09. Intentions

A raven found its way to Winterfell one day, just after the sun reached the highest point in the sky. No one expected the paper to hold anything of importance inside despite being sent to Jon. Its departure was stationed from the southeast but not from any of the allied houses. Anyone glancing by assumed Cersei sent yet another claim to the Iron Throne and demanded the north bend to her rule.

But the scroll wasn't from Cersei.

"Why is she writing to us?" Sansa wondered aloud. She paced the floor of Jon's bedchambers. He presented the scroll to the Stark girls before relinquishing the news to the rest of the court later on. She didn't know the words on it but knew they couldn't bring good fortune. "Daenerys Targaryen doesn't know anything about us."

Jon shifted the scroll between his gloved fingertips. The broken red seal beheaded a three-headed dragon, its body swinging through the air limp and heavy. "She's not the one writing us. It seems she has someone very familiar with our family and the rest of Westeros at her side."

"Who?"

"Tyrion Lannister."

She stopped pacing. The name didn't stick between Sansa's ears at first. The list of people Sansa expected to hear standing side by side with Daenerys Targaryen was almost nonexistent, but never would she expect Tyrion. If anything Littlefinger said about Daenerys was even relatively true, the youngest Lannister was jumping from one queen eager to cut down her enemies to another. It didn't matter that Tyrion was innocent in the dealings against Daenerys and her family, he was easily risking his life.

"The Imp?" The named piqued Arya's interest, and she resorted back to the crude nickname she and so many others used.

"Daenerys names him the Queen's Hand. He writes on her behalf."

"And what does he write?"

Jon's eyes scanned over the ink on the scroll as if to see if the message could have possibly changed since he read it last. "Daenerys has a proposition for us. She's sending Tyrion to negotiate in her place."

The two sisters glanced at each other. Arya shrugged as Sansa asked, "She's sending Tyrion where? Here, to Winterfell?"

"It looks like it wasn't a request for invite, but a simple acknowledgment." Jon nodded, tossing the scroll to Arya. Arya caught it effortlessly. "He's probably halfway here already."

Whatever surprise that took hold of Arya drained away quickly. Her eyes darted back and forth just as Jon's had, like dark daggers being thrown to and fro. "She wants to be allies. She'll need the north on her side if she hopes to rule Westeros, dragons or not."

Her sister's point made sense. Everyone, even Cersei, knew that the north needed to be won over, or at least hopelessly destroyed, if ruling Westeros was going to be attempted. Had it not, the Lannisters wouldn't have tried so many times to take it for themselves. The north was vast and uninhabitable for those not accustomed to the harsh weather. Someone born with a fire burning in her soul would find it difficult to manipulate on her own accord. daenerys Targaryen's dragons may be able to melt the snow that the north built its base on, but she'd never find herself with the will to endure it when the chill settles in her bones.

But none of that meant she would leave the north in peace if they agreed to aid her.

The siblings didn't feel optimistic about the ordeal. Daenerys was just another queen looking for people to rule. But rejecting her wasn't an option. She hadn't asked and Tyrion was on his way whether they wanted to open their gates to him or not. Imp as Arya may have called him, but the man certainly upgraded his allegiances. He had found a new family to stand beside, this one just as fierce as the former.

"That might be true, but the north will not bend the knee so willingly. She must know that." Jon held his hand back out for the scroll. When Arya placed the parchment back into his hand, he gave it yet another look over before setting it down on the table. The thing rolled back up half-heartedly when there was no pressure left to keep it open.

"She does." Sansa only knew what she did about Daenerys through the whispers that Littlefinger had procured, but little of his information had been wrong up to this point. The girl had come a long way since the breakdown of her family line. Things could only further with someone like Tyrion Lannister giving her his words of wisdom.

Jon sighed. "It looks as if Winterfell will be hosting another visitor."

Sansa took a seat on a fur covered chair, the mere notion exhausting. "Remember when Winterfell was the least sought out kingdom?" The concept was unimaginable now.

"I suppose we can blame Father for that."

"I suppose." Sansa nodded because it was partly true. Ned Stark was the one who opened the door for them. He received the king, invited the Lannisters into their home, and swept his daughters to King's Landing while his sons took their new positions in the north. But that was all circumstance and each one of them knew it. The world was teetering on the edge of change and it just happened to come tumbling down the moment Ned Stark swung his sword. It should have been a sign he was doomed from the beginning. "Otherwise we'd have to blame ourselves."

The three shared a slightly awkward moment of silence before a questioned filled the air. Arya was the one bring forth the pressing matters now. "If Tyrion Lannister brings us a demand we can't agree to, what do we do? We have no chance against Daenerys' army, much less her dragons."

Sansa glanced as Jon. His head was bent down. His eyes were all but closed. He didn't need to answer, and Arya didn't really have to ask. Anyone within miles of Winterfell would have known. For if they refused Daenerys Targaryen, no one would need to fear the White Walkers and the bitter cold snows they brought with them. They'd all be visited by an early thaw and a warmth so stifling that it could burn flesh from bone.

