If somebody had found a magical spell to float back in time and they just happened to tell young little Sansa "mostly-Tully" Stark that someday in the future, she'd be the girl to dwell in the woods and run the with wolves, then that current young little Sansa would have probably laughed at them in scolding manner, saying, "Princesses do not dwell in the woods."
However, she was. She was Sansa of Winter.
The black dye had washed out by the frequent rain and snowfalls and her hair returned to sheer red, hanging low in long wild waves from not being combed from top to bottom and pinned up tightly by maids every day.
Forced to discard her thinning ragged dress, Sansa now paraded around in a handmade costume of furs from the animals Nymeria helped her catch, and Ingret's needles and thread tucked safely into her left boot.
And living with the wild wolves proved to be a significant experience for her definitely. Originally, (since the morning they had protected her from the cold), Sansa traveled the same paths they did unharmed, keeping a respectful distance from them, and only interacted with Nymeria personally if the Dire approached her first. In the meantime, she had observed the wolves on the sidelines when they hunted or she sat by their pond, resting. The main hideaway for Nymeria's...Moors Pack, as Sansa named it, preferred a secluded ravine that was practically beneath a frozen waterfall. There was a lot of branches and rocky ledges to help shield the area.
Around the third night, Nymeria started to sleep near Sansa on her own accord until dawn broke. By the fifth night, Sansa wasn't so cautious about stepping over her boundaries anymore. Overtimes, She had fallen into the pattern of sleeping inside of Nymeria's den and she was the only one among the pack who knew its exact location. She started to walk comfortably right alongside the wolves as they meandered across their territory. She frolicked with the current cubs most of the time, already learning what each wolf-noise meant, learning how to read their body language, and came to recognize the type of howl Nymeria would use when she expected Sansa to return to the den for the night if she'd went off exploring on her own for a little bit. Most of all...Sansa understood the pack's structure much more than she ever did while raising Lady around people. Apart from special instances like Nymeria (as their Alpha) ensuring that she, Sansa, and her two Beta wolves got their fill on the meals before the others were allowed to dig in—overall, the pack demonstrated a deep level of loyalty and devotion to each other. Even the Omegas of the lowest ranks still had their place, had their turns to play, and were watched out for by the rest if danger was nigh. One of the Omegas, the one she had dubbed Black Tail, was actually mauled to death by a bear recently after he had gotten separated from the hunting trail—and the next day she had witnessed the entire pack tackling the so-said bear seemingly to avenge their lost cohort.
Sansa thought that was the most inspirational thing she'd ever seen honestly, coming from these beasts, simply because it showed how tight their bonds were.
Also, just as Spirit Robb had predicted, Sansa began to see more of the wolves in herself.
"Sansa, your sister actually has much to learn yet about being a Wolf, too. And it's just as funny that you don't even realize how much of a Wolf you really are yourself."
For instance, despite popular belief, wolves did not attack their prey immediately like bloodthirsty monsters they are said to be in the stories inner-townsfolk liked to tell their children. No, wolves held back for a while before making the first pounce, watching carefully from behind, calculating when was right moment to strike. They trailed their target for miles if they needed to, cornering them in, ultimately frightening the target into making hasty decisions that would benefit them better in the end.
Sansa functioned the same way. She was highly tolerant by nature, biding her time, her core power lied in her waiting. And she waited, and waited, and waited, and waited in the background until everyone would almost forget she was even there, then she'd make her move...although only subtly, just to keep them guessing. After all, she did make Joffrey think she knew absolutely nothing about battle…and then deceived him into going to the deadliest location to fight a day later.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, you're right. I'm stupid. Of course you'll fighting in the Vangaurd!"
Sansa endured every harsh situation she landed in thus far till a better opportunity presented itself. She was convinced that she was wolf enough to come out of the ruins alive—albeit her freedom these days simply became another reminder of Winterfell. She hoped to see Spirit Robb in her dreams again. Sansa had to bite back a sad sigh as she now sat on the edge of the pond, pounding through the frozen surface with a stone to gather more water when thinking of him.
I still wish to see Bran and Rickon too, one day, if they're alive. Even Jon. I'll tell him that being a bastard doesn't matter to me anymore, and ask him if we can be friendlier towards each other, because we are family. And Arya...of course, Arya...if I do ever meet her again, I'll kiss her, and perhaps I'll try to show her how I can fight like a she-wolf now. She'll like that.
Sansa's usual playmates scampered up from behind suddenly, ambushing her at once, yapping and yowling as they provoked her into join their fun, pawing, nudging, nipping at her furs. Sansa obliged, laughing, and followed them over the ice, playfully tugging on their tails when she'd catch up to them. The elder wolves yawned, contently watching their game from the rocks, knowing cubs will be cubs. To anyone else who could have seen her though, they'd think that it was all still very graceful, even poetic. By the way Sansa circled about on the pond without tripping and how her hair flew out, forming a natural red shroud around her under the snowdrops...only she could make chasing wild animals around look like a theatrical dance.
Nymeria reentered their ravine roughly an hour later and the all wolves scooted up to her eagerly, licking at her muzzle as though they were faithful knights kissing a King's scepter.
That was another thing many people didn't realize about wolves—their shared fondness for new cubs. To them new cubs meant more pack members, more teeth, more friends, gaining new places in the order. Sansa noticed how they could hardly restrain their excitement for Nymeria's litter to arrive. They all sensed it'd be soon, and now they would pace around the ravine like nervous relatives waiting outside of a nursery.
While dwelling in the East, Daenerys was so sure of herself.
Tyrion could not blame her for it. How could she not feel that empowered by dragonfire, and now, the gift of dragonflight.
Before he would fall asleep at night, he'd recall how she mentioned that the Noble Families of Westeros were only playing a wheeling Game, in which she alone shall break. He had to admire her great determination, her views, as well as her beauty, and he did anticipate to accomplish even greater things being at her side.
But...one flitter of a thought kept nagging him in the back of his mind beneath this vast veil of the stars.
Winter. Winter has to be here by now.
And Daenerys' dragons were indeed mighty and a powerful asset to have, yes. Yet at the end of every day, weren't her breed of dragons just—just—?
Lizards, Tyrion was forced to remind himself, I've seen what the cold does to lizards.
Lizards that relied on heat would not survive the ice. Their dragonfire would freeze in those infamous winds riding down from the North, and those frequent snowstorms that came with the twilight hours would slow the beat of their wings. What if...her dragons died this Winter if they went with her overseas this soon?
She'll be dragonless Dragon Queen.
What then?
Sansa did not have any intentions whatsoever of trying to reclaim Nymeria as her own Dire. She couldn't do that to Arya. She wouldn't do that.
Really, if anything, it had been Nymeria—ironically—who took the liberty of adopting Sansa, treating her as if she was a motherless cub that still needed to be fostered, with her maternal instincts flaring up and all. Nymeria never seemed to associate Sansa with Arya anyhow, or even the Starks, or with humans in general. Nymeria just looked at Sansa as if she was looking at another wolf in the pack.
Nymeria's cubs however, were a slightly different story. They were rightfully Sansa's, not Ayra's...and they clearly wanted to be hers since week one. Sansa's newest siblings chose to follow her wherever she went, for as far as they all were concerned, she was their mother's first cub and she was their beloved sister. Sansa was the oldest and the first link in their chain. Besides that, (apart from Nymeria) the litter did grow accustomed and respond to the names Sansa had given them as well.
North Wind was Nymeria's firstborn, suitably named in honor of both Robb and his Dire. His coat happened to be the whitest in the litter (almost as white as Ghost, except for the grey he had lining his paws). He was also the fastest one on the hunt. Even when he was a little cub, he learned quickly to move with breeze instead of against it. Ned, after her father, was Nymeria's second, born the normal solid grey; he was the proud and watchful one, and would definitely tear out a throat if he saw a huge threat.
