3. The Ones She Had Lost and the Ones She Had Found


Auburn.

The small flashes of colour in her peripheral vision kept catching her eye. Strands of auburn, floating amidst the black and white of the winter night. Her hair, dancing in the wind, blowing past her face no matter how many times she tried to brush it away. Perhaps she should have followed her sister's example and cut it. But longer suited her more. And it helped having something to focus on.

It was strange how the mind would seize on small things like that; little things like colours. Sansa had experienced it before: in the most triumphant and the most terrible moments of her life, there was always a small detail that would spring into her focus and linger. It could distract from pain and ground her when she became too euphoric. This didn't do either, but it stopped her thoughts from wandering too far out into the dark of the night, instead forcing her to focus on something closer. That was why she had come up here in the first place. Walking helped clear her mind.

The battlements were a cold place. A harsh wind was blowing, causing a bone-deep chill even through her thick layers of fur. The watchers on the walls were shivering in their cloaks, huddled close around the braziers. They looked as miserable as was to be expected. Though their faces lit up a little when they saw her approach, Sansa noted with satisfaction. She made sure to greet every one of them.

At this point, there wasn't a lot left she could do. The preparations were made, the tactic was clear, and Sansa was self-aware enough to know that in the fight itself she wouldn't be of much help. But she could inspire confidence still. The men would need every bit of it for what was to come.

Sansa didn't want to imagine how the Dragon Queen's soldiers fared in this cold. The Northmen were as prepared as they could be for the winter, but there hadn't been time to do the same for the Unsullied and Dothraki. Truth be told, Sansa hadn't thought she would have to worry about them, too. She had figured that if Daenerys led them north, she knew what awaited them and would make her own preparations. Evidently, she hadn't.

Sansa really didn't know what Jon saw in the woman. Yes, she was a good talker, and she did have fear-inspiring dragons, but beyond that? Sansa couldn't see it. She knew her half-brother well enough to know that he wouldn't just have fallen for her pretty face, but like most men it was likely to blind him to the Dragon Queen's less than admirable qualities. Like her lust for power and control, for one. To Sansa, that part was as obvious as anything; had been even before their short one-on-one conversation. She had seen the same drive in many men, in several variations, and it was always dangerous.

Her brother didn't seem to see it. When all this was over, Sansa would have to have a talk with Arya. She was the only one Jon would probably listen to.

On the north wall, she came upon the Hound and his friend from the brotherhood. The two of them were sharing a flask of wine, something Sansa would advise against so close before the battle, but she swallowed that comment back down. It wasn't like Sandor Clegane of all people would listen to her. He'd arrived in Jon's entourage, but for all intents and purposes he didn't seem to belong to anybody, or take order from anyone.

"M'lady." Lord Beric greeted her.

"Lady Stark." rumbled the Hound.

He was growing old, Sansa noted. There were strands of grey in his beard. His eyes were older, too, but they still inspected her with the same lack of respect, even though a lifetime had passed since the night of the siege of Kings Landing. "Little bird has grown up." he said.

"Don't drink too much." she replied. It was worth a try.

He gave a throaty chuckle. "Are you giving me orders now?"

"Yes." Sansa left it at that and continued her walk. Part of her wanted to sit down and talk to this man; the genuinely curious, childish side of her. The sensible woman knew that it was unlikely he would survive the night and wanted to spare herself the pain. If she knew one thing about the man back there, it was that when battle broke out, he would be right in the middle of it. As long as there was no fire involved. But that seemed unlikely, given their enemy.

There were a lot of people inside these walls whose faces she likely would not see again. She shouldn't think about it too much. This was war, and people died in war.

People like Jon. Or Brienne. Or Theon.

Sansa never would have thought she would someday be worried for Theon Greyjoy. As children, they had never exchanged more than a few words with one another; he had struck her as vain and irresponsible. Then he had attacked Winterfell and killed her brothers – or so she'd thought. The next time Sansa had seen him, years later, was as Ramsey's puppet, willing to do whatever the cruel bastard asked him to. She had hated him.

And yet now the thought of losing him was almost as bad as losing one of her family. Perhaps helping each other through the hardships that they had always created this sort of bond; Sansa wouldn't know. What she did know was that he had changed and that he was still trying to make amends for what he'd done. Perhaps that was why she found it so easy to talk with him. And why she didn't want him to die.

