Notes: Do I only have one reader on now? Methinks I might have to post exclusively on AO3. I know I don't demand reviews/feedback, but it would be nice to get a little more from those who do read as time and effort does go into producing each chapter. With that said, thanks to Bruh4 for always taking the time to do so. I really more than appreciate it!
"Why do you have that goofy smile on your face?"
She started in surprise at being caught daydreaming; a dark flush filling her embarrassed features. She composed herself quickly and drew her brows into a scowl.
"What's it to you, Jon? Shouldn't you be somewhere pouting?"
Her annoying half-sibling (bastard brother) sneered and hopped gracefully from one boulder to the next. He tore off a twig from a nearby underbrush, which he dipped into the trickling brook to sweep back and forth as if in search of an elusive fish.
When she realized he had no intention of making himself scarce anytime soon, she sighed and rolled her eyes to the heavens.
"If you must know," she finally declared in a tone that clearly stated 'after-this-please-leave'. "Beren Tallhart asked me to the homecoming dance, and I said yes."
Jon made a gagging noise while pretending to be choking.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.
"It means," Jon replied with a light grunt as he just missed capturing a silvery trout. "Beren Tallhart is a fucking tool, and I don't know why you'd be so happy to be dating him. You can do better, Sansa."
In a swift move, she was on her feet; her beautiful visage now flushed with indignation.
"Shut up, Jon! You're just jealous no one asked you to the dance!"
"I don't care about the stupid dance," he countered with a shrug of his shoulders. "All I'm saying is that he's not worth it. That dude cheats on every girl he dates. Hell, he brags about it in the locker room all the-"
"Beren won't cheat on me," Sansa interrupted with a fold of her arms across her chest. "He cares about me and he said as much. Besides, I don't need you giving me relationship advice. You've not had a single girlfriend, and you want to know why?"
Jon rose to his feet without turning around. It was as if he already knew what she was going to say from the hunch of his shoulders in that all too familiar position of self-preservation.
She knew she had to stop. She knew how hurtful it would be to him, but her mouth had other plans; knowing full well that a tiny part of her enjoyed taunting and making him suffer just as much as she did.
"Because you're a bastard, Jon Snow," she declared in smug victory. "And no decent girl, in her right mind, would ever want to be with you. You'll live to be an old man with no one to ever love you, so you might as well just prepare to live on the goddamn Wall for the rest of your life!"
Ouch.
She stared at the blossoming drop of blood on her finger with distant fascination; perhaps wondering how it could be so thick and dark from just a little prick. Sticking it into her mouth, she allowed the coppery taste to fill her tongue as she laid down the needle and studied the delicate piece of lace – in the pattern of a dragon - she'd been working on.
The bodice-fitted long-sleeved gown and cape of fine grey wool gabardine trimmed with faux fur (as she wasn't quite sure if its wearer would approve of using the real thing) was finished, but being the perfectionist, she was still dissatisfied with a few elements that would require an extra hem or stitch. The design and creation of the garments had begun the day Robb announced Jon's intention to return home with the Daenerys Targaryen; a woman many fashion designers secretly craved to dress. After all, the notion that the possible future queen of Westeros would choose their creations for her coronation or any other public event, was going to be one hell of a boost for their brand. So yes, a part of her had done this for that superficial reason, but for the most part, it was an excuse to create something new and different for a woman she had now come to reluctantly admire. No sensible woman would have ever wanted to tackle the chaos that was Westeros, and yet, here she was – barging into their continent like a vengeful inferno – determined to take back what was rightfully hers.
Her once bastard half-brother – now a prince or heir to the damn throne himself – was currently dating said vengeful inferno. That Daenerys Targaryen.
His girlfriend.
The irony of it all was almost too cruelly comical. Ten years ago, she had scoffed and mocked him over his fate to never find love, and now he had returned home with a woman who was clearly as smitten as he was. Ignoring the fact that they were related, and the subject of incest was queasy enough, Sansa knew she would have to concede to the reality that she had finally lost this silent battle of wills between them.
He was right all along.
Beren Tallhart was a weasel; a two-timing, cheating, lying son-of-a-bitch, who had the balls to make out with Jeanette Dover on the night of the dance! Insisting he had to use the restroom, he left Sansa waiting in the dance hall for over an hour, where she had spent most of the time ignoring the pitying looks that came her way from everyone else who must have known. She had handsewn her shimmering yellow organza gown, which everyone claimed was to die for. She had washed her thick mass of auburn hair and spent a lot of time getting the curls just right for him. Her make-up was enough to give her a sense of innocence with a tinge of the stunning woman she would become. In fact, Mom had exclaimed at how gorgeous she looked, and all for what? To discover her dear 'boyfriend' almost balls deep in that slut on the football field's bleachers.
Humiliated wasn't a strong enough word for how she felt.
She couldn't escape fast enough. Unfortunately, since Beren had driven her there, there was no way she could demand he take her home, and she was too embarrassed to call Robb to pick her up. So, braving the chilly evening, she had slinked all the way to the castle with her tail between her legs; red-eyed, puffy-faced, and miserable. The last person she wanted to see was Arya, who would have mocked her mercilessly, or Jon, who would have gone 'I told you so'. That was even worse.
However, when she woke up the next day to see a simple note stuck beneath her bedroom door with the words: You were too good for him anyway, written in his familiar scrawl of a handwriting, she burst into tears again. She was unaware of how much she needed that validation from someone…anyone to boost her shattered self-esteem.
She would make it up to Jon by leaving a couple of her favorite lemon cakes by his dinner plate that night; never admitting to peeking at him as he relished the dessert with gusto. By some upspoken rule neither sibling would bring up the topic again, even if the rest of her love life was anything but a fairytale.
The boys (or men) she managed to even show an inkling of interest in were almost always pompous, arrogant, or downright unable to keep their dicks in their pants. When she showed no signs of wanting to have sex with them on a second date (or even the first), they chose to move on. Some bored her to death; incapable of holding a conversation that didn't involve sporting events or some inane movie she had no interest in. The longest relationship she ended up being in was for only seven months. Six months of absolute bliss, where she was sure she had eventually found the man of her dreams, until he showed his true colors.
