Sansa catches her breath suddenly and looks at Bran with trepidation.
"Are…are you certain, Bran? Are you certain that it was in the future?"
He twists his mouth and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sansa; but I am not certain of anything with my…my sight. I have only seen things that I know have happened or that I can tell are past. I have seen people and places that I do not know, and so I am not certain when they happened. This is the first time I have seen anyone I know and thought it might not have happened yet."
"Well…was I older, Bran?"
"Your back was to the Heart Tree, Sansa. I knew it was you from your hair; and I know Lord Umber. It was the Last Hearth, I'm sure of it. I just wish I could be sure…"
"…that it was not just a dream," Sansa finishes for him.
"I'm sorry, Sansa. I wish Jojen were here to help. Mayhaps I should not have told you," he says humbly.
"No," she wipes a tear away: yet another tear, she thinks. "It is still a lovely dream, Bran," she says a little hoarsely. "Thank you for telling me."
"I wish I could see Robb," he says miserably now.
Sansa takes his hands in hers and leans towards him. "I wish you could too, Bran. Are…are you scared for him?"
"I'm scared for all of us, Sansa. Robb is our king, and he has no heir…none but me," he laments. "I'm not fit to be a king."
"Don't say that, Bran: you are so bright and clever and-"
"And crippled," he interrupts bluntly. "There are no crippled Kings of Winter in the crypts, Sansa. There was Bran the Builder, Brandon the Burner, even a Brandon Ice Eyes….there is no place for Bran the Broken."
"Please do not call yourself that, Bran: you are not broken."
"A king defends his people, and rides into battle. I can use a bow on horseback; but if I fall off I'll be trampled and killed. I'll never wield Ice, not like a true Stark," he tells her bluntly. "Men will never respect me, or fear me. I saw it when they came for the Harvest Feast when I was acting as Lord of Winterfell. I never want to be looked at that way again."
Sansa does not know what to say to comfort him now, because she knows that he is not wrong. While she and her family know how capable Bran is; the rest of the North, and mayhaps even Westeros, will see him as weak. She also knows that will endanger the North, whether from the outside or from within.
"We do not yet even know if Robb will return, Bran. There is no need to concern yourself with this now. He may return and have sons to follow him; and you will be free to do what you wish with your life," she tells him encouragingly. "I know that you see yourself as broken, Bran, but I do not: I see you as freed from expectations and duty. I- I do not know how that feels, nor do many people, I imagine. You have lost a great deal, I do not deny that; but try to think of what you may have gained, Bran."
"I think that freedom is only an advantage if you can then choose what you want, Sansa. I would choose to walk…but I can't," he tells her. "Anyway, it may not even matter soon. If men like Robb and the Greatjon can fall in this battle, Sansa, I don't know how we can ever hope to win this war."
They look at each other now with the heavy truth of their situation resting heavily on them. Bran was right, she knew that: even if she had lost her lord, there could still be far greater losses ahead for all of them, for the entire North and eventually for all of Westeros and the known world. The outcome was as uncertain as ever, and the war was far from over.
….
Sansa sits stiffly in the covered sledge that slips and sways over the tracks of the Kingsroad headed northward. So much had happened so swiftly in these last days of the war: the War of Ice and Fire, it was now styled; and though her mind had then been in turmoil from all the news and activity, she seems to have settled now into a kind of hollow shock and numbness that has left her without any thoughts or energy to bestir herself.
She looks down and sees the sleeves of her gown sticking out from beneath her fur-lined cloak: dyed black for mourning. Across from her sit her small children, also dressed in black beneath their cloaks and laprobes. Too much, she could not help thinking: it had all been too much.
The Targaryen girl, Daenerys Stormborn, had ended the war with her dragons: killing the Wights with their fiery breaths and driving the White Walkers back into the Lands of Always Winter. Without their army of thralls, the Others could not hope to breach the Wall. It was hoped that they would sleep again for another eight thousand years and that, without humans beyond the Wall to kill, they would never again have a vast army to lead against the world of men.
Robb, the King and her brother, was dead. Bran had kept Robb's promise to recognize Daenerys as rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and so she in turn had recognized him as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The Kingdom of the North was no more; and they were once again under the yoke of the South.
