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Chapter 9: Danger Lingers

Andrea would be lying if she said the past few days hadn't been hard on her. She had let herself heal, had adhered to Jon's wishes and stayed in bed for a few days longer than she thought necessary. But she had made the mistake of trying to forget what happened, of trying to return to normal too quickly.

The North remembers…isn't that the saying? She always thought it sounded rather poetic; a promise kept, the dead reminisced. But not like this; she feels as if her mistakes are constantly revived, resurrected, unable to be let go. Winterfell buzzes about her, about Grandshire…some even dare say that she made a deal with him and that's how he entered past the gates. Jon hadn't sacrificed anything for her, yet some still blamed Andrea for his weakness.

The King of the North, however, didn't stand for that and had a meeting amongst his men almost as soon as those rumors started.

"If someone here questions my loyalty or my ability to lead, let them speak."

Andrea hovers near the doorframe closest to where Jon, Ser Davos and Lady Sansa are seated—the infamous long table near the hearth in the dining hall. She doesn't want to stir up conversations or problems any more than she already has, but she's close enough to hear everything.

Arya pauses next to her, glancing between her and Jon. "You belong in there as much as he does."

She doesn't speak to the smallest Stark often but she respects her; she carries herself in a way Andrea still has not learned to—bigger than her form, like she somehow knows the wisdom and weight of the world that comes with age.

"I don't." She shakes her head, "I am not a Stark and I'm not part of his council."

A smile twitches its way onto her mouth, "But he loves you; he depends on you more than you realize."

A grim smile matches Arya's in response, "Isn't that the reason why we're here?"

She hums before nodding her head, moving into the room to stand by Lady Sansa. Andrea leans against the doorframe, watching as the room erupts in conversation at Jon's words before someone speaks above the commotion:

"You're making decisions out from under a kitchen maiden's skirt!" Only a few rally behind this comment. She should have known that was coming; Andrea didn't have much respect to start with let alone now.

It's not long before another man speaks up: "She was responsible for Grandshire entering Winterfell!"

Jon scoffs, "That's absurd. You want to talk about traitors to the North? To your King?" Men shout in affirmation. "Someone wrote Grandshire, told him about my business—they will be found and dealt with."

That seems to satisfy most, but a few men still look like they're swallowing mud listening to Jon's words.

Before anyone else can object, Lady Mormont speaks above the chaos, men instantly quieting to hear her. For a small girl, she has an astounding ability to captivate a room. "Did Jon Snow not defend Winterfell and the North by defeating Grandshire?" She asks, though she's not actually expecting an answer. "Did he not convince his men to fight for him?"

She looks to Jon before addressing the rest of the hall.

"The only thing he's guilty of is falling in love, which means he's human. He's still my King, he's still your King until his last day." She looks at him and raises her wine glass. "Which is not today."

A clamor of yells in agreement fill the room, other men raising their glasses to Jon.

'King in the North!' is chanted, over and over, before Andrea slips away from the room.

Regardless of Jon's alliances to the North being strengthened once again, she's still working on a complicated balance of letting the past stay where it belongs and the never-ending list of people she has to prove herself to: Lady Sansa, Jon's men…it seems to get longer by the day. And all she's doing is becoming increasingly more annoyed and frustrated with herself.

"Whoa!" Leo yells, blocking her sword with his own as he tumbles over a snow bank. "I yield, Rea, I yield."

Andrea takes a step back from him, panting slightly from her exertion. She runs a sleeved elbow over her face before reaching out a hand to help Leo up. It's not that she's gotten better at sword fighting, persay, but she's given up being apprehensive. She's not afraid to overstep or go at Leo too hard with her sword…she's not afraid to get hurt and she doesn't give much thought to the 'what happens after' her steps are followed through.

It's probably not the best way to train but the adrenaline that sings in her veins is addictive, she likes feeling in control and she likes catching Leo off balance—it makes her feel like she'll actually have a chance if it comes to a swordfight. If it comes to someone like Grandshire trying to take her again.

She can feel his eyes washing over her, trying to read her. Andrea's skin prickles, she can feel his words before he says them.

"Don't." She swallows, putting her sword in the hay target like she's always done for safe keeping. She's done training for today.

Thinking the conversation is over, she turns to walk away but Leo comes up behind her and grabs her arm. She flinches and yanks away from him, a wild look in her eye like a scared deer. He pulls his hand back instantly, apologies written in his eyes but he doesn't shy away from what he wants to say.

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

"Are you just saying that now because I'm actually knocking your ass on the ground?"

"I'm saying it because you are." Leo puts his sword back in his sheath, following her towards the steps to head back inside. "You can only carry out movement based on instinct for so long. You haven't wielded a sword long enough to just depend on that. You need to think before you swing."

"I am thinking." She replies, over her shoulder.

"You're angry," Leo says, making her pause as they reach the top of the stairs. A wind blows, cold with snow through her long hair. She had pulled it back to train but most of it jerked its way out of her braid. "It's okay to use that, to put it into your fighting, but it can't replace calculated thought."

