Sansa Stark tried to breathe through her mouth as she watched the survivors from the Battle of Winterfell pile the dead, both their own and the decayed wights the Night King had brought with him, on the common funerary pyres arranged in rows in front of the keep. A pall of grey-black smoke rose from the numerous piles of burning bodies, staining the cold afternoon sky and hiding the winter sun. The stink of burning meat and bone merged with the stench of rotting corpses that still hung over the landscape, making her regret the small cup of soup she'd had for lunch. I will not vomit. If the men out there can stand it, so can I.
"At least the fields will be fertile come spring."
She turned to look at Arya. The smallest (and without a doubt deadliest) Stark was studying the carnage around their home as if watching farmers tending their crops. "How can you say that?" she asked, aware of the bitterness in her tone but unable to stop it. "Those are our people out there."
Arya shrugged. "Trying to see the positive, I suppose. They died, but their ashes will nourish the fields that feed their families. In a way, they'll live on." Her expression was coldly composed. "There are worse ways to look at it."
Sansa couldn't think of one, but she'd never understood how Arya's mind worked in the first place. "I suppose so."
A soft grunt of pain came from behind them. Sansa glanced back at Brienne of Tarth, the newest Knight of the Seven Realms. She had tried to order Brienne to rest, but the tall woman had stubbornly shaken her head. "My place is at your side, my lady," she'd insisted. "My wounds are minor."
Which was an out-and-out lie. None of the surviving soldiers had come through the battle unscathed. Even Samwell Tarly, Jon's bookish, portly friend, had taken gashes and horrible bites on his arms and stomach from the undead attackers. But Sansa well understood that pride was sometimes the last thing a woman had left, so she stayed atop the surviving battlements where Brienne could surreptitiously lean against a wall, and Ayra stayed at her side. Together, the three of them watched the uncounted dead burn.
Earlier, certain deaths had been honored with individual pyres. Theon had received his own pallet, as did Beric Dondarrion and Jon's friend Edd. They would have given the Red Woman a pyre, as well, but her body had collapsed into a fine dust when the men went out to collect it.
Lyanna and Jorah Mormont's pyres had been next to each other, the noble cousins connected in death as they'd been parted in life. Sansa had watched as the dragon queen stood before the flames that consumed Ser Mormont's body. Even from a distance, Daenerys Targaryen's eyes had glittered with tears. Sansa didn't like the woman, but she could appreciate the depth of grief suffered by the little Valyrian.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps in the snow and a soft cough from Brienne. A dark shape in furs joined them at the battlement wall. "I've been told the men should have all the bodies burned by the end of the week," Jon said.
"Good. The last thing we need right now is pestilence." At least nobody would go hungry, she didn't say aloud. After the horrendous losses they took against the Night King's army, the keep's remaining food stores would be more than enough for the survivors. "When do you and Daenerys start for King's Landing?"
Even under his heavy furs she could see Jon stiffen. "I never said we were going to King's Landing."
Sansa wondered if he thought she was truly that stupid. "She lent you her armies to defeat the Night King. Now she'll expect you to help her defeat Cersei and take back the Iron Throne."
He didn't answer her at first, gazing out over the land surrounding the keep and the piles of dead inside their flickering carapaces of flame. "We lost so many," he finally said. "Almost all of the Dothraki, and a goodly number of the Unsullied. If Cersei has the Ironborn fleet and the Golden Company as well as her own men, it'll be a rout. We should stay here, rebuild our numbers."
At last, some sense. "Yes, you should," Sansa said, unable to keep a hint of acid from her tone. "But your dragon queen won't listen to reason. She wants her throne, and she'll expect you to help her get it, no matter the cost."
Jon managed to look angry and guilty at the same time. "You're not being fair to her."
"Really? Then why don't you go and suggest staying here until your forces have recovered?"
She knew he wouldn't. He was too much in thrall to the little blonde queen and her unyielding desire to take the Iron Throne. And so Daenerys would march her forces south, exhausted and reduced as they were, and throw them against King's Landing. And just as the Battle of the Five Kings had ravaged Westeros, so would the Battle of the Four Queens—Cersei, Daenerys, Yara, and herself. Because the North would be drawn into it, she knew that for certain.
Jon's words broke into her thoughts. "Why do you dislike her so much?"
Because all she wants is the Iron Throne. Because she'll use the North to the last man to take it, and you'll stand by and let her. "It's not that I dislike her," she said aloud. "I don't trust her. There's a difference." None of those madfolk from House Targaryen were fit to rule, as far as she was concerned. "Have you contacted Yara?"
