03. Collecting Whispers
Within days Winterfell was preparing for a feast. It was the first formal celebration since the family had held one for the late King Robert and his court. The proposal of the event surprised most of Winterfell's members, but its prospect tasted sweet. Food, wine, company and the appearance of three young people with Stark blood coursing through their ice-filled veins. It was hoped to be a celebration that lasted days.
The stables were overflowing with horses and the kitchens were hardly given time to rest as houses near and far made their way to the top of the largest, coldest and greatest house in the north.
"I still don't understand why Lord Snow invited all these houses to Winterfell," Podrick wondered as he, Brienne and Sansa watched Jon greet their company. Podrick's eyes scanned the countless number of new faces.
Although some had stayed near Winterfell after the fight against the Bolton's, some had to return to their homes to patch themselves up. Little goods and resources were left behind in the Bolton's stead. It had been a couple weeks since then, and Winterfell was just getting back to what it once was. After such a celebration, their stocks would be low, but it was necessary for their spirits.
"This doesn't seem to be the time for such a careless event."
Brienne scuffed, "And what time would that be, Podrick?" She stood with her arms crossed over her armored chest, eyeing everyone below them.
Pod looked scared to answer and said what was meant to be a statement as much as a question. "A time of war?"
"It's always a time of war," Brienne said with an authority and sternness only she could muster. "Fighting with violence is never the mass of it."
Sansa stayed quiet while the two went back and forth—Podrick still questions and Brienne growing more impatient with the squire's lack of understanding. Brienne was right though. A blood-covered sword is only part of the war. Jon had the allies in the last fight and was promised to have them again in the future, but he had to maintain it with high hopes. Between the war with the north's dead and the south's lion, the arrival of Bran couldn't have come at a better time. Word would travel throughout the north and south that another Stark was taking residence in the castle of his ancestors and the only thing that could better the men's spirits more would be to see the Stark blood sitting side by side feasting with their banner men. They needed to know they weren't fighting for a losing family.
And that was exactly what Sansa explained to Jon when she brought the idea up.
"We took Winterfell back by the grace of the gods," Sansa started, "but losing Rickon wasn't just Jon and me losing a brother. It was the men losing one more to serve."
This wasn't just a hot meal and cold drink and human interaction for the fun of it. This was a time to relax a single moment before all their days were made up with talk of strategy and action of force. After tonight, all these nobles would sit together with hardened expressions as they accepted or denied ideas on how to free the north for good.
In the courtyard, Jon was clasping hands with a large, burly man. But Sansa was the only one watching him. Brienne and Podrick were now watching her.
"For the longest time after Mother, Father, and Robb died, and Bran, Rickon, and Arya went missing, I was seen as the only Start left to take hold of Winterfell. The Starks were all but gone. Weakness had befallen the north and we had all but lost the game. Promise was restored with Bran's arrival."
"And a joyous occasion it is, my lady." A familiar shiver came across Sansa's skin as Petyr Baelish's voice crept up behind her.
Brienne and Podrick turned around in surprise at the sudden appearance of the former brothel keeper. Sansa didn't need to look behind her to know that he was staring at her with an intense gaze, smirking at her situation and the real truth behind his comment.
"But I do wonder, does the King in the North keep his ice throne now that a male Stark had returned home, or does he overshadow yet another true blood heir?"
Brienne glared at Lord Baelish, her voice as sharp as her sword and just as dangerous when she spoke, "You'd do best to watch your tongue when addressing Lady Sansa. And her family."
If Lord Baelish had been any other lord, Brienne another knight and Sansa still yet a lady with a mind in the proper place, she would have scolded Brienne's words toward Littlefinger. Instead, Sansa kept silent. There was no need for concern because Lord Baelish seemed completely unfazed by the harsh words at all—like they had never been voiced. He kept a smile on his face, his eyes strictly on Sansa, and an aura around him that was sweetly deviant.
Littlefinger had stayed near Winterfell since his arrival with the Vale's army, but Sansa had done all she could to keep her distance from him. What he wished to share with her was something she couldn't risk taking part in. Still, he'd find her in the end.
"What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked, taking the effort to turn and gaze upon her visitor. There was no such thing as a simple social visit when it came to Littlefinger, and Sansa didn't have the time or the patience for such sneaky curtsies.
Littlefinger took a step toward her, his clasped hands opening wide like he expected her to walk into his arms. Sansa stayed where she was. "I had only wished to take a moment of your time—alone."
A quick glance to her side and Sansa didn't have to wonder what Brienne's opinion on that request was. Brienne had taken it personally when Littlefinger sold Sansa to the Boltons, as his presence was what had stood between Sansa and her vow to Lady Caitlyn. And it didn't help that Littlefinger's treatment of the Stark family was notorious for being less about their well being than it was on how he would climb his way to the top. Brienne locked eyes with Sansa, pleading her to say no to Littlefinger, but when she was given a nod of dismissal, she had no choice but to obey her lady.
