Sansa stood in the courtyard to welcome back Tormund and the team she'd sent both to hunt and cull as many of the bears and other dangers further North as possible as her armies marched and prepared the region for war. The fewer men eaten by bears the better. And the meat of said bears would be welcome in their stores. The elk, moose, and deer were a boon as well. But she'd wanted the predators as culled as could be done from the Wolf's Wood. Too many men would be marching there. And already creatures from beyond the Wall were roaming southward.
The large, rough-hewn carts made their way into Winterfell, the cold biting in its sharpness from the wind. The snow caught at the wheels. Already her men were changing the wheels out for sled runners. The snow near five feet deep already. It would only get deeper, their frozen world colder.
Leading the portion of the hunting party that had returned was Tormund. His red hair shone out amongst their furs and leathers. Kissed by fire. The term felt more real in the white, between wind and snow falling leaving some details of the party hard to see. They could only hope the snow ceased long enough for more men to be sent out soon.
"Queen Stark!" Tormund bellowed as he lept off of the cart and onto the ground, striding towards her, arms open wide.
A smile came unbidden to her face. "Lord Giantsbane."
He let out a loud roaring laugh. "Fuck that, I'm as much a Lord as you've got a cock."
Sansa ignored the vaguely horrified faces of a few of her court that'd followed out for this minor greeting. She waved Wagstaff forward with the bread and salt. "Welcome back to Winterfell, it is good you arrived before this storm could set in properly."
"You call this a storm?" He grabbed a chunk of bread, dipped it in salt, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. "You southern shites don't know a good storm."
"Well, you are most welcome either way." She found that she liked the loud-spoken man. And she knew that his speaking to her in this manner was no insult. The majority of the men and women in the courtyard were Free Folk, and that Tormund was reporting to her, taking her offer of guest rite, that he treated her as a person worth acknowledging, was important. The Free Folk didn't bend easily, and she was not what they sought in a leader. "I trust you killed more bears than you tried to bed since you still live." She arched a brow, her face remaining near placid.
Tormund laughed. "Oh, you've got a sharp tongue today." He waved forward Meera Reed from the cart. Woman looked like she was considering stabbing Tormund with the dagger strapped to her belt. "But we brought you a gift!"
Sansa's eye turned to the burlap sack that Meera was carrying…carrying in arms with leather hides wrapped around them, and holding the bag as far away from her body as possible. It was moving, and that was certainly high-pitched growls and snarls coming from it. And Sansa knew in her heart of hearts exactly what was in that bag. She felt it as much as she thought it.
Tormund grabbed the sack and dragged out a reddish-brown wolf pup. For its size, and the adorably massive paws it could be no ordinary wolf, a direwolf. It's eyes were a bright amber as it snarled, desperately trying to bite and savage Tormund's hand where he had it by the scruff. It was wild and vicious, and afraid. Lashing out was the only way it knew to protect itself. "He's a mean little bugger. But thought our wolf Queen should have a wolf same as the rest of you fucking Starks."
Sansa hurt looking at it. But her arms automatically caught the mass of fur that Tormund dumped in her arms. No doubt he thought it'd be rather funny if she was bit once or twice. The Wildlings would think that. But the pup was startled at the sudden transfer. And Sansa's arms moved automatically, memories from when Lady had been a pup, from her siblings' wolves when they had been pups.
She easily caught the pup under each of its forelegs and found herself suddenly staring straight into its amber gaze. Its snarls were silenced as it looked back. Sansa stood there as they regarded one another. Absently she was aware of Ghost circling around her, sniffing at the pup. But she didn't look away. Neither did she shake, she wasn't afraid of a wolf pup. Not even a grown wolf frightened her, there were far worse monsters in the world. And this was a pup, it barely looked old enough to be fully weaned, likely hadn't been.
But she knew she'd be keeping it. A gift from the leader of her newest subjects, whose fealty was questionable at best, could not be refused. And her soul recognized this wolf just as she knew her siblings, as she knew their wolves, and she knew Nymeria's pack that had taken residence of the woods and fields outside their gates. This pup though, it was afraid. But also a gift from the Wildlings.
"Fuckin' Starks." Tormund snorted as he stepped back, clapping Meera on the shoulder. "Told ya' the pup'd know its own."
Sansa sighed as the pup softened in her hands. She brought it to her chest, wrapping her arms around the furry lump that'd gone pliant with exhaustion. No doubt it'd be asleep within minutes. "Come, there is a meal prepared and the halls are warm."
Meera began pulling off the leather wraps from her arms. "Do you plan to name him, your Grace?"
