Chapter 3

"You should have seen the kings face when she called him a boy," Ser Milton grinned. "He certainly wasn't expecting that."

Alinor laughed. "I wish I could have been there," she said, smiling as she hung up Sansa's gowns in the armoire.

"I thought Lord Connington was going to choke," Ser Lothor said, laughing.

"I was so frightened, right up until the moment he said we could stay," Sansa admitted. "But when he said I was only a girl, I got a little angry. He's only a few years older than I am, and men follow him for the same reason they follow me. Neither of us has done anything to deserve it."

"I don't know about that," Ser Tomas said with a smile. "I never met Lord Stark, but I'm rather proud to follow you."

"And you must remember, my lady," Ser Mathiew said. "Bravery is not the absence of fear, but rather, action in the face of fear."

"Then our lady is the bravest of them all," Alinor said proudly.

Sansa blushed, hiding her smile behind her glass. She was still giggly that it had all worked out. She and the king had spent several hours together as she told him all about the North, and King's Landing and what she remembered of King Robert. She told him everything that had happened with Queen Cercei and about Margeary and Tommen. Her stomach churned when she realized they would kill Tommen, and Mycella too, if they could convince the Dornishmen to give her up – which they probably could, the Prince of Dorne was his uncle, after all.

"It's the only way to ensure that they won't be able to do what he'd doing now," Ser Lothor said quietly when she mentioned it. And although she knew he was right, the princess was only a few years younger than her, and Tommen was only eight or nine. It seemed wrong to kill children.

They settled into a pleasant routine almost immediately. After breaking their fast, she would work with one of the knights on weaponry. They'd moved from a dagger to a sword, which was heavy and awkward. The king would usually have her join him for lunch, where he would ask more questions about King's Landing, or the personalities of the court, or what she knew of the other Lords. Then they'd continue her lessons on military strategy and historic battles. After dinner, she and Alinor would work on mending and darning, as all of their clothes were beginning to show some wear, especially her knights.

Once the king and his forces had taken Storm's End, he had them all join them there. Sansa didn't like the old stone castle, it was cold and damp, no matter how many fires they lit. Their first morning there, she was served some type of thin porridge to break her fast, that she frowned her nose at. Dressing, she had Alinor bring the tray and went down to the kitchens, two of her knights following silently.

A middle aged woman looked at her skeptically when she entered, and the other staff stopped their duties to look at her as well. "My lady," the older woman said warily.

Sansa smiled politely. "Good morning. May I ask, who is the cook?"

"I am," she said, still wary. "Byrta."

"Ah, Byrta," Sansa said with a smile. "Are you a new cook? Was the old one killed in the siege?"

"No my lady," she answered, a bit haughtily. "I have been the cook here for over ten and five years."

"Oh that's wonderful," Sansa said warmly. "That means you can do better that….this." She gestured to the tray that Alinor held.

"We're low on barely grain, my lady," Byrta said stiffly. "And most everything else. Between Lord Tyrell and now this boy king of yours, we've not been able to get supplies."

Sansa raised an eyebrow at her tone. "I'm certain that you have your own ideas on the matter of politics, as I have mine. You're certainly welcome to them," she assured the woman. "But no matter your politics, understand that a poor work ethic will not be tolerated. Don't worry," she said when the entire staff looked alarmed. "I'm certain that neither the king nor his Hand will kill you over a bad meal, or a dusty table. He will, however, send to Tarth and have you replaced. And as I'm sure you understand, we cannot have anyone leaving here to spread tales, so you would be relegated to whatever dungeon this castle has for the duration of the war." Even to her own ears, she sounded like her mother. Good. Let them see the Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North.

"We've hardly any supplies," the woman said again, her tone holding an edge of panic. "See for yourself." She gestured towards the pantry, and Sansa stepped forward to glance at its contents.

"I see enough to have a more suitable breaking of the fast, a delightful midday meal, and a dinner fit for a king. See to it that it is so, Byrta," she said, smiling. She gestured for Alinor to put the tray on a counter. "And I will arrange for more supplies. Tell me, who holds the household's keys?"

"Sharil, the laundress," Byrta said, almost sullenly. "The steward died, she took over things."

"Would you be so kind as to send one of your girls to find her, and ask her to come to me? I'll be wandering the rooms on this floor." She smiled again, and swept from the room, hearing Byrta behind her telling one of the girls to go get Sharil.