Then came the three sisters right in order, Iona, Sofia, and Freja. All of them were lighter in color similar to North Wind, having the prettier coats that teetered somewhere between a bright grey and a dark white. Iona made Sansa chuckle the most, because she was honestly a lot like young Arya once—so curious and energetic and unafraid of using a little more bite during playtime—she also liked to come up to Sansa in the mornings and wetly lick her right across the eyes to wake her, as if it was some kind of joke. Sofia was the nurturing type herself, and acted as their sisterly caretaker. She was the most protective over them, and made sure everyone was healthy and accounted for, aslo became forceful to get the others to obey Nymeria again whenever they got too rowdy. Freja's individual name meant like a lady, because she was the one who reminded Sansa a lot of Lady straightaway. She was the calmest one in the littler, always so elegant and composed, crossing her paws whenever she would lay down to rest.
Next was Shadowfoot, then Lyca. Both of them were solid black. Shadowfoot was moodier, really quiet and private compared to his siblings, but in the end, he was no less loyal. He gave his all when it came to hunting on the moors and even sacrificed himself once to save his sisters from a stampede of stags, driving them off course. And Lyca, well...despite his breed, he was still the typical baby brother who either stayed closer to his mother or was eager to irritate his older siblings just to get their attention. He personally loved it when Sansa would coddle him and frequently wanted to the one to sleep right by her during the night, his head over her knees.
Needless to say, they became a real family and they were bound together forever.
As the newly appointed Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon had a few additional decisions to face, specifically after the deal Stannis had made with him.
He eventually sent Gilly out with Sam to present her to his family, to provide her a real home to rely on for once. The ordeal that followed regarding her child passed eventually too, but not painlessly. He had also sent Aemon along with them too though his health was rather questionable.
Jon tried to fill his remaining time focusing on the fresh recruits and on the training they needed, but he still laid restless most nights than not.
Even Ghost seemed anxious.
He kept doubting if Stannis would triumph or not. Would he ever see the hills of Winterfell again, and if so, would staying there be as it once was? Would there be harmony amongst the Kingdoms in their future? Or Would the Lannisters destroy everything else instead? Would a single Stark ever return to Winterfell? Was this Winter his last?
Jon supposed the Gods wouldn't answer his ponderings directly even if he would build his own altar to pray at, and yet, he pondered over these considerations every day.
He could only wait and see. That was his only choice.
Sansa was out on another one of her private runs across the moors. She ran by herself about every other day in order to test her own speed independent from the wolves, and she was definitely getting faster. The air whistled loudly in her ears as she whipped around the large patch of oaks and she could climb over and flip off the boulders so effortlessly now. Even the depth of the snow couldn't falter her footing.
But, as she swiftly crossed over the 'bridge' of fallen logs to reach the other side of the river, landing on her haunches, she suddenly caught a stranger's scent. What is that?Rising, Sansa reeled around, eyes searching and she rounded the next several trees, freezing in her tracks at who she saw.
It was man, a young man; perhaps someone else could say he was a boy. Either way, he didn't appear that much older than herself, if only by a year or two. His own coloring wasn't really overly exotic—so, he was still most likely from the West somewhere. He was just slightly bronzed by sunlight. His hair and his clothes were all really dark; his eyes a golden-brown.
And maybe if their meeting had turned out any differently than this, her past self would've believed him attractive, in his own rugged simple-folk sort of way versus Joffrey's wealthy and pampered flair. But that thought was fleeting. He was an outsider who was trespassing and she had absolutely no reason to grant him leniency.
He, in return, appeared equally surprised to see her there, and immediately it clicked. She guessed why.
"You're—" he started to say it. However, Sansa felt the urge to run back. Back to Nymeria.
"Oi!" he called out to her, and in no time, Sansa could sense him falling in line with her close behind, hurrying after her out of his own interest. "Wait!"
Trying to fool him, Sansa leapt, kicked her toes off a rotting stump then, reaching her arms upwards, and she heaved herself into treetops, dancing branch to branch overhead. The boy came into view below her and twirled in his place three times, searching for another glimpse of her, though he only caught one when she dropped from the sky and took off again ahead.
Their chase soon verged into the openness of the moors nearby. Sansa was in fact starting to forget he was an intruder and was ignoring to the seriousness of the situation. The thrill was more intriguing. She laughed at him over her shoulder as soon as she quickly dodged and changed directions, making him stumble.
The boy paused and grew clever now. He used a rock to lunge himself towards Sansa as she was about to do the same to get further ahead, and they ended up colliding hard in midair.
Sansa shrieked when they went hurtling down into the snow and actually rolled together as one tangled bundle for a good seven feet before they unlocked limbs, and she was able to pull herself vertically again.
He grabbed her wrist anxiously as he stood up as well, exhaling. "Alright, you win...just...just stop, please..."
Cersei heard the same rumors twice by now.
One would think in this dank place, behind iron bars, there'd be little to no social interaction for her whatsoever.
But she heard it...she overheard the guard's gossip about the Direwolves, of how there had been more and more sightings of those creatures running along the countryside, returning to the North and often (presumably) accompanied by a strange girl with wild red hair.
Cersei had to make her own assumptions and felt that these rumors were an omen foreshadowing more things to come.
Although they were always short meetings, he'd had met countless numbers of girls throughout his lifetime…ones who were highborn, and those who were country-dwellers, ones who were engaging, or shy, ones that were regular, and a few secretive others who were magical in their own right. They passed by him a fog thus far. Their various looks of disappointment or annoyance hardly fazed him in the end of each encounter because he knew he wasn't meant for them, knew they wouldn't be right for him either. Not only that, but he and sister constantly traveled, drifting place to place. No girl in her sober mind could want that for a relationship. So despite being nineteen, a 'marriageable age' as some would tell him, his long-term attention had never been snagged to point of staying with them. He typically answered the call of the wilderness instead...the moors, the trees, the rivers, the moons...the Winter.
But never had the wilderness seem so alluring before this evening, and he thought she had something to do with this. He couldn't tear his eyes off her. His Wolf Within leapt in joyful anticipation. She was the most beautiful maiden he'd had ever found...this redheaded she-wolf with the skin a few shades lighter and more freckled than his own and eyes so clear and blue that they severely contrasted from the various bland colored furs and hides she had tightly wrapped and sewn around her figure.
"What's your name?" He was intrigued.
Red Wolf cunningly kept enough distance between them; each time he moved one way, she'd slowly evade him. "You tell me yours, and I'll consider telling you mine."
Charmed by this, he grinned. "Polaris."
It was her time to smile, only that hers, was used as a weapon against him, to cut him. "You need to leave then, Polaris."
"If I go, may I see you again?"
He longed to discover more about her.
Hearing this, Red Wolf's wide smile returned to her rosy lips...this time involuntarily. Though she tried covering it up with a scoff. "I cannot promise you that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm leaving these moors soon. I am going home."
"All the more reason to agree with me before that. How about tomorrow?" he pushed, reaching out for her shoulder. "You should meet my sister after I find her."
She blinked at him, more interested to learn he wasn't alone out here. "Your sister?"
Polaris nodded. "Yes. We were separated by a snowflood last night. But I know she's alive and she'll want to meet you too. We thought...," his expression softened, "...we thought we might be the only two left..."
She glanced at his hand resting warmly over her shoulder now. He followed her gaze.
Then a large shadowy figure, a Direwolf, soon appeared on the top of the nearby hill, inspecting them, evaluating the state of affairs and did not decide to come any closer. She just threw her head back and released a short throaty howl.
Polaris gazed at her, utterly impressed to see her there before he made a point to look towards Red Wolf to drink her in one last time.
Feeling playful, she give in and smirked back at him before spinning on her heel, bidding him farewell, "I should go. My mother's calling."
He waited until she was several more paces from him when he shouted. "Just tell me your name!"
"It's Sansa," she informed him shaking her head, and with touch of feminine elegance. "Sansa of Winter."
"Tomorrow then, Sansa of Winter."
Sansa never approved of this officially...but she hadn't said no either.
That night, while Sansa slept curled up between her brothers and sisters far off, Polaris was elsewhere following the dying scent of his sister.
The trial led him to the end of the river's cove where there was a lot more stones in sight versus water flow or ice. He just happened to look over, detecting her white- blonde head bobbing as she strutted below him.
