A.N.: Thank you to everyone who has left such amazing reviews!
I've just learned that Sandor is a diminutive of Alexander, meaning 'defender of man' and that makes me so happy!
This chapter took me a while to write, I couldn't figure out how to get where I wanted! If there's too little dialogue, I apologise, but I wanted to show Sansa's mental process, more than anything.
Valyrian Steel
07
Progress
"My lady?" The sound of footsteps stopped, and she sighed, drawing her gaze away from the gates, through which Jon had disappeared. Lord Royce stood before her, breastplate glinting in the insipid sunlight, his yellow cape wrapped around him for warmth, the hem stained by the snow and the mucky yard. Lord Royce was a guest of the King in the North; he was also earning his bed and board through contribution to the war-efforts.
The snow was falling gently, and she felt eyes upon her; in the yard below, Lord Baelish lurked. Always lurking, always watching. The Stark and Manderly banners barely out of view on the horizon of the misty moors, he was already plotting how to use Jon's absence to his advantage.
Sansa took a breath, and raised her chin, and met Lord Royce's eye. "Hopeful as I am that Jon will return to Winterfell, we must continue to prepare for the war as though he may not. I was not tutored in the arts of war, Lord Royce, as I am sure you will appreciate," she said, a tiny smile lingering at the corners of her lips, and Lord Royce gave her an indulgent half-smile, the closest he ever came to mirth. "As Lady of Winterfell, I must learn. I wish to know every detail about the siege preparations."
"Very good, my lady," Lord Royce inclined his head, ever courteous. If he felt a woman had no place at a war-council, he did not betray his thoughts. The truth of the matter was, they needed everyone to work toward the common goal of defeating the Night King: And that meant that Sansa now had to learn, and learn very quickly, how to plan for war. "Shall we begin now?"
"Yes, I think so," Sansa agreed, letting out a gust of breath. She was no military strategist - no Robb. She had no experience in fighting, like Jon, no experience in defending anything - least of all herself. As Cersei had once muttered drunkenly to her in Maegor's Holdfast, 'l was taught to smile and sing and please'… Sansa had been raised a lady. But she had learned how to rule. And her weapons were her mind, her words, her courtesy, the accumulation of her experiences. Under her influence, and while Jon was consumed with thoughts of the upcoming battle - and rightly so, if all he had told her was indeed true - Winterfell was starting to regain the look and feel of the castle, the home, she remembered. In spite of the war preparations and the threat of siege, the choke-hold of terror that held its grip on Winterfell for months was starting to ease.
The smallfolk were settling in; they were becoming comfortable. Content. They were working, of course, always working, but they talked happily amongst themselves as they worked, smiled at her as she strode past with Lord Royce. She heard some of them singing, and laughter. There had been none of that, before; she remembered it, during her childhood. Under her parents' rule, people had been cared for, and had known they were safe, valued, that they were protected, and provided for. They were starting to remember. There was a Stark in Winterfell once more.
And they were recovering; they were regaining strength and confidence after the horrors they had endured… And yet, though the castle began to take on its old feeling of safety and familiarity, the war preparations could not be ignored. As the castle prepared for winter, so too it prepared for war, and Sansa couldn't help think ahead, as she was guided through the preparations, concealing how unsettling it was to realise she was completely underprepared. Her time in King's Landing had taught her that courtesy was her best asset for her own survival. She had learned that truth or lies in the context of her courtesies could be used as a weapon effective as Jon's Valyrian-steel sword - hadn't Cersei used such weapons to murder her father? Cersei had been Sansa's first instructor; Tyrion her second, indirectly; and Littlefinger the last, actively tutoring her. They had taught her to hone the natural instincts that had kept her alive, to wage wars of the mind, to play the game of thrones.
As she was guided through the castle, given a brief, first view of the War Council's plans to defend Winterfell against incursion, Sansa started to understand that they were not so very different, the game of thrones and the arts of war. The skills of courtesy and mental dexterity she had honed in King's Landing were directly applicable to military strategy, though, she acknowledged, perhaps not against the Night King, who shared none of the motivations of the likes of Cersei or Littlefinger or even Jon.
War was about anticipation. What was it Littlefinger had advised her weeks ago, about learning to fight every enemy in her mind, all of the time - to consider everyone her friend, everyone her enemy, to anticipate their motivations and reactions - that, to learn to think that way, there would come a time when everything that happened would eventually become something she had seen before. It sounded rather unexciting, but then perhaps there was safety and certainty in that.
Sansa couldn't help but think that the Night King was a far less dangerous enemy than the likes of Cersei or Daenerys Targaryen: His sole purpose was to destroy Man. No tricks, no politics, no games, just his purpose. They knew what he wanted, and how he would go about getting it. There was some comfort to knowing exactly what the enemy wanted. She knew what her enemies wanted. If they survived it, they still had to contend with Littlefinger, Cersei Lannister, and this new Dragon Queen. It was starting to look like the War of the Five Kings all over again, only with women fighting tooth and nail to take the Iron Throne - and destroy everything in their paths to get it.
If they were to survive the wars to come, if she did not want to rely on the wisdom of others to make her decisions for her, if Jon did not return, if…if she alone survived, Sansa needed to learn how to understand war waged on a grander scale, on battlefields and in cities, war waged with weapons. And Lord Royce would teach her: To ignore a proud man was dangerous, but an experienced man put to work felt respected. And was more easily wielded as a weapon himself.
