Sansa touched Theon's face as he tried to turn away, hiding his missing eye from that last awful struggle. They'd killed Ramsey even if it'd cost. Not that they'd expected to survive with an angry god making the very walls tremble as she cleansed the Boltons from life with their own blood. "What is it Theon?"
"You're safe now." His shoulders were the closest to unhunched they'd been since she'd seen him once more. "You've got Jon, and that god, Winterfell. I want…"
"You want to go home." She should have expected that. And in a way she had. "You will be welcome in Winterfell if you choose to return." It was funny, a year ago she'd have wanted to claw his eyes out. "This is your home too, you helped me retake it. You protected me from him. At the end."
Theon trembled, shaking his head while squeezing his remaining eye shut. "No, I didn't. I let him hurt you."
Sansa's hand dropped to his forearm. She just held onto him. It felt like her revulsion at the reminder of what they'd both suffered would choke her if she tried to speak. Instead they just stood there, not looking at each other, consumed by grief, and sorrow. Sansa finally broke it when she felt like it wouldn't strangle her to do so. "I hope you find what you need with your people."
"I...need to go home." Theon shuffled. "It's where I'm supposed to be."
She gave a sharp nod. "I'll send a party of three men to ensure you reach the coast safely." It was all she could do for him. Afterall, he was Ironborn and a traitor no matter the regret he'd bled over his actions.
"I don't deserve that." He looked at her then, but he quickly pulled her into a hug, his frame shaking ever so slightly. "If you have need of me, send word to Yara. Not that I'm good for anything."
Sansa hugged him fiercely back. She pulled back at the change in sound from the courtyard, shouting. Releasing Theon, she turned on her heel and opened the door, ignoring her tallies and work to ensure nothing of what was unloaded was wasted. "What's happened?" She demanded.
"Banners approaching from the south on the King's road." Brienne looked like she'd half run to the door of the solar at the news.
Sansa's mouth thinned. Her next test had arrived then. "What sigil on the banners?"
"The merman." Brienne reported.
Sansa took a deep breath, House Manderly. A house that had accepted Bolton rule. But also a house that owed everything to House Stark, and whose loyalty to her father had been absolute. Many of their own men and blood had died at the Red Wedding. They were northmen, no matter their Andal blood. "Send Podrick and five men to guard Walda Bolton. Then I want archers on the wall."
"Should I send someone to fetch Daisy?" Brienne asked, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
Sansa drew herself up. "No, this isn't her fight." She strode forward, she would meet her guests in the courtyard. Brienne would have returned to her side by the time she reached the courtyard. As she walked she spotted Bower jogging towards her, face pale. She spoke quickly. "Bring bread and salt to the courtyard, and clear the center of it."
"What if they attack?" He asked nervously.
She lifted her skirts slightly. "Then it is a good thing we have the best archers in the North and walls to stand on."
Sansa stood strong and unwavering as Lord Manderly walked through the gates, three knights and a half dozen men at arms accompanying him, the rest of his force waiting some distance back from the walls. He'd made no sign of attack, but he'd brought nearly four hundred men armed and prepared for battle.
The Lord of White Harbor was a huge man, too large for a horse. He'd stuffed himself into Northern gear, though the gorgot cut into him awkwardly, his thick wool gambeson tight and near to bursting. Somehow he was smaller than he appeared in her memories from childhood. As he entered he looked upon her with an unnamed emotion. He came to a halt before her and then dropped to his knees. "My Lady."
/
Lord Wyman Manderly hadn't believed the letter bearing the grey wax and seal of House Stark. Its contents had been as unbelievable as the seal itself. But he'd known he had to handle it himself. His son would hold White Harbor. So he'd called for a wheelhouse and as many men at arms as could be raised in a scant few days and headed immediately for the road.
He hadn't dared hope his plots and schemes would prove unneeded. That the Starks could return to power without war. That the traitorous and murderous cunts, the Boltons, were already dead. But as they'd approached Winterfell and he'd seen the grey banners with wolves upon them, he felt something like hope and a flicker of joy.