The first time he hit her, she blamed herself for it. The second time, she took the blame again and had to wear long sleeves for almost a month. The third time, she returned to Winterfell with a split lip and a black eye, which was more than enough for an enraged Robb. When word got to her that he had left the North for an unknown destination, she would later learn that Robb and Jon had paid him a late-night visit for a 'conversation'.
Sansa had a good idea of just how that conversation went. After all, the Starks weren't particularly known to be chatty with their mouths.
She picked up the needle again to continue working when another muted roar from below filtered through the thick granite walls and into her private sanctuary. So far, she had done her best to ignore the festivities, especially considering how the storm had forced her to cancel a dinner event she had put so much thought and energy into.
However, as another roar went up, soon followed by the chanting of what sounded like 'Fight! Fight! Fight!', Sansa set aside the clothing to see what the fuss was about.
She had to go down the narrow winding stone steps to the next landing to get a good view. Spotting Jeyne, standing amongst a smattering of castle servants, Sansa moved to stand beside her. Jeyne was clapping and hooting in earnest at what was taking place; her usually sweet features aglow with excitement. Below them, in just one of the many courtyards within the castle, a raucous crowd of about a hundred or so smallfolk and castle habitants, had formed a rough circle around the 'combatants' who were braced for a fight of some sort.
"Place your bets!" Rickon was yelling as he darted around the circle collecting money from those willing to part with it. Bran, surprisingly, was doing the same thing at the other side of the yard. His best friend, an oversized giant of a man-child, who went by the name of Hodor, was making the loudest noise; stomping his feet and screaming 'Hodor! Hodor! Hodor!' at the top of his lungs. No one tried to shut him up as they were already so used to his antics. He was simple-minded, but he had the sweetest and kindest disposition of anyone around Winterfell.
Robb was sitting on a makeshift throne, which was nothing more than one of the chairs dragged in from the Great Hall and placed upon a slab of hard granite. He was flanked, to his left, by Lord Rodrik Cassel who was looking quite pleased and didn't have that familiar dour expression on his visage, while Lord Wyman Manderly – of all people – was roaring in glee on Robb's right. His generous frame nearly toppled off the stool he was sitting on, and Sansa wondered when the wealthy merchant had arrived. It must have been within the hour because he was still dressed in outdoor clothing.
"Oh hi, Sansa!" Jeyne greeted when she finally noticed the silent redhead beside her. "Didn't even hear you come. Isn't this exciting? Seeing the future queen of Westeros about to fight?"
Sansa raised a brow, trying not to show her amazement. "Really? Daenerys Targaryen is going to fight? Who?" And why?
"Why, Arya, of course!" Jeyne replied with a laugh. "It was over breakfast, and she kept pestering everyone…well Dany mostly…to engage her in a sparring session. So, Dany, being polite and all, didn't want to get into it, but Arya then stood on the table and went "If I beat four soldiers then you have to spar with me!" and then everyone went "whoa!" and then Dany was caught and couldn't back out because everyone was now into it especially Lord Manderly, who arrived just at the tail end of Arya's speech and wagered one thousand gold dragons to the winner! There was no way Dany could back out now."
Sansa was still too stunned at this information as she leaned over the stone railing to get a good look at the fighters. Arya was recognizable with her crew cut, while twirling her weapon; a slender and rather elegant sword Jon had given her as a birthday gift several years ago. She had named it 'Needle'; something Sansa was sure had to do with mocking her penchant for being a seamstress. The future queen of Westeros, on the other hand, was currently being 'coached' by an enthusiastic boyfriend and a chirpy white-haired kid sitting upon his shoulders. Sansa couldn't make out exactly what was being said, but the body language was more than enough to tell the tale.
A princess who fights…while her prince and son send her off to battle. It's like something from the pages of those fantasy stories I used to love reading as a child.
There was something about the silver-haired woman, who was currently holding up her ponytails in a bun atop her head, that drew you to her. It was an inexplicable magnetic pull to focus one's attention on her no matter how many others were in the room. There was a smile on her face as she listened to Jon, before bursting into laughter at something he said while attempting to swat him away playfully. His own laughter mingled with hers, causing Sansa's heart to skip a beat at the wonderful sound.
Seeing Jon smile, let alone really laugh, was a rare event at any given time. Considering the kind of childhood he'd had, where her role hadn't been all too favorable, it was any wonder he could find anything remotely humorous. Yet, here he was…those usual handsome brooding features alight with a glow she never thought she'd see.
He's in love, and she's the reason for it, Sansa thought with a pang within her chest. This beautiful, supposedly aloof Targaryen exiled princess - your flesh and blood - would end up being the one to make you happiest.
She ought to be happy for him – for them. She ought to be clapping her hands and screaming for her – like Jeyne and the rest of the smallfolk. Yet, all she could do was remain watchful, wondering if that part of her that had sought to find some flaw in Daenerys would rise to the surface again. She had hoped to expose her as a phony; her choice to eavesdrop on the heartfelt conversation between Robb and Dany being the excuse she needed. She had listened long enough, ignoring the pricks of painful memories that came rushing back as Robb recounted all that Jon went through. She had not come to feel sorry for her now cousin. No, she had listened with the hopes of catching Dany giving into temptation and falling into the arms of her older brother. If that had happened, she would have taken delight in reporting Dany's transgressions to Jon; watching him crumple in dismay or become furious with jealousy or -
Oh, grow up, Sansa Stark! You should be over this by now!
She placed a hand against her chest to still the voice of reason. She knew that thought was childish and petulant, for no matter how many times she tried to find something to fault Dany for, all she had observed in the past week was nothing but a woman determined to love her cousin with all she had. From choosing to remain by his bedside while he recuperated; barely eating much in the process, to never leaving his side once he made his appearance to the rest of the household. They almost always held hands when walking together, or sitting side-by-side, or talking in soft whispers as if no one else in the world mattered. They could be selfish with their affections in that way, but Sansa couldn't really blame them, and she realized – not for the first time – that all she felt could be boiled down to one word.
