Chapter 20

Bronn felt apprehensive as he saw the castle in the distance, a smudge of charcoal gray on the horizon. Sansa, he knew, was eager to get back home, but he had several reasons for being nervous, not just the ones that he'd told her about, either.

The North was not a friend to him. It never had been. The South wasn't all too kind, either, but the North held some particular resentments against him.

He wasn't entirely sure if there was anyone at Castle Stark that would know him. Normally, he would have brushed it off and not worried about it, but now he knew that there was the distinctive possibility of encountering previous…encounters. People had been settled there for a while, after all, and not all of them friendly with the Starks. Which meant that they were even less friendly with him. Great. He was really looking forward to meeting the family.

"So," he said, breaking the silence between them as they rode. "Which one of your brothers is taking care of things at home?"

Sansa bit her lip.

"Bran. Currently."

Ah. Not exactly the best situation to be walking into. He knew the boy's infirmity. However, they would have to make do. Besides, Sansa had escaped the Lannisters with the help of a Knight…well, an up-jumped sellsword. Again, that fact reared its ugly head and he tried to push aside the stubborn voice that kept on telling him to duck out now while he still could. It was practically instinct for him to run, but he quieted the voice firmly by keeping Sansa in the forefront of his thoughts.

Not sure of what to say, he said, "Well, then. Stark men grow up a might bit quicker than those down south." He pulled up next to her, their' horses keeping pace with each other, and added reassuringly, "I bet he's doing just fine, Sansa. He's a Stark, after all."

She nodded, swallowed, and then settled her gaze once more on the horizon.

He followed her silently, dropping back with Brego. The sellsword knew that there wasn't anything more that he could say to assuage her fears. Just because she was older, it did not guarantee that they would listen to her, both of them knew, but Bronn knew what she was truly capable of. If anyone could restore House Stark, it would be her. She had all the makings of a leader, and he knew that Sansa could inspire fierce loyalty in almost anyone. She'd done it with him, after all; the man who swore no allegiance.

Too quickly, they were at the gates.

"Who goes there? Announce yourself!" yelled down a voice that sounded far too young to be a guardsman, no more than a boy.

Sansa dropped her hood, and before she could say a word, they both heard a much older voice bellow, "You fool! It's the Lady Sansa! Open the fuckin' gate!", and the gate was being opened, and she and Bronn rode in, and Bronn took quick inventory of their surroundings, prepared to drag her out of there if it meant her safety. They didn't know what they were walking into.

However, all of his fears fell flat at the sound of a loud cheer and several people running towards them with open arms, no weapons to be found, several of them calling out Sansa's name as if they had grown up with her…and, from the way she smiled and spoke to a few of them with a fond smile on her lips, that was most likely the case. His hand lost some of its' grip on the hilt of his sword, but he let his fingers linger, just in case. Again, he was not taking any chances.

Then a burly, slightly intimidating man walked out through a pair of large doors with a young boy on his shoulders. The boy, who was no more than eleven, called out to her.

"Sansa!"

She looked up and her eyes brightened, and that was when Bronn saw the first genuine smile he'd ever seen on her face stretch across her lips.

"Bran!"

Oh, so that was the young Stark lord. Bronn was slightly confused at hearing the burlish man say in a loud, booming voice, "Hodor!", but his hand completely let go of his sword when the young lord said to the man that he sat upon, "I know, I'm excited to see her, too, Hodor. But we must maintain leadership. Sansa will take my place, after all."

Good to know. They rode up a few more steps, and then after glancing around the courtyard one more time, Bronn dismounted. He felt a bit safer on the ground, to be honest. As he looked around them, waiting to see a surly glance or a resentful look shot in his direction, he was relieved to see none. Good. That meant that everyone here was a supporter of the Stark family and would not ask questions about who she was traveling with.

