Sansa stared blankly out the window of her solar, watching a man scream out in agony.
The gruesome display continued to unfold before her as she watched the man writhe on the ground and curse the gods. Sansa saw how it had happened, how the man's foot had become stuck in the snow just as he made to swing around his opponent in the practice yard. When his body had turned, his foot did not, and now his knee was protruding out of the wrong side of his leg.
She saw it all with her tired eyes, and not once did she wince, not once did she blink, not once did she look away.
His opponent had knelt down beside him, a Knight of the Vale who, no doubt, had been looking forward to going home, and lifted up the leg of his trousers to set it back into place. It would have been wiser for one of the visiting maesters to attend to the injury, but the maesters were still preoccupied with Bran. It had been a day and a half since her little brother had last been awake, and not one of the maesters could figure out how to wake him from his perpetual sleep.
Bran will not wake because I asked him to go beyond the Wall, Sansa thought, clutching the window sill until her nails threatened to break. I begged him, and now he will not wake.
A swirl of snow blew in through the window, but she did not flinch; she was numb to the cold, insensible to the flakes alighting atop her lashes that were damp with tears. The man's screaming grew more frantic as the knight wrapped one hand around his shin to hold him steady. Sansa continued to watch him. Sansa continued to envy him.
What I would give to express my pain so freely. What I would give to cry out so openly.
One twist of the knight's hand and the knee rolled around, popping back into place. She heard a quick snap that seemed to be carried by the wind, or perhaps that had only been her imagination. The man's screams stopped, replaced with pained, exhausted groans, and the worst of his torment was over.
But Sansa's wasn't. Hers had just begun.
"Sansa," a drowned out voice called out. "Sansa...did you hear me?"
Her lungs filled with air as cold as ice. Did she go that whole time without breathing? Sansa had become so engrossed by the display in the yard that she had forgotten she was in the presence of others. Then again, her lack of awareness was not very surprising; it had been two days since she last slept. It had also been two days since she was last able to keep food down. Somewhere in between the sleepiness and hunger and nausea and grief, Sansa had forgotten that she was meeting with the other queen.
"Her Grace is a queen," Cregan Umber corrected Tyrion. "You must address her as such."
Sansa wiped away the tears that had frozen on her lashes with the back of her hand, then turned away from the window. She stared at each of the faces in front of her in turn. At one end of the long rectangular table was the Valyrian beauty, Daenerys Targaryen, and her Hand just beside her, Tyrion Lannister. In the middle sat the two most senior northern lords at Winterfell, Lord Glover and Lord Wylis Manderly, and behind them, leaning against the wall honing her sword was her sister, Arya. And then, sitting beside where Sansa should be sitting, was the square-jawed, grey-eyed, brown-haired, broad-shouldered, young Lord of the Last Hearth. My husband should be the one sitting there, she thought. Not you.
"Courtesies and pleasantries are not what I need," said Sansa. "What I need are answers."
The Imp turned to his queen. "Your Grace, would you like me to recount what it was that you saw?"
Daenerys Targaryen shook her head. Her lilac eyes were red and swollen, much like her own. The dragons are children to her, Sansa knew, and it has been only hours since one of her children was killed.
"This army of dead men," the dragon queen began, her voice not betraying her inner anguish, "they were not moving when I saw them."
"Why would the Others not march south?" asked Galbart Glover, though Sansa could hardly hear him over Arya sliding her whetstone down Needle.
"Perhaps scouring the area for the Horn of Winter," Tyrion proposed, swirling the wine in his cup mindlessly.
"Or maybe they knew along," Arya said, sliding the stone down her blade once more before sheathing it as quickly as a strike of lightning. Rather than have tears in her eyes, her sister's were filled with fire. She turned towards the table. "Bran said the Night's King has abilities. What if he knew? What if he wanted the dragons to fly beyond the Wall? What if he was waiting to strike one down?"
"Viserion," Daenerys said wistfully. "His name was Viserion." She took a moment to gather herself and then looked at Arya. "I witnessed undead mammoths and aurochs and bears, even giants. I agree, this king of theirs wanted my dragons. He wanted me to be vulnerable. And soon, he will pay the price with fire and blood."
