Time flowed like a wayward river since Sansa's return from the crypts, the memory of that night etched in the recesses of her mind. The dagger, a gift from the Three-Eyed-Raven, now rested as a silent witness to the changing tides within Queenscrown. Eighteen moons had cast their ethereal glow upon the keep, and of those, sixteen were spent in the ebb and flow of routine and responsibility.
Fourteen moons marked Jon's departure, a journey that led him first to Castle Black and then beyond the Wall. The silence that lingered after his last letter, detailing his course to Craster's Keep, stretched over three long moons. Sansa feigned nonchalance, a practiced art to mask the underlying worry. Her mind echoed with reassurances—Jon was not one for prolific letter-writing, a trait she knew well. Back when he departed Winterfell to seek Daenerys' aid, he had penned only a solitary note. But that was a different time, a time when marriage was not the binding force between them.
Now, as his wife, Sansa found herself entwined in the intricate dance of the North's perils. A land fraught with danger, especially for those who ventured beyond the Wall. The inclination to seek solace in prayer no longer held sway over her; the Seven, once revered, had lost their grip on her heart.
Amid the palpable anticipation that hung in the air, a herald of comfort emerged—a raven-borne missive from Castle Black. Samwell Tarly, the rotund, former maester-in-training, embarked on a journey towards them, accompanied by Gilly and Little Sam. The imminent arrival of these familiar faces, a beacon in the gathering dusk, stirred a complex interplay of emotions within Sansa, a tapestry woven with threads of yearning, uncertainty, and the muted melody of hope.
In the aftermath of Jon's departure from Queenscrown, the intricate tapestry of their lives continued its gradual unravelling. Arya, propelled by an unwavering determination to reunite with Gendry, embarked on a southward journey to Kings Landing. Fortunes favored her, and she triumphantly brought Gendry back to the North, a reunion that resonated within the formidable stone walls of Winterfell.
Ten moons, their silvery glow casting an ethereal hue, had slipped by since Arya's victorious return. Yet, true to her nature, Arya remained resistant to the allure of familial stability. Winterfell, though a bastion of comfort, held her only temporarily, as her restless spirit impelled her to join Robb on his Lord's Progress. Within Queenscrown, once animated by the dynamic energies of its inhabitants, now lingered the poignant void left by Arya's departure.
Theon, a spectre of loyalty with ever-shifting allegiances, had traversed the journey to Kings Landing in Arya's company. A moon's turn after her exit, he found his way back to Queenscrown, his return marked by the soft echoes of footsteps resonating across familiar stones. The ebb and flow of their lives, akin to the rhythmic passage of moons, had settled into a quieter cadence. The anticipation once tethered to Arya's return now yielded to the solitude that enveloped Queenscrown in her absence.
As Robb embarked on his Lord's Progress, the once-vibrant halls of Queenscrown appeared to hush, the resonance of their collective presence giving way to a serene quietude that settled upon the keep. The pulse of life, once dynamic and unrestrained, now whispered in the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of unseen birds. Queenscrown, a realm in flux, adapted to the ever-shifting patterns woven by the passage of time and the choices of those who tread upon its storied grounds.
Lady Catelyn Stark remained entrenched, a silent sentinel within the confines of Queenscrown. Her professed reason—to await Jon's safe return—veiled a more insidious truth that Sansa, astute in her understanding, could not dismiss. The initial moons following Jon's departure witnessed Catelyn whispering the venomous secrets of doubt and suspicion into Sansa's ear. In the intimate shadows of those early days, Sansa found herself subjected to her mother's insinuations and unspoken fears.
Sansa, however, stood resolute in her convictions. She, a woman grown, possessed a knowledge of Jon Snow that far surpassed the perceptions harboured by Lady Catelyn Stark. Yet, beneath the facade of maternal concern, Sansa discerned a more calculated motive. Her mother's veiled intentions sought to uncover any semblance of grounds for annulment.
Robb, the stalwart defender of family honour, initially curtailed Lady Stark's campaign. His protective stance shielded Sansa from the relentless pursuit of doubt that shadowed her mother's every step. However, the precarious peace instigated by Robb crumbled with the receipt of a letter from Jon—a missive that reignited the embers of Lady Stark's relentless quest for validation.
As sunlight filtered through the solar windows, bathing the room in a rare warmth, Sansa occupied her customary chair before the hearth. The glow of the fire danced upon her features as she indulged in a glass of watered-down wine. Just like she did every morning, Sansa held the crumpled parchment from Jon nestled in her hand. She traced the contours of his words, seeking solace in the imagined cadence of his voice that echoed in the recesses of her memory.