In the great hall, she found Lord Connington and the king, along with Ser Lothor and a few other men she didn't know. "Lady Stark, good morning," Lord Connington said politely. She noticed that like hers, their bowls were untouched.

"Good morning my lords, Your Grace, Your Majesty," she said, nodding. "I am glad to find you here. I think, my lord, that I may need your authority."

"For what?" he asked brusquely. She'd come to realize that brusque was his personality, and not take it personally.

"Ah, here she is now," Sansa said as a tall, gaunt woman came into the hall. Her back was rigidly straight, her brown hair liberally streaked with gray. She curtseyed stiffly.

"You requested me, my lady?" she asked Sansa coolly.

"Yes Sharil," Sansa said warmly. "I am Lady Sansa Stark, I will be managing King Aegon's household while he is in residence. I require the household keys." She held out her hand.

Sharil stared at her, her hand going protectively to the pocket of her white apron.

"Is there a problem, Goodwoman?" Lord Connington asked roughly.

Her jaw clenched as she slowly pulled the keys from her pocket. "No, My Lord Hand," she said stiffly, passing the keys to Sansa.

"Thank you," Sansa said, smiling. "Please have all of the household maids meet me in the downstairs solar in twenty minutes. Afterwards, I'll be down to inspect the laundry and meet the spinners and weavers. You are excused, Sharil." The woman nodded stiffly and marched out of the hall.

"My lord," Sansa turned to Lord Connington, "the kitchens are dangerously low, and the gardens were damaged in the siege. The animals are almost gone, there's only one dairy cow, and we're out of salt completely. What game remains in the forest should be left for the men. Would it be possible to for me to send my handmaiden over to Tarth for supplies?"

The king groaned, and lowered his head to his hands. "Funding a war in expensive," he moaned, his words muffled by his arms.

Sansa smiled. "I'm happy to cover our expenditures, Your Majesty," she said.

All of the heads at the table turned to look at her, with the exception of Ser Lothor, who simply smiled into his cup.

"You are?" Lord Connington said warily.

"Of course," Sansa answered cheerfully. "While I am not carrying a chest of gold dragons with me, I do have some small amount of resources, and I'm happy to use them to ensure the comfort of our King and his men."

"I do not wish to invest more than necessary," Lord Connington cautioned. "Although we will be here awhile, we will not be here permanently. I've no wish to have you expend all of your 'resources' in one blow."

"I will remember," she promised, then excused herself. She and Alinor found the stewards office, and getting paper and a sliver of coal to write with, went off to meet the household maids. The day was a busy one, with none of her weapons practice or study of military history. She ensured the maid were cleaning – "Not a speck of dust shall reside where the King does!" – then approved the laundry facilities, noting that she would prefer they use a bit more lye soap, some of the whites appeared a bit dingy.

"We're running low," Sharil said, her tone frigid.

Sansa sighed. "Of course you are. Alinor, add it to the list." She'd been thrilled to learn the girl could read and write, having been the daughter of a cleric who'd died of a fever. They also inspected the stables, iron works, chandlers rooms, and garden, although the chandler and iron master were gone, either dead or supporting Lord Stannis. She would have to find replacements if they were going to be there for any length of time. Then they returned to the steward's office, where they went through the books. Lord Connington stopped by in time to see them find a locked chest (the key to which was on the ring Sansa held), half filled with gold dragons, and he agreed that it could be used for the running of the household.

The midday meal was significantly better than the breaking of the fast - smoked ham, fish, and vegetables in an herb and butter sauce, with warm bread and a vanilla custard for dessert – and dinner was a roasted boar, more fish, roasted vegetables, bread, and a fruit and custard pie. While it wasn't technically fit for a king, it was delicious and filling.

Ser Lothor gave her several days to get the household in order before he insisted she return to her weapons lessons. "While I know the King and Lord Connington sincerely appreciate your work – we all do, really – we're still in a war. And it won't matter how clean the castle is or how good the food if you're dead." And so she oversaw the household in between learning to handle a sword and sewing and darning in the evenings. Fortunately, Alinor had the sense to buy more fabric in Tarth, and the household also had bolts of a thick wool in the basement storage room. She set the weavers and spinners and embroiders to work making shirts and socks, and thick wool leggings to be worn under pants and skirts.

