGH THEM!” he roared, his voice breaking in emotion.

Lady Catelyn took a step forward.

“Why did it have to be her!?” cried Lady Catelyn at last, voice sobbing, mouth twisting, “Why did it have to be Sansa to suffer all of this?! Why did my girl have to become a leader in this, Queen of the fucking North, and suffer the mantle of her brothers?! If she were to marry Willas if she were protected in the most fruitful of the Realms. She would- she would be safe.”

Catelyn Stark burst into tears.

Queen Sansa let out a breath. And in that moment, Brienne saw the anger leave her completely. She strode forward, and carefully touched her mother's arm. Lady Catelyn only sobbed harder.

"Mother," her voice was soft. Gentle.

"I- I just wish to protect you. Who's to say you will not be dragged further into horror if you remain North? Who's to say that you will not be hurt again?!"

She dropped to her knees before her daughter. Desperately clung to her wrists. Queen Sansa barely flinched.

"And whose to say I will not be hurt if I go south? Who's to say that Lord Willas would not bid me to leave with Maergery to the Capital once we are wed? Whose to say that Petyr would see me in a Tourney and plot to upend my life for a pretty, younger Catelyn Tully to be at his side again? Life is full of questions, full of uncertainties.  But I am certain that all I want is to stay with my family. Family, Duty, Honor. I want to stay. Once all I ever wanted was to leave- but not now. Not yet." 

"Oh, Sansa."

Sansa drew her mother into her arms. Soothed her softly as she collapsed into her chest.

“I just wish to protect you…”

“I know. But it is this desire that has caused strife in our family before, Mother. Please. Please consult us.”

“I cannot bare the future you come from.”

“I know, Mother, I know.”

Brienne breathed easier.

Perhaps there is some of the Lady Cat I knew after all.

"Please. Please, let me keep you safe-"

"There are so many ways for me to be safe. I cannot escape the North like Aunt Lyanna attempted. This is not my course, Mother."

"My marriage was-"

“Was built stone by stone. Made good by the esteem and understanding between you and father. Would you truly let me marry a strange at the simple chance I will not suffer as I've before?"

Catelyn sobbed. Queen Sansa sighed.

"Father will have much to discuss with you. I will tell you one last piece of advice, Mother. You cannot decide this alone. If you cannot understand this, I cannot trust you."

Queen Sansa pulled away. Looked at her father. Face tight.

"I believe it is time to discuss the topic of girlhood friends," she said, simply.

Brienne blinked. It was cruelty to bring the matter of Baelish now when Lady Cat was so obvious emotionally wretched. But Brienne could see her queen simply wishing to gauge her mother when she was so vulnerable. Cruel, but all too pragmatic. Sansa was never cruel without purpose.

"... Cat. Cat we need to discuss Petyr Bearish," said Lord Ned, voice soft.

Lady Cat stilled. Her red-rimmed Tully blue eyes went wide.

"What of him?"

"Chaos is a ladder. That is his creed. That will always be his aim," said Sansa, "He will not hesitate to use any means to achieve his goals. Murder, bribery, to throw even you away, Mother, despite his claims of loving you."

Lady Catelyn frowned.

"And what would we do? What on Earth do you propose-"

"To kill him," said Lord Ned, voice growing hard. Almost a snarl, really, “To put the mad bastard down.”

Queen Sansa nodded, serious.

Catelyn Stark took in a shuddering breath. Stilled so completely that Brienne was reminded of the dead waiting for a command from their Other.

“You wish to kill the Master of the Coin? That will sow chaos,” her voice is steadier than before, softer as well, “Would it not be best to… Unseat him?”

“He has the information of most Lords in King’s Landing. He owns most brothels from the Reach until the Vale, Mother. We cannot unseat him for those secrets he has gained alone. None officially in the Riverlands because your Lord Father loathes him, Dorne does not interest him, and none this far North,” she smiled slightly, “Best that he has tried. The Madames of the North do not want him nor to give him his cut.”

Lady Catelyn spluttered, red as rose. Eddard Stark gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Sansa.” 

Queen Sansa laughed, amused at their scandal.

“We have a whore-house in Wintertown, and Baelish’s spies are mostly his sex workers, I would be remiss if I didn’t check. Best I am able to see, only Lord Varys has managed some spies here in the North, in our orphanage, with new ones from the Reach trying to establish themselves as traders. I am not inflatable however, I could have missed some.”

“...So we must kill him,” concluded Lady Cat, voice sad.

“I am sorry, Mother. I know he was your friend.”

Lady Cat sighed and whipped quickly at the tears in her eyes.

“If it will spare the Realm blood, if it will allow Lysa to live a little longer, I will think the boy I loved dearly as only memory. Dead on Brandon’s blade. What must I do?”

Queen Sansa smiled.

Chapter Text

Seed

"Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed... Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders," Henry David Thoreau.

The people of the North, Willas has found, are not warm people.

They are wary, of strangers, of foreign customs, and are ill-versed when it comes to the niceties of the South. Not necessarily barbarians as so many of my countrymen say, but instead a touch coarse and unrefined to our ways, but warm to their own, loyal to their own. Looking at the Stark children looking at each other, I see that. Seeing the lords and ladies look to Eddard Stark, I see it. Fever and care and love. They do not welcome change, and they do not welcome strangers.

The scandal of the sewing circle of the previous evening had made that very evident. And it is evident, for all the time that Catelyn Tully of House Stark has spent in the North, and raised her children, there is a friction between the sensibilities present in her Northern children. Interesting friction to be sure. Margaery had never seen a child scream so, she had told him, gleefully, as Arya Stark raging at her Lady Mother over her sword use.

