Tyrion
"To think, after pleading for your life in Winterfell, after fighting all those smelly corpse fuckers..."
Moat Cailin was just as gloomy as he remembered, even on a bright, chilly winter's day, garrisoned as it was now by several armies, include several advance battalions of the Unsullied who had joined the march south, but no further. Tyrion did not want to leave his Queen, but he was glad to leave the North for the time being. He supposed that there were few places he looked forward to at this point in his life, bad memories sullying most places in the Seven Kingdoms by now for him, but there were certainly places he'd prefer not to be in. And though there was a certain charm now to Winterfell he can't deny, and some semblance of sentimentality towards how they had all come together to defend the realm there, he wasn't a bad person for still looking for a change of pace.
"I'm the one who fought them," Jaime said, somewhat jokingly. "You hid in the crypts with all the women and children."
"I was ordered to hide by the Queen," Tyrion countered, a bit more defensively than he would have liked. "I offered to stand on the ramparts. Besides, it was no less safe down there during the end. I stabbed one or two of those dusty cunts...in between hiding behind graves and trying not to shit myself."
"Didn't you tell me Sansa killed more than you," Jaime asked skeptically.
"Maybe one more," Tyrion admitted. "She's taller, you know. She has far longer reach than me." He chuckled, the sight of the two of them frantically stabbing the wights as they scrambled through the narrow hallway made for a ridiculous sight if it weren't for how terrifying it was. "Father would be proud. I finally killed a Stark. Albeit one that's been dead for probably hundreds of years."
Jaime laughed, and patted him on the back. A welcome sensation for him. "I'm proud of you too. You've survived more than you should have."
"More than I deserve," Tyrion agreed, feeling those dark thoughts creeping up his throat. "My point is...after all this, here we stand. On opposing sides once more."
"Opposing," Jaime asked, eyebrow raised, as if to question his little brother's sanity. "Forgive me, I thought here we were, marching together south to commit murder upon our own kin. Each for a second time no less."
Tyrion grumbled, not wanting a reminder of his last moments with his father, but it was his own fault in bringing it up in the first place. He saw that Jaime himself did not look altogether comfortable either. Even though it was just some cousin he killed, he knew his brother to be a man of conscience, despite what everyone else thought. And he knew that while Jaime Lannister had done horrible things before, and could do horrible things again, he never committed his crimes without thought.
"You think Sansa is truly marching south for Daenerys?"
Jaime shook his head, and Tyrion regretted bringing the awkwardness of their respective politics into their conversations. They had little time together of late already, and who knew what the future would bring. But the conversation had to be had.
"Of course not," Jaime said, his eyes a tad bitter at the inference Tyrion unwittingly made upon his own intelligence. "She has her own purposes, I'll give you that. But do you really think she'd declare war on your queen? After what she did to save Winterfell?"
"No. But our Queen has been in a coma for weeks now. Who knows if she will wake?"
"What do you think she wants then? Certainly not for Cersei to take back all the seven kingdoms. Nor does she seem like the kind who wants to take her place."
"She wants the North. She said as much to Daenerys." He rubbed his beard. Sansa was harder to read these days. It made him proud, in a way, the poor girl everyone pitied back in King's Landing now acting as a formidable power in her own right. But it bothered him that his former wife, whom he had treated with kindness as much as he could, was now a foe, and openly acting as such more and more.
"So why are we marching down to the Riverlands then?"
"I don't know for sure."
"Why don't you ask her? Didn't you say the two of you had a...tender moment down in the crypts?"
Tyrion shook his head. It was so simple then, faced with the thought of imminent death. But even then it wasn't, politics having come up despite the threat of being hacked to bits by the dead. And it was true, he did feel down in the crypts a positive advancement of their relationship. Not that he held any delusions that Sansa had any interest in renewing their marriage, but her coldness to him now felt like an all the more bitter rejection, though he had to remind himself it was not a personal one, but directed at the Queen he served.
"She's been cold to me ever since the battle. It seems with the Queen's absence, she sees me as even less trustworthy as before. Which means she's plotting." He stopped, and looked at Jaime, who was studying him back with equal fervor. Jaime was his brother, he should be able to trust him. But Tyrion had not been lying when he said that Jaime was sworn to the other side now...a possible enemy. "Allies," he finally confessed. "She's here to build alliances so that when Daenerys does wake, Sansa will be in a stronger position to ask for an independent North."