She fell into bed exhausted every evening, and didn't really notice how quickly time was passing, until she realized the King was spending almost every morning with her in her weaponry lesson, practicing sparring with her and especially her knights. He prowled around the castle, practically growling at anyone who spoke to him.

"He's bored, and he wants to do something," Ser Milton said with a shrug one evening as they all sat together, talking in her drawing room as they often did. "We've been sitting here for months. He wants to be a part of the action."

Sansa knew that things were happening. She'd received a letter by raven from Harry, telling her that the Northern Lords were willing to support King Aegon – and mentioning that most of them also approved of a marriage between them. They'd also heard from King's Landing that Kevan Lannister, who'd stepped in as Regent while Cercei awaited her trial by the Faith, had been killed and apparently Mace Tyrell had stepped in, over Cercei's almost violent objections. From what they'd been told, think there were chaotic, to say the least, as Cercei and Mace wrestled for the rule. And apparently, Lord Tarly and his army had been sent to the Reach in Mace Tyrell's stead, as the self-proclaimed 'King of the Iron Islands' was attacking there.

Ser Lothor had told her the Northern army was on the move, heading southwest, towards the Iron Islands, and the Westerlands. The Lords of the Vale were also moving, heading towards the Riverlands. And Lord Connington had finally heard from House Martell, and the Dornishmen were moving through the mountains, headed towards The Reach. They would have the most challenge, as Lord Tarly's army was there, along with Iron Islands forces. The king and his men had the southern Stormlands completely under their control – including Tarth, which had surrender with no bloodshed, claiming fealty to the rightful King Aegon VI. And so now, it was a matter of waiting.

Sansa was happy to wait. She was busy and productive, doing what she'd been trained to do. In Alinor she'd found the companion she'd lost in Jeyne, and her knights had become her family, of sorts. And in the King, she'd found a pesky older brother. They laughed and joked, and sparred and discussed books and history and his time in Pentos, and hers growing up in the North. Often, she was the only one who could tease him out of a black mood when the frustration of waiting grew too much for him. She made him a shirt, using the last of the white linen and lace she'd bought in Gulltown, with silver embroidery and he wore it proudly, even as he teased her about it being "the colors of House Stark." He also asked about her marriage, and she told him everything – how kind Tyrion had been to her, and even that they'd never consummated the marriage, because he'd wanted to wait until she was comfortable. "When this is over, I can have that set that aside for you, if you like," he told her. "And you'll be free to marry whomever you'd want."

Sansa smiled. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but I have no desire to marry right now." They were standing on one of the castle's stone towers, their cloaks waving in the sea scented breeze. The snow had stopped and although it was cold, the air was clear and for the moment, the clouds had broken up enough that blue sky and sunshine could be seen through them.

"But you will want to, one day," he said with uncharacteristic seriousness, his eyes intent on her face. "You could marry anyone, you're the Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and dear friend to the King," he smiled. "You must be careful," he warned. "As you already know, men will want you for your title and lands."

She nodded. "I know. It's why Lord Tywin married me to Tyrion, so that the Lannisters would have the claim to Winterfell."

"You don't have to remain married to him," he told her gently.

She smiled, a bit sadly. "It may not be an issue," she said. "He was sentenced to death. I've heard no word of his execution, but it's more than possible he's dead."

"And if everything you and Ser Lothor have told me is true, it's more than possible he's alive," he said wisely. "Think on what you want, Sansa. You could marry anyone. Even me," he said lightly.

She looked at him, startled. "Would you like to be my queen?" he asked softly, reaching a hand out to grasp a thick strand of her auburn hair that had blown free from its pins. He tucked it behind her ear, then pulled her hood gently forward. "We get along well, you and I," he said softly. "You would be a beautiful queen, kind and wise, well loved by everyone. Including her King." His gaze made her stomach quiver and her breath quicken. She looked away, nervously. "Think on it," he said gently, so different from his usual arrogance. "We could be very good together."

Of course, once it was said she couldn't think of anything else, especially as his words were eerily similar to what Tyrion had said to her on their wedding night. Why would he want to marry her? She wondered. He too could have anyone he wanted. And if she were Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, she needed to return home, she couldn't stay in King's Landing. The days went by and he didn't mention it again, he was his usual arrogant self, teasing her and pulling her hair as he passed by her. But every now and then she would catch him looking at her intently, and when she caught his eye, he would smile.