He doesn't understand where she's coming from, he was there but he doesn't know. He wasn't pressed against that terrible man, his hands all over her, bruising her, blade cold and unforgiving against her throat. She never wants to feel that kind of helplessness; she never wants to feel that close to disgrace or death again.

"Underneath all that anger is just fear."

She scoffs, looking away from him. She nods her head, breathes in deep to control what feels like fire brimming in her chest before chewing on her lower lip. She is scared. She's scared all the time. Why isn't this the appropriate response? Why isn't fighting back okay?

"And how would you wish I responded, Leo?" She asks him, "Hiding away in my chambers? You said it yourself that neither you nor Jon would always be there to protect me. Grandshire was proof of that."

Leo sighs, his fingers twitching—she can tell he wants to reach for her but decides not to. "That won't happen again."

Andrea doesn't want to be angry with him, she knows it's not his fault…that it's not anyone's fault except for Grandshire's and he's dead. But she can't help that feeling bubbling over, hot like blood in her mouth.

"No one helped me." She blurts out, almost surprising herself. She never blamed anyone for it; had told Leo not to move, had understood Jon's motives as a King but it still left her with that feeling, that sinking feeling of weakness that was eating her alive. "So, I have to depend on myself."

She walks inside, leaving him out in the cold.

She stops by the kitchen on her way to her room, regardless of her relationship with Jon she still wants to keep up her duties—being with the King of the North does not grant her excuses for not pulling her own weight. She pushes the door open with her shoulder, some kitchen maidens scattering upon seeing her.

"Nice of you to join us, your highness." One of them snickers before moving towards the dining hall with plates.

Andrea has learned to ignore them with a roll of her eyes, but she can't deny that it still bothers her. It's decidedly something she must take care of on her own…she just hasn't figured out how to do that yet. Ignoring it until it goes away has always seemed like the better option.

"Need help with dinner?" She asks Rose as she takes off her cloak.

"Always," She mutters before watching some of the other kitchen maids find their way out.

Andrea sighs and nods, "I just have to drop this off in my room, then I'll be down. I can cut up the rest of the vegetables, start pouring ale."

Rose pauses, brushes her hands off on a rag before, "You're in here almost every night." She blinks, isn't sure where she's going with this. "Even though I'm sure King Snow said you don't have to be."

Oh. Andrea shrugs her one shoulder before clearing her throat. "That doesn't change that I have work to do."

"Aye dearie, that's my point," She laughs, the sound like burnt embers crackling in the fire. "Fuck 'em." She says it so casually that Andrea can't help but let out a short laugh in response, "They're just jealous that they're not even half the woman you are and that you caught the King's eye for it."

She never thought of it that way but she smiles back at Rose's grin, watching the older woman go back to tending to stew over the hearth. It's times like this she misses her mother but it's a nice feeling to think that if she was alive, she would have said something like that.

"Thanks, Rose."

The older woman waves her off, "Yeah, yeah. Now hurry up and get back here, this dinner isn't going to cook itself."

She smiles, making her way out of the kitchen and down the hall to where her bedchamber is. She's about to turn the corner but voices behind Sansa's doors cause her to pause. Andrea is usually never one to eavesdrop and she probably would have kept going…but she overhears her name.

"Why didn't I tell you I was involved?" Jon repeats the question, like he can't believe Sansa's asking it.

"You are a King now, Jon. You don't get to choose your wants above your needs…it doesn't work that way."

Andrea leans closer to the doors but doesn't quite put her ear against them, she needs to be far enough away to move if they open suddenly. She shouldn't be here, she wouldn't want someone to listen in on her and Jon…but at the same time she can't seem to move. She wonders if this is the first time they've talked about her; she finds it hard to believe that after all this time Sansa's kept her opinions to herself.

"You don't trust her." It's not a question.

Andrea should have known this was coming since her conversation with Lady Sansa; she had assumed it was something they were keeping between themselves but her loyalty to Jon and Winterfell had prompted this confrontation instead.

"After what he did to her, I thought you of all people would understand."

"You do not get to compare our situations." She snaps, her voice shaking.

Silence covers the room for a moment and Andrea can hear Jon sigh, movement; she can picture him crossing the room, holding her as an apology, perhaps even kissing her forehead before he pulls away and tries again.

"I didn't tell you about Andrea because it wasn't your concern."

"Winterfell is my concern," Lady Sansa argues, a newfound strength in her tone, she's gotten a hold on herself. "She got herself kidnapped and Grandshire—"

"Don't blame her." He interrupts, his tone is tired. How many times has he had to hear this argument? "We would have had to deal with Grandshire no matter what, we knew he was coming."

"She could have cost you everything. Why can't you see that?"

Jon hesitates, recognition coloring the next words out of his mouth—because he's heard that phrase before, "I should have known that was coming from you." Andrea tries to read between his words, his voice is strained—he's betrayed, upset. "What else did you say to her?"

Lady Sansa is calm, like falling snow, syllables hidden behind a wall, protected and guarded. "Nothing, I was looking out for you," Then, "I don't know how to trust anyone anymore. Trust has gotten so many people killed. Our family—" She chokes, unable to finish.