He could believe her. He had been in the magnificent library, conversing with Maester Luwin, and even he had heard the little wolf's softer snarls as she had stomped past, her sister and the Stromlander girl by her side.

The expression on Lady Sansa's face had stunned him. The stillness in her face had been abnormal, in comparison to her sister, sobbing angrily next to her, pressing against the side of her older sister. The small girl's face had been red, and tears and mucus had streamed from the younger girl. The older girl had been still, her face as pale as the untouched snow, her eyes glittering with emotion as they had made to the Lord's Solar.

For all the girl looked like her Tully mother, she has the same careful and cool distance that anyone else of the kingdom of her father, and stubborn pride that sneaked up on you due to her polite nature. His lady sister had described with great detail and a frown pulling on her mouth, the way that Lady Sansa and Lady Catelyn had spoken to one another. The embarrassment that Lady Stark had faced was nothing, Margaery had said, softly, to the utter perfect stillness on Lady Sansa's face as she had defended the Northern way of life. As she had defended her sister, against her Mother. As she disrespected her mother in front of their guests for the simple defense of swordplay in a young lady.

The fact that they had left the room, with barely a glance to their lady mother, and went in search for her father, his Grandmother had said, had been evidence of this clear divide. The fact that sought protection from their Father seemed to displease his grandmother. I suppose this makes Lady Sansa a less promising bride, and that is why grandmother is cross. I am marginally surprised she has chosen me such a faraway bride. And one so young. The North is large and the increased trade between us will fill our coffers, but with as much as Lord Stark seems to love his daughters, I doubt he will sell her for more grain.

"Are you really going to ride with the Stark children?" Asked Garlan, grinning at him from his place on the bed. Sprawled, hands behind his head and bare-chested. The warmth of the Keep never failed to surprise Willas.

He adjusted his brace, slightly, making sure that the rods were in the correct position. He hummed, and Garlan followed the tune easily with his own voice.

"I will not let Margaery gallivant unknown wilds with our fair cousins. They are not responsible enough."

Willas trusted very few people with the care of his family, and his cousins of the Goldengroove were especially silly in his eyes. They were careless, ridiculous flirts, and honestly, he found them rather tiresome. The only reason they had been allowed on this outing had been because they were adventurous enough to venture to the North for a diplomatic visit, and miss a season of tourneys. He wished he could have at least convinced Lady Leonette. She was sensible, and perhaps have kept Garlan from annoying him too badly.

"No trust to those Northern girls, then?"

"The eldest is barely ten namedays, Garlan."

They seemed responsible enough, and Willas commended them for it, but the age definitely led to little confidence.

"She seems to have it good hand beside her age. You should join the hunt. Leave them with our guards, and let Margaery have her fun with the Stark girls."

"Our fair sister invited me."

"She wishes to throw you to the trout-wolf still?" His voice was endlessly amused.

Willas, for a brief moment, wished that Lord Stark had no daughters at all. That he had born only sons. Then he would not have his siblings clumsily attempting to weave a bramble about a child and himself. Margaery because she wished for a pretty toy, Garlan because he thought it a fine jest. But of course, their little attempts to seed about him was not the most dangerous one, or even something more than an annoyance. His Grandmother's own inclinations were much more concerning. It wasn't that he was opposed, per say, it was more that he could not understand his Grandmother's thoughts in this manner. Was it the young Lady's sharpness, that attracted his Grandmother? Was it her breeding, of the famed Stark line that has held the North for near eight-thousand-year linage? Or was it the fact that Margaery had mentioned she wished to be queen one day that made her think to eliminate the clearest candidate for the crown?

"It is her fondest wish to have a red-headed sister. Something about how fetching golden roses will be in her hair."

Garlan chuckled.

"Too Lannister for my taste, I say. White will do. If not for history, I say Winter Roses would be far more appropriate for the girl. She has the bluest eyes I have ever seen, beautiful and wasted in anyone so far from fun."

Willas rolled his eyes.

"She could have eyes made out of jewels. But I am not interested in a child."

"I agree, brother. But a child she won't be forever, and her Mother is devastatingly fetching. I suspect Lady Sansa would be even more so."

If Willas had been younger, the comment would have made him flush. For one, he agreed. And had found himself admiring the fair woman more than he thought appropriate to think of a married woman. For she was obviously beautiful, but it was the manner in which she conducted herself beyond that he found attractive. Poised, and adept at browbeating the men of the North. She was a touch rough, a touch stubborn, but still a strong woman. Growing to manhood at the feet of Olenna Tyrell had meant that anything less than a strong woman would never satisfy him. It was the reason he was unwed, despite being ten and nine, near twenty, while his younger brother was already set to marry. Garlen had found it easy to find a bride, someone from a well-off family with a fetching dowery, beautiful, and very eager to play the graceful lady to his gallant knight.

He was lucky, and part of Willas did indeed envy him to have fallen in love with a lady perfectly politically acceptable. But he also was not eager to follow in his footsteps without his own personal requirements being met. The next Lady of the Reach, gods willing he would live to become the next Lord(and more than in actions, but in name), would need to be many things. She would need to be strong in all the ways that mattered; poised, well versed in handling men and women alike, level-headed, flexible, intelligent, and dare he hope, someone he could converse with. If she was beautiful, all the good, if she was from a family that would bring them prestige, better, if she came with a sizable dowry, perfection. But it was the previous attributes that had left Willas without a bride. For no one had been all of that in good measure.

