04. Feast

In the Great Hall, all food was displayed on silver platters, goblets were filled with wine, and chairs were ready to sit the fat egos of the noble leaders, but the Winterfell household was miles away. With minds on more dangerous things, Sansa and Jon, joined with Tormund and Ser Davos, all gathered together to discuss the news that Littlefinger had delivered.

"You wish to believe the treacherous words of that man," Tormund grunted, his voice matching his rough appearance. Sansa and Jon, even Ser Davos, had cleaned themselves up for the arrival of allies, but Tormund looked as he always did. His worn and dirty furs looked like the frozen ground after the first light snow. But new clothes or not, even he knew to be cautious about Littlefinger.

Jon quickly backed up Tormund's words, giving Sansa a hard look as he placed his hands on the table before him and leaned forward. He did that often nowadays when speaking about friends and enemies and strategies. Sansa began to realize what burdened pose it was. The weight of what he was fighting for was pulling him down. "After everything Littlefinger has done to you, to father, how can you even begin to think he's telling us the truth?"

"His head should be struck from his body. Leave his for the crows." Tormund picked up, cutting off Sansa before she should even begin to speak.

"I know who Littlefinger is," Sansa explained, looking from man to man. "And believe me when I say he will be a feast for crows one day when all is over. And I will be there when it happens, but until that day we need to indulge him."

Jon and Tormund exchanged disapproving glances, but Ser Davos did and said nothing until after Sansa finished her plea.

"Despite what we believe, Littlefinger isn't a liar. He skews the truth, he doesn't make all of it up."

"Sounds like the same thing to me."

Sansa barely glanced at Tormund in the chance that it would only encourage him to go on. "I'm not telling you to follow Littlefinger blindly into an execution room, but asking you to heed what he says before you toss his words aside."

Jon didn't look convinced.

"What do you think will happen if Littlefinger realizes how little we think of his advice?" He did not give them freely; and did not waste them; and did not share them on ears unwilling to listen. Her eyes locked with Jon's, fierce and with ice in her gaze. The sight of Jon flinching back at her sudden stance made Sansa prideful about what she was trying to accomplish for her family and for the north. "Father was just that, stubborn and unwilling to see that sometimes it's necessary to walk alongside someone like Littlefinger. He put his coin on the Starks once but pulled out the moment Father strayed from the word Littlefinger told him. Littlefinger is among us now because he sees us as an open door to what he desires. If we don't humor him, he will turn away from our family once more, and there's only one way that can end."

Sansa finally let herself take a breath. She hadn't realized how much she had rambled on, but she only hoped some of what she said took hold onto something in Jon. No longer was she going to have her current concerns go under minded.

"Between the horrors in the north and Cersei sitting on the throne in King's Landing, we need what Littlefinger has to offer. Knowledge. It matters little if you approve of him or not."

When there were silence and odd glances exchanged between the men, Sansa began to wonder if she had overexposed herself. No matter how good and sensible Jon was known to be, even he couldn't argue that Sansa was getting too emotional about anything that had to do with moving forward. Her sudden need to keep Littlefinger close would only further this case to remove her from any and all future meetings on strategy.

Jon began tapping his fingers against the table, with his gaze down as if studying the craftsmanship of the wooden table. "Does he offer any way to verify what he says?"

Sansa was quiet. She wanted to say that dragons in the sky and Kraken sigil ships crossing the Narrow Sea would verify his story quite quickly but held her tongue.

Tormund chuckled hateful and full of skepticism more than humor. His words were bitter. "Verify? How? It isn't like we can send a damned raven."

For the first time that evening, Davos spoke, his voice calm and even as a settled sea. He asked Sansa, "If it would please my lady, I'll be traveling south soon. If there's any news from the Free Cities, men will pride themselves in sharing it with others for the right price."

It wasn't exactly the answer Sansa had been looking for after her plea, but it was kind of Ser Davos to step in and grant her a solution to Jon's question. With a small smile of gratitude on her lips, Sansa nodded at Davos, but she didn't know how much help he was going to be for her. Littlefinger had countless numbers of his little birds that chirped secrets in his ear thought to only be known to the one who made them. His services weren't easily duplicated.

"We best get back," Tormund suggest, looking at Jon now. "There's no doubt that your guests will notice your absence."

Jon nodded. "Of course." Straightening his stance, he watched as Davos and Tormund passed Sansa in silence to leave, but neither he nor Sansa moved to follow them. Instead, they stood together in silence for a moment that felt just a moment too long. In order to cut the silence short, Jon walked carefully toward Sansa, placing himself in front of her. "Why would the Greyjoys side with the Targaryen girl?"

"I don't know," Sansa stated, shaking her head. It had been one of a thousand questions she recently asked herself. "But they have some of the fastest ships in the Seven Kingdoms. If they are allying themselves with Daenerys Targaryen, how long do you think she's going to refrain from using them?"

Jon didn't answer. It was just another one of many tough questions that Sansa had brought up that evening.

"Whatever King Robert and his council had been afraid of all that time ago is about to come true. We might not have any personal quarrels with her, but she's going to act against us if she thinks that we are at risk of standing in the way of what she wants."