Envy.
Not so much at Dany – who could fault her choices? – but for knowing that she was unlikely to ever experience anything so frustratingly wonderful as she and Jon's relationship or even Robb and Jeyne's. Now those two could be quite infuriatingly saccharine with their displays of affection.
"Who are you rooting for?" Jeyne asked to interrupt her rampant thoughts. "My money's on Arya, buuuuut, I'm secretly rooting for Dany."
Who was she rooting for?
Sansa looked down again. Dany was receiving good luck kisses from her boys before Jon yelled something in a strange language Sansa could not comprehend. She would later learn he had cheered her on in Dothraki; a language he was still learning (as well as Valyrian) under his girl's tutelage. Fascinating. Add that to the list of never-ending surprises this new and improved Jon was displaying.
The crowd's cheers grew louder as the referee – Jory Cassel, who was the head of the castle's guards – clapped his hands and announced for the challengers to step into the 'ring'. Thanks to the storm, the courtyard – though somewhat protected by the protruding parapets - still had about three to four inches fall overnight. However, much of the snow had been shoveled away, leaving a rather damp and slightly dangerous ground to tread on. Fortunately, both women were secure in boots, so if they did slip and fall, it could only be blamed on their opponent's skill.
"What's Dany fighting with?" Sansa asked with a frown. "If Arya's got Needle, then…"
Her query was answered when a plain wooden stick – could have been the handle of a broom for all Sansa knew – was thrust in her grasp by Missandei. Sansa would have derided her choice of weapon when Dany began to twirl it slowly like a baton as if about to lead a high school band parade. There was an enigmatic smile on the princess's face as the staff was spun around deft fingers – still slowly as she began to walk toward the center of the ring.
Arya's name was announced, and though the crowd cheered, her baby sister's attention was focused on the twirling stick in her opponent's hand…which was switched to the left and then to the right, and then back again, now moving so much faster that some in the crowd gasped at the sight. The staff was now a blur as Dany spun it over her head before coming to an abrupt stop by holding it before her in a defensive position. This time, when she was introduced, her little trick had earned her a few more admirers for the roar was just as enthusiastic for the visitor.
Smart move, Sansa thought with a reluctant grin. Dany clearly knew she was in 'enemy' territory, so what better way than to display what she was capable of?
Not to be outdone, Arya did her best not to show how impressed she was as she too began to twirl Needle in a similar dance.
"Best be careful I don't cut through your stick, Princess," she said loud and clear. "Needle bites and stings, and I'm not just going to stick you with it's pointy end." This she added with a brief but shared look at Jon, who merely smirked and shrugged. He didn't seem too concerned with what was about to happen. He must be that confident in his woman's abilities.
"Fighters ready?" Cassel bellowed.
The women fell into their stances; grey and violet clashing in readiness. Sansa had never been a fan of fights or unnecessary bloodshed, but for some inexplicable reason, she felt the silvery thread of a thrill racing down her spine. Maybe it was the notion of two females going at it in a sport that most men craved. That two women, one more Tom boyish than the other, were capable of being just as ferocious as their male counterparts – it was almost inspiring.
"Begin!" came the command which sent the women rushing toward each other in a burst of speed that took most of the spectator's breaths away.
Sansa, unaware of her death grip on the railing (while ignoring Jeyne's cry of 'Go! Go! Go!' beside her), focused all her attention on the blur of figures moving around the ring in a wild yet disciplined motion. Sansa was sure Arya would have hacked the staff to pieces with her sword, but she was more than surprised to see that Dany was having the upper hand. The Targaryen was able to parry away any incoming attacks, moving deftly away from Arya's precise thrusts and blocking them at an angle that prevented Needle's blade from doing much damage.
There was something also unorthodox about Dany's movements. Sansa had seen a few sword fights and fencing matches, where movements followed a distinct pattern. Arya was doing that perfectly; her skill level nothing to sniff at, yet it was difficult to know where Dany was coming from. She seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, for when it seemed that Arya would have her at a disadvantage, the princess would use her body as an extension of her weapon; weaving away and striking back twice as hard until Arya – her stubborn, strong-as-all-hell, baby sister, actually tottered on her heels and stumbled to the ground in a graceless heap.
Ooooh!
Dany might have struck out her staff to claim victory, but Arya had no plans to lose that easy. She rolled to the side, Needle still in hand, and pushed herself off the ground in a reverse flip of sorts. This move had the crowd cheering in delight, and gaining encouragement from that, she charged again; her sword swinging so fast, one could barely make see it. By the time they finally pulled apart, Dany's staff now had its scars. Needle had done a good job chopping away bits of it until it was now about as long as a shortsword.
"Oooh, she's got Dany in a corner now," Jeyne remarked with concern; though the excitement was still in her eyes.
The crowd was beginning to chant their favorite's names now; and it seemed to be split down the middle. Robb, having to show no bias, could only cheer for both girls, while Lord Manderly stood up to clearly make his choice heard.
"Finish it, Arya Stark of Winterfell!"
"For Winterfell!" Arya bellowed in response and lunged…into nothingness.
One minute Dany had been standing before her; barely a foot away – a sitting duck all things considered. However, if Arya was fast, then Dany was just a step quicker. She had anticipated Arya's attack and with a swift move to her right, she struck out with her shortened staff, surprising Arya with the sudden blow to her lower back to send her toppling to the ground face first.
For a moment, there was a stunned and unsure silence for everyone expected Arya to bounce back to her feet, but when she gave nothing but a low groan, the Dany fans erupted in cheers of victory.
Dany – sweaty and flushed from her exertions - bowed and smiled at the crowd, but showing a good sense of sportsmanship, she held out a hand to Arya and helped her to her feet. Arya, though slightly disgruntled at losing, did flush with pride as Dany forced her arm up to have everyone cheering them both for giving a great show. Sansa watched as Monterys ran up to Dany, where he was swept into her arms and showered with kisses, much to his giggling delight. With Jon, they merely exchanged a brief but heated glance that might as well have announced that they were probably not going to be seen for the rest of the night once this was all over.