Sansa
I hope all is well. Tell everyone I'm missing them and I'm finally north of the wall with uncle Benjen. In a few days, we will encounter a place called Craster's Keep, where we found Gilly. Don't worry if I don't send a raven. Sending ravens will become difficult.
Take Care
Jon
Sansa's throat tightened as the bitter taste of truth lingered in the air. Swallowing hard, her practiced mask fell seamlessly into place. Standing with regal poise, her back straight and unwavering, she traversed the room with a deliberate stride. The letter, a fragile testament to distant ties, found its refuge in a drawer, shielded from prying eyes, especially those that bore the weight of her mother's scrutiny.
"He asked you to tell everyone he misses them. But he didn't even mention you. If he truly cared so much, then those words would have been in the letter. Your husband didn't even send another to right the wrong. He only wants you for your claim and name. He needs the north. My family and friends died fighting his family. How can you care for someone like him?" Her mother's whispered words, laden with accusation, echoed in the chamber.
Atop her desk rested a basket brimming with the morning's ravens. Maester Fell, a recently minted maester in his early thirties, had journeyed from the Citadel nearly eight moons past. He exuded an amiable air, fastidiously meticulous, an all-encompassing perfectionist in his ways. Sansa found solace in the structured routine Maester Fell adhered to. Each morning, after completing her dressing, she would partake in her morning repast in the solar. There, on her desk, nestled within a walnut box, awaited the scroll that had arrived that morning. In the initial days of Maester Fell's tenure at Queenscrown, three or four ravens would populate her box. The demise of King Robert, however, wrought a change. The war in the south saw to that, and the contents of her daily missives bore witness to the shifting tides beyond the castle walls.
The tidings arrived at Queenscrown belatedly, as befitting a fledgling house where ravens seldom winged their messages directly. The nascent presence of a maester for a mere eight moons seemed to have kept the news at bay within the stout walls. Sansa, however, leaned on her father Lord Manderly, a well-connected source with an ear to the whispers of sailors, and Maester Aemon of Castle Black. The Night's Watch, often standing vigilant at the northern frontier, proved to be a reliable conduit for the political currents sweeping through the southern realms. Maester Aemon was well versed in whispers of the east, where the tales of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons were uttered.
Merely a fortnight past, Sansa received the sombre news of Lord Renly's demise. While the revelation wasn't entirely unexpected, the weight of grief settled upon her as she learned of Brienne of Tarth's unfortunate fate—blamed for the murder and condemned to death. It served as a poignant reminder of the repercussions entwined with their actions, prompting Sansa to navigate each choice with due consideration for its impact on those she held dear. Brienne's execution, though anticipated, struck a heavy blow.
In the current tapestry of Westerosi affairs, the Ironborn, spearheaded by Theon's sister, Yara, dominated the headlines, their raids creating ripples across the realm. Meanwhile, the ever-heightening tensions between Lord Stannis and the Lannisters added another layer of complexity to the political landscape. The absence of Robb's coronation as King in the North had, for now, spared much of Westeros from descending into further bloodshed. Sansa, ever mindful of the intricate webs of power, observed these unfolding events with a keen eye.
Before Lord Renly's demise, the Tyrell allegiance faced a division. Ser Loras, entwined in a lover's bond with Lord Renly, fought under the banner of the younger Baratheon. In contrast, the remaining Tyrell forces aligned with the Lannisters, given Lady Margaery's impending union with King Joffrey. Sansa's primary concern lingered on the uncertainty of Joffrey's survival through the impending wedding. Brief word of Petyr Baelish's whereabouts troubled Sansa's thoughts. Missing or had he found his demise?
Following Joffrey's ascent to the throne, Tywin Lannister assumed the role of Hand, relegating Mace Tyrell to the position of Master of Coin. Sansa, ever discerning, harboured suspicions about Arya's presence in the capital during Robert's death. Could her sister have eliminated Littlefinger during her visit? Sansa, lacking clarity from Arya's letters, could only assume Lord Baelish had fallen victim to her sister's justice.
As Sansa perused scroll after scroll, most detailing the costs of the evolving construction at Queenscrown under her guidance, her keen anticipation sought a missive from Jon, yet none graced her presence. Today, however, a different joy awaited, as the imminent arrival of Sam, Gilly, and Little Sam promised to bring warmth to the keep. Sansa couldn't help but ponder her mother's reaction to Gilly, a wildling, wondering how Lady Catelyn Stark would receive the unexpected guest.
