07. Bare Hands

Almost back to her room, Sansa's ears picked up the faint sound of voices arguing. Meera and Bran. Sansa would have continued on with no thoughts on the matter had it not been for the strain that Meera's voice carried. Her thoughts longing for a steamy bath vanished quickly.

"…not going to tell them anything?" Meera questioned, desperate and weak. "They're going to want real answers at some point."

Bran didn't at all sound like himself. "And they'll have them when I know more."

The moment that minds and moods began to calm, Bran's presence lessened among the people of Winterfell. His absence wasn't as Sansa's had been, missing only when all members of court and company convened in the Great Hall, but at all times of the day. Jon thought Bran was simply resting, making up for long and cold nights away from home. Sansa could have seen the logic in that response had Meera not sometimes been wondering the grounds alone and looking burdened.

A thought on comforting the girl had arisen within Sansa, but it was quickly disregarded. There was little to no relationship between the two, and Sansa knew as well as anyone that comforts from those considered less than family was of little pleasure.

A sign could be heard escaping Meera's lips as Sansa closed in on Bran's chamber door. Again, it was ajar just enough that one didn't have to struggle to hear the conversation on the other side. Sansa kept her distance, just in case.

"So what then?" Meera wasn't just sad or worried any longer, but angry. Sansa couldn't imagine what Bran could do to make her so. "You're just going to continue this—this plunge into memories that lead nowhere?"

"You don't see what I see. They lead everywhere." Bran showed no indication that he realized that Meera's tone had shifted. Instead, he kept his voice almost uninterested.

Meera didn't reply; the silence merely simmered between them for a few moments. Each one was more deafening than the last.

Sansa knew that now was the time to leave her post. Continuing to eavesdrop on her brother and his friend would not only increase her measurement of discomfort, but also her guilt. No amount of curiosity on Bran's behavior or what information Meera thought Bran should relinquish to others was strong enough to leave her there. With steady breath and lite feet, Sansa continued on to her

•••

Neither Bran nor Meera appeared at dinner that evening, and Jon seemed hard pressed to excuse the matter—at least for the moment. There were bigger issues at hand that he needed to deal with, and the curious behavior of the youngest living Stark wasn't at the top of the list.

"Dragon glass and Valyrian steel," Jon listed, sitting between Sansa and Arya as they sat at the head table. His voice matched his expression, pensive and composed. "If we want to have any chance at fighting the Night King, we need these two things, and plenty of it."

"Both are rare," Beric Dondarrion remarked, pouring dark red wine into a goblet.

He, Thoros of Myr, and Sandor Clegane too sat among the Starks. Davos was one of a couple important men missing from this gathering, having left only a day before to head south. Sansa didn't forget his promise to gain information on Littlefinger's intel.

"Do you have any ideas on how to get such a supply?" Beric's voice boomed in the almost empty space.

Few others sat spread throughout the tables in the Great Hall. Some might have taken their food to their rooms or sat with friends around fires and loud stories, but most would have had their meal long before. It was late now, the moon high in the sky and the air sharp. None looking at the hall now would think there were large numbers of men sitting and sleeping and shitting in almost every corner of Winterfell.

Jon's voice echoed in the near silence. "I wouldn't be sitting here doing nothing if I did. And until something comes up, it won't matter how many men we have trained and ready."

"I can't imagine finding either in amounts that we need," Sansa started. Jon and Beric turned their reads to look at her while she spoke. "You only just happened to find that dragon glass beyond the Wall, and Valyrian steel isn't forged in Westeros much less found."

The beautiful and wondrous city that was once Valyria was spoken of far and wide throughout Westeros. Maesters and Septs alike would retell the ways of the old and cherished city that fell to its end. Never more than now did Sansa wish that no cataclysmic disaster had destroyed the Valyrian Freehold. They would have all the steel they could ever need. Houses Celtigar and Velaryon would still have their precious city. Even more, if Valyria were standing, the great House Targaryen would still be housed where their distant ancestors had been. What a wild thought that was, the Targaryens keeping their Essos home instead of needing to travel west to Dragonstone. But wouldn't that fix many of their problems, from both before and after King Robert's death? Without Aegon Targaryen's conquest over six of the seven Westerosi kingdoms, there would be no King's Landings and no Iron Throne worth fighting over. There would have been no Mad King or reason for Robert Baratheon's Rebellion. There would be no Lannisters fighting to take over the realm with fear and terror or the last Targaryen threatening to burn any who get in her way. There would be no list of death Starks because of a war they didn't want.

