Sapphire

"A purer sapphire melts into the sea," Alfred Tennyson.

Sansa understands that there is a beauty to no longer be the one that was looked to in terms of authority.

The sense of anonymity offered to just be a girl, who is not Queen or even Lady of the North, in however lesser capacity she had been, is something that is a relief to Sansa. It is a strange feeling, to fall back into being perceived in a role she had long outgrown, that of the eldest girl child of the Wardon of the North. Just a little lady. The amount of power, the number of expectations placed upon her were completely set back. In the eyes of strangers, all she was expected to do, marry for the sake of her House, to learn to run a household, and make children upon her flowering. As someone not yet flowered, with no breasts nor hips, she was not the object of lust nor true political intrigue, just a sweet small thing that was favored and praised for beauty and whatever grace she could muster. If perhaps mocked for my Southern appearance. While that was not her true purpose, she was dismissed and disregarded because of what she looked like, the Lords of the North looked at her with vague interest, but with no real weight to their gazes. Just like before. No one beyond her family looked to her and saw power or someone who held sway over those that were in power.

That was left to Robb, the male heir, and to some lesser extent Bran, who was the immediate heir after that, to confront. To Jon, who was suddenly of more interest for his prominent and unmistakable place at the side of the Lord of Winterfell and his Lady.

Hardly anyone looked her way as Lady Sansa Stark. It was strange. To be so overlooked. To no longer have to strive for a certain image of fortitude and poise, to reject the Southern tenants she had learned with her Mother to remove any image she had cultivated as a young child before her captivity. She had taken the mantle of a Queen gladly, upon reclaiming Winterfell, upon Jon being declared King, upon his decision to raise her alongside him. But it had been a mantle nonetheless, made only more stressful when Daenerys had come to them, dragons and hoards at her back, the threat of the Others on all of their minds. Despite the fact that the last Houses of the North had never considered her for such a position-

Sansa had been queen, ruled alongside Jon...

"They call me King, but this is your home, Sansa. You are Father's last trueborn child. You are queen if they so wish for a child of House Stark to lead us," said Jon quietly, afterward the chorus for the King in the North had finished ringing after they had adjourned to the Solar their father used to occupy.

They share it and have been sharing it since they had reclaimed the remains of the Keep that used to be their home. It is but a skeleton of it, a hollow where once was full and theirs. Sansa looks to her brother, grown as the man that he is, tall, broad, and steel-eyed commander. Were it not for the slight curl, the blackness of his hair, the softer jaw, and higher cheekbones, she would think him their father. It blurs with each day she spends with him. As Jon becomes a fresher memory. Some days, she looks to the corner of her eyes and it is not him she sees, but rather their father. If it were not for her own control, she thinks she would have slipped and called him such. Her lips are parting slightly, the only semblance of reaction that is so automatic, that she cannot stop it. It pulls slightly at the split at the corner of her mouth, still healing, but Sansa does not allow the sting, burning as it does, to be outwardly displayed. She breathes deep through her nose.

"Jon… I do not think that is what matters. You are the one that they see fit to lead. I do not believe they wish for a captive girl to be what leads them. They only see weakness," she says this in a calm, pretty voice, hardly changing in inflection.

His reaction is discomfort, as always, at her lack of expression beyond the pretty placid mask she holds so well, shown in the way his brow furrows, how he looks slightly away from her. His fists, scared, calloused and so large, clench. In any other man, such a movement would have had her holding back a flinch. But not in him. Not anymore.

"They are fools."

If she had been so inclined, that vehement declaration would have made her smile. As it was, made something warm in her chest. It was a completely foreign sensation, or at least, it feels as if she has never felt anything like it. She had almost forgotten such a feeling, the feeling of being praised, and esteemed, not for empty flattery, but honest true praise. She sees it in his eyes, grey, dark, so like Arya's, so like their father's.

"They call you King."

"If they are so inclined, then they will call you queen. Queen in the North. That is what I will declare, that is my answer to their proposal of taking Robb's title. It is not mine, but yours. I care not that you were taken from the line of succession. You are the only rightful Stark."

