Notes: Sorry about the long delay, and thank you to the people who keep following and favoriting my story - you have no idea how much it means to me.
Now that Season 7 has started, I want to point out that my story is now completely AU - there will be no spoilers for Season 7 here, as I'm attempting to go in a completely different direction.
In this chapter, we see what's happening at Winterfell in Jon's absence - Sansa finally shares her thoughts.
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". . . After my name day feast, I'm going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother's head."
A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, "Maybe my brother will give me your head."
A Game of Thrones (Chapter 67, Sansa VI)
Chapter 8
. . . I regret the sad news I have given you in this letter, sister. I wish it could have been otherwise.
All the consolation I can offer is that our new ally's army is still strong, and our losses were few. I have a mind to take the army to Torrhen's Square, and liberate it from the Ironborn.
Any members of House Tallhart still alive will be restored to power – if none are found, our new ally will settle his men there for the time being. The lord will of course be coming to Winterfell, once this is done.
Dearest sister, please reply to this letter – it would be a balm to my heart to hear some good tidings of Winterfell . . .
Sansa put the scroll down with a heavy sigh. She'd have liked to run her fingers through her hair, and regretted the impulse to have it braided back that morning.
She could barely believe that Podrick Payne was no more. How could it be? How could the affable young man, who'd helped save her from Ramsay, and who'd helped her stumbling recitation of vows to Brienne, be gone?
Oh, gods . . . Brienne. Sansa wondered that Jon hadn't said anything about her. Though surely he would have said if Brienne had died too, she thought, fighting down the panic. She'd lost so many – how could she bear to lose any more? She blinked back the tears and forced away the memories of her parents, of Robb, of Rickon.
Reading the words again, she wondered who had helped Jon write in such a guarded manner. She'd had to read between the lines to understand what had happened – the many references to unseasonal ice and snow, so close to the Neck, had confirmed that they had indeed been attacked by – she could barely even think it – White Walkers.
She put the letter down again, only half-conscious that she was doing it. When Jon had first told her about his experiences beyond the Wall, what he had seen the Night's King do, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She'd done neither, and instead had concentrated her efforts in regaining her home, executing her husband, and keeping Petyr Baelish close, so that she always knew what he was about.
But in the back of her mind, niggling, there was always the thought – how could this be? How could the creatures from Old Nan's stories be real? How could they be here? Of course, in her childhood, she hadn't spent overlong listening to the most horrific of Old Nan's tales – she had a sudden image of herself, in an imperious tone, insisting on stories of Florian and Jonquil instead, of Aemon the Dragonknight.
Sansa blushed. Now I have my own Dragonknight, she thought, as her cheeks heated up. Every time she thought of the fact that she and Jon were married, now, she felt the same sensation – though it was silly, and she'd thought such things were behind her.
She was no maid, after all. Also, she could hear Jon saying, it had been her idea to marry. It was a good idea, she thought, as if she were still arguing with the lords of the North, with Jon. Once Jon's true parentage was known, there would be those who'd turn against him, even though Jon was the most Northern man she'd ever known. His years at the Wall had made him even rougher than she remembered.
Of course, this was just her mind trying to distract her from the issue at hand – she and Jon were husband and wife. A choking laugh forced its way through her lips – she'd be a Queen, finally, as she'd always wanted. She hadn't known, then, what horrors men could put women through. When she'd walked through the gates of Winterfell, she'd never expected to be married again, so soon, if at all.
Sansa sighed, leaning back in her chair. What had possessed her to insist on the marriage? Wasn't it obvious that a Queen must needs provide an heir for the kingdom? She could no longer claim innocence of the subject, after all.
She rubbed her lower back instinctively, fighting the urge to scratch. The scars which were her only remnant of her time with Ramsay itched and pulled. She'd made sure that they were the only remnant. Even though Maester Wolkan, and a midwife she'd visited in secret, had both assured her that she was not with child, she'd still insisted on consuming tansy tea, thinking the pain that resulted as well worth it, if it meant that anything left inside her by that . . . that creature, would never take root.
At least he hadn't cut her more than once. She'd screamed so long and so loud that he'd been so irritated by the noise she was making, he said that he hadn't even enjoyed causing her pain. Even more so when he opened the door to her prison, and found Maester Wolkan hovering, a worried look on his face.
The next day, with her bread and cheese, came a skin of something that smelled like wine – red wine from the South. The servant boy, who'd shown no interest in her before, except to leer at her, had one thing to say.