"All right pipe down all you drunken bastards!" Robb hollered, causing the crowd to laugh or taunt Robb at not serving them any damn drinks in the first place. Ignoring them, the head of the castle rose to his feet and beamed at the still panting women before him.
"Congratulations, you two. You fought gallantly and bravely and-"
"Just give us the goddamn money," Arya interrupted with a snort, sending everyone roaring with laughter.
Lord Manderly, ever the showman, rose to his feet to begin a speech about his generosity, when Arya dove for the velvet purse dangling from his waist with a cheeky grin on her visage.
"Gooddamn sneaky thief!" the lord of White Harbor bellowed indignantly. Ordering his personal guards to chase after the already disappearing girl, he cleared his throat and bowed politely to Dany.
"Apologies, Your Grace, but I will give that thousand dragons to you when I get them." He looked up with a grin; his snow-white beard so lush and well groomed, it shone beneath the pale light emanating from the stone walls. "All the same, it is a pleasure to finally see you in person! I would have welcomed you at the airport, but I was away on a business trip. Welcome to the Great North and let me be the first to declare that House Manderly stands with House Stark as subjects to your future reign."
The crowd roared in approval as Dany blushed and bowed her head in response to the open declaration of fealty. Sansa was more than aware she had not simply come to Winterfell for a pleasurable vacation with Jon. There was real work to do behind the scenes, and she had seen that first hand with all the phone calls and emails her brother had been involved in the last month. If House Manderly was already on board, and if its lord was able to convince a few others of his kind to fall in line, things might work out in the end. However, this was the North, and from the few meetings she had sat in while her father was alive, it was almost always impossible to predict how the rest of the houses would react. Lord Manderly was only one man. There were a whole other band of misfits to try to convince.
"Guess I bet on the wrong person," Jeyne pouted beside her. "I've lost five silver coins."
"And that's why I never gamble," Sansa said with a smile as she kissed her future sister-in-law's cheek. "It is a pointless enterprise, my dear."
After a robust typical Northern dinner, Sansa was officially spent. She not only had to oversee the feeding of the main guests – and this included the sudden arrival of Cley Cerywn, and his sister, Jonelle – but the staff as well as the smallfolk from winter town, who were boarding at the castle. Secretly, she wished they'd all return to their homes, as the storm hadn't really been as bad as they had thought. However, knowing that most of these folks wouldn't pass up a chance for a free hot meal and warm beds, Sansa knew she'd have to continue the tradition of making Winterfell an abode for all who needed its solace.
As if that excitement wasn't enough, between dealing with Lord Manderly's loud voice – where he insisted on regaling them with as many stories of his 'conquests' in the business world – and having House Cerwyn also pledge their fealty to House Targaryen, her older brother had decided to drop a bombshell after several cups of wine.
"Jeyne and I are getting married!"
As expected, the sudden slightly drunken announcement, had caused everyone to gawk at Robb's grinning and flushed visage with wariness, but when Jeyne looked bashful and tentatively displayed the shimmering rock on her finger, Lord Manderly broke the silence with a bang of his fist on the table and a loud toast of celebration.
"This is a glorious day indeed! It's been a long time since Winterfell had a wedding! To the bride and groom!"
"To the bride and groom!"
No one remembers who started singing or who started using the table for a drum, but the next thing Sansa knew, folks were dancing along the Great Hall; already starting the wedding festivities before the date was even announced. Though Robb, ever spontaneous, declared it would be 'pretty soon' and naturally 'at the godswood'. They were still firm believers of the old gods no matter their mother's penchant for the faith of the Seven.
In this weather? Sansa had thought with an inner groan. As beautiful as the godswood could be at any time of the year, standing outside in the snow and listening to wedding vows was not appealing in the slightest.
"Surely, you'll make my wedding dress, won't you?" Jeyne had asked shyly. "When I called Mom to tell her the good news, she wanted me to wear her old dress, and I was like…no way, Mom. I mean, I know it's vintage and all, but it's sooooooooooooo dowdy. So yeah…pretty please, Sansa? I'd love to wear one of your lovely designs."
How could she say "no" to that?
She sighed and rubbed her temples; grateful for the silence that had finally descended upon the castle. It was about three in the morning, and though she was exhausted and longed to sleep, she found herself whipping out her sketchpad and pencil to begin drawing a suitable style for someone like Jeyne. Nothing too flashy…simple yet elegant and –
"You still awake?" came the sudden query as her door creaked open.
"Haven't you ever heard of knocking, Arya?" she replied without looking up from her pad.
Her sister scoffed and let herself into the room. She was holding up what appeared to be a jacket, which she tossed onto Sansa's worktable. "Can you help me with the rip on the side? I've been trying to get it sewn the past hour, and I just keep messing things up."
"You're missing the magic word."
"…urgh…please?"
Sansa finally looked up; a small smile tugging at her lips. Arya was in her pjs; looking more boyish than ever before. She idly wondered if her breasts would remain that flat for the rest of her life, but her baby sister didn't seem to mind. After all, she had even noticed Arya wrapping it up to make her chest even flatter. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if Arya suddenly declared that she was into women. She was yet to see her sister bring home any boys –
"If you're done staring," Arya huffed and scratched at an old scab on her elbow. "What are you drawing anyway?"
"Jeyne's wedding gown."
"Oh." She leaned forward to take a closer look. "Looks horrible."
"Thanks," Sansa sneered and flipped to another page to try something else. "You can go to bed now. I'll get your stupid jacket done tomorrow."
"Hmph!"
She assumed that would be the end of their conversation, for despite being sisters, they could have been strangers for all the commonalities they had. They hardly liked the same things and couldn't seem to agree on much. In fact, it was as if she was talking to the female form of Jon.
"You did pretty good with the fighting today," Sansa finally said after another awkward minute of silence. She was back to sketching; this time something high-necked. "You could have beaten her."
Arya scoffed and shuffled from one foot to the other. She tried to look upset but was secretly pleased at the praise. "She would have still beaten me."
"Really?"
"She was holding back," Arya complained. "I could tell."
"She fights…weird."