"Lady Sansa." Brienne nodded, choosing to ignore Littlefinger's presence as she left Sansa's side. She wouldn't go far though—Littlefinger would never truly have a moment alone with Sansa if she had any say in it.
The squire's disposition was very different. Where Brienne had been more than reluctant to leave, Pod looked as if he couldn't wait to leave the now tense atmosphere. "Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish." He followed quickly after Brienne.
"Your knight continues to question my intentions, Lady Sansa." Littlefinger was closing the gap between Sansa and himself—slowly like she was a doe that might bolt if came upon too boldly.
She looked back over the yards, watching as Brienne and Podrick made their way to the armory. Brienne was helping Pod with his sword skills. Sansa turned back to him. "She wouldn't be a very good knight if she didn't." And I wouldn't trust her if she didn't. "You're considered a questionable man, Lord Baelish."
His ever-present smirk didn't waiver. He seemed pleased at the notion as if Sansa just gave him a glorious compliment. "All men are seen as such if they're living. Only the dead have a motive that's clear."
One could call Littlefinger many things, but none could say that the man didn't own up to his true nature. He didn't claim to be a gentleman or a shining knight or a noble lord filled with honor and duty. He knew what he was announced it honestly on many occasions. As if any around him could forget.
The shouting of men and the neighing of horses pulled Sansa to look away from Littlefinger, though it wasn't a question if he was still looking at her. Surprisingly, the noise of it all didn't faze her anymore nor did it annoy her like it did when she was younger. She would take the hustle and bustle of men and beasts any day than live amongst men who were beasts.
"I don't have very long before the feast," she stated, hinting that if he wished to speak with her, he would need to get on with it.
"Ah, yes," Littlefinger sang with a chirp that almost sounded like his house sigil. "A room full of wild north men ready to take over the world, led by the Bastard King. How far the mighty have come."
His insults were ignored. "If that's all you wish to say, I really should help will final preparations for our guests." Sansa had turned away from Littlefinger to start making her way back inside the castle, but he said something so calm and queer that is made her stop in her tracks.
"There are whispers from the eastern country that might interest you."
"And why would news from Essos interest me?" Sansa asked, her body turned toward him once more. "I have no connection to the Free Cities."
The yard below was almost empty of arrivals now. Only Jon and a few other men stood in the center, speaking in hushed tones with words blanketed over by the evening wind. Jon was smiling slightly as some comment or another, but it soon vanished as he looked up to Sansa conversing with Littlefinger. Sansa tried to push aside his stare she felt so vividly upon her. Jon soon excused himself to speak with others.
"I wouldn't be so sure," he said. "There are connections everywhere, most so obvious they're missed. What about your close family ward turned traitor?"
The most recent image of Theon flashed across Sansa's mind—his tormented eyes, beaten body, and severed mentality. He had always been a cocky boy, so sure in his abilities to the point that everyone loathed him for it. Ramsey Bolton had made that Theon disappear from this world. All that was left of his soul was broken and bruised. Whatever wrong Theon had done to the Stark family, it had been repaid in full in Sansa's mind. He wouldn't be the first to make mistakes that damned others, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. In the end, he was Sansa's saving grace. She would never have escaped from the clutches of Ramsey had Theon not been a prisoner beside her.
"I hold no hatred for Theon Greyjoy, and I will make sure that all know why," Sansa snapped, knowing that many around her would probably still wish to see Theon's head on a spike. "And he was no more a traitor than anyone else so close to my family. Or have you forgotten that, my lord?"
Littlefinger didn't flinch at her accusation.
"What does Theon have to do with Essos?"
"I have sources that say that Greyjoy and his sister have sailed across the Narrow Sea with their fastest ships to side with Daenerys Targaryen."
The Targaryen girl?
Every child in the realm grew up hearing stories about the great Targaryen's building King's Landing and how their dragon's roamed the air—red flames against the ice blue of the skies. It was a warning to enemies, sent from above as if from the gods themselves. Tales were told in the darkness of night, blankets drew up to the chins of the young as wet nurses painted pictures of the Targaryen civil war—the Dance of Dragons. It was the beginning of the end for them, both in the skies and in the thoughts of the people, the creatures quickly thought to be no more than myths.
Whispers were shared even now on how wild the Mad King was and how Rhagear Targaryen had no right to steal Lyanna Stark away from the strong love of young Robert Baratheon. And after all their deeds great and terrible alike, the Targaryens were reduced to nothing more than two young children—the girl not much older than Sansa—sent off to the busy free cities of Essos. There were hardly, if any, who expected to hear the Targaryen name ever again rise to the stature it had once been for so long.
So what in seven hells was the Greyjoy fleet doing along side of the former rulers of Westeros?
"Then the Greyjoys continue to be as daft as they always have," Sansa expressed, turning back toward Littlefinger. She was getting tired of this roundabout conversation with a man who took pleasure in stretching out how much more he knew than his company. "They are yet again choosing to take placement with the wrong side."