He nodded. "A raven this morning. I've asked her to gather her ships and sail for King's Landing. But Euron still holds the majority of the Ironborn fleet."
Sansa imagined the black-sailed ships with their golden emblem guarding the maritime entrance to the capital. "As you said, a rout. And you won't have me to bring in an army to help you this time."
He flushed. "What do you want me to do, Sansa? Daenerys gave up her best chance at the throne to come help us. Without the Dothraki and Unsullied, we'd all be dead."
"Aren't you forgetting someone?"
They both turned to Arya. "No, of course not," Jon muttered in apology. "It was your blow that killed the Night King, I know that. But Daenerys's men held off the wights long enough for you to reach him. Now, we have to help her retake the Iron Throne. It's only fair."
Sansa knew she wouldn't be able to talk him out of it. His sense of honor was too ingrained, too much like their father's. And she was afraid it would get Jon killed as well, if Daenerys Targaryen decided that his love was a hindrance in her goal to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Who are you taking with you?"
He shifted. "In addition to the remnants of the Dothraki and Unsullied, any wildlings that will come, and as many men as you can spare."
"We need enough to finish burning the bodies and repair the keep. And Brienne stays with me."
He glanced at the tall woman. "It would be easier if you all came with us."
He clearly had no idea of what she'd gone through as a hostage of the Lannisters. Not for all the gold in Casterley Rock would she go anywhere near King's Landing again. "I'm the Lady of Winterfell. This is my home and my responsibility. I'm staying here."
Jon nodded wearily. "What about you, Arya?"
Her sister glanced at her, then at Brienne. "That's up to Sansa."
His shoulders sagged under the thick fur collar. "All right. I need to go talk to the quartermasters, see how they're progressing." With a brusque nod, he left.
Sansa considered her sister. "Do you want to go to King's Landing?"
Something inside Arya's expression hardened. "I'd like to. I have unfinished business there. But I won't leave you unprotected."
The stink on the cold wind grew for a moment and Sansa winced. "The greatest threat here was the Night King, and he's gone. I'll have our soldiers and the local workers, as well as Brienne. I should be safe. If you want to go south, go south."
"Good—"
"On one condition." If she couldn't rely on Jon's common sense, she'd have to rely on Arya's. "I want you to keep an eye on Jon. He may be blinded by his love for the dragon queen, but I'm not. I don't trust her."
Arya smiled. It wasn't a humorous expression. "I don't trust anyone."
The stink and the rising smoke, plus Brienne's increased coughing, finally convinced Sansa to come down from the battlements. Arya slouched off into the shadows while Sansa stopped in the Great Hall to check on the arrangements for the celebratory feast that night. Even tired and grieving, the keep's servants were all skilled in their jobs; after a few minutes of her wandering around they respectfully shooed her out, saying, "You've done so much already, my lady. You should rest."
Rest. Gods, she wanted to rest, but her body kept driving her to move, to check on the corridors and rooms of Winterfell and make sure that not a single wight remained hidden somewhere. But she was also conscious of Brienne's increasingly limping tread behind her. She decided to retreat to the godswood, where the knight could take a seat near the entrance while she walked through the sacred grove. While Sansa didn't pray anymore, she hoped she might yet find something there that would help her understand what her world had become.
After settling Brienne in a battered chair that had a good view of the godswood, Sansa walked into the winter-bare grove, letting the familiarity of the trees work a balm over her soul. When she spotted a familiar figure under the giant weirwood tree, she had to smile. "Hello, Bran. Am I disturbing you?"
Her younger brother raised his distracted gaze at her approach. "No. I was expecting you."
Of course he was. Bran was the Three-Eyed Raven, after all, gifted with the ability to peer back and forth through time. "I mean it. If you need to be alone—"
"I don't."
"All right, then." She leaned against his wheeled chair, studying the trampled snow around the weirwood tree. Here and there she could see crimson stains half-melted into the icy crystals. Heart's blood, given by Theon and the Ironborn guards who had protected Bran while he sat there staked out like prey for the Night King.
Who lay even now beneath their feet, rendered into shards of ice by Arya's blade. Sansa shuddered at the thought. "Wouldn't you be warmer inside?"
Bran didn't move. "The cold doesn't bother me. I don't feel very much these days."
She didn't know what to say to that. "Are you … seeing things?"
"Yes. The future, the past. The pattern of it all."
What she was searching for—a pattern to make sense of things. "What have you seen for me?" she asked, half joking.
"Your children, playing in the courtyard here at Winterfell."