All for nothing, she had thought then. So many gone and it had all been for nothing
With all the many scrolls bearing news and discussing terms that had been sent and received by ravens, there had been one precious scroll for Sansa, sent by her husband's heir Lord Jon, and telling her that the Greatjon had been found and brought back to Castle Black. He had been the only survivor of Robb's ranging party beyond the Wall, the scroll had read, and he had been very sick after so many days lost in the freezing cold. He also told her of the deaths of his younger brothers, and how a good number of their soldiers had been lost, along with many good Northmen. He said that he would send a party of guards to escort her home as soon as they reached Last Hearth.
She looks up to see her son watching her now and she smiles bravely for him.
"We will not be much longer, Eddard," she soothes him gently. "Tonight should be the last night that we needs sleep at an inn, and then tomorrow we will be home again."
"Will Father will be there in the yard to greet us," he tells her, "just as he was when we left for Winterfell?"
"I am not certain, Eddard. Your brother wrote that your father is still quite ill; the maester may have confined him to his chambers. But he will be so very pleased to see you again, and your sister; and you can tell him how much you missed him."
The last message that she received was not sent by raven but was hand-delivered to her by the young head of the Umber guardsmen who had arrived only a sennight ago at Winterfell. Sansa had been surprised to recognize the ginger-haired stable boy who had volunteered to fight in the war against the Others; and he ducked his head shyly when he saw that she was staring.
"Lord Jon has charged me to bring you and Lord Umber's children home to Last Hearth, m'lady. I've also been charged with delivering messages of con-do-lences to the queen and to Lord Stark," he fumbled with the unfamiliar term. The boy had gone down on one knee before Roslin, and she had smiled wanly and bid him rise.
"I am no longer a queen," she had told him kindly, "and so you needs not bend the knee before me."
"You're my king's lady," he told her with a humble sincerity, "though my king be no more, and my lord bid me show you every kindness and courtesy." He had held out a scroll to her, and Roslin had taken it and thanked him. Sansa had never learned what words her husband had written to her brother's widow, but it had seemed to strengthen her resolve to stay in the North and to raise her daughters at Winterfell, as Bran and her mother had encouraged her to do since they had received word of Robb's death.
Nevertheless, Sansa has told Roslin the morning that she left Winterfell that she and her daughters would be welcome at Last Heart.
"If you should ever fell …confined," she remarked gently, "or simply wish for company for yourself or the girls, I know my lord would welcome you all to stay with us."
When Roslin smiled faintly and nodded, Sansa suspected that her husband had already made Robb's queen the same offer of hospitality and protection. She smiled to think of his kind generosity now, even as he lay ill.
"Can we tell Father…about…about what I did?" Eddard asks tentatively now.
Sansa nods solemnly. "Of course, Eddard; but we must tell him when no one else can overhear. We will let your father decide if we should continue to keep it secret," she tells him. Roose Bolton had also been killed in the war, and so Sansa doubted that his Frey wife or her family would want to avenge her husband's bastard, particularly when he had been condemned and had evaded justice for years in hiding, but she did not know if anyone else would. "He will be very proud of you, Eddard; as I am."
"Da loves me!" Serena insists now, and Sansa smiles indulgently.
"Yes, little bird: your Da loves you very much, and he will be very happy to see you too." In truth, Sansa wondered how much her daughter truly remembered her father, but the girl jealously guarded the knowledge imparted by Sansa that her father adored her and thought of her as his good girl. "Will you be a good girl for your Da?" she asks her now.
Serena only smiles coyly now. "May-be yes," she teases.
"If you would also make him proud, you will needs be a good girl," Sansa intones primly.
That night at the inn, she finds that she cannot sleep. She is as nervous as she was the first time that she journeyed to Last Hearth; only this time, she knows that she wants the man waiting there for her. She sighs heavily now.
"Can y'not sleep, milady? Shall I fetch you somethin'?" Berena mumbles next to her.
"Oh!" Sansa whispers. "No, Berena, I- I am only nervous…to see my lord again."
"Nuttin' t'be nervous 'bout, m'lady," she slurs sleepily, "you're jus' goin'home."
"Yes, Berena: you are right," Sansa agrees; but she still cannot sleep.
