XxX
Within a day of Lord Baelish's execution, Sansa received word from the Wall. A boy of no more than ten arrived on horseback. The letter he carried, hastily scrawled and signed by Lord Commander Eddison Tollett, said that the youngest brother of the Night's Watch had been chosen to bring word of a devastating attack. It made sense. The horse could cover more ground with such a light burden. And, in doing the smart thing, they had also saved the boy's life. She remembered that Jon counted Tollett as a friend and could see the mark of it in this choice. She hoped he yet lived.
Sansa had the boy brought to her solar, where the maids plied him with hot broth and furs.
His name was Griff if it please your ladyship. In his nervousness he ran it all together, so it sounded as if the second part was his title. He rallied then, raising his chin and declaring that the Lord Commander assigned him to Winterfell. As soon as it came, though, his courage waned. He unfolded his tale haltingly, crying big, hot tears that dripped into the mug of broth he clutched.
The Wall had fallen. The Night King had destroyed it with a dragon that breathed blue flame. And now the dead, over a hundred thousand of them, were making their way south. Sansa realized then that, no matter what Jon had said, she'd always believed that the Wall would protect them. It was eternal, unassailable. She had believed in it so deeply she had not even counted it among her beliefs. Her trust in it had outlasted all the gods.
Learning of its destruction was like discovering that the ground had turned to snakes beneath her feet. The Night King could be flying here even now, and they would be helpless before him. Every man, woman, and child dead, converted to swell his ranks. She tightened her hand into a fist and took careful breaths around the fear trying to claw its way up her throat.
The boy was looking at her, terrified green eyes in a narrow little face, as if she had all the answers. She remembered being that young once. Believing that somebody would protect her, somebody would fix things. It took her so long to realize that they never would.
Perhaps this child could be saved from that hard lesson for a while yet. Sansa composed herself, and did what her lady mother would do. "You are a very brave young man, Griff," she told the boy. "And you have done Winterfell a good service, in bringing us this news." The Wall was gone now and they might all fall with it. But if they didn't, she would see that this boy had the chance at a new life. Something better than the misery of the Wall. Perhaps working in the stables, if he liked horses, or as a guard.
Pride swelled in him, straightening his carriage, firming the expression on his tear-streaked face. "Thank you, my lady," he said, his tone clear and strong for the first time in their conversation.
When Rynna came to collect the dishes, Sansa put the boy in her care. She was a good woman, from one of the small farmholds. She and her family had come, as their people had for generations, to survive the winter protected in these walls. Winterfell was a promise to all the people of the North, that life would return. Winter would end. It was promise Sansa would keep faith with.
But she could not do it alone. That was outside her powers. She stood, went to the window. Her view was obscured by driving snow. The daylight was already gone, fading hour by hour before the Night King's advance.
Where was Jon and his-Sansa recalled Littlefinger's description of her with annoyance-beautiful, young, unmarried queen? Could they still be idling in King's Landing, attempting to persuade Cersei Lannister to see reason? That was a hopeless task, which she might have explained to Jon had he consulted her. On anything whatsoever.
Regardless, Sansa wanted him here, and even the Targaryen queen he'd chosen without seeking anyone's counsel. Winterfell could use her armies and dragons. With Jon's military skill, it might be enough to beat the dead back. Hope came to her then; the Wall was gone and so were the gods, but Winterfell and its people remained. And Jon Snow, who would fight for them with all his heart. While he did that, Sansa could figure out how to salvage something of his reign from his own political naivete.
But first he must return, while there were those yet living in the North to reign over.
XxX
"This dragon queen," Arya said, appearing beside Sansa in the corridor, "what do you make of her?"
"We will die without her," Sansa replied, curtly. That was true enough. She had made a promise to herself never to lie to Arya. She would not even play at the edges of it. They had built the bridge between them with truth, and it was by truth that they would maintain it.
But she didn't have to say everything she thought at once.
Arya cocked her head, taking that in. She maintained silence the rest of the way to Sansa's chambers. Once the door was closed, Arya smirked: "All right. What do you really think of her?"
