02. Reasons

"When was the last time you two had a real meal?" Sansa questioned the next morning. She only nibbled on a piece of salted blood sausage as she watched Bran and Meera fill their mouths in a hurry.

There hadn't been time for them to eat much the night before, nothing more than milk and bread and cheese with some berries. It was too late for the kitchens to be running, but it didn't matter in the end. Bran and Meera were glad for what they were given and even more so when they were ushered into their rooms. They looked upon the bed as if it was made of gold.

Only an hour passed before they all went their separate ways, although it felt like all night. They each had so much to say to one another—questions, praises, laughs and tears—and it took all their will to leave each other to their thoughts and get what little sleep they could. Morning would bring discussion.

The three of them had gathered to break fast in the Great Hall and no sooner was the food placed on the table did Bran and Meera seize whatever they could. The food went from their plates to their mouths so quickly; it would have been thought that the food was at risk of disappearing. Saying they were eager to taste a properly cooked meal was an understatement.

Meera answered first, buttered bread in one hand and a fork of sausage in the other. She only bothered half a swallow before explaining, "We were able to eat fine at times, depending on the game in areas."

"But," Bran started before taking a big swig of his wine cup, "not a thing nearly as good as this." He reached across the table to add more eggs to his plate.

"The rabbit wasn't bad though, you have to admit."

He smiled at Meera and shook his head. "Not always."

A comfortable silence fell over them a moment. The only noise that could be heard was the clanking of utensils against plates and stomachs moaning in glee.

"Should we not have waited for Jon?"

With a wine glass to her lips, Sansa shook her head as the bitter drink cascaded her tongue. "I'm sure he'll be around shortly. Besides, did you really want to wait for him?"

Bran and Meera exchanged looks and it was clear that they did not.

It didn't take long for Jon to find them. He had woken early, as he had almost every day since setting foot back into Winterfell and walked the grounds. He might not have been at the Wall any longer, but he was still seen as Lord Commander by his peers rather he liked it or not. The duties that come with that title, that come with spending so much time as a Man of the Night's Watch, is hard to break overnight. Everything had to be working, and he had to be the one to see that it was. It was a wonder if he'd ever go back to his ways from before. Sansa expected that none of them would.

"How are you two feeling?" Jon asked, food and wine of his own now sitting in front of him. He smiled and didn't touch any of it until Bran started to reply.

"Better. Drained now that we're able to catch a break but better." Bran gave Jon a smile, sad and tired, but there was a small piece of it that reminded both Jon and Sansa so much of the little boy he had once been all that time ago.

"Bran," Sansa leaned forward, letting Jon eat before it all went cold. She would be the one to start the inquisition. "We know you just got here, but we have to know—what happened to you out there? The last Jon heard from one of the Night's Watch, you were heading north. Passed the wall. Not to it."

Bran glanced at Jon. "So Sam did tell you? He said you and he were friends."

Jon nodded, lowering his wine glass hesitantly. His eyes lit up for a briefest of moments. "We are." Jon didn't walk much about the men at the Wall, most he had befriended was dead he said, but Samwell Tarly was one that he talked about often if Sansa asked. He was a stout boy, Jon had said, not the kind likely to be seen up there on the Wall and many thought he wasn't going to make it all together—but, with the help of Jon and so many others, he had. And he had done so much for Jon in the end. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but Sansa knew he left alone without Sam.

"But he said there was another one of you. A boy. And Hodor and Summer."

What little joy had been flowing through the veins of Bran and Meera vanished at the mention of the others in their party. Their faces grew grim and dismal. "The other was my brother," Meera explained. "But we were attacked beyond the wall, and he was lost to us."

"Attacked?" Sansa wondered out loud.

"By what?" Jon's voice was low and stern. He was asking a question, but by the way he spoke, he must have been fairly certain he already knew the answer. "White Walkers?"

Bran was surprised to hear his brother come to the right conclusion. "You know that they're real? You've heard about them? Seen them?"

"I haven't just seen them," Jon said. A dark shadow fell across his face as he thought back to the fight with the wildlings against the White Walkers. No feeling of danger could even begin to compare. "I've fought them. It's killing them that is a lot more unbelievable. And Hodor and Summer?"

"The same like, only at a different time." Bran hung his face down, not meeting the eyes of his brother or sister. Sansa could hear the threat of tears as he continued. "Summer was first. She tried to help us escape, and we were so close, but there were just too many of them. They were all over her. And you should have seen what they did to Hodor. It was terrible. He could have left, but he didn't move. He saved us."