With the scrolls duly perused, Sansa usually set out to inspect the ongoing construction at the keep. Devoting an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon, she engaged with those overseeing the work, carefully noting the enhancements. The remainder of her day unfolded in its familiar rhythm — behind her desk, in the company of her mother, or engaged in archery lessons with Theon. The latter, tasked with building the new northern naval fleet, found himself entangled in frequent meetings. Evenings were divided between her mother's company and solitary moments with needle and thread.
Yet, the time spent with Lady Catelyn Stark felt burdensome. The toxic words regarding Jon had escalated to an intolerable level. Sansa contemplated the impending decision to send her mother back to Winterfell, recognizing the overdue need for her parents' reunion. While they had shared some moments together, it felt insufficient. Sansa acknowledged the unfairness to Bran and Rickon, who needed their mother. However, Catelyn Stark's unbridled jealousy of Jon Snow seemed to eclipse maternal responsibilities. The pursuit of annulling Sansa's marriage took precedence over the welfare of her two youngest sons.
Lady Stark opted to join Sansa on the morning rounds, and once again, her words carried a subtle jab aimed at Jon, laying bare her true intentions.
"Ah, Samwell Tarly is due today. I've heard his brother is quite the handsome one," Cat remarked as they strolled towards the emerging keep, a tower nestled within the growing curtain walls.
"I'm certain he'll bring joy to some fortunate lady," Sansa replied, her countenance an inscrutable mask. To let it slip would unleash a torrent of anger.
Sansa positioned herself at the tower's base, a structure already reaching sixty feet in depth and seventy feet across. Only two floors stood erected thus far, but the vision promised a looming tower, destined to stretch six stories into the sky.
"I hear Horn Hill is renowned for its beauty. The grounds that surround it are said to be breathtaking," Lady Stark commented.
Sansa turned to her mother. "Do you think we should add more windows?" she inquired. "I've requested four per floor, but they're quite small, and I doubt they'll allow much light, especially on the northern side." She spun on her heel, the grey woollen coat concealing her black leather breeches flapping in the wind.
Sansa traversed the muddy courtyard toward what would become the sept. Unlike the curtain walls and other main structures, she had opted for simplicity, constructing the sept from wood. This choice had sparked a heated disagreement between her and Lady Stark, but Sansa justified it. A sept dedicated to the Faith of the Seven would see no worshippers in these northern lands. The Northerners followed the Old Gods, which is why the castle would feature a nearby heart tree, creating its Godswood. Sansa envisioned that once Queenscrown Castle stood completed, it would be the ideal home. She felt a twinge of jealousy, realising she wouldn't be the one living here herself.
"I do wish you'd have chosen stone," Cat sighed. "I cannot believe..." The haunting call of a distant horn carried through the air, cutting short Lady Stark's discontent.
Sansa's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Sam is here,"
A skeptical note lingered in Cat's voice as Sansa hurried toward the emerging gatehouse, her mother in tow. "Are you sure you can trust him?"
"Of course I can. I know him from before. His skills will be of use to us and Maester Fell," Sansa said, her eyes fixed on the approaching cart bearing Samwell Tarly.
"But that woman of his, she is one of them," Cat said, her expression souring like someone sucking on a lemon.
"Oh, mother, if you have nothing pleasant to say, don't say anything at all," Sansa admonished, the wind tugging at the folds of her grey woollen coat.
Sansa took note of the distinct transformation in Sam's appearance since their last encounter—a youthfulness cloaked in the familiar rotundity she remembered. Gilly's countenance remained unchanged, while the most noticeable difference stood in the form of Little Sam. Sansa vividly recalled meeting the child when he was just five. The recently completed guest accommodation, finalised a sennight prior to their arrival, hadn't initially been prepared for a newborn. Fortunately, the still-utilised old keep, serving as the family wing, offered a suitable alternative.
Upon reaching the yard, Sam dismounted and efficiently aided Gilly from the cart, cradling Little Sam in his arms. Sansa couldn't help but observe the subtle reaction on her mother's face upon seeing Sam. Given their recent discussion about Dickon, Sansa suspected her mother had harboured different expectations for the elder Tarly brother.
Sam accepted her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to its back. "You must be Lady Whitestark."
"I am," Sansa affirmed, nodding. "This is my mother, Lady Catelyn Stark."
Sam turned his attention to Cat, taking her hand. "Lady Stark," he greeted, bowing his head.
"Lord Tarly," Cat acknowledged.
Sam shook his head. "Oh, I'm no Lord. You can call me Sam." He then introduced Gilly, hesitating slightly. "This is Gilly, my... err... companion."
Gilly executed an exaggerated curtsey. "My Lady. Sam didn't warn me that real ladies were so beautiful," she remarked.