"I do." She looked down at the wolf pup, knowing her words were being listened to. "Brandon Breaker, King of Winter once fought side by side with Joramun, King Beyond the Wall." She looked up catching Tormund's eye. "Let us honor that alliance once more." Her lips curled. "And from those teeth marks perhaps Joramun will suit him."
Tormund just shook his head. "Good name that. Now, you still have that pisswater excuse for a drink around here? Or you finally started making something that can put hair on a man's chest?"
"I'm sure you can attempt to let Fitz allow you at the drink he's brewed." Sansa replied dryly as she turned to walk towards the entrance back into the keep. It was interesting though, there was something like interest in every Wildling's eyes in the courtyard. Something had happened when she'd accepted the gift, possibly the name. But whatever it was had given her better standing with them. There were two actual awkward, shallow, bows as she swept into the keep. She would handle that later. She looked to Wagstaff, her guard behind her left shoulder. "Go, fetch warm goat's milk, a clean cloth, and a bone from the kitchen and meet us back in the Great Hall."
"Your Grace." He bowed and then vanished in a swish of his green cloak.
Sansa turned her attention back to Tormund who was loudly boasting of his various kills lugging something rather large under his arm and clearly trying to get Brienne's attention from her post behind Sansa's right shoulder. Sansa felt a pleasing warmth at the display as her fingers lightly scratched at the soft fur of the now slumbering wolf pup in her arms. Joramun…well, at least Rickon would have time to train the poor thing. Might even keep Rickon from getting throttled by Bethany Blackwood. He was due for another attempted murder by an enraged girl. And she had brothers to help her with the throttling.
Sansa scratched at Ghost's ears, the poor wolf was pouting about Joramun deciding that Ghost's larger bone was for him and promptly claiming it for his own. No doubt she looked rather absurd. Ghost was staring longingly at his bone the pup was gnawing on contentedly. Joramun was quietly pleased with a stomach full of warm milk and some bits of meat from the bone and had snarled at everyone who got within five feet of him. Rickon had snarled back and was now happily reading while leaning against Shaggydog who was possessively seeing to his own bone. Of course, the crown prince was sitting on the floor with the wolves. She held in a sigh.
All in all, she was surrounded by wolves and that didn't seem to be something soon to change. Arya had raised a brow and slunk off to go bother Greatjon. Bran had not come down for supper, and in the end, it was a quiet affair. At least Nymeria was not in to add to the furry chaos that no doubt was soon to become a more prominent event in her court. But she was glad, this brief peace would not last much longer.
/
Petyr Baelish watched the changing of the tallies of food brought in, hunted, and scrapped from these thrice-cursed and frozen hills. "You are very diligent, your Grace."
"No more than my people require." Sansa replied absently as she set her newest numbers aside. "You're quite early for the council meeting, Lord Baelish?"
He met her Tully blue eyes. "Only doing my duty. And it would be poor manners to leave you toiling alone."
Sansa looked at him. "Duty." Her voice held weight. "Duty is to submit to the needs of others no matter the cost to oneself. You are many things Lord Baelish, but dutiful is not one of them. Or do you think me stupid?"
"No, I do not think you stupid. A figure of speech if you will. But I would be dutiful to you, if you permitted it, Sansa." He dared her name, the guard would not intervene.
She set her work aside, focusing on him utterly. "What do you want to ask? I don't have time for your clever words tonight."
Petyr tipped his head in deference. He had perhaps trained her too well, though for all that it would make her all the more glorious once wed to him. "What do you want that you do not have?"
"Peace and safety for mine. Do you think you can give that to me?" She stared at him, challenging and dismissive all at once. Of course, she knew she'd named too high a thing for him to easily procure it. Or even procure it at all. Fascinating, but then his own dreams he'd whispered in her ear were nearly as unattainable after all.
He felt smug, she had not lost her spark of ambition upon receiving her wants. Had not allowed it to be snuffed out by what was required to achieve it. "I can aid you in that if you would confide in me. You know this."
"I do." Sansa's eyes watched him. "Ser Creighton Redfort."
Petyr thought of the young man. "The spare?" What would Sansa want with the man? He was hardly an appropriate marriage option, lacked the power either his father or older brother who were both in the North could provide, and was really rather nothing much to think on. Of course, he could still be useful, everyone could be useful even if only for their corpse. Perhaps an addition to her royal guard? That possibility certainly had promise.
"Indeed, if you are so eager to serve, bring him to me in the next few days." Her eyes were sharp.
He could push, she might tell him, but likely he would irritate her. Her patience for him was greatly reduced since Ramsey, even if he had been making strides in making himself more useful to her. Making himself indispensable. He bowed. "It shall be done, your Grace."
