A/N: Just because this chapter was put up real fast doesn't mean that all chapters will be put up as fast. I had written this up when I realised that the original chapter 2 had gotten too long so I decided to split it into two.

I was really surprised that no one mentioned Gendry's re-entry to the story. I really kept thinking, like, what's gonna happen in the end? Is Dany going to be Queen? Is Jon going to be King? Is everybody going to be killed by the White Walkers? And then I thought, man! Gendry is still there! He's the solution! Hail Roosevelt and Caesar!

I won't say any more. I've said too much :P


Chapter 3

Jon was a quiet person.

Sitting at the High table at Winterfell during meal times, Jon rarely conversed with anyone unless someone asked for his attention. His food often remained untouched. He would watch the wooden table in front of him, deep in thought. Sometimes, once or twice during dinners, one lord or other would speak, and Jon would listen. He'd dutifully listen to everyone, and he'd not need to call out anyone. His lords would understand if he wanted them to stop talking, or if he wanted them to sit down and let someone else speak. Incredibly, not one proud lord of North or Vale remembered their status as long as Jon stood in front of them. Not one lord spoke out of turn. All of them understood his unspoken wishes easily.

Sansa, on the other hand, found it incredibly difficult to read him.

She could tell that those lords respected Jon's authority ten times than that of Lord Eddard Stark. She could tell that they understood Jon's moods. They all held him in a strange mix of respect and fear. Bastard or not, his prowess in battle, his legendary resurrection as the Winter King and the White Wolf, and his controversial decision of allying with the wildlings made him a tad bit terrifying in the eyes of his nobles.

Back when they were children, Sansa and Jon had the least of acquaintance, out of all the Stark children. Jon was always on the field, fighting, training with Ser Rodrik and Robb, riding the breadths of the hills surrounding Winterfell, and Sansa was always inside with Septa Mordane, with occasional rides out in the Godswood on her mare. But then also, Sansa would see how Jon's face became smaller and his smile waned when her mother looked down at him with unadulterated hatred in her eyes. Out of respect for her lady mother, her father never had Jon dine with them, despite Robb's, and later Arya's, protests. And even though Sansa had always seen the sadness and the loneliness in Jon's eyes as he went off to dine with Ser Rodrik, who loved him and all the Stark children equally and fiercely, she had never felt any compassion or sympathy for him.

Now, here he was, King in the North, and Sansa was only the Princess, the yet-unnamed heiress to Winterfell, sitting to his left.

She looked down as one noble rose and gave his address to the entire room. Her eyes travelled through the length and breadth of the room before settling on the probing, troubling gaze of Ser Davos Seaworth.

Sansa knew all houses and noble families by heart. But she'd never heard of the Seaworths. Regardless, the man had risen to be one of Jon's most trusted advisors, always giving him raw, un-opinionated version of facts, or that's what Jon called it. Sansa did not trust him. He was Hand to Stannis, and he'd changed camps just as defeat began to cast its shadow over their army.

Ser Davos looked away just as soon as Sansa looked at him. Looked away towards Jon.

Even though Jon was a good man, and the closest thing to a family she had, with the exception of Bran and Arya, who were both lost, she had little reason to trust him. Because Jon had little reason to trust her too. She was the heiress and the Princess of Winterfell. Now that she was his heiress, what's to say he decided that she was a threat to his reign and decided to get rid of her? She'd heard of how Jon would deal with traitors and those who threatened his position as Lord Commander.

The lord finished his address, and before anyone else could stand up, Jon did, and Sansa noted that everybody but one sat up straight in attention. She'd seen powerful men. She'd seen her father, King Robert. None inspired the kind of single-minded attention that Jon did. She glanced at Littlefinger, the only person who did not sit up straight. How could he even wish to become the king as long as his own lords held Jon in a higher regard than him?

"My lords, ladies," he said, and Sansa noted that he did not refer to her as 'princess', "Now that winter's come, it's time to put aside our quarrels and wars. My father used to say that summer's the time for quarrels. Winter is when we protect ourselves, look after one another.

