A severe snowstorm struck the forest late in the evening and it continued on through the next day.
The whirling snow outside thrashed sideways as the wind roared with a powerful frosty bite to it.
Though it was in Sansa's stiff posture wherein Jon could see the real storm forming. He sat before her, watching how she cradled his arm, and listened to some things that had led her to this very moment, the people she'd met, talking about the Wolf Within. Her emotions, varying from aggressive to sadness to contentment danced in her transfixed blue eyes alone.
She carefully reweaved her last clean strands of thread from her boot through his wound, to better it, even though the needle itself looked dull and worn by now. For all of those hours entombed inside that den with her, Jon lounged against its curving wall to allow his strength to recover—not to mention he needed the time to nurse his hurt pride as well after what recently happened.
"...Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?" she piped up suddenly.
"With the peas and onions?" Jon noted. Aye, he remembered.
"Do ever think what would have happened if we'd never left Winter?" She continued, more like rambling on, her thoughts running off on her, not knowing if she stop or not. The past images of their so-near-yet-so-far-childhoods were shattering her on the inside and she couldn't stand letting the chance to apologize fly away. "What idiots we were! I should have screamed after you that day, pleading for you and Father to stay."
His tone softened. "How could we know?"
"I've spent...a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you then."
"We were children," he told her still, as if that would excuse every mistake she'd made with him. But Sansa huffed and lifted her gaze towards him, not wanting lenience that easily. She wasn't finished apologizing yet.
"I was awful, just admit it."
"You...You were occasionally awful." Jon suddenly cracked a smile at her. A genuine smile. "Though I'm sure I could've have been great fun either, always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."
"But can you forgive me?" She pushed.
He chuckled momentarily. "There's nothing to forgive."
"Forgive me!"
"Alright," Jon comforted her with civility. "I forgive you."
No one trusted the main roads that much to turn back as far as he wanted them to carry him, and Bran reasoned that he couldn't blame his allies for being cautious and not wasting time returning to places that took great effort to steal away from.
But Winterfell was calling him homeward. And Winter itself was at its very peak and his bones constantly tingled with its power.
So, he feigned sleep for most of that day, waiting on edge for everyone to grow weary and give in to the night as well. When he knew for certain they were all passed out and wouldn't be able to stop him, he "ptsked" at Summer, motioning him to come over to his side.
The Dire obeyed, prancing over with stealth; Bran was also grateful for how quiet he was. He made sure his knives and traveler's pack were strapped securely across his back before he lifted both of his hands and gripped the fur above Summer's strong shoulder, whispering, "Down, Summer. Come on, Summer, down."
Legs bending, Summer willingly lowered his weight to Bran's level so Bran could pull himself onto his back. He struggled for a full minute to regain balance and arm control, but with luck he did and he was light just enough for Summer to carry; and his fingers gently clutched Summer by the scruff, and hurriedly and soundlessly urged the Dire to move.
Summer actually didn't seem to mind being a horse for the night. He enjoyed the run.
"I want the North to belong to the Wolves of Winterfell...for as long as we can have it that way..." Sansa told Jon this in the way that made him figure that she was trying to choose her words genuinely and wisely and to not sound so power-hungry like the rest of the warlords prancing about Westeros, crying murder and war. "...I want Winterfell, Jon."
"Then you will," he said, rather positively. "You at least have a right to fight for the North, I'd say."
"Though I'll still need you, Jon," she continued right away, becoming more eager and more serious than ever. Her voice was almost shaking from the passion and importance of it all. "I'll need a seasoned fighter and Advisor I can trust. I'm confident enough to say that I can govern Winterfell on my own when it's standing...but restoring it beforehand, that's quite different."
Jon aimed a smile her way as they gradually maneuvered through the hardened snow. Now that he was feeling better (in every sense of the word), they'd most likely reach their destination by tomorrow for sure. "Father's ghost will come back and murder me if I don't watch out for you," he promised her. "I have no other duties to draw me elsewhere now, Sansa. So don't worry, I'll stay with you. I owe that."
It's funny, and painful, to realize just how ironic Fate could be; how twisted and crisscrossed the strands of time and outcomes became.
Arya wanted shadows. She's wanted to be unseen, she wanted no more titles. And now she was the one who could not see. Blindness bound to her to darkness in a way she wasn't ready was lost to the sun, to the sight of Needle's edge, nor could she rely on her eyes any longer to tell her who exactly was friend or foe.
Though when she closed her maimed eyes, tired and listless at night...and she opened her mind to dreams as she slept...she could, on occasion, still make out the world through a wolf's eyes. She could see Nymeria running with her. There was snow, and there was ice, and pale clouds, and white-covered trees, and small animals hopping about, and mountains painted with frozen water and it was... her better judgment and beyond her own desires, it made Arya long for home.
She truly did miss Winterfell.
"Jon...?" He politely accepted the meal as Sansa handed it over to him on a large piece of tree bark used as a plate.
"What is it?"