"I think we will die without her," Sansa repeated. "And," she brought out the part she had left unspoken, "I fear what living with her afterward might be like. As I might with any unknown monarch."
Arya walked to the fireplace where she stood, facing Sansa, her hands folded behind her back. "Some people say she's like her father the Mad King. That she has a taste for burning people alive."
"I've heard that. But Lord Tyrion would not serve a mad queen," Sansa said. "Not as I knew him, at least." She took up a seat across from where Arya stood. "I'll need to observe them, to know for sure."
"And if you don't like what you see?" Arya asked, probing at her. Her watchful eyes could be as sharp as her knives. At least Sansa knew now that it was not ill meant. They were on the same side. This frankness might save them all, as it had when Littlefinger tried to set them at each other's throats.
"She's Jon's choice," Sansa said, probing right back. "I thought that might make you a partisan in her favor."
"You were Jon's choice too, for regent," Arya reminded her, "but I didn't trust you until I saw proof."
Something inside Sansa cringed at the memory of that. More time needed to pass, before she could look at it without feeling intense vertigo. It was as if she had nearly stepped off one of the high towers in a fog. They had been a moment away from being dashed on the rocks, all of them. Now that it was over, she tried to accept Arya as she was, without flinching. And be thankful for her. The years had done much to both of them. Sansa was hardly a normal girl herself anymore. There were times when only the memory of Ramsay Bolton's screams, the coppery scent of his blood, brought her peace.
"So, what will you do, if she really is mad?"
"That is my biggest concern," Sansa admitted. "If she proves dangerous, who might stand against her? House Targaryen once more has dragons." A mad queen with utter military dominance, able to destroy armies with one breath from the lungs of her beasts. It was a nightmare come to life.
Surely it wasn't so. Could Lord Tyrion be deceived or so changed in his character? Could Jon spend weeks with her and not see it? And yet the thought gnawed at her, circling through her mind with memories of King's Landing. She would never forget what it meant, to be a plaything for the caprice of kings and queens. There had been so much comfort in Jon's reign, even when they disagreed. He would never hurt anyone like that, not even a stranger. And yet he had handed her safety away to a woman she did not know, without even seeking her advice first.
It was his right, as her king. And yet her heart ached. She thought he understood her better.
She hoped this queen was a paragon, so she could find reason to forgive at once. But Jon's straightforward good nature could easily be used against him. Mad did not mean stupid, as Ramsay Bolton had taught her.
Arya pulled out her knife, demonstrating, "Slit her throat from behind," she slashed the knife through the air, across an invisible throat, its bright Valyrian steel blade glimmering in the firelight, "and the beasts won't know who did it. If I take her face, they might be fooled long enough for Bran to warg them." She flipped the blade lightly and returned it to its sheath.
Sansa sat back in her chair, astonished. "You've thought this through," she said. And it might just work too. At least it was something. It was far more than Sansa had been able to come up with, as her mind kept her awake, spinning out the tortures she might have to endure. The things she might have to do to keep her family safe.
As if the Night King's march was not nightmare enough.
"I do it for a lot of people," Arya admitted, watching Sansa's face. "It's good to have a plan," she said, "that way you're never helpless." There was a kind of easy friendliness about her now. As if she was sharing a trick for getting a good night's sleep. You just warm up some hot milk, sister, and plot a murder or two.
"Why are you sharing your plan with me now?" Sansa asked, putting the pieces together in her mind.
"You looked like you needed it," Arya said, and the final piece clicked together, along with a warmth in Sansa's heart that was so sharp it was almost painful. "If she's a monster, you won't have to placate her," Arya said, a rage so deep and so fierce it had become a kind of bright calm coming over her. "You won't have to let her hurt you. You won't have to pretend for her or lie for her or sit around helpless. None of us will, ever again."