Littlefinger smiled at her temper as if it was his sole purpose to rattle her. "Starks—so quick to assume. As a former seat at the Small Council, my lady, I can tell you first hand that the happenings of the Targaryen blood had been far more under wraps and developed than anyone had let on to the public. Your father knew well that the Targaryen girl had married a Khal of the Dothraki so her brother would be given an army of savages to take back the throne he thought was his. A failed attempt on her life sent by the King fueled the girl's fire to win the Iron Throne for herself.
"While Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms have been fighting amongst themselves and the dwarfs, wildings, and bastards, Daenerys Targaryen had surpassed both her brother and husband with dragons in the sky and an army of Unsullied on the ground. From the Dothraki Sea and Vaes Dothrak, Daenerys Targaryen has traveled around Slaver's Bay, conquering city after city, freeing every slave and punishing every master. At this very moment, the mad King's daughter sits upon a throne in the great pyramid of Meereen, but her mind is set upon a throne far more uncomfortable and home to the many asses of unfit kings."
Sansa interrupted Littlefinger's tale to add on her own detail. "And now Cersei has claim to that throne."
It wasn't just shock and confusion that shook Sansa when news reached the north about King Tommen's plummet down the Red Keep. Sansa couldn't grieve his death, but he had been a sweet boy during her time in King's Landing. The more disturbing news was that the Sept of Baelor had been destroyed, inundated with the bright, emerald flames of wildfire that had been so heartlessly placed under the feet of hundreds of thousands of the capital's citizens. It wasn't all the death and dying that Sansa thought heartless but that those who did had little to do with the war plaguing the kingdoms.
Sansa's thoughts changed over to Margaery Tyrell, her smug, knowing, beautiful smile carved into her mind. She, too, had been kind and welcoming. She had even insisted on being friends with Sansa, wanting to bring her to Highgarden and away from the torment of Joffrey and the Queen Mother. Margaery hadn't been her friend—not really. The young woman had been playing her part just as everyone else did in that city. She played a friend to Sansa, a maiden to the public eye, and faithful, loving companion to all her husbands. It was that role that got her killed. Cersei saw to that. Perhaps if Margaery hadn't gotten so prideful and cocky in her ways of seducing Cersei's children, she would still be breathing instead of her ashes riding the wind.
Or maybe Cersei would have killed her either way. Sansa was nothing like Margaery, and Cersei didn't like her any better. The prude or the whore? Cersei preferred to choose neither. So a third option was made.
The others didn't understand what is meant that Cersei now sat upon the throne. To Jon—who had never set foot south of Winterfell—and his allied lords—old men set hard in their ways—even Brienne and Podrick often thought very little about the Lannister woman sitting at the top of King's Landing when so many other events were happening closer to home.
"So she's got tits," a lord had said when the news was shared with the visitors of Winterfell. "The throne is no place for a woman, especially a bastard birthing Lannister like Cersei. Either way, tits or not, she'll fall just the same."
Almost all had agreed with the man, but Sansa knew better.
The only voice that rivaled the popular opinion was Lyanna Mormont. "Cersei Lannister has gained more in her life by sheer persistence than most do by their dying breath that have money, armies, and the knowledge on how to use them. Place any man in her role, and they would undoubtedly have failed."
Small as she was, no one dared argued, but there were murmurs of rebuttal. Still, Sansa was glad that someone else saw the danger that Cersei posed. Little help it did in the end.
"What a wonder it is," Lord Baelish's voice brought Sansa out of her troubled thoughts. "First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."
It was enough to give anyone nightmares.
"Everyone thinks the world is going to end with a War of Kings, but it's underestimating the queens that give them the power that will end us all."
He was staring at her carefully now, boring into her, and Sansa began to feel uneasy. She turned her head away, seeing Jon walk away from his company. He locked eyes with her for a moment before tossing a glare at Littlefinger. Jon started heading their way.
A gust of wind fell into Sansa, as if carving a path for Jon. Sansa shuttered, all of a sudden colder than she used to be. She looked at Littlefinger. She knew that it was high time she took her leave. "Thank you, Lord Baelish, for sharing your knowledge."
Sansa had once again started to escape the sneaky clutches of Littlefinger, but his words always seemed to make her immobile. But this time, when the Lord of Mockingbirds said what she really intended with his conversation, he was the one to take leave first, having gotten out the final word. "Remember this, my lady, there are only two ways this war can end—with a throne or a mountain of rubble, but iron or ash, someone needs to sit upon it. It's who that has countless possibilities."
Sansa said nothing in response as she watched Littlefinger glide away moments before Jon made it to her side. He, too, watched the man take his leave, but no doubt with much more distaste.
"What did he have to say this time?" Jon wondered, his voice dull. Clearly, his lack of enthusiasm came from the idea that nothing worth listening to ever came out of Littlefinger's mouth, but Sansa knew that he was greatly mistaken.