Jaime shook his head. It was nothing against his brother, but it did take him longer to grasp the subtleties of statecraft.
"They're already her allies."
"In theory," Tyrion explained. "She needs face time with those lords to build up true relationships. She's perfectly capable of it too...look how she already holds the Vale in her hands. Now she comes down with two armies...a show of force, and if by any chance our sister is foolish enough send armies to be destroyed up north during the winter, it will be said that it was Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, not a comatose Queen, or Jon Snow, a man who knelt to the said Queen, who defended the northern kingdoms from Cersei."
His brother thought on those words for a time, letting them simmer in his mind, before shaking his head again.
"Yeah," he said, with a smile that Tyrion knew to be the one he reserved for mild indifference, "see, I don't really care about all that."
"What if it comes to war," Tyrion asked. He wouldn't admit it, but he was pleading with his brother. After everything they had been through, not having to fight him against was the only thing Tyrion sincerely wanted out of life at this point. That, and seeing his Queen on the Iron Throne, of course.
"It won't," Jaime said, too quickly for his taste.
"How can you know for sure?"
"She's not stupid," he replied, smirking. "Your Queen has the dragons. They'll burn away whatever alliances she can build down there."
Cersei
"My Queen, I bring news from the North."
It was odd. Qyburn had always been a creature of convenience for her. Someone she could trust, someone she could turn to when there was no one else, not even Jaime. But there was a comfort to his voice now, a familiarity that in a different life could have come to her from a kindly father, one she never had.
"What is it?"
"The dead are defeated, but at great cost. Both dragons survive, however."
"Good," Cersei said, repeating the same word she uttered when news of the Wall falling reached her. "If the dead won, their armies would have doubled. If the living won, their army halved. I did hope they could have taken out one of those damned dragons." She smirked, stepping away from the window, admiring the rows of scorpions they had mounted onto the city walls while her foolish brother mounted his crusade up north. "But that will make it more satisfying when we destroy both of them."
"There are rumors," Qyburn continued, a shadow of a smile that told her she would savor the news. "The Dragon Queen has not been seen since the battle."
"She's dead?"
"No. She fell during the battle, and was found in a comatose state. They are not sure if she will wake again."
Cersei sighed. It was good news. But it wasn't great news. For the dragon bitch to pass away in her sleep in the icy wastes of the North seemed an anti-climatic end for her. She'd take it, no doubt, but she would have savored being the Queen who gave the order for Gregor to hack off the bitch's head. Slowly, for once. And the kingdoms would love her, for a change, having saved them all from fire and blood from a foreign land.
"Her armies ride south, however. It appears they will march on King's Landing even without their Queen."
"Is that so?" This seemed too good to be true. Such blessings never happened naturally for her, she had to claw and scrape for every advantage she's ever had in life. "Tell Captain Strickland to march north and wipe them out."
"Your Grace," Qyburn began, and Cersei stopped to listen. She was not Joffrey, a fool who could not bear to hear anything contrary to her own whims. As long as the counsel came without an personal agenda, the one thing she could trust from her Hand, she would be an idiot not to at least hear it out. "Are you that is wise? The Northmen have the advantages of winter, and of fighting on familiar ground."
"The North are as weak as they'll ever be," Cersei rebutted, firmly enough to hint that Qyburn's arguments were not strong enough to sustain the debate. "Every second we waste while the Dragon Queen sleeps is every second we rue when she wakes and takes her dragons south. Jon Snow is a fool. He should have lost Winterfell to the Boltons and would have if his sister, and that traitor Littlefinger, didn't come to his rescue in the last minute. There will be no savior for him this time around, we've made sure of that."
"Very well, Your Grace." The old man stopped and moved to leave, before remembering something else. "Oh, and Lord Baelor's sons have arrived in the capital, pledging their swords and that of House Hightower's to the Crown's defense."
This was good as well, evidence that her strategy, one that Jaime had been too foolish to see even in the very last minute, was continuing to bear fruit.
"Alac, was it?"
"Yes, Your Grace. And the younger one, Arthur."
This could be useful. Ever since the Tarlys were burnt, far too few bannerman other than her own had rallied to her side. A prestigious house such as the Hightowers was more she could hope for at this point, though she would never admit that. Regardless, this was too valuable of an opportunity to waste.