"My … children?" The idea shocked her, and then made her wonder at her own shock. She had been focused for so long on survival, reuniting her family and holding the North together against the undead threat, that she'd forgotten about the other, more homely aspects of being a woman. She could live quite happily without marrying again, but she knew someone would have to provide heirs for House Stark, as Bran wouldn't be able to and Arya didn't seem the motherly type. "What were they like?"
Bran thought for a second. "Very tall, with dark eyes. They looked to be fine warriors."
So much for the Tully coloring. "Tall, dark-eyed warriors. I suppose that crosses Lord Tyrion off my list." Sansa said it with a flicker of regret. Her childish aversion to Tyrion's stature had vanished long ago, replaced by a deep respect and affection for the brilliant little man who had survived so much to become Hand of the Queen. If it hadn't been for his existing allegiance to Daenerys and the undeniable fact that the North would go up in flames if she married a Lannister, she might even suggest that they resume their marriage. "What else did you see about my children?"
Bran's mouth didn't move, but somehow he gave the impression that he was smiling. "They were all Starks."
That made no sense. "That's impossible. If I marry again, I'll have to take my husband's name."
"No. Your husband and consort will take your name. Your children, the heirs of Winterfell, will be Starks."
His statement echoed her own secret wish so strongly that she wondered for a moment if she'd misheard him. It was only right that the future Lords (or Ladies) of Winterfell would be Starks, but she couldn't see any of the surviving noblemen of Westeros willingly giving up their family names, even for her hand. "I don't suppose you can tell me where to find this paragon among men?" she said, trying for a dry tone.
"He's here at Winterfell."
That surprised her even more. "Ah. How convenient. Perhaps I should have runners sent out to look for a tall, dark-eyed nobleman who would be willing to marry me and take my—"
She broke off, staring at Bran. Because he was right. There was someone matching that description at Winterfell who she suspected would be more than willing to take the name of Stark if it came with her hand in marriage. A thrill of fear and something else, something she refused to acknowledge, ran through her at the idea. On the surface, it seemed impossible—he was scarred, rough, uncouth, with a foul mouth and an even fouler temper—
The words left her mouth before she could stop them: "You're telling me I'm going to marry Sandor Clegane."
Bran stared back, composed.
"Sandor Clegane," she repeated, louder now. "The Hound. The man who led Lannister forces to slaughter our bannermen in King's Landing, who kidnapped Arya, who regularly terrified me—"
"Who protected you, even when it would have been easier to turn his back on you." Her younger brother's expression didn't change. "Who gave you his handkerchief to blot your blood, and his cloak to cover your body. He dreams of you, as you dream of him. He will be the father of your children."
She flinched from Bran's words, the humiliating secret in them. She had never told anyone, not Shae, not even Arya, about her dreams of the Hound. They had been too raw, too primal, completely inappropriate for a noblewoman.
But part of her had treasured them nonetheless. "I can't marry him," she said, half to herself. "He's a brute."
Her brother blinked once, slowly. "He's not what you were raised to want in a husband. But now you know monsters can hide behind a pretty face as easily as an ugly one. And while Sandor Clegane is a killer, he isn't a monster. He may frighten you, but he draws you at the same time. He's a match to the darkness inside you."
She remembered Ramsay's last taunts about being inside her, becoming part of her. It's not true. I have no darkness inside me. I'm a good woman. I protect my family and my people. I deserve a good man, a kind man.
Yes, but do you want a good man? Was that Littlefinger's voice, or her own? Would a good man want her? She'd set those starving dogs on Ramsay and walked away smiling as his agonized screams rang in her ears. She'd sat there as Arya slit Littlefinger's throat, watching coolly as his blood pooled on the flagstones of the great hall. She had stood in the crypt the night before, listening to her own men plead to be let in, to be saved from the horrors that waited outside, and ignored them. She had learned how to be ruthless, how to achieve her ends. She had learned how to survive.
Perhaps she needed someone who also knew how to survive.
The ever-growing political side of her mind circled the idea, poking experimentally. He tried to protect me from Joffrey. He would have taken me from Kings Landing the night of the Blackwater, if I'd had the wits to go. He rode north with Jon and the others to bring back a wight. He helped save Arya, and by doing that she was able to save us all. And he would never hurt me. A renowned warrior who fought in the Battle of Winterfell, he would be held in high regard by her allies and feared by her enemies. He had no interest in ruling and wouldn't try to usurp her power as Lady of Winterfell. And their children would undoubtedly become skilled fighters, particularly if their aunt Arya took them in hand and passed along some of her more esoteric training. If he was truly willing to take the name of Stark…
Of course, your name isn't the only thing he'll take. She wondered if Bran knew of the dream she'd had that morning after finally collapsing into bed, too exhausted to wash or even change out of her gown. In it, she had been back in her rooms at King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater, the light from one flickering lantern and the greenish glow of wildfire the only illumination against that scream-filled night. And just like that night, the Hound had emerged from the room's shadows, his scarred face smeared with mud, sweat, and blood as he loomed over her.