"Who is she?" This question caused Jon to pause momentarily, arm held in mid-air, food halfway to his mouth. Then he blinked and sank back against their furs.
"You've said her name in your sleep, so sadly. Who is she?"
"Ygritte," was all he could say. "She died."
And that was all Sansa needed to relate to. Since the thing was, she did understand. Completely. She shifted away from him semi-awkwardly before musing out loud, "It feels…surreal, does it not, when those we fall in love with take a piece of our souls with them?"
Jon's night-dark eyes flickered back up to hers, and nodded. "Yes, it does."
Sansa reached the entrance valley of Winterfell by high noon, still accompanied by every single wolf from the woodlands fading further away in the distance. Sansa rode up on Nymeria's back like she'd straddle a pony.
The radiant sunlight overhead beamed down over them and it reflected radiantly off the snowy hillsides, making them glitter. And from their distance, waiting there and looking intently at the guarded gates, something stirred inside of Sansa. Rage, grit, purpose. Her blood was beginning to howl.
Her entire pack growled lightly in a ripple affect, sensing this. Nymeria's ears pressed flack against her head. They knew those men up ahead were intruders and they didn't belong there.
"Winterfell is a dark pile of ruins now," Jon pondered aloud, coming up to stand beside her and Nymeria. Ghost was on his vacant side. "And apparently...the Boltons have not helped it much."
"This is our home," Sansa replied sternly, "and they cannot frighten us."
Jon made a point to caution her and keep her ego steady, "But surely they'll try."
"Perhaps...though we young Starks are hard to kill."
Jon couldn't argue with that. He was proof of that. And she was too. And Bran.
With another hateful glance towards the guards, they had charged in, leading the wolves into the first wave of combat.
They killed the men stationed at the gates and other Bolton followers armed with daggers and bows (quite easily too, considering how the two wolf packs had remerged together, ultimately heightening their numbers). And then for three additional days, the they all camped out along the outer walls of the fort, purposely making themselves a lurking threat to the current inhabitants inside as well as to the traveling massagers sent to Winterfell from the outside.
Sansa came in crouching behind their thick towering bush and whispered to Jon with noticeable glee. "It's working."
It truly didn't take long at all for the wolves to upset the wives and children. So, pretty soon, the rest of the Bolton company started to grow just as wary, since they could tell what the wolves were trying to do: circle them in, keep them cooped up, and they all wondered how long the wolves actually could (or would) roam around their homes like that, just waiting to devour anyone who'd challenge them. The lesser people still dwelling beyond the fort were starting to revolt and demand immediate action from Bolton leaders. There was fear spreading among them, and within a matter of a few more days, trade was becoming a deadly task for their visitors and it was muting their call on supply and demand. In general, the wolves were disrupting their daily routines.
Therefore, Ramsey Bolton no longer ignored that his rule settling in on Winterfell was in fact under siege. The odds were now slanting away from him and right down into the hungry teeth of the wolves. He was angry indeed. Livid and spiteful. He put himself to sleep one night thereafter by getting drunk and bedding two whores at once. However, in the following morning, he was forced to place his boiling resentment aside and he decided to negotiate for a compromise, acting as the fort's leading legislator.
He then stepped out from the main gates and confronted Jon and Sansa openly, offering them what he deemed was a decent proposal. Well, that is—he really looked to Jon Snow for the all the answers because they were both men, and Sansa who was on Jon's right (upon Nymeria's back again) was only a woman. Ramsey went on, urging Jon that perhaps a wedding would solve everything—mutual peace in exchange for his sister, the pretty wolf-rider.
Sansa bit her lip, silently and honestly terrified of the thought of such arrangements coming true. Her hands curled deeper into Nymeria's bushy neck in response and peered down at Jon curiously.
Jon of course, was trying to be noble, and wouldn't have any of it. He'd never toss Sansa into the arms of their challenger so carelessly like so, especially now when he's in her debt. Plus, he had heard what men like the Boltons do to women. Jon was not that coldhearted to just let her suffer that type of fate twice.
Thus, in the end, Jon Snow simply barked out a soft rugged laugh, staring Bolton down. "Sansa is a Stark, and always will be a Stark. The choices rightfully belong to her."
Following the (near) extinction of the House Baratheon, Gendry had fled from the mainland. He rowed away to another port on the Eastern coast. But the thing was, he wouldn't be staying there long; that was what going into hiding meant. One shouldn't just linger in one place, also, one should always keep those on the outside guessing. Gendry wasn't a very wise man according to the men he had met before this, although he could still piece together this much about running away.
So when that certain timeframe was up, and he needed to move on, Gendry was provided—no, asked—no, he was offered the uncanny, casual, yet most convenient chance to depart from these strange sands and return to the nation he personally knew best. And without little delay, he had accepted.
Now he was stuck out here at sea, on this small fishing vessel that had merely stopped by the Eastern port for food supplies. Gendry was consequently under service of a man in black, who could not be tremendously older than himself really.
