Hogg hurriedly knocked on the door to the Queen's private solar. He ignored the curious look the Cranoman royal guard was giving him. But the man didn't try to stop him. His foot tapped anxiously as he waited for permission to enter. The second he heard the faint 'enter' he was opening the door and walked in. He bowed. "Your Grace."
"What's happened?" Sansa's voice was sharp.
He held out the package of letters he'd just received from the men he'd sent to handle the Forrester issue. "Lord Forrester is a week away from returning."
"Are any of the Whitehills still alive?" Sansa took the package, opened it and flicked through the collection of reports, clearly already guessing what the contents of those reports were.
Hogg swallowed. "Gwyn Whitehill and Lord Whitehill were taken alive."
"No doubt so I'll chop their heads off for Lord Forrester." Her voice was bitter. Sansa began to read the reports.
Hogg waited anxiously, after all, he knew what was in them. Other than a certain tightness there was little expression on her face. As she finally finished and set the reports aside, he risked clearing his throat. "Orders, your Grace?"
Sansa didn't reply immediately. But finally, she looked at him. "Markas Woolfield is still inside Winterfell, yes?"
He blinked. "Er…yes?"
"Fetch him, now." She swallowed. "And I need a party of twenty of your men ready to be in the saddle and to depart Winterfell before dawn."
He didn't need to understand, he just gave a quick bow, and darted out the door.
Hogg led a blurry eyed Markas Woolfied to the Queen's solar, this time he didn't wait to be told to enter. Instead, he just knocked and then quickly hauled the very confused noble in. There was no way they wanted a lot of people to see this. He hadn't ensured nobody saw them getting up here other than royal guards for nothing. He bowed quickly as the door closed. "Your Grace."
"That was prompt, thank you, Hogg." Sansa was writing something at her desk, her quill moving with a fluid grace that he found baffling.
Markas straightened from the matching bow he'd fallen into. "Do you need something of me, your Grace?"
"Yes." Sansa paused, her eyes flicking to the door.
Hogg spun, his hand falling to his sword as every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He swallowed thickly as he saw the newest Stark returned home slip through the door. Where her sister was all strength and elegance, Princess Arya was all shadow and sharpness. Every instinct in his body screamed that she was dangerous. Which was ridiculous, he was a follower of a god of ruin! A tiny slip of a girl shouldn't unsettle him so much.
Still, it was plain to all Arya Stark had not lived the life of a tortured prisoner in a gilded cage like her sister. Whatever had happened to her had been very different. Her short stature compared to her taller siblings said starvation. The way she never came within arms reach of anyone said violence done to her. The way she moved reminded him of Daisy if only slightly.
Arya's voice was sharp. "Strange men in your private rooms?"
"Reports of the Whitehill and Forrester conflict finally arrived." Sansa replied offering out the reports to her sister.
And Arya's eyes were sharper than her voice as she half melted into the shadows behind her sister.
Sansa spoke as if her sister hadn't interrupted. "Woolfield, thank you for coming."
"Your Grace…if this is about the Forresters how could I be of service? We have almost no dealings with them or the Whitehills."
She gazed at Markas. "You're unmarried, yes?"
"Aye?" Markas looked distinctly uneasy.
"Then I have a favor to ask of you, one that you are permitted to turn down with no repercussions if you do so." Sansa's chin was high an unbearable nobility to her. "Any Whitehill who crosses the threshold of Winterfell will be executed as a traitor. I implied that and I will hold to my word. However, Gwyn Whitehill is innocent of treason and merely held her home. And I do not appreciate having my hand forced as Lord Forrester has done."
Markas blinked. "So you want me to…marry her?"
"Yes. If she's a Woolfield she can keep her head." Sansa explained.
Hogg was more concerned about what Lord Forester was facing when he arrived at Winterfell. Angering their Queen seemed suicidal to him.
Markas shifted somewhat awkwardly. "That is very kind of you, but I'm a third son, my brother has an heir already. I have no lands of my own to offer a wife."