"Maester says it's not for drinking." He dashed out and slammed and locked the door behind him.
It took her some time to realise that the Maester must have meant it for her wounds. After some hesitation, she did her best to dab it where Ramsay had tried to flay the skin off her lower back. It had burned, at first, but then seemed to heal.
She rubbed the scars again, and for a heartbeat she was back in that room, and the breath caught in her throat. But no, that was in the past. She breathed in relief, and forced her hand away from her back.
Yes, she was married again, but this was Jon, who she'd known all her life, who would never hurt her. And, she thought, with a certain bitterness, who was probably repelled by the way she was now. Sansa sighed. Sometimes she felt as though she'd been encased in ice, that she could no longer feel . . . except when she was with Jon, she suddenly realised. He made her feel - yes, exasperation and annoyance, and even anger at times, but she felt something when she was with him. He must feel something for her, too – the looks he gave her when he thought she wasn't looking, the way he'd turned crimson when she'd kissed him in this very room.
That was on the day of their marriage. The day of the dragon, she kept calling it in her thoughts, as she felt unable to think of it as the day of her marriage. Her third one, she thought wearily. What would the misses of the Red Keep think of her now? And marrying her half-brother, to boot! Though he wasn't really her brother – he was her cousin. And her husband.
No, she would not think of that now. She had a letter to write.
Dear brother Jon, I do not know if I can offer anything to counter such sad news. Yet I will try. People are still coming to Winterfell, seeking refuge from the snow and ice spreading from the Wall. Ser Davos has declared that the keep is full to capacity, and has ordered that Wintertown be rebuilt, to serve as a refuge – the work is hard as the days are short. But we do our best.
Perhaps this will bring you joy – among the people seeking refuge was Alys Karstark. You will remember her more than I – apparently she ran from her ancestral home when her uncle attempted to marry her, in order to gain the Karhold. She rode for the Wall, perhaps remembering the betrothal her father once wanted between you, but when she came to know that you were no longer there, she turned towards Winterfell instead. She's an odd girl – but I never really knew her before, and I of all people know how life can change you . . ."
Sansa made sure to lock the room once she left, and headed towards the Maester with her letters for Jon. She'd done her best to write in the same guarded manner he had, though it was hard. Yet if the ravens were shot down and their messages read, there was nothing to even hint at the secrets they were protecting.
Walking back to the great hall, where she knew Ser Davos had asked her to preside over some housekeeping decision, she realised that she was being followed. Out of the corner of her eye she could see brown hair and a nondescript gown. Sansa stopped, and swallowed a sigh.
"Lady Alys? Is there something you need?"
The girl didn't look at all nervous, though she was doing her best to seem so, looking down, even bobbing in a curtsy.
"Lady Stark – I wondered if I could visit the crypts today. I have heard so much of the statues of the old Kings of Winter, but I was too young to see them the last time I was here."
Oh, that infuriating girl, Sansa thought. She had not offered to help in any way with the sewing once she had arrived, though Sansa wasn't sure she would have included her in the sewing circle. All the women in it were sworn to secrecy over the banners they were stitching, and Sansa herself spent as many hours at the task as she dared.
Still, it was the only work a high-born maiden could do. Sansa needed more people for the painted banners, but that was not something any ladies could participate in. When Alys had instead offered to sweep, or help in the kitchen, Sansa couldn't help but raise her eyebrows, even as she chastised herself for reverting to her old ways.
The girl had lowered her eyes, trying to seem embarrassed, it looked like – though Sansa had spent many years among dissemblers. She knew when someone was acting, and she wondered, once again, why Alys was acting like a shy, timid girl, when she obviously wasn't.
Sansa had done her best to point out that they had enough servants to clean and cook; and the servants themselves certainly wouldn't appreciate one of the gentry trying to take their place. What they really needed was another seamstress, and she'd looked at Alys in what she hoped was an encouraging way, but the girl never met her eyes.
Now here she was, wanting to visit the crypts, of all places. She would have to have an escort, but who?
As if Alys was reading her thoughts, she replied. "I don't need an escort – I know the way . . . I mean, I remember hearing . . . my father . . . talk of them."
Sansa knew the girl was lying. Who was she, really? And why had she so readily believed that a girl carrying what she said was her father's ring and buckler was actually Alys Karstark? But Sansa was tired, and she needed to see to whatever Ser Davos wanted, and what harm could the girl do, in the crypts? She'd send Tormund with her- Jon trusted him, and that was good enough for her. Also, if she was someone's spy, Tormund would make sure she would not communicate with anyone.