The Man in Black didn't speak often. If he did, it was just him telling Gendry he should eat something, or him giving Gendry a simple order to readjust the sail.
It was on the third day out on the water when Gendry yearned for a distraction from the endless green waves rolling on and on and on and on beneath him. He turned to the Man in Black peeling at a fresh fish apart with a knife. "So, what do I call you, Ser?"
"I have many names people call me. Loup Garou. Lupomanaro. Lykán. But to strangers like you...I am The Wolf."
"Where are you from?"
"Elláda is my homeland," was The Wolf's direct answer. "Do you know it?"
"No, Wolf," admitted Gendry softly, counting this as another reason as to why he really was the fool living among men. He can't even name places off the map. "Never heard of it."
"It's alright. Most of your people haven't."
"Then, what were you doing home before you made port?"
The Wolf paused and briefly looked up towards the horizon. "Burying my sister."
Gendry hesitated. "Oh." No wonder The Wolf had been so quiet since they set sail. He was apparently grieving. "I'm sorry."
Stretching, The Wolf stood and stepped over Gendry's legs, busying himself with tightening the rope knots instead. "Don't be," he replied afterwards. "It had nothing to do with you, and, I know she was avenged."
"...Are you all alone now, then?"
The Wolf shook his head. "I would've been, if it weren't for the girl I fell in love with."
"So you're seeking her out?"
"Precisely." The Wolf established, glancing at Gendry over his shoulder and he nearly smirked. "and I'll take you with me, if you'd like. That way you can still hide from what you are afraid of."
Stunned, Gendry could do nothing when hearing those words other than shift uncomfortably where he sat. "Am I that obvious?"
The Wolf straightened his back, climbing over Gendry once more to rest in the spot he had originally claimed before he admitted, "No."
Gendry scowled. "Then how did you know I was hiding from something?"
"You seem like a good man well enough, Gendry," returned The Wolf pointedly, nodding at him. "But I do know a man's fear when I smell it. It gives off a distinct scent."
"You...can smell my fear?" Gendry asked, bewildered.
"All Wolves can." Hearing this, another torn of shame priced itself through Gendry's side. He didn't quite favor how this man could learn so much about him from so few words actually spoken between them. And it didn't help that the man's eyes were staring at him in like that, as if Gendry had clearly caught himself in some sort of trap and he knew it too. "...I need an extra hand to carry of my possessions with me up North anyhow," The Wolf continued sensibly. "And you're wide and tall, so you must be useful with your muscles, right? You might as well keep helping yourself by helping me."
"Up North?" Gendry suddenly reflected out loud. "Where is your girl exactly?"
The Wolf offered him, "Winterfell. Surely you heard of Winterfell at least."
Gendry wet his lips anxiously and gulped. "Yes. I know it."
"Do you fear Winterfell?"
"Master, you see—"
"Please," The Wolf interfered, scoffing, "I am not your Master. You are not my slave. I hired you; that is all."
"I shouldn't be going there!" Gendry blurted out then, suddenly raising his voice. His tone made the sea birds stir and cry out in the distance. "It's not safe for me. Oh, Gods, I should have never left East."
"Stay with me, then," The Wolf repeated. "You may just be safe now if you just follow me to Winterfell."
"Look!" Gendry shot to his feet, gesturing somewhat wildly. "The thing was, I was almost murdered back in those lands because of who I am. That's why I rowed East. It was actually more like a sacrifice. I am the last of my House and I don't know if there are still people there waiting to spill my blood."
The Wolf matched Gendry's glare head-on and the challenge between them was set. "My sister and I were hunted because who we are all our lives." He said, making Gendry drop his arms. "Our family was killed for that same reason! My sister was just killed near Winterfell! And now look where I am going!"
Chest still heaving slightly, Gendry merely stared at him, wondering what he could say next that will justify his actions.
Though The Wolf didn't give the time before he told Gendry, "If you ever have one free choice in life, Gendry Boy, it's that you either become the prey who gives in, or become the hunter who doesn't."
Jon and Sansa discussed how they would settle in first and worry about bettering Winterfell's for another day soon to come.
They strolled around the fort, and its ancient trees, and its streets, merely to get a feel of what it meant to be home again, and it meant to the families who stood by on the sidelines, watching them talk amongst themselves as they approached the entrance of their childhood castle.
The walls inside felt cold and hollow too, like the outside, and the dining room was emptied and left to dust over. The wolves of many diverged through the rooms after the two of them, prowling freely and sniffing the floors, getting acquainted to the space. Only Ghost and Nymeria held their heads high and sat down beside each other, ears back, not knowing what else they could've done then in the moment, now that they were back in the very first den in which they were raised too.
