TRIGGER WARNINGS!
Sexual Assault
PTSD / Panic Attack
It gets a bit rapey up in here, kids.

THE MONSTERS AMONG US

Sansa IV

It was a clear night. The perpetual cloud cover had blown south on a gentle wind and stars shone proudly in the inky sky. Sansa wasn't sure if this was evidence that even winter had abandoned her family all together, or a sign of good things to come. She rather suspected the former, if history was anything to go by. The cold was still biting, even to her Northern skin, but the wind and snow of the past months had given way to a strange calm. It was as though the realm itself had paused to watch the meeting of worlds… Or perhaps they were simply caught in that moment of peace in the eye of the storm. The Lady of Winterfell sighed, her breath pluming before her and rising into the chill of the night.

The feast had finished by now, and from her place on the walkway overlooking the courtyard she watched as her drunken subjects and their guests alike wobbled out into the night. She would have to send a patrol out shortly to collect those who did not make it back to their beds. They couldn't very well leave them to freeze in their stupor.

Jon and the Targaryen Queen had both escaped the festivities some time ago. It was a similarity Sansa had not expected, but the two monarchs seemed to share a dislike for rowdy pomp and ceremony. Truthfully, she was proud of her brother. Once, she would have assumed that his conversation with the Dragon Queen was just mindless honesty and openness but now… Whether he had mimicked Littlefinger's approach knowingly or not, it had been beyond satisfying to see the honourable Jon Snow succeed where her mentor had failed.

It had occurred to her, as she had watched the foreign queen soften at her brother's words, that Jon may well be the first truly honest man Daenerys Stormborn had ever met.

"Your king is certainly a dull fellow. He seems to lack even the most basic of character."

The mocking voice behind her caused Sansa to turn slightly. "Lady Olenna," she nodded in greeting as the aging Lady came to stand by her side, "Jon is reserved, he's always been such, but I caution you not to mistake that for a lack of anything." She'd made that very mistake herself, once...

"Of course," the Queen of Thorns replied with a careless wave of her hand as she looked Sansa up and down, "Your loyalty is admirable."

"He is my brother and my King."

The elderly woman tutted, her expression somewhere between disappointed and disbelief. "And how angry are you that he was picked in your stead?"

The question was less of a surprise than the openness with which it was asked, but still Sansa took it in stride. "Less so each day."

Lady Olenna laughed sharply. "Honesty," she nodded, "How very Stark."

Sansa smiled politely. "I learned from the best"

"Did you? The girl I remember couldn't find two thoughts to rub together in that pretty head of hers."

"I'm a slow learner, it's true," Sansa admitted mildly, keeping the smile in place and refusing to take the bait, "But I learn."

Lady Olenna gave her another once over and nodded slightly. "So it would seem."

Accepting the truce those words offered, the Ladies of Winterfell and Highgarden both turned to look out over the frozen courtyard once more. Men hooted and hollered drunkenly below, snippets of song still floating into the night, but the women did not falter in their vigil. Even when the unmistakable screech of a dragon rang out in the distance, echoing across the snow, their silence continued. It was only when ghostly howls began twisting together with the evening breeze that Sansa spoke.

"I was saddened to hear of Margaery's fate," she said, keeping her eyes on the activity below, "And Ser Loras' as well. My affection for them was genuine."

Beside her, Lady Olenna sighed and for just a moment she seemed old. "As was mine…"

"You were a fool to trust Lord Baelish."

Lady Olenna looked at her sharply. "You're more the fool if you think there was trust involved," she replied at last, but her tone was different now. Just as biting, but less brash. Just as confident, but less sure.

Sansa revelled in the shift. "And yet, you gave him power over you," she pointed out calmly, fingering the simple necklace she'd chosen for the evening and watching as Lady Olenna's eyes tracked her movement, "You gave him knowledge of what you did together… You made certain he could move against you."

She couldn't make out the moment when the old matriarch understood what exactly she was implying — Lady Olenna played the game far too well for that — but the moment she accepted the realization was clear enough in her shifting posture.

