Reunions and a cancelled plan.
Sansa
For the first time in years, Sansa found a glimmer of hope for the immediate future. Sam, Gilly, and Little Sam's arrival in Winterfell, coupled with the imminent return of Tormund, promised a sense of reunification. Even Lady Olenna's demeanour was more gracious than Sansa had expected.
Sansa knew acutely that Jon hadn't seen Sam since his resurrection. Uncertainty lingered in Jon's mind about the changes death might have wrought upon him. Reflecting on the strained relationship she and Jon had shared as children, Sansa recognised Sam would be the keenest observer of any alteration in Jon since his return. This reunion, she sensed, was one that Jon fervently desired.
The evening held no grand feast for the newcomers. Instead, a private meal with their families was arranged, a nod to the bond shared by Jon and Sam as brothers of the Night's Watch. Despite the familial ties that bound the Blackfish to Sansa by blood, he supped with Jaime, Bronn, Brienne, Pod, and the Brotherhood.
Their solar exuded warmth and hospitality. The hearth crackled with a lively fire, and the abundance of wine encouraged simple conversation. The fare, however, lacked the heartiness one might expect. Despite the new vegetables flourishing in the glass gardens and supplies arriving from the Reach, rationing remained a necessity. The unpredictable duration of winter hung over them like an unspoken uncertainty.
Sansa, with a vision that extended beyond the immediate, harboured a desire to amass enough provisions to sustain a hundred thousand men for a decade. The challenge lay in the logistics of storing such a substantial quantity of food. Thus, the broken tower was undergoing repairs, poised to be transformed into a granary to meet their ambitious goal.
Jon, Sansa, and Sam settled into their solar, awaiting Gilly's return after putting little Sam to bed. Once assembled, Sam broke the silence. "I can't believe you're married. You are the last person I'd expect to marry."
Jon furrowed his brow. "Because I was a brother of the Night's Watch?" he asked.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "You remember when we first joined, and we had that conversation about girls."
Jon's eyes widened, and he shook his head with a half-smile. "Not in front of ladies."
However, those words only fuelled Sansa's curiosity, and she pressed for more. "Is it funny? Jon never tells me any humorous stories of the watch."
Sam, oblivious to Jon's discomfort, continued with a mischievous grin. "The stories usually involve girls," he admitted, casting a glance at Jon. The latter, looking rather uncomfortable, seemed to wish for the room to swallow him up. Sam, however, remained unfazed.
"We hadn't been at the watch long, and we were tasked with cleaning a table," Sam recounted, causing Jon to pinch his nose and hide his face in his ale. "Jon is a good-looking man, I assumed he'd had plenty of girls."
Sansa turned to Jon with a teasing smirk, her interest piqued. "You're embarrassing him, Sam. Please continue," she urged, relishing in the opportunity to uncover a side of Jon she hadn't encountered before.
Sam blushed slightly as he continued, "When he told me he hadn't... He admitted to spending an evening at the Winter Town brothel."
Sansa observed Jon sliding down in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Seven hells, Sam. They don't need to hear this," Jon protested.
"Yes, we do," Gilly interjected quickly, her curiosity clear.
Sam, seemingly unaffected, proceeded with the story. "He told me the lady got naked—Ros, wasn't it? With the red hair and the perfect..." Sam placed his hands on his chest, suggesting women's breasts.
"Ros?" Sansa stared at Jon in shock. Her assumption that Jon had only ever been with Ygritte was shattered.
"You knew her?" Jon asked, surprised by Sansa's reaction.
Suddenly, Sansa felt a chill run through her veins. "She worked in one of Littlefinger's brothels. Joffrey killed her," she revealed, remembering the brutality of her death.
Jon and Sam visibly paled at the revelation, the weight of Sansa's words casting a sombre mood over the room. Gilly, however, remained seemingly oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, pressing Sam to continue his story. "Go on, Sam. Finish your story."
Sam hesitated, glancing at Jon and Sansa for permission. With their nods, he continued, though Jon's appetite for embarrassment had waned considerably after learning of Ros tragic fate.
"Even a beautiful naked woman wasn't enough to entice Jon into the bedchambers. I told him he obviously didn't know where to put it," Sam concluded, a hint of mischief in his tone.
"I knew where to put it before you!" Jon retorted, a defensive edge in his voice.
