Chapter 9: Hearth and Home

The fire in her fueled the entire trip north to the Wall. The days they spent in the snow and cold passed slowly, giving Sansa time to study her travel companions at length. Her burning desire was a sharp contrast to both Stannis Baratheon's complete lack of will and Theon's fear. She could see it etched in every line on his young face—lines that had not existed the last time she had seen him. Sometimes, Sansa barely recognized him so little did he resemble the boy who had grown up in the halls of Winterfell. She could not forgive him, but he paid dearly for his betrayal of her family.

One day, Sansa would walk next to Theon and they would be silent. But, other days, Sansa could hear Theon talking to himself. All the worries that Sansa had about returning to the Boltons' cruelty was muttered quietly and lost in the wind as the forged a path off of the King's Road, through tall trees. It was worse at night; Theon would wake from his night terrors screaming. His screams, Sansa feared, would bring their captors to them, like a lighthouse draws a ship to shore. Lady Brienne somehow managed to quiet Theon each night.

Lady Brienne was in the lead for most of the journey, her back straight even in the harshest winds. For the most of the journey, she was silent as she scanned the horizon. Sansa imagined Lady Brienne was a statue, quiet, strong and angular. She never wavered, always sure of herself. Even the Lady's colors were washed out—white blonde and pale—like marble stone.

Poderick, on the other hand, was round everywhere. He bumbled in everything—his movements and speech seemed full. He filled spaces, doing or saying something so that nothing never existed. Once, Sansa would have found relief in the something that Poderick always provided; but, now, she considered his small talk unnecessary—a distraction even. Sansa wanted to focus solely on her feet—and how each step brought her closer and closer to where she wanted and needed to be.

Once the Wall was a smudge on the horizon, Sansa rushed ahead.

The wall loomed in the distance-it stretched beyond the clouds and into the very heavens. She had seen the hells, now she had a chance to see what a cloud looked like from the other side. Sansa wondered if that was why they were called Crows: they perched on the wall like birds, high above Westeros. Maybe from his vantage, Jon could see the small party walking slowly toward the wall.

They continued the last day's trek through snow and wind to reach Castle Black. They had spent the better part of the month wishing they could be where they were now—in sight of the Wall. Yet, as the white expanse against the horizon grew, Sansa tried to ignore the dread building in the very pit of her stomach. Their journey had been too easy.

…..

The heavy smack of gloved hand to hard wood sent a rush of fear to the very pit of Reek's stomach. Last time, Lord Ramsay had found Reek. Last time, everything changed. What would Reek lose this time?

Not Reek, he thought abysmally. Theon. I am Theon. Bolton had taken from him many things (his mind being chief among them), but marching several days in the blasted cold had cleared his thoughts. Slightly. It was like the flickering of a candle in the wind. Sometimes he was himself, and then—crunch. The snap of a twig would send him into a complete loss of direction, like a ship caught in the mighty swells of a stormy sea. Except, when Theon stopped being Theon it was nothing like a ship. It was like drowning. Or worse. Like not existing at all. All he knew as Reek was fear, deep-seeded and relentless. Where had the Ironborn gone?

Instead of the Bolton, pale and cruel, there was only a giant wooden door and a great, blindingly white wall of ice—like nothing he had ever seen before.

A small door slid open to reveal the face of a man, beady eyes and a patchy beard of several days' growth.

"Yeh?" the man spat out to the party, "What do ye want?"

"We want to be let in," Lady Brienne demanded.

"Oh," the man said with a snicker, "Do ye now? Who died and made ye king?" As he made to close the sliding door in Lady Brienne's face, an indistinguishable, muffled bark could be heard on the other side of the door.

"But, ser—"

"I am Stannis Baratheon," Stannis spoke for the first time in days. Theon was surprised that he still could.

"I remember ye," said the guard, he closed the small door on his conversation with his borther Crow. Minutes passed and then scarred wooden door swung open, permitting them entrance into Castle Black. Sansa grabbed Theon's hand and squeezed hard. She had pulled him from the sea; she had saved him from drowning. He would earn her trust again and, one day, her forgiveness.

"We have traveled from Winterfell—" Lady Brienne began, but was interrupted by a gruff man, with a barrel chest and angry eyes.

"What happened to your men?" he looked to Stannis for answers.

"All gone," Stannis said quietly to the man. And then, more quietly to himself he said, "they're all gone and it is all my fault."

"I am Lady Brienne of Tarth and this is Lady Sansa," she inserted herself into the conversation, heedless of the horror on the old Crow's face or the albatross of sorrow hanging from Stannis Baratheon's neck.

"Allisser Thorne, Lord Commander of Castle Black," he said as he made his way toward them across the courtyard. Stannis was surprised.

"What happened to Snow?"

"He…" the Lord commander appeared uncomfortable before settling on his answer, "he left. He's now living with the Wildlings south of the wall." Sansa's grip tightened to the point of pain.

…..

Maybe this was the fear that bubbled in her stomach; Jon was not where she thought he was. But, as they followed the man from the Night's Watch to the Wildling camp, Sansa still felt the wrongness in her gut.

Fingers of smoke curled toward the sky just above the trees. A slight breeze brought smells of food and even the faints murmurs of conversation. When finally they reached the camp, the conversation had died. But it didn't matter.

Sansa only hesitated for a moment, and then she ran as fast as the snow would let her toward her brother, who also moved toward her. Jon wrapped her in a hug so tight she could barely breathe. For a moment, the dread subsided and all she could do was cry in Jon's arms. His shoulders shook slightly. A small pressure at her hip forced Sansa's attention away from Jon's embrace.

"Rickon!" she cried out. All three siblings held each other, until Sansa turned toward Jon and asked: "Where's Bran?"

….

Poderick busied himself in the Wildling camp. There was always something to be done and once someone figured out that you could be useful, that someone usually used you. It was good to feel as if he was doing something helpful—important, even. People often forgot about the person who was just there. Poderick heard more than people realized.

While he was refreshing the horses and managing what supplies he and Lady Brienne still had, he heard two things that seemed more important than the gossip-mongers realized: a witch had taken up residence in Castle Black and a seemingly dead Jon Snow rose out of his funeral pyre as if nothing had happened. News travels slowly in Westeros. Poderick wondered if they had heard of the dragon queen across the Narrow Sea and the rumor that she was impervious to flame. Certainly, the threat of what lay just beyond the Wall had not reached the South.

"Lady Brienne," he whispered, "I need to tell you something." He caught her walking toward their tent. She looked exasperated, until Poderick relayed his overheard gossip as well as his thoughts on what to do with the information.

...

"You know not of what you ask," Melissandre angrily repeated.

"But, you're a…" Poderick paused, "a witch. We just need to send a message. Can you try?"

"I am a priestess," she said darkly, "of the Lord of Light. And I would need blood. King's blood." Lady Brienne and Poderick turned to each other, perturbed.

"Stannis," Poderick said after some thought, "he's somewhere in the castle."