you're the northern wind 4
Sansa was the first to leave the crypts, dagger still clutched tightly in her fist as she drew a shaky breath at the sight that greeted her in the courtyard. Everywhere she looked lay masses of bodies tangled together like tree roots, distinguishable only by their armor in the pale light of the morning sun. She walked amongst them in a daze, the edges of her vision blurred by tears that she resisted as well as she could, until she saw Jon and Arya coming toward her, and let out a sob of relief.
"Sansa!" Arya shouted, running to her and enveloping her in a hug.
"You're alive," Sansa whispered, gripping the back of her sister's cloak like she was about to slip away. "Bran?" she asked, panic rising again as she scanned the courtyard for him.
"Alive. Safe. He's inside, we have to start rounding up all the able bodied men and begin moving the bodies outside the castle walls." Arya told her, her voice raw, as Sansa turned to Jon.
He looked at her mournfully and her heart sank. She knew who had been protecting Bran in the godswood. Part of her wished she could convey that she already knew what had happened, that there was no need for Jon to tell her. But the words died in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to force her tears back, too numb to feel their usual sting.
"Sansa, I'm so sorry," Jon said thickly, pulling her toward him.
"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," Arya told her, an edge of guilt to her voice.
"What do you mean?" Sansa asked.
"The Night King. I killed him. But I didn't get to him quickly enough. If I had, Theon might still be alive." Arya replied bitterly.
"If it wasn't for you, many more would have died. Thousands, at least." Jon said, squeezing Arya's shoulder in an attempt to console her. "I have to go help the men." He added, nodding to both of them before striding off in the direction of the north gate.
Sansa knew he was right, but the way he said it made it sound as though he felt Theon's life was a fitting trade for thousands of others, and something ugly within her wanted to tell Jon she would have gladly given The Night King his queen and all of her armies in exchange for Theon. She bit the hateful words back, and tried to regain some composure as she offered Arya a meager smile.
"He's right," Sansa said softly. "You did so well."
"I'm sorry I couldn't save him." Arya told her.
"You saved all of us. And if Theon could choose all over again, I think he would have gone with Bran all the same." Sansa replied, and Arya nodded solemnly, her dark eyes shining with unshed tears.
Several men walked past them, their shoulders slumped from weariness as they struggled to carry the body of a fallen northerner towards the gate, joining a procession of soldiers and corpses. Sansa wished they could allow them to rest and regain their strength before starting the grueling process of purging Winterfell of the dead, but she knew that allowing the remains to linger could expose the living to disease and they could not afford to lose anyone else. As she looked on, a familiar figure joined the mass, the body of another man slung across his back.
"He saved me from those things. He and Beric both did." Arya told her hollowly, watching as Sandor forged ahead toward the gate, his mouth set in a grim line.
Sansa wondered if the blood covering his face was his, or belonged to someone else. He was limping slightly, though he still moved as purposefully as ever.
"He's hurt," Sansa said softly, fighting a strange impulse to follow him.
"He's survived much worse," Arya replied, but the edge of worry in her voice belied her words and Sansa wondered what else he had endured between leaving King's Landing and coming back to Winterfell so many years later.
The remaining soldiers made relatively short work of constructing pyres for those who had fallen in battle. The skeletal remains of the wights were carted to the outskirts of the Wolfswood and burned unceremoniously, their ashes soon indistinguishable from the snow that fell softly on those assembled outside the castle walls. Sansa's lip trembled as she gazed down at Theon, tucking her direwolf pin into his armor as the tears began to fall freely down her cheeks.
Turning away, she took her place beside Arya and focused on the tree line, struggling to keep her composure as Jon's voice rang out above the winds whistling through the pyres, rustling the brush that lay beneath the bodies of the dead. As he spoke of their sacrifice and bravery, Sansa wished she had taken the time to say goodbye to Theon before the battle. She had thought that maybe if she pretended that she would see him again when it was all over, that she really would. But now she would never get a chance to fully thank him for saving her life, or for protecting Bran, or to see what could have bloomed between them given proper time and care.
Sansa had always loved Theon as a brother, then as her protector and savior from Ramsay, but her heart had never asked for more than that from him. She thought she could learn to love him in the way that her mother and father had loved each other though; maybe not a fiery, passionate love, not a love that burned through her but a quiet, trusting, enduring love that could have acted as a balm to both their worn and battered spirits. After all they had both been through, she thought the understanding and solace they could find in each other's arms might have been better than any great, sprawling romance she had once read about in books.
Whatever it could have been, it was gone now. Taking the torch that was offered to her, Sansa held it to the brush until flames began to dance beneath Theon, her eyes stinging with tears and rising smoke. As she rejoined her family, Ghost let out a mournful whine, pushing his head up under her hand as he tried to console her and she threaded her fingers through his white fur, her heart suddenly aching for Lady, then for her father, her mother, for Robb, and Rickon, and for all those she had lost since the last time she had stood in the company of those surrounding her now.
Eventually the plumes of dark smoke began to overwhelm them, and they somberly retreated to the great hall where Sansa had spent a majority of the day overseeing preparations for their victory feast. She was not in much of a feasting mood, but she knew it would not do as Lady of Winterfell to fail to provide for all those who had fought so bravely defending the north. The soldiers required heartier sustenance than the crusty bread and thin stew they had doled out earlier in the day, and everyone was in dire need of a drink.
