Something Like This
written by CelticPixie

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"To be loved and to love, takes courage. To be fully seen is incredibly rare and breathtaking. We lower our masks and see a celestial inner being. It is our full self - the supernova as well as the black holes. Our fears and doubts. Our anger and joy...This is love."
― Carolyn Riker, Blue Clouds: A Collection of Soul's Creative Intelligence

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Sansa knew what it meant when she closed that door: she was dismissing the years of manipulation and suffering, of violence and cruelty, of a time when she allowed her personality to darken until she could be as ruthless as Cersei Lannister herself—now, there was only Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell… stripped bare in the truly metaphorical sense. It was here she was beginning to feel at peace with herself again.

Closing the door suggested she was allowing herself to feel again. She knew she was leaving herself open, raw and vulnerable, like the day she was born to this world, casting off the shell of the woman she adapted for so long because so many that had broken her before.

Joffrey had been an egotistical, aggressive, malicious, merciless and autocratic ruler who took enormous pleasure in the agony of others. He had gone as far as joyously speculating serving Sansa her brother's head at their own wedding feast. He willingly took advantage of the misplaced trust she had in him because of her innocence, her belief that he had been a kind and gentle prince. He once had her brought before the whole court where he had threatened to kill her. Instead, it was on his orders that Sir Meryn Trant stripped her down and beat her. When he cast her aside in favor of marriage to Margaery Tyrell, she feigned her sorrow when in reality, Sansa could hardly conceal her excitement.

Ramsey Bolton was the definition of a genuine sociopath, the personification of pure evil with no repentance for his actions and no redeemable features. He was dishonorable, manipulative, ruthless, sadistic—more so than Joffrey Baratheon, who took a much more passive role while Ramsey enjoyed inflicting as much pain and degradation as possible. He had raped Sansa on their wedding night, forcing Theon—then known as Reek—to watch; the smallest hint of anger brushing across Theon's face. Over the next few days, the same would continue. She once tried to escape him, but Ramsey had been informed of her plans and as punishment, flayed her elderly maid alive and forced her to look upon the corpse. It reminded Sansa of the time Joffrey had Ned killed and she was made to look upon her father's decapitated head. She took pleasure when he finally met his comeuppance; she walked off with the slightest smile, his screams echoing as the hounds ripped his flesh.

The true manipulator in all of this was Petyr Baelish. First with integrating himself into Jon Arryn's services as a customs officer, and then as Master of Coin. He made good use of the brothels he owned; agents would spy on and manipulate clientele for his pleasure. He would always use his past friendship with Catelyn Stark against her, continuing to make her believe he was a trustworthy friend at court. It was because of him that everything happened. It was just as he said—chaos; Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love... illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.

Petyr Baelish was the one to convince Lysa Arryn to poison her husband, to write a letter to her sister in the north, claiming it was the Lannisters who killed Jon. He was the puppet, the original orchestrating the entire War of the Five Kings. He tried and failed to manipulate Bran, so he set his sights on destroying the relationship between the Stark sisters—beginning with Arya. This proved to be a turning point, a downfall for Lord Baelish. Once Sansa learned of his ultimate guilt in the War that started everything, she knew enough. Though Arya was later brought to trial to face charges of murder and treason, it was Petyr Baelish who was on trial instead. This move caught the man off-guard. He begged, he pleaded, but in the end, Arya took a Valyrian steel dagger to his throat and Sansa watched as his blood pooled onto the floor.

Even before justice had finally caught up to him, Sansa knew the moment Baelish dragged Brienne's name into the mix, it spelt trouble for the sworn sword. This was not something she could allow. The morning Maester Wolkan approached Sansa, informing her of a letter received from Cersei in King's Landing, her gut had twisted; Cersei was calling her to a gathering and Sansa thought it to be some kind of trap. Feeling in her bones that Baelish meant to attempt to use Brienne in some way – worse yet, Podrick – she thought that by sending Brienne to King's Landing in her stead, Sansa was protecting them both.

It wasn't her desire to ride for King's Landing. And for what, anyway—a gathering with Cersei Lannister? That's what was in the letter brought by raven said. But the letter called for Sansa to attend, not Brienne. The Lady of Tarth made that clear; They invited you. They want you there, she argued. But to counter, the Lady of Winterfell claimed she would not step foot in King's Landing, not while Cersei Lannister was still wearing the crown. She'd stayed in the north where she belonged; there was much work to still be done.

Brienne was obstinate; one of her many faults, so she's been told- It's not safe, she persisted. The message was unclear to which the Lady of Tarth was referring to; not safe for Sansa to travel to King's Landing or not safe for her to remain here in Winterfell without the protection of her sworn sword? Brienne didn't exactly trust either option; Cersei Lannister detested Sansa or then there was Littlefinger—gods, even the name put a bad taste in Brienne's mouth.

No, probably not but then, Sansa knew there was no reason for Brienne to be fearful of anything—not when she knew of someone present at this gathering, someone she knew was quite dear in heart and spirit to her sworn sword. Well, Ser Jaime will be there, and when she turned, she almost smiled just then; there are certain things that didn't go unnoticed, like the way the corners of Brienne's lips twitched when Sansa brought up Jaime's name, or the flicker of light that danced in her sapphire blue eyes- You always said he treated you honorably. That he did; she wasn't concerned about Jaime.

Brienne suggested leaving Podrick behind, a prospect Sansa did not take kindly to. She had rounded on her sworn sword, speaking to her with a raised voice even she didn't think she was capable of. Either of out fear for his safety or annoyance, she made herself quite clear; I do not need to be watched over or minded or cared for, she had snapped, and the anger was out before she could think rationally, I'm not a child. I am the Lady of Winterfell and I am home. It was too late to recoil. Too late to apologize. If saving Brienne and Podrick meant being harsh with a woman who had protected her far better than most, than Sansa would manage.