"He had no reason to. He had achieved his goal."

Sansa chuckled darkly. "His goal is chaos. There's none more chaotic than Cersei Lannister."

"And yet he stands beside you…"

"I have something he wants."

Lady Olenna's eyes raked over her body and Sansa fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. These were the tools she had been given, and she refused to be shamed for using them by a woman who had surely done the same thing — and more — in her youth. Of course, her tools had been rather dulled since Ramsay —

"And you believe that gives you the power?" the older woman asked at last, her expression shrewd even in the darkness.

Sansa had never been so grateful for a patronizing tone in all her life. She squared her shoulders just a fraction and forced Ramsay to the darkest corner of her mind (while ignoring the nagging little voice that said he probably liked it there.) "For the time being."

The Lady of Highgarden huffed an almost-laugh. "Then we shall be fools together," she decided as she tugged her wimple tighter around her ears, "I don't know how you stand this wretched weather."

"Perhaps you should retire for the evening, My Lady," Sansa suggested politely, "I'd never ask you to brave winter's chill on my account."

Lady Olenna huffed again, but took the suggestion all the same as she stepped away from the railing. "Tell me, Lady Sansa," she asked ask she picked her way across the frozen walkway and back toward the warmth of the castle, "Were you ever as stupid as you appeared?"

"Yes."

I'm a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns and I'm a terrible liar, so I should always tell the truth.

It had been the truth once, a lie when she'd said, and nothing but a memory now. She would never be that empty-headed child again.

"Jon Sn'w o'House Stark."

A smaller figure had taken Lady Olenna's place by the castle door during her musings. Tyrion Lannister had appeared more rough around the edges when she'd first seen him standing at the Dragon Queen's side — bearded and lined, his mismatched eyes missing some of the life that had been present in King's Landing and grey just beginning to streak his blond hair — but the man she had once called her husband looked even worse now. He was very clearly drunk, clinging firmly to a glass of wine in one hand and the castle wall in their other as though they were the only two things keeping him upright. His clothing was rumpled, his hair a mess, and wine (or worse) stained the front of his doublet. His unfocused gaze blinked up at her and his teeth were barred in a grim smile.

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa greeted calmly, "You look quite unwell."

"Wine, m'dear wife." He waved his glass before downing the contents and slumping heavily against the wall.

"Former wife," Sansa corrected, though not unkindly, as she watched him struggle to regain his footing.

"Mmm," Tyrion agreed, still clinging to the stone beside him, "Lef' me t'lions…"

"I did," the Lady of Winterfell acknowledged, "And for that I apologize. A better woman would have stayed by your side."

Tyrion snorted. "Better b'stupider." He managed, finally, to gain some stability and searched out her face with a frown, "You did'in answer m'question."

Sansa shook her head, the action almost fond. "Jon is a Stark, truly, in all but name."

"T'you too?"

Once she would have been insulted at the implication, even if she knew it was true. Now, though, the answer came so easily that the memory had lost its sting. "Yes."

Lord Tyrion gave her a sloppy smile. "Good." He brought his glass clumsily to his lips and frowned in disappointment when he found it empty. A careless backhand sent the goblet flying before he blinked up at his former wife once more. "Y'bel'eve 'n monsters, hn?"

Sansa found that she couldn't be sure just what he meant by that in his current condition, but she supposed the answer would be the same regardless. "I do. Three of them just landed on our shores."

Drunk though he may be, Lord Tyrion did not disagree.

She took it upon herself to help Lord Tyrion to bed, sometime later, after his legs folded underneath him mid-ramble. There was little point in dragging him all the way to the Dragon Queen's camp, so she led him instead to the spare rooms they had prepared on principle for the visiting monarch. Truthfully, led was a rather strong word. In reality, she supported most of the dwarf's weight as the wine dragged him under. By the time she deposited him on the furs covering the bed and ensured the fire was well stocked, she was fully confident that he was well and truly lost to the alcohol. It was, therefore, a surprise when his voice interrupted her leaving.