There were carts and small folk around the castle. As they approached the small folk disappeared into the nearby town or into the castle itself. But there was no real fear or panic, mere caution to it. Why there were enough carts to have looted a fortress he didn't know, nor need to know immediately. The presence of archers on the wall and lack of welcome told him his reception would be uneasy.
So he'd ordered his company to halt. He hadn't brought them here to fight after all. Heaving himself out of his wheelhouse he breathed in the cold northern air. He looked at his men. "You six and you three, with me." And then he walked towards the gates, his selected guard following him.
As he walked he noted the wagons. They were bothering him, why were there so many wagons? There was no reason for it. If he kept his head he would have to ask. The carts in the courtyard were piled high with barrels and furs and bags of grain. It looked like loot from a victorious battle, but while well manned Winterfell did not appear to have the army for such a victory.
But as he entered his attention was riveted to the woman standing in the center of the courtyard. She may have the red hair and blue eyes of her Tully mother, but every inch of her bearing and manner was Stark. Her face cold and severe, her gown of deep green with grey wolves upon the breast and thick woolen cloak with fur tickling at her jaw was as northern as it came. Sitting behind one shoulder was a giant white wolf with nearly glowing red eyes. Standing behind her other shoulder was a knight. The courtyard parted before her, but full of men at arms, more blasted carts, and various small folk who'd clearly been in the process of unloading.
His chest ached at the sight of the daughter of Eddard Stark so cold and hard. Gods knew what she'd suffered married to Ramsay Bolton and before that at the hands of the Lannisters. He and the rest of the North, to their shame, had not moved to save her. And yet here she stood. The truth was so painfully clear, she was the Lady of Winterfell, she was victorious where all the rest stood proven useless with their plotting and hatred. Which left nothing but what was her due. He dropped to his knees. His men followed suit behind him. "My Lady."
"Lord Manderly." Her voice was cold as she stood before him. "What brings you to Winterfell?"
Wyman bowed his head further. "To throw myself upon your mercy and pledge my own and my house's fealty to you and House Stark once more."
"Yet you've brought a force of men to my door to do so." The courtyard was completely silent as all within it listened.
He didn't dare look up past the hem of her dress. "Over a thousand years ago my ancestors made a promise, swore oaths in the Wolf's Den before the old gods and the new. When my house was alone and beset upon, in peril of death and extinction, the Starks took us in. Protected us, gave us land and dignity. And in return we swore to always be loyal. Stark men to the bone. I have tried to serve your family and I have failed House Stark and you."
"Then I will once more take your oath." Her words spoke of acceptance and possible forgiveness. Her voice did not.
Wyman drew his sword, the old words falling easily from his lips. "I pledge my loyalty to House Stark, to serve as your Bannerman and come to your aid whenever called upon."
"Will you stand by me, now and always?." Lady Stark asked the traditional words.
He replied with a deep sense of rightness. "Now and always." And he meant it.
Lady Stark waved forward a servant who was holding bread and salt. "Then you must join us for our feast tonight to celebrate the destruction of the Dreadfort."
His eyes widened as he finally looked up. Gods be good, she was serious. That's what the carts were. It answered one question and raised a thousand in its place. But it was not his place to ask, so he waved two of his men at arms forward and they helped him rise to his feet. He reached out accepting the bread and salt, chewing it with relief and respect for his liege. "My men and I encountered a small herd of elk during our march here. May I offer the meat to your tables for this fortuitous victory?"
"The meat would be most welcome." Lady Stark looked at him evenly. "We have much to discuss on the morrow I believe?"
"Of course my Lady." He gave her a bow of his head. "I have much news of the North and my fellow Lords that should prove useful to you." Wyman would tell her everything, and hope she believed him.
Wyman had come to understand several important facts in the few hours he'd been in Winterfell. As the white wolf had suggested Jon Snow had come to his sister's aid, though he did not seem to currently be in Winterfell personally. The servants, men, all of them trended towards unusually young and devotedly loyal. And equally odd was the woman of Yi Ti blood who dressed in slightly ill-fitting men's garb that the men showed deep respect and almost reverence towards. And it wasn't just the men he realized as he was offered a seat at the head table. The left seat, the right already offered to the foreign woman.