"Why thank you Gilly," Sansa gave her mother a pointed look. "You can both call me Sansa."
Gilly turned to Cat, offering another curtsey. "My Lady."
"You can call me Lady Stark," Cat replied with a polite tone but an undertone of bitterness.
Sansa approached Little Sam. "And who is this little one?" She peered under the blanket, cooing at him.
"This is Little Sam," Gilly replied.
"He's a handsome lad," Sansa said with a smile. "Let's find you somewhere nice and warm. Will you be sharing chambers?"
Cat looked at Sansa, aghast. Sam and Gilly weren't married in the Westerosi sense, although technically, Sam had taken Gilly, signifying marriage by Wildling standards.
Sam turned to Gilly, unsure of what to say. Luckily, she spoke up in her matter-of-fact voice with a nod of her head. "Aye, we are."
"Very well, follow me."
Sansa led them to the old keep, where they could settle in, take a bath, and warm up. They were served some stew and hot cider, while Sansa provided Gilly with old breeches and a coat, much to her mother's displeasure.
"Why allow them to stay in the family wing?" her mother hissed once they had returned to Sansa's solar.
"Because little Sam is only a babe; he needs to be kept warm. Are you forgetting, Mother? Regardless of who his sire was, Sam will always be his father. Must I remind you of Sam's station? He may not be a Lord, but he is still the son of Lord Randyll Tarly. It wouldn't do to suggest we are not gracious hosts, especially as we are a new house."
Cat huffed but didn't respond, her mind firmly made up about Sam. He was a friend of Jon's and had failed to live up to her expectations. He remained insignificant in her eyes.
A few hours later, as night fell and Sam and Gilly settled in, Sam joined Sansa and her mother in Sansa's solar. The warmth of the fire cast a soothing glow around the comfortable room. Sansa was eager to hear news from Castle Black, especially about the North. Was Jon safe? Why hadn't he written since before they arrived at Craster's Keep?
Sam settled into his seat, taking a sip from his horn of ale before initiating the conversation. "I hope you don't mind me being forward, Lady Sansa, but Jon did mention you were the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros. I see he was not exaggerating."
Sansa blushed, a reaction she might have interpreted as a slight under normal circumstances. She recalled instances when Daenerys and Cersei had made similar comments upon their arrivals at Winterfell, with insincere motives to gain Sansa as an ally. Sam's words, however, seemed to carry a genuine appreciation. Understandably, he refrained from making such remarks in front of Gilly, as he was trying to woo the wildling girl.
Sansa's face wore a curious blend of surprise and concern. "Why, thank you, Sam. He has never said such a thing to me. I don't think he's ever called me beautiful."
Sam's forehead creased with a puzzled frown. "Really? He said so in his last letter. I should know, I read it. I didn't expect such romantic words to come from Jon's hand. He's not really one for words, is he?"
The exchange prompted a shared glance between Sansa and her mother. Sansa, seeking clarification, inquired, "What letter is this? The last one I received was written before you arrived at Craster's Keep. There were no romantic verses in that letter."
Sam's surprise was palpable. "Did you not get the one he sent from the Fist of the First Men?" he asked. Sansa shook her head. "Oh, I sent the raven myself."
Sansa's gaze shifted toward her mother, who appeared strangely engrossed in the ceiling above. "I'm afraid I didn't receive it. What did it say?"
"It mentioned we were at the Fist, and Jon was about to head out to the Skirling Pass to find Mance Rayder's camp. He sent me back to the Wall to rescue Gilly and her sisters."
"And did you? Rescue her sisters?" Cat asked.
Sam shook his head. "They told me they could handle themselves. The soldiers Jon sent were killed by Craster."
"What happened to Craster himself?" Sansa asked.
Sam's expression turned guilty. "I killed him. It was the only way to save Gilly and Little Sam... and her sisters," he said.
"Was there anything else in the letter?" Sansa asked.
The rosy hue of embarrassment stained Sam's cheeks. "He spoke of missing you and eagerly anticipating your reunion, mentioning something cryptic about lemons." His eyes flickered towards Cat. "I dare not delve into more details before your mother."
"If it's private, you had no business reading it," Cat said sharply.
"I believe it's a matter not suited for the refined ears of a good-mother," Sam said.
"Mother, Sam can share it when we're alone." Sansa said, offering a reassuring smile to Sam, who nodded earnestly. "Now, to weightier matters. I need to glean every morsel Jon has shared about himself and our family from you. Following that, we can find a suitable task for you. You mentioned handling ravens. Would you care to assist Maester Fell in the rookery? He's burdened with meticulous records of Queenscrown's reconstruction, and I know it's a task too arduous for him, especially amidst mending bones. The soldiers aren't exactly skilled with hammers."