A queen is an inherent power. Or so the likes of Cersei Lannister and even Margaery Tyrell would have believed. Sansa sees it differently, she who would have held the title if she had been married to Joffrey, would have been queen. But it would have meant nothing. It is a position that could hold power if you were so inclined to wield it and if you could get others to let you. Cersei had tried, vehemently, to take that mantle and hold power over the Seven Kingdoms as no woman had before her, and in many regards, had failed miserably. She had no true purpose of being a queen. To her, Cersei had been constant in the desire to control her own life, and consequently those of the people around her, for an ignorant belief that with power came absolution. Came peace and glory.

But… Sansa believes, perhaps, just perhaps, she could be someone who wielded the power of a queen well. She would use the power of a queen to better her subjects, to lead them in the coming Long Night. But she also believes that Jon is more than deserving of the opposite mantle of being King, more than deserving and able to wield it as a man, and as someone who had fought the paranatural horrors she had only caught glimpses of.

Two areas. Two minds… Two things to consider when it came to the control of the Kingdom of the North.

"I have a better solution. Take Robb's crown. Be King in the North and I will be Queen in the North. The last of the House of Stark, ruling, together. No one has ever said the King and Queen would have to be spouses. What say you, Jon?"

Grey eyes. Their family's eyes, look at her, and the surprised smile that responds to her is vicious as Ghost, as fierce as the biting wind that howls across the hills and planes of what had been their brother's Kingdom.

But in the same moment, she cannot forget how heavily the crown had felt on her brow. She may have not been Dany, with her dragon children and unyielding determination to conquer all that which she thought was her right, nor Jon burden with the protection of all things of warm flesh and blood, but she had still had the mantle to care for all those within their domain. She had still been the one to delegate supplies, the egos of whoever was within their armies, the one to try and keep the people at peace in uncertain times. She had been the sweet queen- the Queen with humanity against the grander High King and Queen with magic and tales fight for songs.

The red wolf of the North come home to be the lady to them all.

She is no longer in the same position of symbolism.

And it eases her, the knowledge that she is the source of change amongst the Houses of the North, but they do not know it. Their gazes do not linger, do not focus on her. She sits upon the High Table, between Robb and Jon. And their gazes switch to between her father and her brother, sometimes her mother, but almost always slip past her after a moment. She is not outwardly acknowledged by her father, as the Lords of the North, and whomever they deemed fit to attend such an important call from the liege Lord. I am the silent Hand, the counsel of the Lord above all others, and they will not know nor ever guess it.

It is, she can admit, a boon to not be the one that the looks of disbelief and defiance are directed to. It was something she does not miss.

"And I suppose the fact that the only available glass blower in the North is within your employee is no matter of consequences, eh?" said Lord Bolton, frowning. His voice was a grave thing, deep and full of barely concealed contempt. Looking to her father with cold eyes.

Sansa felt her quill still, for fraction of a moment, having used the pretext of being the one to record the events of the meetings as an excuse to her 'delicate' presence as one lord had put it. Her father did not frown. He simply stared at Lord Bolton, his own eyes flashing with dislike and his ire. Her Father knew his potential as a traitor, if not the full extent of his actions, and had promised to keep only an even and wary eye on the skin flayer. If only as a prudent precaution. He had done a remarkable job on not acting on his more honorable impulses in wake of the people that had turned their backs on his Kingly son in the future. The long game is more important. And Father can play it if he is tempered and made to see sense. How else would Jon live as he did, with no one vocally questioning the bastard of the honorable Warden of the North?

"For once I agree with Bolton," rumbled the Great-Jon, a man she barely remembered, his enormous hand coming to stroke his unkempt beard, "It's an expense we can do without, Ned. If we just keep trade up during winter, the glass gardens would be a pretty thing that wastes space. Best keep us all connected as it is."

Without looking, Sansa nudged Robb beneath the table with her foot. Her brother took that as his cue and cleared his throat.