"If you do this, I would award you one of the minor knightley keeps on what was formerly Karstark land. The income and lands associated with that keep as well, naturally. I would also provide a bride price of a thousand silver stags, and give you command of the men I intend to further secure the eastern coast." She offered, and it was a lot.
Markas's jaw snapped shut, and he nodded. "What do I need to do?"
"You will go with the men Hogg has assembled with this." She handed him a letter with the royal seal prominently on display. "You will intercept Lord Forester and his returning party and give that to him. You will then take Gywn into your protection and escort her towards Winterfell. Before you arrive, find a gods' wood and marry. If she refuses to wed you…I leave it to your discretion. However, if she still bears the name Whitehill I will remove her head."
Markas accepted the weighty letter. "May I bring my own men with us?"
"You may. Hogg will fetch you from your quarters to depart before dawn. Be ready." She instructed easily before her attention turned to Hogg. "Once you've taken care of that, rest. Please, thank you for bringing this to me."
Hogg bowed. "You're Grace." He got why her Holiness held their Queen in such high esteem.
/
Arya's eyes flicked to her sister as the loud noble idiot and the loyal twitchy one left. "So, Forrester turned against you?"
"No." Sansa sighed, her shoulders slumped. "He was stupid. Which is worse."
She twitched her fingers against Needle's hilt. "So you're going to do what to Forrester? Give him a disappointed mom face?"
"No, I'm going to send him to the Wall to hold the Shadow Tower Whitehill was manning. If he survives the Dead he can live at Ironrath as Lord of his holdings and only that."
Arya raised a brow at that. Almost certain death, social humiliation, and political ruin that'd take a generation or a miracle to overcome. "And Whitehill?"
"I'm going to behead him." Sansa replied.
Her head snapped up. "Personally?"
"I can't ask anyone else to. It has been one thing for Jon too, but he's my Hand." Sansa winced. "You wouldn't know how to cut a head off would you?"
Arya did not understand this new version of her sister…or maybe understood her weirdly too well? "Hitting the neck with the sharp bit." Her voice was dry as she replied.
"I'd figured that part out for myself, shockingly." Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose. "I wish you could plan for stupid."
Her lips curled of their own volition. "Well, I could always handle it for you."
Sansa gave her a positively scathing look. "I need him alive so that I can kill him."
"Or I could do the beheading bit." Arya offered, she hadn't actually beheaded anyone before, it'd be fun.
"No, it's like father said. Whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword." Sansa's frustration seemed to bleed out of her as she dropped into the chair by the fire.
Arya tilted her head considering her sibling. "How are you going to learn to cut off a head proper then? I doubt having to swing at it twenty times is going to be particularly useful. Be better if I just cut his throat."
"I can ask Hogg? Maybe Brienne?" Sansa sighed. "And dealing with the Woolfields when I give their third son the Whitehill lands is going to be difficult."
Arya actually paused. "That's not what you told that noble imbecile you were giving him?"
"Of course not, he'd have been an idiot to turn that down." Sansa clearly saw the confusion on her face. "I gave a middling position at best, with how much unclaimed land I'll have by the end of this it's a pittance. Certainly not a position worth risking to rape a woman in the presence of twenty Order members who'd all gut him if they suspected him of doing such a thing."
"Huh, clever." Arya admitted.
Sansa waved off the compliment. "And he's friends with the Forresters so that fucking feud will be over and done with."
"Are you sure he's smart enough to have gotten any of that?" She challenged, faintly amused now.
Sansa twitched. "Gods I hope some of it." She pinched the bridge of her nose again.
Arya wondered if she'd be able to play her sister if she wore her face? Perhaps, perhaps not. It would be interesting, not that she would. But still, mimicking the rigid control in all but private situations would be…tiring. "What are you doing about Bran?"
"He's our brother. But other than reminding him of that Daisy is the one, perhaps the only one truly, who can help him."