"Ragna," he beckoned, gaining her full attention.
"Brother," she replied with relief, springing up to his level. "I'd hoped to spot you sooner or later."
Polaris wasted no time expressing his worry for her. Ever since they were young cubs, his little sister was very capable of taking care of herself—she independently killed two wolf hunters shortly after turning nine. They were both confident enough in each other to know that last night's snowflood was scarcely a problem. For the past three years it had to be that way, for it was just them in this life, and no one else.
Hence, alternatively, Polaris' eagerness shot from an entirely different source of feeling when he cupped his hands over her shoulders. "Listen, Ragna. There's another. There's a girl like us. I met her today. There's another."
Ragna stared, mesmerized. "...What is she like?"
"You can see for yourself. Tomorrow."
Sansa crouched down on top of a large stone hedge, her siblings positioned likewise on each of side of her while they all observed three spotted hares slowly hopping along in front of them, scavenging for roots. However...they were unfortunately startled. Two more shapes, standing up straight, cast their long shadows over the snow mounds, naïve to their hunt.
Sansa raised herself in aggravation. The wolves whined seeing the hares disappear in a anxious flash and they turned towards the newcomers meticulously, their noses twitching.
Polaris came meandering towards them with another girl around his age. Sansa presumed she had to be the sister Polaris had told her about yesterday.
He did come to find me after all...
The sister was slightly shorter than him, and less muscular naturally being a female. Her hair, which was a pale moonlit blonde, fell in thick coils about her head and shoulders like a mane. Here eyes were identical to her brothers—wide and golden brown. And her set expression was what made her stand out. It was so…prepared, so tight, so keen, so vigilant.
Polaris greeted them first. "Hello, Sansa of Winter."
Sansa merely lifted a hand to her hip, unenthused by their timing, and chided, "You frightened off our meal."
Shadowfoot and Iona growled in unison, evidently agreeing with her.
"You..." His sister's features changed abruptly and her suspicions dropped behind a mask of blunt recognition. She sealed her lips before she finished her statment and pulled on her brother's arm, dragging him backwards. But Sansa's ears could still pick up most of the conversation. "Brother, how could you not tell me...?"
"It'll be alright, Ranga," he whispered back sincerely.
"Can you not smell her?" apparently—Ragna—replied hastily. "She's not like us…she has an alpha's scent about her!"
"I live with the alpha of this pack," Sansa explained in Polaris' place as she rejoined them, her whole Direwolf litter close on her trial. Ragna jumped a little when Sansa spoke, closing in on them.
Polaris shook his head to correct her. "Ragna means you, Sansa. You own the scent of an alpha."
"Forgive my brother's forwardness," Ragna threw back in, recollecting her composure. "Without our old pack, our family, we are now but humble omegas. Wanderers."
"There were more of you?" Sansa looked to one sibling to another, feeling deeply concerned.
Ragna nodded once and added, "We lost our pack to wolf hunters three years ago—our parents, our uncle, our four aunts that lived with us—and our brother cub, Cato. He had just turned eleven. We sailed away afterwards to escape those hunters permanently and ended up here in Westeros."
"I'm sorry."
"See, the thing is...families like ours," Polaris treaded carefully, "and I'm assuming like your own, are born with the sleeping blood of the Wolf, or the Wolf Within. We must share a common ancestor. All of the first ones originated in our homeland—where Ragna and I were born, actually. Father always told us the stories about the original members of these packs drifting out and gradually expanding the bloodlines into another lands like these. But Father was also convinced they must have been hunted down and killed, or, our touch of magic just happened to die out overtime because of these changes."
Magic? The Wolf Within? Sansa gaped, reanalyzing them. "Are you…skinchangers?"
"No." Polaris sighed, but then he chuckled at her. "From what we've understand, skinchangers have the ability to take any form they want practically—animals, other people, sometimes even objects—if they practice their skills long enough. We are still slightly different than that."
"We shapeshift," clarified Ragna. "Just one form to another, into wolves and back. We possess the best parts of the beast and of man."
Narrowing her eyes, Sansa couldn't resist the temptation to ask them, "…Can I see you do it?"
Their discussion immediately flitted back to Polaris sounding somewhat apologetic. "Shapeshifting is not something we can do at will, not on a new moon day. Ragna and I can only take our pure wolf forms on the day of the fullest moon...which now won't be for another month."
Sansa made a face at him. "Why?"
"Because...wolves like us are connected to the night, and to each moon type. The less moon there is, the less wolf we appear on the outside. Our parents and relatives all had their theories as to why this is...but till to this day, no one knows for certain. Magic usually has its own witty ways, its own rules. And sometimes common logic cannot explain it."
"We prefer to say it's because of Lupa," said Ragna, glancing at her brother. "To us, it makes the most sense."
"What's Lupa?"
"Where we come from, our people worshipped a Goddess named Lupa. She's linked to the spirit of the wolf, the mother of all wolves, and during the night when the moon is out shining brightest, that's her most sacred time. Each of her phases reflects our Wolf Within a slightly different way, both good and bad." Though Ragna decided to lay those words to rest and circled back all way back to the beginning. "However...I am curious about your scent. You smell like an alpha...and Father used to say alphas end up feeling a stronger pull when it comes their Wolves Within. So they can learn how to shapeshift anytime, like our mother. She was alpha female."
"But that should mean you're able to show me your wolf form right now!" Sansa challenged them. "If your mother was an alpha, aren't you one too?"
"We had our mother's siblings in front of the chain before us," stressed Polaris. "...It is true that among common wolves, any one of them in the litter can become the leader or betas one day, depending if they fight for it or not. But with our kind, the birth order does matter. Again, magic decided that. Our mother was firstborn amongst the aunts and our uncle. I was never willing to just leave them behind though. We were a loving pack and the stay was worth it."
Ragna quickly countered this claim, "He could've become Alpha after everyone was gone."
"But I didn't, I'm not, because Ragna and I do not a full pack make."
Sansa was much more alert and they all could hear her heartbeat racing. She couldn't deny the clarity of it all; the dream she had of Spirit Robb, the fact that she was the oldest Stark daughter. Always was before, and still was today.
"What is it?" Polaris offered.
"I think...," she wavered, "that I…shapeshifted. Once. I just don't remember it happening."
Polaris and Ragna exchanged another attentive look before Ragna asked her curiously, "How can you be sure?"
"I woke up one morning…in the woods, naked and covered in leaves, and I don't know why I was there. And there was a dead stag nearby, half-eaten." Her eyes grew wider. "Was I a real wolf? It was me. I killed it, didn't I?"
Polaris considered the possibilities as she stood there waiting for an answer, but he also seemed perplexed now.
"Why? Is it a bad thing, that I do not remember it if I'm supposed to be an alpha?"
"No, not precisely." Ragna promised her, "Remember the Wolf Within can be a tad different for everyone."
"She's right." In sympathy, Polaris took hold of Sansa's elbow and she did not pull away. "Besides, you shouldn't worry that much if it's not true. In fact, not all of us can shapeshift at first. It may take time. Others exercise their thoughts for lifetime to get better results, sleeping deeply, just to see the world through their inner Wolf's eyes in their dreams. We are sometimes mistaken for Wargs here in these lands."
Ragna must have seen the look on Sansa's face as she still struggled to tie of this information together, so she stepped forward as well in order to provide some form of closure. "If I were to guess...in your case, Sansa, the Wolf Within you has been hiding out, in slumber, for a very long time, being not too sure of herself. And something must have happened to you…something very upsetting that managed to rile her up...and yet, the human in you is still trying to find the balance, to harmonize, and that's where it can get difficult. It could maybe...take you years, until you can control it entirely."
"You said alphas had a stronger pull, though!" Sansa protested. "And I'm you're age!"
Polaris fingers tightened around her elbow again patiently. "Yes, although; we have known about our heritage since the day we were born. Our Wolves Within were awake our entire lives. You, on the other hand, are acting as if you have just figured out what's been happening to you..."
Arya had discovered a secluded place to hide for a while, tucked inside of one the stone temples. There was a crevice worn into the wall on the second story and no one knew she was there.