"The glass garden is to ensure absolute protection for each Keep. What use is trade if the roads are too dangerous to travel in fierce winds and scattering blizzards? What use is a stalk pile that dwindles with each day? Starving people is your legacy when your supplies are reduced to nothing. We place the glass gardens in each Keep for the independence of each House in the circumstances that a long Winter can bring," said Robb, loud, clear, and firm.

Great Jon raised a brow, an indulgent look on his face. Grinned in a mocking, and indulgent way that had her own hackles rising.

"And what do you know of Winter? Summer boy, you have never felt those winds, never seen the world consumed by night and cold."

Robb shifted uneasily in his seat, his jaw tightening. Sansa places a calming hand on his knee, squeezing slightly as Robb forcibly exhaled. He almost turned to her. But he caught himself just in time. For everyone not directly involved in their family had no idea she was someone he would turn to for strength. And she was deliberately keeping it that way so as not to undermine his authority as the future Lord of the North. Something her mother in the future would fail to do herself.

"Winter is Coming. Those are my house words. That is what I know, summer boy that I am, and will ensure that mine and yours adhere to them."

Sansa squeezed his knee in approval. It was a strong return if the look on Great-Jon's face was any indication.

"He knows his words," said her Father, calm, supporting her brother with a firm look, "And it is those words that made us decide on the policy of the glasshouses. If the glassblower is the concern, Lord Manderly, I am sure, will be willing to aid anyone who wishes to hire their own outright. But the mandate stands. Every House in the North shall have glasshouses sizable enough to supply itself in an emergency."

The large, portly Wyman Manderly, in green and golden, looks to her father, stands, his knees creaking, his large form trembling, as he bows, and then gives a careful nod. It causes his many chins to wobble, and there is a general air of suppressed laughter or amusement at the overly stately gesture. But Sansa sees the way his eyes gleam, dark, intelligence and shrewdness. She understands that the man is glad to be directed too by his liege Lord. He had been loyal, and upon his rescue by her sister, one of the first of their banners to stand with House Stark against Bolton. He was a smart man and had long stood in council with Jon and her. In the past were his House and he whole, would be important to them once again.

"Whatever Lord Stark commands, I am sure that I am able to help any House find such aid if they so wish it," his voice is boisterous, his critique of any that would so distrust them is even more so.

Sansa nearly smiles, when her mother, nods graciously at the larger lord, her eyes gleaming as well.

"Any profit from our personal glassblower, of course," says her mother, brisk, lips in a careful smile, "As stated with our proposition, will go to reparations of the roads and the upkeep of the major points of trade between the houses of the North. To use our glassblower is to help the North as a whole, not to line our own coffers."

Bolton's jaw sets, and he opens his mouth to argue, had it not been for his son, Domeric, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sansa makes a deliberate effort not to stare at the brother of her second husband. Great-Jon is still running his hands through his beard.

"Well, that's settled. Now, I want to talk about this initiative of-"

The general air of reluctance, squabbling, and some argument continue, well into the afternoon from their early morning session, and Sansa's hands fly across parchment after parchment, as the Lords of the North make concessions, bicker, loop back on prior agreements, and discussions. Though the respect for her father is clear, the lack of urgency, despite their projections, is something she cannot unsee. The lack of hope in her memories had been the largest obstacle, and it seemed now, it was instead the lack of true understanding of the danger of what was coming for them. She had expected this to some extent, but it is no less frustrating to see in the faces of so many Lords she had never seen past her thirteenth name day, and especially in the few Lords she knew would have survived to see her and her brothers as their ultimate sovereign.

I see only summer fatten fools and unknowing men and woman set for the slaughter, be it in Southern Wars or at the hands of the Others. We are only yet announcing our means to protect the North from winter, not creatures made of ice and snow set to kill them all. What will happen then? How many will stay willfully ignorant? How many will refuse arms of dragonglass and call us superstitious fools seeing snarks and grumpkins?