Before he could say a word, a young man approached them, bowed low, and then requested, "Let me take your horses for you. I will make sure that they are well taken care of and that your items are delivered to your separate quarters…"

Sansa spoke up as she slid down off of Zmaj, and said, "All of our supplies and items should be taken to the main bedchamber," and the boy nodded and bowed a second time, while Bronn looked at her with a raised eyebrow, a small smirk forming on his lips.

"Planning on takin' advantage of me, my lady?" he said low into her ear as soon as he was close enough, pleasantly surprised at how open she had just been about their relationship, but instead of a blush or a stammered out halting excuse, she shot back, "You're my defense, Bronn. They may show loyalty now, but that means nothing for the time being. My father's enemies are many, and we have inherited those as well any who are loyal to Joffrey. I will not take any risks…"

He was surprised. That was very well thought out reasoning, which means that it had been lingering on her mind for some time. She was thinking like a leader.

Good for her.

She stepped forward through the courtyard which was covered in a light dusting of snow, brushing past the crowd, and Bronn followed close behind her, protecting her just as she'd asked him to. Not that she never needed to ask him. He would have done it regardless their circumstances. He was her sellsword after all.

They strode into the main hall, which was of a decent size with two fires blazing brightly at either side of the room.

Several older men were up on the dais and looked more than shocked to see her walking up to them, her hand on the hilt of her blade, her footsteps loud and solid. Certain. Of course, they were shocked, Bronn thought to himself. When she had left, she had been a spoiled girl with starry-eyed dreams of marrying a prince and becoming a queen…but now she walked into her home with none of the girlish fantasies lingering in her head, wearing sweat covered riding leathers and white rabbit fur mantle still stained with blood from their fight, with cold steel on her waist and a burning fire behind her eyes.

"Uncle," she acknowledged one of the men, and he nodded and walked down to her, and she hesitantly added with a soft quiver in her voice, "…I'm home."

He reached for her hands and held them both in his own…and then softly replied, "Thank the gods above," and pulled her into a firm embrace. He let a few tears escape, and a few slid from the corner of her eye, as well, until she shook her head and slowly pulled back from his arms.

She paused for a moment, and then said, "I am here to…to lead House Stark. I know it's not…proper," she stressed the word, "As I am only a woman, but considering our circumstances-"

One of the older men up on the dais suddenly interrupted her.

"Of course, you will lead this house, Lady Stark!" he proclaimed loudly, and he stood up abruptly, his wooden chair scraping loudly against the stone. "We would follow you to war if you would command it," he added in a rough, cracked voice. "You are not only your mother's daughter, you are also your father's, and our loyalty is absolute."

He slapped his right fist up to the left side of his chest and shouted, "Long live House Stark!"

The three other men up on the dais and her uncle all echoed him and did the same.

"Long live House Stark!"

Just as they called out, there was a loud outcry from the courtyard, sounding like fear, and then the doors to the hall suddenly blew open…and there stood Nymeria, breathing heavily, her shoulders taking up most of the doorway, snow falling off her muzzle, and Bronn grinned. Now that was an entrance.

Her uncle watched in surprise as his niece approached the massive wolf, who nuzzled her head into Sansa's palm as if it were a pup, and Bronn felt a surge of pride.

Yes. Sansa was meant to lead this family. Of that he was certain.

"The wolf…your sister's…?"

Sansa nodded, and her uncle nodded back.

One of the other men on the dais, one that was slightly more hunched than the rest, slowly stood up on stick legs and said in a surprisingly loud and steady voice, "It is one of the prophecies fulfilled!" and they all looked at him, except for Sansa, whose eyes ducked low, as if embarrassed. "As it says, "the wolf will stake her claim and the heir to the North will bear fang and fire on either side,"", he recited. He then waved a hang in Bronn's direction and inquired, "Your name, sir?"

Feeling awkward, but knowing better than to be flippant, the sellsword gave a partial bow and answered, "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, milord."

"Lie!" the man exclaimed, stepping down off that platform with a heavy limp. "Try again!"