Lord Wylis wiped his sweating brow with a stained cloth. "If the Wall still stands, the Others cannot pass it. And surely an undead dragon cannot fly over it."
"We must assume the worst," the dwarf insisted. "Even if Jon Snow and Clegane and the others managed to find dear old Joramun's horn, we do not know if they made it back to Castle Black, nor do we know what damage an undead dragon might do to the Wall."
"With a dragon, the Others may not need the horn at all to bring the Wall down," Arya pondered aloud. "Or burn it."
The image of the Wall melting by dragonfire sent a shiver down her spine.
"When will your armies arrive?" Lord Glover asked the Imp.
"The Unsullied are disciplined and the Dothraki are...competent," Tyrion said with a forced smile. "Jorah Mormont leads them here as we speak. I expect it will be a month before they arrive."
"A month?" Wylis asked, bug-eyed. "Will we have a month?"
"Yes," Daenerys answered. "As I mentioned before, the dead were not traveling when I saw them. I do not know how fast they move, but they were still a great distance away from the Wall."
Sansa felt a spark of hope, a jolt of promise. If the Others are still far, perhaps it was something else that kept Sandor, Jon, and the rest from riding south along the Kingsroad. What if something happened to their horses? What if they need help?
She gave it a single thought, and then said, "I'm sending a group of men north."
Tyrion had just taken a sip of wine and nearly choked on it. "My lady-"
"Your Grace," Lord Umber corrected him again.
"Sansa," Tyrion said, scrunching up what was left of his nose at the young lord, "I believe it is time to end the northern travels. You have more to lose than to gain by sending healthy, able men north where the Others now have a dragon at their disposal. If the men made it south of the Wall, they will return in time."
Color rose to her cheeks. "Pardon me, my lord, but you are not my Hand."
"May I ask who is?"
Sansa hesitated, taking a moment to consider. When her eyes shifted around the room, Galbart and Wylis both obnoxiously cleared their throats. Oh spare me, she thought, but what she said was, "I have not decided as of yet."
Tyrion smiled. "Well then, until you have chosen a Hand, perhaps I can offer you a bit of advice."
I don't need your advice! she wanted to scream like the man had in the yard. I need my husband! I need my brother! I need Bran to wake up!
"I'll go north, Your Grace." Cregan Umber spoke up before she could think of a less violent response.
"Absolutely not!" Wylis Manderly blurted out so quickly spittle sprayed from his lips. "You are the future of your house! The Greatjon's last son! I implore you to find a wife and plant a child in her before you go gallivanting about Westeros again."
The young lord leaned back in his chair, releasing a heavy sigh. His eyes met hers. "Queen Sansa, allow me to go."
Sansa stared at him, befuddled. In the three days I have known him, he has crowned me queen, volunteered to stand watch outside my bedchamber each night, and now he is offering to risk his life to find my husband. It was passing odd, to say the least. And Sansa could not help but become suspicious.
"Lord Wylis brings up a fair point," she began, walking over to take her seat at the head of the table. "You are the Lord of the Last Hearth, yet you wish to sacrifice your life to travel north when the Others travel south?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Sansa sat down and narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"To serve my queen," he said without hesitation.
"And win the respect and approval of all the northmen with your displays of valor," Tyrion added with a wry smile. He raised both eyebrows at her.
Tyrion senses it, too. Her suspicions were all but confirmed. Is that what this is? Could Cregan be priming himself to be my next suitor should Sandor be…
Sansa would not finish that thought. She could not think it, she could not become hopeless - not yet.
Sansa clasped her hands atop the table. Two days without eating made them feel thin and feeble. "I'll select a group of men to ride north on the morrow, but you will stay here, Lord Umber."
Cregan rubbed a hand over his tidy beard. "Queen Sansa, I don't understand."
"What is it you don't understand?"
"Why Your Grace will not permit me to travel north."
Because I don't want you to expect the debt to be paid with my hand, she wanted to say, but what she said was, "Because you can be of better use here."
"I'll go with him," Arya chimed in.
Sansa's gaze snapped towards her. "I made my decision. Lord Umber will stay here, and so will you."
Her sister frowned. "That's not fair! Jon and Gendry are out there, too!"