Her hand is inked stained and cramped, but she dutifully continues, until her father calls for a recess. Sansa cleans and sharpens her quill as lords and ladies alike filter out to stretch their legs as food is brought into the Great Hall, the only space large enough to host their entire lords of all the houses in the North in mass to hold their meetings. Robb, next to her, quickly downs the only goblet of wine he had been allowed at the meeting, and Jon, on the other side, is pressing his palms, into his eyes. Little Bran has already run off, determined to not return, her mother has left to coordinate the servants for a meal for everyone once they return, and their father is left at the tallest seat, frowning down at the parchment in front of him.

"How, in the name of the gods, old and the new, does anything ever get done," mummers Robb, reaching for Jon's goblet, "I have seen better peace made between Rickon and Arya. And they have yet to reach ten namedays between them."

Sansa intercepts him with a pointedly raised brow, hand over the lip of the goblet. He quickly sighs but makes no more movement for the wine. Even if he is eying her own poured and untouched one as well.

"By a great deal of compromise, Robb," she says, carefully, before she pushes the goblet to her other brother.

He had yet to drink anything or eat any of the small foodstuffs that had been along the tables for everyone to partake in. It had been, in her memories, a sign of stress in the High King, to not touch any food or drink in front of him, and she hopes to break it in his younger counterpart.

"And patience. Neither of which any of the Lords seem to be eager to have in terms of this," says Jon, with a scowl.

He ignores the goblet until she pinches his arm. He sighs before he takes a careful drink. It is not even strong wine, which is why she had allowed Robb to down his own as he had, but even then her more morose brother grimaces as he takes drink after drink. She pointedly pushes towards him a platter of cheeses and salted meats laid out. He wrinkles his nose at her but reaches for a piece of bread and cheese. Robb does the same when she looks at him with a raised brow.

"It must be all of us with patience. This is but the first day of true discussion, my children," states their father, gravely, turning to them.

His expression is calm, and his movements are even more so. His eyes betray his concerns, and so does the way his left hand is fisted against his knee.

"If we must," agrees Robb, running a hand through his dark auburn hair.

"I had just hoped for more agreements today," argues Jon, frowning.

"It is a simple lack of danger," Sansa says, jaw tightening, "They do not see the urgency of it all-"

"They will, Sansa," her father's voice is firm, without argument.

In spite of herself, Sansa feels something in her relax at the assurance. Many would have called me a fool, to be assured. The likes such as Cersei and Petyr would have mocked my reaction. But I do not care for their opinions. Not anymore.

She is saved from answering to him when Jory comes up to her father, with a furrowed brow and a frown on his face.

"My Lord, there is a woman asking to enter Winterfell," started Jory, matter-of-factually, "She is appealing directly to you to enter."

Her father blinks, his own brows lifting in frank surprise.

"Why does this require my attention?"

Jory shifts, uneasily.

"The woman is in full plate armor, My Lord. We believed it wise to ask if we should allow her in."

Sansa starts so badly, that she accidentally knocks the goblet of her wine off the table, a crash that causes whoever is in the Hall to look at her. She stares at Jory, uncomprehending before she realizes what he has just said, truly understanding his words.

By the old gods and the new.

Her breath hitches and her father turns to her sharply in surprise.

"Sansa?" his voice is calm, but there is an urgency upon her reaction.

She is aware of the gaze of all upon her. Not vicious nor unrested, but rather curious as to why the Lord of Winterfell would be so bothered by the reaction of his eldest daughter, young as she is. She is aware of all of her family turned to her in alarm at her seemingly out of character and violent reaction. Sansa only stands, gracefully and quickly as she can in the pool of weak wine, gripping her fine skirts with trembling fingers. She turns to her father for a second but finds her voice lost. He looks calm, but she can see the muscle working in his jaw, just beneath his beard. A tell of his worry upon her reaction.

Say something!

"Excuse me father," is the best she can say. If… If this is- She boldly picks up her skirts and starts running without another word.

Surprised shouts come, but she is already out the great doors to the hall, to the gates when anyone thinks to come after her. She is running. Hard. Fast. As fast as she can as her mind races for the thought of a woman in full plate armor wanting to enter Winterfell. Because that is impossible. Impossible and possibly- Sansa skids to a stop at the sight of the person within the shadow of the gates of Winterfell. Upon a great horse of brown coat, two guards next to her, her armor-covered chest heaving as if she was mid-argument. Sansa's hand comes to her mouth before she lowers them.