There was a murmur of agreement from among the lords.

"During my time in the brotherhood of the Night's Watch, my lords and ladies, I was faced with harsh decisions time and again. My father was held captive in the dungeons of the Red Keep like a common criminal and branded a traitor. But I remained at Castle Black because I had said my vows and the Night's Watch was my family. My brother rode south into war. I still remained at Castle Black.

The attention of all the lords perked up even more. King Jon wasn't saying what they were thinking he would say.

"The traitor Theon Greyjoy invaded and burned Winterfell down and killed everyone I knew as a child, and I still remained at Castle Black.

"My brother and Lady Catelyn were butchered by Walder Frey and Roose Bolton. Ramsay Bolton hurt my lady sister in ways a man never should. But I still remained at Castle Black, with the Night's Watch because I was a sworn brother.

"My lords, that was not all. During my time in the Night's Watch, as Lord Commander Mormont's steward, I came to know the late maester at Castle Black. His name was Aemon Targaryen, and he was the elder brother to Aegon Targaryen, the Mad King's father. His tale was no different than mine.

"He told me: 'kill the boy, and let the man be born'. He guided me so that I may not be swayed by petty revenge, no matter how great the temptation. My final resolve was tested when the King-beyond-the-Wall attacked the Wall. Save for two, all my friends, boys I had grown up and made my vows with, had been killed defending their brothers. As did the Free Folk.

Sansa noticed how several lords bristled at that name.

"Believe me, my lords. My friends had died. I had no personal gain from making peace with the Free Folk. Even as I discussed terms of a stalemate with Mance Rayder in that tent, the sight of my brothers dead on the pyres made me want to take a dagger and stab him through the heart. But I didn't. Revenge would've given me satisfaction, perhaps. But it wouldn't have ended the war, because I realised that the Free Folk were not our real enemies. And I was the Lord Commander. I had no business with personal satisfaction.

"Then I made my harshest decision. I did what no Lord Commander had ever done before. I need not speak of it, my lords and ladies, you know what happened after. Aye, I was hated for what I did. My own steward, a boy of ten, drove a knife through me for doing what I thought was right. But I cannot blame them. They had not seen what I had seen. Not one person in this hall has seen what I have seen, save the Free Folk. And believe me, my lords and ladies, once you see it, you'd wish the Gods made you un-see it.

Sansa shifted in her seat.

"My lords, your enemy lies not to the south, but to the north. Your enemy is not the man or the woman who sits upon the Iron Throne. Your enemy is not Casterly Rock or the Iron Islands.

The hall was deathly quiet, with defiant, angry stares. Sansa exchanged glances with Littlefinger. He was poised for the next word.

"In times like these, when the realms of men are threatened by something that does not care for alliances and animosities, something that finds life in dead men, something that cannot be killed by swords and spears, something that smothers any living thing, the battle is clear. In these battles, the names of our Houses do not matter. Noble blood, peasant blood, it's all the same to them as long as it flows inside us. It's not a battle for glory. It's the battle for life against death.

"I have not forgotten the injustice done to my family and my father's House. But I have seen the real enemy. And winter has come. If we are to fight our battles for our life, we will keep our quarrels aside and we will fight them justly, with honour, together, to guard the realms of the living. All of us must take a vow, to not perpetrate crimes against the living, even in captivity.

Sansa stiffened, feeling as if that line was directed towards her. Whatever Jon said, Ramsay had got what he deserved. Jon did not know what it was like, being a woman. Jon had no idea of the crimes Ramsay had committed against her person and her dignity.

"Winterfell has enough grain to last three years of winter. In the whole of the North, our supplies will last about five years. White Harbour is our only city of trade. And our trade with the Free Cities and Oldtown has declined to about a fourth of what it used to be when my father rode to King's Landing.

"Therefore, my lords, this battle will not be fought with arms till the very end. First, we must expand our food resources through more robust trade with the South and the Free Cities. So, I announce that trade with King's Landing and Lannisport be re-opened at once, and existing trade between White Harbour and the cities of Oldtown, Volantis and Qarth be strengthened.