By the time Sansa finished her thoughts, they'd already arrived at the great hall. When she entered, she saw Tormund chatting with some of the Free Folk, and she rapidly told him what she had in mind. She turned back to Alys.
"Lady Karstark, Tormund will accompany you to the crypts."
For a heartbeat, Sansa thought she saw a look of anger in Alys's eyes, but then the girl simpered, and looked down.
"I wouldn't want to be any trouble, my lady."
"No trouble at all," Tormund said, grinning. "And I will ask Lady Bear if she will join us. She has also expressed interest in the famous Winterfell crypts."
"Lady Bear?" Sansa raised an eyebrow.
Tormund laughed. "My apologies. She is little, but she is fierce!"
Sansa sighed. "Don't let her hear you call her 'little', Tormund."
Tormund shook his head, and chivvied Lady Alys towards where Lady Mormont was sitting, and all three of them were soon heading out of the hall.
She noticed Ser Davos approaching, and suppressed the impulse to sigh again. That was another thing her mother hadn't told her – how much work running her own household really was. Something bumped the back of her knee, and Sansa successfully resisted the urge to jump.
Instead, she glanced down through her lashes. Ghost was looking up at her – if a direwolf could look sheepish, that was what it would look like. Sansa patted his head, reassuring him. She knew the wolf needed to run, to hunt, and he probably missed Jon, too. She pulled herself together, gave Ghost a final rub, then proceeded in what she hoped was a regal manner to the main table, the enormous wolf at her side. She knew they made a striking picture, and used that in all her dealings with the lords and knights in Winterfell. She was a Stark, she had a direwolf, she was the lady of her ancestral seat.
Ser Davos interrupted her thoughts with a throat-clearing which sounded nervous. At a nod, he spoke.
"My lady, when we regained the keep, you gave orders that many of the Bolton servants should be sent to Wintertown."
She had, at that. She had concentrated on the ones who had enjoyed what Ramsay did, who had benefited from it. Not the ones who only did what they did in fear for their lives, like Maester Wolkan. She tried to scrub from her mind the image of the old woman who'd given her a kind word and a candle, and who was flayed for her troubles. She swallowed, and nodded again.
"Well, not everyone left, my lady."
Two of Jon's men dragged two women towards Sansa, and they immediately dropped to their knees in front of her, sobbing.
"Please, m'lady! Don't make us go to Wintertown!"
Sansa tried to remember who they were, and she had a vague memory of them standing in line with the other servants, and her own thought of how very pretty the housemaids were, now, at Winterfell.
Soon, she knew better. Ramsay kept whores, of course he did. When she'd found out about them, she'd been resentful of the fact that they'd not been beaten on a daily basis. But then Ramsay had told her what would happen to them, what would happen to her, once he'd tired of her.
"I name my dogs after the whores they hunt, my lady," he'd said, the contempt heavy in his voice. "I already have a pup whose name is Sansa. Would you like to meet her?"
Sansa tightened her grip on Ghost's head, where it had been resting, and forced the memories away from her.
"The brothel has been re-opened, I hear," she said, and all the men around her lost interest in the little scene, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats in discomfort. What, did they think she didn't know all their dirty little secrets? She knew that, and much more.
The younger one looked up at her, eyes brimming with tears. "We don't want to do that anymore, m'lady."
The woman didn't say more, but the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Why was she condemning these women to what she had suffered? But they were whores, she thought angrily – this was their life.
A sudden wave of shame washed over her. Had she learnt nothing? She sounded like Cersei, with her phlegmatic shrug over the thought of the women of the Red Keep, of King's Landing, being raped by Stannis's men. Very well, if they wanted to stay, they would stay.
"Can you sew?"
The identical looks of relief on the women's faces made her face heat up with embarrassment. They nodded, and smiled through tears, with one of them trying to tell of the neatness of her stitching before she'd been sold to Lord Baelish.
Sansa forced herself to remain calm, and told Ser Davos to take them to the sewing room – it was more traditional for the lady of the house to supervise the sewing in her solar, but when what they were sewing needed to remain secret, an isolated room in the castle was better.
She murmured in Ser Davos's ear, "Start them off on the cloaks, please, and don't let the other servants bully them. They can't have made themselves popular here when Bolton was lord." She steeled herself, hating her words even as she uttered them. "Threaten them with Ghost, if you think it needful."