She was aware that few in Winterfell distrusted or despised Littlefinger more than Lord Royce, except for Sansa herself. She was also aware that since she had been complicit in concealing from the Lords Declarant of the Vale, of whom Lord Royce was paramount, that Littlefinger had murdered Lady Arryn, Littlefinger had what he needed to implicate Sansa if he so chose. He had what he needed, a half-truth to build lies upon to tear away everything she and Jon were building.
Sansa was certain what she had told Jon was correct: If they survived the Long Night, they would not long survive Littlefinger. Jon, King in the North, would not long survive Littlefinger.
Littlefinger, who had conspired to murder the Lord of the Vale with Lysa. Littlefinger, who had murdered Lady Arryn, who had manipulated Lord Arryn's heir to take control of the Vale, usurping regency from the Vale's most loyal families, engaging the Knights in open war against their better judgement…
If Littlefinger wanted to use her as a piece in his game, well…he underestimated just what lengths she would go to protect herself. Protect Jon. She knew his game. She knew what he wanted. Sansa knew that Littlefinger was just as dangerous now as he had always been, just as Cersei, so far to the south beyond snowdrifts and storms, was capable of doing more harm than they would ever dare contemplating. She was as ruthless as her father, and after Tommen's suicide, had nothing but her life to lose - and she would fight to the death for her survival. At the moment, Littlefinger was far more dangerous than Cersei; he had caution, patience and… 'Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before…'
The advice he had given her, perhaps the first earnest insight he had entrusted to anyone into the way he viewed the world - the way in which he worked and the way in which he would rebuild the world in likeness of the one envisioned… Littlefinger was meticulous in crafting lies built upon terrible truths. She knew he wanted her; and he wanted the Iron Throne. She knew he was ruthless and meticulous and, as Jon had said the night before he departed Winterfell, Littlefinger got what he wanted.
She wondered very much whether Littlefinger thought she had the nerve to start playing the game against him. Whether, ensconced in her family home, the ghosts of her honourable parents drifting about the halls, he might believe she could be lulled once again into his confidence, once again used and manipulated to get what he wanted…
"I never did thank you, my lord," Sansa said, hours later, as she and Lord Royce sat in the Great Hall to take their evening meal, "for remaining at Winterfell after the Battle of the Bastards."
"A single battle does not define the war," Lord Royce advised her, his eyes shrewd as they rested on Littlefinger, turning his nose up at his companions. He was not, and never was, invited to dine at the high table with Jon and Sansa: They followed Father's practice of inviting strangers to dine beside them and learn of their lives - and of their contribution efforts to the care and keeping of the castle - and now, the war-effort.
"I had been led to believe that sometimes, that was indeed the case," Sansa frowned gently, watching the servants doling out stew. The hall was filled with the savoury scent of beef and barley stew, laden with the colourful root vegetables southerners considered fodder for animals, and which were essential to Northern households for their survival. The stew was rich and hearty and served with crusty sourdough bread. Northerners maintained austere households, and winter had come: Sansa would indulge no-one's vanity that they deserved choice cuts of meat - not when there was so little of it, and so far to stretch it. Stew and bread was more than most smallfolk could boast at their table, and it was good, flavourful food, rich and hearty and warmed the belly. It was what they needed; if they wanted rib of beef or spiced roast goose, or lobsters gently poached in butter, the guests of the King in the North were welcome to try and outrace the storms and head south.
"It happens, on occasion. One decisive victory may turn an army against its commanders, the chaos costs the war…or a significant loss among the commanders - Rhaegar Targaryen fell at the Trident and the war was lost for the loyalists… But as we've seen, my lady, there are many other forces at work during wartime beyond military campaigns," Lord Royce muttered heavily, alluding to the Red Wedding. She wondered for how long her family's tragedies would remain a warning to Westeros, one of the greatest horrors of recent history. The Red Wedding, and the Bombing of Baelor's Sept. Two defining moments of perhaps the last century, distilled within the same decade.
Sansa smiled gently. "All the same, it is not the responsibility of the Knights of the Vale to protect the North, my lord. No matter how much your presence is appreciated," she said. "Lord Arryn committed your aid to help my family reclaim Winterfell; you need not have remained so long."
"Lord Arryn was a great man. I never knew another Lord of the Vale until his son inherited the title," Lord Royce said staunchly, though Sansa heard the undercurrent of disappointment. Sansa's cousin had made little impact on Sansa when they had met, beyond her shame at smacking him for his brattishness - he had reminded her a little too much of the spoiled child she had once been. It was not truly his own fault; her Aunt Lysa had raised him as she saw fit…the same way her mother saw fit to raise her own children, ignoring the bastard she should have loved as a son.
The bastard who had avenged her. Had avenged them all.
The bastard who had stepped back, and acknowledged that no taunts and no loss of life on a battlefield, not even their brother's death, could measure up to the torment inflicted upon Sansa for months. He had stepped aside. The Northern way was the old way: Those who passed the sentence swung the sword. The Bastard of the Dreadfort had been sentenced to death by Sansa; Jon would not deprive her of her justice.
"It must grieve you, to see the horrors Lord Arryn's great House has endured recently," Sansa said, her eyes lingering on Littlefinger as a servant doled out stew for them both. Fragrant steam rose from her bowl, savoury and mouth-watering.
