"Mother, please don't sing sad songs anymore; sing Northern songs," young Eddard tells her when she visits the nursery.
"Gods be good, Berena: he listens to the uncles," Sansa whispers to the old woman in dismayed realization as she takes her little girl in her arms.
"M-ma," her daughter says, almost to herself.
"Yes, my little bird, I'm your Ma; will you say ma-ma?"
"Buh-thrrrrpt," her daughter responds with her little pink tongue between her lips.
Eddard laughs loudly like his father. "That's funny, Serena!"
"Hee-ee," she smiles happily, and waves her little arms.
"Yes, fly away," Sansa whispers to her.
"And where will she fly to, milady?" Berena asks casually though she watches Sansa sharply, she thinks.
"Oh, anywhere, Berena: to the mountains of my father's grandmother, mayhaps?" Anywhere they won't hurt her, she thinks to herself.
"Serena's a lord's daughter, milady," she scoffs mildly, "what would she make of a log and wattle cottage and a huntsman to wed?"
Sansa looks at the nurse now as shrewdly as she had looked at her. "And what did you make of it, Berena? You once said you were a mother and yet-"
"And yet you've not seen any children of mine," she finished gently. "Nor will you, milady. The youngest three died one winter when a terrible cold took them afore we could get to the winter town of Deepwood Mott. My husband went hunting for to eat and never came back. Only my eldest girl survived, and she went to Torren's Square when she wed. I've not seen her since, milady."
"I am very sorry, Berena. Would you not wish to go to her? I would be very sad to see you leave but if she is your only family-"
"The Umbers are like to be my family now, milady, if you don't mind me thinking so. I raised the lord's older children from babes, and now I'm happy to see to yours."
"I don't mind at all that you think so, Berena; I'm pleased that you have found a home at Last Hearth, and that you should still think so after…"
"Milady?"
Sansa hesitates now. "A-after your first lady should have passed on…and…and I came to Last Hearth."
The old woman sighs. "The one had naught to do with the other, milady; and it were past time the lord took another lady to wife. Most thought he would never wed again; I expect we had all looked to Lord Jon be the one to marry but he's not shown much liking for the idea yet."
"My lord thinks that he mourns his mother, and fears that he should also lose the lady he loves," Sansa ventures.
The old woman seems to pause at that, and gives the barest hint of a shrug. "It may be so, milady; but many a high-born don't marry for love…not for starters anyway. If he's taking his time it's likely he cannot decide who or what to love; his father would be better to choose for him and then let him come to love the maid in time."
"Do you truly believe that, Berena?"
"It worked well enough for you and your lord, it seems, milady, if I'm not too impertinent."
She glances at Sansa now and Sansa knows that she must look dumbfounded.
"I see I have overstepped my place. I beg your pardon, milady," the old woman asks humbly.
"I- I-" Sansa fumbles for words. "I- Of course, Berena," she assures the woman, "but I had not thought…I had not thought of myself…that is, I never had the choice of who I would marry, nor ever thought to and so-"
"And so you wed where you were told by your lord brother; as did Lord Umber when told by his king: you did your duty, the both of you…and now you seem content together; and though you suffered a hardship only just lately, such things can bring a man and wife closer together, milady."
Sansa had never thought of her husband being commanded to wed by his king. She had only thought of herself, of being used as a pawn or as having been granted as a reward to the Greatjon for his fealty and service to Robb. It had not occurred to her that he may not have felt that he had a choice; or that she would not have been his choice. Mayhaps he had not wanted to marry at all.
He must have loved her very much to have not wished to marry again. He is not so very old as that.
Even his uncle Mors had said that he did not look to the serving women in the castles for…for comfort; and if he shows such honor toward her, she wonders how much more must he have shown toward his first lady wife.
"Tell me a story, Mother, please," young Eddard asks her now.
"I will, my sweet; and then I'll sing for you and Serena; but first I must ask a question of Berena."
….
The late midday sky is a somber dark grey and the godswood seems deathly still but for the cold wind that rustles the red leaves still clinging to the top of the weirwood. Sansa cannot face the heart tree. The ancient carved face seems to look at her accusingly: its once sad and sympathetic visage looks angry and vengeful to her now.
I understand that you must punish me; but why must you punish him? It is not justice to punish the innocent.
"Sansa? Sansa?"
She turns to him now, full of guilt and sorrow and longing and a desperate wish to go back, to undo all she has done and to make it right again. Horrible, deceitful, wretched girl.
"Sansa, did you not hear me? Why did you not answer when I called? Don't you know that I worry about you?"
"Pardons, my lord," she says with a soft and sad humility.
He stands before her now and takes a hold of her gently but firmly by her upper arms and look down on her worriedly.
"What is it, Sansa? Tell me now."
"I…I spoke with Berena…."