Sansa stopped at her old chambers, slowly brushing her fingertips across her lady's sewing kit left behind on the stool and along her cracked bedpost that stood abandoned nearby. On her way back out into the corridor to find Jon again, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and she froze, gaping at who she saw presently staring back at her. The woman in the polished glass was herself, except, she looked nothing like she had previously imagined. She haven't bothered looking into any shiny surface she's spotted in a while. Today in particular, she looked...she looked (albeit understandably) positively wild. Wild furs clung to her for clothing, her wild hair was matted and disheveled with longer curls, and her eyes...her Tully blue eyes, once gifted by her human mother were equally wild and stern with knowledge...the knowledge of how kill another living thing.
"Well, as my Advisor, what should we do next week?" Sansa addressed Jon over their boiled potato-based supper.
"We'll need loyal guards, farmers," he listed off firstly, "medics, builders, the usual I suppose."
"And Knights?" she presumed, almost hopefully, almost sounding like the old non-Wolf Sansa. Almost. "A commander to lead our armies?"
Jon nodded before taking another large mouthful. "If we can make armies."
Sansa hummed, drumming her fingers against the wood, and then she leaned back on her bench, sighing. She looked around the room at her fellow packs, the wolves lay scattered around them, resting their paws and tails. "...Where do you think the others are, Jon? Arya, I mean? And the boys?"
"I can't say for sure," he shook his head. "...I don't know what happened to Bran after the battle I was in...but he's alive for certain."
"If only we had a way to just...to just reach them, inform them, to let them realize we're here."
"I'm afraid, Sansa, for now, we have to believe if they ever do find themselves wanting to come home, they'll have to find their own path."
She hummed again, her mind ever so restless and reeling. "Say, Jon?"
"Yes, Sansa?"
"There's been talk of dragons lately in the town. Of Targaryens. They say that dragons will start the Southern War."
"Oh. Yes, there are dragons on the rise. But I don't know...in this Winter, their dragonfire can't possibly last."
"Shouldn't we be worried about them anyhow?"
"At the moment, of them coming to this far North? No, not necessarily. Winterfell should be our leading worry, Sansa. And if the Boltons come back or not."
Bran had traveled boldly and inconspicuously through ice and fog for two weeks and a day, until finally he started to recognize the stone formations stretching and bending around him.
Winterfell's towering grey peaks were suddenly in clear view.
The main road reaching all the way home was still familiar to Summer's nose and he came to a standstill on the high mounds, threw his head, and released a steady beckoning howl.
Bran startled, realizing how long it'd been since he heard his Dire make a call like that one.
What could have brought that on?
Though his questions were soon answered by a second howl piercing the air, then a third, and a forth, a fifth, and gradually those howls in the near distance began to build into an one long harmony of wolf songs.
Summer's ears were perked straight forward; he whined shortly in excitement, padding on ahead. With his own heart lurching in his chest, Bran gaped towards the old fortress.
By the Old Gods, there were wolves in Winterfell again! Many a wolf, at that!
Bran reacted swiftly. "Summer, go on." He coaxed his Dire him to bring him to the gates with haste. The rocking motion made him feel like he would fall off and hit the snow hard at given moment with lack of muscle strength he had in his knees, but in that instant, he did not care about that.
Once he and Summer were in perfect observing-line of the guards standing at their posts, the men in helmets hollered in acknowledgement and the gates were parting slowly with a roaring groan, the chains and wheels echoed in Bran's ears as they ran right into the heart of the Square, glancing around frantically. A small extra number of men wearing Stark House colors immediately flocked around him and his Dire, curiously, carefully, asking him who he was and why was he arriving in Winterfell, and what was all the hurrying for?
And, that was when a female voice greeted him by name; well, the voice was more crying out so sternly and so anxiously, that it had stunned them all.
The quieting crowds separated. His breathing still uneven, Bran caught sight of the younger version of his mother standing still upon the castle steps just paces away, now dressed in an elegant winter gown, and surrounded by dozens of inquisitive wolves peering back at them, in which two of them were Ghost and Nymeria. What was more, his brother Jon was standing beside her as all, wearing all heavy grey layers and big black boots with a gawking expression to go with it...as if Jon couldn't tell if they were real or not.
"Sansa?"
"Bran!" Hearing him reply, hearing him speak her name, knowing he was indeed there in the flesh, made her call out to him again, much more joyfully this time while she descended the steps and sprinted straight towards him. "Summer! Bran!"
Jon shook his head clear and quickly followed suit. "Bran!"
Together, his elder siblings reached up and yanked him off Summer, laughing through teary eyes—they could have dismounted him more gently than that since what he'd been through, yes, but Bran wasn't in the spirits to criticize—he was just engulfed by them, their hugs, and fur-rimmed hoods. Summer fondly licked at their faces after they went sinking to the ground, right on their knees from the impact.
Eventually, afterwards, when their emotions were smoothing over, they had escorted Bran inside and the three siblings sat close in a welcoming huddle, Sansa and Jon on either side of him before the big blazing hearth. The flames warmed Bran's toes and fingertips and he simply inhaled the hot broth and bread Sansa had offered him.