The next morning starts badly. It has snowed heavily again overnight, and so the paths long the Kingsroad will be covered with fresh snow through which the sledge will need to be pulled with additional effort: a need that is hampered further with the discovery that one horse is lamed and that they will be delayed until they can buy another.
"They're likely only to have work-horses in the village, milady," one guardsman tells her scornfully; but the ginger-haired former stable boy counters him.
"And what other kind of horse d'ye think'll pull best through fresh snow, then? Never fear, m'lady, I'll have ye home by nightfall: on my word, I promise," he insisted to her.
He was good to his word, though by the time they reached the gates of Last Hearth, it was very dark and torches need to be carried into the yard for them by yawning servants. There are not even the familiar sounds of shouted orders; only murmured instructions and grunts as baggage is lifted and carried from the second sledge. Sansa and Berena do their best to rouse her sleeping children.
"Eddard. Serena. We are home now," Sansa whispers excitedly. Her tummy has all a-flutter now, and she feares she might belch indelicately.
"Welcome home, my lady," she hears Lord Jon greet her, "and little brother and sister."
"Smalljon," Eddard cried, and then his face falls. "You are my only brother now."
Lord Jon looked at him with a tender weariness. "That is right, little brother: we are just us two now…and our sisters."
"Lord Jon, please know how much I grieve for my lord's sons, your brothers," Sansa tells him sincerely.
He nods politely. "Thank you, my lady."
"Where…" she begins.
"Where is Father?" Eddard asks as he looks around in the dark yard.
"In his chamber…your chambers, my lady," he tells Sansa. "The maester was treating him and he fell asleep. I decided not to disturb him until you arrived."
"That was kind of you, Lord Jon," Sansa replies, though she is unnerved by his cool demeanour. She realizes that there is still much that is unsaid and uncomfortable between them.
"Come here, little sister," he takes Serena in his arms. "Let go find Father."
Sansa has no choice but to follow him with Eddard to her own rooms. She would have preferred to greet her husband without him. But before she can think of a reason to take Serena from him, he stops in the hallway to greet two men.
"My lady, allow me to introduce Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and Tormund...Giantsbane."
The great big man with a full white beard laughs harshly. "Har! He says it like it's me noble title, he does. I call myself Tall-talker, or Husband of Bears more like. This be the Lord Commander's sister, then? She be even prettier than he is! Har!"
"Tormund and Prince Oberyn led the ranging that found Father, my lady," the Smalljon begins.
Sansa is so filled with gratitude that she gasps in a deep breath. "My lords," she falters, "Forgive me: Prince Oberyn and Ser Tormund: I am eternally grateful-"
"I am honoured to meet you, Lady Umber," the Dornish prince interrupts her smoothly. He has the sharp-featured and swarthy, dark-haired look of some of his natural daughters, Sansa observes. "We both are honoured. However, you must want to greet your lord husband after so long a separation. Please, do not let us keep you. The formalities can wait…if I am not too bold to suggest," he offers with a glint in his dark eyes.
"You are very kind, Prince Oberyn: I thank you." Sansa bows her head and continues through the hallway and up the stairs in the near dark; and she is strangely pleased to see that her instructions for winter rationing are still being followed in her absence. Once they reach the door, Lord Jon opens it but allows Sansa to pass and sets Serena down to follow her and Eddard. He nods to her formally and leaves them.
The chamber is dark and quiet; only the crackle of the fire can be heard and Sansa looks and sees that her husband's great chair has been moved next to the hearth. He sits in it sleeping beneath a fur coverlet, and her heart fills so suddenly to see him that she catches her breath and feels herself tremble.
She turns to her children and puts a finger to her lips so they know to be quiet and then leads them by the hand to where their father sleeps.
In the light of the hearth fire, Sansa can see that his face is red and ruddy from harsh weather, and that his cheeks look somewhat sunken. His hair is completely gray now; his breaths are wheezy and ragged.
He is still unwell, she thinks and her heart goes out to him.
She reaches her hand out to touch his beard; and before she can think to stop herself, she leans to place a soft kiss on his lips. She feels his head turns slightly now and sees his eyelids begin to flutter.
"Sansa," he breathes softly.