This was her sister's best heart. The nature of her love. It was beautiful, for all that it was fearsome. And it was open to Sansa, as much as Jon or Bran. She could feel that now, in the gift of Arya choosing to share her plan. Tears flashed hot in Sansa's eyes. "Thank you, Arya."
Arya smiled. "Don't mention it." On the way out, she paused to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "It's the least I can do. You make nice with the lords all day, so I don't have to."
Sansa laughed, reaching up to squeeze Arya's hand. Arya's love was very different than the comfort Jon gave her, but it spoke to a part of her he didn't. Arya had learned something, in her own way, similar to Sansa. Determination to rip the throats from anyone who would again make her powerless. And pleasure in the thought of it, too.
After Arya left, silent as a cat, Sansa stared into the flames a while, recalculating her concerns around this new information. When she returned to her desk full of paperwork, she felt lighter. They had all grown strange, in one way or another. Returning home broken and remade by the world. Each having learned different ways to survive. And they would fight with all their hearts for each other.
XxX
When the Targaryen dragons appeared in the skies over Winterfell, Sansa finally knew relief. They circled once, twice, three times, as graceful on the wing as hunting birds, though one looked to be the size of Winterfell's largest tower. Everyone rushed outside, stared up, awestruck. Every hour of the day since Sansa had learned of the Night King's dragon she had feared its coming. Imagined it laying waste to Winterfell with one breath of its blue fire.
She had no defense against it.
There was no defense, except another dragon. And now Winterfell hosted two. Sansa grudgingly made a mark in the Targaryen queen's favor in her mind. Jon must have received her raven, and the queen had willingly rushed here to them, ahead of her armies. She didn't have to do that.
After their impressive show, the dragons landed, politely, outside the walls. It was another gesture intended to reassure, and Sansa took it as such. However, the beasts were a weapon. No matter how delicately you held a weapon, it was always a threat.
Sansa walked, with Arya at her side, to greet them at the gates. In her mind, everything would be proper and careful. This was a Targaryen, after all, a house of people known as much for their refinement as their madness. She assumed that was what had caught Jon wrong-footed in his negotiations with the queen. Honestly, what else did Sansa expect? It was no mark against their characters that Jon and Ser Davos were not prepared to deal with such a woman and her advisors.
Jon's honesty and forthrightness sufficed among the Northern lords, who had an instinctive respect for homespun virtues. But the Targaryens were not of the North. She imagined him standing before a queen seated on a dragon, clothed in purple silk, with a crown of silver so pure it was like a moon upon her head, and… being himself. Heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. Ser Davos at his side, the light of pride shining in his eyes.
Gods, and they'd been there for over a month. Held captive, Jon probably going out of his mind with the need to return home to his people.
Sansa straightened to her full height and mentally prepared for a conversation like the ones she'd witnessed at King's Landing, nobles dueling with words, attentive to every detail. Sansa could not fight on the field of battle, but she knew this arena well enough. She could show the queen that House Stark knew something of the world.
If her best hopes were realized, she would find something to work with in this queen.
When they reached the gates, the absurdity of her mental preparation became clear. The moment that Arya and Jon saw each other it was as if they were children again, running across the courtyard, wide smiles on their faces. Jon scooped Arya up in a hug and spun her, his face pressed against her hair, eyes closed in rapture. He seemed to breathe her in.
Sansa felt the tension in the crowd of people who had formed at a respectful distance ease then. If Jon and Arya were so comfortable around the queen, they must be safe too. The people moved away, most returning to their work. A few hung as near as they could, under the pretense of some task or another.
Sansa herself watched from outside the circle of this warm reunion, somewhat at a loss. Then her gaze found the Targaryen queen, also standing forgotten in the light of their affection. She was a vision. Sansa found her attention arrested by every detail of the queen, from the elegant white furs she wore to her intricate braids and the stunning look of the infamous Targaryen features. None of the images Sansa had seen of the queen's ancestors did it justice.
She was like something out of a legend.