There was a certain look on Jon's face—not one of fear or anxiety, but the look of simply knowing the truth that had been so long foretold and dreaded by men no longer breathing. Sighing, Jon ran his hand through his dark hair, admitting it out loud, "The last Targaryen is coming back for her throne."

•••

The feast had already begun by the time Jon and Sansa arrived at the Great Hall. Delicious smells of roasted duck and pigeon pies, lamb chop stews mixed with boiled potatoes and spicy onions, freshly baked raisin bread smothered with melted butter, and collections of pies and pastries all swirled together in a dance of savory and sweetness that would make any mouth water.

The bellowing laugh of different men echoed through the room as they drank their wine and shared their unbelievable stories. Tormund was one of them, and his voice well outdid many of the others. He was largely among his own kind, wildings that decided to stand behind him and stay at Winterfell, but plenty of noble birth stood around wishing to hear his tales. Sansa watched him as she and Jon took their seats together next to Bran—sitting in a wheelchair specially made for him to move easier—and Meera. His rough exterior from earlier on had quickly changed as he ate and spoke, spoke and ate. Every once and a while Sansa could see his eyes flash away from his well listening crowd and in her direction. But it wasn't Sansa he was sneaking a look at.

Brienne had been invited to sit next to Sansa at the feast as Sansa found it unlikely that either she or Brienne would have much to say to any of the newly arrived guests. Brienne had graciously accepted Sansa's invite and made herself comfortable at the head table. Through the food and drink, the knight was paying no mind to the ginger-haired man. However, there was no doubt she knew that he was her. Her senses were burning with the unwanted attention. With very few activities worth smiling about nowadays, Sansa often found the newfound and awkward romantic tension between them utterly laughable and amusing.

Filling her own cup with wine, Sansa smiled slightly as the dark bitter drink grazed her lips. She spoke into the shallow goblet; her words echoing softly back to her. "Ignoring his attention continues to fail at displacing it. I'd even say it encourages it."

Brienne hauled her fork mid-air for only a moment, allowing the chunk of roast pork to teeter on its edge before falling off completely. She hardly seemed to notice. Her crisp blue eyes swiftly flickered over to Tormund's table where he was back to entertaining the ears of so many. He was facing away from them now, but Sansa wondered, as it was his turn to be spied upon if he could feel Brienne's gaze boring into his back. If so, what it as the raze of a sun, grazing the skin or a blade poking holes in the flesh?

Sansa held in a chuckled as Brienne scolded her with nothing but a hard look, choosing not to respond to her lady with words but with a fork full of food angrily shoved into her mouth.

Looking down to the rest of the head table, Bran and Meera could be seen sitting to the right of Jon—who on his own was rather stone-faced as he ate, surveying the room. Bran and Meera were smiling. They shared many pleasantries as guests, one after the other, greeted them. All had come to see the youngest surviving Stark, and although each member of these noble families were great allies that the Stark family knew they were going to need them again one day, Sansa could see that exchanging greetings and good words were not what Bran wanted to be doing at the moment.

"It's a pleasure having you back, young lord," a young man said, smiling too widely, his body movements too fluid with an overabundance of ale in his system. He couldn't have been much older than his early-twenties and was handsome to look at, but his manner was less than many of the others who were in attendance.

Bran gave a smile and a nod. "Thank you, my lord."

"With each new Stark, the strength of the north grows tenfold. Those pricks in the south won't know what to do with themselves." He had turned away from Bran and back toward the company in nearby tables. They were much more celebratory about his loud tactics. "Piss themselves or hide behind each other's skirts?"

A roar of low laughter sounded off from his corner of the Great Hall. Glasses were raised in agreement as men clasped him by the shoulders. He sat down away from the men of his house, still all smiles as a nearby servant filled his goblet, completely unaware that a similar looking man was scolding him with a cold stare from yards away. The man was just as nice looking at the young man, with the same lean body and strong stare. Although his age showed more on his face with every step he took away from his table, it was clear that a higher count of years wasn't going to hinder his ability, whether it be it be here or out there.

Placing himself before the Stark siblings, he graced them with a kind and apologetic smile. "My lords, lady, I'd like to formally say how fortunate it is to have you all seated together in the home you've been displaced from for far too long. And please—" He looked back at his young lookalike, "excuse my son. Lack of experience in these times is only one of his faults."

"There's no need to apologize, Lord Kensey. Your son is simply celebrating, as should we all," Jon encouraged, giving a grim smile.

Jon spoke truth—this was a celebration, one of which they should all have been in higher spirits for, but it was clear that Jon's thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. Sansa felt guilty. She knew that it was right to expose Jon to what Littlefinger had told her, but she was beginning to think saving it until after dinner would have been best.

Most of the remaining feast went as expected. Jon led a formal speech halfway through, announcing the reunion of his brother Bran, and his companion, to Winterfell; and Bran thanked all who attended and came to the Stark's aid; and cheers, applause, and raised cups engulfed the Great Hall.