Arya narrowed her eyes slightly. "And you trust this god you're fucking?"
"Yes." Sansa dropped her hand to her lap. "And do you have to call it that?" Her tone was exasperated.
Arya grinned. "Yes." She wondered how shrill their mother's shriek would be if she was alive to find out about what 'perfect' Sansa had grown to be? "I kill people and I might be the least scandalous in the family. "
Sansa laughed, all giggles and squinted eyes. And Arya joined her.
/
Fitz tapped his pen, not that it deserved to be called a pen. But a dip pen was better than a fucking quill. He frowned at his latest construction of an Einstein Rosen bridge generator. There were…six parts of it he could realistically make….a hundred he could not. He slammed his hands into the top of the table, and swept his arm across the top, sending the things on it flying off as he sprung to his feet and paced, running his hands through his hair. "Fuck!"
He was muttering in frustration only to pause, turning he saw his notes going up in flames. Fuck candles! Fitz jerked forward and started stamping on the fire.
Panting he stared down at his ruined notes, an awful increase of smoke burning at his nose, the lighting poorer. He blinked, his frustration and anger melting as he looked at the wreck of his workshop. It was a mess. And he'd done that…again. He flinched at the thought that it wouldn't have happened if Jemma was there. Because she'd have rubbed his shoulders, lured him away with tea to discuss the problem till they found a solution.
How often did she have to calm him down? A part of him whispered in the back of his head that she was weak. That she made him soft. But most of him felt revulsion. Was his Jemma, the one he remembered, afraid of him? Daisy was.
Fitz swallowed thickly looking at the ruin of his workshop. He was alone, stranded in a different reality, standing in the wreckage of his life. Was this who he was? Who he wanted to be? Daisy wasn't the monster, he was. Why would Jemma even want him?
/
Sansa stared at the goats in the gods' wood. She looked back up at Hogg and Brienne. "You can't be serious."
"I'd be more than willing to commit the execution if you wish, my Queen." Brienne's chin tipped upwards.
She breathed out, took the greatsword from Hogg. "We never speak of what is about to happen. Understood?"
"Aye, your Grace." "Yes, my Queen."
Hogg grabbed a goat's rope collar and led it to the headsman's block set in the corner of the gods' wood. He'd almost certainly been the one to have brought the block there in the first place.
Sansa swallowed back bile. Oh god.
Sansa sank into the hot water of the bath she'd asked be brought up to her room. The nausea had mostly passed from her morning in the gods' woods. But getting clean, and changing her clothing had been necessary. Her eyes closed as she let the heat of the water soak into her bones, her muscles untensing. She wished Daisy was here. It was…she'd come to depend on Daisy's constant support over the last year. That was such a dangerous weakness to have. She ducked her head under the water in sheer frustration.
As she came back up she reached out and picked up the soup. "Get the grey and black dress out Sera."
There were the sounds of steps and rustling as her maidservant went to fetch the required dress.
It was…a relief not to have to speak. Everyone wanted or needed something from her, or she needed or wanted something from them. Ruling without Jon by her side was exhausting. She rose from the water, accepted a towel, and wrapped it around herself. It was well practiced as she prepared for the day. It wasn't till she was partially dressed that her mind cleared at a knock on the door. She sighed, well, so much for an hour or two of quiet. "What is it Loras?"
The door opened, Loras poking his head in. "Mira Forrester requests a private audience."
Sansa barely resisted pinching the bridge of her nose. Well, might as well get this over with. "You better send her in then." Sansa stood letting Sera help her into the gown.
There was the sound of some faint murmurs on the other side of the door, and then Mira Forrester was slipping into the room. Mira at least had the sense to realize what she'd interrupted. "My apologies, your Grace. I can return later?"
"No, I let you in, didn't I?" Sansa glanced at the pale-faced woman as her maidservant began to lace up the back of her gown.
Mira's eyes lowered, and well at least someone in this whole shit show understood what a mess it was.