Sansa had heard songs of beauty that could strike a man dumb. She remembered losing track of her own words in the presence of Margaery's encompassing warmth. Such charm, she imagined, must be what the poets meant. It had often been the sole joy of her days, to be caught up in that dizzy excitement. Around Margaery, Sansa had come alive in every nerve and, for the short time they were together, being alive didn't hurt. In contrast to that warmth, Daenerys Targaryen seemed to still her very thoughts. She was so perfect and small, Sansa had the strangest desire to pick her up, set her someplace high to admire her.
When Sansa's distraction waned, she became annoyed at herself. She intended to impress the queen, not gawp at her like a rube.
"Where's Bran?" Jon asked, setting Arya down.
"He's resting," Arya said, casually. Sansa appreciated once more her capacity for lying; Bran was almost constantly warging now, to track the movements of the Army of the Dead. However, she and Arya had decided to keep as much of the scope of Bran's sight concealed from the queen as they could. His gift had saved them from Littlefinger, and it might be needed to save them from this queen one day too.
A look of sorrow crossed Jon's face. "Of course."
"Are you going to introduce us?" Arya asked, looking over at the Targaryen queen, seemingly unimpressed by her grandeur. For once, Sansa was glad for her sister's casual disdain for pretty things. She wished that she too was so unmoved.
"Oh, yes," Jon said, turning to extend a hand to the queen. It was a casual gesture that conveyed intimacy, and the queen accepted it, stepping closer and smiling at them as she took Jon's arm.
Sansa took note of that, waiting to be introduced before she spoke. "This is…" Jon turned to Arya, who was nearest, and Sansa nearly winced: it was not sibling jealousy but simple decorum that demanded Sansa be introduced first. Foregoing it indicated a lack of sophistication that spoke of political vulnerability. Though she doubted there was much face to be saved on that front at this point. Nevertheless, it still pleased her when, at the last moment, he remembered protocol. "The Lady of Winterfell," he said, with such pride in his voice she felt her heart warm at it, "my sister, Sansa Stark."
Sansa stepped forward and gave the graceful nod of acknowledgement she had planned – it was respectful, but the respect due an equal visiting one's domain, not the submission of a subject. She watched the queen's face closely; her response might tell much. "You are welcome to Winterfell, your grace," Sansa said.
"Thank you, Lady Stark," the queen replied. She showed no hint of offense. Rather, her features softened and Sansa saw her hand tighten on Jon's arm. "Lord Tyrion speaks very highly of you," she said, in a clear effort to be kind. "As does your brother."
As with her rush to their defense and the way she comported her dragons, this showed good grace. She was trying, very hard, to make herself agreeable. That did not explain her motives, but it gave reason for hope.
A queen like Cersei would have given her true nature away within minutes of arriving. This queen was either better or smarter. Perhaps both.
Jon beamed down at the queen and then looked up at Sansa, naked eagerness in his eyes. Sansa felt her heart twist; he looked like a proud little boy showing off something precious he had found. Like Bran had the day he brought home his direwolf. Jon had found a magical creature to adore. This one last time, Littlefinger was right.
Sansa had thought Jon wiser than that. The last time she had been overawed by a pretty monarch, she was a child. And the world had savaged her for it. Searing places in her heart with a hot knife until they were numb and dead. Those places were still alive in Jon. It was painful to witness.
Life is not a song.
If everything went right, he would never know what it was like to lose that innocence. Even if they went terribly wrong, she and Arya would lie to protect him. She wouldn't wish it otherwise; she wouldn't wish what had happened to her on anyone she loved. But it put a distance between them, like the distance she had felt before the Battle of Winterfell. There were things he simply could not understand.
Sansa's only comfort was that the queen did not seem unmoved by him. There was a girlish sweetness about her way with Jon. It surprised and concerned Sansa. She had shown people what they wished to see often enough. Sweetness could be feigned. Even with dragons to protect her, there must be something hard as steel inside a woman to make a queen.
"I'm honored to hear it," Sansa replied, keeping her tone sincere but not too warm. This queen had found Jon an easy conquest. It would do her good to have to work harder for the rest of them.