Sansa shook her head. Theon would be with Bran in the Godswood, keeping him safe. Perhaps the both of them would never even see any fighting. She hoped that would be the case.

She had made the round once around the entire castle without really noticing. Up in the keep above her, she could see a light burning, its shine bright in the dark of the night. The library, she realized. Probably Jon, still looking over the battle plan. Or just someone else who couldn't sleep. If she weren't feeling so restless, Sansa might have done the same.

Her eyes lingered on the lit window, and the gargoyle she knew was right atop it. She had seen this façade a hundred times as a child. The building hadn't changed at all. How strange it was that it hadn't changed, when everything around it had, Sansa thought. Eight years ago, she had left this castle an entirely different person; head filled with thoughts of pretty ladies and brave knights.

Sansa frowned at her own past self. She had been so naïve, and in the end it had cost her father his head. And people had been sure to exploit her foolishness. First Joffrey, then Cersei, then Littlefinger – Sansa didn't like thinking back to those days. She had been the plaything of others for a very long time.

Arya had never been another's plaything. That at least hadn't changed a bit. Sansa chuckled to herself. No, she couldn't picture anyone ever successfully telling her sister what to do. She barely listened to her, and they had become as close as such wildly different people like them probably could be. Arya had definitely inherited most of the Stark blood in the family, and all the audacity and stubbornness that came with it.

It was part of what Sansa had come to admire about her sister. When they were children, she had dismissed those qualities as basic wilfulness that Arya would never grow out of, making her completely unfit to be a lady. In part that had undoubtedly been true. Her tendency to break rules had endured to this day – but it no longer seemed like such a bad thing to Sansa. Some rules, she had learned, had to be broken.

She admired Jon for his bravery, too – even though it often blurred the line towards foolishness. To lead an expedition north of the Wall? Most men would shy at the very thought, especially knowing what was out there. That took courage, and Sansa sometimes wished that her brother had a little bit less of it.

Both of them were impossible at times, and Sansa wondered what it would be like to have normal siblings instead of the ones she had ended up with. Someone of whom she could reasonably predict what they were going to do. Sansa almost wished for a reality like that. Except; she didn't. Not really.

Even Bran… the way he had just accepted his role as a pawn sacrifice to win this battle – had suggested it, really. That took more than courage. He had become so strangely apathetic compared to the wilful, lively boy Sansa remembered, but sometimes, like in there, there was still a spark in his eyes that she recognized. Sansa didn't know the half of his journey, and since he had come back she had been too preoccupied to ask him. In this moment she regretted it, since now she might never get the opportunity again. If he should die in this dangerous, insane plan of his – Sansa refused to follow that train of thought. None of them would die. They couldn't. Not after only just having found each other again.

What their mother would say if she could see them now. Sansa smiled at the thought. First, Catelyn Stark would probably fuss about how big they had all gotten. And then she'd tell them not to be afraid, and probably would give each of them advice for the coming hours. The thought was strangely comforting.

Sansa hadn't thought about her mother in a long time. On some level, that made her feel guilty. On the other hand, she felt that Catelyn would not have wanted her to dwell on her passing at all. She'd been a woman who'd lived for the present and planned for the future, after all.

Father was another matter. Sansa still thought about him often – or, more accurately, she often thought about that day. That moment had shaped her; when the executioner's sword had fallen, and with it her entire world that she had been living in. For the first time she had seen behind the pretty façade of Kings Landing, and it had shaken her. At one point, after seeing her father's head left to rot on a pike, she had considered killing herself along with the monster who was responsible for it.

But she hadn't, and she was still here. Sansa took a deep breath, feeling a cold tear on her cheek. She wiped it away. She missed both of them still. But the memory no longer paralyzed like it had before. There was something to be learned from every failure and every loss. Sansa had failed enough for two lifetimes, but she had learned. She intended to use every ounce of that knowledge to keep harm away from herself and her family. And with Jon, Bran and Arya had come the confidence that they would survive. No matter what the world threw at them.

A cold wind caught her cloak and made it billow behind her. It was coming from the north. Sansa turned her face into the wind. "You can't frighten me." she told the gathering storm clouds.