"Sa'sa…?"

She paused in the doorway and looked back at the prone figure. Behind the wine and the exhaustion, he sounded so very sad.

"M'brover's dead..."

Yes, he was… She remembered the raven which had arrived some days prior bearing confirmation of Littlefinger's suspensions and suggestions of Jaime Lannister's death. The letter had revealed the first cracks in Jon's resolve that they could reach a peaceful alliance with the Dragon Queen. Sansa, however, had felt unexpected relief. The action was reckless and bold and emotional and so very much not the actions of a woman who played a long game. And those who did not play the game often missed their opponents' moves.

It was the audible hitch in Tyrion's breathing which brought her back to the moment at hand, and despite everything sympathy brought a frown to her face. "I know. I'm sorry."

She left him to his grief after that, bolting the door to provide him with the solitude she had so craved after the falsehood of Bran and Rickon's death and then the truth of Robb and Mother's had reached her. It was just as well, it turned out, for she found Lord Baelish loitering down the hall.

"My Lord," she greeted, "One could be mistaken for believing you're following me."

Littlefinger smiled mildly and offered her his arm, but did not rebuke the statement. "And you, leaving a visiting Lord's chambers in the night. How tongues could wag."

"It would hardly send the right message to our honoured guest if her Hand was found frozen in his own sick come morning." She accepted his arm and mentor and student strolled deeper into the castle.

"And what is the right message, I wonder?" Baelish mused.

Sansa sighed. "Peace and cooperation. Strength without threat. Common ground and respect."

"Your words, or the King's?"

"A bit of both."

Baelish hummed thoughtfully. "Your brother is foolishly optimistic."

At that, Sansa laughed. "I can't say I've ever heard Jon described as optimistic before," she offered by way of explanation as she caught the questioning glint in Littlefinger's eyes, dancing around the implication with ease.

"She will look to procure allies from within the North."

"Undoubtedly."

"Have you given any further thought to my suggestion? Moving to secure the allegiance of those to which she will be favourably inclined…"

"Inclined to marry, you mean."

"Indeed. A woman cannot rule alone. Daenerys Targaryen knows this, as do you."

As do you… Sansa slowed their pace as suspicion caused their conversation to dance around her mind. She examined each word spoken and all those left unsaid looking for a threat, a hint, a mistake… "I do not rule the North."

"No," Baelish agreed, "You do not."

"You sold me once," the Lady of Winterfell kept her voice even through force of will alone, "You will not do so again."

"Never. It is I who would sell myself to you." Littlefinger slowed them to a halt and turned to face her, taking her hands in his own, "A married woman wields far more power than a twice-married singlewoman and with your alterations you'll be hard pressed to find a suitor of equal standing. I have no great need for an heir…"

Alterations? Sansa went cold. Her lungs froze along with the rest of her as fury surged through her, whiting out anything further Littlefinger had to say.

How dare he? What Ramsay had done to her… The knives and fists and pounding cock, the bites and bruises and pooling blood, the foul poison downed like water to keep him out of her… Sansa drew in a shuddering breath and focused on following that with another as sound rushed back to her once more.

"... we must present a united front. Securing the relationship between the North and the Vale — "

"Alterations?"

Littlefinger fell silent immediately. Perhaps he realized his error. More likely, he recognized an opportunity.

Sansa found she didn't care either way, and wrenched her hands free from his grasp, "He flayed me. He cut and peeled and sliced… I drank Moon Tea by the barrel, Maester Wolkan saw it smuggled to me, and when I bleed now I know not if it is moon blood or the Moon Tea or the slices up inside me. I go dry for moons only to bleed for many after that without stopping — "

"Lady Sansa, I meant no offense…"

"Shut up," her words were all wolf, snarled and cold, "I'll not hear it. You sold me to them and you saw me taken apart. You knew — "

"I've told you, I didn't kn — "

"But that's what you do, isn't it?" She couldn't stop. The words poured from her as freely as her blood ever did and if they could cut half as well as the blade that carved her, well, more the better, "That's how you love. You break the object of your affection down, you make them need you. Because that's what we are to you, objects. Pretty little toys to stay your ego and insecurity. You did it to my mother, and Aunt Lysa, and Robin and me…"

"What did your cousin tell you?"

