12. Protect & Protection

The room erupted.

Old men who complained of knee pain jumped to their feet like decades had been erased from their bones. They shouted in outrage and pointed accusing fingers at Tyrion as if it were the little man's plan to steal away the King of the North the whole time. The only ones staying in their seats were those from the Brotherhood. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr sat by unconcerned, sipping on wine as they eyed the chaos around them.

Sansa wasn't sure what to do. As she snapped her head in Jon's direction, she was torn between lashing out with the men and respectfully staying quiet until she could speak with Jon in private. That would be a practical and logical way to go about the situation. She'd get nowhere if she were to dispute Jon in front of the men. In private, she'd voice her opinions, and Jon would listen. They'd be reasonable with each other, family. But would he abide by what she'd suggest? He hadn't so far.

"You can't be serious!"

"The north does not bend to dragon queens!"

"Fuck the girl and her imp!"

"Enough!" Jon roared over the crowd. It silenced at once. "This is not up for discussion!"

Tyrion stepped forward, hands in the air as if in surrender. It seemed he wished to ease the tension. "I'm sure Her Grace would be grateful to receive you."

Jon narrowed his eyes at Tyrion. The little man's reassurances weren't helpful. "I don't go for her to be grateful. I go for dragonglass."

"And what happens if you get neither?" Sansa finally asked. She clenched her finger in her lap beneath the table. Best not to show how truly on edge she was about the turn of events any more than she was already about to. "There's no guarantee that she will allow us to mine the dragonglass. And Her Grace isn't rumored to be merciful to those who choose not to support her claim to the throne."

"What other choice do we have, Sansa?" Jon turned his body slightly toward her. His voice groveled a bit. She was second-guessing him again, in front of the men, in front of Tyrion. That wouldn't do. "We're running out of time and there are no other, viable options left."

"We let Tyrion speak with her first. She knows him, clearly trusts him, she's more likely to trust his opinion on the matter."

"We can't take that chance. We need allies. Powerful allies and this is how that is done. I have made up my mind, and the decision is final: I will go to Dragonstone."

The men were not happy. They cursed under their breaths. They shook their heads. They looked as if they were ready to make war with the Targaryen girl's men right then and there. In a matter of moments, their King in the North announced that not only would he be leaving Winterfell but doing so to sail across the water to knock on the door of a foreign queen. One that would just as well have all of them burned to a crisp for electing such a king.

The North vowed to be independent, secure, and weary of any power that wasn't amongst their own. And in a single decision that vow was broken.

To the side of the room, standing half in shadow was Littlefinger. His back was straight, pressed against the wall as if he did so hard enough he could shrink into the rock altogether. He never left Sansa's gaze. He looked rather pleased with himself as he watched the chaos ensue, an irritating looking of knowing within them. None of this was a surprise to him. He knew. This was what he suggested to her would happen eventually, if not in so many words, but it was there nonetheless.

The King in the North was stepping forward with or without her.

At that moment Sansa didn't care about how she was supposed to react, how a Stark should react, how a Lady of Winterfell should react. She didn't care that she should wait for Jon to express to Tyrion and the men that they were dismissed. She didn't care that she suddenly felt like a small child with a bruised ego. It was as if she had been caught doing something foolish and embarrassing by someone she needed to think of her as grown and capable. Littlefinger shouldn't have been able to bring that out of her. But if she admitted it to herself, it wasn't just him. She caught herself.

So she certainly didn't care that all eyes were on her as she hastily stood up from her chair and took an exit from the Great Hall without a second glance at anyone.

•••

Eddard Stark grew up with the Old Gods of the Forest and taught those lessons to his children. They were to believe in and respect the unnamed spirits of nature and take part in quiet contemplation in the godswood rather than fuss over celebrations and scripture like with the Faith of the Seven. It was a simple and powerful faith. Eddard made sure that his children knew that. Sit under the tree's falling red leaves. Stare at your reflection in the pond's ripples. Think.

He'd be disappointed to know that whatever contemplation his children did in the godswood had little to do with pleasing the gods.

The godswood wasn't a place of prayer for Sansa anymore. Since her days in King's Landing, it became a place to escape from the eyes, grasp, and words of others. It was a place where people were the least likely to bother her. It continued to be that place now that she was home.

Sansa's thoughts were still reeling as she positioned herself next to the weirwood tree, keeping her back toward the entrance of the forest. Her left hand held tight to the trunk of the tree. She kept away from the mystical face etched into the wood. The bark's roughness could still be felt under the leather of her gloves and increased as she leaned her weight into her hand. A sharp jab began to irritate her palm, but Sansa barely noticed it. There were more pressing matters to focus on. Like how Jon was going to Dragonstone.

He did so to aid the north. Sansa knew that well enough, but it still was a cause for concern that rubbed her the wrong way. The decision was a risk and one that could determine whether or not the north would survive long enough to see spring. It wasn't to be taken lightly. The men needed a moment to think, to be convinced that this was for the best. Sansa needed that more than any of them. But Jon was determined to jump quickly with little thought on what this foreign queen's help would mean for Winterfell when and if they found themselves free of the dead's path. Did he think about what Daenerys would want in return for her compliance? Or if the Northmen would continue to follow him if Jon took orders from her? Sansa had.

