It was devastatingly quiet at Winterfell.
Sansa stood on the wall and looked into the courtyard. Not half the commotion as usual. That made sense. Half of their people had died and burned on pyres.
Outside the walls there was even less happening. Death left a lingering chill there where no creature wanted to set foot. Charred dirt marked where dragonfire kissed the earth and all in its path. Cinder and charred pieces of gods knew what littered the ground. Not even the wolves wanted any part in scavenging, if the wolves had made it at all.
A speck of black caught Sansa's eye. It was a lone raven, flapping urgently toward her across the endless grey sky.
"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa muttered as the bird landed on the rampart and hopped about, urgently squawking and demanding she loose the note from its leg.
Sansa held the scroll in her fingers for a moment before unfurling it. The words therein would change her life drastically in some unknown way. Perhaps the war was over and Cersei was demanding she travel south to bend the knee and surrender the North. Or maybe Jon was writing to say Daenerys had conquered and won the hearts of the people. Maybe the Night King had sailed an army south. It was hard to tell anymore. Dragons, dead men, Lannisters. Her brother was a prince. Her other brother was the Three Eyed Raven. Her sister was a Faceless Man. Truly anything could happen.
With one last breath to steel herself, she rolled the parchment out, revealing black ink. The script was sloppy and hurried but familiar. Jon's. That was a good sign. He was alive. Sansa excitedly read on. Relief only settled her for a moment. The messy letters spelled out words that stole her breath - a horror she'd never dared imagine. She prided herself on being more conniving than Littlefinger, more cunning than Cersei. But this was something else. She felt like a little bird all over again, an innocent child being exposed to the true nature of the world for the first time.
Daenerys Targaryen took King's Landing and burned everyone inside alive.
Samwell Tarly, Winterfell's new maester, beamed as another soldier walked out of the infirmary. The poor man should have been dead. Someone dragged him in in the aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell and left him with the other wounded. Many of them died. Not this one. Sam set the broken bones in the arm and fixed the ruptured veins and muscles. Sure, the soldier wouldn't be swinging a sword any time soon, but the blood was staying inside his body instead of pumping onto the floor and Sam counted that was a major victory. They needed those these days.
Now only a few remained in his care. One young boy with a concussion was still drifting in and out of sleep, but finally out of danger. The sleep would do him good. Another commoner woman had an infection in a bite on her neck. She could likely heal at home, but Sam didn't want the wound out of his sight for more than an hour at a time. The final was a worse case, and personal. Ser Jorah Mormont lie grievously wounded, pale, and still clinging to life. He'd been run through, hacked at, and boasted more stab wounds than Jon Snow had. But Samwell Tarly would not let Lord Commander Mormont's son die. He kept him alive against the odds once and he'd do it again. How many times had his Black Brothers saved his life? Sam owed the men of the Watch a great debt. Besides, Ser Jorah was a good man.
His treatment had been experimental since the moment someone flung him onto Sam's operation table. The dragon queen had burst in, covered in soot and muck and what he assumed was Jorah's blood while Sam was placing a needle in his own arm. How she'd watched in surprise as the maroon liquid flowed from his arm, through the tube and into Jorah. Sam tried to babble an explanation, but she simply shook her head, thanked him, and left. That was a few days ago.
Since then she'd gone off to the war and Ser Jorah remained here, stitches holding his body together and Sam's blood pumping in his veins.
On the bedside table rested the Tarly family sword, Valyrian steel. Sam touched the hilt. It was still bloodstained. He wet a cloth and wiped it clean, carefully polishing the blade until it shined. How many lives had it taken during the battle? How many in the hands of his father? How many in his father before him? Sam shuddered. Men like Ser Jorah needed swords to keep innocent people safe. Men like him needed books and knowledge so they could sew the brave men back up.
On the bed Jorah drew a deep breath.
"Good!" Sam cheered softly. "That's good, Ser Jorah! Keep doing that," he told the knight lightly, "because I need you to wake up soon. I don't know what to do if you don't."
Ser Brienne's mouth moved wordlessly.
"No one was spared," Sansa said. "I'm sorry." And she meant it. There were so few good people in the world, and even fewer in the history of her life. Ser Brienne was one of them. She didn't deserve the sorrow and heartbreak rendered onto her.