He nods as though he understands now. "It's alright, Sansa," he soothes her, "I'll wait if she says wait-"
"No," she interrupts him though she hardly wishes to speak of it. "We needs not wait to…to lie together, my lord; though she has counselled moon tea for another three moons so that I do not get with child so soon after…"
"Very well then, we'll do as she counsels," he agrees easily. "I trust her in these matters, Sansa, and so can you. There will be time for more-"
She cannot stop the sob that rises in her throat to strangle her remaining words, and she begins to shake so that he steps closer in alarm.
"But there may not…m-my lord," she huffs and sobs as she speaks. "There- there may not be any more buh-babes. I may be buh-buh-barren," she throws out the terrible word from her mouth with force as though to fling it far from her, far from him, far from this place and this horrible, wretched, terrible mess she has brought on herself, and now on him.
But she is in his arms and he is holding her close and he is stroking her hair down her long braid, she realizes now. She does not understand why he does not push her away and demand reasons, answers, apologies and penitence. Why is he not angry and shouting as her husband does when he is wronged? She has wronged him in every way and now he must pay.
"The fuh-fuh-fever," she stammers against his fur-clad chest as she begins to explain before she feels him hold her tighter.
"I know, Sansa, I know," he murmurs now. "Berena told me that night. It's alright, Sansa: it will be alright. It's only a chance, after all…it may all be well. Don't cry anymore now, Sansa, please don't cry anymore."
"Buh-but you said…you said we would fuh-fill the North with Umbers," she laments hoarsely.
He chuckles now despite her tears. "You take me far too seriously, Sansa; gods be true, you're not a brood mare," he chides her. He leans back and looks down on her with a tender amusement. "Besides, there are plenty of us already; and we make noise and take up space for twice as many; or three times as many if you count my uncles in their cups," he jests. "Oh, there now, Sansa: you are far too hard on yourself and you take matters too seriously. You are very like your father, do you know that?"
Sansa is confused now; it was Arya who had the look of their father and the Starks.
"I have always been likened to my lady mother, my lord."
"I wasn't speaking of your look, Sansa, but your nature. You asked about your Aunt Lyanna: she was very much like Brandon, both wild and reckless…the wolf blood your father's father called it; and your own father always said it was what did for them. Mayhaps it's true but we're a wild lot ourselves up here: life is harder and so we revel in our joys and our freedoms, and drink our fill of ale and curse our hurts and kill our enemies…the Others take pretty niceties, we've not time for them."
She blinked up at him now, and wiped away her tears from her cold cheeks.
"They were wild and so your father and Benjen tried to be steady and serious…we thought them bloody grim at times," he chuckles now but then he nods again and his face is stern. "But they were dutiful, you father especially, and then it all fell on him: the lordship and Warden of the North, Brandon's betrothed, Robert's war; he lost his father, his brother and his sister…" He turns slightly and keeps one big arm around her shoulders and begins to walk with her, their feet crunching on the hard snow. "I was born my father's heir: that has its own demands but when you expect it, well, it doesn't crush you as it does when it all comes down on you at once: it's a steady snowfall instead of an avalanche that buries you alive."
"Was…was my father buried alive…did he feel buried alive do you think?" she asks him sadly.
Her husband seems to think a moment. "He might have…if he'd had the chance to stop and think about it; but it all happened so fast, Sansa; and I don't believe he was unhappy but for his losses; but he was dutiful to a fault, if you'll pardon my saying so: he should have learned to say no to some people, like Robert and his damned Small Council, the Others take them, no good's ever come of a Stark going South. You're wolves: you belong here in the North." He squeezes her shoulders tighter and smiles down at her.
She sniffles again. "Sometimes…sometimes I do not feel much like a Stark, or a wolf, or that I am of the North at all: I must seem very tame and dull to you, my lord."
"Did you not have a wolf, Sansa? It seems to me you all did," he asks her now.
She nods dully. "Lady," she tells him and her voice comes out a longing whisper.
"Lady…that is fitting, I'd say. And was she always wild, or did she walk proud and graceful and stand still and alert? Was she not devoted to you?"
"She was, my lord; she did."
"And did you think her tame or dull; or did you see how strong and fierce she could be beneath her grace?"
She looks up to him now and smiles her understanding.
"Have you never walked up on the walls at Winterfell or looked from a tower and seen endless new-fallen snow, Sansa? Does it not look clean and pure and still and soft, though you know it is strong enough to kill you if you do not respect its power? Look here," he stops and turns her towards the heart tree, the tree she could not face when she came alone, and he stands behind her and speaks close to her ear.
"You see that pale white bark, Sansa: how delicate it is? See those slender branches: the wind bends them but they do not break. And those blood-red leaves," he runs his hand down the length of her braid now, "they'll fall and come back again. Now look how strong that tree is, Sansa, though its parts seem fragile. Do you see?'
Sansa nods timidly, and then lifts her head. "Yes…yes, I see."
He leans closer to her now and she feels his fingertips caress her neck and jaw above the fur collar of her cloak. "You're of the North, Sansa; and you're the North to me, and you're strong though you're soft and gentle, hm?"
"Yes," she says again, and she turns her head to look up at him so that she can look in his eyes and she reaches her hand to caress the side of his bearded face. "Yes."