"You will find your own lady love, Willas. I know it."

Willas smiled.

"Not yet, Garlen. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to attend my horse and that of our sister."

"Good day then, my Lord."

Willas made his way to the stables of Winterfell in the quiet morning. And just as he arrived, he realized he was not the only noble to do so. Somehow, he was not surprised to see red locks, so brilliant in the morning light it looked like spun copper, of Lady Sansa Stark as she attended a horse, with Lady Brienne of Tarth next to her.

"Good morning, I did not realize anyone else would be preparing their horse so soon!" he called, cheerfully, ever the picture of easy manners and uncaring calmness.

Both ladies turned.

Ah, it is as Garlan said. The bluest eyes, near like jewels actually. But they are fathomless eyes on a girl so young, thought Willas, startled slightly as Lady Sansa looked at him.

Her face was expressionless, giving nothing away, even as she gave him a polite smile. It felt automatic and practiced, and was only quite sweet because she was such a pretty child. It wasn't even stiff, nor forced, she was that composed.

"Lord Tyrell," her Northern accented voice was a measured thing, smooth and high, she gave a small, respectable curtsy for someone of their rank to another, "Good morning."

Formal and poised, but not stilted, poor sister must be jealous.

"Lady Sansa, Willas will be appropriate. Lord Tyrell has me turning my head to search for my father," he told her with a disarming smile and gave a gallant bow in return. He was nearly ten namedays the girl's senior, and he was confident that he could put the overly polite and reserved girl at ease.

The girl inclined her head, just a fraction, before returning her attention back to the horse she was attending. A finely cared-for creature, if a little on the older side. Too large and stout. A fine animal, with little delicateness. Willas would wager that the horse did not belong to the girl directly. He could see her on something much prettier, much more delicate, and more refined. Or thought she deserved such a creature, at any rate.

"You attend to your horse, my Lady?"

The Stormlander, Lady Brienne of Tarth, was leaning against the walls of the stables, watching him like a hawk, he saw with amusement. Like a sworn-shield she technically was not. It would become her position in the household, Willas was sure. She shifted each time he did, and he made sure not to crowd the girl she saw as her charge even as he dared to walk closer. She was young, Brienne of Tarth, barely younger than Loras, yet she should have been wed. Her fleeing North gave him the indication that her unconventional looks and her own intentions would prevent that.

"I am learning to. It is important to care for your own mount, I am told if you are to become an avid equestrian."

"I admire your intent. Not many would agree with you. Personally, most allow their stable hands to care for their mounts."

"I heard you are a lover of horses, my lord, and you seem to find it prudent to care for your mount despite the early hour."

Despite himself, Willas was impressed to see the girl both compliment him, yet not bring awkward attention to his lame leg. Most would have praised him for attending his own horse despite his leg, but the girl's eyes had not even flickered in its direction. She was excelling at inane small talk, a skill he did not think all that important in the North. Lady Catelyn had taught the girl well, despite the friction between them. She was focusing on a subject that was pleasing to him and asking all the good questions. Despite himself, Willas found himself vaguely charmed by her poised way of speaking.

"Indeed, I am. I go as far as to breed them, for sale. No horse is swifter in the seven kingdoms. However, the Northern mounts are far stronger than any of my mounts. I will have to inquire for some breeding stalk, what with the Winter to come..."

"I would point you in Lord Manderly's direction, Lord Willas. He knows of most trade in the North."

He tilted his head.

"Curious, considering most trade in the North is land-bound? Is House Manderly not seated upon the coast?"

"Indeed, my Lord. But House Manderly keeps itself abreast to most trade in the North. Many imports come from the Mermaid's seat, and Lord Manderly is an unofficial trade master within our lands. He will direct you in a favorable direction."

A wealth of information thought Willas with a curious tilt of his head. Strangely, he also knew that it would be common enough to inquire for the information himself if he was so inclined. He would do so to verify it, but it was still startling to have it given. However, he had a feeling that the girl was pointing him in a specific direction nonetheless. A helpful direction, for both himself, Lord Manderly, and anyone he would be directed too. He flattered a lord of import in the North, and he got exactly what he wanted. Willas beamed at the child and wondered if this had been something she had been told to tell him since his love of horses was common knowledge. Or was it just a child being extremely helpful? Northerners were the honest type, and Lady Sansa was keenly a Northern girl, for all she looked like her mother.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa, you have helped me immensely."

The young girl looked at him and surprised him by giving him just a nod, despite his own enthusiastic smile.

"I hope you find what you need, Lord Willas."

Despite himself, Willas was indeed delighted by her. Even when she turned her back to deliberately and dismissively attend her stout Northern horse.

"My Lady, would you perhaps wish for a chance to ride a Dornish Sandsteed?"

The girl paused, and looked over her shoulder, blue eyes careful and measuring.

"My Lord?"

He kept his smile even.

"I have half a mind to steal my brother Garlen's horse and allow you to ride it for the afternoon. It would do you well, I think, to try a new type of steed."

Blue eyes went icy. Near grey, as they narrowed.

"Are you trying to sell me a horse, my lord?" her voice was even, not offended, and if it would turn lighter, it mayhaps would have been seen as teasing.

Willas blinked. And burst into unintentional laughter.

"You have caught me, my lady," he said, choking back more laughter, "I assumed riding one of my horses would make you inclined to purchase your own."

A tilt of her head.

"I fear a mount of your stock would do ill in the North. Winter is Coming."

She smiled. And it was truer than any she had given before. Calm, and just a touch small. But it was a pretty one. She was a pretty child, Willas granted. He own smile turned softer at the sight of her's.