"Ser Alac will take charge of King's Landing's defenses. Send the younger one north with the Golden Company, he'll ride alongside Captain Strickland."
"A wise decision, Your Grace. Young Arthur Hightower will give our armies a familiar face at its head."
She smiled and turned, Qyburn immediately taking the signal to leave. Yes, few things panned out her way, but her Hand was one of them. It was good not to have to explain everything, unlike with Jaime. To think, she ever thought he would make a good Hand for King Robert. What a foolish young thing she had been.
Sansa
She did her best to smile at Meera Reed. The debt she owed to her, to her brother, for what they did for Bran, could never be repaid. From what she heard, the young daughter of Howland Reed had left Winterfell in a huff. She never knew why exactly, but not after long was able to attribute it simply to Bran being Bran. It made her hate Jaime Lannister sometimes, as Sansa often wondered what a grown Bran, a real Bran Stark, not this Three Eyed Raven sitting in its place, would be like. One thing it did mean was that she would certainly not be the current Lady of Winterfell. Would it be worth it? If their lives were anything close to normal, she'd say yes. Perhaps their father could have made a match between him and Meera. Perhaps Robb could have lived, and she could enjoyed taking her first sip of wine with her father and mother, rather in King's Landing with a Queen who loathed her. All these years later, it was truly pointless to spend too much time wondering what could have been. And in the real world, Bran the Three Eyed Raven helped saved the realm from the dead, whereas Brandon Stark would have shot arrows from the walls and likely died with everyone else when the dead came.
That's what kept her from wanting to murder the Kingslayer, a man she supposed passed for something of a bannerman for her now.
"I think he wanted you to live," Sansa finally said to the girl. Girl, except she was older than her, she was pretty sure. "Had you stayed in Winterfell, you would have been in the Godswood, and you would have died protecting him. That was his gift to you, his gratitude. It may have hurt, but it saved your life."
"I would have died for him," Meera replied, her eyes defiant and not at all afraid of the Lady of Winterfell. It was that attitude, Sansa figured, that helped her keep Bran alive amongst all those horrors north of the Wall. "Happily, even."
"What would your father have thought? Losing both his children?"
She looked down, contemplating that truth of the matter, not wanting to admit that she was right. And by inference, that Bran was right.
"Perhaps you're needed for the fight to come," Sansa continued. "The dead are dead, but the North is still at risk. Lead your men here at Moat Cailin, with your father. If Cersei marches north, you are our last defense before Winterfell."
"With all respect, my lady, I'd like to march south with you, just as my father marched with your father all the way down to Dorne."
Sansa smiled, regretting what she had to say. Meera reminded her of her own sister, a fierce and wildness to her found, in her experience, only in women of the extreme norths and souths of the Seven Kingdoms. They would get along, Arya and her. Sansa liked her already too, and not just for what she did for Bran.
"I'd like that. But I will not expose the last surviving child of Lord Howland, and his own heir, to undue danger. If you want to explore the south, I'll take you personally to King's Landing one day. But today, the North is your home, and your duty to defend."
Leaving the woman at Moat Cailin's gates, she hoped she had won Meera Reed's respect, if not her love because, like Bran, she just turned her away. Below, Tyrion and Varys were conversing, likely conspiring as to how best they could undermine her in the name of their queen. Jaime and Brienne stood awkwardly on the other side of their caravan, trying way too hard to avoid each other in the light of day. Yohn Royce and Ser Davos seemed to be getting along well, which made her happy. Davos was wholly loyal to Jon, and Sansa appreciated that. She also knew Royce would put in a good word for her as well in the eyes of the Onion Knight, and Bronze Royce was not a man whose opinion could be discarded in the Seven Kingdoms. Arya was nowhere, but she knew her sister would find them once they departed. Walking the ramparts of the damp, worn down towers, she surveyed row after row until she spied a stately old man with rich, gray hair and a slight hunch. She walked up to approach him.
"Lady Sansa," the man said, bowing respectfully. "Your father would be proud of you."
"Thank you, Lord Howland."
"Please, no need for formalities," the old man waved away. He did not seem the talkative type, so Sansa considered it a privilege that he was willing to converse with her.
"Then none towards me either." They left the bannermen and walked down slowly down the steps towards the bogs below, quiet in the freeze of winter, a tangle of frost covered roots growing out of cracked ice. "Your daughter Meera kept my brother alive north of the Wall. And words can't express my sorrow for Jojen."
