When Sansa raises her eyes again, she sees the faces of the wildling children. They are bundled in ragged and worn furs with pink cheeks and red button noses from cold. But their eyes are wary, or wan from hunger and grief and fear. She draws her breath in sharply. She recognizes those eyes; she has seen them before, in the reflection of the mirror on her dressing table in her chamber in the Red Keep. She remembers now why they have been sent to her and her husband: they are orphans who have lost their families, and her heart aches and softens for them all at once. She has also known monsters in human form, and she has seen men die and lost family. She knows what they feel. She will not be as Cersei was; she will not let them feel uncertain and alone and frightened. She steps forward with a gentle smile.
"Welcome children, and come inside the Great Hall to warm yourselves," she prompts them. "We have hearth fires to take off the chill and hot food to fill your tummies; and warm beds so that you may rest from your journey. You are safe now: no harm will come to you here. Lord Umber and I have sworn to your leader Tormund to care for you, and we give you our word as well."
"You heard the lady," the wildling Myrtle tells them all. "Inside and to eat, she says, so pick up your feet now."
"Are there many more children still at the Wall?" Sansa asks her as they walk into the castle.
"Aye," the woman answers shortly, "we brought you those who only just lost their folk. Figured they needed you most; t'others been looked after for a whiles now so they can wait longer…though not much longer with rations being low."
"My lord brother has sent men from Winterfell to bring them to my family's castle, and have the lords of Karhold and White Harbor will as well; though Lord Manderly has sent a ship to Eastwatch with provisions and so the Nights Watch will bring the children there."
"The Flint and Old Norrey have taken some home with them as well," the woman remarks to her. "We're a rough lot to your eyes, I reckon; but we don't forget Lady Umber…is that right then?"
"Yes, I thank you…and shall I call you simply Myrtle?"
"It's my name; call me other things and I'm like to take offense," she jests and laughs. "And you don't want any of the Free Folk taking offense, Lady Umber," she looks Sansa over, at her fine gown and expertly plaited auburn tresses compared to the wildling's furs and matted and snarled grey hair, and she smirks slyly.
But when she enters the Great Hall, her laughter fades away and Sansa can see her awe at the size of the hall. Though Last Hearth is smaller and plainer than Winterfell, it is still impressive to anyone who has never been inside a castle before. The Umber have ruled here on the edges of the far North for thousands of years, and the walls are covered with some of their ancient weapons, with the mounted animal heads of wild prey and predators, and with the large bright banners of their powerful sigil of the great giant breaking his chains against a red field. She sees the wildling woman swallow and stare.
Let her take it all in, Sansa thinks now, and let her know the strength of House Umber.
Sansa is not vindictive, but she is the lord's lady wife, and this is his castle, and though the wildlings are their guests they have also agreed to live by their customs and respect their laws. The woman Myrtle needs see and understand what that means. She pauses and waits until the woman looks to her again, and then she smiles graciously.
"Will you not come to sit and eat Myrtle? The kitchen has prepared food for all of you. You must be hungry after your journey, and though we are also on rations we are not stretched so thin as the Nights Watch."
When the woman simply nods and follows her, Sansa knows that she will not be subjected to more jests or sly retorts. She learns that the other wildling woman is named Willow, and she asks the names of all the children in turn. Most are quiet and some of the boys are sullen but all are hungry, and they hunch over their bowls and eat everything before them and their eyes dart furtively to see if any food is left uneaten. Soon the stew pots and bread baskets are empty and Sansa wishes that she could call for more food from the larder but, as she has stated, they are still on rations. The wildlings will needs eat only the same as everyone else in the castle is served.
The Greatjon speaks with both wildling women now: "Let them rest today for they've had a long journey; but tomorrow we will decide where they can best be directed. Some boys are old enough to train with the garrison, and apprentice with workers. The girls will learn to spin and sew and weave, and some may learn to work in the kitchen or with the chickens," he explains. "You will need for them to have skills when you settle in the Gift come Spring."
"Our girls fight as well, Lord Greatjon," Willow tells him.
"Very well, if you can teach them then they will have leave to learn; but they will not train with the garrison. That is final. I will not have my men fighting women and girls."
"Why not? We'll go easy on'em: I promise," Willow jests.
The Greatjon laughs heartily again.
….
Rickon is quiet at supper in the Hall that night though the entire castle is subdued and as wary of the wildlings as they are of them. Uncle Hother gets up and joins the musicians and plays his horn along with the pipers and drummers which sets all the dogs to barking; but Sansa is relieved to see that some of the children smile.