There was a gasp of shock around the hall. Since Joffrey executed Eddard Stark for treason, the North had cut off all relations and trade with the South, especially Lannisport, which hadn't been resuscitated even after the Boltons came to power. Sansa glanced at Littlefinger, just to see what he thought of it. There was no expression on his face. Personally, she knew one thing. Jon was putting himself up on the table to be murdered once again.

"Owing to our victory at the Second Battle of Winterfell, and to the huge role that my lady sister played in rallying the Knights of the Vale to our cause, I, Jon Snow, King in the North, name Lady Sansa of House Stark as my ambassador in order to build the relations of the North with other kingdoms of the world, to strengthen trade, and for their support in that final battle.

Shocked, Sansa caught herself from reacting in any manner. The lords could not know of the level of communication, or lack thereof, between them. Ambassador? That was a huge responsibility and honour. She knew Littlefinger had himself served as the royal ambassador from time to time, most notably when he singlehandedly arranged the Tyrell-Lannister alliance.

Contrary to what she thought, Jon actually trusted her enough to appoint her for furthering Northern interests. And to think that she and Littlefinger had waited out . . .

She looked at Baelish once again. He was looking at her and smirking. Which meant that this was not good news.

"If anyone has any objections, they may speak now."

There were soft murmurs but no one stood up.

"Also, as you are all lords of my realm, I ask all of you for your honest opinion and consent upon a controversial matter. Our trade links with the South will never be realized fully unless the kingdom of Northern Westeros is given proper diplomatic recognition as an independent sovereign country. Therefore, I ask you all to deliberate on whether the North should extend diplomatic recognition to Cersei Lannister as the Queen of the Five Kingdoms in return on the condition—"

No sooner had Jon said this that, for the first time since they won Winterfell back, most of the population in the hall stood up in protest, shouting and arguing loudly, with some comments thrown at Jon, some at one another. Words such as 'green as grass' were thrown around as easily as curses. Sansa grabbed his arm lightly and leaned in to whisper into Jon's ear, "What are you saying? Do you want to be killed again?"

But Jon simply gave her a stern look until she removed her arm. He grabbed his cup and banged it hard on the table, "My lords!"

Most of them turned to look at him. The old Lord Manderly walked up to the front, "You might be my king, but you're still a boy, Snow."

The hall gasped into silence at the name. Jon looked at him icily, "I wasn't finished, my lord."

"You think I want to hear the end of that?! A true Stark would never ally with the ones who killed his family!"

"You don't have to teach me about being a Stark, my Lord. I am more a Stark than you will ever be."

"Aye, that be true. But your brother rode south to release your lord father and your lady sisters. Your brother died fighting against those who killed his family. You want all that to be undone?"

Before Jon could speak and it changed into an execution scene, Baelish spoke up, walking up to Lord Manderly, "Allow me to interfere, Your Grace, my lord, but giving diplomatic recognition to Cersei Lannister is not a good option."

Jon sat down, fingers crossed, "Go on, Lord Baelish."

"House Martell has deep resentments towards the Throne, and so does House Tyrell. The Baratheons are dead but their bannermen don't have any love for the Lannisters. And with the murder of Walder Frey and his heirs, the Lannisters don't have any real power or allies left. And as admirable as your sentiments may be, the other Houses will still view a friend of Cersei Lannister as their enemy."

Sansa frowned. Baelish was speaking truth. But why was he helping Jon?

"Then what do you recommend, my lord?"

"Your Grace, I have declared for House Stark, and you have two kingdoms under your rule. But there is one more battle that must be fought. Riverrun, Lady Catelyn Stark's ancestral home," he turned to Sansa at this point, "is still occupied by the Lannisters and the Freys. Control of the Riverlands gives us control over the Trident and its fertile lands."

"We cannot afford any more wars, Lord Baelish," Sansa piped up, "Wars mean supplies, weapons, money, men. If the maesters are right, then it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years and we cannot afford to spend any of that."