But, just like everything else, it was more than too late for any of that.

"Your Valyrian sword is amongst the last of its kind," Sansa continued, feeling just how heavy her words were.

Arya spoke next, which didn't happen often now. Time had stripped that proactive childhood spring that had annoyed Sansa so much. All that remained was as the stone-faced being that may have looked like the sister Sansa once had but was no more familiar to her than a stranger on a street.

"Father had a Valyrian sword."

Thoros nodded. "And what a sword that was, if you call it that. Ice was like no other steel I had seen before. Gods—that sword was as tall as a man."

"And took an even greater one to wield it," Beric agreed. "Whatever happened to Ned Stark's sword?"

Sansa only knew part of the answer. "The Lannisters kept it. After Tywin arrived, I heard he was able to send for a blacksmith from Essos to turn the sword into two. Joffrey was given one. Widow's Wail, he called it."

Sandor scoffed at his end of the table. He didn't pay attention to Sansa or the others as they discussed, but could be heard slightly mumbling a complaint about another dumb bastard naming another dumb sword. It looked as if he was the only one in the world that found the practice ridiculous.

"Who was given the other? And who has Joffrey's sword now that he's dead?" Jon asked.

Sansa shook her head. "I don't know. The swords were made just before the wedding, and I left before anything about his death was decided. But in that short time, Joffrey was more than willing to act as if that sword was going to see many great battles."

The concept was unfathomable. Joffrey knew what he was doing when he brought down his steel sword on Mika, but beyond that, the boy had had no skill. Little boys and whores and girls like Sansa were easy, pleasurable to beat and torment, but Joffrey couldn't have faced a real soldier, a real warrior. He was brutal, yes, but he was as weak as the bastard babies he murdered.

Beric didn't seem as discouraged by Joffrey's wish. "And it still might, hopefully at the hands of someone more worthy of it. We can only hope fate can lead us to the two remaining Westerosi Valyrian swords."

Sansa wasn't so positive.

"Speaking of that little twat," Thoros muttered between bites of buttered bread. "What a spectacle it was I heard, watching the confused looks on the Lannister faces."

Sansa quickly realized that of those sitting at the table that none had been present at the Baratheon-Tyrell wedding. Brienne had been allowed to retire for the evening and wasn't with her to tell any details.

Thoros was still talking, "How did the Bastard King die? Different stories have reached all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Some say live pigeons erupted from his pie and pecked out his throat, bled to death while they ate his flesh. Others tell that he drank venomous piss that was mixed with his wine that made his insides melt and leak out every hole the boy had in him. I don't know which story I like better!"

"And Lannister followers say that the Imp plotted the king's murder alongside his young bride." Beric Dondarrion didn't give Sansa the chance to hide her gaze before catching it.

"Tyrion didn't plot anything," Sansa explained, fingering the edge of her cup. She had yet to touch much of her food and drink. "And neither are the stories of flesh-eating birds or venomous wine true."

When she didn't continue further, Beric pushed on with his gaze. "Well, my lady?"

It was an odd feeling, knowing that there were so many important people sitting at the table around her—all connected with Joffrey one terrible way or another—and the only person who knew anything worthwhile was Sansa. The feeling continued when remembering that Littlefinger orchestrated the whole thing with a Tyrell and yet he would find no friends here.

So it seemed to be on Sansa to regal the audience with her tale.

"The reception had all but just started as expected, loud and extravagant. There was food and drink and a reenactment of the War of Five Kings. Joffrey was living it up, drinking up every moment he could at the greatest sight King's Landing had ever seen. At least, that's what he told himself.

"Ironically, Tyrion noticed it at first, even wandering over to Joffrey to see if he was all right. But he was too late. So was Cersei. They had put it in his wine, whatever it was, and it cut him down quick enough. None were the wiser for a while. Before long, he was seizing on the ground. Or that's what I assume. I had fled before Joffrey's last breath."

Sansa didn't have much more to add, so she ended her story with silence.

"Huh, not as interesting without the birds, I have to admit," Thoros stated, clearly disappointed that Sansa's tale had no grander element of gore or violence.

"Little shit deserved it," Sandor voiced from his end of the table, making eye contact with no one but his almost empty plate. While the others were modest with their servings, Clegane took no such steps.

