Sansa sat atop her horse, a solid grey mare called Jaxon, the winter winds flicking her copper waves about her face. Looking at the adjacent hilltop, she waited. Where the sun now shone, blinding, There would shortly be men and their horses, most bearing banners of green with gold roses. Winter is coming, she thought. The true winter had already come and showed no signs of going, this she knew, but if Sansa had learned anything it was that winter is much more than weather. Winter is a kind of death... or else a rebirth. An alliance approached and Sansa did not think she could refuse, regardless of the nature of the snows it might bring. She hoped it would feel like rebirth, not another death. She hoped she would look into the brush of Tyrells and see a handsome fighter, strength and wisdom in his eyes and know that he was to be her King. She hoped she would find a father to children and a leader of men. She hoped she would stop thinking of the man who sat horseback to her left and back, the ugly man who bore scars of strength and wisdom and lived a testament to the corruption that had taken her in and ruined her. She hoped the thought of Harry would stop twisting like a knife in her abdomen, their almost marriage and the love and loyalty he bore her threatening to gut her. Especially now... She hoped the marriage she found herself in might rebuild her heart just as she was rebuilding Winterfell. She hoped there would be room for the Hound, the ghost she found face down in the snow, this broken warrior who had kept her tender when she might have hardened. She hoped Harry would heal and forgive her, hoped he would still be there to tug on her braids, would be accepted by any king she might welcome as a brother. She hoped and hoped then she remembered that hope was folly.

Jaxon stirred and she curled her hands tighter into his hair and gave forth a gentle shush. Immediately after she felt the shake of the ground beneath her. The sun on her face was no longer unbroken and beaming, but shafted and ricocheting. She looked up, the Queen in the North, and gave a steely stare to the men that lined the hillside before her. All that was between the Wolves and the Roses was a downward trot to the Twins. As the roses began to drift uniformly down the hillside, Sansa let loose a sigh. She looked over her shoulder at her sworn shield, "Shall we?"

He gave her a nod. "Forward on the queen's move," he shouted to the masses. She began the downhill journey, a feat that still made her nervous though she had improved in her ability to trust the beasts so many relied upon. Letting herself leave her body just enough to kill the terror, she trotted even faster. Once at the bottom of the hill, she signaled for her men to halt, and she and Sandor moved forward. Soon they were met by three figures, Mace Tyrell, a young man to his left whom she did not recognize, and Margaery. She felt her heart beat strangely at the sight of her… the lady before her had once felt like the sister of her dreams, had once been a daydream to get her through court, and the friend she could think on as she fell asleep. She was so beautiful then, Sansa thought. Margaery might still be considered beautiful to those who were looking on her for the first time, but the woman before her now was not the blossom of a girl who won the hearts of the people, in and out of the Keep. She had withered, her once bouncing and full curls now thin and wispy, her once feminine slender figure now pale, frail, and wrapped in skin that seemed weak and worn, like crumpled parchment. Margaery's brown eyes met Sansa's and they were as hypnotic as they'd always been, but deeper somehow. She attempted a small smile and Sansa only smiled back and gave a brief nod because she could see how much that gesture took from Margaery. "Your grace, you have grown into such a beauty since I last saw you, which is no surprise of course," Mace said, breaking the gaze between Sansa and Margaery. Mace looked to the young man Sansa did not know, "Dickon, would you?"

The one he had called Dickon dismounted and crossed to his great lord. Mace lacked for grace with his huge and somber frame, but smiled all the same, even as he groaned on his way down. Sansa was sure he might break Dickon's shoulder in the process, but the boy did not so much as flinch. Dickon moved to assist Margaery, whose movements were as graceful as ever, though there was a clarity in how precise she was that she once must have distracted Sansa from behind smiles and bright eyed conversation. Sansa left Jaxon on her own and stepped towards the people who were, once again, her only semblance of hope. At this, Mace and Margaery kneeled, an action she did not expect. She realized that she had almost immediately framed herself as the child she was when first she met them, an action that would do her nothing but harm. You are a Queen, rule them.

"Please, my lord, my lady, rise. You have shown humility enough in writing to me and meeting me here."