"Perhaps you can take your dragons north and skim the Kingsroad," Lord Glover suggested to Daenerys.
The dragon queen's lilac eyes, though soft in color, blazed. "I will not risk taking Drogon and Rhaegal north to be slayed by those monsters. I've sent them east to hunt before the battle. I do not expect them to return for weeks."
Her Hand nodded. "I agree with Queen Daenerys, it is critical we keep both dragons out of harm's way until the battle. If you must, Sansa, send your men north. But know what it is you are asking from them."
Their lives, she thought. I am asking them to die in order to save those who might still live. Sansa rubbed her temples. "That will be all," she said before her composure would be lost. "We will meet again on the morrow. For now, please leave me."
Sansa watched as they all stood. Daenerys was first, spinning around towards the exit so fast her pale silver-gold hair whipped around in a beautiful display. Tyrion was next, eyeing Cregan as he finished his wine before slipping out the door. Lord Glover helped Lord Wylis stand up from his chair and mumbled to one another quietly though Sansa managed to hear them say the word "Hand" before departing, followed by Arya glowering at her before stomping out and cursing under her breath.
Cregan Umber was the last to rise from his seat. And then he lingered.
Sansa looked up at his grey eyes, grey like Sandor's. 'I saw a boy', Bran said to me, 'grey of eye and auburn of hair. A prince.' But Sandor saw a girl. A daughter, not a son...
"My queen."
For a half a heartbeat, Sansa returned to that first night inside the tent where Gareth had made his proposal, where he had tried to kiss her, where he might have taken her against her will had it not been for Sandor.
But Sandor wasn't there now, and she didn't know if he would be ever again.
"I'll find your lord husband and the Lord Commander, Your Grace, if you will allow me to-"
Sansa looked away and dropped her head towards the table. "Leave me."
He drew in a breath as if to give a response, but no words followed. Heavy footsteps receded, a man of seven-and-ten, and yet nearly as large as her husband, and then the door to her solar came to a gentle close.
Sansa collapsed onto the table and screamed.
Four more hours had passed. Four more hours without sleep. Four more hours without food. Four more hours without Sandor.
She had not left the solar since the meeting. The only visitor she had during that time was Maester Rhodry from Castle Cerwyn who had come to inform her of Bran's condition. His breathing was stable and he had no fever, but Bran had yet to wake.
It's my fault, she thought for the hundredth time, adding more tears to soak into the oaken table. I was maddened with curiosity. I was the one who begged him.
The sight yesterday morning had been horrific. Upon Bran informing her and Arya that he could not find the men traveling south along the Kingsroad, Arya had taken off to the rookery to send a raven to Dragonstone while Sansa remained with her brother inside the godswood, beseeching him to try again.
"I need you to go beyond the Wall," she had pleaded with him, clutching his frail hands.
"I cannot," he had replied vacantly. "The Night's King will be able to sense if I-"
"Bran, you need to try! Please!"
As desperate as she had been, Sansa didn't think he would do it. After his own journey beyond the Wall alongside Meera Reed, Bran no longer was persuaded by his emotions like he once was. But Sansa knew there had to be something still there.
He spared me from seeing the worst of the duel between Sandor and Gareth, she remembered. Bran placed his hand on my own so I wouldn't see Sandor be split in half. Why would he do that aside from having sympathy?
Perhaps it had been that same sympathy that convinced Bran to warg into a raven and fly to the Wall. Sansa had watched him as he did, observed his eyes become two white orbs as his hands became limp in her own. Some time had passed, her apprehensiveness growing by the second, and then in the blink of an eye, a single stream of blood had leaked from his nose like a scarlet snake. His eyelids had shut, his head had fallen back against his chair, and then Sansa's heart had stilled.
I killed him, she had thought, silent and blinking before crying out for help. Death follows me, wherever I go.
But by the grace of the old gods, he still lived, although that did nothing to ease her guilt. On top of the gut-wrenching pain of not knowing where Sandor and Jon and the others were, Sansa was left to wonder if her little brother would ever wake.
It's my fault.
