you're the northern wind
The clouds hung low and dark in the sky, casting a pallor over all of Winterfell that only the scarlet weirwood tree managed to distinguish itself from. While there was little else to hear other than the marching of countless soldiers, the air hummed with an air of expectancy, and Sansa could feel the restlessness in the courtyard below as she waited for the army to reach the castle. Suddenly, two dark figures appeared on the misty horizon, casting great shadows across the snow-covered ground as the pierced the air with screeches that sent a chill down her spine in a way that northern wind had never been able to.
Sansa heard the gasps and exclamations from those on the wall and those below, some fearful and some awestruck, and wondered if it had been wise of this new queen to put on such a display for her introduction to the north. Certainly no one would think to oppose her after seeing the two fully-grown dragons that circled above Winterfell, but the mistrustfulness northerners were predisposed to was only going to be worsened by the sight of creatures everyone was sure had passed into legend, kept alive only by stories told by septas and in songs drunkenly sang in taverns.
She was sure Arya was just as excited to see the dragons as she was to reunite with their brother, Jon, and the corner of her mouth curved up slightly as she imagined her younger sister perched somewhere about the castle, looking on in wonder. Arya had vanished as soon as the first glimpse of the army had appeared, leaving Sansa to deal with the business of welcoming Jon's new queen, advisors, and extensive military, to the castle. Bran was there too of course, though that hardly mattered given his courtesies would likely be limited to a quiet, unsettling look in the direction of the new arrivals to the castle.
Sighing, Sansa made her way down to the courtyard to stand beside her brother, with Brienne and Podrick just behind her, and did her best not to look as nervous as she felt as she awaited her elder brother's arrival. Just the sight of all those men marching towards her home had put a knot in her stomach as she wondered how the provisions they had taken such care at stowing for the winter would feed that many mouths, especially with two fully grown dragons to account for. She doubted the creatures would be very satisfied with loaves of dark bread and bowls of mutton stew.
Pushing her concerns aside, she straightened her back and raised her chin, hoping to obtain some small measure of regality despite the writhing knots of dread in her stomach. Her heart surged as Jon arrived through the gate, followed closely by the silver-haired queen, who hung back slightly as Jon dismounted and ran to Bran, dropping to his knees to place a kiss to his younger brother's brow. Sansa watched their exchange closely, her small smile becoming more of a grimace as she saw Jon's brow furrow in confusion at the change that had come over Bran, at the emotionless way he stared out across the courtyard, seeming to see both everything and nothing. Raising himself back up, Jon embraced her, though she barely felt it as she looked toward the queen.
Clad in white furs, with her pale hair and skin, she seemed to absorb all the light in the courtyard like a sliver of moonlight in an otherwise dark night. The young queen smiled at her as Jon made introductions, yet Sansa noted it did not make its way to her eyes. Perhaps she noticed the unspoken dissent emanating from the crowd gathered to greet them, or perhaps she could tell that Sansa had no warmth for her either, but her claims of the beauty of the north and of Sansa rang hollow, practiced niceties that reminded Sansa of all the careful little lies she used to recite in Kings Landing.
"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace." Sansa told her, making no effort to muster a smile of her own.
Daenerys seemed to falter at that, and Sansa was uncharitably glad of it. She had an increasingly low tolerance for the sort of behavior she had learned to survive with in the capital now that she was home and surrounded by the blunt honesty of northerners.
"We don't have time for all this." Bran said, his voice as emotionless as ever. "The Night King has your dragon. He's one of them now. The wall has fallen, the dead march south."
Sansa felt her breath hitch as she looked at Jon, and felt her blood go cold as she saw the unmasked fear in his eyes.
"I will call for our bannermen to retreat to Winterfell at once and to bring their people with them. Let us reconvene in the great hall to discuss our plans further after you have been shown to your rooms. I know you all must be weary after your journey." Sansa said, and Jon nodded, offering her what he likely thought to be a reassuring smile.
She wasn't the one that needed reassurance, judging by the terror she had seen flash across his face just moments before, but she allowed him to think it had worked. Turning her gaze to the assembly of close advisors Jon and Daenerys had brought inside the castle gates with them, she nodded in acknowledgment at Tyrion and Varys, her gaze coming to rest on a familiar figure in the back, towering above the others.
Sandor Clegane stood as tall and imposing as when he had first come to Winterfell seven years before. Even without the fierce helm he had once worn and lacking any armor beyond a studded leather jerkin over his travel-worn tunic, he looked as formidable a warrior as she remembered. Only now, there was no blood obscuring his face, no wild look of desperation as there had been the night the Blackwater burned. Several errant strands of lank brown hair hung across the right side of his face, yet not enough to cover the intricate web of scars she used to try so hard to avoid staring at. As his dark gaze shifted up, she caught his eye and felt the knots in her stomach begin to twist again.
Brienne had told her that that he would be coming to Winterfell, amongst others, and she hadn't thought too much of it at the time. But seeing him again in the flesh was a painful, visceral reminder of her time in Kings Landing, and though he had acted as a balm to quell the hurt and humiliation she had suffered at Joffrey's hands on many occasions, she could not escape the growing despair she felt at seeing him here, in her home. He and Tyrion were the only ones who had seen firsthand what pain and shame she had been subjected to and to stand before him as Lady of Winterfell made her feel like a pretender after him seeing what a stupid, naive girl she had been in the capital. She wondered if he saw her that way still. He seemed to notice her distress, and averted his eyes, retreating further into the assembly as she let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and turned to Brienne.
"Are you alright, my lady?" Brienne asked quietly, her eyes searching Sansa's face worriedly.
"Yes. I'm fine." Sansa replied, offering a tight smile that seemed to placate her sworn shield.
There were dragons soaring above her, an army of dead marching toward her, and the ever -present threat of Cersei's wrath looming just behind her. She was most definitely not fine, about as far from it as could be. Yet as she set off toward the great hall, she realized that of all the threats that loomed on the horizon, none had shaken her in the way that the reappearance Sandor Clegane had.