"We saw dark times in the North," Howland said, every word carefully measured. "You brought back the light, you and your brother Jon. What you went through...what you both went through...I can't imagine."
"Many of us suffered," Sansa agreed, her voice as cold as the wind, the only way she could speak of such things. "Our sufferings allowed us to discover strengths we never knew we had. Every generation has its trials, I think, some worse than others. Ours were not among the lucky ones...but neither were yours." She turned to look intently at the older man. "You were with my father at the Tower of Joy. He told us, how the two of you defeated Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat."
Howland looked away, as if the mere suggestion towards of the secrets of that day was enough to drive him back into the depths of his self imposed solitude.
"They were married you know." As she expected, the words elicited an immediate response from the old man, who spun to look at her with shock. Undaunted, she continued. "I'm not sure if even father knew that. She named him Aegon Targaryen, after the last conqueror who flew dragons onto our shores."
"N-Ned told you," Howland asked, stuttering, his face paler than even before if possible.
Sansa shook her head. "He took the secret to his...whatever oath he bound himself and you to, he kept it. I trust you have too. But there are other ways to know, and my family knows now."
"Jon," Howland asked.
Sansa nodded. "The secret's still that...a secret. But he did tell the Dragon Queen. Jon has no desire for the Iron Throne, or any throne, for that matter. Makes him unique amongst Targaryens, I suppose."
Howland said, nothing, merely staring into the snow covered hills in the distance, probably like Bran, lost in a distant memory.
Sansa continued. "If Jon doesn't care for it all, then there's no need to dredge up history long buried. Unless..."
"Unless what," Howland asked suddenly. If the man had kept the secret for near half a lifetime, she imagined that his barriers pierced, even the most stoic of men would feel a primal need to at least talk of it with someone else.
"Nothing," Sansa said, shaking her head. She turned, facing him, purposefully clutching both his shoulders with her hands. "I ask you one favor, Lord Howland."
"Howland."
"Howland," Sansa agreed. "If the Dragon Queen wakes...if her armies of Unsullied and Dothraki screamers pass south once more...allow them free passage, of course, but I ask you to send a raven south if I'm still there to inform me of their progress. I must be prepared to greet them, of course."
"Of course, my Lady," Howland said, his voice quivering now. He took a deep breath before continuing. "The North remembers, Lady Sansa. And we remember many a thing...and not just Boltons and Lannisters, mind you."
Sansa smiled at the man, withdrawing her touch. "That's what sets us apart, that we do not forget our history."
Watching the eunuch approach her, Sansa braced herself to hide her distaste. The man they called the Spider had been eyeing her warily the entire trip, and she was sure that Tyrion had brought him along to spy on her, considering that Grey Worm and Missandei remained at Winterfell. Littlefinger had always warned her about Varys, though Littlefinger was hardly a trustworthy source. Nevertheless, the fact that Littlefinger clearly found the Spider to be more than a formidable opponent meant that she could not take him lightly as a threat.
"Lady Sansa," Varys said, sitting down beside the fire as the sun set on their camp. Though the cold still blistered in the gentler woods at the northern edges of the Riverlands, she noticed the eunuch eye the fire warily.
"Lord Varys," she started, keeping cordial. "I believe this was your first time North?"
The Spider nodded his head rapidly. "As you can see, I was more than happy to take you up first chance I get to ride towards somewhere warmer."
"But primarily to serve your Queen," Sansa remarked, purposely ending her sentence as a statement rather than a question.
"The same reason the Lady of Winterfell departed Winterfell," Varys countered.
Sansa looked across the fire at Brienne and the boy Podrick. Both were trying to remain neutral, but by now she could tell the subtleties of Brienne's expressions now, and it was clear her sworn sword held, like her, a similar mistrust of the eunuch.
"I trust you still know the comings and goings of the realm better than any man or woman alive, Lord Varys. Have you heard anything regarding my uncle?"
Varys shook his head. "He was freed after the mysterious plague which killed House Frey to the very last man. But the imprisonment was hard on the man. I believe he has not emerged beyond the walls of Riverrun since. I don't blame him...he does have a young wife and son to tend to. It hasn't been an easy few years for him."