Sam frowned at Jon. "Aye, Ygritte, who had red hair. Didn't Lady Melisandre try her luck? She had red hair too. I'm seeing a pattern," he observed, drawing a connection between Jon's romantic interests that brought an unexpected twist to the conversation.
"You like women kissed by fire," Gilly remarked, her observation drawing attention to Jon's apparent penchant for red-haired women.
Jon looked at Sansa with a smile. "I suppose I do," he admitted, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. "This one has more fire inside her than any dragon."
"I suppose it's lucky she shares a bedchamber with a dragon," Sam chimed in, injecting humour into the conversation.
The rest of the evening unfolded with laughter and toasts, remembering those they had lost. As the stories flowed, it was revealed that the Castle Black Maester was a Targaryen, the older brother of Aegon the fifth. This Targaryen had forsaken the chance to become king, opting instead for a life in the Night's Watch. Sansa listened as Sam regaled tales that Maester Aemon had shared over the years, providing a fresh perspective on the Targaryen lineage that had become entwined with Jon's destiny.
The following morning heralded Tormund Giantsbane's arrival, the red-haired, bush-bearded wildling whose lively personality matched his distinctive appearance. His most recent task had been escorting Bran to Bear Island, where the young Stark was now settled with Meera Reed.
A council meeting was convened, now including Lady Olenna, Tormund, and Sam. Sansa harboured a hope that the council chamber could accommodate the growing numbers. Beyond introductions, the primary agenda was to address the rescue of Ellaria Sand.
Before the meeting began, Jon and Sansa were enjoying their morning meal in their solar when a knock interrupted their breakfast.
"Come in," Jon's voice carried through the door.
Maester Wolkan entered, his grey robes flowing, and the clinking of his chain denoting his scholarly expertise. He handed a scroll to Sansa. "For you, Your Grace," he said, presenting the missive.
"Thank you, Maester Wolkan. Is that all?" Sansa inquired.
"Yes, Your Grace," Maester Wolkan replied.
"You can leave us until the meeting," Sansa instructed, waiting for the maester to depart before unfurling the letter.
Your Grace,
I extend my regards, accompanied by offerings woven from the depths of sea and the whispers of sand, encompassing all that lies betwixt. Before the descent of the sun, my presence shall grace your halls, bearing these gifts. I express my earnest desire that our arrival aligns harmoniously with the unfolding nuptials.
Lord Varys
"What does it say?" Jon inquired as Sansa read the contents of the scroll. She handed the parchment to him, and he absorbed the words before him.
"It sounds like we do not need to send Bronn to King's Landing," Sansa remarked. Jon's expression hardened with anger. "Is it Theon?"
Jon nodded, his resentment palpable. "I want to kill him for what he did to our family."
Sansa turned Jon to face her, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for Theon."
Jon acknowledged her point. "Aye, don't you think I know that? But if he hadn't betrayed Robb, we'd have still been here." Jon's agitation manifested in pacing in front of the hearth.
"Let us discuss the situation with the council. We could always put Theon on trial," Sansa suggested, offering a measured approach to address the situation.
The idea of a trial brought a semblance of calm to Jon. He nodded and drew Sansa close to him. "Come on, let's face the council," he said.
Sansa foresaw that Lady Olenna would shift the dynamics of the council meetings. The Queen of Thorns, renowned for her sharp wit and unwillingness to tolerate incompetence, especially from men, was a force to be reckoned with. Jon had openly acknowledged to Sansa that he wasn't the brains behind the throne, a declaration that made her uneasy. Though she had shed the persona of the little bird, Sansa remained mindful of keeping some of her cunning concealed.
The war council continued to swell, now including, Lady Olenna, Margaery, Jaime, the Blackfish, Sam, Ser Davos, Tormund, Maester Wolkan, Lord Royce, Brienne, Ser Bronn, and Dickon Tarly. Sansa knew there would be at least three more additions, further crowding the already bustling council chamber. The diverse group, each with their own perspectives, stood as a testament to the complexity of the challenges facing Westeros.
The room exuded warmth, a roaring fire casting flickering shadows across the walls. Beyond the windows, the once-blue skies had succumbed to a threatening grey, signalling an impending blizzard. Ale and wine flowed generously, ensuring the comfort of all those gathered.
At the head of the table, Jon and Sansa took their positions. Ser Davos was seated to Jon's right, and Margaery to Sansa's left, the murmurs of "your graces" rippling through the room as heads nodded in acknowledgment of the royal couple.