Ser Davos raised an eyebrow, but said nothing besides a deferential, "My lady."
Sansa leaned back against the table, wishing she could go back to bed and spend the rest of the day there. In her mind, she could see her father shaking his head at her. No, father, she raged. That was not honourable. But what had honour got her father, besides a block?
Just the mention of Lord Baelish had thrown her into a panic – what if these women were his spies? Even if they weren't, it was further proof of Petyr's collusion with Ramsay. They'd all three of them been bought and sold by Littlefinger, Sansa thought, with some bitterness. There was a nudge at her knee, as Ghost's great head butted her, almost sensing her need for comfort.
She scratched behind his ears, and he huffed happily, until she spotted a servant headed her way. Even though she wanted to stamp her feet and protest, she did not ignore him once he managed to catch her eye, and she resigned herself to not getting any time to herself that day.
"Some ravens arrived, m'lady," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Manderley and Cerwyn looked up, and Sansa exchanged looks with them, as well as Glover. That was the secret phrase they'd arranged if, or when, rather, something happened involving Jon's new status. Sansa gave her letters for Jon to the servant, and followed him out of the hall, telling the lords she needed to speak to the Maester. That too was subterfuge – they would know to join her, but not immediately.
When she left the hall, the servant was about to speak, but she whispered, 'not here', urgently, and quickly walked towards the little room where she and Jon read their letters. In the meantime, Tormund, Lady Mormont, and Alys Karstark had returned from the crypts. She caught Tormund's eye, and did her best to signal that he should follow. She hoped Alys had not seen.
The servant they'd chosen for the task was only told that the King was making alliances to keep the North safe, and so must work in secret. That, and a purse full of coin, seemed to keep his mouth shut. Sansa waited until the others joined them, then nodded at the servant to speak.
"M'lady Stark, the scouts are back – they were sent ranging, as the king instructed."
Sansa nodded, trying to hide her impatience. But the man seemed too frightened to speak.
"They saw a column, heading towards Winterfell. They could only see the front, m'lady – there were some strange men on horseback, savages, they said."
Tormund's eyebrows rose towards his hairline.
"No, not wild- free folk," he continued hastily. "They rode like they and the horses were one. Their hair was long and braided – some even braided their beards! Their weapons were strange. Their clothing was leather, not fur."
Dothraki? How? The Queen had promised, Sansa thought, cursing herself for her childish trust.
"And then," the man continued, "there were some dark-skinned men with spears and shields, and helmets. They were also on horseback, but not as assured as the others. And a few banners, too."
Sansa was almost afraid to ask. She wanted to cover her face in despair. Luckily, Lady Mormont seemed to have sensed her loss of composure.
"Which devices did they see, Beron?"
Sansa had to blink away a few frustrated tears. Gods, she was so bad at this – she hadn't even known the man's name.
Beron answered, eagerly. "It was a golden rose on a green field, m'lady. They swear it. Also . . . " He hesitated, like he thought he would be beaten for what he said next. But Lyanna nodded encouragingly, and so he continued. "A red dragon with three heads."
No-one gasped. Sansa chewed on her lip, and nodded. Ser Davos took Beron aside, and, murmuring in his ear, led him out. There was silence for a few heart beats longer.
"Is this an attack?" Lady Lyanna's voice sounded loud in the silence that had fallen, and Sansa noticed a light tinge to her pale cheeks.
"If it is, we're fucked," Tormund answered, and Sansa glared at him. "Beg pardon. But Jon told me about these Dothrakis buggers and they don't sound very friendly."
Even though Tormund had mangled the pronunciation, Sansa knew what he meant.
Lord Glover rubbed his chin. "In that letter from Queen Daenerys, she spoke of some boon she was granting . . . "
"Then what, we just open t'gates for these foreign butchers? Oh aye, we'll be set for life, then." Cerwyn wasn't helping, Sansa thought, irritated. She needed to think. Why couldn't Beron have given her the news when she was alone?
"No-one said anything about opening the gates, but we need to get closer to see how large the army is – if it is an army." Manderley tried to soothe the other lords, but they refused to be soothed.
"What else could it be?" Cerwyn snapped.
Sansa let the argument wash over her as she thought. It was something she had learned in King's Landing, and practised in this very keep, when Ramsay thought he could break her. He'd had her body, but her mind was elsewhere, far away, working through options in her head. She came to a decision.
"I will go out and meet with them, as we did with Ramsay."