"Indulge me, Lady Sansa. Garlan will do me the favor of testing Northern Horses. "

"Will he not be displeased to find his horse taken by a child?"

Willas suppressed a snicker.

"It is, technically, my lady, my own horse. I just let my brother borrow it. Please, indulge me."

"If you insist, I will be delighted."

"My Lady-" began Lady Brienne of Tarth, voice hard.

"It's alright Brienne. I'm as curious as Lord Willas is to see how southern horses measure to our northern ones."

He smiled as charmingly as he could.

"If it will help, My Lady, I am accompanying your ride. My horses act most well when I am near. Your friend will not come to harm."

The older girl frowned fiercely at him. Her own eyes, a brilliant blue that was probably her most pleasing feature glittering with something he could not name. She shifted a touch and sent him a tight-jawed stare. Willas realized with curiosity that Lady Brienne did not like him. It wasn't even distrust or clumsy manners. The girl did not like him, especially since he was lingering around who she saw as her charge.

"If you say so, my Lord," she replied tightly. Almost spitting back to him.

Willas was completely taken aback. It was rare that anyone, let alone a stranger act so hostile to him. He was further taken aback when Lady Sansa reached back to touch Lady Brienne's wrist. A signal or a reprime that had the armor-clad Lady. They were good friends, Willas surmised. And Lady Brienne was fiercely over-protective of the younger Lady. A trait she shared with nearly all of the Stark Household.

There is such a fear for you. Such wariness. Lady Lyanna you haunt your house, I think, and your nieces will suffer for all of it.

"Sir, if you will direct me to my borrowed stead?" inquired the girl, calmly.

She smiled again. And Willas could not help but think her, again, to be a pretty child.

I can see why, someone would wish to defend this girl to an extreme.

What little beauty that Willas had thought of the North, he realized, as they went riding out, the opposite direction of the Lord hunting parting, was not in its keeps. Those were indeed functional rather then decorative. The beauty lay in the land itself. In the wide, moors and hills that took one's breath. It was not the cultivated splendor of the Reach-

It was wild, open, and free.

And that in itself was a foreign, exotic beauty to him. He could see why the Starks were proud to have held this land for all this time.

"Gods it is cold," said his sister, "But you were right Lady Sansa, this cloak is marvelous!"

His sister beamed. Sent to the girl who looked all too right on his sandsteed mare, a delicate thing of white and black. She controlled the mare with a beginner's hand, but it was a tender one. Soft and kind. It was quite different from the firm look she sent her happily chattering sister, who merely grinned wider, next to their not-sworn-shield. Lady Sansa sent his sister a nod, brows furrowed as she smoothed a hand down the mare's neck. He could see her growing ease on the unfamiliar animal. And he could see that Bright, the mare, was coming to adore the tender hand on her neck.

"I am glad, my Lady. I would not wish for you to be uncomfortable."

"The Reach never gets this cold-"

"It does in Winter," he told Margaery, voice calm.

He did not want her to throw the North into such a negative light with girls so obviously proud of their homeland... And perhaps he wished to prepare Margaery, even minimally, for when Winter finally reached them after this long, long Summer.

"Worse, I'm afraid," he continued, he smiles grimly, "This is but a breeze in comparison. And that Winter was mild, I suspect, in comparison to the one to come. You need to not belittle it."

Sansa Stark smiled.

A soft, gentle smile that had Willas blinking.

"Indeed, Lord Willas."

Margaery frowned, shifted and bounced in her saddle.

"Well- I think your cloak is lovely and fair for this cold," she said brightly, clumsily. She pushed a glove hand over her blue wool cloak, trimmed by white fur. It's quilting looked of fish scales, and it looked fetching against the dusky rose and cream of his sister's skin, with a trail of riverland wildflowers knotted in fair red crowning about the hood.

Sansa's smile turned… Not as warm, not as true. More polite. He wondered, with some surprise, if the girl wasn't fond of his sister. His sister had been all kindness and eagerness- He would think everyone would respond well to that. Perhaps a clash of personalities- Perhaps dutiful, calm and stoic Sansa Stark only saw a troublesome guest as she tried to navigate an overfilled Keep with many responsibilities placed on her young shoulders-

Then he was surprised again.

"I thank you for the dress for the hunt's feast, Lady Margaery. It's a beautiful gown. It was much too much of a gift. The embroidery of roses must've taken ages."

God gods, Margaery, please do not tell me that you gave the Stark girl a gown covered in roses. Please do not make it-

"I just knew the blue would look perfect against your skin and eyes, Lady Sansa."

His sister beamed. Willas felt himself blanch even as his stupid Golden Grove cousins giggled. All the blood left his face in a rush at the very thought of anyone seeing Sansa Stark covered in a 'gift' of winter roses from another House.

Fucking gods damnit it, Margaery. Not fucking Winter Roses.  Fuck .

Sansa Stark looked at him and raised a single red brow. Her eyes, which had been warm at his words, looked flinty now. Her lips curled back in a single moment, a she-wolf snarling before they smoothed over a polite line. The girl was furious- And he could no doubt hear the rest of the Northern Lords screaming over the sight of another Stark girl gifted with more Winter roses. The message was hostile, unintentional on his sister's part, he knew, she no doubt thought the gift to be a beautiful thing to give to her hopeful friend…

He frowned.

Lady Sansa's gaze was heavy and waiting.

Fucking shit.  If I had gone to the hunt and not known of this-

Lady Brienne jaw was locked, furious, her hands holding her reigns were clenched into tight, tight fists. He breathed. No wonder the girl hated him- It would seem like a message that he too, would steal a Stark girl, with his family's approval. That was a hateful message, and not the one meant to be sent.