"Not the legacy such a man had earned," Lord Royce muttered grimly, averting his gaze to the trencher of warm sourdough bread being set between them by a servant, who placed a warmed earthen plate of small butter pats shaped as direwolves in front of Sansa. Dairy was rationed; it was an indulgence. She savoured it; she savoured her hearty meal, as any within the Hall or outside in the yards savoured theirs. She did not take it for granted that she was fed, and fed well; that she was warm, and safe. "Nor your own excellent parents' legacies. I am glad only that Lord and Lady Stark may rest easy in the seven heavens, knowing their legacy is preserved in you, and in your father's son."
"It would make Jon proud to hear you say that," Sansa said earnestly.
"He reminds me of your father a great deal," Lord Royce said heavily; he had known Sansa's father when he fostered at the Eyrie, had grown up with Ned Stark, and fought beside him during the Rebellion.
"And that would make Jon prouder still," Sansa smiled earnestly; she knew it was true. All Jon had wanted since childhood was to be looked at and beloved as Robb was by their father. Sansa sometimes believed grief at parting with his lover to honour the marriage vows with her own mother had caused Ned Stark to be so conscious of how he favoured his two eldest sons - or perhaps he did not wish to incur his wife's wrath toward Jon any more than it already was.
Both Sansa's brothers had been murdered in cold-blood; only Jon had returned.
And he had gone south…to meet with a Targaryen, just as their grandfather and uncle had so long ago.
"It is as much love for Ned Stark as respect for Lord Arryn's son that the Knights of the Vale remain the guests of the King in the North, my lady," Lord Royce said.
"And the North shall not forget that the Vale came to its aid in its moment of greatest need," Sansa assured Lord Royce. Lifting her spoon to her bowl, she gazed out over the Great Hall, the heads bowed over their bowls, the candles burning, people talking, and she rested her eyes on no-one in particular as she said, "Should the Vale ever find itself under threat, the North will do all in its power to protect the legacy of Lord Arryn."
Lord Royce was quiet for a few moments, as they both tucked into their stew. It was rich and the meat was tender; she could taste mustard and ale and bay leaves and herbs, and the gravy-soaked carrots melted in her mouth. She let Lord Royce enjoy the first few mouthfuls of stew, let him think over what she had said. A servant poured them a cup of red wine each. It was not served in crystal but she did not think Lord Royce minded; the wine paired beautifully with the rich stew. She hoped she would sleep well tonight, after spending all day marching about the castle in the crisp air. She could finally breathe again.
"If I may speak plainly, my lady," Lord Royce said quietly, and she turned to him, lifting her cup of wine. "I do believe it beneficial that the Lord Protector of the Vale remain at Winterfell, as long as he is welcome, of course. The Lord of the Vale may yet live up to his father's legacy."
Sansa's smile was grim. "I believe I understand you, my lord. However, the Mockingbird still plays its clever little games in the Vale, as it attempts to do in the North, flitting about from person to person, learning to mimic their voices, until it can speak for them."
"A wonder no-one has yet cut out its tongue," Lord Royce grumbled, and Sansa smiled into her stew.
"Better to kill the beast than let it live in anguish," she said softly, and for some reason, she thought of Cersei. In killing Joffrey, Littlefinger had left a lioness wounded, vengeful, and far more dangerous because of it. Had the Tyrells wanted true power, they should never have left any Lannister alive: Cersei had always been the most dangerous of them, and now she sat upon the Iron Throne, queen in her own right after decades perched beside it, just out of reach. "A maimed beast is far more vicious."
"I am sure your lord cousin would be devastated if anything were to happen to his Uncle Petyr," Lord Royce said, and there was almost something snide in his tone that Sansa would not have believed if she had not heard it himself. The Knights of the Vale prided themselves on their honour, their reputations; but Littlefinger was dangerous, had inserted himself amongst the Vale and even now attempted to turn it against itself…as he had with Sansa's aunt and mother…
"And yet in every battle there are casualties," Sansa said grimly. "Best to ensure the losses do not cost us the war."
"What is one little mockingbird to an Eyrie of falcons?" Lord Royce asked airily, and Sansa smiled into her supper.
"Or to a direwolf?" she said, and smiled as the servant took away their empty bowls. "However…mockingbirds have been known to kill a falcon…sometimes they prefer to hunt trout."
Lord Royce stared at her, scowling, as the servants cleared away the savoury course. Few left anything in their bowls. She could see Lord Royce thinking it over: Realising what she implied - that his instincts when Lysa died were correct… "One does wish one's instincts had been confirmed months ago, my lady."
"I am ashamed to say that even direwolves may dread mockingbirds in certain circumstances," Sansa said honestly. "They are dangerous, after all, but perhaps the direwolf should have remembered she has fangs… Perhaps the mockingbird was not as powerful as she had dreaded… Perhaps she need not have been sold to be the plaything of torturers who collected wolf-pelts for gold."
"What is one little mockingbird to an Eyrie of falcons, and a pack of direwolves, even a small one?" Lord Royce asked, his face stormy. The Knights valued their honour: They had heard the whispers, the rumours, talk from the smallfolk about the atrocities committed to Lady Stark in her own home, atrocities so violent and traumatic, she had risked death in the snowstorms to flee to her brother at the Wall. No true knight would ever have betrayed Sansa: Any Knight would now avenge her honour. The honour Littlefinger had sold to her enemies. The honour she herself had avenged when she set loose the hounds.