All eyes were on her, most incredulous, and some worried.
"My lady – your Grace – it is far too dangerous! We must wait for the King's return, and then-" Lord Manderley's voice was frantic, and she huffed in annoyance.
"They're already here, my lord! I don't know where Jon is – he was talking of retaking Torrhen's Square, but I do not know if he has succeeded or not. We don't have the time to wait – we must take this opportunity."
Ser Davos was leaning against the door, arms folded. She turned to him.
"What do you say, Ser?"
Ever since he'd known the right way to appeal to Lady Mormont, she'd regretted her earlier dismissal of the Onion Knight.
Ser Davos answered slowly, after some thought. "All the lords must go with you, as a show of strength. Some soldiers from each House will accompany us – I hope it will be enough."
Sansa nodded, and all around her she could see the others agreeing. She just had to change one thing.
"Ser Davos, you must stay here – you and Lady Mormont-" Sansa quickly forestalled the latter, who was already opening her mouth to protest. "My lady, someone needs to be left here, who knows . . . everything."
Lady Mormont agreed, not without frowning, though.
"Let us each prepare separately, and meet at the gate in an hour, my lords."
Sansa knew she had to get some of the painted banners, and she hoped they were dry. Even though some shields were ready, they were much harder to hide than banners, which could simply be rolled up. As soon as Jon came back she would insist the castle would be told the truth. More and more people were getting separate pieces as time went by, and soon rumours would start to spread. Much better if Jon was in control of the information as it spread.
She managed to catch Tormund's eye as the others filed out, and he lingered behind. When he turned to face her, the confidence that had been carrying her forward left her in a rush, and she searched for words.
Tormund cocked his head, and smiled his small secretive smile. "Is there something you want from me, Sansa Stark?"
Jon had talked to her of the free folk, and she knew by now that he would never call her 'lady', let alone 'queen'. The use of her name still distracted her enough that it took her a few heartbeats to get across what she wanted. She licked her lips, cursing herself at the same time. Never show weakness, she could hear Petyr saying, and she pushed the thought aside.
"Yes . . . Tormund."
He grinned, but said nothing more.
"Before the battle, I told Jon that if Ramsay won, I would not come back here alive. I don't think he understood what I was asking of him." This time she cocked her head.
Tormund crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You were asking him to kill you, so that fucker would never get his hands on you again. Pardon my language."
She nodded, ignoring his last words. "Now, Jon isn't here. If the Dothraki attack . . ." Sansa shuddered at the thought. There had been so much talk at King's Landing of those savage horselords.
"That's why you don't want the girl there," Tormund said, his voice breaking into her memories.
"If going to meet them is a mistake, if we've all been tricked by Queen Daenerys . . . why should more people die?"
Sansa looked at him in hope, knowing that this was not the wildling way, that the spearwives would kill anyone who menaced them, or die in the attempt. But she was not a wildling.
"You don't believe that we can fight them?" Tormund asked, and Sansa chewed on her lip, this time, considering.
"It depends on their numbers, of course. But most of the Knights of the Vale are gone, the Northern army is a fragment of what it once was, and the free folk . . ." She hesitated to continue, and then ploughed forward. "Maybe in a siege, we can hold them off. But first I'd want them to think we were much stronger than we really are."
Tormund was nodding. "I will do this, Sansa Stark. If I see that they are preparing to attack, I will kill you. But I hope it won't come to that."
Sansa felt the relief wash over her, and smiled at him through shaky lips. "I wish Jon was here."
"So do I," Tormund said, in such a heartfelt tone that her smile grew. "Now, I'm going to get the men – don't worry, I'll tell them to hold back until I give the signal."
An hour later, Sansa rode out of the castle, flanked by the lords of the North and the Vale, and Tormund joined them, fifty wildlings behind him. Ghost padded along beside her horse, and she wished she could tell him to stay behind – if it came to the worst, the keep would need another fighter, and Ghost was worth five men.
Once they were far enough from the keep, she nodded to the outriders who unfurled the banners she had designed.
None of the lords had seen the new sigil yet, so there were gasps and approving murmurs. Tormund's eyes crinkled as he smiled at her, and she looked at the banners with a critical eye.
She had promised Jon a dragon and a wolf, and there they were, almost entwined, both white. The dragon was rearing and the wolf was snarling, and she hoped it was enough. She'd also worked on a copy of the dragon cloaks the Queen had sent – she'd only managed to sew two, but two would be enough. They were just symbolic, for such an occasion, to convince the Queen's allies that they were allies too.