Seeing Podrick alive and well brought warm feelings to her heart. Upon his return to Winterfell, she considered abandoned all forms of proper etiquette so she could embrace him and bask in the warmth of his body. Seeing him alive and breathing was all she wanted; sending him away had been worth it.

Now he was in her quarters. To be technical, they weren't hers to begin with. But for now, they were. This was not the protocol. Nothing about this was proper. And she avoided eye contact the moment she invited him inside. Sansa knew what she was doing, though she didn't know what might happen. Podrick wasn't like Joffrey or even Ramsey; he wouldn't take advantage of her when there was none to give. Whatever silence passed between them was only softened by their evened breathing tones. Water. She needed water. Sansa thanked the Old Gods for the decanter she found waiting for her on a small table by the opened window. She poured herself a glass and offered the same to Podrick. The pair then stood in silence once again. She never thought she was ever be as thankful for the nightly breeze as she was then; the cool her skin, warmed with intense heat whenever she caught herself looking at him for more than a second.

It was Podrick who spoke first, unsettled by the reticence; "Three years… " …three years, seven months, and fourteen days… that long since either of them had seen the other. He stared at her for as long as it took for him to breathe next, and then he was looking at the rim of his water goblet; the breeze at his back tickled the tiny prickles of hair on the back of his neck.

"Yes, three years…" She was nodding, three years too long; "…and… it looks like we have both done well for ourselves in that time, Ser Podrick Payne—" he looked up as she spoke about him, putting emphasis on his knightly title.

"… it took time to adjust."

"But, you have adjusted."

"I have."

Following Ser Brienne's appointment as Lady Commander, she had called for her loyal squire; Podrick obeyed, willingly, because whenever she called—he answered, without question.

You want to be a knight, Pod?

He had nodded once, when she asked him, although she couldn't have knight him… not then… so they trained with the sword and he learned quickly.

Brienne wanted him as a knight in the Kingsguard. Podrick was flattered… but he was not yet a knight. Kneel, she had said. With his heart pumping, he bent a knee… and she raised her sword—Oathkeeper, as she called it. Podrick had a hard time keeping her gaze. So he focused elsewhere.

…In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave… Brienne's sword crossed his shoulders… In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just… Podrick tried to focus his breathing, his blood singing within the veins running his arms and neck… In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent… as the sword crossed to his other shoulder, his heartbeat thrummed in his ears; he could feel it, pounding away in his chest…

And finally….

Arise, Ser Podrick… a knight of the Seven Kingdoms…

He knelt as a squire but stood as a knight, just as he wanted. But his jubilation of all he had accomplished still felt empty in some way. For when he accepted his position and knighthood, it was Sansa's face that came to mind.

And it was Sansa who said to him—"You never wrote me…"

For three long years, he went without word, and he had not sent word to her. Nothing. He wanted to. Every time he sat with paper and quill to write; nothing came of it. There was so much he wanted to say to her yet could never formulate words adequate enough—and so he didn't.

Podrick gulped down the rest of his water.

"…I meant to."

"Why didn't you?"

In three years, Sansa had heard from Brienne, from Jon… even Daenerys and Samwell—but not one word from Podrick; she had considered the possibility that he had forgotten her completely.

Shaking his head, he said, "…I—I guess… I just didn't know what to say… " There is so much I wanted to say to you, so much I still want to say… but it doesn't matter. You are a Queen and I— "… I should have."

Sansa sighed; "I was… lonely…" No, wait, this isn't right; this is improper…

"How could the Queen of the North ever be lonely?" Podrick blinked, finding it hard to fathom a woman such as Sansa Stark being lonely. Perhaps… maybe, there was much more than he knew. She had been looking at him just then, almost a dull numbness to her eyes. "I mean… well… I don't know how you felt. It was wrong of me to assume. Forgive me…."

"You are right to assume… " Sansa sighed; she was not feeling quite herself. But if she had been at all worried about propriety, she wouldn't have invited him inside. "… no one would have thought I could be lonely, the Queen of the North, but… I have been the loneliest I ever thought I could be. Jon… he is King of the Six Kingdoms… Bran, is here… and I haven't heard from Arya for many moons—my family, people I love… "

Podrick crossed over to where she stood long before his subconscious had caught up to him. It hadn't dawned on him how close they were standing—within inches of each other—but he was consciously aware how his breathing rate had changed.

"… I didn't know. Forgive me."

"You have done nothing wrong worth forgiving…"

Podrick had sighed again, his breathing hitching in his chest even before he exhaled. "I didn't write to you because… because I was afraid," he admitted; there it is, he thought, the truth. He waited, he watched… he watched as Sansa's eyes drifted until they were completely focused on him, and all he could do was gaze deeply, milking the calming blue waters.

"There is no need to be."

"…if only I could be honest…" Here was a boy… standing in front of a girl… and there was so much he wanted to say to her, so many untold secrets kept inside his heart.

A hand reached out, taking his, "… then be honest…"

"I… Sansa—"

The code of a knight states that they must defend the weak and the innocent, protect women and children, fight fairly and honorably, obey their lieges… some fighting for romantic reasons while others were more interested in money… and Podrick had always drempt of being the knight who rescued princesses and fair maidens, with little to zero thought of reward. He wanted to fight for honor.

Standing in front of Sansa Stark, he truly realized one thing; he wanted to fight for her.

Be honest.

Okay.

Podrick never was the greatest wordsmith. He was no poetic. No songwriter. But what he lacked in words, he made up for in actions. Sansa begged of him to be honest? Alright.

He took a breath…

….prayed for strength…

…and kissed her.