Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, Lady of Winterfell.
She'd ruled her independent realm for eleven years since the death of Daenerys Targaryen. The last three of those had been winter.
Her maester was late with reports on their grain stores, so she walked the high battlement by the central keep alone. It was easy to enjoy her solitude standing on the Winterfell battlements and looking across the winter landscape. A blacksmith's hammer sounded behind her, but outside the castle all was silent and austere. Fresh powder snow, fluffy and white as goosedown, covered the cleared land around the castle, and around that were the tall, dark-green trees of the wood where her father had once hunted.
To the forest's edge came a deer with brown fur and white spots and long, felt-covered antlers. It was far from Sansa, but her eyes were sharp and the air was wonderfully clear. The deer nosed around by the base of the trees for something to eat. It did not look hungry. Rather, it moved slowly, peacefully—happily, Sansa thought.
The deer froze in place and raised its head. It turned its long face left and right, pointing its ears towards some sound. For ten seconds, it made no move.
A wolf's howl sounded. The deer darted out of the woods and into the cleared land around the castle.
Sansa's throat tightened in fear.
At the same time, she knew it was irrational and childish to react in such a way. She'd seen things so much worse than a deer getting killed—in King's Landing under Joffrey, in Winterfell married to Ramsay. She'd even seen barbaric things here as Queen. For sometimes in the vastness of the half-wild North, men killed each other or tortured their wives and children for no reason at all, and it was up to her be the law and administer punishment.
A wolf dashed out into the meadow behind the deer, making the deer turn and dash toward a small hillock about ten feet high. The deer ran far faster than the wolf, yet somehow Sansa knew it was doomed. Her suspicion was confirmed when a second wolf, smaller but faster than the first, darted out from behind the hill and caused the deer to change course back into the forest.
The two wolves chased the deer into the trees, out of Sansa's view.
Her emotional reaction to the deer's impending death passed. Such was the way of the world. She'd eaten venison not more than a week ago and she'd eat it again if the hunters brought it back.
Chains clinked on the stone staircase behind her. She turned and saw Maester Llewylyn clamber onto the stairs with a new piece of parchment in hand. He was scarcely over thirty, close in age to Sansa herself at this point, but his back already crooked at the top from poring over so many books.
She asked him about his journey, for she always tried to appear polite and concerned about her subordinates, and then got down to the real business.
"Shall we discuss the grain report, then?" said Sansa, stepping from the battlement into an small office by the great hall where she talked over the most serious realm business.
Maester Llewylyn followed her in and, once inside, plucked a roll of white parchment from the capacious pocket of his maester's robe. He unfurled it and handed it to Sansa. It was a list of all the keeps and larger settlements in the North, how much grain they currently had, and their total population.
Maester Llewylyn pointed to a few rows marked with red crosses. "There's been an issue along the coast. Here, here, here, and here. There was that odd thaw about six weeks back." He raised his eyes and looked hopeful and oddly young for a moment. "Sign of an early Spring, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," said Sansa, not so optimistic. "Perhaps not."
"In any case, it appears that the early thaw let some rot into their grain stores. At one of the keeps, they ate it anyway, thinking it might harm children or the elderly but not healthy adults. They all went insane for a few days. Said they saw visions or heard demons. Bad grain can do that, it seems. But after that, all the keeps by the ocean, six of them, burned every bit of moldy grain they had. Half their stores in some cases."
"Half?" said Sansa, raising both brows and rescanning the relevant rows on the parchment.
There was no graver subject in winter than grain. When supplies ran even a little low, people worried. Add that worry on top of years of five-hour days and nights so cold they made the eyelids freeze together for a split-second when someone blinked, and people got unruly. Vicious, even. If it came to actual hunger at that point, the whole kingdom could rise in revolt against anyone and everyone.
Sansa remembered one such occurrence from her childhood, when a remote keep ran out of grain. She hadn't been there, of course, but had overheard her mother and father speaking of it in low, tense voices.
She must've been only three or four. It was one of her earliest memories. Mom had asked Dad whether they'd had a raven from Stonewood by the Wall yet. He'd said no and told Catelyn that it was nothing to worry about. Likely their raven had just gotten sick or struck down by wind. Still, he sent an expedition to check.
That expedition took one-hundred sixty days to march through the snow to Stonewood by the Wall, check on the inhabitants, and march back.
All they'd found were burned-out ruins and cracked bones with all meat chawed off. Nobody knew if the locals had eaten each other in starvation or if the wildlings had come in and started killing and eating. Then one old woman whom Lady Stark knew had said there was no difference. Cold and hunger and endless long nights turned even the noblest wild.
When winter arrived during Sansa's reign, she asked about those events. Apparently, all that had happened at Stonewood years ago was bandits getting the grain shipments and a single lost raven. That was all it took to turn her people to savages who would crack the bones of their sons and daughters to suck out the marrow.
Sansa turned to Maester Llewylyn, having made a quick decision about the shortage of grain along the coast.
"Restock them from here," said Sansa. "Give them plenty of grain. Ten percent more than they need to keep them content."