Some hours later he unclothed himself for a bath. The one time he was warm in this miserable place. So Sansa Stark was beginning to sink her claws into the Vale. She'd avoided it to some degree outside of alliance against the Dead. Something had changed perhaps? If her lover had brought her news that changed the Targaryen position in regards to the Vale, Sansa was playing it close to the chest. Or perhaps she meant to make the position stronger to leverage the Vale more solidly in her favor with negotiations.
He pulled his thick black outer garments away from himself, setting them on the bed. Sansa seemed content to limit her power with the coming Dead. It was a gamble. However, better a strong foothold come summer than to reach too far and fall now. He considered his options as he unlaced his shirt. If Sansa was as ambitious as he thought, she would mean for this peace to only last a season. The Vale would need bend the knee to her come spring.
Petyr slid the last of his clothing off before stepping into the bath. To bind the Vale to the North, securing his position by brokering it, send some feelers to the Westerlands, and Reach for loose ends the Targaryen would be unable to catch in time. Gather power and strings to pull. To be indispensable. He closed his eyes. Gods or demons or monsters from story didn't matter. Let other men worry on that. He would have spun a web to make The Spider proud by the time better men returned. If they did. Some he would need to make sure never did.
/
Wynafryd Manderly sucked on her finger with a sigh. Needlework was difficult after the sunset, especially with her Grace having strictly limited the amount of candles, lamps, torches, and tallow lights permitted at one time. Whole swaths of Winterfell simply became dark with the setting of the sun. A thing no doubt quite a few people took advantage of. Her eyes flicked to Mira Lovewell, oh she may not know the exact nature of the woman's duties to the Queen. But only an idiot thought it only as a simple lady in waiting.
"You're going to get frown lines." Her sister Wylla remarked as she continued her stupidly easy running stitches on the simple gown she was making. "You'll be old."
Wynafryd narrowed her eyes, her sister was getting a bit too cheeky with the 'old' comments. She was three and twenty, not ancient. Besides her marriage had been delayed purposely. "At least my hair is not green."
"Her Holiness's hair is blue." Wylla replied with a flip of her long green hair.
Wynafryd rolled her eyes. "A single streak that is hardly noticeable if she hasn't pulled some of it back. It's hardly comparable to a whole head of green."
"I don't know how you were able to convince your grandfather to let you keep it." Alys Cerwyn remarked from where she was carefully using the majority of the light to write out the newest orders to be sent to every house. Or well, they were more reminders that every man, woman and child over the age of ten was to be taught to wield a dagger at the least. It was not a duty to be shirked without consequence.
Mira hummed. "The green is certainly an interesting choice."
"I like it, and I don't give a fig what anyone else thinks." Wylla's lips curled.
Wynafryd sighed, honestly, her sister was going to be the death of her. "It wouldn't kill you to try, we are part of a royal court."
"Speaking of the court," Mira pulled the conversation away from them, "any thoughts on if we should prepare another gown or two for the Queen? What with the southern court surely coming our way within the year?"
Alys hummed. "Less than, once the marriage agreement between his Highness and the Targaryen is arranged I doubt they'll wait a full moon's turn to see them wedded, bedded, and the army on the march to aid us against the Dead."
"So a few gowns fine enough to keep the southerner's mouths shut?" Mira checked.
Wynafryd frowned. "Would her Grace even approve the cost and labor of such a thing?"
"She will, her Grace is mindful of what her dress says about her. We'll likely need at least one formal dress for the princes and princess as well." Mira frowned as she clearly had begun to put together how much effort such an undertaking would be.
Wylla lowered the running stitches she'd been working on. "What if we made something with layered hardened leather."
"You want us to make leather armor for the Queen?" Wynafryd asked dubiously.
Wylla squared herself challengingly. "You think our Queen is going stay here when the war comes?"
Mira made a sound of deep resignation. "She won't, not when she can leave Prince Rickon as the Stark in Winterfell. Even if she's not on the frontlines…"
"So armor bodice then. Maybe something that can be worn over some of the tighter-cut upper bodice gowns she already has?" Wynafryd suggested as she set her sewing aside and walked to the table Alys was writing on, took a seat by the precious light, and pulled out a sheet of paper. They would need specific materials for such a project.
Alys nodded thoughtfully, pausing in her own writing to think on it. "The dark grey gown could be adjusted for such a thing, a single new black gown and we simply use the armor to make her plainer dress appear more complex?"
"Aye, that would work." Wylla grinned. "We can press images into the leather as well. Direwolves of course." A wicked gleam glinted in her eye. "At least one eagle."
"Wylla! That's improper! Without permission from her Holiness that could be taken as an insult!" Wynafryd snapped at her sister. "You could see her Grace humiliated if her Holiness takes it badly."