Sansa shook her head, a motion none would have paid any attention to had she not said something so unexpected. "No, he didn't. Not that way." Her eyes were cast down, but she didn't need to look up to know that all eyes were on her once again.

Beric shifted in his seat as if almost uncomfortable. "Lady Sansa, are you saying that you find yourself regretting Joffrey Baratheon's death?"

The question was laughable and irritating. Could the lot of them really think a ridiculous idea like that, that she would wish Joffrey alive again? The thought made her want to vomit.

"Don't think my statement pity, Lord Beric," she said bitter and cold. "We both know better than that. But I stand by my statement. How do you think Joffrey's murder will be remembered years from now? It was withdrawn and tackless."

"Most murders are," Sandor goaded in reply, no longer paying attention to only his plate. He was paying all mind to Sansa. "Not everything can be pretty and valiant."

"I don't ask for valiant," Sansa snapped back. She could feel herself stepping into a ring of tension. She was used to it nowadays, everything created tension with the world as it was, but the fact that it was with Sandor Clegane was different. He was being hard, just as he always had been, but Sansa didn't find herself buckling under. She was charging at it. "It is how that bothers me."

"Dead is dead. Why does any of that matter?"

Sansa didn't respond. She was rather caught up in the thought of killing Joffrey on her own. Could she have done it? Killed Joffrey with her own hands? She figured not, but ordering someone else to do it in her name would have been just as satisfying.

"Joffrey will never know who his killer was, to look into their eyes and know that it was the pain he brought them that sealed his death. My only regret, Lord Beric, is that Joffrey Baratheon wasn't run through with steel and burdened with the knowledge of who held the handle."

Yes, Sansa decided as she bit out her dark thoughts on the young king's death, with my bare hands.

When Sansa looked up to study her audience, she skipped over Jon and Beric to Sandor. His eyes hadn't left her face since she started talking back to him. Sansa held his gaze, unsurprised to see that his facial expression was blank. That would be as close to approval as she could get.

•••

Little conversation followed after Sansa's disagreement with Sandor, so there were diminutive reasons for any at the table to stay in the Great Hall. Sansa was one of the first to excuse herself, after Thoros and just before Arya, saying only to Jon that she would be in her chambers if anything new came to light. She knew there wouldn't be but didn't see any better way to announce her leave. Keeping her eyes from scanning the faces of the others around her, Sansa put distance between her and the head table.

She didn't expect any disturbances that night. Other than Jon, who was far too engrossed with problems of Valyrian steel and dragon glass and royal families out for blood to think to stop by, there wasn't anyone Sansa thought would procure a visit at this time of night. It wasn't until she opened the door to her bedchambers that she realized she completely missed the one person who would. Keeping her distance the past few days, Sansa shouldn't have been surprised that Littlefinger decided to make his presence remembered.

He was standing near one of the windows, the flicker of the fireplace flame he had taken upon himself to request be lit cascading across his frame. Littlefinger's back was to Sansa as she entered, but he slowly faced her with a smug look on his face. "My lady."

Sansa kept herself indifferent. "Why are you in my room, Lord Baelish?"

"I have some updates for you. Very pressing updates that I believed you'd like to know."

"Could it not wait until tomorrow?" Sansa questioned back, simply wanting to undress and climb into bed. None could be attempted while Littlefinger was around, so Sansa took a seat by the fireplace. "Jon may be the one you should relay this information to, as there's little I can do about any of it."

Littlefinger chuckled to himself, but Sansa had become accustomed to his behavior enough to know that he wasn't laughing at anything funny. "I think you and I both know that's not true. A little nudge is all it takes for control to change hands. All the same, I imagine Lord Snow would rather hear the news out of your mouth."

He wasn't stupid, Sansa had to give him that. As much as she didn't always wish for his company, she was the least likely to kill him. As of now, anyway. He kept handing her solid information, and sometimes advice, so she kept him around and in one piece.

"So what is this news that couldn't wait until morning? It must deal with Daenerys Targaryen, no doubt."

Littlefinger stepped away from the window, moving with a gliding motion to the chair that sat across from Sansa. But he didn't go to sit in it, but rather stood behind it, hands grasping the dark wooden shoulders. "It seems as though the Targaryen girl has finally landed on Dragonstone. Dragons and all."

"Dragonstone," Sansa repeated to herself. She made it back.