The gale force winds would not stop her from visiting the godswood that evening. Sansa dragged her feet through the snow, clad in a heavy wool and fur cloak she had sewn for Sandor to wear once he returned. He will return, she thought. He will. The cloak was so large on her that she had to gather the fabric into her hands to prevent herself from tripping over it, not to mention the massive hood that practically left her blind. But it was warm and it would be her husbands, that's all that mattered.
Her stomach ached, but she knew that if she ate, it was not like to stay down long. Her eyes burned, but if she slept, what night terrors would she dream of? The godswood was her sanctuary. The godswood was the only place she'd find comfort in, if any.
I can pray, she thought. That's all I can do for now. Hope and pray.
Once she entered the old forest and made for the heart tree, bumping into the sentinels and elms and soldier pines along the way, she heard someone cough just ahead, followed by two words, "Your Grace."
Sandor, she thought impulsively, assuming the roughness of his voice was lost with the squalling wind. She frantically pulled back the hood of the cloak, only to discover Cregan Umber sitting beneath the heart tree, his short brown hair rippling in the wind.
He rose from the ground, wearing a solemn expression. "I'll give you your privacy."
"No, you were here first," she sighed, suddenly feeling guilty about the coldness she displayed inside the solar. "Please sit down. We can pray together."
And so they did, several feet apart from one another in utter silence. She knelt down in the same spot where Sandor stood during their wedding ceremony, underneath the weirwood's red canopy of five-pointed leaves facing towards the melancholic face that was carved in the wide trunk.
It was the happiest moment of my life, she thought, squeezing her gloved hands together when she felt the urge to weep. I would give anything to return to that moment, anything at all.
"Your Grace," the lord interrupted her from revisiting the past, "may I speak freely?"
Oh no, she thought, feeling a deep sense of foreboding. Sansa sat up straighter and reminded herself to remain calm. "You may."
"I continue to pray for your lord husband's return, but in the instance he is not found-"
The reminder blew away with the wind. "Then I should wed you?" she interrupted him curtly, shifting her gaze from the heart tree to scrutinize the man six feet beside her.
"No, Your Grace," Cregan nearly stuttered. "I only meant to say that-"
"That I deserve a northern lord? That's what your brute of a brother told me." Sansa staggered to her feet, her Stark blood boiling, feeling as fierce as her sister had that morning. "I lost the love of my life!" she sobbed, denying it no longer. "I lost the man I was supposed to have a castle full of children with! A daughter! There is no one for me after him! Do you understand that?"
"I do," he said, so softly she felt her rage cut in half. "I understand better than anyone."
Sansa had no choice but to gentle her tone. "You do?"
"Yes." He looked up at her with a somber smile, allowing the gust of wind to blow past before adding, "Because I lost the love of my life, too."
At that moment, she felt like the brute. At that moment, she felt as cruel of a queen as Cersei Lannister. She would have blamed her temper on her hunger or her lack of sleep, but it was her grief, above all else, along with her mistrust of the Umber name, that sparked the outburst.
He has done me no harm, Sansa thought, not ever. Yet all I've done is precisely what Jon said not to do. What sort of queen would I be if I blamed him for his brother's sins? How am I any better than Cersei if I allow my suspicions to become my truth?
"I'm sorry," she said with a deep exhale. Even with her hair braided, the loose strands fluttered wildly in front of her face. "Forgive me...I had no idea."
"There's nothing to forgive, Your Grace."
"How did it happen?"
The look he gave her was an answer all on its own. Cregan regarded the heart tree, then took a long, shaky breath. "Gareth."
Sansa knelt down beside him, her knees weak and feeble. Jon said they were estranged, but I assumed it was due to their clashing personalities, not murder. She clutched the cloak around her tighter, shivering. How can a man do such a thing to his brother? she wondered, until she thought of what Sandor's own brother did to him. Was the woman Cregan loved a whore? A lowborn woman that Gareth did not approve of?
Bleary eyed, Sansa placed a tender hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Cregan," she said again. "We will pray for her, too." When she closed her eyes and bowed her head before the heart tree, she felt a cramping pain inside her womb, and then another. More wind blew past, followed by two flakes of snow landing on her cheeks like twin kisses. "What was her name?"
Sansa could not see his face, but she could hear the sorrow in Cregan Umber's voice when he said, "His name was Edric, Your Grace."