"Yeah," came the awed response. "It was a mix of the Dothraki and Dornish style of fighting. I've seen some videos online about it, and she told me herself. She's awesome, isn't she?"
Sansa merely shrugged; despite that reluctant seed of admiration growing within.
"We're going to spar again in the morning," Arya declared. "And this time, she's going to teach me the Dornish Dance. Can you believe the Oberyn Martell was her teacher? Phew! I can't wait!"
Sansa managed a smile. She wished a part of her wouldn't feel as envious about this, for it would seem Arya found more pleasure being in the presence of Dany than with her own sister. However, hadn't she come to terms with their differences? So why should it bother her who Arya chose to spend her time with?
"Well, have fun," Sansa offered with a nod. "If I have time, I'll come watch her kick your ass."
Arya snickered and playfully struck at Sansa's shoulder; about as much as a hug as she was going to get. "Thanks for the help with the jacket and try to get some sleep. You're like a walking ghost around here. G'night!"
She was gone before Sansa could think up some witty comeback; not that it would have stung anyway. Arya almost always did have to get the last word whenever they argued. Still, she was right. She was exhausted, and if she was lucky, she could grab a couple of hours of sleep before starting the day getting the castle in order.
Sigh. Being the lady of Winterfell was damn hard work.
Her council meeting was just a little larger, Sansa observed the next morning.
Jorah and Davos were back, but with more guests, which included the snarky, bold, and current head of House Mormont, Lyanna, who at only twelve, was already making grown men shake in their boots. The Houses Condon, Poole, Cassel, Reed, and Hornwood were also in attendance, and with Lord Manderly and Cley Cerwyn already seated, the Great Hall was becoming a scene from one of her father's usual meetings. As far as she knew, members of House Umber and Karstark would be arriving later that evening. The roads were now being cleared and visibility much better than expected.
Thankfully, most of the smallfolk had left the castle, leaving more rooms available for the incoming honored guests. Sansa, with the help of Jeyne, had been kept on their toes for the better part of the day; having to organize things and see that all were accommodated and fed accordingly. Never had she had a better appreciation of what her mother must have gone through when they had guests in town.
"Don't they all look so grand?" Jeyne whispered as she tiptoed up to Sansa who had been watching the proceedings from behind a curtain.
Sansa wasn't sure if 'grand' was the word she would have used, but there was something quite regal about the whole affair. It wasn't even as if they were in robes or furs or anything that elaborate; yet even in simple outfits like sweaters, scarfs and jackets, the five people seated at the High Table were clearly the most important in the room.
Robb, of course, sat in the middle; looking every bit the part of Lord of Winterfell as he listened to Kyle Condon speak. Every now and then, he'd take a sip of his coffee and study the notes before him with a pensive expression on his visage. His dark auburn hair and beard made him appear to be a ghost of their grandfather – from their mother's side – but when he grinned at something; the Ned Stark in him shone through.
To his left sat the future Queen of Westeros; having been given the high honor naturally. How she managed to look both sweet and intimidating at the same time was a talent in Sansa's opinion. Today, her hair was done in a combination of soft waves and braids, which cascaded down to shoulders enclosed in a cream cashmere sweater accentuated with a red scarf wrapped around her neck. She was listening just as intensely to the speaker; her notes and laptop opened before her despite Missandei sitting just behind her typing furiously on her laptop. Behind them; almost hidden in the shadows were Grey Worm and Jorah – her perpetual and loyal bodyguards.
While Rodrik Cassel sat beside her; keeping his notes as well, what made this all even more surreal was the sight of Jon Snow – the once bastard of Winterfell – sitting at the High Table mere inches from the ancient stone seat held by Stark patriarchs throughout history. Once she had caught him sitting on it as a boy – when luckily their parents were out on vacation – and she had watched him pretend to be 'king' by waving his hand about, having a stern expression on his face, and giving the most ridiculous commands to his invisible subjects. Perhaps she might have told on him then, but there had been something quite sad yet poignant about seeing Jon in that position. At eight, he had 'played' the role of King…at almost twenty-four, he was about to become a real King of an entire realm.
And damn if he doesn't look the part already.
Whether it was the beard, or the way he had his hair combed back in that familiar ponytail their father favored, or the intense concentration on his face as he listened to Condon speak, or the way he'd tip his head to the left to listen to something Davos would whisper in his ear…everything pointed to a man ready to lead. This was no longer a boy. That boy had died somewhere in King's Landing a long time ago.
However, a part of her feared for his soon-to-be role. It feared for the lofty obstacles that would come not just his way, but his possible bride's way. Things were not going to be easy, especially if it was finally revealed that they were aunt and nephew. Perhaps in the old days, many might not have considered it a big deal since they were of the infamous Targaryen bloodline where it was somewhat necessary to marry within the family; but these were modern times where such relationships might draw scorn and derision from a majority of the public. What happened then? Would they choose to continue ruling and suffer the backlash? Or will they choose to go their separate ways or abdicate the throne altogether?
I worry too damn much, Sansa mused with a weary sigh. What will be, will be.
"Thank you, Lord Condon," Robb announced, once Kyle was finished. "We appreciate your support and fealty. And now…we open the floor to Lady Lyanna Mormont of House Mormont."
Lyanna, all four feet two inches of her, rose to her feet and stepped to the middle of the hall. Her long black hair was pushed away from her face with two tight braids; those intelligent dark eyes flashing with a fire the adults would have been foolish to ignore.
"House Mormont will pledge no fealty today until we hear more from this Queen who wishes to rule over us," she declared in a voice that was as loud and crisp as chips of ice cascading in the silence. Although her declaration caused a few murmurs, they silenced when she cleared her throat. "House Mormont has always been in allegiance with House Stark and has never broken faith. It does not intend to do so now. However, House Targaryen must reveal its true intentions to the North, and I believe my fellow lords will agree to the same."
"Then we must wait until more of them arrive," Lord Manderly bellowed with a sage nod. "The Lady is correct. Although we stand with House Stark and House Targaryen, more of us are needed to make this truly official."
"Hear! Hear!"