"Nothing I hadn't worked out for myself. You've been poisoning him all his life."

"His fits began without my interference — "

He would not explain. She would not let him explain. Not now. "And they continued because of it. He'll be of age soon, marrying him would do more to 'secure the Vale' than your proposal…"

"Sansa…"

"But, of course, you'll have him killed before that happens. Or, rather, he'll die suddenly — a fit, I expect." She laughed, the sound as sharp as shattered ice. The words kept on pouring. "Only, you do care for him. Will you be able to see it done? You must, if you're to maintain your position — "

Baelish stepped forward, all of his usual ease replaced by something far sharper as he took her by the forearms. "You're upset, My Lady," his voice was soft, yet edged, and his eyes seemed to darken the closer he leaned to her, "I overestimated your healing, it seems. You have such strength I forget, sometimes, that you're but a woman."

Sansa raised her palms to his chest, holding him back with more force than she had needed those months ago in the Godswood. "There were rumours at Court," she forced a pleasant tone that didn't quite succeed in masking the fury still coursing through her, "Rumours that Joffrey was particularly fond of. That Aunt Lysa wouldn't give her Lord husband a son, nor a daughter, nor anything at all, but was all too happy to spread her legs — "

Her back struck the wall with enough force to be painful as Littlefinger stepped even closer, his lips brushing against her cheek as he moved the hands pining her in place up and down her forearms. "Enough of that," he whispered, his breath hot on her skin, "You should rest. We'll speak again when you're feeling better." He kissed her lips slowly, lingering on her flesh as he stared into her eyes.

Sansa forced herself to stare back, forced herself to think, to breathe, to clench her teeth together to keep from biting, to keep her hands steady, to brace her knee against his groin, to breathe…

The stone wall cut into her elbows as she held him back.

She could feel cold seeping through the back of her dress.

Her chest was so tight it hurt…

Breathe, breathe, breathe!

His hand slid from her arm. Fingers traced down the side of her breast and traversed her stomach, continuing downward...

Stop. Stop, stop, stop!

The touch hovered just above her cunt.

She could feel his smile as his lips left hers…

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Sleep well, My Lady."

Another peck, and he was gone.

Sansa made it back to her chamber, barely, but couldn't reach the chamber pot before terror had her retching.

Breathe, breath, brea — oh Gods...

She curled in on herself. Toppled from her hands and knees and pulled her knees to her chest like a child. Smelled bile and tears and blood and seed. Felt hands and lips and blades and cocks. Heard her own keening whimpers and Littlefinger's whispers and Ramsay's laugh and somewhere behind all of it Joffrey's order…

Ser Ilyn, bring me his head.

She was home, but she wasn't. She never would be. She just wanted to go home.

Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs. Learn how to use it.

I have something he wants.

And you believe that gives you the power?

There's no justice in the world, not unless we make it.

You've been running all your life… Stop running.

My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

She breathed.

Her siblings didn't sleep either. She'd felt Arya's shadow haunting the castle at night, seen papers strewn across Jon's desk bearing a pillow's creases, and woke breathless and painful and frightened in her parents' bed. They were all broken down. They were all melted down...

To steel.

She breathed again.

They had been forged anew. Tempered in blood. They were as sharp as they were strong, and they were strong.

She stood, tall and proud, heedless of the vomit staining her front or the tears caked to swollen eyes or her running nose or the state of her hair. They were strong. She was strong.

Her clothes fell away one piece at a time. The fur-lined cloak. The clasps and fastenings. The gown itself. The hose. The shift… Until she stood naked as a newborn babe in the centre of the room. She'd allowed no one to see her uncovered flesh since she'd fled from Ramsay's clutches, hardly daring to look at it herself as she bathed or ensured a shift and hose were in place before servants entered to dress her. Now, as winter's chill nipped at unguarded flesh, she stepped over her discarded clothing toward the looking glass in the corner.