Heart fluttering in her chest, she assumed that he was using the keep's confusion to indulge himself in the restless craving she'd always sensed from him, claiming her maidenhead before Joffrey could. Instead, he'd shocked her witless by offering to get her away from the Lannisters and King's Landing, and take her home to Winterfell.
Gods, she'd been frightened by him, so very frightened. It was why she had said no, believing desperately that Stannis Baratheon would win the battle and free her from the Lannisters. And so the Hound left her bedroom, and left her to her fate. But something deep inside her, some wild part of her she never wanted to acknowledge, had wanted to go with him that night. So in her dream she'd said yes, dropped the doll that was the last remnant of her childhood, and taken his hand. In the dream he'd gotten her out of the Red Keep, his heavy, vambraced arm holding her snug against him as he guided Stranger through the heaving, frightened crowds trying to flee the capital. They'd made it further into the Crownlands, finally stopping by a copse of trees to camp for the night. And then—
Hands. Mouth. A warm, heavy body on hers, making her feel protected. Words whispered in her ear, damp and tickling. She'd woken up breathless, an unfamiliar need throbbing between legs that in her dream had been locked around Sandor Clegane's naked hips as he drove into her, making her his own—
"He won't hurt you."
Bran's words startled her. Damn you, stop peering into my thoughts. "How can you know that?" she added out loud.
Her brother's face remained preternaturally serene. "You and Arya are the only people he cares about."
"You're telling me he cares about Arya?" Her breath puffed into vapor. "He kidnapped her, Bran. He dragged her across half of Westeros trying to sell her back to our family. And then he turned her into a killer."
"Yes. He was the teacher she needed, in order to become the woman she was meant to be. If he hadn't taken her, we would all be dead now." Bran's lips pursed faintly. "Or worse."
Sansa tried to find a retort to that, and couldn't. If Arya hadn't spent time with the Hound learning how to be a killer, then honed that skill to a fine edge in Essos, the Night King would have won his battle against mankind. And if that had happened, they would all be marching south right now, blue-eyed and locked in eternal servitude.
She turned, focusing on the godswood around them. "I'll accept that he cares about Arya. But he doesn't care about me. Not like that—"
"'You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you're queen and I'm all that stands between you and your beloved king.'" Bran's light, toneless voice leached Clegane's deadly promise from the words. But she still heard it as if the Hound was looming over her again in his Kingsguard armor, reminding her of what she could look forward to in her marriage to Joffrey.
And how he would be there for her, nonetheless.
Sandor Clegane had terrified her, yes. But he had also tried to help her in his own crude way, had offered to rescue her from the Lannisters and take her home. It was her own childish beliefs that had put her in Littlefinger's grasp, and later Ramsay Bolton's. She understood that now, just as she understood that her fear of the Hound had been rooted in the desperate, angry desire she'd seen in his eyes.
But that desire doesn't frighten you any longer. You've known actual monsters, been pinned down by them while they whipped you, bruised you, pushed into you and made you bleed. At least Clegane doesn't want to hurt you. He simply wants you. And the gods know you've dreamed about him often enough.
"What do you suggest I do?" she said, willing herself to calm.
Bran's chin came up a fraction. "I think you know."
She did. The Hound—Sandor, she would have to get used to thinking of him as Sandor—would never dream of asking for her hand. She would have to broach the topic. "When?"
"Soon, before he leaves for the south."
Damn. She hadn't expected him to join Jon and Daenerys on their foolish quest. It would have to be today, then. She knew of a septon helping the wounded and the refugees. He could perform the ceremony here in the godswood, with a group of witnesses to solemnize the event. And it wasn't as if she needed to ask permission from her father, or any man for that matter. She was Lady of Winterfell, after all.
Now all she had to do was get her prospective groom to marry her. So why do I have the distinct feeling he's going to be difficult about it?
Bran smiled. "Because he's a walking, talking reservoir of foul-tempered contrariness. But I have faith in your persuasive skills."
She had to laugh at that. "I'm glad someone does." Giving her brother an ironic curtsey, she left the godswood, mind on the daunting task ahead of her.