"All right, my Lords and Lady!" Robb interrupted with a pound of his fist on the table. "It is agreed that this preliminary meeting will be adjourned until the others arrive. I believe we are expecting the Karstarks and Umbers this evening…" He paused and read a note passed to him from Rodrik. "Ah, even better news, the Houses Bolton, Glover, Marsh, Mallister, Lighftoot, Overton, Ryswell, and Slate will also be here."
The others cheered at this news, though Manderly and Mormont didn't look too pleased at the mention of some of the houses listed. Lyanna declared her irritation with a scoff. "I find it hard to believe the Boltons and Glovers will show up with no ulterior motive. They must be regarded carefully."
"As they will, my Lady," Robb replied with a smile. "We hope that this turns out to be a civilized meeting."
"Fat load of a chance that's happening," someone in the back sneered to loud laughter in response.
"My Lords and Lady," Dany cut through the hilarity; her voice as clear and firm as they had ever head. She had risen to her feet, and though there was a polite smile on her visage, it was clear there was still tension stored up within that petite figure. "I thank you for giving me an audience today. I have listened to your concerns, and I have no doubt there will be more laid out tomorrow. However, my motives and goal remain the same. I did not come here to conquer you all like my ancestors did, but to work with you, to draw strength from you, and to help make Westeros a more peaceful and unified nation."
"Amen to that!" Cley replied with a stomp of his foot.
This move was repeated by the others until it felt like a rumbling thunderstorm went through the room. This time, Dany's smile was a little more genuine, and Sansa could only watch as both brothers looked up and gave matching grins of pride and admiration, to their would-be monarch.
Better be careful, Jeyne, Sansa thought with a chuckle as she turned away to head back upstairs. Your future husband might already be having his doubts.
If she was surprised to find Dany standing in the middle of her workroom; staring at the gown still hanging on the mannequin with an expression of wonder on her visage, Sansa did a good job hiding it.
"Oh, my apologies," Dany began apologizing profusely when the door banging shut behind Sansa finally snapped her out of her daydream. "I got lost…I mean I was trying to find the library to return this book, but then I spied this door ajar and peeked in and-"
She stopped rambling; a blush on her features that made her look years younger, and a far cry from the stoic and composed female in the Great Hall earlier.
"You have an amazing workshop," Dany finally blurted out with a wave of her hand. "It's just-"
"Years of accumulation," Sansa finished with a smile as she sat behind the large white table where she did her sketches and measurements. "This used to be an old storage room, but when I told Dad I wanted it for my 'sewing-room', he obliged. From a tiny space, it expanded as I got older. I needed more room for this table and more mannequins and wardrobes and material space…and larger windows…and the list is endless, but hey, we girls are never satisfied, right?"
They laughed at that; both silently amazed at finding one thing in common at least.
"I was going to surprise you with that," Sansa motioned toward the gown Dany had been admiring, "But since you've ruined it…"
Dany's wide-eyed expression and gasp of delight more than made up for the hours spent working on the outfit. She didn't help matters by reaching out to grasp both of Sansa's hands to squeeze them tightly. With the way she was acting, one would assume she had never received such fancy clothing before! Sansa wanted to scoff at her behavior but was secretly delighted at the genuine response of delight.
"That's mine?!" Dany all but squealed before releasing Sansa to go back to the gown. "I don't believe it. It must have taken you months to get it done…and the stitching…the details…lace dragons for fuck's sake."
"Language, Your Grace," Sansa teased as she rose to her feet to show off a little. She unhooked the cape, which had twin silver dragon clasps to hold it place. She revealed the herringbone-like stitching around the neckline and sleeves, and for the next few minutes, she took delight in explaining the designing process to a rapturous Dany.
"Want to test wear it? It will help to make sure it actually fits," Sansa said with a smile.
"Would I? You don't need to ask twice!"
"Whoa! What are you doing?"
Dany, who had begun stripping off her sweater, blinked behind the clothing. "Taking off my clothes. What's wrong?"
"I have a changing room," Sansa said with a loud laugh. "Geez, Dany. What if someone walked in?"
"It's only boobs and an ass. Everyone has them," Dany taunted as she obediently lowered the sweater.
"Well, I doubt any servant wants to see the future Queen's boobs and ass at this time. So, in you go." She shooed Dany toward a narrow wooden door hidden in an alcove of sorts. "I'll pass the clothes to you, all right?"
Almost ten agonizing minutes later, where Sansa spent the time trying not to bite her nails while wondering if Dany would hate how it fit, or not be so enamored with it after all or –
"I'm ready," came the quiet voice from behind, causing her to turn around so fast, she nearly lost her footing.
.Perfect.
She had wondered if the dark greys would wash out her coloring, but it turned out to be the exact opposite. The gown hugged her in all the right places; though her expert eye could tell she might have to loosen around the hips a little, but otherwise…it was just as she had imagined it would be.
"It's beautiful," Dany was saying as she twirled before the mirror. "Wow, Sansa…I don't know how to thank you for this."
"Well, you can thank me by standing still so I can do this," came the flustered reply as she fastened the cape around Dany's shoulders. This forced her to be as close to the Targaryen as she had ever been, and for some inane reason, the sudden urge to hug this smaller woman was overwhelming. She was more alarmed to find something hard now wedged in her throat and made worse with the tears forming in her eyes.
Goddamnit. Why am I crying? Over a stupid dress? It doesn't make any sense and…oh…
The hug came anyway, and it wasn't even from her.
Dany's arms – small as she was – were still strong enough to enclose Sansa in one of the warmest and most heartfelt embraces she'd received in a long time. At first, a part of her wanted to balk and detach herself from the intimate contact, but the inner girl crumbled to pieces and accepted the touch; her arms wrapping around Dany's shoulders until that sweet scent of rose and jasmine seemed to sink into her very pores. And gosh, was her hair soft and thick. Jon must probably use it as a blanket sometimes –
"I love it," Dany murmured against her chest. "And I'll wear it proudly, Sansa. Thank you."
Sansa sniffled; her blush refusing to fade as she pulled away and tried to compose herself. "Yeah well…I still need to work on a few things, so stand still on that podium thingy for me, okay?"