"Lord Manderly." Lady Sansa gestured to the open seat to her left.
He wondered if it was an insult to fill the right hand seat with the odd foreign woman or if it was merely a matter of rank. It made him uneasy to not know what the status of Winterfell was. Though it was clear his forces were at least in part needed. He accepted the seat without complaint. "Lady Stark, your cooks certainly seem to have done well."
"The men have been looking forward to tonight." She looked at the men at arms and common folk who had crowded into the great hall and around the tables. "They have gone above the call of duty and loyalty in recent weeks."
Wyman sipped from his cup. "That is good to hear you have loyal men."
"It is." She took a bite of her meal, her court manners perfect and above approach. Her attention turned to the woman beside her. "Ser, I took the liberty of having one of the seamstresses prepare a modest wardrobe for you. I cannot apologize enough it has taken so long to do so. You should not have been required to wear Roose's things for so long."
The woman with the title of Ser's face flickered with some surprise. "Thank you, you didn't have to do that. But it'll be nice to be wearing something that didn't belong to a man I killed." Her lips twitched up.
Wyman's eyes widened slightly, ah. So that's what happened, at least in part. A foreign agent, poison maybe in exchange for a place in the Stark household perhaps? Certainly a likely possibility. "Killing that man was a service to the North, I thank you for doing so when so many of us couldn't rid ourselves of the leech."
"Yes, I had heard your son was held prisoner at the Twins until recently." Sansa looked at him, her eyes sharp and intelligent.
Wyman straightened slightly, his knuckles whitening as he spoke. "And they forced me to betroth my granddaughters to those traitorous weasels. I'll be glad to have a raven to tell my eldest he can rid White Harbor of our Frey watchers. Not that I was going to let my girls marry into that thrice cursed family."
"That certainly must be a relief to be free of any possible family ties with House Frey." One of Sansa's brows rose slightly as she looked at him.
He gave a nod while taking a drink of wine. "Right bastards the lot of them." Wyman knew now wasn't the time to profess his plans for overthrowing the Boltons. She would speak to him in the morning. "Your brother, Jon Snow, I thought he'd be here to support you my Lady?"
"Jon Stark." Sansa corrected without hesitation. "And he's taken an army to remove the Ironborn from House Glover's lands."
Wyman calculated that in his head, the time given in the letter for the planned Lord's Moot. It was more than enough time for a man of military experience and a small army to secure the northwestern coast. A bold move, it left her vulnerable here in Winterfell, but would give her a strong position to levy for the position of Warden of the North. But one detail confused him. "Jon Stark?"
"And who will contradict his name? He is the oldest surviving son of my father." Sansa sipped at her wine, though her gaze was challenging.
He laughed outright. Good for her, her time in the south hadn't taken the North out of the girl. "Certainly not I." Wyman raised his cup towards her, toasting her damn balls. He washed down his humor. "I brought the Senchal as you requested in your missive, I wished to see the truth of your victory before preparing to bring more. I will of course rectify this immediately. Your Senchal has taken ill on the road unfortunately, it may be a few weeks before he can take the position properly." Which of course the blasted man had to have gotten sick.
"The change in control of Winterfell was abrupt, your caution is understandable." Sansa replied.
Wyman accepted the words though they left him cautious. He did not intend to be rude however. Looked back to the foreign woman he spoke. "Tell me, how did the Bastard die?"
The woman knight looked smug as she cut into her elk. "I'm not the one who took care of that psychopath Ramsey."
Wyman paused as he saw the expression on Sansa Stark's face. She looked like a wolf, satisfied from a meal well eaten. A hint of teeth showing as she continued to eat her diner. He outright chortled at that. "Fucker deserved whatever you did to the cunt."
"Can't agree more." The woman looked at him, she was bright and less reserved than Lady Stark. "The flaying thing, super gross. But hey, Lady Stark here's been whipping their old people into a workforce of her own."
Wyman's gaze snapped back to the men in the hall. They were rowdy but clearly pleased and in high spirits. The age, the reason they were all so young, their loyalty to the Boltons would have been weakest, the few of an older age would be small folk from Winter Town.
