CHAPTER 36
SANSA
Winterfell. Sansa was finally here, in her family's castle. It was early morning, and light streamed in through the windows to illuminate her reflection in the round wall mirror that once belonged to her mother. Sansa's own deep blue eyes were sharper than when she left the Eyrie, her face thinner and more stern-looking than she remembered. She was pleased that she had no wrinkles or blemishes, her face a smooth blank canvas on which to write her expression. Since she had left this castle as a child she had wanted nothing but to return, and now that she was finally home she found the girl she once was gone. In her place, the fierce woman staring back at her from the mirror.
So many things had changed, but others stayed the same. Jeyne, who had been her handmaid since she was a girl, again now plaited her hair and dressed her. The girl had been traumatized some by the Boltons and was shyer and meeker than Sansa remembered. But their reunion was a happy one. They slept together as they had as children, whispering of their happiness at being home together again and shedding some tears over their dead fathers. The sense of trust and camaraderie was renewed between them.
But not being able to sleep next to Sandor agitated Sansa. He and Pod slept near the entrance to the tower she was in now, in the biggest room of the Great Keep, along with her lords and most of their men-at-arms. There was an easy peace between people as they all sought to rebuild stronger the fragile trust that once bonded them together as Northmen. With Ned Stark's daughter set to rule, they could try to repair it. Under such sensitive political conditions, she could not send for Sandor to warm her bed at night.
The situation made Sansa nervous. Winterfell was still in structural disrepair—a mirror of the North's civil stability. Who were her true allies? Which northerners had served the Boltons willingly? Who served from fear and who from love? She had to sort it all out.
She took solace in the fact that the smallfolk loved her. Sansa felt confident in that. All the residents of Wintertown, from the ones working in Winterfell's kitchens who had risked their lives to open the Hunter's Gate for her and all the animals, to the ones who had never seen the Stark princess before her return, spoke of her with reverence and devotion. She was the rightful heir to the North and even the Old Gods had intervened on her behalf. But she would need the support of all the lords in the North to keep the land for her, some of whom already whispered that she was a witch.
Sansa dressed in her house colors and thanked Jeyne, who stayed behind to tend to domestic and organizational tasks. The Stark family rooms had to be repurposed, and a pile of instructional letters grew on Sansa's desk. She followed the spiral staircase down to the Great Keep, where Sandor waited for her.
The mood here was completely different. People were busy and lively, if a tad uncertain. Many had taken up projects to try and impress her, and the smallfolk worked with renewed vigor. The battle lines are being drawn, Sansa knew, even if there were no more battles to be fought. They would happen at court, under the guise of polite society and as intrigue. It was a game she was not afraid to play.
The first order of business was to send Brienne away to take back Moat Cailin. No one suspected this bold act of war against the Lannisters to be Sansa's first declaration. Some well-meaning bannermen tried to talk her out of it, but she stayed her hand at them—she had no time to explain it all, only to ask who could send loyal northerners to help Brienne.
The Umbers seemed worried about the plan and spared a few seasoned men, but the Karstarks offered rather too many—Sansa thought they probably planned to defect to the Lannisters once they got there. That might work in Brienne's favor, too. Lyanna Mormont could only offer two, but the northern clans rallied and Sansa sent Brienne south with a host of just over sixty men.
Everyone who came with the Boltons or the Freys and had been at the wedding was dead, but there were many petty servants who hadn't been at the feast. They awaited their fates in Winterfell's dungeons, and Sansa meant to swell their numbers before she dealt with them. Every northern lord or representative who had come to Bolton's wedding was now at her court, and she forced them to answer, publicly, where their true loyalties lie.
She questioned everyone. She found it was sometimes better to speak with lesser men and servants to get a more complete picture of a lords' intentions. The magic of the Gods had cowed them all, but Sansa had to know if it was relief at being liberated or fear of being found out that made them grovel before her. Everyone spoke of the wrath of the Gods, but only the highborn had witnessed it. She needed only friends here—because once the lords left Winterfell and returned to their homes, they had to rule their lands in her stead.
She found Bolton loyalists in the Karstark, Ryswell, and Glover camps. The Hound dragged them down to the dungeons to be with their brethren. It made for a dramatic show every time, and Sansa rather enjoyed it. Her court's numbers thinned, but they grew in strength. Those left had no doubt that she was a capable ruler with a firm grasp of power.