"What is the meaning of this?" she calls, her voice, so soft and high, is ridiculous when she tries to place authority in it, especially when she is so out of breath, but she cares not, because her calls accomplish what she wanted.

Sapphire eyes, bright bold and so much more lovely a shade than her's, look at her.

Sansa wishes to weep at the sight of Brienne of Tarth, her mind spinning and in confusion, alarm, worry, and sheer joy. A turbulent storm within her at the unexpected appearance of one of her sworn shields. She knew Jaime Lannister, being who he was, would more than likely never be that to her again. But Brienne. Brienne, Brienne of Tarth could be her's again, if she were to come up with a clever way to bring the strong woman to her side. She had yet to call for her, to think of a perfect excuse to bring this woman to her. Her sworn protector, her confidant in odd moments. One of the few people that the harder Arya could smile at that was not her and Jon…

Sansa stares, her chest heaving as she makes her way forward, head high, heart trembling.

"Let this woman through," she demands, "The gates of Winterfell do not turn strangers away from the shelter of our walls!"

The guards, reluctantly, allow the woman, horse and all, to pass. She makes a striking, and odd figure, dressed in gleaming full mail and plate, pale, straggly blonde hair, longer than her memories, half-heartedly pulled away from her face with a leather tie. Brienne dismounts, heavily, eyes never leaving Sansa's face, just as Sansa cannot keep her gaze away from Brienne's.

"My qu-," her voice is warm, thick and achy with feeling even as she stumbles over her words, staggers a step forward, hands reaching automatically, something in Sansa howl's in sheer shock and possibly a relief, "Sweet lady, pardon I have come a long way-"

Sansa is a cold creature of calculation… But she was still a young woman that would relish and hold warmth and love close to her romantic heart. The implications of that stumble-

"Brienne," her voice is thick with emotion, her eyes swell with tears she always tries to suppress, "Brienne, is that you?"

Please let it be true.

The older woman freezes, eyes, her beautiful eyes, so large and deep, widen. She is younger right now, her face not as scarred, only but a young woman of five and ten. Not quite as tall, her large nose not yet broken, as it had in the future. She is still gangly and well-muscled, but slighter than the woman in her memories. Sansa feels as if her heart will leap out of her chest. Brienne, as always, sees to never censor herself as Sansa did, and allowed large, full tears to fall down her freckled face.

"I thought- I could only hope when I saw the announcement of movements in the North. That I was not mad, that someone- Someone else- I had to come," tears fall from dark, sapphire eyes, "I had to come and fulfill my vow."

She is running, as is Brienne and they meet halfway, gleaming steel against fine wool and velvet, hugging so tight that Sansa cannot breathe. She is even lifted off the ground.

She doesn't care. For its Brienne.

They fall, together, to their knees, in sobs and warmth.

"My queen," it is a whisper in her ear, revenant and heartfelt.

I am not mad. Even if I knew it to be true, part of me had doubted.

"Ser Brienne."

She cannot say more for she feels as if she is about to burst. It takes them a moment before they come apart. They yet hold hands, tightly grasped. Gauntlets against ink splattered fingers.

"I am not mad," whispers, Brienne, and she smiles.

Her smile is crooked, her teeth twisted in places, but it's her eyes that show how beautiful she is, so large and warm.

"No," whispers Sansa, a beam on her own face, "You are not. We are not."

"Sansa- Whoa!" and that is Jon, breath in a gasp.

He is standing stunned. Brienne stands, abruptly, bring Sansa with her. Her hands tremble within Sansa's before she makes a staggering step towards Jon.

"My King," whispers Brienne, softly, so much so only Sansa, so close to her, hears.

She kneels before Jon, right there in the courtyard. Any good feelings coursing through Sansa immediately dispense, especially at her own foolish actions to show such emotions to what should be a stranger. She grows pale, hands coming to tug desperately at her sworn shield's hand, still in her.

