For a brief moment every morning, Sansa felt like the past years hadn't happened. She felt, opening her eyes looking at the familiar ceiling of her childhood, that nothing had changed. That down the hall her mother and father slept soundly, or sat around the hearth talking in low voices. That out the window Bran climbed on the gray rock walls. That below her, Jon, Rob, Arya, could be wrestling in the mud. That Rickon could be fast asleep, curled up next to her. He used to come to her room at night, sometimes, when he had bad dreams. He didn't talk much, but slept next to her like a doll, tiny and quiet.
But then, the inevitable. Everything would come crashing back.
She would grip the blankets around her first, and force her breath to steady. Wait for her pounding heart to calm itself. When it was really bad, those first few weeks back home, she would grip the dagger she slept next to. She would sit up, staring at the door across the room, daring any danger to come fourth and try her. She'd think of Jon, usually nearby, Ghost behind him. And the men posted out her door. Brienne, Podrick, and the other guards, all just behind the thin wooden barrier.
And the rotting bones of Ramsay buried outside the castle walls.
These reminders brought her comfort. Not in the way her family would, or the weight of Rickon beside her, or the crashing of swords and cries of her brother and sister just outside her window could have. That meant true safety.
The safety she had now was the temporary safety one had in war. It was the safety of living through another night, and fighting through another day.
It was the end of the first month back in Winterfell, following the Battle. It felt almost routine now, and their biggest headaches were still there, but a distance off. The army of the dead hadn't yet reached the wall. Kings Landing was occupied with their own dismay. She worried about the Lannister Army, in Riverrun, but Brienne seemed to think Jaime would give them peace for a while yet.
Sansa sat up, gathering herself. Outside the walls, the milky dawn spread over the ice, bringing with it what little warmth it could manage. She pulled her hair around her, smoothing it, twisting it nervously, thinking of the day to come. Willing herself into consciousness. Now, with Jon and Sir Davos working with the other houses of the north, assuring their allegiance, Sansa found herself with the responsibilities she had prepared to as a child. Along with her duties of being a lady of the house, in charge of the kitchens and staff, assuring her people were fed, healthy, warm, had fires burning; she also insisted on being present for any meetings with other houses. With Jon not being a true born Stark, it was important for her to be at the meetings, to remind any doubters that there was a Stark here, in Winterfell, in charge.
After the battle though, there was no doubt left in anyone's mind. Sansa was warden of the north.
She held her head in her hands, and was overcome with a wave of nausea. Standing quickly, she crossed the room to the basin on top of the dresser. She dipped her hands in the icy water and pressed it against her face. Suddenly, she felt herself wretch. She gripped the wood tight around the basin, emptying the contents of her stomach until there was none left.
She coughed, her eyes watering, and pressed a nearby rag against her cheeks. She tried to steady herself again, but felt lightheaded and weak. She fell back on the bed, sitting for a moment.
"M'lady, forgive me, do I need to call for the maester?" she heard Brienne call from the other side of the door. Sansa pinkened, embarrassed she'd been loud enough for anyone to hear.
"I'm fine, thank you. I'll be out in just a moment, for breakfast." she called back.
Sansa counted on her fingers. Due to the stress from her life the past years, the times she bled were vastly irregular and hardly predictable.
She realized it had been months, maybe longer. Before Ramsay? she puzzled. But the sick understanding was growing in her chest, along with the Bolton baby growing in her belly.
With a crack somewhere far behind her, she realized she was on the floor. Then the pain blossomed into her skull, and her vision went black.
When she woke up, she was in a different room, in a new bed. Maester Elryn hovered above her, clucking lightly.
"I figured a young lady with such delicate composure soon would be visiting me, seeing what you've been through."
Sansa much would have preferred to close her eyes, enjoy the gentleness of the Maester, embrace this opportunity to relax, perhaps sleep. But she forced herself to sit up.
"Don't touch me." she said, pointing to the corner of the room. He stepped back, surprised. Her eyes fluttered.