She had oft been called pretty, beautiful even, by men and women alike and she was not so humble that she disagreed with them. Her face had retained its beauty through everything — needed as it was for men's ambitions — and her figure was curved and womanly behind the safety of cloth and finery, but her flesh…

Raised scars marred her skin from her breasts to her knees. Some were the remnants of short cuts that had been meant to startle and amuse, while others told the story of long and twisting and cuts made so so slowly when he'd desired to spill his seed. Where once a dusting of red hair had separated her thighs was now sinewy and stretched, discoloured and lumpy. She ghosted a hand over the damaged flesh and felt nothing, only the texture of poor quality leather beneath her fingers…

The best one's between your legs…

With a scream, Sansa lashed out. The contents of her desk when flying, furs were thrown for her parent's bed, jewels and finery ricocheted off the walls… She raged until she could scarcely stand, until the room more closely resembled a battlefield than the chamber of the Lady of Winterfell and her body was shaking from excursion. Only then did she stop, facing the looking glass once more — the only thing in the room she had left untouched in her fury — and breathed.

Her wash basin had been overturned, but it had soaked a shift when it spilled which she used to wipe away any remnant of tears. Her combs were lost among the chaos, but her fingers tugged her hair back under control and tied it in a braid at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were strewn about everywhere, but when she stepped out into the hall some minutes later she was dressed in a shapeless black dress and cloak with the hood drawn.

Ladies never run, her Septa had told her many a time, they hurry.

Sansa marched.

Petyr Baelish answered her knock at his chamber door clad only in his smallclothes and mused with sleep. "Lady San — "

"I accept your proposal, Lord Baelish. We will discuss specifics when you are more presentable."

She left him blinking after her, still trapped in the stupor of sleep.

Jon would ask questions, she knew. He'd press with those earnest eyes of his and the safety he exuded from his very being, and she would be unable to deny herself his comfort...

Sansa made her way to the forge, instead.

Her sister was awake, as she knew she would be, tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the sleeping area assigned to blacksmiths and their apprentices. The Baratheon bastard sat next to her, a leather-bound book spread between them as they conversed softly. Both looked up at her arrival.

"Gendry," Arya prompted, her eyes still fixed on her sister as the elder Stark stepped around the sleeping men in her approach.

" 'Course," the young man nodded, snapping the book shut and gathering up his bedroll to give them space.

"What happened?"

Sansa shook her head once and drew herself up to her full height. "I wish to learn to defend myself."

Arya blinked once and gave a sharp nod. "Let's begin."

AN: Hello everyone. As you guys have probably noticed, I'm not really into Author's Notes but I wanted to address a couple things in this chapter.

Firstly, Consent is vital. There is NEVER a reason/excuse/right to touch anyone in any way without their express permission and that permission can be revoked at any time.

Secondly, and this relates to this chapter, I am in no way implying that there is a specific way to be a "Strong Female Character." There seems to be this idea that to have your female characters be strong, they must be fighters, or tough, or cold, or controlled... Essentially, to be a "Strong Female Character" they must act like a man. This, frankly, is bullshit. Yes, Sansa goes to Arya to learn to protect herself in this chapter. No, that doesn't mean that she's finally becoming "Strong" because of that choice.

Sansa is not going to become a warrior, that's not her. And she doesn't have to. She is strong in her way.

Sansa doesn't have to fight to be strong.

Arya's physicality doesn't make her less of a woman.

Daenerys' unapologetic confidence doesn't make her a bitch.

Brienne's appearance doesn't mean she can't be vulnerable.

Cersei's emotions don't make her weak.

Meera's nurturing nature doesn't make her any less capable.

And so on and so forth...

So, let's forget about "strong female characters" and write about women, girls, trans-women, non-binary folks and everyone in between. Strength comes in so many different forms!

That's all folks. I'll get off my soapbox now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Prickly