Sansa raised her cup to clink it delicately against Lord Royce's. "What indeed, Lord Royce…"
A small dessert followed, flaky pastry stretched thin and baked until crisp, wrapped around apple sliced small, dotted with sugar and butter and spices and raisins, dusted with sugar. It was rich and flavoursome, delicate after the heavy stew, tangy and sweet at once, and reminded Sansa sadly of Margaery, who had, after all, given Sansa many lessons even as she manipulated her way closer to Joffrey, manoeuvring Sansa aside to take the crown. Still, she had been the closest Sansa could call to a friend in King's Landing, teaching her the high harp and even the new pianoforte imported from Lys, coaxing her to join her cousins in embroidery and song, walking the dusty gardens of the Red Keep full of strange bird-calls and spiders and more than a few drunken fools.
Word had reached them of Tommen Baratheon's suicide, one raven among many. Flinging himself from a window of the Red Keep while the crater that had been Baelor's Great Sept still smouldered… The Lannisters who conspired to murder her family; the Tyrells who had the nerve to try to outmanoeuvre power from Cersei; the courtiers who mutely watched her torture at Joffrey's hands. Dust.
She was glad the Sept was gone, and the monsters within it. Her father had been murdered on its steps. She could not think of the Seven without thinking of her father's blood coating Ice as his body crumpled in pieces down the steps of the Sept.
It did not upset her nearly as much as she might have thought it would, thinking that Margaery was now no more than ash. Hadn't Sansa merely been a tool for Margaery to utilise, to get what she wanted? And yet…
Courteous and smiling, Sansa could never compare with Margaery's airy beauty, her bare arms and brazen prettiness, her overt sensuality paired with immaculate grace, sweet and tart and clever, concealing the thorns beneath soft petals, mesmerising and diverting, while the thorny vines encroached, entwining themselves unseen, clinging on for strength and support… But Sansa could emulate what she had learned from Margaery, to wield her smiles as weapons, make people fall in love with her, to…underestimate her. People had seen Margaery's bare arms and high breasts and been diverted from how cleverly Margaery manipulated people, with smiles and twinkling blue eyes utterly lacking any guile.
Had not people also consistently underestimated Sansa's ability to survive?
Here she was. At the high table at Winterfell, her home, regent for the King in the North. Named his heir…
It hurt her stomach, after the rich meal, in spite of the relief she felt after her layered conversation with Lord Royce, to think about Jon…that he had named her his heir, that he had prepared that signed, sealed document without her knowledge - without Littlefinger even knowing about it… Had he? Or had Littlefinger kept quiet simply because it was in his interests to let Jon leave, naming Sansa heir to the North…because Sansa, as Queen in the North by her own right, was the first step in seven to claiming each of the great seats of Westeros… Remove Jon, and capitalise upon the strength of the Vale, backing his claim to Sansa…
She wondered, would Lord Baelish marry her beneath the weirwood tree? Clothe her in heavy white silk-velvet, drape a cloak of mockingbird feathers about her shoulders, and rape her as the snow fell outside the diamond-paned windows of Winterfell? She did not underestimate how dangerous Littlefinger was.
But perhaps he should not underestimate how silly Sansa had made herself appear to be, to survive King's Landing, how foolish and naïve. She had been, at times, she freely admitted it; she had been duped more than once, in spite of her warnings to herself since the afternoon her father's head rolled down the marble steps of Baelor's Sept.
Jon had told her to do anything that was necessary to protect herself, and the North: And Littlefinger was, at present, the most deadly enemy she had to account for, at least, the most immediate threat. If Jon died in the south, and she became Queen, it would not be long before the Northern lords would start murmuring amongst themselves that the North needed an heir, and wouldn't the Lord Protector of the Vale make a valuable ally in the wars to come against Cersei Lannister? They needed men…
If Jon fell to the Dragon Queen, Littlefinger would do his utmost to divert the war-efforts being arranged against the Night King; Sansa was certain Littlefinger would do all in his power to undermine Jon's warnings...
By the time Jon returned, Sansa would have dealt with Littlefinger.
She would not allow him to take what he wanted from her, or from the North. If Jon did not return, she would not allow Littlefinger to undo everything Jon risked his life for - risked his life, to protect them, protect her.
Littlefinger had promised to teach her how to lie, to play the game of thrones.
First Jon, and now Lord Royce, had started to teach her military strategy. Lord Royce had taken her on a tour around the castle, the walls: He had shown her what was being done, but not only that, why, and why it was important certain things had been done. He told her of the debates in the library, experienced commanders arguing with the wildings over their own experiences, and Jon, who had settled certain disputes in such a way, the Northmen - and, indeed, Lord Royce - mistook him for Ned Stark.
She had been learning. All day, she learned to ask questions. To be critical. To consider things. The implications of certain decisions being made, certain strategies favoured over others. The strategies decided upon were tailored to their enemy, to the Night King. On a grander scale, battle preparations had to be adaptable.
She had to learn to use what she had to get what she wanted.
She knew what Littlefinger wanted: The Iron Throne, and Sansa, to enjoy breeding his heirs on.
Sansa would use that to get what she wanted from him. She knew how he worked. He had told her. She was his enemy, and his friend. He would use her to get what he wanted, as he already had, as he used everyone: He watched, he waited, he bided his time and he plotted, before he acted, always too many steps ahead to catch…
But direwolves were swift, and cunning.
And brutal.
The little bird that had fled King's Landing and flown north had morphed during its journey…a direwolf had padded quietly through the gates of Winterfell as a bloody battle ended, and ripped apart her enemy.