"You intend to plead on your brother's behalf then. There's no need, his head will be remaining where it is if that's your fear." Sansa slid the knife Daisy had given her into the hidden pocket in her gown. "And nothing you can say will prevent me from stripping his honors from him, nor sending him to hold what that idiot Whitehill was supposed to. As for the rest of your House, they are still allowed sanctuary here so long as Winterfell remains standing against our foes. Did you have any other concerns?" She didn't have the compassion to cater to the woman's feelings. Between Bran's…emptiness, Rickon's ability to drive any girl his own age into a murderous rage, and Arya's unsettling everything, she didn't have a lot of anything to spare.
Mira had a spark of something to her. "Thank you, you're more kind than my brother's actions have earned. However, I wished to speak to you about more than just my family's interests."
Sansa was faintly surprised by that, though she probably shouldn't have been. The other woman hadn't served under Margaery for years for nothing. "What do you wish to speak of then?"
"I'm tired. I was forced into a marriage with a cruel man once, I do not wish to be so again. My brother is a good man. But he must know he'll lose all royal favor through his actions. My marriage is the easiest solution to regaining some of that lost regard."
Sansa realized at that moment exactly what Mira was here for. She felt a pang at the fact she'd likely ruined this for her without intending to. "I'm afraid I sent Woolfield on a mission."
"Markas loves my brother too keenly to go behind his back to steal his sister, no matter what friendship we may hold for one another." Mira replied.
And it wouldn't have changed anything, but Sansa was grateful she hadn't just torched possible happiness for political expediency without realizing it. Hurting people wasn't something she took pleasure in. She hooked her outer leather girdle, wondering exactly where this was going…she was going to need to find a source of intel on court goings on. The Order and their intel were incredibly useful, but they did have their blindspots. Blindspots that would diminish given time, but even then, there were some places they did not have easy access to.
Mira continued on. "How long do I have before my brother returns?"
"Seven, perhaps eight days." Sansa raised a brow. "You already have a groom in mind for eloping with?" Because it'd be insane if she didn't.
Mira's lips turned up. "I do, he'll be difficult to convince. But he's not nobility."
"And you want me to ennoble him and sanction your actions." Sansa felt a sudden understanding. "Do you love him?"
She looked thoughtful as she stepped forward and lifted the metal clasped fabric collar that attached around the neck of the gown Sansa was wearing. Mira waited for the faintest of nods, before approaching closer and affixing the collar around Sansa's neck with practiced fingers. "No, but I do like him, and convincing him to agree will not be hard."
Sansa raised a brow. "Does he have the faintest idea of what you intend?"
"Not at all." Mira gave the faintest hint of a smile, though the drawn look of stress didn't fade. "But he is kind and honorable. Surely you understand, your Grace?"
Sansa breathed out as Sera finished the last of the ties to ensure her gown was in place and ready for court. "You would be in my debt if I promote a new masterly House and protect you from this, utterly. And your brother will be rightly angry."
"I love my brother, but I would rather be your piece for who I am than someone else's for my family." Mira flicked her eyes up and held her gaze. "And it'd be knightly, not masterly."
It was clear she meant it. And Sansa understood, more than she wished she did. The knightly bit was interesting though, one of her men at arms was definitely not prepared for what was coming for him. "I suppose you'll have Loras take care of making a knight for me to promote?"
"He owes me." Mira swallowed. "I would be in your debt, eternally."
Sansa knew what she was going to do, even knowing though she weighed the repercussions. It would seem she was going to be more involved with the Forresters. "You will never rise above the wife of a minor knight."
"I want to be safe, and have a chance at happiness." There was a slight pause. "And if I'm your piece, I will still be able to help my family. Even if they are furious with me for this."
Sansa moved towards the door, pausing before she opened it. "Good luck with convincing your groom."
"Thank you, your Grace." Mira dropped into a curtsy.
Sansa hoped she'd judged her decision rightly. But she had far more important things to handle than the Forresters today.