"But, Bran," Sansa's voice was soft and slow, reaching across the table to grab hold of the young boy's hand in what little comfort she could give him. She knew it didn't do much. Losing Lady had been one of the hardest things, the beginning of a long line of lost loved ones, and Hodor had always been a kind friend to the family, even if she had never treated him so. "What were you doing north of the Wall? Why didn't you go with Rickon or find Jon?"

"I did find him," Bran whispered. "At one point."

There was silence as Sansa and Jon looked at each other and back to Bran. He still wouldn't lift his head and Meera wasn't letting anything more slip than what he was.

"What do you meet you found Jon?"

"It wasn't too long after I had run into Sam that we were attacked by some men dressed in black—Men of the Night's Watch that had turned their back on their vows."

Jon was shaking his head and gritting his teeth. "Karl Tanner. Bran, I killed him. I stuck my sword through the back of his head. We searched the whole keep, and there was no sign of you."

Bran looked over at Meera then finally at Jon. There were no tears, but his eyes were still somber. "Meera's brother, Jojen, knew that if we let you see me, you wouldn't have let me continue north. What we were doing was too important to let you stop us."

"I've been farther north than you can even imagine," Jon said, leaning forward so that Bran was unable to look away from his gaze again. He had a message for his brother, and he wanted it to be received. "There's nothing but snow and wildlings and death. What could possibly be so important that you couldn't risk being stopped? What were you doing up there?"

"I—I was looking for answers."

"Answers for what?"

But the answer wasn't given fast enough, and only partly because Bran was slow in giving it. The side door opened again and Brienne came into Sansa's view. The young Podrick Paine followed behind her. Lady Stark couldn't help but smile a bit every time she saw Podrick follow in Brienne's steps. She was a vision of sturdiness and strength, composure and confidence. She was also often full of a fear of failure. Podrick couldn't be more different. He was a friendly boy who always seemed to see the good in everything. Sansa had only spent a close amount of time with him after he and Brienne had found her making her escape with Theon Greyjoy from the Bolton's. He had been kind to her, as he always had when he served Tyrion. Loyalty and kindness were large traits of his and none could say differently.

The squire and his knight—an authority that Brienne still wished Pod would pass to someone else—placed themselves before Sansa and Jon at the table. Bran and Meera swiveled in their seats to better see the two. Brienne was the one who spoke.

"My ladies, my lords," Brienne bowed. "I've been sent with some urgent news. Scouts have spotted several men roaming about, said to be bits of what escaped of the Bolton army. Sympathizers."

"The Boltons?" Bran's confused tone matched his expression. He looked across the table to see Sansa frown.

Brienne said nothing but instead gave an apologetic glance toward Sansa. She did not want to expose that of which was not hers.

"How far?" Jon asked. He was standing now, and Sansa knew what was running through his mind.

"They had made camp just half way between here and Castle Cerwyn."

"Find Tormund. Tell him and the others to ready the horses. If we leave now, we will be able to get back before it turns dark."

Brienne nodded, and she and Podrick left to carry out Jon's request. Sansa stayed where she was, poking at what remained on her plate, listening to Brienne's armor clamor against itself as she made her exit. Podrick was silent behind her.

Jon took a swig of wine, a long one that left him breathless when he pulled the cup away. He looked down at Sansa. "I'll be back before supper."

"Wait, what's going on?" Bran asked, his voice sounding for a moment like it used to when he was younger. "What has happened with the Bolton's?"

Jon looked between Sansa and Bran. Question silently with his sister what he should do about their brother. Sansa nodded to him, motioning it that it was fine. He had to leave. Sansa wanted him to leave, to take care of the Bolton's men. When Jon understood this, he looked just at Bran. Sadness clouded his eyes. "I'll be back before supper."

Their nice breakfast meal, so long overdue and highly anticipated, had officially come to an end. The happenings that have taken place while Bran was gone had hardly come up yet since he had arrived. He had barely even questioned how Jon and Sansa had been able to take back Winterfell for their family, probably simply thinking that Robb had been able to take it back from Theon before too much more damage had been done. Perhaps he thought Sansa had been given a pass from the Queen, allowed to live away from the capital as the daughter of a traitor in shame and exile. Maybe he hadn't thought about how they had come to be there at all.

"What happened with the Boltons?" Bran asked again, looking back to Sansa in the need of answers. He had been bombarded with so many questions that morning, it was time for him to voice his own.

She still said nothing.

"Sansa, I have been away from our family long enough. Tell me. Tell me what I want to know."