"Be that as it may, Princess, but—"

"This is why we don't marry our daughters with little lords here up in the North, we marry them to proper lords who were born to be lords," Lord Glover replied, his booming voice cutting across Baelish's and pissing off the men of the Vale, "Men who haven't fought in wars shouldn't talk of wars."

Sansa was torn between amusement and indignation at that. The Northern lords were always a bit too relaxed with their tongue, her mother always said. Especially when it came to the "southron" folk.

"And men who forsake their allegiance to their liege lords at the hour of their greatest indeed know nothing of loyalty towards their late Lady of Winterfell," Baelish retorted smoothly before turning to Jon, "And not just that, Your Grace. Most of the fish culture in Westeros comes from the Riverlands. The annual harvest is second only to the Reach. I may be the Lord of Harrenhal and the Lord Paramount of the Trident," at this point, his voice echoed powerfully around the silent hall, as if reminding everyone who he was now, and how much land and power and titles he held, "But in practice, whoever rules Riverrun rules the Riverlands."

"Almost like saying you don't have any real power," Lord Glover remarked aloud, leaving his place of honour and sauntering up to Baelish and Manderly to bow in front of Jon, "Your Grace, the only task more difficult than winning the Riverlands is holding it. It's got no natural borders, no defenses on either side. The Ironborn reap and go as they please. There's the Lannisters in the West and the crownlands to the east. It's overrun by looters and terrorists and insurgents. Even if we took Riverrun, it could be years, even decades before stability is brought to it."

"If I may speak, my lords, Your Grace."

Everyone turn around to face Ser Davos, who pushed his chair to rise. Jon nodded slightly, "Speak, Ser Davos."

"While Lord Baelish speaks truly, we continue to forget our goal, Your Grace. And that is fighting against the winter. The rest of the kingdoms can hate each other all they like. But war will not bring them together. War will divert them from the ultimate battle. Your Grace, we must inform the lords of the realm of the doom that they face."

"What difference will that make?" Lady Mormont stood up, "The Night's Watch has time and again written to all the lords of the Westeros asking for men and supplies. Only the North supplies men for the Night's Watch. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms does not."

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but a request from the Night's Watch was exactly what made King Stannis ride north with a hundred thousand men to defend the Wall."

"Because you had an interest in the North. We received your king's letters asking for men. You believed that the North would rally behind your king to attack the South."

"If it hadn't been for us, Mance Rayder's army would've crossed the Wall and we would have been making preparations to withstand the next siege."

"Lady Mormont is right," Lord Royce stood up, interrupting them, "Writing to the realm will make no difference at this point. If our words are not taken seriously the first time, they will not be taken seriously ever. But Ser Davos is right too. Your Grace, the realm must be informed, but not at this point of time."

Sansa leaned in to listen. Jon unfolded his hands, "Go on, my lord."

"The other kingdoms must see the seriousness behind our words. As it is, once word of this Night Army reaches the other lords, they will try to deny it, laugh at it. Most of all, the Archmaesters of the Citadel who do not believe what the Night's Watch has said time and again, and who call the North superstitious at every turn. They will try and undo our words, and what king and what lord would listen to the words of a young deserter from the Night's Watch than the wise Archmaesters?

"My youngest son Waymar was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. I escorted him to the Wall myself. On the day he was lost, he had been accompanied by two other rangers, one of which deserted his post. They say that before he was beheaded, he spoke of the white walkers killing my son. And I've never known a man to lie before his death.

"Before we ask other lords to commit to our cause, we must do so ourselves. Therefore, I, Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, hereby pledge one hundred men in service to the Night's Watch."

Sansa smiled. By saying that, Lord Royce had made sure no other lord ever spared at least less than a hundred men to the Night's Watch.

"Cersei Lannister cannot rule the Five Kingdoms for long," Baelish remarked, "I say, let the Martells and the Lannisters battle each other out. My money is on the Martells. Once the Lannister soldiers leave Riverrun into battle, it'll fall. Either way, we must take Riverrun if we are ever to survive the winter, Your Grace."

Those words were familiar to Sansa. Let Roose and Stannis battle. If Stannis wins, he'll name you Wardeness of the North, grateful of your late father's courageous support of his claim.

