Sansa approached the group of wildling women around a campfire. They were raucous, and rowdy. In an earlier life, she would have turned up her nose at them and thanked the gods she was a proper lady. Now she saw their weapons at their feet and heard them talking, free and easy, and they looked like some of the happiest women she had ever seen. I need to know, she thought. I need to know how to fight. No one can protect anyone, but I can try to learn how to protect myself.
She was acutely aware, as she walked over to them, of her fine blue dress and wool cloak, her clean hair, her soft, gloved hands. She'd had the idea when she'd first heard of spearwives. She knew Jon had taken a lover, while he was in the Night's Watch. That fact alone had shocked her, when she first heard it – Jon, who could barely look at a woman sideways, had been in love? With a wildling woman?
"Her name was Ygritte," Jon said, and stopped.
"You loved her."
"Aye. I did. As well as I could."
"Do you think you would have married?" Sansa asked, and regretted it, it sounded ridiculous, a thing for a silly highborn lady to ask, but Jon laughed, half-smiling, half-frowning.
"No. No, I don't think she would have. The wildlings say a man can have a woman, or a knife, but not both. And she didn't want to have me that way."
They're dressed for the cold, in furs and skins in shades of grey and brown. The wildlings looked the most comfortable of all the folk who'd gathered at Winterfell. Winter was here, but they were still south of the Wall, and the cold that brutalized others barely touched them. They didn't huddle when they walked, or race from one building to another. They lounged in the cold, enjoyed it. As if they had been born for it. I suppose they were, in a way. Born for the North. Winter suits them.
The blond wildling leaning against a rock near the fire, with a quiver of arrows next to her, turned first as Sansa approached, her boots crunching on the snow. An animal was roasting on a spit and the women were digging into the meal, carving off pieces as they ate. It's a hunting party. The meat smelled wonderful, and Sansa's mouth watered. They all looked at her now, one elbowing another, as the conversation died down.
"Hello," she said, in a small voice. Damn you, Sansa, these women are warriors. Are you that much of a little bird that you can't even chirp when they're around? They're skeptical, wary, but most acknowledge her with a nod. They know who she is.
"I...I've come to ask a favor of you." she said. "I need to learn how to fight, and I thought... I thought I might ask if you would teach me." She finished stronger, her voice clearer, carrying across the circle.
"Why d'you need to learn to fight?" asked the blond one. "I'm Dara, by the way."
Sansa had steeled herself for that question, she'd imagined it delivered many ways, with a sneer, or a smirk or some sort of judgment, what does the fair Lady of Winterfell think she can ask of us, we're not kneelers, shove off. She hadn't expected frank curiosity. That was a relief, of sorts.
"I...my last husband beat me, tortured me." So did my first. "He hurt me, over and over, offered me to the dogs and I just...took it. I need to know how to never let that happen again." And I may have to marry again, and soon.
"I think you've got that backwards, lass," Dara said flatly. "Aye, he beat you, raped you no doubt, tortured you...and then you escaped, brought an army down around his head and fed him to his own dogs."
Sansa blinked, slowly. She'd never thought of it quite that way.
"I like that dog bit," said a woman with brown braids through a mouthful of meat. "Poetic, like. Same dogs he came at you with?"
"...yes."
The women murmured approval around the circle. "So I don't think you need fighting lessons from us, lass. Aye, you might need to learn how to wield a knife at close quarters, but I'd say you've got the gist of it. Your half-brother, the King in the North?" Dara said.
"King in the South, more like," one wildling muttered.
"Yes, he's the King in the North," Sansa said. She remembered the stunned look on Jon's face, how she's sat at the head table, proud, and jealous, and terrified, all at once, as grown men eager for Stark blood to lead them demanded Jon's allegiance. Just as they had for Robb. Fools. How did they know this would end any better?
"They call him the White Wolf, don't they?" Dara asked as she crouched to clean an arrow.
"They do."
"Well, I think you're the Red Wolf, lass. Wouldn't cross you. it's a better name, too. Oi! Durmund!" she yelled to a bearded giant of a man chopping logs by the next camp.
"Whatd'ya want, Dara?"
"Let's say you had to pick a fighting name. What'd it be, the white wolf, or the red wolf?"
"Red wolf, o'course. It's bloodier, strike more fear into my enemy's hearts." He grinned, splitting a stump clean in half with his axe.
"There you are," Dara nodded as she finished and stood. "The White Wolf's pretty tame anyway. Ygritte liked him well enough, but too soft for my tastes. You two getting married?"
"What?" Sansa squeaked.
"Look at him like you might want to marry him," muttered the brown-haired woman.
"Aye, she does, Nalla," Dara said.
"That – that would be wrong, it would be a sin against the gods," Sansa said. Or, you know, you could've just said you don't want to marry him. Jon. Your half-brother. Why not start there next time?
