Bran woke from a wolf dream. He'd been running, the head of the pack, parallel to a lovely wolf bitch, nipping and biting at her shoulder, smelling the onset of her heat in the air. Summer had fallen in with a lesser pack, cousins to the direwolves, and he ran strong and bold, a wolf prince among dogs.
Bran stirred in his bed and lay blinking at the canopy before he called out to Hodor to lift him from the bed to start his duties for the day. Mating was a simple thing for wolves, especially for an alpha male, like Summer. Courtship and mating. It was as simple as breathing. Not so easy for humans. Unfortunately.
What did a boy of fourteen know of marriage? Lord of Winterfell, skinchanger, the bringer of summer and light, all mighty titles worn by Bran Stark, but they gave him no wisdom in how to approach his sister Sansa with his request for her to seek a new husband.
Though Summer was roaming the woods and likely the sire of a coming litter, the likelihood of Bran ever fathering a child was slim. Not that he thought about it, very much at least, but with the bannermen coming together, with Winterfell being rebuilt, talk about continuing the Stark line was frequent. Not as frequent as the talk about expanding the stables and repairing the fortifications and finding small folk to tend the land and work with the wildlings from beyond the wall. There were many more pressing concerns, Bran thought as he shook his head to clear the last of the wolfthought, but the discussion of heirs and marriage was frequent enough.
Bran, in general, trusted his advisors with most things, Jon and Sam were of great use there, as well, but this matter of marriage and children—he knew what they all would advise without even asking. Marry Sansa off quickly, as soon as the marriage to the Lannister could be set aside. With Bran unlikely to sire an heir and Rickon a wild beast untamed and very young to boot, Sansa was key to ensuring that the Stark line would continue and unite the Northern houses ripped apart by the wars. At eighteen, she was a woman grown and wed, and the Lannister name, though it put off a few, did not hinder any family with an eligible man from requesting a betrothal. For Arya, too.
Arya, who had arrived at Winterfell just a few months back, the aftermath of the battles between the dragons and the Others still smoking in the scarred land. Arya, the girl with the tangled hair and big mouth had grown into a lithe young woman. He heard whispers of "Lyanna all over again," from some of the older men, men who had known his aunt, but Bran, who had seen Lyanna from the weirwood, knew that for all her tempestuous nature, Lyanna could not compare to the deadly ferocity he glimpsed in his sister's eyes.
Arya Horseface could now almost rival Sansa in beauty, but hers was the beauty of a wolf pacing in the snow, waiting to make its kill. It took a braver sort to offer to take that wild creature and bind her to a holdfast with marriage and children. When Bran tentatively mentioned the subject to her, as the Lord of Winterfell should, she snorted and patted Needle. "I'd like to see anyone try to marry me," she bared her teeth in what might have been a grin.
Still bold, this Arya was far more reserved, and though Bran did not expect her to spill her heart to him, he was surprised to find that the person she sought out most, even before Jon, was Sansa. As different as the sun and moon, and yet, the comfort they found in each other was obvious. Though necessity dictated that they share a chamber, with many of the rooms in Winterfell needing serious repair, they would have sought each other out anyway. Bran was not sure what they talked about, but talk they did. Often late into the night. They would emerge in the mornings, sleepy-eyed, but content. Bran thought about asking Arya's advice about Sansa, but he did not, knowing full well what Arya's opinion would be.
He wondered at his own boldness in asking Arya to marry while he recoiled to ask Sansa the same. Perhaps because he had faith he would not be able to force Arya into doing anything she did not want to do. Perhaps because he feared his asking Sansa to do her duty as a woman, as a Stark, would result in her agreeing and destroying the tentative family they had gathered for themselves since the remaining Starks had returned. It was more than that, however. He did not know this new Sansa yet. A beautiful woman, cold and aloof in her manners , rather distant from all but Arya and the tall man who had brought Sansa home to Winterfell, his scarred face as unreadable as Sansa's own most days.
Jon had counseled Bran via letter, telling him that marriage between Sansa and a bannerman would help mend the North and would be expected by all the old families. The Glovers had been loyal. The Glovers had a son that had survived the battles. It was a good match for his sister. But Sansa was five times betrothed, once wed, and pursued by many, many others. Though she had never spoken a word to her little brother of her wishes regarding marriage, he wondered how she would feel to be betrothed again, to a man she didn't know. He did not think he would much like it to be married to a stranger.
