SANSA

Sansa's body was sore from the bite of the cold. She wrapped herself in an old deerskin, thinking – not without shame – that all the years in the South had made her as brittle as the cold. She was a Stark, she should be able to cope better with the winds and the snow but when she thought of taking on the long way to Winterfell, her heart sank a little. It was not even as much for herself as it was for the women and children Queen Daenerys had brought with her from across the Narrow Sea.

They were used to dry lands with sun on their heads and skin and sleeping under the sun in nothing but thin hides. She had been bringing food and pelts out nearly every day and saw how badly they fared in the cold, worst of all the children. One babe had already died and two elderly women and come the Kingsroad more would follow. Sansa had half the mind to ask the Queen for one of her dragons to fly the weakest to the warm walls of Winterfell – little as was said to remain of them – but she knew Dany would want and need them close. Still, Sansa thought, she would give me all of them to take her people to safety if she could spare them.

Daenerys Stormborn was good, truly, as good as any prince or king in the old takes. Better even, for she was a woman. When she had come to the wall some days and days ago, people had already been calling her Queen, first and foremost Tyrion Lannister, her long lost Lord husband and as people saw the little Lannister call her Queen while he still had a nephew on the Iron Throne, the others had done the same. Sansa did not see a reason to do otherwise. She cared not who sat on the damned chair.

All she still cared about in the world where her brothers and her cousin Jon. And Tyrion Lannister, a little voice in her head whispered spitefully, as if mocking her. She squirmed in her nightgown under her deerskin. She was warming his bed. Their bed. She had not seen the Imp for two long years but they were still married in the eyes of the King's Peace and the eyes of the Gods old and new and so, when they asked her about what chamber she wished to take for her own, she had replied, "I would share a room with my Lord husband."

She could have easily said something else but it was her courtesy and something else that made her reply what it became. She remembered Tyrion standing beside her, his head raised to look up to her and from the corner of her eye she could see him smiling. The truth of it was that Tyrion had finally taken her to safety and reunited her with what was left of her family. Surely, Lady Tarth was to thank for that as well but she was rather matter-of-factly and although Sansa knew the lady cared about her, she wasn't sentimental enough to show it. But Tyrion remained courteous and polite and he did not touch her like Lord Baelish had.

He was there for her, protecting her. He had turned out the closest to all those heroes in the silly stories she had loved so much as a girl. She looked out of the window to the Lord Commander's chambers where the candles and minds were still aflame. She had bid her goodbye shortly after Jon had returned with her Grace, her mouth and his both pink from something other than the cold, she was sure. She had put little Rickon to bed, who was as old and as nimble as Bran when she had last seen him, and retreated to her room.

Now all there was left to do was go to sleep and brace herself for the morning and the day to come but she was restless. And hungry too. She cursed herself for not eating the stew earlier but she didn't dare trouble anyone for something to nibble on now. The Brothers of the Night's Watch looked at her strangely enough already. Half of them where staring after her, Missandei and Daenerys as if their eyes would fall out of their heads and the other half frowned at them, without a doubt thinking that women had no place at the wall. Dany and her handmaiden Missandei in turn payed them no mind, they walked across the snow as if they were soaring a couple of inches above the ground and no man's looks could penetrate them.

Sansa envied their grace and confidence and tried to appear as though she was just as untouched by the whispers and the stares as they were. She told herself it did not matter any more if they all found her weak, she would be gone on the morrow. And yet her departure did not only bear joy. She would say goodbye to her cousin and to Brienne and her husband and it pained her, yes, even the parting with Tyrion pained her. There was still so much she wanted to ask him about. On their long journey up the Kingsroad to the wall, she had found him a great comfort and company. He knew so much and could tell her stories and true tales from history for hours on end. One time when she had admired his wit and knowledge, not as a little talking bird but because she truly believed so, he had told her his head was so big for all these stories and his cleverness. She had laughed at that. She remembered, it had been the first real laugh in many moons.

After pacing a few lengths on her bare feet, she finally sat down on the bed and undid her braids. She hated the way her red hair pushed into her false black, like someone had taken a paint brush and drew a line on the side of her head but she would not cut if off either, not until her real hair went down to her chin at least. She was still a lady. When she had combed it out, she braided it back into a simple knot and lay down. In a strange way, she missed Tyrion's subtle weight on the sheet beside her. She had never slept next to him back at King's Landing and she had always thanked him in the corners of her heart for not forcing himself on her. But upon seeing him again, she found that he wasn't as hideous as she remembered him and also, that she couldn't blame him for the things that happened to her mother and brother at the Frey wedding. Sleeping next to him after was not so bad. If anything, it made her feel safer. Tyrion might not have been the strongest man in Westeros but he was there to guard her all the same.