She carefully rid Needle of Trant's blood. Though the longer she lingered at that spot, simply caressing the rag against Needle's sharpness over and over and over and over again, the more she began to feel an eerie chill filling her bones. She was angry, and offended...and frankly, something else too. The nameless emotion alone was enough to make her feel as though she could physically keel over at any given moment and vomit.
Trant's killing had turned out differently than the others before him. It did not end how she had planned it despite of all her devoted efforts to spy on him and learn all of his daily patterns. The outcome was not pleasing, and that was what had set her off track after she abandoned the body last night.
Regret.
That's what it was.
She had almost forgotten that word and what it felt like up until now. Assassins weren't supposed to feel it, although this morning, she did.
She did not regret killing Trant because he was suddenly innocent...no, she regretted that her own incentives for killing him had not run deeper than losing Syrio. Because they should have...they should have all this time and she didn't even know that till he released his last breath. (Now it was too late.) She had already stuck Needle into his ribs when he began to say things that now she could not...unhear. And she'll never gain the opportunity to slay him more properly ever again! She should've waited. She should've seen more.
Trant, like most men, revealed certain stories when he was sipping on wine too long; stories that he probably wouldn't have shared if he were sober. And as Arya dropped her guise and began to remind him of what happened in the past between them and of why she was there to slay him after the first successful stab...Trant had begun to rant at her, sputtering on about the Lannisters as he stumbled against the wall, wounded. One of those things included Sansa—which Arya hadn't counted on.
"Is that what this is? Revenge over your teacher?" He laughed to himself shortly, but it quickly turned into a mocking slur when his gaze found hers again. "Stupid me. Here I thought you were actually going to say something about your damned sister."
She paused reluctantly in mid-stance, eyes unblinking and she watched the blood pooling around his teeth.
"But you wouldn't know any of that, would you?" Trant filled her staggered silence with another insult. "That she...," he coughed, "...was nothing but rag-toy for the Lions to bat around with their paws? Oh, but, I...got my chances to play...with her too. Frequently." Whether it really was the drink, or the really the pain he felt, or the irony...or his madness, Trant started laughing about it again, "It was so easy to leave marks on her, to make her bleed."
Enraged, she had cried out and drove Needle between his eyes.
That was the end of Trant.
And Arya had recalled the Hound telling her of the raids in King's Landing and how he saved her sister from rouge rapists running through the streets, but for whatever reason, he'd failed to mention Trant playing a key part in Sansa's misery.
Why?
Based on the fact that there had been riots to begin with, Arya had come to assume that Sansa's stay at the castle wasn't as grand as it once was.
But, she never really believed the Lions would downright torture her sister since she was meant to be engaged to Joffrey.
Polaris and Ragna returned day after day, letting go of their wandering habit and spent all their current time with Sansa. Nymeria was wary of them at first of course, and she tried to nip hard at Polaris once when he sat too close to Sansa right in front of her.
Even so, the mother Dire did grow more accustomed to the two of them visiting the Sansa and her siblings, warming up to the idea of them joining their Moors Pack altogether, as long as they minded their ranks.
They'd all take long strolls up and down the ravine while Ragna and Polaris would tell Sansa everything about their homeland and its mystical histories of their people. They came from a far off place over the seas, which according to Polaris, wasn't illustrated on any map made in either Westeros or Braavos. They told her of the giant mountains that extended into the water far enough to form a series of smaller islands from the shores. Their Summers were searing hot and dry despite rain falling half the year, and their own Winters were typically mild in comparison to ones like this. The natives harvested every exotic plant they could consume—though their main delicacy in their diets were olives. Ragna filled Sansa in about the wild wolves they had there met years ago. She and Polaris would even point to things around the forest and recite each word in their first language. It was funny to hear and even funnier for Sansa to repeat what they said.
"Lykos." Polaris stated, gesturing at Lyca who was closest to him at the time. "Wolf."
"Lykos...," Sansa echoed deliberately, rolling her tongue to match his accent.
"Déntro," he touched the bark of a towering pine nearby. "Tree."
"Dee—den—"
"Déntro."
Sansa finally grasped the correct pronunciation. "Déntro."
"Good."
Each day from thereon, there would be a new phrase for Sansa to add to her growing lingual list, or there'd be a new myth Ragna would share with her. The myths themselves were very exciting, and elaborate, full of colorful names and gods and goddesses, romance, tragedy and heroes and beasts that were commonly half one animal, partly another. The characters reflected the ways of the native people there, a land ruled by a culture that shared a fierce affection for the arts, dedication, and individualism. Ragna and Polaris knew so many details from start to finish that Sansa began wonder if they really were all myth. If...people like them could turn into wolves, and if her own world deeply believed in the existence of dragonfire and witches, then why couldn't it be conceivable that some of those events had actually happened?
Their month together had almost hit its mark and the day before that full moon, Sansa and Polaris strolled alone together through the woods while Ragna was still sleeping with the pack.
Ragna normally had more energy to burn off compared to her older brother. In truth, she was another Iona or Arya. She was hardheaded and brash whenever she want to be, and became snappy towards Polaris when downright angry about something, letting the Wolf Within to shine behind her eyes. She treasured her beastly side and accepted it without question. She harnessed those traits flawlessly. Then again...unlike Arya had, Ragna practically worshipped Sansa, and they hardly fought. Actually, they never fought. They'd practice sparring on occasion, yes, but they never held any of those silly girlish grudges for anything. They got along extremely well on both ends. Polaris said Ragna was just thrilled to meet another she-wolf, an alpha one at that. Well, it certainly showed. Ranga proved to be a worthy replacement for Jayne Poole in Sansa's eyes, if not turned into an even better friend overall. (Polaris himself was the fetching, carefree one. The candid-hearted one. He had playful streak that was for sure, and Sansa could see how much Ragna meant to him. The two of them were close, and both valued that family bond at a high price, which Sansa truly admired. Polaris was no less wolf than his sister though, and indeed no less deadly.)
They reached the river's pools and Sansa aimed to use the bridge of fallen logs as usual while Polaris made his way across the icy stepping stones.
"Polaris...?"
"Hm?"
"Doesn't your birthplace have a name? Your whole country?"
"It's Elláda," he replied. "But most who are born there simply understand what you mean when you say the homeland."
"Why not call it that, though?"
He shrugged, gracefully leaping to another rock. "There's so much magic there and so much history that it feels impossible to narrow all of it down to one title. I'd say, ah...think of a marriage. When a person gets married, they adapt to the new name they are bound to. But does that really erase the name they already were born with? No. That person does not have to be limited to one name. That's not all they are. They can be recognized by a many names depending on each person around them. The same goes for our homeland."
"I've been married before this, been forced into it really. My husband was smart, and not unkind to me…but still, it was a cruel joke," Sansa ventured fleetingly. "And it's not something that I would probably do again."
Polaris didn't seem to have any issue with that. "Wolves never marry."
"...Were your parents not married?"
"Why would they need to be?"
Sansa had gotten past her most of her resentment for bastard children born outside of a marriage ever since her views on Jon (and herself) had transformed into something else more meaningful; so she went with, "...What about love, or honor? Commitment?"
Polaris' toothy grin spilt into his features again as he jumped up to her current log. "Wolves mate for life, Red Wolf. What's a more committed pair than that?"
Sansa's stomach knotted beyond her control. It couldn't be helped. This...this moment...was so unlike The Hound calling her Little Bird. By calling her that, Red Wolf, Polaris understood that she'd never be caged again, that she wasn't meant to be caged like that. He could see her concealed strengths trying to prosper.
For that, Sansa had leaned in to kiss him—she threw herself at him essentially, attacking his mouth rather feverishly, her fingers scraping through his short dark hair, over his scalp—and Polaris didn't seem to the in mood to complain because his hands just landed on her hips in response.
But, afterwards, Sansa became mortified. She flew back, breathing unevenly, and whirling away from him with flushed cheeks. "Oh, Gods." What was wrong with her? Kissing was something she had done before, with Lord Baelish, and that was really just him kissing her. And being the proper little lady she always assumed she had to be back then, never had once initiated any sort romantic kiss herself in that manner.