When Arnolf Karstark was taken by the Hound, his niece Alys spoke up in front of everyone.
"More than a few of our own Northmen are in the dungeons now. What will become of the prisoners? Will they be executed, as was Roose Bolton, Your Grace?"
"No," Sansa answered. "If the Gods wanted them dead, they would be. They are still Northmen and I will deal with them as Northmen."
In the meantime, men sought to play the game of thrones, as they were wont to do. To an extent, she let them. The cultural landscape was changing—with so many men dead there were many female heads of houses now, including herself. She issued a formal decree cementing their rights. The North needed more babies to replace the depleted population, so she considered it a blessed sign that there were three betrothals at her court by the end of the week. Eddara Tallheart promised to marry the Glover boy, and Sansa noticed that Lady Cerwyn was quite taken with young Brandon from the mountain clans. Manderly's Maester—who now planned to stay on as Sansa's—sent word back to White Harbor with a dramatic account of the Wild Wedding and finished with an inquiry to his lord's granddaughters. He assured Sansa the two girls would need better matches than the now-dead Freys they were betrothed to. This also brought up the issue of Sansa's marriage to Tyrion—Maester Manderly promised to get it annulled by the High Septon, so no one dared hold that ugly chapter of Sansa's life above her head.
And every day there was more to do. In a happy twist of fate her uncle Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, turned out to be hiding among the smallfolk of Wintertown. Although Sansa and her uncle had never met, he wept at the sight of her for her resemblance to Catelyn. Sansa was more reserved at first but quickly warmed to him for his wise council. He brought with him the archer Anguy, who promised to teach all her defenders how to shoot. Sansa wondered what happened to Theon, and all the others she had known.
Finally, Sansa met with Val. She was a few years older than Sansa and beautiful, with a long golden braid that fell across one shoulder of her all-white outfit. Some called her the Wildling princess. It had been her camp that Sansa and Lyanna Mormont met in just before they fought at Winterfell's Hall. It had been her man, Tormund Giantsbane, who stood by Sansa with Sandor when they first broke in. The Wildlings' strong involvement in the takeover had put the northerners on edge, but Val was easy on the eyes and this eased their suspicions greatly. Many men sought her eye.
She entered Sansa's court and, to the surprise of many, knelt. Sansa jumped up from the dais and went down to meet her.
"Val! It is said that the Free Folk do not kneel. You do not need to bow to me. After all, I have heard it said that you are a princess, too."
"No, Your Grace." Val took Sansa's hands in hers and rose up. "Not as you are." She looked defiantly at the northern lords. "Let it not be said that my kind do not know courtesy, or are barbaric, just for holding freedom sacred."
Sansa gave a proper curtsy as she would if Val had been of equal birth to her. "My kingdom is honored to host you. Without your people's help, I would not have won my battle against the Boltons. Let everyone know that the people from beyond the Wall helped take Winterfell back for the Starks, and let this be the beginning of a sacred friendship between us."
They performed a ceremony to mark Val's as a noble house sworn to the Starks, tying their wrists together with a leather thong. This was marked by much cheering and Sansa felt that the Wildlings, despite the cultural prejudices on both sides, would be able to integrate into the kingdom. Sansa spoke to her new friend above the noise.
"I didn't know if the Free Folk would follow a woman."
Val winked at her. "I said the same of these Southrons."
They held hands and all followed them as they headed to the Great Hall for a feast. The smallfolk had spared no expense since Sansa had told them that this was the last time she would host so many northern lords together for many years. They used many perishables from the kitchen's winter storeroom, slaughtered most of the Frey and Bolton horses—they couldn't keep so many of the animals through winter—and she allowed some fishing in the wolfswood.
Sansa sat the High Table between Val and Alys. More folk from from her sworn houses sat next, and farther down were important people from her court like Sandor and the Maester. The Great Hall filled with people for the feast, all the way to servants who took turns dining at a table in the back. Sansa wished they could have some music and decided she would offer a home to the first bard that passed this way. Would that it be before Spring.
The mood was jovial and even though Sansa was among her loyal and true bannermen she kept a somber countenance. It befitted a Stark, but the truth was she played the game of thrones better than anyone here. She had been trained by Littlefinger and Cersei. She knew her next move, and it pained her.
It seemed inevitable, as the wine loosened their tongues, that talk would turn to the prize that came with defeating the Boltons—the Dreadfort. The topic traveled up the table until Alys leaned over to be heard by the lords discussing its fate.