"There are other gowns," he said smoothly, "I thought the purple one with the white trees would look fetching on Lady Sansa."

His sister frowned.

"No- The blue is the best one I brought, Willas-"

Commissioned, Willas knew. On a fury and fervor of more than a dozen Reach seamstresses' hard labor. Margaery had been in charge of that. His grandmother had entrusted her with the gifts meant for the Stark girls. Seeing that they were similar in age. Same as Garlan had been in charge of the gifts for the boys and the Hostage- Now Willas wondered if anything else had been stamped with more of Rheagar's ill gift to Lady Lyanna.

"The purple is graceful in its cut, styled for the Reach gown that my mother favors. The white trees could be akin to the wirewood. Is it not what you pray to, Lady Sansa?"

Her face softened.

"Indeed, I do pray to the old gods. I would love to see that gown, Lady Margaery."

Margaery frowned at him.

"I would be delighted for you to have it as well, Lady Sansa," she said slowly. It seemed that his sister had realized something was a miss with her choice. But she seized his correction and Sansa's with her sweetest smile.

Sansa Stark beamed in return.

She's going to be so much fairer then her mother.

He breathed.

Crises averted… That was… That was well handled by Lady Sansa. She was furious- yet she brought this to my attention to curve Margaery's unknowing blunder. Clever girl, level-headed, when she had the right to throw this back to our faces.

They rode to a small meadow. Far off, Willas could hear some sort of brooke. Flowers, small and industrious over the lightest dusting of summer snow, breathed color into the green space. The party's tension smoothed over with Lady Sansa invoking her younger siblings for a game to play, little Bran and Arya bringing life and merriment. Willas settled the horses himself, pleased with the task to busy his hands and to calm the fury he held. Margaery hadn't meant for this as an insult, the crown of Winter Roses of Rheagar's folly was not something she would have thought of. No matter the history, Margaery would have been intent one what would look best on the other girl. Their knowledge had leaned her to be of the Tulley coloring. The fact that Winter Roses was a native plant to the North would have enchanted his sister-

"I take it was not meant as an insult then," said Sansa Stark.

Willas did not jump. But it was a close thing. A small hand reached, pale and delicate, smoothing through his horse, Glory's mane with care. He breathed.

"Forgive our mistake, Lady Sansa," he said just as soft.

She sighed.

"If I had not meant to, you would have seen me appear in that gown at the feast, Lord Willas."

And he would have watched as the entire North took insult. No doubt, Sansa Stark wore, on occasions, something of blue roses. It was a local plant and it would compliment her well. But as a gift from a different, Southern House, wearing such a blatant symbol of 'possession' would infuriate the realm. Sansa was a Northern girl and as such, she was honest to the core. Her words were not a threat.

They were a promise, that such insult would not be taken in such stride ever again.

He huffed a laugh.

"Thank you for your discretion."

"I do not take kindly to threats, my lord. The gown could have been seen as one. But I did not take you to covet a child. Nor do I think Lady Margaery to be so ill verse in history. Tell your Queen of Thorns that the North will discuss betrothal at our own pleasure. Not her's."

He couldn't help it. This time he did jump.

"It was a mistake on my sister's-" He stopped mid-word.

Lady Sansa simply looked over with a raised brow.

"My mother was gifted a rather fetching set for tea. The river swirls were akin to blue roses. The cuttings your grandmother brought for our glasshouses, most were new cross breeds of grains, save for one- a heart-fruit shrub. Native to the Reach, said to grow in abundance in High Garden, deemed the fruit of fruitful summer, love, and promises," her words were dry.

For the first time in a long time, Willas lost composure in front of someone not of his immediate kin. He swore in front of a lady. His face flushed and he felt not a man of near twenty years, but instead a green boy in front of the solemn girl.

A small smile twitched.

"But the blame is not solely on your kin. My mother may have hinted at a possible match, my Lord, which gave your grandmother reason to be pleased and give Margaery reason to present me with the gown in particular. A threat. A mends, for a Southern House devastating our House once before. For that, I beg you to forgive us with this overstep on my mother's part. "

He breathed. A clusterfuck on the part of two scheming mother's-Well, grandmother on his part. He blinked.

"Am I so odious that your father would overturn this match? Be so furious with Lady Catelyn?"

Sansa laughed. Musical and high. It takes him a moment of stunned realization that he had never heard that sound.

It is a pity it is so rare.

He thinks that Sansa Stark should laugh more often. It is a beautiful sound.

"No indeed, Lord Willas, rather, my Father is determined to not broker any marriages for his children. The choice is ours. The fact that my mother sought to take that away, and give insult to your House in the process is what caused his fury."

He blinks. A rather… Singular thing to declare for a noble house, let alone one of the Great ones. To be utterly fair, his own parents had stipulated pretty much the same, with the only implication that any marriage candidate for any of them will have to meet the approval of his grandmother, the only true gauntlet. He blinks again.

"And the dress would have been fuel to that fire."

"Yes. I rather think it would have been. I ask for your cooperation, Lord Willas, to reign in our mother and grandmothers alike. My poor father is under enough stress as it is."

He thinks for a minute. The people of the North wish for not pretty words or shadowed implications. They wanted honesty.

"Thank you. For giving us a chance to prove ourselves, instead of taking insult, Lady Sansa. And I will do my best with my Grandmother."

She really has beautiful eyes. Clear and forward. Measured by her kindness and intelligence. The blue was quite fetching.