Dickon stepped forward again to help Mace and then Margaery. She heard Sandor give a small snort and the black humor of her strongest chance of peace being a lame old man and a broken, wasted young woman who required a member of their party to help them move became apparent to her. She could not laugh, either out of decency or out of the disgust she felt at her own desperation, she could not say. Against her best efforts, some of this must have shown on her face. Margaery had crossed to her and gently placed her hand on Sansa's arm, "The ride was long, my queen, and you see that my father and I have both seen better days. I assure you we'll have grace on our side again after a bit of rest. We've packed plenty of provisions. Shall I call the rest of our party forth? Our men can set up a snack for us and prepare a fine feast."

Remembering how good Margaery's kindness had once felt, Sansa linked her arm with Margaery's, "Let's get you inside and warm you up. Sandor, please have my men come forward and get to work. Mace, would you be so kind as to call your men forth? I'll happily accept dinner from House Tyrell."

"It would be an honor, your grace," Mace said, half bowing.

"I shan't bare my fangs, if you promise not to show your thorns. Let's leave heavy discussion for the morrow. Tonight we rest and dine and become reacquainted."

Mace smiled at her as Dickon rode back to the rest of the Tyrell army, but it was Margaery's squeeze of her arm and taking the first steps towards the Twins that made Sansa feel it: hope. It tugged on her heart, even as the sight of those doors and the knowledge of what happened behind them came creeping in and threatened to bowl her over. She busied herself with fussing over Margaery and making sure her steps were careful as they crossed the bridge so that her heart wouldn't break into an infinitesimal number of jagged pieces.

Sansa closed her eyes as she chewed, letting the bitter and sweet dance along her tongue, the taste and feeling energizing, even the tingling and burning on her lips a pleasure (they were always a bit chapped from winter winds now). They had set up food and tents outside of the Twins; Sansa made it halfway across the bridge before her legs gave out.

"No one need know, we will tell them it is such a nice day", Margaery had whispered. Sansa was sure that everyone in attendance would know why a Stark could not bring herself to enter those doors, but she believed the lie all the same. She knew better than most that lies are often all you have.

"I am glad you seem so pleased, my Queen," Margaery said, the dark circles under her eyes doing nothing to diminish the charm that flickered within them. "I remember your fondness for lemoncakes."

"I am flattered," Sansa laughs. "I mean that truly. You, your household, have been through so much. To remember a foolish hostage's remaining childhood indulgence in King's Landing is more than kind: it is exceptional."

"You were one of few precious things in King's Landing… in Westeros… that was not spoiled for me."

A silence crept over the table as all in attendance politely pretended not to notice the way Margaery's posture went from charismatic ingenue to frightened child, the way she now picked at a bit of cheese on her plate instead of playfully popping a bite into her mouth for punctuation. Mace stammered a few times but said nothing.

"Excuse me," Margaery whispered and Sansa noticed her voice breaking. She reached across the table and took Margaery's hand.

"Look at me."

She waited for Margaery to meet her gaze and watched it change her. She flipped her hair out of her face, some of it spilling over her shoulder exposed due to the give of her too-big gown. "Margaery… you are safe here with me. I will never forget your kindness. Never. No matter what happens in this war, tomorrow, you are a friend to me. To House Stark."

Margaery's smile was genuine, no flittish coquetry or diplomatic game. It was infectious, Sansa's face lighting up, glad to see she could be a comfort to someone who had been such a symbol of hope to her.

"If you will pardon me," Mace spoke up, breaking the look that the young women shared, bring Sansa here, to the Twins, not in the past, in King's Landing, Margaery's hand in her own as they walked the fragrant gardens, a privilege so often denied to her by Joffrey and Cersei before House Tyrell arrived with their insistence and feigned ignorance of Sansa's prisoner status. "I do not think winter or war lend us the privilege of sentimentality or remembrances. I-"

"Father," Margaery protested. "We have all travelled a long way. Let us rest before we do this."

"I think it is well past time for us to speak on this matter of marriage, of uniting our households."

Sansa heard Sandor shifting his sword and braced herself for a decidedly undiplomatic statement but before that fear could be fulfilled Harry had stood so quickly that his chair fell behind him, "You would address the Queen in the North as such?"

"Harry!"