When Littlefinger had first told Sansa about Daenerys traveling across the Narrow Sea to the Seven Kingdoms, she hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. She had envisioned that there was still plenty of distance between them and the girl. Nothing about the matter had been discussed since she was all but pushed aside by Jon and Tormund only a few days before. Now that the girl was so close to them, to King's Landing and the throne she believed was hers, there wasn't much they could do to prepare for what could happen next—not that Jon thought it necessary.

Sansa looked at Littlefinger. He hadn't said much, but there must have been more. "What else?"

"The Greyjoys aren't the only ones that the girl has been able to persuade over to her side," Littlefinger explained, his tone suggesting that he was impressed with the determination. "Apparently, the companion of Oberyn Martell and Lady Olenna Tyrell are willing to aid anyone who promises them their revenge against Cersei Lannister."

The news couldn't really be considered shocking. Sansa knew very little about Oberyn Martell and his dealings, but the Dornish weren't known for lying down easily after being wronged. Oberyn made that very clear keeping his grudge against the Mountain for what the beast did to his sister. And she wouldn't have presumed anything less from Olenna. The old woman killed Joffrey with no hesitation even before Cersei was able to draw Tyrell blood. Sansa wondered about Cersei for a moment, wondered about how the woman was feeling right then. The woman thought so much of her own family name and so little of everyone else's, and as of now, every other major family remaining of the Seven Kingdoms was riding against her.

A few moments passed in silence as Sansa ran everything through her head, her eyes glued to the bright orange-red flames that danced to the emptiness of the room. Her face was getting too warm but didn't bother to distance herself. "Do you know anything about Cersei?"

"Expecting a raven from your brother, no doubt."

"Cersei isn't that naïve," Sansa asserted. "She knows Jon would never bend the knee to her. She only sent the request to make a point."

"As that may be, my lady, Cersei continues her best to find ways to intimidate her enemies."

Sansa could question a thousand times over when the Lannister woman wasn't doing such a thing. An army coming for her crown or a mouse threatening to steal the crumbs off her plate—it was all the same to her, a challenge she had to win.

"Euron Greyjoy, the new ruler of the Iron Islands is handing over his fleet of ships to Cersei. Rumors suggest he hopes to exchange them in return for the queen's hand."

The flames seemed to freeze in place at the assumption as Sansa snapped her head back toward Littlefinger. "He wants to marry her? Surely being king wouldn't be worth what it would cost him." The idea was preposterous. One wrong move on his part and Cersei would slit his throat in his sleep. The woman would fall into easy bliss with his blood on her pillow.

"A dangerous move, one would agree, but Euron is far from his defeated brother. If stories about him are true, this Greyjoy would be more than enough of a match for the ways of Cersei Lannister."

A shudder made its way down Sansa's spine, unwilling to imagine what would happen if Cersei were able to partner with someone with the same mindset as she. Sansa could only be grateful that Ramsey was taken care of.

"How strong of a force does Euron pose?"

Littlefinger was almost smirking again. Although, Sansa couldn't understand why. Now was not the time and the topic at hand certainly didn't call for his imperious facial expression. Sansa caught herself pondering if the former brothel keeping could express anything other than a smirk at all. He had been sporting one for so long that perhaps he had forgotten that there were other options available. Or maybe his body no longer knew how.

"That, my dear Sansa, all depends on Cersei. Euron can't do much on his own, although any facing him on the water would be in for a big surprise. If he can wiggle his way into the laps of the Lannisters, there's little he wouldn't pride himself in thinking he could do."

Sansa locked eyes with Littlefinger as he spoke, understanding something he might have not even realized he was sporting. At no point in time were this Greyjoy and Littlefinger allowed in the same room.

Sighing silently, Sansa stood up from her seat. She didn't know how helpful this information was to her as very few wished to listen to her, but that didn't mean that she wasn't going to try and pass it along. If anything, others would know the general happenings from across the country. "I'll tell John tomorrow," Sansa offered, making it clear by her tone that this engagement was over. To enforce that idea with her movements, Sansa walked over the bedroom door and placed her hand on the handle. She turned it, the door coming ajar. "If there's nothing else, Lord Baelish, I'd very much like to go to sleep."

Littlefinger nodded with a smile as he stepped out from behind the chair. "Of course." The man was only partly lit in the dimly glow of the fire, but none had to see him in his entirety to know that he wanted to say one more thing before his departure. "I do wish you pleasant dreams, my lady."