There was sharpness to her brother's voice that Sansa had not heard from him before, him being such a young child when last they met. It was more apparent now that it wasn't just his physical features that had grown and changed—a nose now too large for his face, hair straggly and in a deep need of a wash. Just like Jon and her own self, Bran's spirit was broken and remade into something that their mother probably wouldn't even be able to recognize.

His stare was still on her, burning holes into her once more. It was clear that he was not backing down.

Sansa nodded. "Fine." Nothing about this conversation was going to be fine. Reliving it was as bad as living it. But the boy wanted to know. He'd wish soon that he had held his ignorance close, but if he wanted to know, all known would be given to him. "There was a reason Mother didn't want us leaving Winterfell."

•••

It was unsettling how little Bran knew about the events south of the Wall. Having had to leave Winterfell after Theon Greyjoy's raid and capture of their home, the last news that had reached him was that Ned Stark had been beheaded on request of King Joffrey. There were years worth of information that he needed to be told with only a few minutes for each portion to sink in.

Arya had hardly been seen since witnessing the death of their father, only known to be wandering around the countryside.

The Freys and Boltons were both in secret alliance with the Lannisters, slaughtering their mother and brother in an ambush dressed as a wedding.

Unable to gain mercy for their father or leave the Capital, Sansa was made to marry Tyrion Lannister and then later the abusive Ramsey Bolton after fleeing the scene of Joffrey's murderous wedding. When back at Winterfell, home but not, it took the help of one family traitor to flee the family of another.

Voted Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon fought against wildlings and White Walkers and his wish to come to his family's aid. His unpopular choices led to him being betrayed by those who were meant to be his brothers. It took more than faith to undo the damage it had done to him.

Ramsey had captured Rickon. The baby brother to them all was nothing more than a power play for the Bolton, a sign to the Starks and all who followed them. Rickon was killed because of it.

And Ramsey was dead because of it all.

•••

So much hesitation almost prevented Sansa from telling Bran anything that happened to their family. She planned on only telling him what little he needed to know. But when she opened her mouth, all hesitation was gone—she couldn't stop. Everything that she could will herself to remember and everything that others told her came flowing out of her mouth like rushing water. Each detail was fresh in her mind, as if she were living them over and over again on her own, whether they were hers or not: mistreatment by Joffrey, Stannis Baratheon's multiple attempts to take the power he thought he was born into, the trial of Tyrion Lannister for the murder of his king, Jon's meeting with wildlings and White Walkers.

By the end of her tale, Sansa gave a sigh of relief when she relived the point in time when the Stark family took Winterfell back, in part because she wished to stop talking, but also because, for a moment, she forgot that it all already had an outcome. It still surprised Sansa that she was in fact home.

She gave a shy glance at Bran, anticipating how he'd take the enormous amount of information that was given in such a short amount of time. Guilt began to rise up from within Sansa at how she unloaded everything onto Bran so quickly and without Jon standing by for support. But Jon knew he had to leave, and he knew that Bran needed to know.

"So… so what comes next?" Bran wasn't looking at her, but rather stared at something across the table. His eyes were clouded over.

Sansa blinked. That was the question Sansa had asked herself countless times. "For now, we're just trying to get our bearings. Jon's securing the trust of the other families that fight with us. At some point, he might have to go back to the Wall, as he's still technically the Lord Commander. We've talked about trying to locate Arya. Then there's the White Walkers and the Lannisters on either side of us."

Rattling off each of the possibilities was just a roundabout way of saying that there were no solid plans in play.

The Lannisters and the White Walkers had to be dealt with before they both ran the world into ruin, but the north didn't have a large or powerful enough army to take one on alone much less both. There would be little that Sansa could do for anyone if Jon traveled back to the Wall—he was The King in The North. Very few would listen to what she had to say. As for Arya, the location of where she could be was lost; even with Brienne's run in with her by the Eerie. If she had traveled so long and as far since her presence in King's Landing, there was no telling where the wild child would end up. Sansa was at a loss of what to do about any of it.

Bran was as well. He grasped his cup and took a deep and long swallow. He resisted the urge to slam his cup onto the table but shoved both it and his plate away.

"I want to go back to my room."

With no words to comfort the quiet rage and pain she saw rising on Bran's face, she nodded.