"Forgive me, Sansa, Queen, but it seems ludicrous to me that a household with little legitimacy to begin with should arrive to meet us on its last legs and then start making demands!"

As Sansa clutched Harry's wrist and tried to pull him down, she saw Mace Tyrell's face turn red. "THIS? Coming from a bastard? That's rich. It is a desperate household INDEED to name the likes of you to legitimacy."

From there, Sansa lost all control. She and Margaery stood at the end of the table, both trying and failing to calm their respective sides. A Northman ran forward and reached for his sword. Sandor stepped in front of him, preventing him from doing anything rash just in time, but Dickon was already aiming a punch. Sansa saw blood fly from the northman's nose and watched in horror as Sandor pulled them apart like fighting dogs in a kennel.

I have found this to be true, Sansa... something was shuffling forward, tearing at the curtain between past and present… Father, she thought, heart racing, the scene before her moving in slow motion… Margaery running at the Tyrell men, begging them to stay back, Sandor holding off her own men, Harry's face inches from Mace's. Silence can yield much more than questions and strong presence more than shouts.

Sansa knew what she would do then. She crossed to where Sandor was holding incensed men from various houses at bay and used his shoulder as a means to step onto the table. And she stood. And waited. From behind her, the chaos quieted almost immediately. It was Harry who noticed her first and when his yelling got no more response, he turned to discover Sansa also.

"I will be frank," she stated when the final silence fell. "I hardly need more men to force Stannis into a surrender. It is simply that the appearance of a larger threat might act as persuasion for someone as stubborn and prideful as Stannis Baratheon. His camp is not well guarded, his men are few, and all of them weary. If we surround them in due time they will starve. If we let them be they will starve in due time all the time. But as you yourself have pointed out, Lord Tyrell, it is winter and we are at war. Two very real time constraints. The North is mine and its people are all my children, even with Stannis Baratheon in the middle of them. I would offer food, shelter, even work, to all of Baratheon's men. I would offer these things to Stannis Baratheon himself but he will not hear of it."

She reached for Sandor and he took her hand, helping her down from the table. Calmly, she sauntered back to her seat. "Your chair, Harry."

"What?" He looked at her as if she had gone mad then realization and thus embarrasment seemed to dawn upon him. "Oh… yes."

Plucking another piece of lemoncake from her plate as she did so, Sansa lowered herself back into her seat. "I was certain, Lord Tyrell, before I came here, that I would need aid to carry on, or that the notion of you supporting Stannis was such a threat that I must marry, regardless of what I might want."

Lord Tyrell scoffed, "Want? Oh please, do not talk to me of wants."

"But isn't that why we are gathered? What I want is the North, safe, protected from the corruption of the Red Keep. I think my father knew the truth of that place… but honor and duty forced him to quiet the little voices and carry on. Just as they did my mother. Just as they did my brother, Robb, the King before me. I know something that they did not, Lord Tyrell. I know that honor does not flourish in warmth. It overheats. It melts. It cracks. I think it sends the wrong message for the Queen in the North to marry someone in the South, a land I have no interest in owning or commanding. I do not think I could bring it to heel if I tried."

"You refuse us then? Arrogance, absolute arrogance!"

Margaery leaned in toward Sansa, obstructing the line of vision between herself and Mace Tyrell. "Sansa… I know what it is to be fearful of marriage. But Willas would be kind, gentle… and none of us want anything more than Highgarden, isn't that right, Father?"

Mace gave a hesitant grunt.

"Loras was a reminder to us all that a lion has claws, sharp and inescapable. Nothing will bring my brother back, Sansa. But having you as a sister would be a comfort to me, as would serving you as Queen. It is security my father seeks- we all seek- not power."

"Desires are easily made ugly in the harsh glow of fear," Sansa said, squeezing Margaery's hand before turning back to Mace Tyrell. "I would never march on House Tyrell, marriage or no. As I said, I can march on Stannis Baratheon without your men. But it will never hurt to have friends in the South. And it is my vow to you, that if you do support me, if you do as I ask, I will do most anything, within reason, without harming those most innocent in times of war or my own people… I will do most anything to make House Tyrell the strongest house outside of my dominion once Cersei Lannister and all who serve her have paid for what they have done."