She had to wonder if she actually were free to marry again. When she'd left Winterfell three years before, she'd thought that she would be queen one day. Had it only been three years? She thought musingly. It felt like a lifetime ago. She tried to think of what it would be like to be the queen, but every time she tried to imagine it, her king was a small, misshapen dwarf with golden hair and mismatched eyes. Did she really care for Tyrion so much? She'd never really thought of it. She was grateful to him – more grateful than she knew how to express – for his kindness when her world was spinning out of control. He was a wonderful man, she could admit that now. But if he were somehow still alive, would she set him aside so that she could marry the king? He wouldn't argue with her, she knew. He would let her go, sending her on her way with his best wishes. But in her mind's eye, he looked sad. She knew instinctively that he cared for her, possibly more deeply than she wanted to admit. But how did she feel about him?

She was lost deeply in her thoughts as she, Alinor, Ser Kiers and Ser Mathew descended the steps to the lower basement. She hated coming down this low, the walls were always damp and chilled, and the air smell musty. But Sharil had told her that when Lady Selyse was in residence, she always had a ready supply of soap and candles – things they frequently ran out of. She almost made them appear by magic, and Sharil thought that perhaps they were in the lower storage room.

Sansa unlocked the heavy door, pushing it open wide. Sure enough, crates of candles were stacked neatly across the back wall of the small room, and crates of soap along the left side. "Gods be praised," Alinor sighed as she set her lantern on a crate. "We go through a crate of candles a week, it seems."

Sansa nodded. "Ser Mathew, would you take a crate of soap? And Ser Kiers, the candles if you please."

"Here, take my lantern, and I'll take a crate of candles as well," Alinor said. Sansa took it from her, holding it high while they gathered what they needed.

"What's that on that wall there?" Ser Kiers asked, gesturing with his head to the wall behind them. Small crates were stacked against it. Sansa raised the lantern high. The door stood open, almost to the wall, so she could only see a corner.

"Is that oil? For the lamps we found?" Alinor asked.

"I think it is," Sansa said with a grin. "I'll bring up a few jars." Ser Mathew and Ser Kiers headed out of the door, Alinor following.

"If that is the oil," Alinor said as she exited, "then we could cut down on our candle usage."

The door swung on silent hinges as Sansa pushed it out of her way, reaching to grab the small crate, the lantern still in her hand. Then gasped in surprise when she saw the man who had been hidden behind it. He moved quickly, so fast she barely saw the flash of his blade.

Ser Lothor insisted that she wear her daggers everywhere, one strapped to her right thigh under her gown, and a short one strapped to her left forearm. She did it to mollify him, as she was never anywhere alone, and Alinor wore her short sword on her side, just as her knights did. The King had made sure that the household soldiers knew that she was to be protected as he was – "She contributed 30,000 fighting men to this cause, and they fight for me because they know that I are keeping their Direwolf princess safe. If she dies, I will lose their support, and quite possibly, this war. So if she dies, you die." – and so although she was always armed, she never worried about it. No one in the house would harm her. But her training served her well as she jumped back, swinging the lantern at her attackers head. He ducked and growled as she flung herself to the right, grateful that the candle didn't go out as it landed on its side. She opened her mouth to scream as she grabbed the short blade from her arm but he was too close. He grabbed her awkwardly, her left arm against his chest, pushing her into the wall and knocking the breath from her, but not before a small scream escaped her. The force of hitting the wall make her drop her dagger, but it also put her in a good position to reach into her skirt for the other one.

Her assailant kicked at the door to close it, then pushed her back against the wall, his hand across her mouth. Before he could do much more, she had pushed her dagger into his midsection. He looked surprised, then down to where her hand still grasped the hilt. He stumbled back as the door was flung open with a crash, and Ser Mathew there, his broad sword in hand, Ser Kiers right behind him, and Sansa pushed her dagger deeper and up, as Ser Lothor had taught her. The assailant crumbled to the floor, his body shaking, blood leaking from his mouth. Alinor pushed into the room, grabbed Sansa and pulled her out and down the hallway, yelling and screaming all of the way. By the time they'd reached the top a dozen men had gone charging down the staircase. The King met her at the top and grabbed her, holding her tightly.