Sansa refilled her wine glass when it was only silence and herself remaining at the table. She watched as the blood colored liquid simmered under the sun's raze entering from the high windows above. Bringing the goblet to her lips, she took a deep breath and tilted the bottom of the cup up. The taste used to be disapproved of when she was younger, bitter and sour and stale. But she still drank it then. It was a grown ups drinks, something that her father allowed her to have only one glass with special meals, something that signaled that she was a proper young lady. Proper young ladies are the ones to drink wine the least nowadays. But she drank it all the same. The taste didn't change, although it went down her throat smoother than it used to, and it calmed her if she drank enough of it. As time passed, she was able to drink enough of it. Setting down her cup after one continuous swallow, Sansa was almost able to see the bottom of the cup.

I should have waited for Jon.

•••

Jon didn't return until the light of the sky only just clung to the horizon. Everyone in the castle had been waiting for his return, on edge about what he found out about those who still sided with the Boltons. Sansa had been impatiently waiting for Jon to make his way home and was already outside before the gate to Winterfell rose.

Wrapping her cloak tightly around her shoulders, Sansa made her way down the stairs to the courtyard. She made sure to keep a firm grip on the wood railing as the snowfall created a thin layer of ice on everything.

First to come into her sights, Jon came forth riding his horse. Ghost trailed closely behind, tongue out and tail wagging.

Looking over the well being of the men, Sansa went up to Jon. "What did you find?"

Jon dismounted his horse and handed the reins over to one of his men. He bowed to Jon first and then to Sansa before leaving. "We were right about there being sympathizers."

"How many?"

"More than what we could take on today with what we rode down there with, but nothing that could impact us without a leader among with like Ramsey. They're heading south. Probably thinking they can regroup on their own again."

Sansa stopped in her tracks, but Jon didn't notice. He kept walking. None of what he said was what Sansa wanted to hear. "So, you're not going to do anything about them?"

Jon was already up the stairs to the balcony that connected so many of Winterfell's buildings but turned around when he realized that he wasn't being followed. He took a few steps back down before saying, "What would you have me do?"

A sudden silent hold came over the courtyard. Sansa didn't have to look around to know that she and Jon had accumulated an audience. The men who had gone south with him were exchanging glances between each other as they readied their horses for a night in the stables. Stables boys and kitchen staff hurried across the muddy grounds.

The last rider came through the threshold of the East Gate, a large red-headed man covered in gray and white furs. Tormund, Jon's unofficial next in command, brought his horse close behind Sansa, clearly not understanding that the two siblings were having an intense moment. He climbed down from his horse.

When their eyes met, he nodded to Sansa but said nothing. The wildling didn't often exchange words with her at all. Jon was the one he took orders from and Sansa would be naïve not to notice he wasn't the only one—she was not their commander or their King. In fact, any time that Tormund when near her was to start a doomed attempt at impressing Brienne. Sansa didn't dislike Tormund for this—though she didn't fancy him much either. She'd have to dislike almost everyone if there were requirements that they stopped thinking of her a young Stark who needed to be shielded from everything.

Sansa nodded to Tormund but said and expressed nothing. Turning back toward Jon—he was still at the top of the stairs, staring at her—Sansa lifted up her skirt a few inches and gracefully stepped closer to him. She said nothing going up until she had just passed Jon. Slightly over her shoulder, she said as steadily as she could, "Go talk with Bran."

Something resembling urgent concern flashed across Jon's face. "Why? Is he alright?"

"Why?" Sansa knew that she had no right to be upset with Jon after everything, but his unwillingness to do anything about the Bolton's remaining men had sparked a head within her. "Because you weren't here when you were the person he needed to most. You were always his favorite."

What Sansa spoke was the truth, but even she had to acknowledge how harsh her words were. Knowing that is she lingered she would withdraw them, Sansa made her way passed Jon and toward the nearest castle door.

Dinner was served shortly after Jon arrived, but was eaten in separate rooms. None had yet come together face to face after the day they had. A bowl of stew was placed on the corner table in Sansa's room along with a single cup, a jug of wine and bread covered with butter. Sansa thanked the hand that brought the food in but made little effort to actually eat it. Instead, she watched the steam of the beet and veggie soup rise up from the bowl and roll and tumbled through the air in an enchanting dance. She loved dancing.

Sansa, not for the first time that evening, wondered how Bran was doing and if Jon was still with him. She wanted to go see, to tell Bran that she could have done a better job of explaining to him the happenings of their family. And Jon deserved an apology more than anything else. She'd be doing that for the rest of her life it seemed.

Just now beginning to pick at her bread, Sansa stood up from her table and headed toward her chamber door. It opened with a long, high-pitched creak. The hall had darkened much since she had returned to her room and turned back to grab the bedside candle, already glowing fiercely. Crossing the out of the entryway, she made her way to Bran's room.