Jon asked most of the questions about his journey home, meanwhile Sansa was merely glad to focus on him being there now, with them, in Winterfell. Her hand kept on rising to her baby brother's damp rust-red curls on its own accord, stroking them back out of his gaze. Bran told them about meeting Meera, and Hodor, and how he'd like to find them again, plus Rickon of course.
Bran's tone was deeper than Sansa had remembered and his jaw was filling out into the same shape their father's had. His own story after the Great Stark Separation happened was a long and disturbing one, interlaced with words of magic and new power that Sansa could relate to herself. Bran could see images of the present happening elsewhere. His dreams guided his actions, seeing the world through the eyes of a wolf. The wolf inside of him. He claimed himself to be a Warg. Though Sansa had instantly disproved that. "It's your Wolf Within. It's different." Bran's terrible fall from the tower window years ago had been his sheer awakening. He couldn't use his body anymore, so his maybe mind opened to new possibilities to make up for the loss—like her. She had lost Lady, her father, her mother, Robb, everyone. That had been her fall, and that had also awakened her power. That part made sense at best. "Well, I'll have Polaris explain it in better detail whenever he gets here."
Bran paused instinctively and studied her profile. "Sansa..."
"Hm?" Blinking, she looked up from her hands folded in her lap and she saw that both Jon and Bran were staring quizzically.
"I saw you..."
"When?"
"A few nights ago," Bran said. "In my dreams. You changed."
She blushed slightly. "Yes...ah, to be honest with you, I had quite the journey myself. And I'm older now too, and once we figure out what do from here, I'll tell you about it another day—"
"No," Bran stressed, interrupting her and he gripped her hand meaningfully. "…I saw you change."
Fully grasping what he was inferring to, Sansa was pricked by the memories of the dead stag, the mountains, running across the moors, the night she avenged Ragna's death. The blood. The pain. The fangs. The Red Wolf.
And all she could say to Bran then was, "Oh, that."
"You're a true Wolf now, sister."
"Do you believe Arya's still alive, too?" Sansa blurted out in place of what she was about to say instead, which was about her own magic-like transformation.
"I haven't." Bran shook his head sadly.
"She is," Sansa convinces herself then. "I can feel it. She's alive."
"I feel it too," Jon supported, sounding equally sure.
None of them went on anymore about Arya; they didn't want to—or didn't know how to—to discuss the possibility of never seeing her again even if she was alive. They didn't speak of Arya's innate recklessness and crave for adventure that might actually make her turn her cheek against Winterfell for good. Maybe even their homeland had become too tame of a place for her by now. Or, perchance, none of them said anything more about her just in case Arya would perish before returning home, being on her own and all.
The lone Wolf dies...but it's the pack that survives.
Still, that night had ultimately ended on pleasant terms, with them reminiscing over their father's best war days and they smiled admiringly at each other for real reasons unsaid—till Bran fell asleep with his head drooping onto Jon's shoulder, and likewise Sansa's landed on Bran—Nymeris soon rested her muzzle on Sansa's knee and the other wolves came to cushion them all in too.
Sansa did it. With Jon's aid, and Bran's support, she had accomplished so many things thus far just as she said she could. Beyond old customs and beliefs, she united her people, as a woman, as a single ruler. She took charge like a rightful lady of court and like a Stark She-Wolf challenging the outer rivals and no one under their Northern laws seemed to regret it.
They loved her for this.
Farmhouses were repaired and their shattered roofs were patched. Better armor was fashioned while they traded out lesser weapons for more clothing, food, and jewels. Babies were being born again from newlywed parents and their Godswood was entirely up-kept and untouched by thieves thanks to Sansa's wolf packs protecting it. They guarded the trees during the daytime.
New Winterfell was hers, and later Bran mentioned that he wasn't that surprised, not really. He had foreseen this. Sansa would be wearing a crown very soon.
"Where is she now?" Jon had to ask that night, standing under the light of the full moon; he hadn't heard a peep out of Sansa for the past seven hours at the most. That was a little odd. From his stool placed on the top step, Bran raised his forefinger and pointed ahead. "There."
Jon whirled on his heel. And at the edge of their woods, they spotted was a new reddish she-wolf waiting there, one similar to Summer's coloring, but maybe a shade darker. She was watching them, eyes alert, ears up, and tail held high.
"She has changed...," Jon marveled aloud, not knowing if he should move or not.
"Yes," Bran said softly. "She has."
Knights, lords and squires alike accepted her claim and they raised their blades high, chanting their loyalties. Bran and Jon sat in sheer awe and fulfillment on both sides of her.
"Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"
Thus, Winter's sun rose and set over Winterfell again, and again, and again. And again.
Sansa worked on hiring women and older children to help her tidy up the entrance, and their parents' old study, and the dining hall. Bran was settled in nearby, laying with Summer and Nymeria, kindly overseeing the progress and he spoke to lesser farmers and their assigned traders like a master conference-holder, trying to get to them as people and counted up what they needed to become a better community. Because Sansa was taking everything single tactic she had once learned from the Lion Queen and her dreadful son and she planned on doing the opposite. She was the new Alpha of their birthplace now after Bolton lords were cut down, and would treat her people like useful pack members, not vermin.