"Brienne no, not here," she hisses, desperately, eyes flickering about.

Birds, she tries desperately to misinform birds with false songs, either those that belong to the Spider or the Mockingbird, but she is no god, no real spymaster much as she wishes she was. While she knows her secret to at least be safe, and of the new intentions of the North, she doubts this gesture from the Maid of Tarth will be hard to read for any spy. Such respect to a bastard boy of the Lord of Winterfell? From a stranger from so far?

"My-"

"My dear friend," she says easily, politely through her teeth, whipping quickly at her tear-filled eyes, "I am sorry to inform you that this is not my eldest brother, Robb. This is my second brother, Jon."

Brienne is not a woman of great slyness. But she is not a great fool. She rises, face flushed, horribly ruddy.

"My apologies, my… Friend. I thought it-"

"Do not fret," says Sansa, easily, squeezing her hand, without knowing how much of the gesture could be felt through her armor, "Quickly, you have traveled long and far to be here. Jon, sweetling? Would you gather, Mother, father, and Robb into the solar before the afternoon meal? I wish to introduce them to my friend from the South."

She tells him of the importance, with just her eyes, and Jon gives her a quick, firm nod. His eyes go to Brienne, curiously, before he makes his way back to the hall, without another word.

"Come, Lady Brienne," she says, even as her true title touches on her lips, "The guards will take your horse to the stables."

Questions in her eyes, but much used to her directions, Brienne follows Sansa without protest, hands at her sword, falling into step behind Sansa as she always had. Sansa, reluctant to allow such a gesture to be seen, falls back a step herself, winding her arm around Brienne's. They walk in hurried silence, to the Solar that the elder Starks had claimed as their own, beyond the Lord and Lady that ruled the keep. They are the first to arrive, and Brienne takes that moment to turn to her with wide, eyes.

"King Jon does not-"

"No. It is just me, Brienne. I awoke a few moons ago as I am, in this body ten years too young. Just after… Just after Arya and I lit the wildfire in the camp. I knew I could not allow the world to stay the course that lead to my death, so I have done my best to save the North in these passing moons."

Brienne's eyes close, her expression is anguished.

"When I failed you, you mean. I should have stayed within the camp-"

"My protection was better served with you fighting the Others. We discussed this," she retorts, eyes narrowing at the look of pain on her protector's face.

"It mattered not in the end. I would have better felt to die with you, my Queen, than in ice and blood. I died in a battlefield too far away from you and your sister. I failed my vow."

Emotion is something Sansa relished and prided herself in suppressing. Tears were in her eyes, that she desperately blinked back.

"You were with him, in the end, serving your vow to protect me. In the end, you owe nothing to me, nor my mother. Brienne, as happy as I am to see you, surely your death and mine have signaled that vow fulfilled?"

Brienne did not stop her tears, falling easily down her freckled cheek.

"Your Grace," says Brienne, blinking, "I will always protect you. Not just for my vow to Lady Stark, but for you. You are my Queen. I will be your guard, your sword and shield until I no longer draw breath. That is my vow. My eternal vow."

"A strong vow, my Lady."

Both she and Brienne turn, to see Sansa's father, standing at the opened door of the solar. Brienne blinks before she harshly swipes at her eyes with her steel-covered hands.

"You look too much of the High King," says Brienne, quietly as her father, closed the door, "To be anyone but Eddard Stark."

Her father frowns.

"I am Eddard Stark. But the way you know me as is concerning."

"I beg your pardon, my Lord-"

"You bring troubling things, my Lady. One more person knows of the future that haunts my daughter. Who is to say who else brings the memories?"

Sansa, knowing the wisdom in her words, clench her fists, heart hammering.

"Father-"

She is stopped from answering as the door opens again. Robb, Jon, and her mother file in, closing the door behind them again. They look at Brienne curiously, even as the older woman flushes furiously, and ducks her head slightly, deferring to Sansa to announce her as she saw fit. Sansa sighs, before she straightened her shoulders, turning to them once they were settled within the room.