Wylla snorted. "Her Grace got her lover to crack the headboard of her bed. And did you see the vest her Holiness put on that's Stark colors? Hells, we're making a matching tunic to go over it once she returns."
"Wearing Stark colors is not the same as permitting her Grace to wear her sigil." Wynafryd glared at her younger sister.
Wylla pointed at the box of jewelry of the Queen's on the table where they'd organized it into its new boxes. "Hair comb with an eagle."
Mira cleared her throat. "It's not just the comb, she has a pendant as well. Has been wearing it under her shift most days. I'm unsure of how long she's had it. There is also the ring. If it's subtle, I believe it unlikely her Holiness will be anything but pleased."
"We should still consult with her Grace before we press an eagle into expensive, cured leather." Alys said with careful assuredness that said she would be bringing the idea to the Queen even if they imagined attempting to make the garment without the approval of the Queen.
Wynafryd marked it on the page. "We'll add it to the morning list for her Grace then."
"It's so romantic." Wylla sighed, slouching in her seat. "And it's shut up the things men muttered about her Grace before the Bolton's fell."
Wynafryd grimaced at the reminder of that. "Grandfather had anyone who uttered that filth whipped."
"Men think cruel things, and say worse." Alys said on the matter, her face said she'd certainly heard what Wynafryd and her sister had heard.
The dark words of how the Bolton Bastard had ruined her. That she'd be broken, if the Boltons were removed perhaps some lower House could be given her. Who would want a woman deformed as surely Ramsey would leave her? It'd all been foul, and Wynafryd was grateful her grandfather and seen to it any who uttered it were whipped. But they hadn't moved to aid the Queen for all that.
"Well, the Queen's certainly proved the fuckers wrong," Wylla said decisively.
Wynafryd stepped into her grandfather Wyman Manderly's solar. "You asked me to see you, grandfather?"
"Ah! There you are." Grandfather smiled warmly at her. "Your sister handling being amongst the Queen's ladies in waiting well?"
Wynafryd smiled back at him. "Aye, not by southern standards."
He chuckled. "Well, that's all that matters then." He fell more serious. "I wished to speak with you about your marriage. The Queen has opened an opportunity for two matches for you. I thought you might like some input."
Her eyes widened slightly, but she took the seat across from her Grandfather. "What did you trade to her Grace for such a thing?"
"Nothing yet, though I'm sure she'll call on the debt eventually." He waved off the concern. "She's rewarding loyal service. And with our position awarding more land to our House would leave her heirs in a dangerous position should your heirs turn treasonous. I doubt she will ask anything of us we are unwilling to give when the time comes."
Wynafryd nodded to her grandfather's words. "Then what are these options?"
"A son of House Lake, or a son of House Redfort." He replied, his sharp gaze watching her response.
She frowned her finger tapping on the wooden arm of her seat. "House Lake would make internal trade routes for our House deeper, and a stronger claim to the North as our home." Her eyes narrowed. "But House Redfort of the Vale? They're blood of the first men, yes?"
"They are." He didn't offer more.
Wynafryd ran through what she knew of the Vale House, it was less than she would have liked. "They've allied with House Royce this generation which would encourage safety for our ships in Royce harbors. They're the greater House as well." She looked at her grandfather.
He nodded. "Very good, and more importantly, if something should happen to Lord Baelish, who will become regent of the Vale till their Lord comes of age?"
"Lord Royce." Wynafryd didn't comment on the implication something might happen to Lord Baelish. He'd wronged their Queen, selling her to the Boltons. If he were to simply step foot outside of Winterfell and his guest rite, she had little doubt he'd never be heard of again. The wolves in the hills around them might even do it for the Starks. Which meant, being tied to the ruling House of the Vale for several years. Crucial years when various trade deals could be drawn up and approved to be favorable to House Manderly. "You mean to accept the offer of a son from House Redfort then."
He smiled. "Well reasoned, and I do. You'd best learn what you can of your future husband's House. And Wynafryd, when not with the Queen and the other ladies in waiting, I expect you by my side. You'll rule our House when I and your father are gone. There is still much for you to learn." His smile grew. "Especially if we mean to keep the position of Master of Ships in the family."
"Of course Grandfather." She felt a thrill at that. It'd gone from a dearly hoped for possibility to a certainty that she would be allowed to remain as her father's heir with a Queen on the throne. Her chest filled with pride. "And no doubt you wish to hear what information may aid our House I learned today?"
He raised an interested brow. "Oh, and what information is that?"
"The hair comb her Grace was given by her lover is the third piece of jewelry with an eagle on it that has been gifted to her." Wynafryd saw the understanding on her grandfather's face. After all, their Queen was further untouchable with that. Loyalty to the Starks truly was the only sensible choice. It certainly felt nice to have that belief justified, however.