"Not for any of us," Sansa said defiantly, before softening, "though I cannot imagine fearing for your own child as well." Turning her attention to Ser Jaime, she asked him, "didn't Jonos Bracken aide you in retaking Riverrun from the Blackfish?"
"And he was smart to do so. We would have wiped him out otherwise." As usual, Jaime Lannister betrayed no ounce of apology in his voice, and Sansa was no longer expecting it.
"Yet he requested lands from House Blackwood in return, did he not," Varys added. "It make sense, it is unwise to switch sides in a war...a win is not quite a win until you win something for yourself."
"Does he stand behind Cersei today," Sansa asked. Winterfell she had presided over with ease by the end, whether alone or beside Jon, but it was different here, wielding power outside her castle's walls over all these powerful men, any one of whom, save one or two, who could strike her down with one blow. Or do worse.
"Considering his past habits, he will. Until faced with a larger army."
She considered the Spider's words. She could trust them, considering their aim was against Cersei, a common enemy. "Lord Tytos Blackwood remained true to my brother Robb until the end, and he maintains the largest host remaining in the Riverlands." She looked over to Brienne, and Cley Cerwyn, beside her. "Send a raven to Raventree Hall. Summon Lord Blackwood to escort Lord Edmure and Lord Bracken to the Crossroads. For their own protection, of course."
"At once, my lady," Podrick nodded, leaving diligently to embark on his new task.
"I see you've picked up a thing or two from the late Lord Baelish," Varys remarked, the comment biting as both a compliment and an insult. Sansa swirled around to face him.
"Littlefinger was not without his uses." She deepened her voice, similar to when she last spoke to Ramsey Bolton. "But I made him pay, in the end, for his crimes against House Stark."
She saw a satisfied smile from Yohn Royce nearby, and grudging admiration from Ser Davos.
"He got what he deserved," Varys said, a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "I heard the news on my way to Winterfell, my lady. Out of all the people in the realm, I never could have imagined the gentle dove of King's Landing being the one to serve him the justice he so richly deserved."
Still he underestimated her. That was good. But Littlefinger feared her before he died. Tyrion did vouch for Varys, telling her that as slippery as the man was, his intentions were always pure. She would be the judge of it herself, but for now, she needed to ensure that Varys not only respected her, but feared her as well.
"It was inevitable. With each betrayal, each crossing, he burned his bridges, severed his ties, until he found himself in a corner, rootless, with fewer friends and allies by the day. Thus it always is with his kind, the plotters and schemers." Noting the tension in the air colder than the northern winds now, she spun slowly upon the Spider. "You were close friends with Littlefinger, were you not? You speak of him with such distaste, it does confuse me."
"Friends," Varys responded nervously. "I think that would be an exaggeration of our relationship. More often than not we were at loggerheads with each other."
"Funny," Sansa mused, almost in a joking tone. "I recall the both of you pressing me, dictating my letter to Robb damning my own father, promising me his life would be spared. Which means when my father lost his head, both of you were implicit in his betrayal, were you not?"
All eyes around the fire were on her and Varys now, Tyrion she noted especially. He took his time coming up his response.
"That was all Joffrey, I'm afraid. I hate to make excuses for myself, much less Cersei or Littlefinger, but not even his mother could control him by then, once they put a crown on that head of his. I did everything I could to help your father, I swear..."
"So you were helpless," Sansa pressed, cocking her head. "Just as you were helpless when the Mad King burned the realm. When he burned my grandfather and strangled my uncle. Were you helpless too, when you stood by while Joffrey ordered me, a girl of thirteen, beaten every day before all the lords and ladies of the court? When Tywin Lannister plotted the slaughter of my mother and brother, the King in the North and the Trident, alongside his wife and unborn child, at the Red Wedding? When Tywin Lannister ordered Gregor Clegane to pillage the Riverlands? When your new Queen burned alive Randyl and Dickon Tarly?"
Without giving him a chance to answer, she shook her head dismissively. "Seems your reputation is a bit exaggerated, considering how useless you've been all your life when it comes to the things that matter. At least Littlefinger never pretended to be righteous."
"And what did you do, my lady," Varys rebutted, stirred to rare, visible anger by her accusations and last insult, "when your father stood on the chopping block?"
"I was a little girl. I did everything I could to save his life. I trusted in you, and Baelish, and Cersei for the rest. Not the last time I made that mistake, but don't presume I should have any reason to trust you now."