The bastard had raped and brutalised her; and Littlefinger had sold her to be raped and brutalised.
She did not forget.
She watched, she waited, she bided her time, plotting, gathering friends and enemies around her, meticulously crafting alliances and whispering the birth of ideas into the ears of would-be allies, shifting their allegiances from a man they distrusted to a woman they perhaps wanted. Even swathed in heavy black cloth, no matter how fine that black cloth was, Sansa knew she was desirable.
I like her pretty…
He needed my face...
You're more beautiful than your mother ever was…
I know he wants you.
The bolt slid heavily into place; two guards stood outside the heavy, reinforced oak door. Her lady's maid had slipped away after arranging Sansa's hair into a neat plait down her back, taking her linens to be laundered, and her frayed petticoats to be hemmed. The diamond-paned windows were shuttered; the fire blazed, and candles made the chamber glow golden, warm and comforting. But Sansa could not relax, too anxious thinking of Jon's journey south, of the implications to herself and the North if he did not return, trying to decide how best to deal with Littlefinger, half-expecting a knock on her door in Jon's absence. Lord Baelish was cunning; he was also lustful of Sansa.
She wondered, at the back of her mind, whether it would matter to Lord Baelish that she had been broken in. If, as a brothel-keeper, Lord Baelish even preferred that she had been. He would - had - treated her as he did his whores, sold to be brutalised, though she had escaped with her life at least.
The crackle of the flames was lulling, but she couldn't help think of dragonfire, and her heart stuttered, her nerves making her jumpy, and she could not rest beneath the linen sheets and furs in what had once been her parents' bed, the bed in which she had been born, the bed in which she was certain her grandfather Rickard had once rested - before he went south and was burned alive by a Targaryen.
She worried for Jon.
She worried that he would return, and she could not protect him from Littlefinger. She worried that he would not return, and she would have to take on the role of Queen in the North, and do battle with their bannermen, to try and survive the Night King…to rebuild after the battles were won…if they were won…to wage war against Cersei Lannister, or Daenerys Targaryen, whichever survived their conflict…
Yes, Sansa had learned to play the game from watching Cersei's ineptitude, from observing Tyrion's ruthlessness and consideration, from Margaery's vicious sweetness and guile. She had learned more than she realised, watching her parents rule Winterfell as she grew up and took lessons in embroidery and dancing from Septa Mordane - but she knew titbits, she understood implications and tried to remember things she had once heard Robb and Theon and Jon and Larra debating as her older siblings took complicated lessons on economics and strategy with Maester Luwin; she remembered Tyrion's preparations for the Blackwater; and the Tyrells making it known Margaery had brought with her engagement to Joffrey the food that kept them alive.
But she had never had any power; never had any influence, or responsibility - except to herself, to keep herself alive, in spite of everything flung at her.
Sansa had not been educated, had not been prepared to be the kind of Queen she now wanted to be. She knew how to become loved, and respected - she knew she was desired, even if most weren't as overt as Littlefinger about telling her - but if…if Jon did not return, she would be Queen in the North. There was more to being Queen than feeding the smallfolk and keeping the respect of the nobles: An independent sovereign nation, she would have to start acting as Queen now, as if they would survive the war, as if they would have to rebuild, and rebuild without the (now diminished) might of the Iron Throne behind them.
The North had snatched back its independence with its bared teeth: Now, they had not only to defend that independence, but learn how to exist as an independent sovereign nation.
She needed to learn how to be, not just a Queen, but a ruler.
Where could she possibly start, at this late stage?
She had asked Maester Wolkan, days ago, that very question: she had wanted to assure Jon that while he prepared for war, she would do her part to support him as King in the North, whatever he needed. To be able to think of the things that he might overlook. When they had retaken Winterfell, Sansa had assured him that he was not doing so alone: They worked together… And they still worked together, though he was heading south. She had to think of all the things she knew he was too distracted to remember.
By the hour of the wolf, she was still restless; perhaps she had managed to snare a couple of hours' sleep, too anxious and unnerved and sick to her stomach at the prospect of what she had to do, terrified to even contemplate Jon's fate - she didn't know the Dragon Queen at all, and that unsettled her. She could plan for Cersei's malice; she could not anticipate a stranger's reactions…she had to learn how to.
Huffing, she flung back the furs and linens, wrapping her quilted nightgown around her over her simple linen shift, and unbolted the door. The torches had burned low, and flames flickered off the helmets of her guards.
"I should like to break my fast," she told one of them, and if she was more well-rested she would have addressed him by the name she remembered, but was too impatient and anxious to say, "and as soon as Maester Wolkan has risen for the day I will see him in the solar. If you could pass on the message that I wish to discuss the question I posed him days ago."
Dressing herself in the firelight, Sansa headed to the solar, a guard accompanying her, and took up his vigil outside the door.
She had work to do.
Long before the birds first started to chirp in the godswood, the windows still shuttered, a fire blazing, her hands shaking as she paced the room, Sansa started as a maid brought her breakfast. She insisted on modest portions: Porridge, thick and creamy in spite of the lack of dairy added to it, just oats and water as she had grown up with, and a soft-boiled egg and some toast cut into soldiers - the way her brothers used to take their eggs, the better to dunk toast into the runny golden yolk. A pot of chamomile and lavender tea warmed her trembling hands, and settled her overactive mind; her mother used to drink it when she was restless.