"In the dungeon here we have more men than hold the Dreadfort. It was left with a garrison of only fifty. It will be no trouble to take the castle for ourselves!"
"Such is the fate of the Boltons—dead!" Young Brandon slammed his goblet on the table and the mountain clans cheered.
"But who will keep it? And who can take it?" Pod voiced the question that was on many lords' minds. Sansa sighed. The Stark loyalists left felt too confident about their positions, she felt. The fighters all talked like they expected to be made part of her Queensguard, though she didn't have one, and some wondered openly who she would marry—not if. She noticed eyes sometimes peering between her and Sandor, trying to distinguish if the rumors about them were true. She stared at him openly now. Sandor, please forgive me.
"Send me!" Hothor Umber rose on his aging feet. "The Umbers are the fiercest of your bannermen, Your Grace. We can take the Dreadfort for you."
This was met with raucous outcries from every other proud noble house with any martial renown, eager to be considered for the honor. Alys stood up to be heard better. "Send the Karstarks, for we have the most men."
"Send me, Your Grace," Lord Ryswell, who was the scheming Lady Dustin's father, stood now, too. "A siege in wintertime is a poor strategy. This situation calls for a smooth tongue that will convince the garrison to surrender."
"No, Your Grace! Send me!" The heads of houses shouted over each other.
"Silence!" Sansa felt her face grow hot at the exertion—she had a soft, feminine voice, and it pained her to raise and strain it. The table quieted, and Sansa shared their embarrassment. She was reminded that she was one person, a young woman, with only a tenuous hold on power—even Robb, her strong older brother, had not played this game well enough to avoid a grisly fate.
"The fate of the Dreadfort has already been decided. Do you think the Gods sent me against the Boltons to hear matters of succession? Are we so arrogant that we speak of it as we dine where Ramsay's body lay?"
Remembering the Gods' justice, the lords were cowed. Ramsay had died on this very table, ripped apart by wolves.
"Fate has been merciful to all of us," Sansa reminded them. "None of you were unquestionably loyal to the Starks. Every one of you is guilty of helping the Boltons in one way or another. Even little Lyanna Mormont, who has proven a true friend, and whose family has been allied with me unquestionably for generations. Even she I caught trespassing on my family's land with the intent to steal! If anyone here considers themselves less blameless than Lyanna, a child a full score younger than myself, let him speak now!"
The tables were silent, and little Lyanna, who kept her bear cub with her always like a loyal dog, brought it up to her lap to console herself from being stared at.
Sansa bowed her head. "Let us ask for duty before prizes."
The high table toasted to it, and it followed through the room. She saw that Sandor joined in. I wish he hadn't drank, she thought. Though it was the first she'd seen him take that night, it made her nervous for what she was about to do.
She spread her arms wide to address the room. "I promise you, have faith in me, and all will be rewarded as fit. But I know the issue weighs heavy on many of you, so let me address the fate of the Dreadfort and the Bolton loyalists in the dungeons."
She turned to Val, the snow-white Wildling princess. "Val of the Free Folk, for your unquestionable loyalty to me and the immeasurable contribution of your people to my cause, I want you to keep the Dreadfort."
Many of the lords were startled, but Val smiled and bowed with flawless courtesy as she addressed the other heads of houses. "We must settle a land and have no wish to take it from your other bannerman. May they see the wisdom of your decision!"
The lords murmured that if the Wildlings were to stay in Westeros, this was fair.
Sansa took a deep breath. "And as for the prisoners. Alys, although your uncle and others betrayed me, I do not wish more bloodshed in Winterfell's halls. There is a way for men to regain some of their honor, even traitors such as those we deal with now. There is a way for them to redeem themselves." Then, she looked at the Hound. "Sandor Clegane. Here is a man who has fought for my enemies and sought redemption for his past crimes."
To her surprise, he spoke up and did not sound surprised as he addressed her. "Aye. You want me to take the Dreadfort, with the prisoners. Is that it?" And she thought she heard sarcasm in his final words. "You'll pardon us if we survive the battle?"
"No," she winced, realizing with a pang that he already suspected some of her plan. How could he know that I meant to send him away? she wondered, troubled, but buried the feeling so that she could speak clearly and with conviction. "No, I want you to take them north. I want you all to take the Black."