"Jon, Father, Mother, and Robb. May I present to you Sir Brienne of Tarth, my sworn shield, one of two of my Queensgaurd. She… She is like me. She remembers the same future as I do."

The silence is heavy. But is broken quickly.

"...Ser Brienne of Tarth, welcome to Winterfell," her mother smiles, warmly, even if her blue eyes are entirely alarmed, "Sansa has told us much of you."

Brienne's eyes widen. Immediately, she goes to kneel once again, falling hard to her knee in a movement that shakes the cobblestones, as the large woman is in a full suit of armor. She presses her eyes tightly together, not looking up at Catelyn Stark, her lower lip trembling in emotion.

"My lady," her voice is trembling, emotive and speaks of how sensitive a soul that Brienne is at the sight of her mother, whole… Human.

"My Queen, I beg you, no!" Brienne is crying. She is a warrior… But she is also a creature of great feeling and emotion, strangely naive. Sansa envies her for that.

Sansa lifts her torch, watching the bloated, rotting thing. For the first time in a long time, tears fall from her eyes. She cannot look away from… It.

"Sansa, I'll do it, please, look away-" says Jon, voice thick and shaking.

"I saw father's head on a spike, Jon. I was forced not to look away then. This is my choice now."

The thing that calls herself Lady Stoneheart simply watches, grey eyes, flat, listless, caring not either way. The blue eyes, the blue eyes that nearly all her and her siblings shared are gone. Stripped of color. Turned so flat, lifeless, nothing is in those eyes, nothing. It is worse than Wrights. That eerie, unnatural blue at least shows the life of the Others. This, this thing shows no life. The pull of its mottled flesh is the only thing that shows emotion, its mouth, bloated and distorted by moons of unsteady rot, are pulled into a mockery of rage.

"She means for revenge, My lady," says a man, a man that had come with the… The remains of her mother, "She is your mother."

Sansa wished it to be true. But this. This.

"This is not my mother."

She thrusts the torch into the body's long, dried hair. It goes up surprisingly quickly in a flurry of flame.

"Brienne, rise," commands Sansa, after a moment, gently, placing her hand on her shoulder.

"My queen," mummers Brienne.

Sansa sighs.

"I am no longer queen of anything, Brienne."

Brienne frowns.

"You will always be queen, to me, your grace."

They stare at each other, for a moment, Brienne, tears still on her long lashes, frowning, while Sansa returns the gaze with a bland expression.

"Well. This clears something up for my own peace of mind. Sansa isn't mad," says Robb, after a beat.

Sansa blinks.

"You followed my words and still thought me mad?"

Robb grinned.

"No. You have changed too much and know too much to be anything other than what you claimed. But it has broken whatever strangeness and unease comes from the knowledge that Sansa is not the only being with knowledge of future events-"

Robb paused and then frowned at the unease that crossed everyone's expression.

"Well, Stark, you truly have botched that up," said Jon, clapping him on the shoulder with a roll of his eyes.

"Come what may come," says her father, with a stern face, "The North will be better armed, nonetheless."

"But with all this change… Will this not signal to everyone who remembers that the North holds someone changed, as it did for me?" questions, Brienne, an alarmed look on her face.

Sansa feels her heart seize at the… The thought of certain beings knowing the future that could come as she did. Ramsey, Petyr, by the gods old and new, Ceresi…

"Surely we would have seen the effects ourselves?" said her mother, clenching her jaw, tightly.

"If we acted first then perhaps it would cause any other party reluctant to show their hand," argued Jon, frowning, "That is if they are people that are opposed to the interest of the North as its own kingdom. Or if they are in a direct position of power to act."

"Then have we showed our hand too soon ourselves?" said Robb.

Sansa breathed, deeply.

"We acted with what was the most prudent. With Brienne, this changes nothing beyond further precautions when dealing with the South. We have shown that someone within the North remembers, and that cannot be changed. Come what may come," Sansa says, quietly, "The North will be ready."

EDIT: 19 September 2021