Funny, it was, funny and a little unfair that Jon did not think to suggest Arya make this union. What else had Sansa been made for but to be the wife of a lord? No one gave much thought to what she wanted, Bran reflected. They never had. They just assumed she wanted what any proper lady would: a lordly husband and healthy heirs. Sansa was well versed in her duty, but no Stark was quite what they used to be anymore.
Sweet Sansa who had dreamed of handsome princes and of being queen. She and Bran used to play act the old songs in the abandoned parts of Winterfell. Sansa the beautiful maid and Bran the handsome prince, climbing the ruined tower to save her from the wicked crone who would see her locked away and never wed. But that was a story, and marriage seemed to be just as likely a prison as the tower. Could Bran be the one to condemn her now that she was finally free?
Bran knew how it felt to be powerless, to be tossed about by another with no command over his own body. Hodor tended his body, and thankfully, he had his mind and his soul, which Meera kept safe with her wise counsel. He wondered if asking Sansa to marry a man she did not love or know would be the same as being crippled—it was just giving her name, giving her body—he would let her keep her soul. But who was he to make such decisions for Sansa?
Bran's thoughts went unwillingly to faithful, dutiful Hodor. A sour taste filled his mouth as he remembered the feeling of Hodor's soul, curled up, shamed and frightened within his own powerful body, his own broken mind. Bran swallowed hard. Hodor was fine. Bran had not permanently wounded him. He'd just…borrowed him…for a bit.
Sansa did not have to love her lord husband. Just marry him, bear his children. Let him borrow her name, her womb. She could keep her soul—curled up in the corner of her heart. Summer kept his own when he felt that he would go mad trapped within his broken body. He ran through the snows with Summer, sinking his snout into bloody meat, and howling with the pleasure of it all.
But Sansa lost her wolf. Lady was dead. All she had was a loyal Dog who had followed her home. Could he take that from her too? For while a direwolf could be brought into a marriage and become part of Lady Sansa's household no matter how unorthodox a pet, a Dog like Clegane could not be. Bran knew the songs. Queen Naerys and her Dragonknight did not have a happy ending.
Sometimes, in the evenings the remains of the Stark family would gather by the great hearth in the main hall and sing the songs. It was almost like before though not really. It was nothing like before if Bran was honest with himself. And lately, with Meera's guidance, he tried to be. Honest.
Mother, Father and Robb dead. Jon out of reach. His destiny far from Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy a traitor and insane. Arya, frightening in her silences. Bran, broken and lost among the trees, trying to be the leader that Winterfell needed. Rickon snarling and vicious. And Sansa, sweet, dainty Sansa, still so kind and compassionate was also as sharp and cold as Needle's blade.
The old Sansa was still there when she sang, however, causing Bran to wonder if this was why Sandor Clegane called her "Little Bird." They never explained the nickname, and Bran felt too shy to question it. When Sansa would sing the old songs for them by the firelight, she smiled sweetly, and she still had the trick of closing her eyes blissfully at the romantic refrains, though Bran had begun to notice that during the parts of the songs that used to make Theon snicker, Sansa's eyes would seek out the hulking figure that lurked just beyond the family circle.
Clegane did not often join the group, though Sansa and even Arya would move aside, allowing him a place, but when Sansa sang, the man seemed to be drawn, almost against his will. Sansa's voice was very beautiful, and had grown even more so since Bran had last heard her. There was a richness to her tone, a woman's voice, and she sang the words with understanding. Metaphors and innuendoes that had been lost in her girlish renditions took on new meaning, and more than a few of the other men in the hall took notice when she sang.
Once, only once so far, there had been a small celebration in honor of the glass gardens being repaired and the first small harvest of fruits, vegetables and flowers. Sansa had happily made up small posies and crowns for the women and children. Even Arya had allowed a blue rose to be tucked behind her ear.
They had unearthed what ale and wine remained from the Bolton's stores and Sansa had found a harp, again leftover from the Bolton occupation, perhaps Mance Rayder's own, and had teased the others into taking turns singing. Arya rang out with a bawdy lyric from Braavos that had Meera grinning through her blushes and Rickon confused.