Jon's note gave a brief list of who was accounted for. Jaime Lannister wasn't one of them. She didn't need to say that aloud, though. Brienne understood.
The knight shook her head and gave a mighty sniff. She wouldn't allow the tears to fall. Not a single tear more for a Lannister. "What would you have us do, my lady? The Mad Queen may fly north. We can drive the people back into the crypts, whether they want to go willingly or not."
Sansa stared into the fire in her hearth. The more time passed, the further she felt from a plan of action. "I don't know what she'll do. Jon said he'd put things right." She sneered and threw the note into the flames. Anger roiled up from her gut. "We told him not to trust her! How can you right the deaths of a million innocent people?" She spun and faced down Brienne. "How do you reason with insanity? Jon thinks he can talk sense into her, but he doesn't know her."
Brienne looked up. "There's someone here who does."
Chore time was the perfect time to practice more reading.
Gilly hummed as she moved about the infirmary, restocking potions and folding freshly cleaned bandages. She was thrilled to have work again, even though Sam was loath to let her do it what with Little Sam and the new babe growing in her belly. But he was in a good mood. This morning another patient was discharged and now there was just the old knight, too stubborn to die. So Gilly moved among the salves and ointments, happily sounding out the words and writing down what she needed to fetch more of.
"Wormwood. Aloe. Milk of the Poppy."
She came across an unlabeled jar of red medicine. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it. A putrid odor stung her throat. Coughing violently, she slammed the lid shut and made a mental note to ask Sam what it was.
Carefully avoiding the red ointment, Gilly collected a few other salves and fresh bandages and set them at the knight's bedside. Soon Sam would be in to clean his wounds and freshen up the dressings. She gingerly touched one of the bandages on the knight's forehead. It wasn't soiled as much as it had been in days past. Surely a sign of healing. Gilly desperately wanted to learn how to help more. Hoping for a lesson, she sat on the foot of the bed and waited for the maester, humming and reading words on the chart on the knight's bed.
"My mother used to sing that song."
The voice startled her so badly she jumped from the bed, upsetting the notes and dragging a sheet with her. A scream rose in her throat but she strangled it back.
"You're awake?" she gawked at the knight.
His eyes were open a sliver and his lips were parted. "Where is she?" His voice was gruff and soft.
"Hold on," Gilly panted, her heart hammering in her ears and throat. "I'll get the maester. Stay there. Don't move. You're hurt."
Sansa didn't dare try to write Jon back. She wouldn't risk reminding Daenerys that the North was undefended. Daenerys had little love for the north and even less for the Lady of Winterfell. That much was clear. Still, Sansa hoped more news would come her way. Perhaps Tyrion would send an update. Surely someone would be left alive to let her know if the dragon was flying north.
A soft knock at the door broke the dark thoughts. Sam Tarly looked in. "You called?"
His small smile was enough to lighten the gloom. Sansa liked the man since he first arrived at Winterfell. It wasn't often she felt inane trust for someone. When she did, she didn't doubt it. "Thanks for coming," she said. "Jon sent a raven."
Sam sat quietly as Sansa recited Jon's words. Though she burned the note, the words were burned in her mind. Burned like King's Landing. Had the horror truly set in for her yet? She wasn't sure.
When she was done, Sam looked thoughtfully out the window. "So Jon will do something. Jon will be king. That's good."
Sansa stared at him in disbelief. "Jon's the one who let this happen in the first place."
Sam blinked in surprise. "He didn't want to be king. That's a lot to ask of someone who was raised a bastard and then vowed to wear no crowns."
"He was King in the North." Sansa sighed and sat back in her chair. "I almost wish Littlefinger was here. He'd have a dozen plans already thought out. He'd know what to do no matter what happened next."
"I hear he wasn't a very good man," Sam replied. "I trust that you'll know the right thing to do when the time comes."
"Sam! Sam!" Gilly burst in, her eyes wide. "Ser Jorah's awake!"
"I have to go, Lady Stark," Sam burst, getting up so quickly his chair clattered to the floor behind him.
"I'm coming, too," Sansa announced, easily keeping pace with him.