Sansa gracefully took her seat as Jon started the meeting. "Ladies and gentlemen. Before we can proceed with our main agenda for today, I'd like to introduce our newcomers." Jon gestured to Tormund. "This is Tormund, our representative of the Freefolk," he announced, then extended his hand towards Sam. "And this is Samwell Tarly, the older brother of the bridegroom." Finally, Jon nodded towards Lady Olenna. "I believe most of you know Lady Olenna, grandmother to the bride," he added, concluding the introductions with a smile at Margaery. "I'd like you all to make your introductions after the meeting."
"Our original plan for this gathering was to make plans for Ser Bronn's trip to Kings Landing," Jon began, holding aloft the scroll they had received from Varys that morning. "Circumstances have changed; the mission to Kings Landing has been cancelled." He carefully laid the scroll on the table, capturing the attention of those assembled.
Lord Royce voiced the question on many minds. "What is this all about?"
Sansa rose from her seat. "This letter came from Castle Cerwyn; it was written by Lord Varys." A murmur of discontent rippled through the room.
Lady Olenna didn't mince words. "What does that weasel want?"
"He claims to have abandoned the Dragon Queen," Jon explained, handing the scroll to Ser Davos, who passed it to Lady Olenna. "He comes bearing gifts." The revelation hung in the air, sparking a mix of curiosity and scepticism among those present.
Lady Olenna perused the scroll and then handed it to Lord Royce, seated beside her. "Dorne and half of the Iron Islands. That is an impressive gift."
Brienne, always vigilant, noted, "That would mean most of Westeros is aligned with your cause, Your Grace."
Jaime chimed in, "Only the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and three dragons left to conquer."
"I am not conquering anything!" Jon asserted.
Jaime clarified, "True, in the sense of destructive conquering. Most use violence. Yet, without leaving the confines of Winterfell and barely lifting a finger, you have gained the allegiance of the most powerful houses in Westeros." Lady Olenna gave Jon with a knowing smile.
Jon deflected the praise. "I cannot claim the glory, my Lady." He looked to Sansa with affection. "My wife has far more connections than I. Without her, I'd be somewhere in the south trying to get warm."
Sansa blushed at the compliment, though she recognised Jon was downplaying his own contributions. Turning to him, she addressed his modesty. "My name has attracted the allegiance of many, but so has yours. Your resurrection and skills on the battlefield have earned you a reputation as the greatest warrior in Westeros. Your forgiveness has created an impression of compassion."
"Rare traits in a King," Lady Olenna interjected. Her sharp eyes fixed on Jon. "Can you prove you were resurrected?"
"I was there, my Lady," Ser Davos said.
"As was I," Tormund added.
"I still possess the scars,"
"The Freefolk believe he is some kind of god," Tormund said, emphasising the awe and reverence Jon commanded among those who had witnessed his return from the dead.
Sansa observed Jon as he focused on the table, manipulating the pieces to signify each region's allegiance. "How many men do we have?"
"I can't vouch for Dorne or the Iron Islands, Your Grace. But it looks to me to be at least two hundred thousand soldiers," Davos estimated.
Sansa turned her attention to Ser Jaime. "How many men does Cersei have in her army?"
"Including Euron's men, I'd say only thirty thousand."
"We may have the manpower to eliminate Cersei, but I would prefer to take out Daenerys first," Sansa suggested.
Jon's gaze fixated on Sansa, his expression one of surprise. "Cersei wants you dead. She is a greater threat."
Sansa shook her head. "I know what Cersei wants, she will try to kill me. But Daenerys is a threat to Westeros. She has already shown us what she is capable of when she..." She paused, glancing at Dickon and Sam. "Used her dragons in a manner her father, the Mad King, would have been proud of."
"If I might make a suggestion, Your Graces," Brienne said. "Wouldn't it be an idea to appoint a temporary Kingsguard?"
Sansa looked at Jon with interest, a smile slowly appearing on his face. He turned to Brienne. "I think that would be a wonderful idea. Would you like to be in charge of setting it up?"
"With the help of Ser Jaime," Sansa said, turning to Brienne. "I would welcome you to be Captain of the Kingsguard, although I won't expect you to swear to celibacy and a lifetime of service."
"Of course not," Jon said. "The Kingsguard would only be a temporary measure until we've captured the Iron Throne."
"Would it not be prudent, Your Grace, to wait for Dorne and the Iron Islands before we decide whether to fight Daenerys or Cersei?" Lord Royce asked.