Jon tended to the weapon-wielding men outside with Ghost scampering loyally at his hip, watched them train to become knights and soldiers, while he encouraged the boys coming of age to wear the House Stark colors as well, praising them for joining and promising them glory if they supported Sansa in her future ruling.
Things for the Stark siblings...as hard it was to actually believe...felt justified, lighter, restored and leveled out.
A balance was rediscovered and New Winterfell was gradually sailing right into its Golden Age.
Sansa ate supper with her brothers one evening, feeling her hope swell in her chest. The light was winning, it was shining through for them, and those dark shadows that were always relentless to haunt them were finally kept at bay this far. And Sansa was letting herself go, truthfully enjoying it while it would last them instead of waiting on edge for something bad to happen again.
"Sansa?"
She refocused her attention on Jon. "What is it?"
"Will you marry? If your lover show up?"
"Marriage is unstable. If you get married, you can be separated. Wolves mate for life. What's more committed than that?"
Her brothers appeared torn between debating over this and actually laughing at her. The newer version of herself did not cease to amaze them.
"I mean it," she persisted. "Marriage is overrated and I don't care what the others say, I'm ruling this castle as Queen no matter what."
"You really do have a lover?" Bran asked.
"Polaris." Sansa stated with love and pride ringing between her lips. "He's a Wolf."
"And he's not Stark-born?"
She grinned back at Bran. "Oh No, he's foreign, and we share a common ancestor with him back in the ages before Westeros was even a known land, but he's a Wolf yet. You'll see, one day. I promise. You'll learn all sort of things from him, brother."
"I can't wait to meet him, then."
"No. My heart aches for him." She let out afterwards. "For Arya. Rickon. And Ragna."
"Who?"
Sansa gazed at her silvery water goblet then, her thoughts running in deep, soulful streams away from the supper table again and when she spoke, she told him, "A Princess of Winterfell."
Arya's sight did return one day when the first couple rays of sun hit her face just right as she huddled there on the corner of the alleyway, begging for food. Although the recovery was slow and everything else in the fort around her remained painfully cloudy, yet somehow, she was able to distinguish certain colors again. The black and white doors and the dark wood of the table and chairs, the burning brown sands...sometimes...she even saw ghostly flickers of phantom-wolves of all grey, white, and black alike running out in front of her and it would make her lose her balance from the shock.
Despite her usual trendies to lash out however, Arya said very little aloud anymore, especially to the Jaquen and his Wraith. She had to assume that either the poison that was poured into her eyes was just too old and proven ineffective, or that, the Wraith might had misjudged the right amount to blind her fully.
Whatever the truth was, there was definitely something in her that wasn't yielding to the poison in the way they most likely planned on.
Gendry followed The Wolf's every guiding step as they wove effortlessly way out of the trees and afterwards they came to rest along the border of Vale.
Neither of them had currency left over to sleep at an inn, so therefore, they took shelter in a large earthy crevice under a cracked bolder, and it felt exactly like a den wild animals would use. But no grievances were heard. The mass of stars above them so shone brightly and so clearly that night that it was almost refreshing to the soul.
Although, each time Gendry peaked up from his own fiddling hands or feet, The Wolf was constantly holding his own head high, gazing at the cloudless evening sky. "Is something the matter?" he asked him when it was actually starting to worry him.
"It's almost the right moon," The Wolf finally replied.
"The right moon for what?"
"For a change."
Having fled out into the wild a month ago, Arya crossed the plains of Pentos gradually on foot. She could've rode a horse through the small creeks, but she had not a coin to spare for one and her eyes still grew sore and watery to the point of seeing pure blackness if she was lingered at certain heights where the winds could sting her face.
She stayed low to the ground to be sheltered by the various trees and moss and desert weeds if need be as her hands guided the rest of her along the great masses of rock.
She reached the mountains where flying dragons had been spotted once, nonetheless, the Wraith herself happened to track her down: most likely on Jaquen's orders. Jumping down from a fallen boulder overhead, she had sent Arya rolling into the burrs.
"Abandoning your post?" she taunted bitterly. "You've done it this time. You know the secrets our House. You paid the price for them and you think you have a change of heart now?"
Arya bolted to her feet and strained her eyes forward until—there! She saw the brown-ish slender feminine shape against the blue of the sky and she drew Needle high.
The Wraith stopped, judging her movements. How did Arya know where to aim? "Do not fight me," she urged Arya on, "Just come back. That's not a request."
Arya felt a silent fire burn in her stomach and her blood boiled. "But you're not my masters. I am going home!"
And that was exactly when Arya heard the familiar scraping of a knife being pulled out. She knew it was coming at her. The Wraith kicks off a rock after she steps closer and Arya feels that it was time to duck and whirl under the girl's swing with Needle cutting down in parry, though she only sliced through fabric.