Dany gave a polite curtesy and hopped onto said podium, though she still couldn't stop looking at herself in the mirror as she turned this way and that.
"Hmm…dear gods, I love the way it's functional yet festive. I have a very good mind of making you my official dressmaker," Dany teased as Sansa grabbed her tools and took up position behind Dany. "What do you say to that?"
Sansa laughed and shook her head. "You couldn't pay me enough to leave Winterfell, Your Grace, but hey…if you promise to keep taking care of that stupid brother of mine…maybe I'll reconsider the offer."
She fully expected to get a laugh out of this, but when Dany fell silent, Sansa looked up with bemusement. Dany was still smiling, but she was toying with the clasp of the cape; looking for all the world like a blushing bride on her wedding day. However, despite the wistful expression; there was still a tinge of sadness or longing…or both.
"I'm sorry," Sansa began. "I hope I didn't say anything-"
"Oh no, no, no," Dany interrupted with a wave of her hand. "It's not you. I was just…I was just thinking about your 'stupid' brother that's all." She chuckled and subconsciously rubbed her hands. Although there was a ring there, Sansa knew it was just a decorative accessory, but she was astute enough to guess at what might be bothering Dany. Another cue was the way she had glanced at the pile of white material she had placed on her work table earlier; all possible wedding gown options for Jeyne.
Ah…regret or envy? Which is it, Dany? Are you still waiting for Jon to propose? Or did you deny him the pleasure?
"Yeah, he does need some sense knocked into him occasionally," Sansa agreed with a smile hidden behind Dany's derriere as she began to cut into the material. "It's why I'm glad he chose you to do that for him when necessary, so…thanks."
I couldn't be all I should have been for him, so please continue to shower him with the love he deserves.
Dany's barely audible gasp warmed Sansa's heart, and if the soft sniffle to accompany it was any indication, she had a feeling she'd be creating yet another wedding dress very soon.
It was almost always the same when the Umbers came to Winterfell.
Between them and the Karstarks, Sansa was amazed the Great Hall was still standing. Greatjon Umber – a monster of a man; easily seven feet tall, with a face as shaggy and wild as the hairy giant emblazoned on their banners – had openly taken to Dany at first glance. Not afraid to speak his mind, he had all but gladly told the boisterous room just how 'welcome' she'd be in his private quarters.
"Show you how it's really done in the North, Your Grace, eh?!"
Though most had laughed, Jon hadn't really found it amusing as evidenced with the thunderous scowl on his features despite Greatjon teasing and telling him it was only in jest.
"Easy now, White Wolf. Wouldn't want to have me balls cut off by the future King, eh? But then again, who would have thought the lucky bastard of Winterfell would end up screwing the future Queen of Westeros? The world's gone mad I tell ya!"
By midnight though, Greatjon was sobbing and singing drunkenly on Jon's lap about bonny lasses and lost loves. For a big bear of a man, his voice was surprisingly good.
The Karstarks, however, were not as enthused. They were polite and courteous enough, but it was clear all its members still hadn't forgiven Jon over the murder of their son, Eddard. Not that Jon gave a shit. He had lost Ghost because of them, and that was unforgiveable. Still, he knew he'd have to keep his temper in check and behave himself; something that took a lot of effort considering how often Harrion Karstark kept making japes at any opportunity he got.
"Fucked his way up to the big leagues," the oldest Karstark heir had observed loudly with scorn. "Thinks that's the only way to make us forget he's a goddamn bastard."
If it wasn't for Robb holding back Jon, Sansa was sure they'd have had another 'incident'; something they didn't need the night before the big meeting.
Fortunately, the castle was now quiet again, and as Sansa trudged wearily to her room for much-needed sleep, she stopped at the sight of the lone figure staring at a portrait in the grand hallway.
Ah…
She knew she ought to turn the other way and leave him be, but she came to realize she'd not really had a chance to speak to him privately since their arrival over a week ago. Things have been so busy (and weird), their conversations had been reduced to mere greetings or pleasantries.
"Just finished?" Jon asked without turning around.
"Yeah…but I've got to be up in a couple of hours to get ready for breakfast," she complained. "I swear it seems all I do is worry about food eighty-percent of the day. Feeding Northerners is a fucking chore."
Jon chuckled. "Guess you have a better appreciation of what your mom went through. Maybe that's why she was so bitchy half of the time."
She prepared to refute that; an autopilot reaction to any insult leveled at her mother. However, she kept her peace as she studied his profile. He wasn't smiling any longer, and as she turned to the portrait, she felt her heart clench at what he must be thinking.
How painfully ironic. He grew up wondering who his mother was…and she was here all this time. Her ghost walked these halls and shed a tear over the terrible things we did to her son. I wish I could take it all back, Aunt Lyanna. I wish I could have been a better sister to him.
"Don't blame yourself for it," came the quiet response which had Sansa blinking in surprise. Had she said those thoughts out loud? "You were only doing what Catelyn asked you to."
"But I should have known better," Sansa muttered with a lowered head as she tugged on the hem of her sweater. "Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon…they weren't as horrible as I was to you."
"Yeah you sucked most of the time, but I could see you didn't always have your heart in it," Jon replied with a wan smile. "Besides, if I really hated your guts, you wouldn't be standing here today."
He smirked at her incredulous expression, before reaching out to tug her hair playfully. "Geez. I was just kidding. Smile a little."
"Says Mr. Brooder."
"Dany told me you laughed today, and I found that hard to believe."
"I did…what?" She blushed in embarrassment. "She told you that?"
"She was driving me nuts talking about some dress you made her, and how I was going to be blown away, and how I better start appreciating how awesome a dressmaker you are, and I really, really struggled not to roll my eyes every fucking time."
"Shut the fuck up!" Sansa replied with a helpless burst of laughter at the mock pained expression on Jon's face. She tried to shove him aside, but he ducked from her attack with a grin.
"I don't know how she stands you," she added with a huff.
"I don't know either," Jon said with an earnest quiet that had her smile fading. His head was lowered now; his features red with an adorable expression of bashfulness she would not have thought possible. "I remember when you said that no girl would ever want to be with someone like me-"
"I didn't really mean that Jon," she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his head.