"That will leave the central store at Winterfell with only a seven-month supply," said Measter Llewylyn. "Winter could be over in two or three months… or five years. Of course we can restock, but restocking would take-"
"I know how long it will take," said Sansa. "We've got enough. We'll ration if it comes to it. I'll send a raven south for more grain."
Maester Llewylyn blinked at her a few hard times. She'd learned that this was the closest he came to expressing disagreement. "Yes, but if something goes wrong during restocking, or if the southern kingdoms have raised their prices-"
"My brother is the King of the Six Kingdoms and can see into the future." Sansa smiled at Llewylyn, finding his doubt cute. "We'll get our grain in time—and if we don't, he'll see that we won't and arrange for it."
"Yes, very well. Shall I send a raven at once?"
"I'll write the message myself," said Sansa. "Must talk to my little brother, you know."
She excused Maester Llewylyn, sat at the table in the study, and dipped her pen to write. One of the assistants would take the large sheet she wrote on now and copy it in tiny letters onto the little scrolls that went round the raven's feet.
Sansa asked Bran briefly how he was doing. There was no need send news of Winterfell; he'd use his magic to see it himself if he wanted. Then she politely requested more grain from him at the previously agreed-upon price.
It was good having one's brother for a King but being Queen of one's own kingdom. She got help and guidance whenever she needed it—guidance being partiuclarly nice from someone who could see all places and times. Trade agreements with the Six Kingdoms were particularly easy. There was no negotiation, since Bran already knew how everything would go.
He always wrote a little something back, though his thoughts were so etherial and distant that his replies seldom made much sense.
Summoning one of the assistants, she sent off the message and went on to other realm business.
After two weeks, Sansa's reply came. It was even curter than normal:
Your grain will come in time. You will have far more than you requested. Love, Bran.
The last line made Sansa jump. Bran never expressed such emotion in his letters. She didn't, either. Though they were brother and sister, truth be told, they had not seen each other face-to-face in years and had never been close.
The next day she received another message from King's Landing that revealed why he'd ended his message in that way. It was not from Bran, nor from any of her usual contacts in the Red Keep. Rather, it came from the capital's message service that sent critical announcements to all cities and large keeps throughout the world.
This second message said that Brandon Stark, Son of Eddard Stark of Winterfell, The Three-Eyed Raven, King of the Six Kingdoms, leader of that realm through eleven prosperous and peaceful years of rebuilding after numerous wars, was dead.
Sansa gasped in shock. She pressed one hand to her sternum and leaned far back in her chair. Her heart had frozen in her chest; her lungs would not draw breath. Her brother, her little brother Bran who she'd known all his life, who she'd cradled when he was an infant…
Gone.
Then fear struck through her shock: How could a man who could see the future, would knew all places and times, have died so young?
Her mouth went dry as bone. She called in Maester Llewylyn, bid him write to King's Landing to check on the grain shipments, and then went to her private chambers to mourn.
The next day, Sansa received another raven. The note on its ankle described how her brother died.
To Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, first of her Name:
My deepest sympathies for the loss of your dear brother. I am sure, having experienced the vicissitudes you have in your life, that you are suspicious of what could cause the death of a man like your brother.
Let me assure you that I do not feel or suspect foul play was involved. I hope you will believe this account coming from me—I do not know how our past relations have left your level of trust.
Bran said to me two nights ago, just before he went to sleep, "I will die tomorrow night." I asked him who would dare try and how could he not prevent it if he could see it coming. He said that it was no one, and prevention was impossible. He told me that a piece of blood had hardened inside the veins of his unused, withered legs. This clot would break free and travel to his brain where it would cause him to die. It would be a painless and easy death.
I told the maesters. They went to move him and massage his legs to stop what he'd described. Whether this broke the clot in his legs free and so caused Bran's vision to come true, or whether nothing at all could have prevented it, I do not know.
His passing was peaceful. He died in his sleep. The maesters have inspected him and say that his predicted cause of death appears accurate to the highest degree.
I feel for your loss deeply, Sansa. I realize that pain must fill your memories of our time together, as it was such a horrible period in your life. But you have my deepest condolences.
Regrettably, the grain you requested was not shipped before your brother's passing. The master of coin, Bron of Highgarden, declared after Bran's passing that the prices you paid were overly favorable due to your kinship with the king and unfair to others in the kingdom. Bron refuses to send grain until new negotiations are made. I will do what I can to get some smaller amount of grain moving to your people as a holdover until a new deal is struck, as I know how hard winter can be so far north. However, I cannot guarantee much.
There will also be a vote to select the new king. You are highly respected in the capital, and though you receive no vote, your influence and guidance in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Therefore, to witness the choosing of a new king and to negotiate with the master of coin, I feel that a trip to King's Landing for your advisors or even yourself would be prudent.
Let me again express my deepest condolences. Your brother restored the Six Kingdoms to health after the ravages of so many wars. No other could be so wise or farsighted. He will be gravely missed.
I assume you will wish to inter him in your family vault, and I wait only for confirmation to send his remains to Winterfell.
In deepest sympathy,
Tyrion Lannister
Hand of the Former King and Pro-Tempore Regent of the Six Kingdoms
She replied to agree that Bran's remains should be sent north. The next day, she set out for King's Landing.