Polaris either appeared to be flattered or amused or shocked. He opened his parted mouth wider to say something about it, although Sansa was quicker, "I'm sorry!" she blurted desperately, "I don't know what came over me."
He leaned in, pacifying her as he kissed her back once more. "Why are you sorry?"
Face hot against the chilling breeze, Sansa pressed her hand on his chest, recreating some space. "I'm just not—I mean, I am not usually so forward."
"An aroused she-wolf not being forward?" Polaris teased through another little come-hither smirk. "Maybe you should act out more often then."
Straightaway, Sansa had to guess he only said this in jest, nothing more...but it still managed to rub her fur the wrong way. Glaring back at him bitterly, her jaw fixed in disbelief. It had honestly been a long while since she had last felt this infuriated by another person. And she hated that feeling. "…That's why you enjoyed it? Because I...I...lost control of myself?"
Perhaps he really did intend to praise that darker side of her. Perhaps living alone with his sister for so long had conditioned him to treat all girls as if they were like Ragna, the bolder type. But for Sansa, there still was no greater insult than complimenting her mistakes of all things. She wanted to remain steel, true, though she didn't want to be heartless. So, what about her loyalty? What about her thoughtfulness? Or her usual amount of patience she had? Didn't those things count for anything anymore? How many more men must she meet just to ruin her beliefs on love?
Polaris seemed to falter, seeing how negative her reaction was to his choice of words. "No. No, I just meant—"
Sansa spoke over him a second time. "Well if that's the case, then you should just go on and find yourself another she-wolf who only knows how to act like a complete savage!"
"Oh come now, Red Wolf. It's—it could just be the season—where—wait!"
Sansa unfortunately, was already sprinting off into the trees over the bank, stooping out of sight.
Later that evening, Sansa calmed her nerves by going to collect water from the little open pocket of shattered ice at the ends of the stream Ragna had made for them earlier.
Her sisters had found her there first, and as Sansa knelt in the snow, she sweetly sang them the verses of her favorite lullaby. On the higher notes, the Iona, Sofia, and Freja would let out their own little howls, matching her pitch. And around the ending of her third song, a twig snapped sharply as someone dove down from the upper ridge and perched somewhere behind her.
"Red Wolf?" Even if the tone Polaris was using now was much softer and dripping with uneasiness, Sansa sighed and wouldn't have of any of his poor excuses. "I do not want to talk to you right now."
"Sansa," he said that time, "if you would just listen to me. Please?"
"No."
Polaris didn't have much of chance to approach her anyhow, for the instant he moved forward the young Dires all countered him, and cut off his path off from Sansa, their fangs drawn.
"Could you call them off? I only want to apologize to you."
Sansa stood, brushing the flurries from her knees and she slowly walked up to the nearest wolf—which was Iona—and she leaned her hip causally against Iona's side, her hands folding over her back. Sansa's blue eyes were firm and lovely and were half-lidded as she gazed at him. "Whatever you wish to say to me, you can say in front of my sisters."
"I was wrong to say those things before." Polaris compromised, attempting to restore the trust she had in him before this happened. "It's just been so long since I met anyone like you since...I've become of age. And I...don't mean just because you're a she-wolf."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean, you are honestly the first woman I've wanted to spend all of my time with. Because you fascinate me. Sansa fascinates me."
Impulsively Sansa offered him a broad smile that revealed all of her teeth (like the she-wolf she truly, really was). He apparently had that effect on her. She met him halfway and held out her hand, which Polaris took leisurely, but gratefully.
They just stood there surrounded by the Dires, hand in hand. And Sansa felt something discreetly beautiful. Thus by the next morning Sansa's bashfulness had washed away entirely. She and Polaris continued to share their childhood tales, their desires, their ideas for the future, and passionate kisses in between as they waited for Ragna to catch up to them.
On the actual night of the full moon however, Lupa's Moon, Polaris and Ragna went to the center of the ravine and stripped their clothes to demonstrate how they could shapeshift.
The Moors Pack gathered behind Sansa, watching with their own interest as well.
It was awful thing to watch initially, to hear their bones and flesh snapping and stretching in ways that seemed very painful, though, it was a surprisingly quick process because they knew what they were doing, and Sansa's fear became overpowered by a thriving admiration for the skill. Both of the siblings' wolf forms happen to be sheer black, just like Shadowfoot and Lyca, only Ragna possessed a patch of white on her chest.
Once they changed back to the people she knew after sunrise, redressing with their backs towards turned each other, Sansa immediately rushed up to Polaris. "...Would you teach me more about it?"
"As we told you before, it'll be work...it's a bit different for everyone."
Sansa rounded his side until she was facing him directly. She fastened the ties of his undershirt for him, giving him a look as if she held a wicked little secret. "Oh, but I'm a quick study."
If Sansa's own Wolf Within had been awaken once, and it was a so-called alpha, then surely she could use it as a weapon on demand instead of simply waiting for it to gradually leak out of her whenever she was in fatal danger. The Stark line has endured for so long before they were even called Starks. This had to the reason as to why. Wolves survived for ages. It's what they did best. The blood of the Wolf in her would plague all of those who have wronged her. One day, she'd pounce on them before they'll even sense the attack. She'd live to meet the day when she would be reunited with her beloved Pack of Winterfell.
They would join together again as one and reclaim the frozen horizon as their domain and keep each other warm through Winters yet to come.
Her father and mother's deaths would not be in vain. Lady's name would be honored. All Lions, Hounds, and City Knights in existence would bend at their feet for a change. At the mercy of her claws. She'd treasure the morning when they'd hear her howl ring out over these hills.
Now as the following moons waned and waxed, Sansa of Winter was all set and totally hellbent to rescue Winterfell.
Nymeria guided the Moors Pack still. They were fairly comfortable with their surroundings and knew how to flourish there. And Sansa, although very emotionally so, prepared to leave them soon; and it was obvious that Nymeria's litter would undoubtedly diverge off with Sansa and her friends. After all, with the aid of Polaris and Ragna Sansa had grown more and more in touch with her inner instincts. She was fully prepared to take the lead.
And while Sansa lounged back against Polaris up on the high rocks late that afternoon, she stroked her thumb over his hand. "You're going to love Winterfell. I promise."
"I will, I'm sure," he reassured her. "It's a part of who you are."
Ragna eventually rejoined them from scouting the whole area all day long, tackling them down with a laugh. She also informed Sansa that it seemed safe enough for farther travel.
Sandor was now ownerless and had very little idea of where to go next. With no plates of armor on him anymore, and bearing no House emblem or colors, he was virtually indistinguishable to these villagers.
Only a few men passing him on the street would sporadically notice the burn scars he buried beneath the hood of this bulky brown cloak that he had recently stolen from a farmer.
Every morning upon wakening, he cursed the Gods for letting him heal and keeping him alive after he should have died already; and each night upon dreaming, his mind was contorted with memories of both Arya and Sansa...that little yapping Stark bitch and her too-lovely caged bird of a sister.
Their first time was in a cave laying upon a layer of their cloaks and hides. Polaris was under her for half the time.
Sansa frankly had taken some pride in her maidenhood before...mainly because, in that aspect of her darkening life, she could still feel pure. She once believed that love did not have to revolve around these addictive physical acts that eventually turned men into rapists and women into whores.
But, ultimately, because it was Polaris with her, it felt right. Their attraction for each other in itself, felt just as pure. Sansa could sense selflessness in his embrace and could see genuine love igniting behind his eyes when she arched. The solid reality of his muscles rolling beneath her fingers enthralled her, it encouraged him too...and specifically for them, it allowed the Wolves Within to feel something human, and the human could feel like the animal.
Closing her eyes Sansa found a steady, smooth rhythm to her liking and sometime in the middle of it all, Polaris had raised himself between her knees to capture her by a kiss to the throat and in result, Sansa's nails extended across his back and she raked them over the moisture of his skin, leaving marks there, and her teeth came sinking into his shoulder, drawing a drop of blood.
His kiss only deepened.