And she found that reading through Jon's papers soothed her: He had known she would come to the solar, and sit behind the desk in what had once been Father's chair. Jon had left everything neat, ordered into piles - Maester Wolkan's census, correspondence and raven-scrolls, the last of the ledgers, which still bore the scratchings of Lord Bolton's steward, and the neat hand of her sister before that, Larra Snow. Sansa sat, and examined the lines of the ledgers. Sums had never been her strong point: But she was determined to learn, and in combing meticulously through each line, she realised that the ledgers were merely a matter of organisation. Larra had known every line of the ledgers; loose leaves of parchment showed sums in Larra's hand, indicating calculations she had made in anticipation of Robb's march south to free Father. The cost of hosting the Northern lords, while Robb called the banners; arming and feeding Northmen…the cost to those left behind, the poor yield at harvest indicated by the comparatively lower sums annotated in Larra's hand from the taxes collected.
It had made her heart stutter, the first time she saw Larra's handwriting on the page, startling and unexpected. And it made Sansa's eyes burn to realise she and Larra, always so different, wrote their T's the same way, their F's and their J's - hadn't Septa Mordane instructed them both in handwriting?
Sansa had secretly enjoyed the afternoons Larra joined her and Arya for needlework and dancing. Especially Larra teasing Jon and Robb while they were forced to learn the steps of vigorous Northern folk-dances, the refined court dances popularised by the Reach, and the elegant waltzes of the Vale that Father sometimes, rarely, had come into the schoolroom to teach them. She still remembered dancing with her father. She remembered dancing with her brothers, and her sisters. She remembered enjoying her lessons with her older sister.
Sansa…do you remember your lessons?
She'd been a foolish girl annoyed by her strange, fierce little sister, but Septa Mordane had heard the clashes and known, ordered Sansa to bar her bedchamber door…she had known.
But Sansa remembered her lessons.
Her father, her mother…she knew Septa Mordane would be proud of her, too, of the woman she had become, and of the ruler she wanted to be.
She traced her fingers over Larra's handwriting, her eyes burning.
She used to disdain Larra for her interest in politics and economics and all of the things that men took for granted they were educated about; things Sansa, a lady, never should have had to concern herself with. But Larra had always been clever, always respected that she was a bastard, that with two true-born sisters she was unlikely to be married off well, and had contented herself with the knowledge that, long after Sansa's mother was dead, Larra would help their brothers' wives raise their children and rule the North when Robb and their brothers went off to war… Larra had insisted on a proper education, and Father had ensured she got it: She had been Maester Luwin's best student.
As the birds started to chirp, the servants came to open the shutters, and Sansa took a brief reprieve from the ledgers, sipping a fresh cup of tea, to gaze out of the window into the pale dawn. Snow was falling softly, and the sun was glinting beyond the walls of the castle, the castle that had not yet truly woken; everything felt sleepy, and soft. At least, it felt so; she knew that men were already out working on the great trench around the perimeter of the castle, carpenters working tirelessly on trebuchets to launch flaming projectiles into the enemy's midst.
Jon had told them that the dead had no war machines, no cavalry, and no archers. The living did not have to worry about projectiles being launched into their midst - but every man lost was another soldier in the Night King's army. The dead did not need weapons when they had numbers, when they themselves were the weapons.
If she thought about it too much, it seemed impossible.
But she had to go on believing that it was possible. For Jon's sake. For the sake of her people.
A soft knock on the door, and the timid Maester Wolkan emerged from the shadows, his arms laden with heavy tomes bound in leather. She gave him a gentle smile. He had always been kind…had done what little he was able to try and protect people at Winterfell, and, she was sure, the people of the Dreadfort. And that made her think…
"Good morning, Maester Wolkan," she said softly. "I have just spent a few hours combing through the ledgers. I'm rather cross-eyed. Would you join me in a cup of tea?"
"Thank you, my lady," he said gratefully. She knew he was not accustomed to kindness, consideration, that he had in fact lived his life in sheer terror: Sansa had been raised with a profound respect for the Maester of Winterfell. She had endured Grand Maester Pycelle, who made her skin crawl; while in King's Landing, any ailment Sansa had kept to herself, or had taken the advice of her lady's maid Shae to alleviate. Pycelle, who had been bought decades ago by Tywin Lannister; who served no-one but Tywin Lannister, and his own interests. Maester Wolkan reminded her of Maester Luwin. He was timid, yes, but clever and kind, and resilient, she had to think, after so long under the tyranny of the Dreadfort.
"The implication from the ledgers is that a great many of the improvements to Winterfell since the sack of the Ironborn have been paid for with Lannister gold," Sansa said softly, and the maester glanced uncertainly at her as she passed him the cup of tea. She considered it a delightful irony that what the Lannisters had fought so hard to destroy, they were paying for her and Jon to repair.
"Yes, my lady," he said softly. "The…payment was sent directly to Winterfell after the…"
"After the Red Wedding," Sansa said coolly, and the maester nodded. "And my former stepmother's weight in silver, I presume, was also sent directly to Winterfell's treasury by Lord Frey. Has the treasury of the Dreadfort been emptied?"
"The last of the wagons have crossed the White Knife, my lady, along with the contents of the granaries and larders."
"And the people?"
"Making their way, by wagon and on foot," Maester Wolkan said, "driving the livestock."
"Any hint of trouble upon their arrival, Maester, and I wish for the perpetrators to be dealt with swiftly, and justly," Sansa said coldly. "I do not wish to inspire fear but I shall not tolerate the kind of cruelty I know was prevalent throughout Bolton lands."