As the wine and ale began to flow freely, grim silence turned to loud laughter and snippets of songs broke out about the hall as various toasts were made to the dead and the living. Sansa wondered if she was supposed to be making one, but decided she could excuse herself from courtesies for the evening. After all, Jon and Daenerys had both made rousing speeches to those gathered around the long wooden tables, met with raucous cheers and applause, and Sansa didn't think she could summon the will to say anything more than they already had.
As the night wore on, Sansa found herself sipping a great deal of wine in order to avoid making conversation with anyone. Bran was staring off into the distance as he often was, Jon was alternating between interacting with the wildlings and attempting to placate his queen, who sat off to the side, stony-faced and disengaged now that the men had all begun extolling Jon's many virtues. Arya had disappeared after the lighting of the pyres, and Sansa was about to go and look for her when she noticed Tormund's shock of red hair, his arm slung around Sandor's shoulders as Sandor grimaced into a tankard the size of Sansa's head. She watched in amusement as Tormund recounted what seemed to be a terribly sad tale before being interrupted by two serving girls, one of whom paired off with the red-haired wildling after a brief exchange. The other lingered, attempting to entice Sandor into joining her, and Sansa felt a strange flicker of annoyance stir within her.
Perhaps it was that she had no one else to keep her company, perhaps it was that she had imbibed slightly more wine than was advisable, but whatever the reason, Sansa found herself making her way to the table Sandor was seated at and fixing the serving girl with a pointed look. She turned one last time to Sandor, a beseeching expression on her comely face, and he responded with a feral snarl before immediately turning back to his tankard. As the girl skittered away, Sansa bit back a laugh and took another sip of wine, meeting Sandor's gaze over the rim of her cup.
"Used to be you couldn't look at me," Sandor rumbled, his dark eyes shining in the light of the candles as he watched her.
"That was a long time ago," Sansa replied. "I've seen much worse than you since then."
"Yes, I've heard." He told her, glowering.
His free hand closed into a fist as he took an angry sip of wine, slamming the large cup down on the table with such force some of his drink sloshed over the edge, seeping into the rough hewn surface like blood. When he met her eyes again, there was pain and regret etched into his face so plainly she almost felt indecent looking at him, seeing so much of him at once. She wanted to reassure him that it was alright, that she had survived, that she wasn't some frail little thing he needed to pity.
"He got what he deserved. I gave it to him." Sansa said.
"How?" Sandor asked.
"Hounds." Sansa replied coolly.
His eyes widened in surprise and he let out a coarse laugh, something akin to pride in his expression.
"You've changed, little bird." He said softly, and she gave him a sad smile.
"I had to. Or I never would have survived." She replied simply, and before she was fully conscious of what she was doing, reached across the table to take his large, rough hand in her own.
Sansa could have blamed the wine for such an uncharacteristic show of affection, especially with him, but she knew it was more than just that. Feeling his warm skin, her thumb brushing against his callused palm, it was like an anchor that kept her from slipping away into complete numbness after the events of the day.
"You survived because of who you are, not who those fucking cunts tried to turn you into. You've always been strong. And smart. That's why you're Lady of Winterfell now, and they're in the ground where they belong." Sandor told her.
Sansa smiled at him, squeezing his hand as their eyes met. It had been so long since she had been able to speak to anyone like this, uninhibited by all the courtesies and carefully measured words she had learned to use as her shield.
"You've changed, too. You're much kinder now." Sansa said, a teasing lilt to her voice that came easily to her, emboldened by this newly discovered closeness with him.
"I've become old and soft, is that it?" he scoffed, taking another swig of wine.
"You're just as fearsome as ever. Just not to me anymore." She answered, and his lip quirked up slightly.
"Then what am I to you, little bird?" he asked, and she felt her heart tug ever so slightly.
"You're one of us now. A northerner." Sansa said carefully, watching him closely. "You even look like one now, with your beard." She added, and he let out a snort of laughter.
He grew silent, and she studied him, taking in all the details of his face as she tried to commit it all to memory, knowing that it was unlikely that they would ever share a drink like this together again. This was just a by-product of the relief that they had lived through the battle, of too much wine, of reminiscing on times past and though she knew it would end all too soon, she wanted to remember every moment. After a beat, his shoulders seemed to slump downward slightly and when he met her gaze again, his dark eyes flickered with regret.
"I'm not staying." Sandor told her, and she felt the warmth that had washed over her just seconds before rapidly dissipate.
"You're going with Jon to King's Landing?" Sansa asked.
"Not with Jon, no. I don't intend to fight in any more fucking wars. But I have unfinished business of my own in the capital." He replied, and she stiffened, knowing he referred to his monster of a brother.
"Will you return?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper, fearing she knew the answer already.
He was silent, seemingly searching for the right words to say as she watched him, feeling a sob welling up in her throat with every second that he didn't respond. After what seemed like an eternity, she nodded and let go of his hand, standing up so abruptly she knocked the wooden bench to the stone floor with a clang. Turning away before he could see the tears clinging to her eyelashes as she furiously tried to blink them away, Sansa exited the hall and didn't stop until she was safely sealed away within her rooms.
For the second time since the sun had risen that day, she wept for all the things that would never be.