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, obviously about to engage into a spirited defense of his friend, but Sansa brushed him off immediately, rising to leave the gathering.
"Don't bother," she said, stepping away, before turning to face the group one last time. "Dontos Hollard."
"Who," Tyrion asked.
"The fool. Who showed up drunk to the tourney. Even as a helpless little girl, a traitor's daughter, I did more than you to save those about to suffer the injustice of a cruel king. Even as a woman, Lady Margaery did everything she could to save Tyrion, your friend, a man to whom she owed nothing, from repeated humiliation from Joffrey, because it was decent." She walked back and leaned down at the Spider, and all the lords gathered waited for her to do something dramatic, maybe even slap the man. Instead, she spoke in even terms. "You owe many debts, Lord Varys. To the realm. To the lands in which you sit currently. To House Stark."
She was breathing rather hard by the time she reached her tent. Her outburst was a long time coming, but she had been waiting for the River Lords to be present before going off on Varys, considering all that they had suffered under the monarchs he'd served. But so many years of pent up rage...and she felt bad for him, in that Varys was a convenient, and easy target, who though not innocent, did not deserve all of the wrath she just inflicted on him.
She couldn't control herself. If she did put down the man, it had to be for a purpose, not for her own gratification. At least word would spread, she hoped, once Edmure and his lords were gathered, men gossiping much as any lady. And if what Tyrion claimed was true, that Varys was indeed a man of conscience, then her seeds will have been planted regardless.
She didn't know where Arya was, as usual. Hopefully she heard. Hopefully she was proud of her sister.
Tyrion
"She has a point, you know."
"Please," Varys scoffed, but behind his defensiveness, Tyrion could tell the words cut through them both the same. "If every adviser spoke out against every tyrant every time they did something tyrannical, we'd still have a world of tyrants, except none to advise them but the Littlefingers that remain. It's a false comparison, anyway."
"How?"
"She and Margaery are women, lovely women at that. I may not have a cock, but that does not give me feminine wiles. Not enough at least to sway a king." He gave Tyrion a mournful look, the two of them alone in a tent on the edge of the camp. "Enough about our past failures. Did it escape your notice that she made a point to insult in the camp only the two most loyal to Queen Daenerys?"
"Yet what can we do? We are alone, she made that clear enough, surrounded by two armies loyal to her...just like Littlefinger was before she had him killed."
He gulped, wishing there was more wine at the camp. He never thought it possible that one day, he would find himself terrified of his former wife. But there was a justice in that, was there not? Wasn't his own family the ones responsible for turning that gentle girl, who thought shift was a dirty word, into a paranoid and bitter woman?
"Do you think she would have done it," Varys asked from the blue.
"Done what?"
"Burned the Tarlys. If Sansa were the Targaryen, with dragons at her beck and call."
"She killed Littlefinger, didn't she? Doesn't matter who did the deed, it was by her command."
"She seems to reserve her ire for those who did her wrong. Or her family."
Tyrion sighed. If only Littlefinger had never spirited her away from King's Landing. But then, she would have died by Cersei's hand, wouldn't she? What was better, he wondered. Death? Or Ramsey Bolton? He didn't have the answer, and it scared him that Sansa did.
"At this point, it might as well look to her like the entire realm has wronged her or her family," Tyrion admitted, his own family being among the chief culprits.
Varys chuckled, an ironic sound, and Tyrion looked up, wondering what the eunuch was thinking.
"Sounds like you're describing our own Queen at times, no?"
Gazing at his friend in horror, he suddenly wondered whether Varys was truly as fickle as his worst detractors, people like Sansa, believed him to be. "What are you saying?"
But Varys brushed off his look with a twitch of his lips. "What do you think our Queen will do when she wakes up? When saving the North cost her half her army, and months, potentially years of her life? Then she wakes to find the three northern kingdoms snatched out from under her?"
Grabbing a canteen of water, he drank it and imagined it to be wine.
"That's our job to prevent that from happening, isn't it?"
Notes: Thanks for reading and reviewing thus far. I figured writing a Sansa-centric fic would be divisive, but hopefully if you're still reading, you're enjoying it, and please let me know what you think. As for why Jon didn't go south...in the show he does say several times how tired he is of fighting, and how he hates killing. His war was against the dead, and with additional incentive of Dany staying it the north, it was enough for him to yield to Sansa, whom he knew to be determined in her way.