Afterwards, both of them tossed back against the piles of hides, basking in the aftermath of their mating experience and stared up at the rocky ceiling. The wind moaned outside the cave's mouth but it was peaceful sound.
Sansa had burst into a breathy laugh just then, thinking of the very end when she came. "You made me howl."
Polaris' fingers idly curled around hers in reply. "And it was perfect."
Petyr was glad to gain back some of his luck that Sansa had stolen from him in early Winter. He approached the side table occupied by a band of hunters. "Excuse me," he greeted them smoothly. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. You said something about wolves?"
Their leader looked up at him cautiously. "Perhaps we did, perhaps we didn't..."
In reply, Petyr causally reached into his front pocket and chucked a purse full of coins across the surface. All the men seemed impressed by the amount. There was plenty for each of them.
"Are you really that desperate?" one of them remarked.
"No," Petyr smiled intentionally; a snake getting away with his trickery. "I'm persistent."
"What d'ya want to know, kind Ser?" the leader returned, collecting his share of the payment.
Pulling up an empty stool at the end of their table, Petyr locked eyes with him again. "What is your name?"
"People call me Jax."
"Well then, Jax, tell me everything."
Winter dragged on slowly.
Sansa spent her mornings racing with her brothers and sisters, training her mind to open and allow her Wolf Within her listen to their thoughts. It was still a complicated practice and most of the time nothing happened. But on a rare circumstance, she'd snag a word or two from their barks and howls.
"Sister," was the most common one. It was the easiest phrase Sansa's consciousness could translate into the Common Tongue when and they all grew excited. "Sister! ...Sister! ...Sister!"
She'd even try to shapeshift every so often under Ranga's instructions, although that wasn't coming so natural to her either just yet. And when or if it did occur, it'd happen only if she'd black out like before at the High Horse and a very bad feeling usually had to cause it—a random nightmare, or whenever she'd fear never reaching the North ever again, that there were no Starks left walking. Polaris would go and find her hours after to carry her all the back to the caves.
Otherwise, ordinarily, they'd be tracking down a few stags with them at a time...sometimes they'd cook the meat over a fire, though most days they'd choose on eating it raw. Or Sansa and Polaris would be playing together and mating in the caves as their relationship strengthened to heights she didn't know existed. Polaris had come to feel out and memorize every fraction of her soul. He apprehended them, and could relate to her, and he supported her. While Ragna was her main mentor and womanly companion, Polaris was Sansa's rock, her Northern Star, and he would help to guide her home, figuratively and literally speaking.
The three of them overall formed a bond that felt unstoppable. Having lost their families, they rediscovered that in each other. The Pack of Winterfell was expanding for once instead of diminishing. There were no suggestions of ulterior motives between any of them—just pure acceptance, reliability, and reinforcement.
They were near. Winterfell was just a week or so in front of them.
Sansa personally couldn't have been happier than she was for the last several hours. The previous night she, Ragna, and Polaris had danced around a tall blazing fire and they let their Wolves Within howl loudly throughout their bodies under the dark skies in celebration, chanting their praise to the Goddess Lupa towards the moon.
She walked hand in hand with Ragna that morning while Polaris meandered paces ahead feeding bits of fox meat to the Direwolves.
"I am going to be titled as a Princess of Winter or something once you're Crowned, yes?" Ragna murmured into her ear. "As the Grand Sister of the Queen Alpha's Mate, I think I have the right to have my own titles."
Chuckling, Sansa replied, "Oh, I don't think I'd introduce you to my subjects using those exact words. But you will surely have titles if you want them."
"What made you think I wouldn't?"
"You're a vicious little she-wolf," Sansa told her in fair consideration, still smiling, "like my own sister was. Is palace life really your ideal future?"
"There's more to being a wolf than just being vicious." Ragna wisely pointed out. "If you can embrace both sides of the same coin, so shall I." The Dires were growing too enthusiastic over the meat droppings and they ended up driving Polaris right to the ground, stealing the whatever scraps they could from his hands and the others wagged their tales and lapped at his face. "...And that might be your Alpha King someday," she noted back to Sansa from the corner of her mouth.
"I can hear you!" Polaris warned them still trapped under the cheerful litter, causing both she-wolves to laugh harder.
Later, Ragna had found herself a boulder, to soak in the couple remaining rays of sunlight. Lyca, Ned and Iona rested their heads across her lap. Sansa came sniffing her out eventually with the other cubs and hopped up, looming over Ragna on her haunches.
Ragna cracked an eye towards her after Sansa kissed her cheek. "Your brother and I are going to follow a stag trail we found going up the mountain a ways and see how far we can use it. It's in direction we should head anyways. We don't want the Direwolves too close to open country anymore where more settlers and farmers live if we can help it. Want to go with us?"
Ragna reclined back on her rock. "You go," she smirked. "I'll stay here with them just in case. I can smell that you are still in heat."
Sansa glared at her in sheer amusement before turning away. "Mock me not, Ragna, or I'll be laughing when it happens to you someday."
They parted ways, both sniggering.
The snow falling on the trees glistened in the half-shadows. Sansa rode on Polaris' back for a while, and along the way she had to stifle another giggle into his shoulder.
With a smile of his own, he scoffed. "What are you thinking about now?"
"Of our home in Winterfell," offered Sansa, "...our prospects, and you...and our cubs."
"Ah." Polaris lifted his head, nodding, as it all made more sense to him. "Cubs, eh?"
"I was thinking...five?"
"...Eight," he declared. "Let's make it a full pack."
More spirited laughter rippled through Sansa against his back. "Done."
"Names?"
"For sons? Definitely Robbert, or Lykos, or Jakob, and I've always like the sound of Marc—it's simple and firm."
"And for girls?"
"Nymeria, Lady, Arya, or Cate."
Sansa did not forget the bitter dreams she used to have back in King's Landing, the one that teased her most. Her imaginary sons bore the faces of the brothers she had lost, and there was always at least one girl that looked like Arya's living double. Now, it was a sign of prosperity. It was easier to fantasize becoming the mother of those children when Polaris would be their father.
Sansa was about to require his opinion on how much they should raise their own litter like wolves and how much like royal children of Winterfell...then abruptly, one disturbing sound changed their mood entirely. A howl, deep and urgent.
Sansa's voice grew frail, "Ragna...,"
They both strained their ears and a series of wolf barks burst into the air. Polaris hunched over, placing Sansa on her own feet before they hurried back to the rocky meadow where they left the pack.
The two of them were picking up some additional sounds that did not belong to the forest either. Stopping at the top of the tallest mound they looked down, spotting a single hunting wagon being parked beyond the naked trees. A pair of men in leather hoods were preoccupied loading and unloading their weapons of choice. But Ragna wouldn't give out the distress call for that. There had to be more of them somewhere, and Sansa knew it. She knew their scent. She knew those heartbeats.
"Take care of them," she ordered Polaris darkly, indicating that she had very well seen them once before. "I'll help Ragna."
He caressed her hand first before he let her slip away. "Be careful, Red Wolf."
She kissed his cheek. "Likewise."
Polaris flew down the mound at full speed, his Wolf Within readying itself for the kill. This wasn't a hunt. It was an ambush. The first man could hardly yell out as Polaris charged right at him, pointy teeth bared, golden eyes aglow, claws ripping in. The dead hunter's comrade came around the wagon with an axe clutched in his hand, but Polaris jumped into the back of wagon with another powerful whoosh, causing their mule in front to squeal in fright. He reached down, grabbing that hunter by the back of the shirt collar and tossed him upwards. The hunter screamed and Polaris caught him moments before hit the snow underneath, ramming him into a tree.
His claws encircled the hunter's throat. "What are you trying to do here?"
The man couldn't even look at him. He didn't wish to look into the face of the beast. "Nothing...NOTHING, I SWEAR!"
What a weak, weak, pathetic lie. Peter snarled in warning when his tone changed and it echoed with the Wolf Within. "Last chance!" the hunter began to snivel in his grip. "What are you here for?"
"We w-were paid to come...to hun-hunt down the Direwolf we f-found several m-moons ago. We s-saw the tracks and assumed it must b-be around here. We needed her Dire hide for b-bait."