The door to Bran's chamber was opened just enough to let both light and sound escape into the hallway. Sansa slowed her steps as she came closer. Bran was sitting in the bed, covered up with blankets, an empty stew bowl sitting next to him. He was staring at his folded hands in his lap. Jon was still there. He sat in a chair pulled as close to the bed as possible with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

"You can't blame yourself, Bran," Jon said, his voice hushed and gentle. He locked his hands together to keep his fingers from fidgeting. "There was no way to know."

"I thought I was protecting him." The young Stark ignored his brother's attempt to console him.

"Bran."

"I sent him away because I knew it would be dangerous where we were going. I had hoped he'd go to the Wall and find you. Why didn't I just bring him with me? Why didn't I stay with him?"

Jon moved to the edge of his seat, placing his hand over Bran's, but he was quickly rejected. "Bran, please."

"He's dead because of me." Jon began to shake his head and opened his mouth to say something, but Bran continued on. His voice was cracking. "Rickon is dead because of me! I killed him!"

Sansa had to cover her mouth to keep from crying as Jon pushed himself forward and wrapped his arms around Bran's shoulders. His sobbing was muffled in Jon's chest.

"My lady?" Sansa jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Meera, in nightclothes of her own, stood just aside the door to her room. Even when sleeping, she was never far away from Bran.

"Meera," Sansa said, almost breathlessly. Meera stood as a dark figure against the light of the lit fireplace behind her. "Sansa is fine, place."

Nodding in agreement and motioning passed Sansa, Meera asked, "How is he doing?"

Sansa wiped away an escaped tear before answering. "As can be expected, I suppose, given how much I burdened him with." A deep sadness was in her voice and there was no use in trying to cover it up.

"Bran needed to know," Meera started, no look of blame upon her face. "It's better he found out now—by family—than the whispers of those from behind closed doors.

"I know it might not be my place, you are his family, but I must tell you one thing: Bran had seen, felt terrible things of his that I will never understand, but I know that he's strong and knowing and able. It was a lot to take in at the moment, but he'll pull through."

There was some kind of spark in Meera's voice as she spoke about Bran. She thought she had no place to speak on Bran to Sansa, but Sansa thought the opposite. Sansa may have known her brother for a decade before their separation; it was nothing in comparison to the relationship with this young woman. Whatever they had been through together, it created a bond not easily severed.

Sansa smiled, seeing something that had been so painfully obvious but so easily missed before now. "You care for him, don't you?"

A look of surprise and embarrassment flashed across Meera's face. Her mouth opened, about to refuse the Stark girl's words and claim only friendship with Bran, but was never allowed the chance. The door behind Sansa opened fully, lighting up a large portion of the hall. Jon stood in the archway. His eyes, like always, were full of sadness.

Jon and Sansa stared at each other, the silence between them not quite dissolved of tension from earlier on. Sensing the change in the moon, and still pink from Sansa's claim, Meera nodded her exit and retreated behind her door.

"I came to give my apology," Sansa said, voice suddenly hushed in the eerie silences of the hall. "I reacted too harshly to you before."

"I'm sorry, too, for leaving when you and Bran needed me the most. But you had to tell him you know that, right? And he's grateful for it in a way. And Sansa believe me if I could do anything about the Bolton's men—"

Jon was rambling off everything he deemed a mishap on his behalf, but that isn't why Sansa had come. She shook her head and cut him off. "No. It's unfair for me to expect too much of you. You're one man with a lot of deal with. Now I see why Mother and Father grew so old and tried so quickly."

A smile reached Jon's eyes. "Such is the burden of being born into a noble house."

"You're a lucky bastard then." Sansa hadn't thought to use the word since she had been reunited with Jon again, but she remembered all the times she had called Jon a bastard before he had gone to the Wall. Her lady mother had used it often enough and so did others when explaining who Jon was to Ned Stark and his family. The use of "bastard" was normal, though she never did say it to Jon's face. Even she knew that was rude and she was too proper to call it out in public. This was the first time she was saying it to him, and the first time she used it, she was trying to joke with them. How times had changed.

Jon chuckled. The sore spot of being a bastard not quite as sore as it used to be, even when being reminded by a true born heir. "That I am. A house so noble even the bastard shares the family burden."

》》》》》》

So I know that Bran is pretty odd and all knowing with his weird Three-Eyed Raven self, but I wrote these before season 7. I might eventually turn him into that, but we'll see.

Please let me know what you think. Do you like it? Hate it? Indifferent at the moment? How do you feel about the relationship between Jon and Sansa so far? Anything you have to say helps in bettering future chapters!