Meera sang a song from the Neck, something about frogs and swamps that pleased Rickon—likely a song once sung to Jojen before bedtime, Bran realized sadly before Sansa persuaded him to sing his favorite chorus of Naerys and her Dragonknight. He and Sansa had often sung together as children—both dreaming of brave knights and ladies fair. How far away those childish dreams seemed now.
At a lull, Sansa paused to tighten the strings of her instrument before looking up at Sandor Clegane from under her eyelashes. As always, he sat just beyond the ring of light, close to the warmth but a safe distance from the fire.
"Brother Sandor," she spoke over the crackling fire, "We've not heard you sing this night."
A grunt, and the man leaned forward, elbows on knees, bringing his damaged face into full view. His face was frightening in the firelight, but his eyes were warm when he looked upon the fair girl holding her harp.
"And nor shall you," he drank moderately from the cup of watered wine before him. "Why should dogs howl when there are little birds to chirp prettily for us."
Sansa smiled, looking back down at her fingers strumming the instrument in her lap, one corner of her mouth pulling up higher than the other, almost saucy.
"Still, it is only proper you should sing for your supper when all the rest of us have done the same. Did you not sing in the sept with your brothers?"
Another huff of laughter, "What part of the Quiet Isle did you not understand my lady? It is a silent order. "
Sansa ran her fingers over the strings. "My mother worshipped the seven, as did I. Singing is used in our worship and prayers, even by the silent brothers and sisters, for certain special occasions," she countered his argument, looking him full in the face. "Surely Winterfell's first harvest counts as a special occasion?"
The gray eyes followed the movements of her fingers for a beat, before the man sat up straight with reluctant inspiration.
"There was one hymn that Brother Donne favored, though Brother Narbert did not care for it." Sandor Clegane cast a wicked glance at Sansa. "Septon Meribald suggested that I use it for my own meditations."
"I should like to hear it," Sansa plucked one string. It rang out rich and clear.
And Sandor Clegane opened his ruined mouth and sang a song of the Maiden and the Warrior and the Stranger, a little death not to be feared, and it was religious and not, all at the same time. Bran understood the words, but he somehow did not get the meaning. Brother Sandor's voice was burnt and rasping, but pleasant all the same, despite the fire that had almost destroyed it. Arya eyed the singing man suspiciously and Meera's brow creased as she listened to the words.
"But what does it mean?" asked Meera. She was a woman grown, but a child of the North and keeper of the old gods had little knowledge or care for the Seven and their songs.
"A man may face death many times and live," the former novice stated vaguely, with a smirk. "Dying yet living, a man comes very close to the heavens."
"And woman too," Sansa held his eyes, "believe that."
"That she may, Little Bird," Sandor Clegane gave a short laugh, steel on stone and threw back the rest of his wine. "I wonder if you know any songs about that?" He challenged her with a grin that twisted his burned lips and pulled the scars on his cheek taut.
Sansa's eyes were drawn again to her harp, and she didn't answer though she smiled again, a secret smile. Arya rolled her eyes.
"I can sing the Bear and the Maiden Fair," Rickon offered, eager for the music to continue, "I learned it from the boys in the practice yard."
"And that answers that," snorted Clegane before he stood and swaying a moment as the stiffness left his injured leg. "With your permission, I bid my lords and ladies a good night."
Sansa's eyes followed him as he left. She played for Rickon as he sang, but not long after the final note was sung, she set her harp aside, and excused herself. She touched Arya's shoulder, an unspoken request. The younger woman nodded curtly without a word. Bran did not see Sansa again that evening, but Arya sat before the hearth, long into the night before retiring to the chamber she shared with Sansa.
Bran supposed he could have spoken to Sansa after supper, while they sat at the hearth, or in the solar that had been their mother's, Sansa's now, but Bran her brother could never ask what Brandon, Lord Stark of Winterfell, needed to ask her. Bran would know better than to broach such a subject, though it was difficult to say why he knew. He knew because Summer knew. He knew because he had seen the way Sansa's eyes followed the scarred man when he came into the hall, the man who had followed her home.