"... Second chances are important, Lord Willas. And I saw nothing of ill intent in your sister's actions."

Northerners were an honest bunch. Yet it seemed something of the South had made its way to Sansa Stark.

"Yet you see ill intent on my Grandmother's actions?" He volleys back.

She bares her teeth into a smile. Willas cannot help his startled blink at that.

"No, my Lord. I find her actions done in ill taste. She thinks to remind the North of my Aunt's tragedy of a girl being taken away from a betrothal. Of setting the 'stage' of a more political match than simply one sun marrying a foreign noble house and another running off to the wall. I assure you, The North remembers."

He shivers.

"Yes. I can see that. You do not see me in ill light. You only think my grandmother crass, which is true enough, and I will apologize for that.."

"I was once told that you would bore me to tears, Lord Willas."

He laughs.

"Who on earth told you that?"

"A fool who did not understand me," she said softly.

She ran another gentle stroke down Bright's neck. He smiled.

"So, I am not a bore."

Her small smile was back. Soft and kind.

"No. Simply a kind man that wishes the best for his family… As far as I can astern, at least. And that, good lord, is not boring. It's refreshing."

He flushed. How a girl so young could make him feel… Bashful was mortifying. He swallowed thickly.

"Thank you, my lady."

She's an intelligent girl. Mature, and practical… What an interesting woman she will grow to be.

Chapter Text

Brother:

“Son, brother , father, lover, friend. There is room in the heart for all the affections, as there is room in heaven for all the stars,” Victor Hugo

The first thing that Gendry thinks when the noble boy enters the shop is that he has the most beautiful, enormous valerian steel sword he has ever seen. The gleam of it was so luminous, unsheathed as it was-strapped to his waist and gleaming naked, nearly as big as him-

And that was a feat.

For the boy, and he was a boy, despite his bulk, was large. Tall, and wide, built like an ox, and when he saw him, the boy beamed. Young, perhaps his age, but there was something in his cheeks that told him he was younger. And that was his second thought. If he had known how drastic his life would have changed, perhaps Gendry would have done more than gawk at the sword. For he was distracted by it.

Because pretty sword!

But gawk he did, and his life changed by its wielder, if he had been paying more mind than the beauty of the sword, the wonder of seeing such a blade in person.

Fucking Nobles , really. That becomes a mantra in Gendry's head in the coming moons. 

But really, the sword was pretty.  

“Well met, I’m Samwell Tarley. I was told that this shop could reforge Valarian steel,” The boy removed his sword from his waist with a deft movement. He moved swiftly, despite his great size, his muscles rippled through his thin linen shirt, “I want three swords to be made from this great sword. Oh! And this knife’s steel to be mixed with them.”

He tossed a dagger- some black bone hilt, right atop his sword. Gendry had seen his share of Valerian steel- for maintenance. But never two blades in such excellent condition in one place. He hasn’t ever touched the steel himself. His master wouldn’t allow it. The lordling smiled wide. Gendry gaped. And quickly collected himself. After a moment. Or two. He swallows nearly swallows his fat tongue in awe as he clears his throat.  

“Erm, well, my master is out-”

The lord laughed and breathed out in what seemed to be a relief.

“That’s actually preferable. Are you able to reforge such steel?”

Gendry blinked and shifted back. Opened his mouth- and closed it again. 

“Don’t lie,” said the Lord, his tone not stern, but instead jovial.

Gendry blinked again.

“In- In theory m’lord, yes, I can reforge it.”

The Lord beamed.

“Samwell is fine. Or Sam, well, I go by Sam. What do you feel of becoming a smith of a Keep?”

Gendry froze.

“M’ Lord?”

“Steady wages, room, and board. Just be a bit of a move.”

Gendry shifted.

“How much of a move?”

The boy lord grinned.

Somehow, Gendry finds himself en route, to fucking Winterfell, up in the wild North, with a crazy lordling boy at his side. Weeks past. Near the moon, he is trailing behind this lordling with the promise of wealth, a steady home, and adventure out of King’s Landing. Even possible to transition into a castle guard if he so wishes. His entire life was uprooted by coin. A lot of coin, but coins nonetheless. And a kind sort of lordling. Samwell is kind, very kind.

But Gendry is pretty sure that the lordling is crazy.

Out of his fucking mind .

“Be careful, Gen,” he pulls him up by his shirt.

Gendry splutters. Moss, and what he thinks might be a leech, falls out of his mouth. If he had thought, weeks ago, that he would be near drowning, fending off some demonic-looking log with fucking rows and rows of teeth… He would have told Sam, coin or no, the thought of working with valerian steel or not, to fuck right off.

The log thing with the teeth, floats, severed cleaved in half. 

Gendry coughs.

“WHY ARE WE IN A SWAMP!?”

Gendry is taller than him. And made of pure muscle. Yet this boy lifts him with a single arm. Lordling Sam laughs.

“We need to get some information from Lord Howland Reed. Bit hard to find him, I admit, since his Keep moves.”

“WHY THE FUCK WOULD IT MOVE?!” Gendry knows little of nobles, but he is pretty sure homes, let alone Keeps, are not supposed to move. Unnatural, it was.

Fucking Nobles, he thinks it has been a near-constant thought at this point. 

“I actually don’t know why,” he smiles, jovially, “Don’t know much of this part of the North.”

Gendry screams again.

Partly because there are more demonic logs, narrowing on to the corpse of the first. But mostly because of the mad lordling he had followed after for coin.