"Wrong as marrying that monster, the one what tortured you?" Dara cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Well, that was wrong too, of course, but –"
"Not sure what you're going to do then, you've got yourself a problem there, he's clean over the moon about you," Dara said.
"Gods, we thought he swooned enough over Ygritte," Nalla said.
"Jon doesn't feel that way about me," Sansa said, as firmly as she could manage. How did we end up here?
"Well, wouldn't know how he feels," said Dara –
"...wouldn't mind finding out how he feels, any night of the week," joked the tallest wilding –
" – but we got eyes, and it's plain he's in love with you," Dara finished.
"But how...how could that be all right?" Sansa twisted the end of her braid in her hands. "He told me about Craster's daughters..."
"Now that's different, and you're sharp enough to know it. Those girls didn't ask for that, they weren't free to leave," Dara said.
"Didn't have your talent with armies and dogs," said Nalla.
"I mean for all I know Durmund here's my half-brother and no one told me. We wildlings, there's not that many of us, we'd take a cousin no question, might think about a half-brother, especially if he's half as handsome as yours," Dara said. "Look, the White Walkers are coming. Grab some happiness before the long night comes." She leaned in. "Here, either way, just talk to him about it. Before now I thought you just weren't interested, but I don't think you'd be blushing like you are now if you weren't. Only one in this camp doesn't want him is Lya, and she just goes for girls. All the rest of us would steal him...at least for a night. You deserve some better memories than the ones you have, lass."
I do, Sansa thought, and I'm not sorry for it.
"But...but even if he does feel that way...I think he'd be ashamed of it too."
Dara smirked. "I think he bought all the lemons within fifty miles of Winterfell just to make sure you had lemoncakes for your name day."
"How do you know about that?"
"He's not subtle is he? Thinks he is, poor thing. Dragging himself through camp asking about the best ways to find lemons in winter. 'They're for Lady Sansa,' he sighs. Like he's talking about a princess. We all got a laugh out of it."
"Do you think she'll like them?" Nalla did her best Jon impression. "How many does it take to make lemoncakes?" More of the women were laughing now. "Aye," said Dara, picking it up. "'Do you think cook will help me'? he asks. Of course cook will help you! You're the King in the bloody North, aren't you?"
This is dangerous, Sansa thought, I need to go, others might hear this. Dara glanced at her and shushed the group. "Look, our point is he was nervous, like a lovesick boy, and the only thing he thought about was how to make you happy. Bought them with his own money too, you needn't worry, all that Stark honor you're always going on about, he sold some gift or other to buy them, told us winter is coming, no one should have to go hungry for this, and we all wanted him to just get on with it, because it was nothing but Landy Sansa and lemoncakes for two weeks."
She remembered him bringing them to her in her solar, putting the plate down carefully, not looking at her, saying quietly "I thought you might like them, for your name day."
She'd been sewing, a tunic for him with a wolf's-head embroidered on it, but she'd tucked it away, she wasn't ready to show it to him yet. She'd chided him about the expense and he'd said "I just...I thought it might make you happy, for a moment anyway." She'd thanked him, and he'd looked at her then and smiled like his heart was in his eyes.
"Would you like one?"
"No...these are for you."
"Sit and have them with me, please. For my name day."
So he did, picking one up and taking a bite, and made a face. She laughed. "I've never been much for sweets," he said, chuckling, "you try one."
She closed her eyes, and it wasn't the finest lemoncake she'd ever had, but it was the best, because she was safe at Winterfell, and Ramsey and Joffrey were dead, and in the midst of all they faced, Jon had taken the time to do this just for her. She made a very unladylike sound – a moan if she was honest – as she bit into the cake and then covered her mouth and laughed again. "Good?" Jon asked, his eyes darker and crinkled at the corners. "Very good. Delicious. Thank you Jon, this was so sweet of you."
"Red? Are you dreaming? You dropped off there for a second." Dara's voice snapped her back to the present.
"Thinking about lemoncakes, or kissing the White Wolf, some memory worth keeping," Nalla said.
Dara sighed. "So aye, he might feel bad about being over the moon about his half-sister, but more than anything that man would go to the ends of the earth to make you happy. So if you tell him first, I bet he'll come 'round. Right, now that's enough clucking for one day, we're off to hunt. Come back tomorrow with a knife, we'll show you some tricks."
"Cutting a man's throat."
"Or his balls, when he tries it, you know."
"The basics."
They all laughed, and for a miracle Sansa laughed with them. "See you tomorrow, Red Wolf," Dara called out as she threw her quiver over her shoulder. "Head out, let's catch the last of the light, you lot!"
Sansa walked back to Winterfell with the taste of lemoncakes in her mouth, and with plans to ask Jon for a knife that night. And whether she'd ask him more, she hadn't decided, but she thought she just might.