When Clegane had been brought before Bran, when Sansa pleaded his case to be a member of the household of Winterfell, Summer had sniffed the man, circling with narrow eyes and his ears laid back. Sandor Clegane extended a hand, letting Summer nose him. The direwolf's tail dropped, not quite submissive but no longer suspicious. Pack, thought Bran wordlessly. The Dog smelled like family. An image of red hair. Mate.
No. That couldn't be right. But it could. It was. So easy for the wolf to think so. Sandor Clegane was a shadow at Sansa's side. The work to rebuild was strenuous, and the burned man never failed to earn his keep, rebuilding walls, thatching temporary roofs over the stables, assisting in the kennels. Rising with the dawn and working until nightfall, the man should have dropped exhausted at the end of each day. No matter how hard the day's labor, morning and evening found him escorting Sansa to the Godswood to pray, often limping on the return. Sometimes Arya would join them, dry eyed and fierce and would return alone, to sit somber at the hearth, chin on her knees, as she stared into the flames.
Septon Meribald, his feet black and bare, cheerfully led the way some mornings, claiming that the seven could be worshipped in the Godswood as easily as the sept. The septon with the dirty feet had been welcomed joyfully when he arrived, carrying with him the official papers that annulled Sansa's marriage to Lord Tyrion, along with half a dozen lemons for the Lady Sansa.
Sansa laughed, an exuberant sound with notes of hysteria, when the septon had brought forth the papers that meant she was no longer a Lannister, and she wept when she opened the little sack of lemons.
"Brother Sandor told me once long ago that you had a taste for them," he smiled, glancing at the big man, who watched Sansa with a strangely blank expression on his face, "though I prefer oranges myself."
The annulment was a formality, and the septon merely a messenger who had happily taken the task to travel to Winterfell and meet with his former brother in the faith. No one in the north would have held Sansa to a forced marriage to the kinslaying Lannister, but it did mean a muddy kind of status. Neither free to wed nor properly a wife, Sansa's standing was unclear, though it became clearer and clearer that the bannerman were willing to overlook it if it meant joining their house to the Starks'. It was also clearer and clearer to all who cared to notice that she had been claimed already. Wed or not. Noble lady or not. The not-a-knight, former novice of the faith, the Dog who had once served the lions had made her his master, his mistress, maybe in more than once sense of the word.
So Bran was puzzled with Sansa's joy turned to something akin to mortification after emerging from her solar where she had been reading over the document with Septon Meribald. She cornered Sandor Clegane just outside the great hall. Bran had Hodor pause just around the corner. He had been going to congratulate his sister, to bring up Lord Glover's offer, but her fierce expression made him stop short and watch from the shadows.
"Did you wish to remain the imp's bride, Little Bird?" he heard Sandor Clegane grate out. He loomed over Sansa, his gray eyes narrowed. "Perhaps eternally being Lady Lannister would have benefited you. These bloody proposals would not be flying through your window each week if you had remained wed."
"No, but…" Sansa sighed.
"It gave the final proof needed for that buggering High Septon to bother himself with the matter. Elder Brother vouchsafed the truth of it to the High Septon in a letter I asked him to write-" Here Clegane seemed to pause uncertain. "I thought it would help to have proof that you were a maid when you arrived at the Quiet Isle with Sweetrobin." The scarred man stepped closer, and Sansa rather reluctantly leaned back, tilting her head up to give him the full force of her glare.
"The Elder brother, too! It's not so much them knowing," Sansa's shoulders drooped, "But to do it in confession. It makes it seem…dirty." She cast her eyes downward and ran her hands down the front of her gray, woolen gown fiddling with the pleats, smoothing the yellow girdle tight about her waist. "It wasn't a sin," she muttered. "I won't ask forgiveness, no matter what the High Septon commands."
The tall man caught Sansa under the chin, "Look at me," he growled. Sansa peered up from under her eyelashes. "You've not read the scriptures as recently as I've had to. Or is it in the light of day, the lady is shamed? It's no matter. Elder Brother wrote that you were a maid when he requested the annulment on your behalf. He didn't mention what you lost on the same visit. No need to worry about your honor or shaming your future lordling," the large man taunted. "Did you not want your freedom to wed again?"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Even now, you must be so hateful?" Sansa hissed, her cheeks beginning to flame. "It's not why…it's not. Don't make it ugly. It wasn't ugly. It's not ugly."