"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't, but I really thought hard about it and figured you did have a point. No matter how good I was or how I would try to make the best of my lot, I'd always have that stigma of being a bastard attached to my name for the rest of my life. Who would want to be with someone like that?"
"Someone who saw past your name and saw what was in here," Sansa replied as she nudged his chest with a finger. "And I doubt she's sticking around just because you make her happy in the bedroom."
Jon went an even brighter shade of red. "I'd rather not talk about my bedroom habits, if you don't mind."
"Dear gods, do you two not get exhausted? Especially considering you were out for like four days?"
Jon might have mumbled something about 'making up for lost time', before quickly changing the subject.
"So? What's the verdict?"
"Huh?"
"Dany?" Jon asked with an almost shy smile. "Do you like her? I mean if you two spent a couple of hours in each other's presence without coming to blows-"
"Good grief, Jon. I'm not that bitchy." She rolled her eyes. No way in hell was she going to tell of how they had gone from seamstress and client to just two gals sitting amongst piles of organza, cotton, and silk while chatting over a bottle of red wine. For the first time in her life, Sansa had shared her relationship woes with someone who wasn't likely to be judgmental. Dany had listened patiently; only chirping in to relate with her own disastrous past relationships. Both did come to the agreement that most men were scum, and they had laughed themselves silly over penis sizes and some of the lame things men tended to do in the bedroom.
Yeah, there was no way she could tell Jon any of that.
"She's…well…nice. Different."
"Different?"
"You know what I mean. Not like us…Northerners."
"Well duh, Sansa. She's lived in Essos for most of her fucking life."
"I know that, Genius! I meant, she thinks 'differently'. She's more…open, I guess is the word I'm looking for."
Jon chuckled. "Yeah, trust me, I know exactly what you mean. You come to realize how closed off we really are up here when there's a whole other world to explore out there. I've seen and experienced things I never thought I would, and its all because of her. She's made me really see, Sansa. Do you know what I mean?"
She nodded; her chest tightening with an unspoken emotion. "I can only imagine," she finally said in a quiet voice. "Well, at least I'll get my first taste of Essos when we drop off Arya at her school next month."
"Wow…that soon, eh?"
For a while, they discussed their baby sister though skirting away from the dawning realization that they were going to miss her terribly when she was gone. As they chuckled over the latest sparring match between her and Dany, Sansa suddenly moved closer to tug on the sleeve of his left arm.
"What the hell are you doing now?"
"I just remembered," she began. "Any weird after effects with your arm?"
"Its not grown another one if that's what you're concerned about. I'm fine. Just still got the scar from the blade, but otherwise, it's good as new."
Sansa nodded; though her features were still taut with concern. "And the red woman?"
Jon sighed. "Well, we had to send her out of the castle. Dany kept going on about shadow demons and not trusting her around this place, and I figured what the hell? Let her go live in that abandoned crofter's cottage on the outskirts of town. She won't cause us any trouble there, will she?"
"I hope not."
"You don't believe in all that black magic stuff, do you?"
Sansa kept silent, and Jon gave a sound of exasperation. "Seven hells, not you too."
"I'm just saying, Jon. You didn't see what happened that night. What she was saying and how she was acting…it wasn't normal."
"I agree there's nothing normal about my arm healing this way, but so far, I'm fine. I don't have weird dreams or randomly float or speak in tongues."
"And what was all that about being the 'prince that was promised'? Does she know about Rhaeger being your father?"
Jon placed a finger against her lips; his eyes dark and voice low. "Might want to keep it down about that, Sansa. These walls have ears, and we've got a lot of fucking ears in the castle right now. Besides, even if she knows, I doubt she'll go blabbing about it. She would have done so by now, right?"
She nodded in understanding, and he pulled away with a heavy sigh. For a while, they studied their barely smiling Aunt Lyanna in her ballgown and wondered if –
"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Sansa finally asked. "Or rather do you think you'll both be ready for tomorrow?"
Jon snorted and curled his lips in derision. "If tonight was any preview…it's going to be a long fucking day. I've already heard the disgruntlement from some people on why I must be seated at the High Table. I'm a bastard after all."
"You're not-"
"Yeah, but they don't know that, and quite frankly, it's not important." Jon shrugged and then turned to Sansa with determination on his features. "It's Dany's show tomorrow and it will be her job to convince those assholes that she's worthy of being their leader. I'll jump in when needed, but mark my words, if some folks cross the line, I don't give a fuck whose alliances I break up, I'm bashing some heads."
"…then I expect it to be a very enthralling meeting," Sansa replied with an inner groan. Things could get ugly fast. "At least try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Purchasing cleaning supplies for this place costs a small fortune."
"Don't worry, dear sis," he said with a wicked grin punctuated with a tender kiss to her forehead. "If push comes to shove, we can always take it outside. Now go get some sleep. You look beat."
She turned to leave, when she was stopped by an "oh, and Sansa?"
"What now?" she asked with a raised brow.
"Thanks."
She turned around in surprise, wondering what he was getting at. "Thanks for what?"
"Hanging out with Dany," came the quiet reply. "She might not say it out loud but spending time with you really helped ease off the tension she was feeling all morning. She's got a lot on her mind, and Missandei and I can only do so much. You were the third voice she needed, so thanks. I really appreciate it."
"…stop being weird," was all she could mutter as she felt the rush of heat flow through her until her chest became too tight and breathing a little difficult. Damn him (and her) for making her so emotional over the most ridiculous things.
Spinning on her heels, she all but ran upstairs; eventually climbing into bed as the hour hand struck two o'clock. She closed her eyes in grateful weariness, hoping for a blissful and uneventful night. Unfortunately, all she could see were the bothersome mish-mashed images of Aunt Lyanna crying, her parents engulfed in flames, Dany surrounded by thorns, a furious Jon dripping in blood with Ghost in his arms, while a woman in red laughed through it all.
It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. This is Winterfell, she'd think as she fell into fitful slumber. And it will continue to stand no matter the odds.