After seeing her own daughter to bed and assuring herself that the wildlings are properly settled in their various chambers, she tiredly sits with her husband and young Eddard and Rickon in the solar.
Her youngest brother gives perfunctory answers when she asks about their brother Jon Snow and the rest of the men of the Nights Watch; and he is not forthcoming when she makes tentative inquiries about the war and even the queen's dragons.
"You were so long with them after the battle, Rickon; I believe Mother worried that you might join the Watch-"
"I said I'd go back home," he interrupts suddenly. "Jon made me leave anyway."
"I- I'm sorry if that is not what you wanted, Rickon; but you are young as yet. You can still join the Watch someday if that is what you truly wish," she tells him gently though she hopes that he will change his mind. As proud as she is of Jon Snow and his rise in the Watch, she could plainly see that his responsibilities weighed heavily on him.
"At least I'd have brothers there," he mutters.
"Oh, Rickon, I am so very sorry that you lost Robb, but we all did too. And Bran will be with you at Winterfell-" she begins to tell him, but he is shaking his head without looking at her.
"No. No he won't be, not for long anyway. He wants me back so he can go to the Citadel. He wants to forge a chain. He says that he can never be a real lord who can protect the North and its people…and so it will needs fall to me," he says with an unhappy resignation.
Sansa is dumbfounded. Rickon is so very young; and though there have been younger lords and even Wardens in name, she can see clearly that Rickon is neither prepared nor is he yet willing to take on their father's responsibilities. She glances uneasily to her husband who has been listening silently but with concern.
"Rickon…" she begins haltingly, "I am certain that Mother and even Roslin can advise you until-"
"He says he'll wait until I am of age," he interrupts again. "Bran said he would wait…but then he'll leave…just as you and Arya left…and Father…and Robb. I'll Have Winterfell and I'll be Lord Stark but…I'll be alone," he finishes.
Pain grips Sansa's heart so tightly that she nearly gasps for breath, but before she can speak again her brother wipes his nose on his sleeve and stands abruptly.
"Good night, Sansa…and my lord," he says awkwardly before leaving them.
"Good night, Rickon," the Greatjon calls somberly before turning to Sansa.
Sansa bites down to still the trembling of her lower lip but she cannot stop the warm salty tear that slide down her smooth cheek. Her husband reaches for her hand now and holds it firmly in his own great rough grip.
"He'll be alright, Sansa," he murmurs gently. "He's still young. He'll have time to accept his duty."
"But he will never have more brothers…or another father," she laments hoarsely. "He feels that he is alone, that we have all left him alone."
"Your father lost his father as well as his older brother and sister," he reminds her. "Rickon is a Stark, like your father."
"I wonder if Rickon knows that, or if he even remembers my father: my lord, he was so very young," she says tearfully but wipes her cheeks hastily.
"I hate to see you cry, Sansa," he tells her. "Come, let's see Eddard to bed now. Come along, Eddard: we'll be training with wildling boys tomorrow. I'm counting on you to spar with them and help me teach them."
Sansa's son brightens at his father's words. "Yes Father: I'll help you, I promise."
"Good lad," he pats his son's head and ruffles his auburn curls, so like Robb's and Rickon's that Sansa wishes to embrace him fiercely so that he will never be harmed or ever feel alone. But she knows that she cannot always be with him or protect him. She sighs instead.
Once her maid has helped her to undress, Sansa dismisses her and rather wearily unbraids and brushes her own hair. She feels her husband's eyes on her and then his hand on her shoulder and turns to look up at him. He in turn looks down upon her with concern.
"Do not let this weigh on your mind, Sansa. Your young brother has years to grow into his responsibilities. Your mother will guide him; and mayhaps her uncle the Blackfish can help to train and counsel him. He was a great advisor to Robb during the War of Five Kings and after; and all the Northern lords will be behind him. He is Eddard Stark's son and, well, I know how much you care for the other one, Sansa; but the North needs a whole young man to rule, especially now with the Targaryen queen and her council looking to hold sway over us. Mayhaps this will be best…for all of us here," he tells her reluctantly.
"But Bran is so very clever, my lord-" she assures him.
"That is not enough, Sansa, you know it is not; else the Imp would sit the Iron throne, not a girl with dragons," he tells her firmly, and then relents somewhat. "They have never styled any Umber the Cleverjon, Sansa," he says self-depricatingly and with a wry smile.
Sansa takes his hand now. "No, but you are more than passing clever, my lord: more than you let other men realize," she notes shrewdly.
He smiles again, only wider; and his deep eyes twinkle warmly. "As are you, Sansa; and I suspect you are clever enough to understand why it is advantageous to let others underestimate you."