"How can it be anything but with a scarred dog," he snarled, but his hand released her chin and he softly traced the line of her jaw.
Sansa's eyelashes fluttered at the touch but she fixed her gaze upon him. "Oh, stop wallowing," a stern look and tone brooked no argument from the man who drew back sharply, dropping his hand.
"I have to see to the evening meal. These scullions are not trained, just little wilding girls, and they have never seen a lemon in their lives." Sansa took a deep breath and once again smoothed her palm over the front of her dress.
"The old gods look upon me without condemnation and that is good enough for me. If it is good enough for you, meet me in the Godswood this evening for prayers and say no more to me about shame."
She turned quickly on her heel, leaving Sandor to stare after her retreating figure, the corner of his mouth twitching—was it a snarl or a smile? Bran wasn't sure.
Later in the evening, when Sansa and Sandor Clegane returned from the Godswood, with him walking a respectful distance from her side, it was most definitely a crooked smile on his face. Sansa held her head high and dignified as always, but a tender pink blush graced her cheeks and neck, and her eyes were bright.
Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, glanced nervously at his sister who stood tall, straight and composed before him. Brandon took comfort from the steady presence of Meera just behind him, her mossy green eyes watching over the proceedings.
With her brother lost, she had tucked Bran into Jojen's place, and watched over him when he fell into his trances, when he transgressed into places that would risk his soul, she kept him straight. Being a surrogate brother was not quite what Bran would have wished from her, but what else could they be to one another? He sometimes thought that he should appoint her as his sworn shield, an office needed by the feebler southroners, not usually by the hearty lords of the north. But Bran could boast no strength of arm. Indeed, between the two of them, the small girl from the Neck had the physical strength. But she carried no shield, and bore a frog spear instead of a sword. Bran was Lord Stark, and while he was weak in body, he had strength of mind, and he felt he must call upon every bit of his strength to do his duty as the lord of the land. Perhaps he would have made the tiny crannogwoman Lady of Winterfell once…
Bran blinked and brought himself back to the matter at hand. Sansa stood waiting, Her loyal protector, Sandor Clegane, was also in the great hall, presumably working with the master of arms. He was never far from her side. Clegane wore a set of modified septon's robes, dun colored and humble, a sword at his waist. Bran sensed that Clegane was aware of Sansa's every motion and was listening carefully, even as he, himself, discussed a new training schedule for the wilding boys who had pledged themselves to Winterfell and for young Rickon, who was in grave need of discipline and purpose.
If Sansa were amused by the formality of meeting her brother in the hall, in between him meeting with the small folk, settling disputes, trying to make Winterfell live again, she did not show it. The Sansa of old, the one who sang songs and tucked his blankets tight about his feet to protect him from monsters never laughed at him or his fears. She had been wrong about the blankets keeping the monsters away, of course, and sometimes Bran wondered if he himself were one of the monsters he used to fear. Bran flicked a glance over to Clegane, and thought that maybe Sansa was now in the habit of reforming monsters instead of keeping them away. Maybe she could share her tips with Meera.
Not knowing how to begin, Bran sought the comfort of Summer for a moment, the great wolf at his feet. Bran briefly looked at his sister through his direwolf's eyes. He smelled Sansa's anxiety, her calm composure revealed to be a lie. She shifted imperceptibly, but Summer's sharp ears heard the rustle of cloth and he sniffed again. Sister. Pack. Mate. Pup. There were no words, just the scents in Summer's nose that Bran tried to make sense of.
He knew Sansa was waiting for him to speak, but he did not know how to begin, and almost unknowingly he left his wolf and reached out to the weirwood tree. Joining the ancient network, his eyes rolled back as he wandered through time, becoming one with the roots and leaves of the Winterfell Godswood.
From the weirwood, Bran sought glimpses of Sansa...
As a child, braiding her hair as Arya dropped leaves on her from above...
Sansa singing Florian and Jonquil to herself, a crown of white flowers in her russet hair while their father sharpened his sword nearby...
He saw Sansa, older and rounder, laughing with a baby at her bosom while a tiny girl with black, curling hair toddled about and splashed in the pool at the base of weirwood. He saw a tall, muscled man, dressed in monkish robes but with a sword strapped to his side bend to scoop up the girl before she fell in, his face reflected in the water momentarily and Bran could see it was scarred on one side...