Bronn looked confusedly over at Sansa, but her brow was furrowed, looking just as confused as he was, so he hesitantly corrected himself and tried, "Bronn, son of no one important…sellsword who's travelled North of the Wall," he started to say, using the words that Sansa had used to describe him. "And…" He spread his left hand out, his right fingers still on his hilt, at a loss for words, but then managed to add, "…rescuer of the heir to the North."

The man gave him a stern glare and firmly stated, "Almost true. One lie." He then approached Bronn and came uncomfortably close to him, and put a finger in front of his face and asked, "Why do you lie about your bloodline, boy?" Boy? He was calling him boy? The old man breathed in his face and added, "The weirwood tells only truths and the old gods will never bleed for you should you lie…"

Bronn looked over at Sansa, but she regarded with him a stern look that said to answer the man's question.

Squaring his shoulders, he cleared his throat and lifted his chin.

Fine. They wanted the truth, they could have it. But Bronn held no notions of them wanting him in their keep much longer after his confession. The only person he'd ever told was Tyrion, and even that had been taking too much of a risk.

"I am Bronn, son of Tren, son of Atreus, son of Aegor…son of Maegor."

A collective sound of shuddered gasps of surprise filled the hall, and above it all there was Sansa's uncle, who glared at him and bellowed, "You dare claim to come out of a line that does not exist?", and Bronn, unable to help himself, quipped, "Maybe not on parchment, but I still got the scars and brand from my father to prove it, if you care to take a glance."

Her uncle continued to glare at him…and then looked at Sansa.

"You knew of this?"

The sellsword was taken back when she looked her uncle firmly in the eye and lied without hesitation, "Of course."

Nymeria stood next to her and let out a low growl as her uncle approached her, obviously not believing her, and the man took a step back. Bronn recognized the glimmer of fear in the man's eyes at seeing the beast so familiar with Sansa's presence. He hadn't taken her word for it…but would he dare contradict her?

The room fell silent.

The old, prophecy-speaking man suddenly broke the silence with, "He fulfills the prophecy. That is all that matters." and it seemed to placate the group…all except for her uncle.

Deciding to not bother with it, Bronn moved to Sansa's side and whispered in her ear, "As much as I 'preciate you standin' up for me, I think we should find someplace private." She nodded, and he tucked his hand around her elbow and guided her from the hall, letting her lead the way by motioning with her head which way to turn.

They soon arrived at a door, and Bronn went to open it, but she held him back with a soft tug on his elbow.

"Bronn…"

He gave her a look.

"What is it, girl?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then seemed to think better of it, and instead pushed ahead of him and shoved the door open, revealing a large room with a massive bed on one side covered in thick furs, and a fireplace opposite it, already burning bright. Sansa stepped into the room…and slowly approached the bed, her fingers trailing almost reverently over the solid, wood frame, her eyes going soft. And suddenly, Bronn knew without her having to say a word.

This had been her parents' room.

Unsure of what to say, he approached her from behind, putting a hand on each of her shoulders, drawing her back against him. She let out a soft sigh and he felt some of the tension leave her body as she leaned into him, her hips melting against his, her spine settling into his chest.

He brought his lips to her ear.

"I should have told you," he murmured, but she shook her head.

"No, you didn't have to," she whispered back to him, her hand coming up and covering his. "If you had told me before all of this…"

She left it unsaid, but he knew what she meant. Things would have been different between the two of them. She might not have ever trusted him. How much she still trusted him, was the question, but he was willing to risk it for the time being. He said nothing more, as did she, and they stood there for a long time, drinking in the moment that was probably going to be one of those rare moments that they would look back on with fond memories in the years to come.

Years to come.

God, what had that girl done to him that he was thinking in years and not days?

Putting it to the side, he thought on what the old man had said to him, speaking of the prophecy. He didn't know what he meant by prophecy, but the sellsword would not put much stock into it. He was too experienced in the ways of prophecy and held no love for it in any shape or form.

For now, he was Sansa's.

And that was enough.

Part 20/?