"Of course, my lady. If I may…people model their behaviour after the example of their leaders," Maester Wolkan said gently. "I do not believe you need fear the taint of the Dreadfort shall continue within the halls of Winterfell."
"Thank you, Maester," Sansa said, with a sad smile. "I…have not thanked you as I should have, for your tireless efforts after the armies reclaimed Winterfell. Your contributions made the transition seem almost seamless."
"I serve Winterfell, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, nodding slightly in deference.
"Well, I hope you have started to consider Winterfell your home," Sansa said. "Our former maester, Luwin, would appreciate all your efforts. You are an exceptional reflection on the Citadel, and a credit to Winterfell."
"Thank you, my lady," Maester Wolkan smiled. "I imagine those of the Dreadfort will come to regard Winterfell as their home as much as I have. It is a very different place to what we have become accustomed to."
"Under the Boltons, the truly abhorrent became accepted, and then it became commonplace - and celebrated," Sansa said coldly, trying and failing not to think of her husband, his father… She tried not to linger too long over the fate of Lady Walda who, despite being the daughter and wife of her family's murderers, had been a courteous, kind lady, who had always tried her best to be kind to Sansa. She had had her baby, they said, a little boy; she had been utterly entranced with him…for as many hours as Ramsay had allowed them both to live. It was not only justice for herself that Sansa unleashed Ramsay's hounds upon her husband; it was justice for Walda, and her tiny boy, and for Theon, and anyone Ramsay had ever tortured to death for sport. "A pity we cannot spare the men to tear down the Dreadfort. Thousands of years of rivalry, finally come to a brutal end…and they deserved their end, a thousand times over. I am glad few others had to suffer before Jon and I reclaimed our home, and the North."
"As am I, my lady," Maester Wolkan said sombrely.
"The war efforts have filled your hours, I am aware, Maester," Sansa said, encouraging the maester to drink his tea. She wished there were some little biscuits, so she didn't start sloshing from drinking too much tea to keep herself warm, but it was she who had insisted on rationing the flour. Her days of indulgence were gone. "However, I was hoping you had given consideration to the question I posed to you some days ago."
Maester Wolkan smiled, now, and his dark warm eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, Sansa could be forgiven for seeing Maester Luwin's smile in his face.
"Indeed, I have, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, with subtle enthusiasm. "Although I cannot credit myself with the idea."
"And why ever not?"
"If I may show you, my lady…" The maester stood, approaching the table, and the stack of heavy books resting on it. "Maester Luwin was meticulous in his record-keeping, Lady Sansa. Especially where his observations concerned the education of your siblings. From their earliest childhood, Maester Luwin devised lessons and exercises to cultivate their learning. These…these are records of their progresses. These tomes in particular pertain to the education of Alarra Snow, my lady. She is your sister, isn't she?"
"Larra," Sansa murmured, her insides twisting painfully, her throat burning as she added, "She was Jon's twin… What did Maester Luwin teach her?"
Everything, apparently.
From the time she was four years old, Larra had taken daily lessons with Maester Luwin. The heavy tomes, tucked with loose sheaves of parchment with Larra's developing handwriting, her drawing skills, her comprehension of High Valyrian poetry, charted Maester Luwin's education of Alarra. He had outlined her progresses, her lessons in everything from gardening and botany to economics, trade and histories, complex mathematics and budgeting, foreign languages, strategy and patience, theology and woodworking, blacksmithing and cooking, military history, law and chivalry, sagas and Valyrian poetry, geography and High Valyrian, art and architecture and irrigation, siege defence and tickling trout, horsemanship and culture and customs of foreign lands.
Maester Luwin had annotated lesson-plans, referencing tomes in the library and mixing lessons inside with practical applications of knowledge in and around Winterfell. He had mixed practical out-of-doors experience with collaborative discussions in front of a fire, frequently making notes that his students had played cyvasse and knitted while they debated hypotheticals about definitive moments in history that had shaped the world in which they lived.
"Maesters are prone to praising themselves, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, with a touch of humour, "but I am truly in earnest when I say that Maester Luwin turned the education of your siblings into an art-form. His lessons are extraordinary, and a pleasure to read."
"My sister loved to learn," Sansa said softly. "I am sure a good reason for that is because she had such a wonderful teacher; or did Maester Luwin develop his lessons so wonderfully suited to her, because Larra was such a wonderful student?"
"Either way, I would never waste these lesson-plans," Maester Wolkan said fondly, and Sansa smiled.
"Perhaps we should put them into wider practice," she said softly. "Make a system of it. Larra and Maester Luwin would both have liked that. And we shall soon have a good many children getting underfoot and becoming boisterous and irritable, cooped up within the halls of the castle during the worst of the storms; it would do well to keep their minds engaged and excited by learning." Maester Wolkan chuckled softly. "Although…seven tomes? You've not had time to read all of them?"
"No, my lady; I began with the very last of them," Maester Wolkan told her. "When your brother Lord Robb Stark called his banners and went to war, Alarra Snow remained at Winterfell, acting as steward to your brother Brandon... Maester Luwin kept records of their discussions relating to the war efforts and the preparations for winter, taking into account continued contributions to the Night's Watch."