"And this is Lady Arya," Jon said, his arm around Arya's shoulders. "The bravest wolf of us all." Joy returned to his eyes then. "I see you still have Needle," he said, interrupting his own introduction, nudging Arya with his hip.
It became clear then that Jon would neglect to introduce the queen officially at all. Sansa watched closely, seeing how she would respond to the unintentional insult. Where did her sweetness find its limit? And what did she do once that limit was reached?
Arya nudged him back, far more roughly. "Yes, and I know what to do with it too," she said, grinning. "We should spar sometime," she continued, then tossed off in the queen's direction: "Nice to meet you." So very casual, as if she was greeting the blacksmith's wife.
That insult was wholly intentional, Arya cheerfully piling it atop of Jon's oversight. Their sister enjoyed provoking people, and there was utility to it. How would the queen react? Sansa held her breath.
"I would like to see that," the queen replied, as if she had not been snubbed. "If you don't mind."
Arya raised an eyebrow. "Do you like combat, your grace?" It was one of those sharp questions Arya asked now, where it seemed as if her judgment of you rested entirely upon your answer.
"I have seen my share of it," the queen said, her tone serious. Neither boasting nor showing regret for anything she had done.
Arya nodded. The queen had apparently passed this test. "On your dragon," she said and finally looked awed by this singular little queen. Of course it would be the dragons that did it. Sansa felt a little shabby beside such magnificence: the beauty and grace of a lady and dominance in combat.
It didn't seem fair, or safe, for there to be a queen like that.
She might have a heart like Margaery, generous enough in the exercise of power to make a good queen. But if she was cruel, she could outstrip even the most dangerous monarchs Westeros had known. Sansa comforted herself with Arya's darkest plan, in case the situation proved intolerable. There was so much room between here and there, however, and much to be learned of this queen.
Jon reached out, as if to ruffle Arya's hair, and then seemed to think better of it: his touch instead became soft, cupping of the back of her head. "I must speak to the lords first."
"You must be weary from your long journey," Sansa interjected, concerned about what a meeting with the lords would look like. For once, couldn't Jon just let her advise him in private before hashing everything out in the open? "There are rooms prepared, and food, if you would like to rest first."
Jon took precisely the wrong cue from her subtle message. His eyes tracked over her face; he looked concerned. "We went ahead of the queen's armies when I got your raven, it's true. But our journey is nothing compared to your trials here, and your fortitude."
At times his kindness exhausted her. It was always well meant, but sometimes so utterly out of place. If he wished to reward her for her fortitude, all he had to do was take her cue and let her speak to him in private for a moment.
He was, thankfully, sensitive enough to see that she did not warm to his words. He approached, but did not draw her into a grand embrace, merely clasped her shoulder, looked into her eyes. "We have come to keep Winterfell safe," he said.
He had learned, since the last time, not to swear to protect her in absolute terms. Though not the precise reasons why it had offended her so, since he continued to miss the point. But that was the trouble with missing the point, wasn't it? He didn't even know what he had missed. Sansa raised her own hand to clasp his, reminded of the similar moment she had shared with Arya.
The queen did not react to the way he casually spoke for them as a "we," though it was altogether inappropriate. He had bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, agreeing to abide by her commands and serve her with his life. The only one of the two allowed to speak of what "we" would do was the queen herself.
Jon continued in that casual fashion, extending his arm to the queen. She took it and let him lead the way inside. A queen intending to cow her new subjects would not have allowed so much from Jon, their former monarch. Sansa exchanged a look with Arya and followed. If Jon insisted on doing it this way, it might not be altogether useless.
Sansa had tried to save him from the verbal lashing he was about to receive. But since he insisted on it, she would let the lords wear themselves out pestering him, then assert herself when they had vented enough to receive it. Hopefully that would occur before the queen's tolerance ran out. If all went well, they would come out of this all right and she might see something more of this queen's character. She followed with a certain confidence in her step, mentally refining arguments to soothe the bannermen's objections.