Sam looked at Sansa with wide eyes of gratitude. "That would be perfect."
Sansa laced her fingers together. "How does Gilly fare with a needle?" she inquired, aware of the wildling's proficiency.
Sam frowned. "I don't really know. She can hunt and build a fire, but I don't know about her needlework. I can ask her if you want."
Sansa shook her head. "I'll speak with her on the morrow. There is plenty of work to be done—fixing clothes and making bedsheets. Needlework would be a most essential skill."
Sam stifled a yawn. "I'll ask her to see you in the morning after we've broken our fast."
"You must be spent after such a long journey. Why don't you go to your chambers and have a good night's sleep?"
"I'll be fine." Sam said, but Sansa knew he was just being polite.
"I truly think you should retire for the evening. Maester Fell will want you well-rested in the morning. We are receiving quite a few ravens at the moment, what with news from the south and the ongoing work on the keep."
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Sam asked.
"You go," Sansa said, as Sam stood.
"Thank you for your hospitality. Gilly and I will see you tomorrow morning," he said, leaving Sansa alone with her mother.
Sansa observed her mother with a wry smile on her face. "It looks like you were wrong, Mother. Jon has been missing me, after all."
"I don't think writing disgusting letters counts as missing you. He knows if he doesn't consummate the marriage, then he has no sway in the north. He doesn't mean it. Of course, his bastard mouth doesn't care about your feelings. He wants you to warm his bed and give him the north. He cares nothing for you." Cat's voice was getting louder.
"You know nothing, Mother," Sansa argued back.
Cat stood up, her face getting redder by the minute. "I know men. He might not truly be a bastard, but he was raised as one. Their baseborn nature is different from that of you and me. You are still so innocent. I know you claim to have endured much, and I believe you. I also believe Jon was the only one to help you. But he was the most convenient person. There are plenty of others who would have done a better job than he."
Sansa's anger simmered beneath the surface, her eyes ablaze as she confronted her mother. "He's no bastard," she growled, standing tall in defiance. Despite her attempt to maintain composure, she sensed her mask slipping.
"Pff, a Targaryen," Cat wrinkled her nose in disdain. "That's even worse than being a bastard. And practically baseborn. Rhaegar was married before. What grounds could he have to annul his marriage to Elia? Jon is not only a bastard, he's a Targaryen bastard. The worst of them all," she spat.
Sansa drew in a deep breath, collecting herself and allowing the mask to slip back into place. With a deceptively sweet voice, she addressed her mother, "Mother, I would like you to pack your things and make for Winterfell. Leave on the morrow. Jory will accompany you, along with six soldiers."
"How dare you?" Cat cried, her protest echoing through the room.
"May I remind you, mother, that I am Lady Whitestark of Queenscrown and the rightful Queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms. I have every right to command you to return to Winterfell. It is time you were reunited with your husband and two youngest children. They need their mother. I am quite safe here. I have Theon and Sam; they will provide me with the safety you are unable to provide. Gilly will offer the female company I desire."
Cat looked devastated. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.
"Because if I don't, I may come to say something I deeply regret," Sansa replied.
"I think you already have. You have chosen your bastard husband over your kin." Cat stormed over to the door. "And if you think he will have the support of the Riverlands and the Vale, you are in for a nasty shock." As the door closed with a resounding thud, Sansa's thoughts lingered on the challenges ahead. The Riverlands and the Vale, potential allies or adversaries, lay on the horizon of uncertainty.
Sansa sank into her seat, the weight of the confrontation lingering in the air. The door's echo marked her mother's departure, leaving behind the tension that strained their relationship.
Her fingers traced a pattern on the polished table, worn by the troubles that sought refuge within her solar. The veil of composure held, masking the turmoil beneath. The command issued to her mother bore the weight of responsibility, the tangle of family, loyalty, and her own desires woven into the fabric of Queenscrown.
She took a measured breath, contemplating the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that defined the realm. The clash of ambitions, loyalties, and the ever-present spectre of husband's own claim to the Iron Throne painted a complex tableau. Sansa, now seated in the seat of authority, knew the game had only just begun, and the players were gathering, each with their own motives and machinations.
In the flickering candlelight of her solar, Sansa pondered the challenges, vowing to navigate the intricate dance with the grace of a queen and the cunning of a player in the game of thrones. The night stretched ahead, pregnant with uncertainties and the weight of responsibility that rested on the shoulders of Lady Whitestark.