She also knew that that never came true. That would no longer come true.

"Little southron shits, the lot o' you!"

All heads turned to the back of the hall, where the wildling host was gathered. Tormund Giantsbane's hair and beard looked fierier as sunlight filtered in through the windows.

"All I heard since this cursed morning, since Jon Snow ended his big-ass speech, was this House is weak and that lord is strong. Oh, I am this big lord with so many titles, and oh, I know war and you don't know war. We should attack the rivers because there are fishes in that river, we should kill that lord because he didn't show up in Winterfell! You weren't there when they needed you, let the others fight and we'll steal the rest! This is all I've fucking heard, and I am about to tell all you little southerners that you don't know shit."

Sansa glanced at Jon. He was trying hard not to smile. She did not know it was possible to offend just about every big lord in so less words.

"And we are to assume," Lord Royce's face was stern at the impertinence of this wild-haired barbarian, "that you know more of combat than us, we who are veterans of fifty battles—"

"I know what you call 'battle', old ser," Tormund sneered, "It's when you take your fancy weapons that your daddy passed on to you and you hit at each other like the fancy lads you all grew up as. Aye, it's when you climb your horses, horses that have proper leather saddles, and you wear your armour so you take the hit. And I reckon you got the stupidest reasons for doing battles. The one I keep hearing about, some southern boy took off with a northern girl and you said, 'give her back or we'll fuck each one of your dead corpses.

"We don't battle because a boy took off with a girl. We did not attack the Wall because someone said 'I think I'll take these lands' and we all said 'hell yes'. Every day, we battled for our lives. We battled for our food. We battled for these rags," he poked at his own clothes, "We battled so that we could sleep the night in peace. We fought because we wanted to hide behind your wall of ice. We wanted to live. We wanted to be saved by what is coming after us all.

"You don't know the north, old ser. The closest you've all been to the north, the real north was the dead giant you saw on your way in.

"While we sit here, doing fancy things like talking and eating soft decorated meat, an army marches on the Wall. Jon Snow did the right thing when he came to Hardhome and saved us. All I and my men see here is a pack of old man-boys who want songs to be written after them because they missed their shot before.

"There's bad blood between the Watch and the Free Folk, or else we would have all gone back to defending the Wall. What old ser says here," Tormund pointed at Lord Royce, "makes the most sense out of all the baloney I heard today. Send men to the Wall, and more will follow."

"Thank you, my lords, the free folk," Jon rose, before Tormund could offend anybody else, "If anybody else has anything more to add?"

The hall remained quiet, fixated on the proud lords debating in the front, and the wildling leader challenging his authority. None of the smaller lords wanted to offend . . .

"Your Grace," the young Lord Cerwyn rose, "We must decide the fates of the Karstarks and the Umbers."

Despite the cold, the temperature of the room seemed to rise by several degrees. The tension in Jon's face was palpable. The Umbers and the Karstarks were the oldest and the most powerful of the Northern Houses, second only to the Starks. The only sound that could be heard was the loud, complaining groan from Tormund. He rose noisily, and walked out in protest, his speech having not made any requisite effect on his audience. The young lord looked unnerved as the rest of the wildling host walked out.

"We will await their oaths of fealty, my lord," Sansa replied, watching the wildling barbarian leave along with the rest of his host, "With every Northern House having come to Winterfell, we expect their support soon."

"Begging your pardon, Princess," he spoke, "but the Umbers handed Rickon Stark to the Boltons. Your youngest brother, who had appealed to them for safety and shelter. Justice must be done."

"You are no better than the Umbers yourself, Lord Cerwyn," Lady Mormont remarked loudly, "At least the Karstark heirs turned against King Robb when he beheaded their father, as it can be expected. You, on the other hand, pledged your loyalty to the Boltons when they flayed your lord father alive."

"You speak truly, Lady Mormont," Sansa spoke, "However, Lord Cerwyn's refusal was natural and out of intimidation. Rickon was the youngest of my brothers. He was six years old the last time I saw him at Winterfell, and he was treated like a game bird during the last minutes of his life," she breathed in sharply just as the arrow pierced Rickon's little chest in her mind's eye, "Justice will be done."