Free of intended injury, the Wraith turned and got a fistful of Arya's hair, forcing her down to her knees. Arya grimaced and screamed in her throat, outraged, clawing at her fingers.
"I'll drag you back in chains if I must. The House of Many Faces still calls your name, girl."
Needle was dropped in Arya's fury and desperation. She bent forward on all fours, and the heated sensation returned, and suddenly, so did her eyesight, all of it, clearer and sharper than ever before. It came bursting from behind her eyes in a splash of a hundred colors and she looked up at the Wraith...who seemed surprised.
She released Arya and backed off, her knife threatening to drop. Arya's eyes glowed a golden-yellow and she was heaving air into her chest over and over, heavily, and soon Arya was growling between her teeth...growling like an animal, and her face began to change...and instead of her face peeling away to reveal another humanly face...this was a wolf's face. Arya's beggar's shirt was tearing at the seams and her bones cracked and while the Wraith took another stride backward and fell against those thorny blurs, wide eyed, and strained for words.
There was a black she-wolf with a light brown underbelly glaring back at her now...and with another gasp from the Wraith, she pounced, jaws open to kill.
Snowdrops fell delicately from the sky against the mid-Winter golden sun, and the light spilled generously into the whole throne room, making it glisten and feel warm and safe.
It turned out be a grand afternoon for Sansa's formal Coronation.
New Winterfell still looked like a makeshift shell of what it could become, but it was far cleaner and prettier to the naked eye versus what the Boltons once left it as months ago.
The ceremony carried on and on, and eventually, even Bran began to tap his fingers over his knee with growing boredom. It had been a very long time since the last time he had to witness of any sort of official ritual like this. Jon stood up there too, as Sansa's Advisor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Up till this day, their mended bonds and mutual friendliness towards each other could still impress Bran deeply.
At last!
The silvery crown crafted with tall spikes around the rim was raised in blessing over Sansa's red hair, and Bran's interest invested in the situation peaked once more.
"Do you receive the crest and title to be Queen in the North?"
Bravely and graciously, Sansa had agreed to it, taking that responsibility on her conscience for the rest of life and Bran saw Jon release a breath he must have been holding in just then.
But, right as it was time for Sansa to turn around upon the highest step and royally behold the joyful faces of her Northern people, the main doors busted open with a crash! which caused the women standing in the pews to screech and all the men jumped around.
"Red Wolf!"
Brow furrowing in confusion, Bran watched in alarm (along with everyone else) as two men began to stalk their way inside and up the center aisle—the first, who fixed his gaze solely on his crowned sister, was clearly in the lead and was tall and lighter in complexion, and he wore clothes of all black, having black hair and dark eyes to match perfectly—his companion, who appeared to be following in submission rather than willingness was a bit taller still, and broader in the torso, and he was tanned and calloused by the outdoors. His expression was hard too, somewhat stiff and nervous, looking over his shoulder before they stopped in the middle of the room.
Sansa stood there until her eyes brightened and that sudden smile of hers widened to a genuine grin, showing off every pretty tooth while she gathered up her heavy skirts to run past Jon and the wolves guarding the bottom of the steps; she practically jumped into the welcoming arms of the stranger-in-black. He caught her right on time and the couple molded together in their loving embrace, spinning in a tight circle.
"I found you," he said, sounding nothing but relieved.
Sansa pulled back showing off her fresh tears of immense happiness. "I knew you'd come."
Bran could only figure...that he must the mysterious Polaris.
Osha watched Rickon climb up on Shaggydog's back and together they skipped around the cold vacant garden in various circles, as a boy on his wolf, enjoying the moment for what is was. There was no more death in sight. It was just them, bonding, becoming one, and soon Osha thought that Rickon's woots and laughs began to change, sounding awfully a lot like a wild howl rising from his small heaving chest.
Winter was a time for them, and the wolves knew it.
While Queen Sansa continued uniting her Stark-favored kingdom with the South War soon pending upon them, she also felt very, very obligated to get her main circle better acquainted with one and another.
Jon and Polaris were almost the same boy (ironically enough) but yet not quite. Polaris was still more instinctual and predatorily at heart where Jon had to train to his mind to keep sharp and learn to be a leader. Although, Jon could relate to the other men much easier and enjoy a drink with them when Polaris had spent most of his life running through the woods and did not care for the taste of neither wine nor ale. They too, had opposing tactics in fighting an opponent of course, however in due time, their own lessons and impressive stories did bring them closer as true comrades.
Bran on the other had no issues with Polaris, or Gendry for that matter.
"You knew our sister?" Sansa asked the large-boned boy as she claimed the head chair of their father's conference table. Bran and Polaris both sat at on her right-hand side, and Jon stood broad and assured behind her, hands folded back, listening intensely. The wild wolves roamed freely around the room as well, lightly nipping and sniffing at Gendry's dirty boots. "So she's alive?"