The godswood was one of the quietest places in Winterfell with its vast area so far away from the busyness of stables and courtyards, all swarming with men. You could hear every bird's song and whisper in the wind like it was meant only for your ears bear witness. So it wasn't surprising that a pair of footsteps could be heard crunching in the thin layer of snow, rounding the small body of water to grace Sansa with their presence. She gave a heavy sigh and turned around. She wasn't in the mood for company and felt only slightly relieved to see that at least it wasn't Jon following her to discuss her abrupt exit out of the hall.

Sandor stood several yards away from her, a large dark figure strikingly apparent against the abyss of soft white snow. He undoubtedly would have been within the Great Hall at the meeting with Tyrion. She hasn't seen him, but with the way that Sandor gazed at her, Sansa knew that he witnessed her actions. She would have rather he hadn't.

There was a snow-dusted log sitting between the tree and the pond. Father sat there so many times before to rest and think. She went to take his place. She wanted to feel his spirit wrap around her. The wood was cold and wet. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He scuffed. "Where are you courtesies now, girl?"

"I assume wherever yours are. You do know that this is a quiet place one goes to pray alone and uninterrupted?"

"Do much praying these days, do you? That do shit for you recently?" He was mocking her. "Going to need more than prays after that show with the Imp."

"There was no show."

An actual laugh escaped Sandor's lips. He clearly disagreed. "That's what you called that back there? Never saw a man with so many eyes on him look as if he wanted shit himself all because a woman didn't get her way."

So Jon was embarrassed. A respectful response would be to feel guilty that her actions caused Jon to look such a way in front of his men. He was King in the North. He was her brother. He was the one to lead us through whatever war they were heading into. But none of that mattered. She had a right to feel how she felt regardless of how that reflected unto Jon. He'd manage the men just fine.

"It's not about getting my way," Sansa snapped. "It's about what's doing what's best for the north."

"Best for the north, is that it? I'd say a few fucking dragons might serve your precious north if even half of what your brother says is true. If nothing else, to burn the Lannister bitch to the ground. Or have you forgotten about her already?"

"What do you want?" Sansa suddenly asked eyes narrowed in Sandor's direction, skipping overtop all his questions. He wished to press her anger, but she wasn't going to allow it to go much further without knowing why. It must go beyond wishing to seem hateful. "Why your sudden concerns for the north? We've survived just fine these thousands of years without them."

"You think when the time comes, the big bitch is going to be able to protect you all on her own? I've heard her rescues have done you shit. Or do you think that bastard Littlefinger is going to save you with his fancy words?"

Sansa stood sharply, the anger he so clearly wished to brew starting to grow. He hadn't the right. "Brienne has done more for me than any man. Or dragon. She certainly did what you couldn't."

The failed rescue during the Battle of Blackwater wasn't Sandor's fault. Sansa knew that. It was hers. She chose to stay, to put her stupid faith on the idea that Stannis Baratheon would win over the Lannisters and mercifully send her back to her family. She was young and scared and didn't know just how different it all would have been had she taken Sandor's offer when she had the chance. But none of that mattered at the moment. Her body felt so warm with resentment that it could melt all the snow in the godswood if she were only to reach out her hand and stroke the ground.

Sansa took steps toward him with every word she spoke. "Or are you here to offer me another chance at escape, like last time? Is that what you're doing here? Wanting to run before yet another castle is engulfed in fire? At least I could count on Littlefinger to embrace the flames."

He said nothing. Sandor only looked down at her now that she was only a couple feet from his side. His breath was heavy and his nostrils flared in heightened aggravation. But he held his tongue.

Sansa found the corners of her lips turning upward in a smirk for just a moment. She shook her head once then twice. What she wouldn't have given to render him silent just a single time when they had been in King's Landing. Nothing gives a girl confidence like halting the words of a man who wields his like a hammer.

"Winterfell is my home. Mine. And I won't let anyone else tell me how to keep it, including you."

Too riled up to sit back down still in his presence, Sansa thought it best to leave. Where would she go next? Her room? If things continue as they did, she'd have nowhere to run to when she needed a moment to herself. And she didn't want to go, to leave the godswood or even the company of Sandor. But if she was going to waste her time arguing over dragons and brothel keepers it should be done with Jon. Which she didn't want to do either. Avoiding it all seemed to be the option least invasive at the moment and that was what she told herself as she passed by Sandor.

Just before she'd be out of his reach, he grasped her arm. His grip was tight and unyielding but unharming. Sansa was quick to reject the motion until he said, "They can't protect you forever." His voice was low.

She hoped her surprise on the comment was well masked. "Perhaps. But who else is going to?"

Sansa considered the idea that he might. He could. Sandor offered it to her all those years ago, and she wondered if such a thing had an expiration date on it. Of course, he was currently part of the Brotherhood, but they didn't hand out punishments when one of their own decided to move on as the Night's Watch did. Did she hope that he would? That he would pledge himself to her side? That he'd fight for her home and her safety despite how little he let it show he cares about either?

There was a chance.

But when Sandor said nothing in response, Sansa gave a shy smile. She placed a hand gently on his gripping her arm. "Still, I will protect what's mine." She squeezed his hand and, with every ounce of strength she had, removed his large fingers from around her skin. Instantly, the cold air rushed in and took the place of where his fingertips left invisible prints under her sleeve. But she made up for it with the warmth that transferred between their skin for the few seconds they let their hands touch.

As Sansa left Sandor behind next to the weirwood tree, she wondered briefly if any of those gods she chose to ignore were paying her any attention after all.