Sansa

She could almost see it replaying in the flames as she sat before the fire. His taunting smirk, the circling dogs, the surprise in his eyes when his prized alpha bitch jumped up and-

She squeezed her eyes shut trying to dispel the image. It wasn't that it haunted her or made her sick. No, she needed to shake the images of her late husband's demise because no person should get such perverse pleasure from such violence.

But she did. She reveled in it.

In that was she supposed Ramsay had won after all.

A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts and Jon entered, quietly shutting the door behind him. Jon. Her long neglected brother. Her untrusting confidant. Her overly honorable protector. And now her King. The love she felt for him weighed on her like a physical burden, reminding her that after everything that had happened there were still things that could be taken from her. She wanted to take heart in the fact that she could still love someone. Instead she felt panicked at the thought that she could be hurt again. So she kept him at an arms-length even as her heart ached for him to embrace her as he had when he first saw her at Castle Black.

"Sister," he said solemnly nodding at her in deference. "There is something I must discuss with you."

She regarded him for a moment trying to read from his face what he was referring to, but she came up with nothing so instead she nodded at the table murmuring, "Of course. Please sit."

The last time he'd come to her chamber to speak with her in private it had been to ask her for her blessing on his impromptu coronation as King in the North. He'd been worried then that he'd taken something from her, that she would be angry to see him assuming the title that had been Robb's not so very long ago. His eyes had been pleading then, but now they were guarded and cautious as if he was appraising her and trying desperately to figure out what he saw.

"What's the matter?"

There was no point in him gaging her reaction when she truly didn't know what he was upset about.

"You know I'd never judge you. For what you did to Ramsay. I know he hurt you, and I gave him to you so you could have your vengeance, and I'll not lose any sleep over it."

She nodded, refusing to break his gaze as she did so. Aye, Jon had known. He'd known she meant to do violence when she had Ramsay moved from his cell, he'd seen what was left of Ramsay when the dogs had finished. He hadn't spoken to her of it yet – no one had – but he'd known. And she'd not apologize for it. The only thing she regretted was not being able to do it again. So she held his gaze unashamed and waited for him to continue.

"I'm glad you did it," he said, looking at her earnestly. "I am. But Sansa, I need to know if you've been taking more vengeance behind my back. We've just received a raven from the Twins bringing some… interesting news. We said that we'd be honest with each other, we said we'd trust each other, so I'm asking you now, did you have Brienne kill Walder Frey?"

"No." She said honestly, though her heart lifted at the news of his death. "I didn't Jon I swear. Walder Frey had enough enemies beyond us though, he sons for a start, what makes you think it was me who did it?"

"He wasn't just killed. He was… well best not speak of it. But his sons were killed as well which takes them out of the pool of suspects. And your Uncle Edmure was still in chains at the time so there's no one who seriously thinks it was him. Even if he wasn't, most figure he wouldn't have the stones to… well, it was no small thing, what was done."

She felt her lip quirk into a small half smile at the thought of vengeance having been taken against the Freys.

"Tell me. How did he die?" She could hear the hunger and excitement in her own voice but she didn't care. Jon looked at here warily, as if even now, even after Ramsay he still doubted she was capable of such bloodlust. Seeing the sincerity in her eyes he sighed and continued.

"The sons were found in pieces. Carved up in one of the cellars below the kitchens. Walder Frey's throat was slit while he sat in his high place in the hall. It appears… well, they think that the killer fed the sons to him before they killed him. Which is why you see they think it was very particular vengeance, and I've been asked on my honor whether it was undertaken at our orders."

He fell silent once more, watching her for her reaction, but she just shook her head, "It wasn't me Jon. I wish it was, but it wasn't, and I doubt Brienne would do such a thing even if I ordered it of her."

"Aye, I suppose you're right," he said nodding. She wondered if he trusted more in Brienne's honor then her answer, but she let it go. Something more pressing was burning in her mind making her feel as if her heart were going to burst.

"But if it wasn't us Jon do you think it could mean…"

He squeezed his eyes shut at her words and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. He probably hadn't given himself the chance to hope until now, not so soon after they had just lost Rickon. He shook his head.

"We cannot know what it means, Sansa. It could mean nothing."

"Brienne saw her alive Jon, she saw her."

"That was years ago now. And it's one thing to be alive and prisoner by Sandor Clegane, it's another thing entirely to orchestrate the murders of half of the Frey's bloodline."

Sansa looked him over but said nothing. He was resting his forehead on the palms of his hands, his fingers pulling at the roots of his dark curls in frustration. He stared at the floor with unseeing eyes. Bruises and cuts from the battle still riddled his body but he was oblivious to them – the only pain he seemed to feel was the agony in his mind forbidding him from opening the door to the possibility of more bitter disappointment.

"Can you not even let yourself hope?" She said, hearing her voice waiver with emotions she'd assumed had been beaten out of her long ago.

"I can't. It'd tear my heart out if it wasn't true. I can't bear the thought of having to lose hope once again. I just don't know how many times I can put myself back together. We need to be grateful for what we have now. We have each other, we have our home. We cannot tear ourselves apart thinking about what we've lost, hoping against hope for what we'll gain again. I can't live like that. I'm not strong enough."

His broad shoulders sagged in defeat, and Sansa rose from her chair and went to lay a hand upon his shoulder.

"I understand." And she did. Rickon's death still weighed too heavily on Jon for him to cope with more hope now. It was too much for him. But as she bade him goodnight, embracing him gently and laying a soft kiss on his cheek she realized that it wasn't for her. As broken as she was, as terrified as it made her to think about the people she loved once more, she realized that she needed to know. And she couldn't wait on Jon to be ready - not when Littlefinger could call on her to pay her debts to him any day.

And so, before she could stop herself or think it over more she threw her cloak over her shoulders and made her way quietly through the halls of Winterfell. She slunk quietly down the great staircase, padding softly through the winding halls until she got to the servants quarters where she knocked boldly on the door. A man with sleep in his eyes responded, cracking the door open to peer out at her.

"Yes, Milady?"

"I need a message sent South."