The mood at the head table shifted for the better soon after. More wine was drunk and dark thoughts were pushed aside. Bran was able to enjoy in light conversations with his siblings and Meera, guests no longer seeing the need to burden them with their presence—although most of them wouldn't be able to gather their wits together long enough to make the journey up to him. Even Jon's usual stoic expression brightened up, at Brienne's expense, when Tormund, full of food and drink and laughter, insisted on stationing himself next to Jon. For Sansa, lemon cakes sat delicately on her plate, just waiting for her to pick them up with an equally delicate finger and savor their sour-sweetness on her tongue. They tasted good but different. Between memories of King's Landing and the Eerie and being procured by Littlefinger once again, it was harder to enjoy them as she once had.

All in all, the feast had been what Jon and Sansa had hoped it would be, a celebration to lift the spirit of the north and a reminder that there was still strength to be had.

But the evening was far from reaching an end.

Neither Jon nor Sansa nor Bran and Meera noticed when a young banner boy no older than 12 years of age came sneaking into the hall. He kept his shaggy red hair in front of his eyes, shielding his gaze from the loud drunk men who would have thought it fun to give him a hard time. Dodging between groups of nobles and couples acting less than decent, the young boy was finally able to place himself before the Starks, breathless and trembling.

Tormund spotted the skinny figure first. The wildling's laugh was low and hardy at the sight of him. "What do you need, boy? You look as if you're about to shit your pants!"

Jon turned around to see whom Tormund was talking to while Sansa, Bran, and many others nearby looked up from their plates and conversations. Jon wasn't as quick to make light fun of the boy. "What do you need?" All lightheartedness was banished from his voice. Lord Commander Snow once more.

As the boy spoke, his hair continued as a veil to cover his face. Sansa assumed that his gaze had settled on the tips of his battered shoes. "You're needed at the East gate, your grace. Travelers on the King's Road can be seen heading this way."

All had come quietly in their sections of the Great Hall. Noblemen exchanged glances between each other as their companions and women murmured secretly amongst them.

"How many are there?" Heads glanced over to Sansa. Her lemon cakes were gone.

The boy hesitated to answer her for a fraction of a moment but quickly brought forward a response. "A couple dozen men, m'lady. A smaller group had separated at the head of the men. They're making their way through the camped men out front as we speak. Some would like to know if they should stop the travelers or let them pass."

Eerie silence took hold over the entire hall now. Jon's voice, low and in control, cut through it all with ease and authority. If he felt any uncertainty, he was able to keep it from showing. "Can you see their banners?"

"…They have no banners, m'lord."

Jon halted as hushed murmurs rippled down the long feast tables. All traveling groups sported banners that proudly and prominently displayed their house's sigil. The lack thereof only meant one thing in Westeros: no loyalties.

Sansa stood slowly, trying to appear calm. A few paces away, looking at no one in particular was Jon. Had no one been present to see the usual sullen Lord Commander having a good time, no one would have been the wiser that it had happened. He turned his head slightly as Sansa approached him. "What could they want? There's no reason for them to be this far north."

"Reason has little to do with any of us being anywhere," Tormund stated, his mockery and jokes long gone.

"But what could they want at Winterfell? Robert and Father are gone. What little ties they had with us are long gone."

Jon set down his half-empty cup and traded it for his sword, grabbing it tightly just beneath the white wolf pummel. He didn't have expected to need it that night, but without it, he felt naked. He'd never say such a thing, but Sansa figured that the great sword gave him strength and a feeling of safety.

A lack of answers led Jon to ignore all of Sansa's questions. Better not to answer them at all than give an incorrect statement, especially with so many ears around to pick up his words. Instead, he backed away from his chair and glanced at Sansa and Bran. "Stay here."

He hadn't gone one step before Sansa's hand took a firm grip on Jon's sleeve. "I'm going with."

"So am I." Bran straightened himself up to look taller, afraid to be seen as still nothing more than the little brother they both remembered.

Jon fidgeted with his belt and sword, eyes away from all others as he tried to get them to lay straight. All knew a negative response was on the tip of his tongue, ready to give a simple response and make his siblings stay put. The absence of Jon would already raise wonder and question. Sansa and Bran following would only heighten it. Jon looked up, a decline to their request less than a second from being declared, but the determined looks on their faces made him hesitate for a moment too long.

An opportunity to interrupt Jon's response was open for all, and Sansa sought to take hold of it. Whatever was going to happen outside, whoever the faces were of the men that approached them, she wasn't going to let something like worrying about the speculations of drunk, overbearing, middle-aged men stop her. She turned around, about to search for the stern and piercing blue eyes gaze of Brienne, but there was little need.

"My lady, I shall escort you, if you wish."

A wave of appreciation swelled through Sansa as she nodded toward the knight that now stood by her side, ready to do as she commanded. Not once since Brienne had offered her sword had she failed Sansa. To have her here now—however long it took Sansa to accept her—was a comfort. Sansa felt better about all the eyes glued to her.

She turned back to the young boy; he was practically shaking in his place. "Let them pass." When turning toward Jon, she was pleased that he did not object openly. "Come, we have more visitors."

The Brotherhood is waiting.