Sansa neatly took a bite of her meat.
"Most impressive my Lady." Wyman would have slapped her shoulder if she was a man. As it was he just set his cup down firmly twice in a row. "I'll send for some of my most experienced staff. But that's for business."
Once more the woman on Sansa's right spoke up again. "About your House, how did a mermaid come to be your sigil?"
/
Sansa's back rested against the door, her eyes closed as she pressed one hand against her chest and felt the moment of silence and privacy. She hadn't been alone or slept for two days now. But Winterfell was secure and she could rest, for one night. Only she needed to speak with a god. If only briefly.
She took a deep breath, straightened her gown, and stepped away from the door. There were questions she needed answered before she spoke with Lord Manderly on the morrow. Holding off his open curiosity during dinner had been exhausting. With that in mind she picked up the latest raven from Jon and the Deepwood, and left her chambers.
Sansa was in the maester's hall when she saw Wolkan approaching her. "Maester?"
"Lady Sansa." He dipped his head slightly as he reached her, causing her to halt. "I came to warn you about the man, Fitz."
"What about him?" Sansa refused to show her unease. Quietly she prayed the man wasn't showing signs of harm.
Wolkan looked shifty, his voice lowered. "He's god touched my Lady. His mind cracked from it. I can understand nothing of what he is doing, but I know that it is brilliant, leagues beyond what any mortal should know. His mind jumps and hops instead of flowing. Her Holiness's concern for his behavior if she was not here was well founded. He is not right."
"Is he dangerous?" Sansa asked carefully, not that she could be rid of him if he was. But precautions must be taken.
His fingers twitched nervously. "I don't know, likely if he wanted to but he's half mad, and will certainly give much insult to any around him. The Smith has poured too much into him and now all the rest of us appear dimwitted in comparison and he is easily frustrated."
"See to it he is escorted and his escort knows of his condition. I will not allow harm to come to him." Sansa had sworn to protect him, being addled by godly blessing probably should have been expected of one claimed by one god already. Though Sansa had a feeling that Daisy was not the Smith.
Wolkan nodded with a relieved sigh. "That is wise my Lady."
"Go see to it, I need to speak to her Holiness." She stilled as she noticed his aborted gesture as if to hold her back. "Yes?" And oh her voice was cold then, a shot of panic she would never show in the face of the gesture.
"It's just Fitz is with her Holiness at the moment. And Lord Manderly, is he aware of the nature of our other guests?"
Sansa wished she could sigh. "No, but it is useless to imagine concealing that from him though how we can prove it without requesting her Holiness perform like a pet dog I don't know."
"I'll give it some thought, till tomorrow my Lady." He gave a polite bow before leaving.
Sansa gave herself a second to regain her composure completely, she couldn't risk showing the slightest crack around a god. And then she continued on her way through the halls. The rooms she'd assigned to the god were those reserved for the most important guests, the finest rooms outside of the Lord's chambers. When her father had been Warden it had been the rooms set aside for visiting Lords. Perhaps it had been rude of her to not give up the Lord's chambers but it had cut to think of and so she'd been selfish. There'd been no complaint for which she was grateful.
As she reached the door she could see light spilling out from under the door, the faintest sound of voices. Sansa reached up and neatly rapped her knuckles against the ancient wood. A shiver ran down her spine as the faintest of vibration in the air as the door opened without visible cause. Looking in she saw her two foreign guests sitting close together on top of the bed, papers spread out on the covers. Fitz's hands were splattered with ink, streaks of ink in his hair, likely from running his hands through it with inky hands.
Daisy was looking up at her, a curious tilt to her head. "Lady Stark, I expected you to be asleep already?"
"I wished to speak with you first." Sansa saw the open trunk, the new clothing she'd ordered made within. "The clothing is to your liking?"
Fitz's eyes flicked to the door and then back to Daisy. "Since w-when can you do that?"
"Space was boring, Jemma and I were really bored and there was nothing to do like 90% of the time. And there's no internet here and it's been two months." Daisy shrugged as her eyes ticked back to Fitz. She waited till a sort of considering expression crossed Fitz's face. Then she slid to her feet with a sort of grace that was cat-like as she returned her attention to Sansa. "The clothing is beautiful. But I wanted to talk to you about it."