•••

Sansa found herself back in the company of Littlefinger a couple of days after Jon's announcement. The encounter wasn't the least bit surprising. Littlefinger was bound to have much to say concerning the sudden turn of events. Or maybe he wouldn't. It was just as likely that he already knew what the scroll had within it and wished to see which side of the coin Sansa landed on. It was conversations like this one that let Littlefinger know which cards she was letting him play with. Furthermore, how he was going to shuffle them in his favor.

"It's been quite some time since anyone in Westeros has seen Tyrion Lannister. I'm sure he's in for a surprise upon his arrival. Much has changed in his absence."

Sansa agreed, wondering how much Tyrion knew what the happenings in Westeros. Did he have ways of hearing about the death of his niece and nephew? How Cersei was queen? Did he know the Freys were slaughtered, the wildlings were roaming the land south of the Wall and that Sansa and Jon were able to take back Winterfell? It quickly began clear that even if Tyrion did have ways to know that information, he more than likely didn't care about most of it. Other then what happened to Tommen and Myrcella, nothing was much use to him.

Did he wonder what came to be of his child bride?

She'd feel nothing if he didn't. She seldom thought about him.

Sansa asked, "Do you think it wise, letting Tyrion visit Winterfell on Daenary's behalf? There's no telling what she'll demand through him."

The two were strolling side by side outside, above the courtyard. The wood beneath their feet was covered with a thin layer of snow and made it slippery to walk on. She could feel her muscles tense as she concentrated on not falling.

"Wiser than waiting for the girl to send her dragons in his sted. It's no secret that she has other ways of getting her way and eager to use them."

While not all in Westeros believed in what they heard, it was hard to ignore the growing stories about the Targaryen girl. From taming a Dothraki hoard, gaining an Unsullied army, and burning any and all who stood against her, it was slightly surprising that she was offering a chance to talk and risk the need to debate. Perhaps since he was the one standing as the middleman for the two houses, Tyrion was the voice of calmer reason for the Mother of Dragons.

Sansa thought about Tyrion being the Hand, being counsel to someone who held great power. Someone who held real power. He had done a decent job with Joffery when the boy was king, but Sansa wondered what he could do with a stabler mind on the throne. He was intelligent and well rounded and one knew how the world worked far better than anyone had the right to.

Several flakes of snow began to pile up on the shoulders of Littlefinger. He glanced down at them irritated and swatted them gracefully with a gloved hand as he said, "I imagine Cersei won't like it, hearing that her traitorous brother is meeting with the bastard King in the North to speak about Daenerys Targaryen."

"Cersei doesn't like much these days."

But Cersei wasn't what Sansa was worried about. The north finally gained back its land and allies and hope for new strength. Bringing forth an outsider was bound to shake the foundation they stood on. How would the rest of the noblemen take Jon's news? This was a foreigner. From the world of old Valyrian. That had dragons and was little more than a young girl.

"Jon doesn't say what he thinks on Tyrion's visit. Nor did he ask anyone theirs." She tried to keep from sounding full of accusations, simply stating what she knew as the facts than what she felt, but she knew Littlefinger could pick up the change in her tone.

"I'm sure His Grace is doing only what he thinks is best."

The urge to stomp on his foot had to be submerged. He was mocking her as he did so very often although he seemed to think no one noticed. The disbelief he held toward Jon seeped through the many masks he wore.

"You wished for your brother to take hold for the situation with Daenerys Targaryen." He stopped walking, leaning against the balcony barrier. Dense snow atop it fell beneath them as his elbow nudged it aside. Sansa swore she heard a voice curse below. "What better way than to appease her advisor?"

"I wanted him to consider future issues, her armies and soon arrival on King's Landing. Inviting her prospects here is different."

"Knowing the intentions of your enemies is the first step in staying one step in front of them, my lady. We know what the Mother of Dragons wants—"

"The Iron Throne."

"The Iron Throne, yes, but not how. There are several elements she has at her disposal."

Littlefinger spoke as if inserting themselves into Daenerys' plans would be an easy task. Intentions were easily shrouded in smoke if the one who had them was clever enough to light the fire where others could not see the flame. The man standing in front of Sansa was a former brothel keeper, a former Master of Coin to two kings, and currently stood as ruler of the Vale. Each held his own intentions and Sansa couldn't clearly pinpoint any of them. This advice from anyone else might ring some truth but from him it was laughable.

Not much else was exchanged about the situation. It surprised her how little Littlefinger chose to speak to Sansa about all the news. Perhaps his interest in Winterfell's dealings was dwindling. She knew before she finished the thought that that wasn't true. He wanted her to simmer in her own thoughts. And she did for a moment, watching as he took his leave to go wherever he snuck off to when he left her and did whatever he did when he was on his own. She didn't know and didn't particularly care. But her eyes followed him all the same.

"Bastard talks too much." Sandor appeared a few yards away from her, eyes watching as Littlefinger moved across the courtyard. He seemed to be glaring at him. Either Sansa hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings or he was getting lighter on his feet—she hadn't heard him arrive.

Sansa glanced over her shoulder. She noticed awkward lumps of snow piled on his broad shoulders. It hadn't fallen there willingly.