"Is that so?" Polaris cooed at him, unamused and deadly. "And who is this person that sent you?"
The hunter coughed. "He never give us his real name...we just called him the Tavern Lord."
"Is there anything else I should know?"
"There's a girl we're looking for too out h-here, one that's s-something like you we know of. She's w-worth dou-double the price we got before."
Repulsed by the mere thought of Sansa being hunted down in a similar way his family had been—and for the sake of money, too—Polaris hurled him across the clearing and the hunter fell into the opposite tree with a broken neck. He needed to find Ragna and Sansa. And quick.
But when he soon located them further down the meadow, Sansa was bent low to the ground, and the Dires were brutishly biting into a third dead body sprawled across reddening snow with a bow clutched lightly in his hand. He began to sprint, calling for her, informing her that the hunters were here for Nymeria's pack; then he noticed...smelled what Sansa was actually holding and his mind was left rattled, and he struggled to ask. "What—no, no, no, no."
Sansa cradled Ragna's lifeless body stabbed by four arrows like a mother would do rocking a child to sleep, like a women holding her dearest friend, like a sister embracing her other sister...and Sansa wailed with a gloomy passion. She didn't care how the noise had chased away all the little birds out of their trees. The Dires yelped and howled with her on the edge of the meadow where they waited for her now.
Polaris finally found the strength to knee close beside her, warily placing one hand on Ranga's arm, the other found its way into Sansa's hair, stroking it softly. His own tears were pouring from his eyes too, but in comparison, they were quiet tears.
...Sansa's eyes briefly fluttered up to the tree line off to the side and she distinguished an extra hooded figure watching them from amid a web of dead braches. The cloak they owned was dark blue and laced with gold embroidery along the shoulders. It reeked of wine, and women, and musk. Whoever it was immediately fled her view either out of fear, or surprise. If they had come here to hunt her down with those hunters, they obviously weren't counting on Nymeria's entire little being there to fight back alongside them—plus Ragna. That clearly worked to their advantage. The coward had just abandoned their battle, though with a extremely harsh price.
Ragna had died for her. She had willingly taken each blow in Sansa's place. It...happened so fast, Ragna leaped to her side, and then it was over and done.
She and Polaris stayed there with Ragna for a minor eternity. The sky colors began to shift, then slowly they darkened and their grief faded into a raw silence.
"I'll kill them," Sansa shuddered under her breath, her lips still resting on Ranga's temple. "I'll kill them this time."
Polaris just nodded slowly. He couldn't force himself to deny her that desire. He swallowed hard while he branched out from the conversation a little. "Sansa...I...I feel like I need to bury her in our homeland. In Elláda. With our family from before. I think that's the right thing to do."
Sansa comprehended that sentiment well enough, really, she did...but their final destination was still in opposite direction of the sea. Winterfell was still screaming for her. It was in her very reach. "That'll take time," sighed Sansa with a mild sniff. "I can't turn back now and sail away on a ship. We can't...she'll start to rot even before we get there at that rate. Besides, I need to find the hunters."
"I can make it there faster if I go alone. I know a man with a private boat who lives by the docks. He's the one who shipped us here years ago."
Sansa glanced up at him finally, vulnerably, mutely asking him: You're leaving me?
A tender, heartbreaking half-smile slid across his lips. "I can find my way North again. Wolves never get lost, remember? I'll meet you there, no matter what, one day. I will see you again."
Sansa and Polaris had dove themselves in a deep, earnest farewell kiss which would have been their most intimate moment ever shared yet...save for it was shared over their pack member's dead body.
And so, that was that.
Polaris took off for the docks, carrying Ranga back to her proper burial pace while Sansa and the litter continued onward for Winterfell, with the one exception of making a short stop along the way.
For the Watch.
Those were the last words he had heard before he was left for dead; and the next thing Jon knew, the piles of snow were being scraped, dug off of him, then, he was reaching...stretching up towards the starry night, reaching for the moon above...easing his way out from the wintery grave, half-alive or near-dead; his free hand felt a familiar moving mass of fur to clutch onto.
Ghost moaned and barked, hauling him out, until Jon was dragged out far enough to elevate himself. When he finally could and his aching body wouldn't give up hope yet, he gracelessly but thankfully very quietly slugged around the camp and mounted the first horse he saw.
He left the Watch behind him, left Castle Black to memory, and he began marching on with Ghost trailing closely alongside him through the endless fields of white.
Sansa didn't say one word the whole time she carried out the deed—not even in the first few second after she found the rest house, kicked the door in, having it fall to the floor with a thunderous boom! and she strolled in with the meanest glare she could ever muster.
The familiar hunters slammed down their ale in alarm and prepared to escape. Just as they did before.
But obviously, tonight, had a very different outcome.
But Sansa was unusually merciless.
And she was quicker, and much stronger due to her pulsing anger. She hopped up and ran across the wooden beams high above them, shedding her clothes and searched for the perfect opening. The drunken men danced clumsily around beneath her, knocking over chairs, tripping over each other as they twirled about.
Decided on her target, she let her exposed body drop from the ceiling and she summoned her the Wolf Within with all her might, and she finally was aware of it shifting her form as she hit the wood on four paws.
One by one, the reddish she-wolf bit at their stomachs, tore into their shins, crawled over their backs and ripped through their necks. Thinking of Joffrey helped Wolf Sansa through it all without stopping to second-guess her actions. She thought of her father's head held high by the stakes. She thought of the Lion Queen. She thought of the Hound, of Lord Baelish, and their greed. She thought of Ragna dying for her.
Once the bodies collapsed in a heap over the floorboards, Sansa recovered her girlish form with a blood-stained mouth, panting and panting. A head rolled aside from her naked feet when she had walked out, leaving the house splattered with a red vengeance.
And to her surprise, Nymeria, her cubs, and the whole Moors Pack was waiting for her along her chosen path out of town.
Seeing her—as if Nymeria had sensed Sansa could want them there with her now—made Sansa forcefully cross the distance between them, throwing her arms around Nymeria.
She didn't cry again, but Sansa still shook in her suffering and reveled in her wolf-mother's embrace.
Jon, who felt utterly ill, and just...just horrible, slowly entered the forest now swallowing him whole refusing to stop. Just two days ago he was literally on the very brink of death, and still Death had not decided to claim completely him yet. Maybe Death hated him too and wanted to see Jon suffer every moment possible before the real final hour. He still...couldn't stop. Not now. He remembered these little winding roads. A few of them would actually lead him to Winterfell.
Home...
Ghost's muzzle grazed over the snow, continuously sniffing for scents of things, dead or alive. And it was nearly after Jon had come to the end of his path, cut off by the mountain stones when Ghost halted. He lifted his head, ears up and entirely alert, looking the other way, then he eagerly bounded off.
"Ghost!" Jon wheezed, tugged on the reigns in panic and steered his horse around to follow, not knowing what the Dire was after. "Here, Ghost! Here!"
Crestfallen, Sansa was making her way out the forest, her head titled towards the ground.
The area around them had grown very delicate and still, as if the trees somehow knew of the tragedy that struck the wolves and they too had decided to sink into a mourning state. Nymeria made a noise to the side of her unexpectedly, paused, and then she began tug on Sansa's collar lightly with her teeth, coaxing the girl forward. Sansa hobbled with her, puzzled by this. "Nymeria, what is it?"
The mother Dire spun in a circle and ran ahead of the group, only looking back once to tell Sansa she should be following her.
Sansa understood well enough and dashed in that direction with Nymeria acting at her guide.
Jon could just make out Ghost's silhouette through the branches that hung low over the trail. But then, unfortunately, Ghost turned and descended the slope with the proficiency and agility that only a wolf could have. His horse on the other hand feared the slope. He whinnied loudly in distress and on his own decided to skid to a halt just where their path began to slant, hooves digging into the ice, bucking forward.
Ultimately Jon was thrown off.
His body rolled itself down the hill and he gasped for air the whole way. He collided with various rocks that stuck out from the earth and as he tumbled off that first ridge, beginning to fall towards common ground, a tree branch just happened to break at precisely the right to angle to pierce through his right arm.