"I don't see why we can't fight both fuckers," Bronn said. "We outnumber them both combined by almost two to one."
"We've still got to man the Wall. The army of the dead isn't interested in who takes the Iron Throne. If we wage a war on three fronts, we will lose," Jon said.
"If we outnumber both armies two to one and still have fifty thousand men to man the Wall, we stand a fighting chance," Blackfish said.
Tormund frowned. "Why are you kneelers only talking about men? The Wall needs bows and arrows. There is no reason for women to stay out of the fight. They shoot arrows just as well as any man. Ask King Snow here. Ygritte was the best among the Freefolk."
Jon looked at Tormund wistfully. "Aye, that she was. Mayhaps you are right, we should have the women training with a bow and arrow."
"It would give us the extra numbers, your grace," Davos said.
"As long as you don't expect my granddaughter to learn how to shoot with a bow," Lady Olenna interjected.
"I've already been learning, my Lady," Sansa said. "I find it quite graceful and therapeutic."
"I'd very much like to learn, grandmother. Anything to protect the people," Lady Margaery added with a smile.
Lady Olenna looked put out. "If you must. But I don't want you to go to the Wall, you hear me?"
"Don't worry, my Lady. I would not be sending Sansa to the Wall, and Lady Margaery is Sansa's Lady in Waiting. She is safe here. But it does set an example for the other ladies to learn." Jon turned to Sansa. "Is there anything else?" he asked.
Sansa shook her head. "Not that I can think of. I need to prepare for Varys and his party," she said.
"Speaking of parties. Those who are to attend Dickon's last night as a single man tonight need to stay behind. All except Dickon," Jon added with a smirk.
"I believe that is our cue to leave," Lady Olenna sighed as Margaery pushed the chair out of the door.
Once outside, Lady Olenna asked Margaery to stop, waiting for the rest of the council to leave before she spoke. "That husband of yours, I'm impressed. He's handsome, fair, and quite astute. He knows where his strengths lie and when to defer to others who know more than he does. You are a lucky woman. Although, from my understanding, it is about time you married a man who was worthy of you."
Sansa could feel her face turning red. "I just hope I'm worthy of him."
"You most definitely are, my dear. Although, I have one question to ask. Are you comfortable married to the man you once believed to be your brother?" Olenna asked. "Isn't it difficult to bed such a man?"
"Grandmother!" Margaery rolled her eyes.
"It is important, my dear. We need to know they can produce heirs. Does he treat you right?"
Sansa had a suspicion the question had a hidden agenda. Lady Olenna had taken a shine to Jon, and she knew the Queen of Thorns would rather have Jon as a match for Margaery than Dickon Tarly. "My Lady, Jon is very attentive to my... needs, if that is what you mean. Indeed, he is a very passionate lover. I see no reason for us to not have many children. Although I hope for a delay, until the wars are over. I do not wish to raise a child during troubled times."
Lady Olenna gave Sansa a false smile and patted her on the arm. "That's good to know, my dear. Now, Margaery, take me back to my chambers. I'm freezing to death out here."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Sansa and Margaery awaited Lord Varys and his entourage. The Winterfell courtyard was cloaked in the soft glow of lanterns and the distant promise of a gentle snowfall. Jon had already departed for Winter Town, sparing Theon from the impending confrontation, as Sansa had wisely advised.
The arrival was marked by a simple carriage, followed by four wagons. Lord Varys descended first, his attire a subdued reflection of his usual style, now donned in grey with fur lining. Following him were Theon and two women. Sansa, with keen scrutiny, soon identified one woman as Ellaria Sand. Time had etched its mark on her; she appeared weathered and gaunt, a far cry from the vibrant presence Sansa had encountered in King's Landing.
With practiced grace, Lord Varys approached Sansa and executed a bow, his voice as gentle as the falling snow. "Your grace," he intoned, kissing the back of her hand.
"Lord Varys, a pleasure to meet once more," Sansa said, offering a gracious smile.
Varys' observant eyes scanned the Winterfell courtyard. "As it is to see you looking so well, your grace. Is his grace away?" he asked.
"I'm afraid my husband has important matters to attend to. I'm sure you are aware of the impending marriage of Lady Margaery and Lord Tarly," Sansa replied with a smile.
"Of that I am."
"Jon is hosting the traditional festivities for the groom," Sansa explained, her tone warm.
"He's getting pissed up?" a woman's voice interjected.