Thinking this, she must have fallen asleep, because when the feathered bed shook with Tyrion's weight at last, she started, dimly awake.

"My lord," she muttered, it was faintly dawning outside.

"Go back to sleep, sweet child," he replied tenderly and pulled the covers over his small figure, "It's just a dwarf come to share your bed."

Sansa felt her mouth stretch into a lazy smile, "Have you thought of something wicked?"

"Ah, you know me," he said, with a little wink, wine faintly on his breath, "I always do. Sleep well, Lady Stark."

"And you, Tyrion," she knew he didn't like to be called 'Lord' and she wouldn't say the word 'Lannister' in the peace of her own bed but he never seemed to mind. Instead, he gave her a gentle pat on the cheek and blew out the candle he had brought to light the way. Sansa was so quickly back asleep, she hardly noticed it.

When she woke truly, Tyrion was still sound asleep beside her, one of his golden curls hanging deeply into his forehead. In sleep, he looked younger than his years, almost like a little boy and she wondered what plan he had hatched in his wicked, genius mind. Thoughtlessly, she pushed the stray hairs out of his face and Tyrion twitched and opened his eyes. "My Lady," he sounded rather breathless, his eyes trained on the hand she had drawn back as if she had touched hot coals.

"Forgive me," she said, "your hair...it was...I thought..."

"Don't apologize," Tyrion said while he groggily sat up, "I'm your husband and I think I made it clear those two long years ago that you could touch me which ever way it please you."

Sansa cursed the blush she felt blazing on her cheeks, she must have been crimson, red as her hair and could not hold his gaze. Instead she coughed and scurried out of the bed. What was happening to her? Was she growing sentimental after all? Had she not been hardened enough? He was maybe her friend, and only maybe, but he was still the Imp, grotesque...a demon monkey, and worst of all a Lannister. And yet...and yet. She felt his eyes on her and guessed he would behold her either with a smirk or masked disappointment. She did not know which of the two faces she wanted to see less.

"I wish to get dressed now," she said rather curtly and colder than she had intended, her eyes on her feet.

"I will wash up," Tyrion said, his voice not betraying any emotion and then he left her with an oddly hammering heart and trembling hands to tie the straps and laces on her dress. She did not see him until they all broke their fast in the great hall of Castle Black. The rows and seats were packed with Brothers, Targaryen men, a few of Tyrion's Lannister men, Baratheon men and even fewer Dothraki soldiers. They preferred to keep to themselves. Sansa found her brother at the far end, at a table near Jon who bid her a kind good morning.

When she had first seen him at the Wall, he had scarcely paid her any attention. Impassive and abrasive, as if he had never known her and she was just an unwelcome stranger. But since the Red Priestess had worked her magic with Dany's blood on him, he had been kind and attentive to her, yearning, as she figured, for a sense of family so far away from home. But then again, she was only his cousin now. And his other family member, Queen Daenerys, who sat to his right with her fingers occasionally brushing his, commanded his attention in quite another way.

Rickon greeted her more enthusiastically still, with a tight hug and a shy little kiss. Right after, he looked around to make sure no one had seen. He was a big boy now and had picked up already, that showing affection openly often times meant mockery from bigger, yet much much smaller men. Sansa asked about his night and Rickon said he had slept well. Osha said the same, although not quite as convincingly. She was more eager than Sansa herself to get the Wall as far behind her as possible.

"I'd sworn, I'd never go this far north again," she muttered under her breath and over a small plate of fried eggs and black bread.

"We will be on our way soon," Sansa reaffirmed and gave her what she hoped to be a reassuring smile. When she turned her head back, Tyrion caught her eye. He smiled good-heartedly, as if the strangeness of the morning had never happened. Sansa smiled back but shuffled on her seat with unease. The eggs she had been served made her feel queasy. Tyrion's table was alive with many voices, they were talking among themselves and with the nearby tables, of strategies and horrors. Sansa tried to pick something up, something of use but she couldn't hear anything clearly until Maester Samwell barged into the door with a scroll in his hand. He ran on his sturdy legs to Jon and Tyrion's bench. His round belly wobbled with every step and when he arrived, he had to steady himself on Jon's shoulder to take a couple of deep breaths before he could talk. By then, the whole hall had quieted down entirely.

"A raven," he said, still out of air, "A scout...from the East Watch...they're...they are coming. Marching. Dead Men and White Walkers and behind them legions of wildlings and Mance Rayder. He isn't dead at all. He's leading them."