Jon smiled at her tentatively. She nodded and looked down at her soup. It had gone cold.

"We've talked far too much for one breakfast, my lords and ladies. Even the food is cold and displeased," Jon remarked, and there was a smattering of polite laughter. Manderly, Baelish, Glover and Royce, all returned to their places of honour. Sansa glanced at Jon, watched him discreetly as he dug into the meat, chewing sparingly, smiling slightly.

She waited for an explanation for Jon's sudden, unexplained decision of making her his chosen representative outside the North. Kept watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Jon had said that they would need to trust each other, tell each other everything. But within days of that statement, Jon had unilaterally taken that decision, without even consulting her. Even though it was a high honour, the fact that Jon had not asked for her consent troubled her.

Jon did not seem worried in the slightest. He kept to himself and his meal, difficult to read as always.


"What are you going to do about it?"

Sansa was jolted back to real world by the soft, scheming voice of Lord Petyr Baelish.

"What?"

"About Jon's offer, my dear."

She rose from the stone, standing up and craning her neck upwards to get a good look of the weirwood tree. Her fingers traced the outline of the face carved into its trunk, to the dried red fluid over its carved eyes and mouth. As a girl she'd always wondered if it was blood, but had never dared to venture too close to a weirwood tree. They were the Old Gods, but they had always looked frightening to her. So she had always kept a safe distance while in prayer.

She licked her thumb and rubbed it on the dried red marks, and put it back into her mouth, hoping for the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Sadly, it had no taste.

Disappointed, she rubbed her thumb with the skirts of her dress, "I can't say no. He's the king now."

Baelish looked as if that word left bad taste in his mouth, "Because a ten-year old girl said so?"

"Besides it's an order, not an offer. He has said that—"

"You're to be his representative, yes. Did he say where or to whom? Did he explain it to you? Did he mention who's going to protect you or accompany you?"

Sansa did not look at Baelish, afraid that he'd understand her innermost fears and verbalise them, make them seem less unreal.

"You're his heiress, Sansa. Even if he hasn't said that you are, the rest of the North will believe that you are his heir. And he cannot name someone else. Not while the Princess of Winterfell lives."

"I know that."

"An heir is a threat to king's rule. You are a threat to his rule. Making you his ambassador is just as good as exile."

And there it was.

"I'm going back," she declared, half-expecting to be grabbed by the arm, to be stopped, to be forced to listen to her insecurities.

"I've said time and again. Who should the North rally behind: a trueborn daughter or—"

She wheeled around, "Stop it!"

"—of Ned and Catelyn Stark born in the North, in Winterfell, or a motherless bastard of the South?"

"He's as much Stark as I am," she was no longer trying to convince Baelish. She was trying to convince herself. And failing miserably.

"Maybe. But he wants you out of his sight. Otherwise he'd have asked for your permission. Why else would he have done that?"

I don't know, she knew better than to verbalise that. One moment of second-guessing and Littlefinger would exploit that window of opportunity. She and Jon had to stay strong.

"You've always told me to trust your bastard brother," he kept saying, and there was no end to that soft, poisonous voice. It just wouldn't stop, "I had told you to wait out the battle a little longer. With Jon Snow dead, you could have—"

"I did!" Sansa insisted vehemently, remembering her dismay when she saw Jon, alive and bloodied, climb from the pile of the dead and run in pursuit of Ramsay, "I did!"

Littlefinger smiled sadly, "Not long enough, my lovely princess. Not long enough."

With that, he bowed to her, kissing the back of her hand softly, before turning around, leaving a trail of tracks in the ice. Sansa stayed under the protection of the ancient tree, in the cold where it punished her.

Far away, in the mist of the forest, there was a slender, broad-shouldered shadow. Sansa imagined it to be Brienne, before the figure revealed itself to be one of the wildlings who had come to pray in the Godswood.

Sansa thought miserably of Brienne and hugged herself in her solitude.


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