The sun was setting and all around them night birds whistled and hooted as the insects sang their own song. One of Tyrell's men began to plant torches in the ground and another followed him, lighting each as he made his way. Only the melody of nature reached Sansa's ears for several minutes. Finally, Mace Tyrell cleared his throat and spoke.

"What is it that you want from us, Queen Sansa, to… solidify this alliance… to… do as you said?"

"Your forgiveness for not entering into a betrothal at this time. I will not say never… as the needs of my people and myself will be ever changing. If I have learned anything in my brief life, it is the necessity to be adaptable."

Margaery laughed and it cheered Sansa to hear it. They shared a smile before she returned her attentions to Lord Tyrell, "That being said there is a marriage I can offer you."

"Oh?"

I am Queen. I must rule as I need to. I must rule in every moment.

She took Harry's hand in hers, smiled at him, she hoped not sadly, and placed their linked hands on the table.

"Harrold Hardyng…" Harry cocked his head sideways and smiled at her. "He is passionate, which we have all discovered this evening," Sansa let her eyes scan the crowd as laughter broke out on both sides. Good. This is good. They will love you. Love is loyalty. "But above all, he is a good man… and heir to the Vale. Under the thumb of Petyr Baelish I spent time as a bastard… and met many. More honorable and kind than any lord or lady I ever met. My brother Jon… there will never be a stronger, smarter, more tolerant man than he. When this war passes, he can take the seat as Harrold Hardyng or Harrold Arryn, it makes no matter to me. But he will take the seat. And he will rule with good humor and an open heart. I know this as I know myself."

"Sansa… I am flattered but…"

"I am getting to the thick of it, Harry," she squeezed his hand and then let it go, facing Margaery dead on. This is not custom. It is customary to ask the father. But bastards are not custom. What I am is not custom. "Harry is as a brother to me, just as Robb and Bran were… just as Rickon is… perhaps more… for war never took him from me. He went to war for me, by my side. You say you would love me as a sister, Margaery, and I feel the same for you."

Sansa pulled Margaery's hand to Harry's, still resting on the table. Their fingertips nearly touched, but she did not push. "I only wish to rule the North, but when the dust settles I will maneuver in any way I can to see that, should you accept this, your children are the heirs to the Eyrie, Highgarden, and this, the Twins, and the Southern throne, wherever you decide to seat it."

"Father?"

Margaery turned to him. He was examining Harry as he chewed on the inside of his lower lip. A sort of hum scored the process, broken by several sighs. In this time, Sansa turned her attention to Harry, who obediently kept his hand on the table, but could not stop his right leg from bouncing, and Sansa thought that perhaps she saw tears forming in his eyes. As she noticed the vein in his neck and moved to whisper in his ear as many explanations in as few words as possible, the head of the Tyrell household finally found it in himself to speak.

"I will not force Margaery into a marriage ever again. I will not lie and say that I am happy about his… status… but perhaps you are right, Sansa. Perhaps there is more to someone than bastard. And were my mother here, oh, she would have had great laugh at the stunt you pulled earlier."

Margaery slid her fingers under Harry's carefully and caressed them lightly before looking up at him. "What say you, Harrold?"

"It is Harry, please."

"Harry."

"I will do anything to please our good Queen in the North."

"As will I."

"So it seems you are to be mine."

"You could do worse in wives."

Sansa let out her sigh as subtly as possible, cheered not only by her escape from a southern marriage, but by the peace Margaery had seemed to find in this. Perhaps it is duty and purpose she needs. Perhaps she was never the schemer, only the tool. Sansa knew how exhausting that was. She kept her quiet as she watched Harry's leg finally stop its violent tremor and the vein in his neck return to a resting state. Is Margaery so lovely that whatever anger or betrayal he felt has fallen away? Or is he even better at pretending that I remember?

She could not focus on that. There was more business to attend to between herself and Mace Tyrell. "In your letter, my Lord, you said that you captured Jaime Lannister."

"Yes, your grace."

"Where is he hidden away?"

"He is not hidden," Margaery offered in wake of her father's hesitation.

"Oh?"

"He is with us," Mace declared, "in that coach there."

Sansa followed where he pointed, ignoring Harry's cynical spurt of laughter, wondering if Sandor realized that his seven hells had been sworn aloud.

"You will give him to me."