Turns out, Howland Reed knows fuck all of Samwell Tarley, and Gendry feels his stomach nearly fall through the floor.

But.

It gets worse. There’s this boy, a boy with brilliant green eyes and looks at them with a pale, pale face.

“You’re here in service of your Queen,” says the boy dressed in what looks like moss. 

Gendry wonders if he lost too much blood. Samwell the Mad smiles again. Gendry is starting to loathe that smile. Because it means something strange will come out of his mouth.

“Ah. So I am, in service of my Queen Sansa,” says the mad lordling, “I had hoped- But perhaps this is best. She always was the most levelheaded.” 

Gendry stares at him. He was uneducated, a boy of Flea Bottom, through and through. Son of a whore. But even he knew that the Queen’s name was Cersei.

Was Samwell not of Westeros?

The other lordling, he-

He sways on his feet.

Like he’s going to swoon. Gendry automatically helps him steady. The boy’s eyes are a vivid, haunting green. He looks at him and sobs. 

“ Fuck, ” whispers the boy, jerking his head to look at the small man that was the lord of the swimming Keep, “Father. The papers of the Prince. Give them to Maester Samwell. Now. ”

Howland Reed pales.

Samwell just fucking smiles.

Fucking nobles, Gendry thinks. 

It felt as if everyone is always looking at him.

Samwell knew it wasn't the case, but part of him felt self-consciousness at the way he carried himself, and the heavy, stolen Valrian blade he carried on his back. It had always been his birthright- but Sam had stolen it all the same.

" What in the Seven Hells do you think you're going?"

His father's bewildered voice, laced with fury as hot as a dragon's breath, made a part of him, the part that was still the boy that wanted a semblance of affection from the man that sired him, wince. But mostly Sam felt a grim sort of merriment at the expression on his father's face.

"To the Wall."

His father turned red, then purple, and finally white in sheer anger.

"Wha-"

"I've had enough of this house. Of you. A few moons ago you hated me for being what I was. For liking my books and learning over the whole mess of swords and hunting and the like. I’m done. I cannot be that man for you. But I can be my own man at the Wall."

He has changed so much. Dangerously honed his body in the moons it had taken him to travel and steal what he knew would be helpful at the Wall once he reached it. Doging away from his father, desperate for his ‘heir’ now that he was a semblance to the ideal he held of men. He may be the first Southerner to kill an Other for the first time in living memory, but he is still a scholar by heart. Still a man of the Night’s Watch who got himself a pretty, smart wife, and a boy. Who is waiting for him. 

And he stands before the Queen in the North. Ser Brienne is behind her, and he smiles. 

He kneels.

“Your grace,” he tells her.

Queen Sansa Stark smiles. The solar is locked, and the entirety of the Stark family, at least the older half, are gaping at him. Jon looks at him, and he does not see a brother looking back. He hoped poor Gendry was faring well with the tired-looking guard that had taken one look at Queen Sansa and taken the boy off toward the forge at her command. 

“Ah,” she says, simply, “It is so good to see you, Maester Samwell.”

“I am no longer a Maester. Well, not yet.”

Blue eyes gleam.

“And I am not a queen.”

He hums.

“So you are not. Perhaps not yet.”

She shakes her head.

“Perhaps never. I have my brother and my kin before me in any line of succession. And if I know you, you have brought the documents of Jon’s birth. You will not stay, will you Sam?”

He sighs.

“I… I have someone I need to find.”

She smiles, softly, sadly.

“Your Gilly and your little Sam, they need to be with you. She was so good. I look forward to you saving her from her mad father. If you have a need, please, write to me.”

He nods.

“I brought you, Gendry.” 

Delight lines a beautiful, perfect face. 

“Thank you, dear Maester.”

“I will come back.”

“So you will.”

“My watch is not yet begun nor truly ended. I must start it. I must arm the Wall as I can. I will do my best,” he says softly, and he looks at Jon. 

A stranger, young, too young, looks at him. Nothing of the man he would become, no affection for him. Sam misses his brother with a fierceness that nearly cripples him. He had hoped. But considering everything, he truly does believe it is best that it is Queen Sansa Stark that had returned. She was steady fast, and dependable, and her treatment of people was crucial at this point. He loved Jon, but the man who died upon Dragon's back would have done badly this early in time. The Game was not against the Others. Not yet. It was against anyone South who would devour the North before the Second Long Night and devastate them before the true war could begin.

Jon, bastard in name, melancholic as he was, would not have moved anything as drastically as Sansa had in the moons since their return. 

“May you guard the realm of men well, Maester Samwell.”

He smiled, gently. She smiled just as gently back. 

“May you rule Men well, Queen in the North.”

Chapter Text

He remembers it as a grass sea made of darkness, tall as his thighs on horseback. 

He remembers his father, on a great horse like coals, the light the color of a man’s heart, burning like an ember, pulsing with each movement of the stallion’s legs. He remembers riding next to him, on a horse as dark as the grass, that it felt as if he was flying, furious and quick across the plains that stretched across infinity. He remembers his mother, riding on his other side as if she had every right to be as any Bloodrider. She had been on another horse, this thin and almost impossibly delicate, the color of ashes, gaunt and translucent skin that showed the pulls of muscle and impossible pale bone moving in tandem, glowing softly. They had been light against the dark, like soft fires that felt like nothing… Nothing but Peace that he thought he could only hold next to the moon of his life.

And he remembers the impossibly bright thing that stopped them, glowing as the moon within the dark sea. Brighter than star-horses, brighter than anything he can remember.