Sansa carefully didn't take a step back as Daisy passed her on her way to the fire. She noted the kettle hanging over the fire the god retrieved. "Would you have preferred a different cut?"
"No, the pants and tunic combo is totes practical. And it's all gorgeous." Daisy took the lid off the clay pot on the small table. "Tea?"
Sansa gave a slight nod at that, she was glad of the offer. It showed a lack of hostility, and an offer of peace. "Yes, thank you."
"Am I wrong to think the fact those tunic...jackets? Whatever the outer top clothing is, looking kinda like a weirwood tree is purposeful?" She poured the water into the pot, before setting it aside.
Sansa took one of the seats by the table. "You're not wrong." She'd been impressed by Granier's work with the clothing. The fabric of the jerkins, tunics and jackets were all made out of different shades of grey and silvers. The thread was white and silver, embroidering twining across the fabric, red weirwood leaves stitched across it. "The old gods brought you here." And clearly the woman was some sort of god, whether that was one of the old gods or not Sansa was unsure.
"I can hear your weirwood trees." Daisy took the seat across from her. "The air, the roots and leaves and just all of them are vibrating at a different frequency than anything I've ever felt before. I don't know what they are, but if your old gods are real, dressing up like one might be a really shitty idea. I'm not one of your old gods."
Sansa wasn't sure what to say to that. She was saved by Fitz snorting from the bed.
He looked over at Daisy, it was like he barely registered that Sansa was there. "You're a demi-god at least."
"What, like Hercules?"Daisy scoffed, laughter in her voice. "Should I find a Greek choir? Maybe find a toga?"
Fitz's fingers twitched."You're an I-I-Inhuman." He waved a hand. "Ancient race of human hybrids. What's a demi-god but a chi-child of a god and a human? Inhumans are Kree and human monsters bred and designed for war. Name a b-b-better option for where the Greek stories of humans with super-supernatural abilities came from?"
"But the Kree aren't gods." Daisy frowned.
Fitz groaned. "Wha-What even is a god? Are the Asgardians gods? You were made to kill them. And what ca-can kill a god but a god? Not to mention apparently you got dosed with the Centipede Serum. There's a certain lev-level of logic to it. Demi-god goes through trials and trib-tribulations, ends the line of the evil gods that created you, in a final act of sacrifice in battle your father figure gives you a golden elixir that took you from powerful enough to level cities to being able to destr-destroy whole worlds." His arms moved as he spoke. "At this point you're as much a 'god' as anyone or anything is. You're probably actually immortal n-n-now considering the serum."
"That's ridiculous…" But as Daisy trailed off the weight of his words felt more real.
Sansa barely dared breathe. If a fraction of what she understood was true the implications were terrifying. Not that she knew what several of the words he used meant. But the context made the meaning clear enough for Sansa to understand that if true the woman before her was horrifically dangerous. Not that she'd ever doubted it.
"Ok, but that aside, pissing off the magic trees is probably a shitty idea." Daisy crossed her arms, looking at Fitz. "Inhuman, or demi-god or actual god or whatever I am from a...I guess philosophical point of view? I'm still not a fan of the idea of making ancient magical things mad at me."
Fitz pressed a hand against his forehead. "You're missing the point. We should have d-died."
"Which time?" Daisy scoffed.
He stared at her, unamused, the smile sliding off Daisy's face. "The Chronicom's portal wasn't set, there wasn't a destination. We should have ended up lost in a space between the fabric of reality. But we ended up in a tree."
"Wait, you're suggesting the magic tree summoned us? Cause that's what it sounds like you're saying." Daisy was visibly baffled.
Fitz rolled his eyes. "This is why I ha-hate magic. But how'd we survive the tree? You can't have matter in t-two places. If the portal was how we ended up in the tree we-we-we'd be dead." He brought his hands together, threading his fingers together. "Matter can't exist where other m-matter already is."
Daisy hissed, moving to her feet. "That's some bullshit." Her lips pressed together and she made an angry humming sound. "Fuck."