Varys gracefully stepped aside, revealing a woman with shoulder-length brown hair. "You must be Yara Greyjoy, Theon's sister," Sansa said.
Yara nodded. "I am."
Theon emerged from behind his sister, no longer the broken Reek but not quite the confident Theon of old. Their eyes locked, and without a word, they rushed into each other's arms, embracing as if their lives depended on it. The silent reunion spoke volumes about the shared history between them.
Sansa and Theon separated from their emotional embrace, tears glistening in Theon's eyes. "I never thought I'd see you again. I was worried about what Jon would do," Theon admitted.
Sansa reassured him with a gentle smile. "Jon won't lay a finger on you, I promise."
"I can't believe he's not really a Stark, and you two are married. Does he treat you right?" Theon inquired.
Sansa ran her hand down Theon's arm, providing comfort. "He is a perfect gentleman, in every way that counts. He is gentle, brave, and strong." She leaned closer to his ear. "He is also very passionate. He knows what Ramsay did to me, and saw the scars. Jon knows how to make me feel beautiful and loved." Sansa gave Theon a knowing look.
"I'm glad. You deserve a decent man. Even if he wants to kill me."
"Ahem," a voice interrupted from behind. Theon stepped to the side, revealing the woman who seemed to be a Ghost of Ellaria Sand. "Your grace," she bowed her head respectfully.
"It is good to see you once more, Ellaria. I'm glad to hear Lord Varys rescued from Kings Landing. We were looking to see if we could help get you out of the dungeons ourselves. Our team were amid making plans, when we received the raven from Lord Varys."
"And why would you do that?" Yara asked.
"I will be honest with you. Daenerys left you to rot in Kings Landing. She wouldn't have helped you escape. Jon and I knew, if we were to help you, you might be inclined to our cause, as opposed to his destructive aunt."
"She's a dragon, what do you expect?" Ellaria asked.
As they neared the guest quarters, Sansa gracefully turned to address Yara's inquiry. "My husband is a dragon; he doesn't burn people alive for refusing to bend the knee," she remarked with a subtle conviction. "If you'd like to follow me, I'll escort you to your rooms."
Sansa, with her customary grace, led the way toward the guest quarters, her every movement echoing the quiet strength that had become synonymous with her name. The torchlight flickered on the stone walls as they traversed Winterfell's corridors, casting shadows that mirrored the complex emotions lingering in the air.
Yara Greyjoy, walking alongside Sansa, projected an air of confidence that spoke of the resilience sculpted by the harsh seas. Her nonchalant preference for the company of men seemed to reflect a warrior's spirit unbound by conventional norms. "Where's this party?" she asked, with a characteristic shrug
"The inn in Winter Town," Sansa replied. "I am hosting an evening of drinks with the ladies on behalf of Lady Margaery, should anyone wish to join us."
"Theon knows where..." her words trailed off. The realisation hit her — Jon's protective instincts, combined with the lingering wounds from their shared history with Theon, could cause a confrontation neither of them needed.
Yara, perhaps sensing the underlying tension, stepped in decisively. "Take me, little brother. I could do with a good night out," she declared with a certain resolve, as if determined to face the challenges of the evening head-on.
Theon, meeting Sansa's gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and resignation, asked a question that hung in the air like an unspoken truth. "Will he kill me?" he asked, a look of terror etched on his face.
Sansa shook her head. "Maybe a black eye, or a broken nose."
Theon glanced at his sister. "Fair enough. I deserve that."
Sansa suddenly realised Theon might not know about her brothers. "Rickon is dead." She said. Theon's eyes widened with sadness. "Ramsay killed him."
"I'm sorry." Theon's eyes reddened once more. "And Bran?"
"He's on Bear Island, safe and sound. I'll tell you all about him when the time is right," she shared, her words carrying a reassurance that seemed to soften the edges of Theon's sorrow.
They arrived at Theon's old room. "You gave me my old room back." he smiled.
"It is how you left it." Sansa said.
Sansa led Ellaria and Lord Varys to the guest quarters she'd allocated them. Sansa paused and turned to face her guests with a warm smile. "Here are your rooms," she announced, her demeanour a blend of courtesy and genuine hospitality. "Make yourselves comfortable. If there is anything you need, please ask. I'll send someone up to draw you a bath. Food will be delivered shortly. Should you wish to join our party for Lady Margaery, you are more than welcome.
Lord Varys and Ellaria both bowed their heads and declined the offer. Leaving Sansa to attend the party she had organised for her friend.