They trotted at a leisurely pace, to accommodate the free folk, most of whom were on foot, but almost sooner than Sansa had wished, they saw the first outriders.
Sansa chewed her lip again, and forced herself to stop. She must be the icy Queen of the North for this, not a terrified girl. She tried to concentrate, and count the different kinds of warriors that were in front of her, but she could hardly believe the result. Had the scouts been so shocked by seeing foreign invaders that they'd exaggerated the numbers?
There were strange warriors dressed in leathers, on horseback, for sure – but not many. There were dark warriors with spears and helmets, but not many. And yes, here and there, there were soldiers dressed in the colours and carrying the banners of Highgarden. But mostly what she could see were carts – so many carts.
In her musing they had ridden closer, and she reined in her horse before they were too close. An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the wind whipping the banners around.
One of the Highgarden men cleared his throat, and got a bound scroll out of his saddlebag.
"I am authorized to give you a letter from Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons . . ."
As he spoke, his horse stepped forward, and Ghost started a low-level growling in his throat. She could feel Tormund moving in closer, and felt a sudden terror that they would misunderstand a friendly approach.
"Read it to us!" Her voice cut through the man's introductory speech like a knife, and he stopped, looking at the foreign warriors in dismay.
One of the Dothraki and one of the other warriors were standing close together – the man in breastplate and helmet seemed to be translating for the horselord. They simply nodded – or rather, the man with the spear nodded, while the Dothraki sat on his horse, impassive.
The Tyrell man-at-arms unfurled the letter, and scanned it. "Greetings from Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains . . . "
Sansa felt her attention start to wander as the man went through all of the Dragon Queen's titles. There really didn't seem to be many Dothraki. Also, even though they were all on horseback, none of them were reaching for weapons. She wondered who the other foreigners might be until it dawned on her – the men wearing armour must be the fabled Unsullied! Why were they called 'Unsullied', though?
" . . . I send with some of my most trusted soldiers a gift for my nephew Jon Snow, King in the North, a gift of dragonglass, to fight the Night's King, our enemy coming from the Land of Always Winter . . ."
The man's voice faded away as he looked up from the parchment which the rising wind threatened to snatch out of his fingers. There was a look of madness in his eyes, as well as a plea, as though he was begging her to deny what he'd just read. All she could do was nod, confirming the writing in front of him.
"I send," he continued, his voice on the verge of cracking, "food, because Winter has come, and I will not allow my nephew's people to starve. These Dothraki and these Unsullied will be your soldiers now, Nephew – their lives are yours to do with as you please. Until we meet again, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."
The last words came out in a whisper, and were interrupted by the Dothraki's harsh guttural question. The Unsullied translated for him.
"He asks, where is the Khal Jon Snow, kin to Daenerys Stormborn, blood of her blood?"
The Unsullied had a strong accent, but was still easy to understand.
"He is gathering troops." Sansa made sure her voice was as cold as the snow that surrounded them. "I am his wife, Sansa Stark. I decide all matters in his absence."
As soon as the Unsullied stopped talking in the harsh language, the Dothraki grinned, and said, "Khaleesi!", as he pointed at Sansa. He said some more, and when Sansa raised her eyebrows, the Unsullied hurriedly translated, gesturing towards the banners.
"He says that King Jon is the dragon, and you are the wolf, great Queen."
'Great Queen'? Was he mocking her? She looked helplessly towards the Northern lords at her side, and Lord Manderley came to her rescue.
"I am Lord Wyman Manderley, of the White Harbor. Many sailors from distant lands come there. Even some Dothraki crossed the poison water, to come to trade there."
The Dothraki nodded amongst themselves as soon as his words were translated, and listened carefully as he went on.
"One of them told me a saying, which I hear was first spoken by a great Khal: The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."
The silence was almost palpable, now. She could sense weapons being gripped all around her, and her hands tightened into fists on the pommel of her saddle. As the Unsullied translated, the head Dothraki's brow furrowed. The others seemed almost lost in wistful memories, but their leader started speaking urgently, with many gestures.
"He says that life is over, for the Dothraki. They obey Daenerys Stormborn, and she says: no more. They offer themselves to you, Queen Sansa, and King Jon. They are your bloodriders, now."
"Your grace, I can confirm this was said by Queen Daenerys." The Tyrell man, who'd been listening to the exchange, took another scroll out. "It is written here, and she swears it, by Fire and Blood."