Sansa smiled to herself. Larra had done exactly what she knew she would be left to do: Rule Winterfell, and raise the children. Her mother had gone south, provoking war; but Larra had stayed to be a mother to Brandon and Rickon, to rule Winterfell in Robb's stead. And she had done the thing well; Sansa asked the Maester if he didn't mind leaving the tomes with her, and made herself comfortable on the settle before the fire, her feet up on the little embroidered stool, reading through some of Maester Luwin's last assessments of Larra's capable rule of Winterfell. He had made few notes after the Ironborn attack.
She set the heavy book down and sipped her cold tea, upset by one observation; the Ironborn had attacked Larra.
Larra had killed three Ironborn intending to rape her. She had ripped the throat out of one of the Ironborn with her teeth, gouged the eyes out of a second, and impaled the third with a meat-hook through the jaw - before Theon had attempted to subdue her, and been found by more Ironborn, knocked out cold and bloody but alive. Sansa's brothers had disappeared after that: Two farm-boys had been killed in their stead and passed off as Bran and Rickon, a young whore from Winter's Town too - after the Ironborn had tired of her, butchered and burned and strung up for the smallfolk to break their hearts over.
But the note, the very last words Maester Luwin had written, read simply: They live!
She knew Larra had always been fierce - had been trained with weapons alongside their brothers since she was a child - but to read it, in Maester Luwin's meticulous, careful print… Sansa could almost hear his voice inside her head, soft and careful and warm. It was all the more horrible to hear his voice telling her such awful things…
It had been a long time since Sansa had ventured to the other parts of the castle, where the ghosts of her family lingered, haunting. Before, she had not been permitted freedom from the single chamber in which Ramsay imprisoned her; now, she could not bear to see the destruction wrought by the Ironborn on her home. To see the direwolves guarding the crypt decapitated by the order of the petty Boltons made her blood boil, and her heart sink: She did not know what they would have had done to her siblings' chambers.
Separated from the rest of her siblings' chambers, as they always had been, Sansa was shocked to find that Larra's chamber was untouched.
It had survived the sacking of the Ironborn, and the scourge of the Boltons. It was just another heavy door and a room full of furniture. Larra's room had always been close to Jon's: Sansa could tell he had not set foot inside it since they reclaimed Winterfell. The dust was undisturbed.
But there it was. Larra's room. Her modest bed, laden with linens and furs, and a silk-lined wool throw with a border Sansa herself had helped Larra embroider with every kind of Northern flower they could find in the godswood and the glasshouses. A trunk at the foot of the bed with an upholstered lid, full of Larra's neatly-folded gowns - there were folds of dark fabric Sansa did not recognise, gowns Sansa had never seen her sister in. A work-table laden with Larra's sketches and paintings, covered in a layer of dust; the box of paints and brushes Lord Manderly had always gifted Larra on her name-day since she was a girl. A handsome rocking-chair beneath the diamond-paned window, and a woven basket full of yarn and embroidery hoops and folds of fabric, half-completed projects. Beside it, a tiny, upholstered footstool embroidered with snarling direwolves, on which Sansa vividly remembered Arya sitting as a girl, listening to Larra sing as she combed Arya's damp hair, the only one who could gentle Arya long enough to untangle her mane, and the spot where Rickon used to sit, and suck his thumb, leaning against Larra's legs as she told stories, the fire crackling as her knitting-needles clacked gently. Larra could knit without looking at her hands, like Old Nan.
A mobile of weirwood branches hung before the window, strung with ornaments and treasures Larra had collected, or was gifted: Sansa had always envied it. She dusted the rocking-chair and sank into it, against a feather-cushion embroidered with direwolves and winter roses, and gazed at the mobile. Larra's treasures caught the light, though they were dusty: Pretty things she had picked up on walks or while out hunting, interesting things their brothers had gifted her, presents from their bannermen. Pine-cones and conkers; silver bells strung up with velvet ribbon; sea-glass and beautiful shells and a shark tooth and a pearl from White Harbour; beads from old gowns and wooden carvings of direwolves; feathers and a small crystal geode; a small pendant carved from antler; a chunk of amber with a dragonfly trapped inside it; even an obsidian arrowhead; small bundles of dried herbs; and a silver-and-gold ring that caught Sansa's attention, remembering the burning envy that had overwhelmed her when Robert Baratheon presented Larra with it at feast.
The ring was silver-and-gold, the elegant band figured like a rearing golden stag and a silver direwolf, meeting to cradle a multi-faceted stone of obsidian striated with silver-quartz - a very rare stone, they had said.
In front of everyone, King Robert had told Larra that the ring had been intended for Lyanna Stark as a bride-gift: But Larra looked so like her, and was so vibrant, he couldn't bear to bury the ring in the dark with his beloved's bones. He wanted to see Larra wearing the ring, with flowers in her hair and the sun shining down upon her.
Queen Cersei had had Larra flogged for it.
Larra had still been healing when Sansa and Arya had left Winterfell with Arya.
Sansa's sister had laughed that the King had gifted her a ring; and the Queen had given her fine red ribbons.
Thinking back, Sansa didn't know how Larra had laughed.
The ring glinted, and chimed against the silver bell, when Sansa reached up to open the diamond-paned window, to let in sunlight and the scent of snow - a natural perfume Sansa had always associated with her sister, who had always smelled to her of sunlight and white winter flowers and heather in frost.
She sat in Larra's rocking-chair, examining the mobile in the sunlight, and silently wept.
A.N.: This one turned out to be longer than anticipated - I perhaps should have turned it into two chapters? Oh well. Please let me know what you think. Who else misses Maester Luwin and cries ugly tears every time they re-watch his final scene?