Jon moves again, she can hear him, and the next time he speaks his voice his muffled—perhaps from his lips pressed against her hair if he's hugging her. "You're not going to lose me." He promises, voice gentle and soothing, "But Andrea deserves you giving her a chance."

Hearing her name again pushes her to move away from Sansa's room, giving them the privacy they originally deserved. The Starks have always been known for family, for sacrificing everything they can for one another. Of course Lady Sansa is scared of losing what little family she has left; of course she's clinging onto Jon by thinking of those that are dead and gone.

Andrea can't say that she would have behaved any differently if in the same position. She still feels like she has to protect Mia even though she can't anymore.

She closes the door to her own bedchambers and leans back against the wood, allowing her eyes to close to for a moment. She then sets her cloak down on a chair near the hearth…and pauses at seeing a letter on her bed.

Andrea glances at her door before walking towards it, her fingers brushing over the wooden bear that she likes to keep close by. This wasn't here when she left this morning, so whoever dropped it off knew the schedule she kept.

She picks it up, turning it over in her hands before breaking the seal, unfolding it carefully like it might somehow bite her. The writing is delicate, hypnotizing almost as it draws her in.

The message is short but it runs something cold straight through her veins, like ice and snow melting against her ribcage:

The danger is closer than you think.

There's no signature. Instead, there's melted candle wax at the bottom of the letter, a misshapen thing; jagged, not quite circular. But the longer Andrea stares at it…a figure seems to appear. It's a woman, a red woman on fire.

Andrea plays with the wooden bear between her fingers, twirling it, running her thumb over the expression. It's not fearsome or cruel but gentle, innocent…Jon had been listening when she recounted to him the story of how Mia used to talk about her favorite creatures, and Ser Davos had put that into the carving.

She glances at the letter on her bed, paper worn for how many times she's opened it to read it. Danger is closer to her than she thinks…what did that mean? What was the danger? Who had put the letter on her bed?

She sighs and sets the bear down, moving to pick the letter up once again. She traces the careful loops and twirls of the handwriting, down to the wax in the corner. She hasn't shared it with Jon yet…she hates keeping things from him but it's something she wants to try and figure out on her own before getting him involved. He has enough to worry about let alone one more thing.

There must be a reason that this letter found its way onto her bed.

"Danger," Andrea mutters under her breath, like if she says it enough it'll somehow give itself a new meaning, one that will explain everything.

She sighs and tosses the letter down, frustration bubbling under her skin before a knock sounds at her door. She looks over her shoulder before quickly shoving the letter under the furs, smoothing her hands out on her dress as she walks over and opens it.

"Lady Sansa." She wasn't expecting her. It takes her a moment to realize that she wants to come inside, "Oh, of course. Come in."

Sansa smiles gently before walking through the door, the maroon dress over her arm. "I finally finished this, my apologies for it taking so long."

In truth, Andrea had forgotten all about the dress. Not only that, but how it had been used as a ploy to rip her open, expose her, to share how Sansa felt about Jon's interest in a kitchen maiden.

She smiles anyways and takes the dress from her, she won't pretend that she still isn't touched that this was made for her. Besides, she's running very low on things to wear.

"Thank you." She runs her fingers over the fabric, the lace…maybe she'll change into it, see what Jon thinks.

Lady Sansa nods and glances towards her bed, noticing the carved bear before going to pick it up. "A bear?"

"Was a gift from Jon, my sister she…she loved bears." Her hands clutch the dress a little tighter than necessary, as if she suddenly fears Sansa might toss it into the fire.

She doesn't, merely sets it down where she found it, but it just goes to show that Andrea doesn't know her intentions…she still doesn't know what to expect from her.

"Did your house have a sigil?"

Andrea looks at Sansa for a long moment before she realizes it's a serious question. "No, m'lady. My house was small, I don't know any of my family outside of those I've lost." If she had living aunts, uncles, cousins, it'd be news to her…but she never heard her parents discuss siblings.

Lady Sansa hums, crossing to the door to take her leave, she pauses though and looks over her shoulder at Andrea. "If you had to choose a sigil…what do you think you'd pick?"

It's a loaded question, heavy in suggestions. She thinks a moment but isn't sure what her choice would be…Stark was clearly a direwolf, she knew of lions and stags, squids and flayed men but…what would suit her own house?

Other than…

"A plant," She says, looking up at Lady Sansa. They reminded her of her mother, of how often she used to work with them, the little talent left behind in Andrea to make them bend to her will. "Lavender, perhaps, or roses."

"Quite a deceitful choice, wouldn't you say?"

"Pardon?" But she's sure she isn't mistaken about Sansa's implications.

"Plants are rarely what they seem, some can heal you…some can take your life away." Her eyes find Andrea's, holding them for a long moment. "But I suppose that's why you chose it."

Heat prickles under her skin; she's tired of being threatened. "That's why you study them, you earn respect. Nature does not bend the knee to anyone."

Lady Sansa smiles, cold and distant, before taking her leave. Maybe proving herself requires her to stand her ground and act braver than she feels.