A hand reached for her wrist, and she felt another at the small of her back, catching her as she fell. She began wiggling, protesting, her eyes shut and brimming with tears.
"Sansa," a quiet voice urged her. Her blue eyes shot open, and Jon came into focus. She cried out, realizing where she was. She gasped for air, and Jon pressed down on her shoulders. His forehead met hers, and he carefully moved his hand to the back of her neck. He focused his gaze on her eyes, locking blue with brown.
"You're home." he said slowly. "We're home, and you're safe. You're home, in Winterfell, Sansa."
She nodded, grabbing for one of his hands, clutching it closer to her cheek. She gasped for air, as though she'd awoken from a terrible dream. In some ways, she had. Jon waited for her breath to steady, the the pulse beneath her skin to slow somewhat.
He nodded, urging the maester to return to his work.
"Did something happen?" Jon asked, as the maester inspected the back of her head for injury.
"It's nothing." she said softly. "I guess...I just felt suddenly weak."
"Exhaustion sickness." the maester said, matter of factually.
"Plenty of people go through worse and don't just tumble over like silly girls." Sansa said in a low tone.
"You sound like Arya." Jon said with a shy grin. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should see how sick I get."
He had coaxed a smile from her as well.
After the maester bid her leave to return to her chambers and sleep, she followed Jon down the hall and into her room.
"Feeling any better, m'lady?" Brienne asked politely as they passed her. Sansa gave her a wan smile.
Jon held open her door for her. He whistled, quick and loud. From another room, there was a noise of nails on hardwood, and Ghost was beside him in seconds.
"Go on." he nodded, and Ghost plodded in first. He sniffed the air, and walked to the bed, sinking on the floor beside it. "He'll stay with you."
"Thanks." she said, earnestly. "Please, wake me if anyone calls."
"O'course."
Sansa walked in the room, closing the door behind her. Ghost whined, deep in his throat, and rested his head on his paws.
She stumbled into bed, and curled around a pillow, crying. She knew what was going to happen. She could feel it in her very bones. Ramsey's bones may be rotting outside her window, but deep in her belly they regrew. She was stuck with them, an inescapable doom.
She pressed the tears out of her eyes, urging herself to calm. Urging herself to sleep. After the tears kept coming, her body fell limp, as she accepted it all. She cried until she eventually fell into a restless slumber.
When she awoke again, she felt better. Like a deep disturbing calm.
She changed into her velvet dress, and combed her hair before knitting it back into an intricate braid. She gathered a shawl, and laced up her boots, before going out of the room and down the hall. Pushing out to the outer level, she cold wind made her eyes water. She tightened the shawl around her, and turned towards the main hall, down the stairs and into the courtyard.
She held her head high.
She pushed into the dining hall, and a nearby servant jumped up.
"Hungry, my lady?" he squeaked.
"I am, yes, please."
She sat down at the head of the table. She tried to calm her shaking hands by gripping the worn wood on either side of her.
The next moment, the door swung open, and a server with a tray of steaming rich smelling broth, and a stack of bread was set in front of her.
"Thank you." she said, nodding. "Can you have someone fetch me any letters I've received?"
"Aye." the man said, and was gone.
She gratefully filled her empty stomach with the soup.
"Ser Davos!" she said with a smile as he walked in from the end of the hall. Sansa had found herself quite fond of the man for everything, and he reminded her a lot of her father.
"M'lady." he said. "You already look better."
"Getting there." she said, and indicated he take a seat beside her.
"Your hands, then, speak louder than your words." he said, indicating the fingers against her knees that shook terribly. She gathered them together, and made a fist.
"It'll go away, soon, my dear." he said. "Everything heals with time."
"Sometimes it's elongated." she whispered, her voice catching in a small sob. She reached for his hands, letting her face fall. After a long pause, she unintentionally moved a hand towards her stomach, and realization hit Sir Davos' face.
"Your brother is taking apart a storage room near the crypt." he said.
She nodded, wiping her eyes and then reaching for the rest of her meal.
"He'll know what to do." she sighed.