"Ah, yes, Milady—ah—Your Grace, My Queen—," Gendry shifted apologetically in his lonely chair on Sansa's left. He had all of their eyes peering right through him. And this Queen (the supposed sister of Arya) was not like Arya. Her own mannerisms were poised; her skin was pale as milk, her gaze was as vivid and cool as ice, having had a different and strange effect on him than Ayra's had before. He felt even less unworthy while looking upon at her regal beauty. His gut twisted in anticipation beyond his control. "—As far as I know, she's alive still. She must be. It's been only a short time since then, and besides, your sister is too—uh, too stubborn and too wild to die that easily."
"Naturally," Sansa let out a brief, sharp, bell-ringing laugh that made her baby brother whip his head around towards her. He saw that her pearly teeth…were a little sharper than before. "We young Starks are hard to kill."
"Then where is she now?" Jon demanded eagerly.
Gendry paused, blinking away from Sansa. "I know not, ser. We had to suddenly part ways after there was a string of murders. You see, I was being hunted. Nearly sacrificed on an alter. I think...she fled to Braavos, though."
"Braavos?" Momentarily, Jon looked horrified before Sansa broke the tension somewhat by clearing her throat.
"Bran…," she readdressed then, as evenly as she could manage, "…in your Wolf dream…you said that we were all here, right? We were all together in Winterfell?"
Her brother nodded earnestly. "Right. But the future can always change, sis."
"That's true," she compromised; her hopeful smile returning to her rosy-red lips, "The future can change, although, that doesn't mean it won't have the same outcome in the end."
"So that's it?" Jon concluded, "We just wait."
"Jon, Arya must come home on her own terms. With the South War almost approaching, we can't waste men to go sailing overseas looking for Arya who's in hiding. Also, on a similar note, we should focus on how we can get Rickon back home in the meantime. Yes? He's on this side of the sea at least."
"I should have never left him." Bran sighed, suddenly frustrated with himself. "How could I not see this? Why did I send him away when I returned to Winterfell just afterwards?"
"Easy there, little cub," Polaris threw in, finally joining in on the web of conversation. He reached over and ruffed up Bran's curls. "A Wolf may see certain things the common man can't sometimes, but only the Goddess knows everything else. Without a sense of wonder and the time to explore the world beneath your own paws, you'll never learn anything about it. Wolves grow better and wiser on experience..."
Later that night, after Gendry was pardoned and given a role as a door guard inside the fortress under the protection of New Winterfell, Sansa bid them all goodnight, retiring to her chambers—actually, her parents' old chambers—and lounged with Polaris across the great soft bed. Her hand rested on his chest as her eyes shifted up towards the moon outside in the sky. North Wind, Freja, and Lyca had leapt up and curled up around them.
"I commissioned the iron workers and goldsmiths to fashion a statue just for Ragna," said Sansa, into the strange peaceful feeling. Her fingers played with the tip of Lyca's ear. "She'll stand glorious and tall in the heart of the Square for everyone to see. She is one of us, dead or not, and she will be known."
"I have dreamt of her since her passing," Polaris returned softly, "She's smiling every time I do. She's running with the white Wolves of Lupe now. So she must be at alright there, wherever the afterlife is."
But, even so, Polaris was restless in his sleep after that. He woke several times, yet unfamiliar to the sounds and scents of the Northern Realm. This was not like the caves or the forest he had shared with Sansa. Castle-life was a real adjustment he was undergoing. Hunters did not sleep easily anyway when their prey was unnamed, undetected, and unknown to them. Sansa recognized this, thankfully. She knew he'd come for her, and of course, she knew he would stay at her side in New Winterfell no matter what. They'd planned this for so long, though she eventually saw that getting used to this place, and their large mass of people, would take him more time. She was unbelievably patient with him in particular, like she was always willing to be before.
So whenever he'd rise up in their bed, ribcage heaving, heart racing and alert, hearing the piercing cry of a newborn in one of the houses down below, or the creaking wheels of a cart rolling by, Sansa would rise too, reaching out to him reassuringly; her fingers cupped his neck while she quietly urged him to lay back down across the pillows, and into her arms. Needless to say that she helped make the transition go more smoothly.
When the next full moon shined brightly over the Eastern shores, there weren't just whispers of horned dragons taking wing anymore.
People soon began to take notice of the dark two-toned wolf slinking around the jungle trees all by herself, out on the hunt, sometimes seen with a limp bird or fish hanging from her chops.
About once a month, her distinctive tracks begin to scar the exotic soil in the mountains, back and forth through the trails. And on nights like these, her wounded sight always came back in full circle, and she could observe the leaves, the water, and the stones, smelling man sweat and rum drifting on the air.
She was not really No One. She was the Black Wolf. The She-Wolf. The Beast of the Mountains.
She was born to the Wolves of Winterfell.
For those who have been all been kind enough to wait and stick with me on this, thank you, and I hope it was worth it!