"Are you all right?" He pulled away to look intently into her face, his hands on her cheeks, stroking her hair.

She nodded, swallowing the bile that had risen into her throat. "Yes," she said shakily. "Yes, I…..I think so." He pulled her to him again, her face against his shoulder, whispering gently to her.

"Alright, it's over now," he said soothingly, then told Alinor to go find someone to bring Sansa a cup of wine.

Lord Connington and Ser Lothor came striding up the stairs. The Hand of the King seemed surprised to see them there, the King holding her tightly, her hands clutching his shirt.

"Are you alright, my lady? Is she alright?" Ser Lothor asked urgently.

She pulled away from the King, nodding. "Yes," she said, clearing her throat. Alinor pushed a cup of wine into her hands and she gratefully took a gulp. "I'm fine," she said again. She was surprised to see seven guards around them, all with their swords drawn, including Alinor.

It took only a few moments to sort out what had happened. Sharil was sent for, and was nowhere to be found. No one had seen her for most of the morning, the last anyone had seen of her she was on her way to speak to Lady Stark about a possible storeroom where Lady Selyse had kept candles and lye soap. And that had been hours earlier. Lord Connington alerted the troops, most of which were just outside the castle walls, and tightened security around both the King and Sansa.

"We found a bag of food, bread and dried meat and cheese, a skin of water, and a small chamber pot hidden in the room," Ser Lothor told her grimly that evening. "He was prepared to wait until you came down. No one else has the keys, and you've made a habit of not giving them to anyone, so she could be certain that you would be the one to go down."

"He had to have known he wouldn't have gotten away," Alinor said curiously. "Lady Sansa is never alone, Sharil knew that."

Ser Lothor shrugged. "She's gone and he's dead, so we've no idea of what he knew."

Although Alinor slept in the bed with her and Ser Lothor promised to watch over her all night, she slept fitfully. She was sickened that she had killed someone, and every time she closed her eyes she could see him lying on the floor, her dagger protruding from him, blood leaking from his mouth. One of the lamps she and Alinor had found was lit – now that they had the oil for it – and sat on her bedside table, burning all night. And every time she opened her eyes, Ser Lothor was still sitting beside her bed, his eyes resting on her face.

The morning brought news of Sharil's capture by a patrol. But it also brought two ravens.

"Your Northmen have prevailed," the King told her excitedly, as Lord Connington stood nearby, a small smile on his usually dour face. "They have taken the Iron Islands and The Westerlands, including Casterly Rock. And the Valemen have secured the Riverlands. Your uncle, Lord Tully, has been re-established as rightful ruler of Riverrun, and Jaimie Lannister has been taken captive."

"A combined force of Northmen and Valemen took The Twins," Ser Lothor told her gently. "It is said that their battle cry was, 'For King Robb!' Old Walder Frey and his eight oldest born sons are dead."

"There were many who wanted him dead for his treachery," Lord Connington said seriously.

Sansa felt her eyes tear at that news, and her breath caught in her throat. But she wouldn't cry. She pressed her lips tightly together and nodded once, then excused herself.

Wrapped in her white fur cloak, she stood on the tallest of the stone towers, watching the waves crash below. The snow was falling gently around her, but she didn't feel it. She wasn't sure what she felt.

"Revenge isn't always sweet," Lord Connington said quietly, appearing at her side. "Or even satisfactory."

Sansa was quiet for a long minute, then nodded. "I thought I would be happy to hear that Old Lord Frey was dead," she said quietly. "And I suppose a part of me is. But mostly…I'm just tired. Of all of it. I'm tired of all of the death. Even as I'm happy that my mother and brother's killer is dead, someone is crying because of his death. It's too much, there's just been too much. When will it end?"

"Soon, Lady Stark. Very soon. In large part because of you. Without your help this would have been harder, longer, and bloodier. History will note that it was the presence of the North, under the wise leadership of Lady Sansa Stark that turned the tides."

Sansa remained silent.

Lord Connington sighed deeply. "My boy fancies you," he said quietly. "I've been against the idea of his marrying. His mother was so unsuited to his father, weak and frail and totally unworthy of him. But that is not who you are, Lady Stark. You are strong and bold, and wise beyond your years. And I would be honored to call you my queen."

She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. He smiled and bowed, then turned away, leaving her and her swirling thoughts standing amidst the gently falling snow.