There was a stunned silence following and for a while all they heard was Maester Sam, trying to catch his breath still. Dany was the first to regain her composure, "How many?"

"Six thousand Dead Men, around two thousand White Walkers and another time as many wildlings," the Maester read from his scroll. If the numbers Tyrion had counted the night before were right, they were outnumberd 2 to 1 by the enemy. Sansa couldn't breathe.

"How long until they're here?" Jon asked, he had gotten all stiff and unmoving, only his head was tilted to the side to watch his friend.

"At their pace, four days, five at the latest," Sam replied, "But we best be ready sooner."

And just like that, Daenerys Stormborn slipped out of her part of Queen and stepped into the shoes of a warrior and onto the table. She was still small and thin but her voice carried throughout the hall.

"The women and children, the weak and the wounded will ride at once to safety at Winterfell. Wait there for us and keep the peace banner out. Sansa-" Dany turned to find her and Sansa stood, "Sansa Stark has the command, give her anything she needs to get her ready. Whoever you meet on the Kingsroad, send them our way."

Sansa nodded and sat back down, taking Rickon's shaking hand in hers while Dany went on.

"Everyone else ready their posts. Take down the camp on the other side and load the catapults. Sharpen your swords, repair your armour, spike the wall and man it, prepare. God's be good, this is the moment. Let's not waste time. Up, everyone!"

The clatter and bustling grew so loud, Rickon pressed his hands to his ears and Osha had to carry him from the bench. The boy was shaking like a leaf and Sansa half wanted to bury herself in Osha's bosom as well but everyone had heard that she was in charge and she had to be brave now. Brave like Daenerys, brave like her mother, like her father and her brother. Brave like a Stark. Tyrion was by her side in an instant. "I'm no use for fixing up catapults, I'll help you, if you will allow it."

Sansa nodded and followed the men out into the open. Outside, still no wind blew but men scurried around in wild haste. In a rush, she took Tyrion's hand and walked through the crowd, Osha and Rickon behind them.

"What do you need?" Tyrion asked her, his voice raised to be heard above the shouted commands from left and right.

"Wagons, pelts and as many horses as they can spare," Sansa said and squeezed his hand, "And all the food they won't need for the days left. Hurry."

And with that, he was gone. He wobbled quickly on his short legs, like a weasel and skillfully navigated his way through the many men until he had disappeared among them. "Osha, gather mine and Rickon's things and meet us outside the gates."

The wildling woman shouted a "Yes, m'lady" and took her brother away with her.

"Lady Stark," another woman called out and Sansa spun around to see Missandei running to her, her curly hair tousled from the sprint, "I'll translate."

"Good," Sansa said and pressed on, "Will you join us?"

"I had wanted to stay but the Queen made me swear," she said with a hint of defiance in her voice. She wanted to stay with Daenerys and Sansa understood but none the less, it was better for the Dothraki to have someone with them who understood their tongue and customs.

"You can serve her better with me," Sansa said resolutely, as she signalled for the gate to be opened.

Missandei proved instantly how valuable she was, within minutes, she had roused most of the women and few remaining men in the camp outside Castle Black and as soon as she finished, tents were taken down left and right and mother's loaded up their children and everything else they could carry under the wagons Tyrion had sent out. He had joined later with the food on three carts, enough to sustain them for the walk if they kept to little and far apart portions. Sansa had given a hand where she could and was holding a little babe wrapped in a bearskin, so tiny it fit on her elbow, when the sounds of hooves approaching made everyone stop dead in their tracks.

"Riders!" Sansa called out to no one in particular and surely enough, Tyrion was by her side within seconds, his sword drawn and the men who helped load the wagons did the same.

"Behind me!" she yelled at the women and children and Missandei shouted the translation – quite needlessly. They had all understood. Some ran back into the Castle grounds, the others pressed up against the stone wall. Sansa felt hot with panic, despite the biting cold, but dared not to move. Still, her hand found Tyrion's shoulder and she hung on to him, trusting finally that he would do all in his power to protect her.

"No one will harm you," he said and she dug her nails into his jerkin, unable to utter a single word.

At last the riders came, less than she expected, clad in warm pelts but carrying no banner. In total, it must have been a hundred men but at their front was no man. A girl rode there, high on her horse, with long dark hair mussed from the wind. She had a long face, olive skin and even from afar she seemed familiar, so familiar. Like someone from an old dream, but older, grown up.

"Arya," Sansa muttered before her recognition had fully sunken in, as blue eyes locked on grey ones, "It's Arya! That's my sister!"

Next: TYRION