He saw Sansa and the huge man now kneeling together, praying to the old gods and new, hands clasped in song and praise. The religious ecstasy giving over to something more carnal as the large, hairy hand that had held Sansa's smooth white one in prayer, gripped her suddenly about the wrist and pulled her into his embrace. Sansa lifted her face to him for the kiss but oddly, even Bran in his inexperience felt this, kept her eyes wide and fixed upon him, never closing them, not even when he laid her back among the leaves…
Bran saw a young man, almost as tall as Hodor, kneel at Sansa's feet and lay his head on her lap, his gray eyes wet and his muscled shoulders heaving. Sansa stroked his ruddy hair, bright and coppery like hers was before the snowy threads frosted its brilliance...
There were more visions, black haired little girls in yellow dresses, like little bumblebees in the meadow, dancing among the wildflowers…
Two red haired boys, one strong and tall—the younger version of the one who wept in Sansa's lap, and another, slight and small with eyes of a familiar moss green. They were bent over the Godswood pool, russet heads shining in the sunlight. The small one deftly speared a frog and lifted it triumphantly to show the bigger boy who wrinkled his large nose...
Bran gasped for air suddenly and came to, finding himself being held by Meera, stroking back his hair, and Sansa staring worriedly into his eyes. He sucked in another breath.
"Are you well, Bran?" she asked, "The…the fit came upon you so suddenly." She took his hand.
Bran nodded, accepting the cup of water Meera pressed to his lips. Silly of him to have worried. Stupid, Arya would say. How clear it was now. He cleared his throat and spoke.
"Would you like to get married again?" he asked Sansa abruptly. She leaned back from him, her brow furrowed, not expecting this question at this moment.
"That would depend." She responded carefully. She did not look at the large man who was now blatantly staring at them as they tended Bran.
"On what?"
"Who I was to marry," Sansa said quietly.
"Lord Glover's youngest boy?" he asked for the sake of duty. He knew what her answer would be.
"No."
"Is there anyone you'd like to marry?"
"Yes." At this her blue eyes rose and met Clegane's.
"Alright, then." He said with a relieved sigh. He pushed himself up to a seated position, gently pushing Meera away. He beckoned for Clegane to draw near.
"I have an important matter to discuss with you," Lord Stark began formally, "that concerns my sister."
Sansa looked down, her eyes wide but a delighted little smile beginning to form on her lips.
Clegane bristled and his face contorted with a snarl. Summer rumbled deep, his hackles beginning to rise. Bran felt a little thrill at the challenge. He was pack leader. Alpha he would remain, though he sensed Clegane's challenge was not meant to truly upset his authority.
"What's it to be, my Lord?" rasped the large man before Bran. "A cup of roots for your sister and my head on a spike? Banishment, might be. Or send me to be gelded with my brothers on the Quiet Isle? Your bannermen will call for nothing less."
"What?" Bran asked in confusion, the fight in him gone for the moment. He looked at his sister, "What?"
"No barking! Listen to what he has to say." Sansa chided Clegane as she stepped nearer to take his hand.
Clegane stood with nostrils flared, staring down the young Lord. Bran turned to look at his sister again. She was flushed and her hand had dropped to her belly. Sister. Pack. Mate. Pup.
"Oh. Oh! No. no." He paused a moment, the visions had come without respect to chronology but he attempted to make sense of them now.
"It's going to be a girl," he said aloud. Meera started next to him, and Clegane and Sansa stood in stunned silence. The hall had gone very quiet around them as everyone stopped their labors to watch the odd scene unfolding before them.
"What the buggering seven hells…" Sandor began, looking down at Sansa. She grasped Clegane's hand tightly in her own, clutching it to her belly.
Bran continued, "I don't know how to arrange a wedding, but the septon's still here for a fortnight."
And that settled that. Let Jon shake his head and the bannermen protest. There was still Arya to marry off and join the houses together, Bran thought to himself ruefully, watching Clegane openly embrace Sansa before everyone in the hall. Bran looked up to find the crannogwoman's green eyes staring down at him with an astonished smile…And there just may be Meera as well.