Khal Drogo snarls, reaching for a sword that was no longer at his side. His parents, however, only stop their horses' mid-gallop. They rear back silently, neither huff nor whinny or scream escaping their snarling lips over their healthy, wide teeth. Drogo’s own horse stops a moment later as if he had never been moving at all. It takes him a moment, one single, furious moment, to understand that the glowing thing in front of him is another rider.

He is a tall, wide, and proud-looking thing, and the glow of his horse, which looks as pure as the light of the moon, is highlighted by the hundreds of bells woven through his pale, white hair. It is so long it disappears into the dark grass, braid careful and well made. Eyes a startling violet, they shine with something like fire across from him. They are stark against his dark, copper skin. He is unadorned save the bells, and a garish, blood red and twisted black metal ring about his head, headwear that was foreign in make. Something that- Something that his moon had described as typical for the Khals across the poison water, a crown. The man in front of him was… What was the word she used?

King.

The man across from him was Khal and King alike.

“ You ,” the word is harsh in the quiet world of death, it cracks across the Peace like thunder, “Why do you stop my ride?”

The man smiles. It is a smile that is bright, white, the bone handsome and strong against his skin. Something about the pull of his mouth is familiar- but Drogo cannot see why. 

“I think,” the voice of the man is musical, but strong, burning, rich. Unlike Drogo’s voice, it flows into the Peace like it is a part of it that had been missing all along, “That your ride within this place began prematurely.”

It takes a moment for Drogo to realize, to realize that the man is not speaking in his mother tongue, but some other, higher, beautiful tongue that he recalls his wife had occasionally practiced. To keep her skills. What had she called it? Her mother tongue… High Valerian.

“I ride as I must. There is no changing Death.”

The man raises a brow, thick but elegantly arched.

“Why is your horse as dark as the night?”

Drogo frowns, shifting on his near-invisible horse. Why does it not shine? Had I not lain undefeated in the land below? Am I not worthy to ride a flaming horse of the night? Doubt comes to him, something so rare in life, holding him firm in death.

“I-”

“You have not earned the right to ride a star.”

“I am here. I have earned my place in the Nightlands,” he snarls this, loud and beating his chest at the silver-haired stranger.

The stranger shakes his head.

“No. Not yet.”

“ WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION MY PLACE?”

The man gives another smile.

“I am many things. But to you, I am called son.” 

And Drogo sees it. Sees the piece of the moon of his life in that smile, and had he lived, his heart would have beat like the drums at his wedding. He had thought him a descendant of her people, but not the product of his seed, grown on such a mount in the Nightlands. He feels as if he cannot speak. Cannot do anything but stare at him before he finds his voice again.

“Where is she?”

He knows she should be here if their grown son is before him. Knows she would have earned her place here in the Night, on stead that glowed bright and true, if his own mother could enter the sky.

“Waiting.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“ Father, ” and this was spoken in Drogo's mother tongue, proud and unyielding. It seemed to shake the very Nightlands with the strength of it, “ You must return to the land below. Be what your Khaleesi needs of you. Aid her in becoming all that she was ever meant to be. That is why you ride on darkness, and not the fire of a star. You left her. ”

“I DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE HER!”

“And yet you did,” his voice returns to be musical, and his smile is sad, “You were a fool. And she lost you and became more than I ever would have been… But not enough.”

Drogo beats his chest, ashamed, longing, and feeling a mockery for his horse of darkness, who he had ridden so wildly and happily before. His father’s, his mother’s, and his son’s made him feel as he had never felt in life.

Small.

I failed the moon of my life.

“Will you earn your place here?”

Drogo, Drogo could not help but smile at his son. It is more a gesture to bare his teeth, but it is something of savage grief in there that could almost be happiness.

“ Yes. I will find her. I will find the moon of my life, my Khaleesi.”

His son smiles back. The Stallion that would Mount the World, a smile that is fierce as Drogo’s own. His violet eyes burned as fire.

“ Then go, Khal of Daenerys Stormborn, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the High Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Protector of the Realms, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt and Breaker of Chains. Find her… And make her happy. ”

His mother turned to him. She smiled, a smile of beauty and ferocity that she had donned in life.  

"You will find her in," her voice was soft, but strong. 

And the words reached within Drogo and shook him to his very core.

He woke in his tent, woke in his tent with his wife not at his side. Sweat soaked his skin; his breath had been swift and haggard. It was as if he was burning within his body without fire- every part of him felt alive and sang with awareness that stank of magic. Magic was dangerous. But Drogo did not care. He needed to find Daenerys. He stood on shaking legs before forcing himself to dress, rushing out of his tent to find his wife. She was an early riser, and it was not so strange for the Khalessi to sneak a bath before returning to him to make love in the morning.

" Khal," called a familiar voice.

Drogo turned, blinked at the youth who looked at him. He was just young enough to hardly have a braid without it being a disgrace, and was built like a young colt, long legs and thin arms that Drogo remembered would barely have a chance to grow. His smile was open, and Drogo knew that it hid a bravery that had stunned the rest of his Blood Riders when it had been put to the test. 

The youth's name was, and he should not be standing so casually in front of Drogo.

Drogo stared at the bloodrider who had died more than four years before he had met his wife. In a stunned moment, Drogo could only stare as the youth tried to coax him into conversation. Then he knew himself to be placed back into the land of the living, below the Nightlands and in a place to change the events that had taken him from the moon of his life, allowed her to toil and become bigger than the Stallion their son had meant to become. 

He would find his moon, the moon of his life.

Give her the son that had come to him in the Nightlands…

And he would worship her with all that he was for ten lifetimes instead of a measly portion of one.