Sansa desperately wanted Jon to be there, she desperately wanted to ask someone for advice, anyone. Yes, they needed the dragonglass, and the food, oh, the food. Ser Davos was already talking of looting the countryside for provisions, except there was nothing to loot. Any crops which had been left in the fields were now under a blanket of snow and ice, and so ruined.
But could she trust these men? She wasn't just thinking of the foreigners, she realised. What would happen when Jon came back, Jaime Lannister in tow, and half a hundred Tyrell men were camped outside Winterfell? She would have to speak with the Tyrell man herself, and prepare him for the arrival of his greatest enemy. She managed to sneak a look at Ghost, who had stopped rumbling in his throat, and came to a decision.
"We accept this great gift, in the name of Jon of House Targaryen and House Stark, King in the North, Ruler of the Andals and the First Men, the White Dragon."
She heard a sharp intake of breath around her, and hoped the lords hadn't shown their surprise too openly. No, there had been no time to confer with the lords of the North about Jon's titles, and she was sure that Jon himself would have raised an eyebrow at some of them. At least she hadn't called him 'First of his name' – the one time she'd brought it up, he'd called it a Southron custom which would not be popular here, in the North.
As she rode back to the keep, flanked and followed by friends and strangers alike, she pondered about that. Was she more Southron than Northern? Had she lingered too long away from the North? Well, it wasn't like I had a choice, she told herself, crossly. While they rode, the Tyrell soldier had flanked her.
"M'lady . . . your Grace, I mean . . ."
Ah. That was another explanation she would have to give. Working out who knew the secret and who didn't was starting to give her a headache. She wished she hadn't agreed when Jon had insisted on secrecy, at least until Petyr returned and showed his hand. She opened her mouth to say this, or at least some of it, when she realised she didn't even know this man's name.
"I am Garth, m'lady, begging your pardon." If he had been standing, he would have shuffled his feet. "I am a sergeant in Lady Olenna's army – Lady Tyrell, I should say," he added hastily, looking like he was cursing himself for the oversight.
"How did this come to pass?" Sansa burst out, and then bit her lip. That wasn't very queenly. But the sergeant hadn't noticed her lack of manners, and understood what she was asking.
"They don't tell us much, your Grace. All we knew is that we left King's Landing with Lady Olenna – thank the Seven, the lady insisted on taking most of the army with her – and a few days later, the ravens arrived." He shook his head, his eyes shining, before blinking rapidly, under control once more. "There had been an eruption of wildfire, under the Sept of Baelor." His face was hard, now, like it had been carved out of oak. "Lord Tyrell, Queen Margaery, Ser Loras, many others . . . " He shook his head. "The Sept itself, all of the statues of the gods . . . all gone. The great bell will toll no more."
Sansa slid a look to the side. Was he a poet, this plain sergeant from the Reach? He spoke well enough, for one of the smallfolk. She could hardly believe it – all those families, courtiers, burned to ash. She could not bring herself to be sad about the Sept, though. Her hands tightened on the reins. If she could have, she'd have destroyed it herself. For a heartbeat, she remembered the scene – her poor father, being forced to his knees, tricked into confessing to treason, all to save her. She shook the memory away and, forcing herself to concentrate on the present, looked the sergeant directly in the eyes.
"There are two things that must happen now, Sergeant. First, you must forget all that you have seen in this past hour. I am not Queen, and King Jon is not a Targaryen. Winterfell may have spies who wish us harm, who wish Queen Daenerys harm."
Garth looked puzzled at first, then he nodded slowly. "I will explain to Black Dog. He will tell Vrelo, the Dothraki."
Sansa knew that her eyebrows were soaring into her hairline. "Black . . . Dog?"
The Unsullied in question had drawn close. "Yes, oh Queen?"
Sansa told herself sternly to pull herself together. "Your name – is it tradition?" she managed, weakly.
Black Dog frowned. "When Unsullied were slaves, before Mhysa, our mother, freed us, we were given . . . bad, low names. Every day, a different name. But Queen Daenerys freed us, and told us we could go back to the name we once had . . . before."
Sansa nodded, feeling her insides shrinking in horror, though she was careful to show nothing on her face.
"Some went back to their own name. Grey Worm, our general, kept his slave name, because it was the name he had when Mhysa freed him. But I could no longer remember my name. So I choose a new name." He shrugged. "It matters not. I know who I am."