"Ah!" Jon hissed when he finally flattened on his back, and he was able to haul himself up, although it definitely was excruciating to do so now.
He held onto his impaled arm as he pushed himself onward, calling out for his horse, and for Ghost, for whichever of them would obey him first.
However, as he wobbled his way into the adjacent clearing ahead, he stumbled upon a different Dire, a female. The image of her suddenly overwhelmed Jon more than his injuries did just then. "...Nymeria."
Nymeria turned her head a peer at him inquisitively, her tail wagging lightly when Ghost happened to be padding by him, approaching his sister from so long ago. But apparently Nymeria was not alone. He blinked several times in attempt to focus on the figure that was lingering behind Nymeria. Jon saw their feet first between Nymeria's legs. And those nimble feet began to shift sideways, working around the Dire.
It could've been the wounds...but Jon feels his heartbeat pound inside his head as he strained his eyes to see who it truly was. Their hand came into view next, skimming across Nymeria's spine before their head came poking out from behind her shoulder. A head that was full of red hair and rimmed with animal furs.
"...Jon?" he could hear her voice trembling slightly.
His breath caught in his own throat as he tried to speak. "Ygritte?"
She came in powerwalking and then she blurred out again as his body gave way.
"Jon!"
With Robb dead, and with Bran and Rickon most likely dead too or so deeply hidden somewhere far beyond her reach, Jon was the only brother Sansa had in her arms tonight.
Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again.
Yes, Sansa might have thought about these things many times over. This was not sweet.
Their reunion was already tainted. This was him bleeding, thumping face-first into the snow unconscious when she reached for him.
Flashes of Ragna haunted her while she dragged Jon over to a tree to seat him upright. He was in the poorest shame a warrior could possibly be in.
She couldn't stop quivering...and it had nothing to with the cold.
Must I lose him now, too?
Arya was dreamwalking in a wolf's hide. She could feel her paws hit the rocks and tread through the coolness of the snow. It was so different from the gritty sands of the East.
She could smell the height of Winter and could taste the essence of stag's blood.
She could see...Ghost. Ghost was totting before her. And Ghost had others scents clinging to his coat as well, such as Jon.
Jon's sweat and illness was the more prominent odor, the one she recognized first. Then there was a natural sweeter smell flowing beneath...like flowers blooming in the desert, like the clean spring water being kissed by ice. Sansa.
Jon and Sansa?
Together?
Jon stirred awake by a fiery pain starting at his neck, ending in his fingertips. Scarcely aware of his surroundings, he could at least feel the hands that grasped his wrist then. She was close, yet so far away in his mind. She was muttering to him, briefly ordering him to keep still before water poured down his throat. In confusion, he huffed out Ygritte's name a second time, wondering what she was doing before the burning sensation came in another wave and the darkness reclaimed him.
It was dawn when Jon regained control of his thoughts again. This was at least the fourth time he had drifted in and out of consciousness. That was the only explanation for the strange heaviness of his limbs, the odd sense of having time gliding by him mercilessly. All he could do currently was open his eyes halfway to see a few rays of pale sunlight falling towards him. He was still alive. Or was he really? Was he one of those walking corpses? He was so tired; it felt even worse than not sleeping.
The faint smell of crackling embers and smoke hovered over him.
He heard movement every now and then when she'd stomp through the snow around him. He would hound her with questions right now if he wasn't so damn helpless! But it was strange—he sensed other movement—the swift pitter-patter of animals. He breathed in deeply, desperate for strength, for reassurance.
"Jon?" He shifted his eyes to where she knelt beside him uncertainly. "Jon? Can you hear me?" she demanded, resting a smooth warm palm over his forehead. "Are you feeling better at all?"
Vaguely, he thought sluggishly, if that.
"You lost a lot of blood."
Jon finally captured her face through a clearer scope than before now, and her blue eyes shot him back to full awareness, like an arrow being released on a bowstring.
Not Ygritte. Of course not. How could it be?
"Sansa." He instantly tried to push himself higher to inspect at her more properly, to make sure this was not another ones of those dreams. He wanted answers.
"Don't move so fast," she opposed, "I hadn't really gotten a thorough chance to redress your wounds. I may have to restitch that one in your arm. Before I do though, would you like something to eat, get something in your stomach?"
The mere mention of food caused Jon to realize how parched his mouth was, and how empty his belly felt.
Suddenly a wet nose pressed itself to his cheek, sliding into his hair, sniffing curiously.
"Lyca, stop it!" Sansa chided, in a way that she used to scold Bran or Rickon for wrestling with each other in Winterfell's main courtyard while wearing their best outfits and dress boots. "I'm sorry about him. Jon…please, try not to overwork yourself until your body can heal. We were actually able to find an old den we can use until then. It's not far of a walk from here. With my help, we can get you there."
"Ghost," he realized. "Is Ghost here?"
"Don't worry, he's here. He showed up again during the night with Nymeria."
"How did you ever...what are you doing in the wood...," he sighed, trailed off, managing to settle on what to ask her first. "...How long have I been out for?"
"Two days, and this morning."
Two days? Jon wasn't sure if he should have felt comforted or even more troubled by his condition.
"I'm glad you're alive…," she admitted afterwards, cutting into his silence. "I'm tired of losing wolves."
Slightly skeptical, Jon glanced her way again, searching for any falsehoods. But damn those blue eyes of hers, and damn her beautiful sad Tully face. Despite his fair right to resent her for her any dismissive attitude she'd held against him in the past, he could not bring himself to do it. These days, it did take a hell lot more than that for Jon to loath someone.
War did that to a man. Death did that to a man. Getting stabbed in the chest did that to a man. Losing the first woman he ever loved did that to a man. It made childhood conflicts like theirs seem so incredibly pointless and much sillier in comparison.
Jon figured she must've had come to understand the same thing.
And, also, he was growing so sick of hate, and the loneliness. He wanted something good to happen for himself again. Sansa was in all likelihood was the last fragment he had left from his memories of House Stark—of his father, of Arya. Why should he actually wish for her to be anywhere else right now despising him, when she had just saved his life?
Perhaps leaving the Watch ill and injured had its greater purpose, after all. If his life didn't need saving, he would've left to rediscover Sansa. She would not have saved him and they'd still be apart.
"...Thank you, Sansa."
"Of course," she said gently. "We're a Pack."
Bran was having his lively dreams again. His head thrashed side to side as he lied there, seeing hazy portraits of the past blending with colorful glimpses of the faraway places.
As it happened during the night, the others grew too superstitious to wake him in the middle of it. They allowed that curse to run its own course and hoped Bran would return to the present soon enough.
One morning Bran had raised his head from the woolly headrest and knew in his heart that something had disturbed Jon's post and that he'd had departed from of The Wall because of it.
"Bran?"
He wasn't even sure who was speaking to him in that moment but he answered them. "I have to go back...," he realized, "I have to go back home. To Winterfell."
"But Theon, didn't he try to—and the Boltons, they—!"
"Won't even know what'll hit them."
"I thought you said it wasn't a long walk." Jon continued to huff and puff as the two wolf packs escorted them to the deserted den Sansa had evidently found earlier on.
"It's not. For us who can walk on our own." Regardless of his agony Sansa had to smile a little, and she readjusted his good arm slung over her neck, pushing harder against his weight. "But we're almost there."
"How...are you...this strong?" Jon was not trying to complain about the assistance...still, he noticed how he was practically sagging over her slim frame and Sansa had yet to fall herself from the impact.
"Tomorrow, Jon," she promised him. "Tomorrow you will know everything."
Thanks, everyone!
Additional set of recourses used for this project:
-Polaris's character is loosely based off of Peter in Red Riding Hood (2011). I know, I know. I just couldn't help it. His image just kept popping into my head whenever Polaris had a scene.
-Werewolves: The Occult Truth, written by Konstantinos
-Wolf nature documentaries I've seen
-'The Devil Within,' performed by Digital Daggers (personally thought it could work great for Sansa's theme song).