"I- I confess that I am not certain, my lord," she tells him humbly, and drops her eyes in embarrassment. "Queen Cersei and King Joffrey…they thought I was a stupid girl."
"Did they?" he scoffs. "And was it not your words that helped to condemn them? I'll wager they underestimated you then, and spoke more freely than they should have before you," he nods resolutely. "Look at me, Sansa. No man would ever question my strength or my ferocity so they believe their only chance is to outsmart me; and that is easier to counter if they think they needs not try very hard."
Sansa smiles her understanding and looks up to him admiringly now.
"Your father was the same in his way," he tells her now. "He never fought in tourneys, so men would not realize how skilled he was in battle. He kept quiet and listened before he spoke, and so men did not know how he thought until he had made up his mind…and he guarded his temper: a lesson I have never learned, I confess," he chuckles now.
"You have never told me such things about my lord father before," she ventures softly, and then she has a sudden inspiration. "I- I feel that these are the very things my brother Rickon needs hear of him, my lord. I wonder-"
But he simply closes his eyes and nods to her now. "Of course I'll tell him, Sansa; only let me do it in good time so the boy does not feel that I am browbeating him. I'll ask him to join the training tomorrow," he tells her patiently, "and somehow find reason to speak of your father. Hm? He'll needs learn in his own good time as well."
Sansa squeezes his hand tightly. "I could not wish for a better man to teach him, my lord. I- Thank you," she whispers now.
He smiles wryly again. "And now I must push thoughts of Lord Eddard Stark far from my mind, Sansa…else I will not be able to bed you as I wish to do," he growls hungrily.
Sansa bites her lip and then stands up from her dressing table. The Greatjon stands with her.
"My father would wish for my happiness, my lord; and I could not wish for a better man to teach me," she teases him.
For the third time that day, a woman's jest make him howl with laughter.
….
Sansa is breaking her fast with a tray in their chamber the next morning when she hears he husband whoop and holler from far off. Within moments, his booted footsteps can be heard running toward their door which he flings open so forcefully that it bangs and reverberates against the stone wall behind it.
"Finally!" he exults breathlessly and coughs so much he turns red in the face.
Sansa quickly throws back the furs of the bed where she rests and pads over to him in bare feet and her bedgown with her hair flowing loose about her shoulders. He shakes his head as she pats his back and looks concernedly at him.
"Fine," he coughs, "I'm fine…just too excited. I- Come here, beautiful Sansa!"
He picks her up and spins her around in his arms. "Wooooo," he throws his head back and howls his delight.
"My lord!" she cries now. "Please, my lord: what can have happened to please you so very much? Let me share your joy with you."
He sets her down and waves a scroll that he has clutched in his massive fist.
"Smalljon," he breathes in a rush, "has finally done it. He writes to ask my consent, Sansa. He intends to ask for the hand of a lady of House Mormont and…woooooo!" he exults again. "If the gods be good, she will accept and he will return to Last Hearth with a bride, a Northern bride!"
"Oh," she replies, "oh, my lord, I am so very happy for you, and for Lord Jon and…and…but which lady does he mean to wed, my lord?" Sansa knows that Dacey Mormont wed shortly after she did; and that Alysane already has children despite being unwed, claiming that they were fathered by a bear: a claim often mocked by the men of House Umber. But Lady Maege Mormont has younger daughters as well.
"Hm? Oh, the youngest one…named for your father's sister," he tells her now.
"Lyanna Mormont?" Sansa is surprised, thinking her very young; but then she remembers that she is of an age with Arya. "She would be near six-and-ten if she is not already," she muses.
"Old enough to be wed, then," he counters. "Older than you were, Sansa; but…is that not for the better?" he asks delicately.
"Indeed, my lord: she would be of an age to be wed," she tells him encouragingly. "Will you send him word of your consent then? Please include my sincere wishes for their happiness, my lord: I think it a splendid match," she affirms.
The Greatjon looks to the scroll now and remembers.
"Blast! I forgot to tell the maester to send a reply…I wanted to come and tell you, Sansa!' He smiles so brightly at her and she is touched that he should have come straight to her with his happy news.
She nods to him with a knowing grin. "Well…then, my lord?"
He takes her face in his huge hands and impulsively plants a kiss on her forehead. "I'm off then," he mutters as he turns and leaves their chamber as suddenly as he entered moments ago.
When he is gone, Sansa lets herself sigh with relief.
Thank the gods, she exults quietly and to herself. Let him love her, and be happy; let him not look to me anymore…
She takes a deep breath now and steadies herself.
Let it all be over now, forever.