Garth's mouth had fallen open, and he glared at Black Dog. "What was all that then, on the way here: I not understand, Ser Garth, I stupid Unsullied, Lord Garth! You speak common better than some of my men!"
Black Dog's face remained impassive, though Sansa noted a twinkle in his eye. "In a foreign land, it is sometimes good to appear stupid."
He rode away, and Garth rubbed his forehead. "M'lady, what was the second thing you needed?"
Sansa took her time. This was not going to be easy. On the other hand, she needed to explain this before they reached Winterfell. "King Jon, my husband, is gathering troops. He needs to make alliances, and quickly."
Garth frowned. "Yes, m'lady, you did say that . . ." He stopped himself, abruptly. "Who, then?" he continued, with the air of a man steeling himself for bad news.
"Lord Jaime Lannister." She spoke quietly, afraid of saying the name out loud, as though the birds of the air were going to caw the cursed name to all.
Sansa snuck a look at the sergeant – his jaw was clenched. Occasionally, he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.
"His bitch sister all but destroyed our lady's family, and his father destroyed yours."
"He is not his sister, nor his father," Sansa countered, even though all she wanted to do was agree. "Besides, we need his army."
"He killed King Aerys – if the Queen finds out that he is here . . . "
"She will not find out, Sergeant – not from you." Sansa did not raise her voice, and made sure that no emotion could be heard in it. She'd been told it was rather intimidating. In fact, Garth went pale.
"You will understand me, Sergeant. We are here, in the worst winter for centuries, and we are being attacked by creatures from the old stories, things out of our nightmares. If we stand together, we might have a chance." She winced, hearing the words of House Frey, but ploughed on. "If we fight amongst ourselves, we die. Do you understand, Garth? We all die."
She noticed that it had grown strangely quiet around her – the only sounds were the jingling tack of horses and a murmur which she recognised as Black Dog, translating for the Dothraki. She looked up and saw that even the Northern lords had stopped talking amongst themselves and were staring at her. Good. Perhaps it had been the first time she'd admitted it, out loud; but she believed Jon, and Tormund, and the wildlings.
"Besides, you should be happy that the Lannister army will not return to King's Landing, to defend it."
Sansa tried hard to keep the hatred for Cersei Lannister out of her voice. She wasn't sure she'd succeeded.
They had by now arrived at the gate, and as they approached, it opened, and Ser Davos emerged.
"My lady?" His eyes widened as he saw the long line of carts approaching the keep, the Dothraki with their braided beards and long locks, the clean-shaven, heavily armored Unsullied, and the Tyrell men in green and gold, the rose of Highgarden fluttering above them.
She turned to Garth. "Ser Davos is the castellan of Winterfell. He will direct the distribution of the food and the dragonglass. We will also need to find accommodation for the Tyrell soldiers, I believe."
Ser Davos's eyes widened and the corners of his mouth twitched, as though he couldn't allow himself to be happy, to have hope. She inclined her head, and, though she was speaking to Davos, raised her voice so that even the men on the battlements could hear her.
"The Great Queen Daenerys blesses us with many gifts."
Ser Davos strode forward, followed by some of the servants of the keep, and started directing the men, helped by Tormund, as soon as he understood that the Tyrell soldiers needed to be sent to Wintertown.
Sansa was just about to ride through the gates when Ser Davos gave her an urgent look.
"My lady, wait!"
"What is it?" she asked, but somehow, she knew. It was all too good to be true, wasn't it? Something just had to go wrong.
"My dear Lady Sansa!" The familiar voice, with its indefinable burr which could be from anyplace, really, slithered down her back, causing a shudder.
Petyr Baelish stood in the gateway, smiling. Through the open gate she could see more Knights of the Vale than she remembered being there before she'd left, and now she understood why Ser Davos had seemed so guarded.
He was back, and Jon wasn't here. She forced her lips into a welcoming smile, but prepared herself to avoid his embrace, to feign approval of his plans. Once again, she would start her performance, as she had done in King's Landing, as she'd done in the Vale. For the first time in a long while, she prayed, to the Seven, to the old gods, even to the Lord of Light – whoever was listening. Bring Jon back, she prayed, and bring him back soon.
.
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Notes:
I wanted to bring out that there are duties involved in being the Lady of Winterfell - it's not all wearing kickass outfits and sitting at a long table - hope I was successful!
Also, the 'Dothraki saying' that Lord Manderley shares is one which has been attributed to Genghis Khan - as the Dothraki seem to be ASoIaF version of the Mongol hordes, I thought it fit.