A/N: Long time no read...

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Twelve

Sansa:

"It's beautiful."

Walda Frey was gushing as she took in the Winterfell Godswood for the first time. Her eyes widened when they rested on the weirwood tree. The bark was pale white, looming over a pool that was black as night. She looked away from it after a beat as if the heart tree had caught her staring. "Is the Last Hearth godswood like this?"

"I do not know," Sansa answered, "I have never visited that castle." She saw the disappointment in Walda's eyes, "But you may ask Smalljon's kin. They will be here for the Harvest Feast."

"They won't think me some silly southerner for asking?"

"They'll already be thinking that."

Walda's brow furrowed in concern for a long heartbeat before it was brushed away by a pretty smile that was full of life. She seemed to almost take it as a challenge to prove them wrong.

Sansa had come back to the godswood many times since she and Domeric had returned to Winterfell. The war in the south, the wildlings to the north, the Harvest Feast swirling through here, she felt like she was caught in a storm at times.

"Sansa?" Her feet were nudging the dirt beneath her. "What do we do now?"

Her helplessness made Sansa smile while also reminding her a bit of her old self, back when she didn't understand the Winterfell's godswood. "Did Smalljon not tell you of our ways?" Sansa found it unlikely that the very boisterous and proud Smalljon would stay quiet about something as important as their gods and godswood.

"He did," she admitted, nervously, "B-but I found it so strange, it was hard to understand it all, it's all so different," the words were tumbling out of her mouth.

Sansa nodded, seeing her confusion at these new changes that she needed to submit to. There were no songs to sing to the trees, no rites or altar to help direct your devotion. Having too few rituals could be as baffling as having too many.

"That is up to you." The leaves crunched under her feet as she moved to stand beside Walda. "This is a place for prayers and reflections, to think and to rest." She gestured with her gloved hand for Walda to come closer to Winterfell's heart tree.

Walda showed the slightest bit of hesitation, eyes darting between the red eyes of the weirwood and Sansa's. "We kneel," she instructed, moving into position while she talked, from the corner of her eye she saw Walda was copying her. Sansa tried to draw up on what she had been told of the godswood when it first drew her interest. Father, Robb, Jon, Domeric, they had all given her different answers, but in time she found that they had all been right.

"Do we sing?" Walda's voice was a whisper.

"Do you want to?" Sansa asked, Domeric would often bring his harp when he visited.

"No," Walda said back, sparing a glance to the weirwood as if expecting its face to react to her answer.

"Then do not sing."

"Do we pray?"

"If you desire," Sansa answered, "But this is not a place to speak to the Seven. If you are to pray to them then you must return to the Sept at the castle."

Walda chewed her lip nervously. "I've only ever prayed to the Seven." The concern in her expression deepened. "What should I do?"

"The heart tree allows our gods to see us and hear our prayers."

"Oh," Walda was looking at the weirwood differently now, reflecting on Sansa's answer. "I can do that," she nodded, "I'll pray for victory in the south, for Smalljon to come back, for-"

"Walda?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Quietly," Sansa smiled.

"Of course," She blanched at her mistake, "Will you stay with me?

"Yes, I will."

She heard the footfalls coming closer to her. The boots crunching under the twigs and leaves. Sansa Bolton didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"Lady Walda returned to the castle."

"Did she speak of this place?"

"She did," Domeric confirmed, "She spoke of its beauty and its tranquillity."

"Good," Sansa rose from her knees, brushing any loose dirt or leaf that clung to her dress. She was pleased that their first visit went well. When Walda had excused herself, Sansa hadn't been sure of the reason behind her departure. The red leaves of the pale weirwood tree branches hooded husband and wife from the waning sunlight.

"I must say the godswood has never looked as beautiful as it does now."

"Oh?" She turned to see his dark eyes were on her. The heat behind the gaze was enough to draw a slight flush to her cheeks. "I wonder why that is?" She asked, tapping a delicate finger to her chin in feigning thought.

His lips twitched, a sincere smile followed. "I do not know."

She returned the smile. "Did you come all this way to flatter your wife?"

"I would not call it a wasted journey if I did," he replied, " But, " he stressed the word as if aware of the shift in mood his next words would bring, "I did wish to speak with you. I wanted to," he paused, she saw the slight crease in his forehead before continuing, "To remind you."

"Remind me?" She didn't understand. "Not of the Harvest Feast, I hope?" She tried to jape. "I pray I'm not that hopeless."

His smile smoothed the worry out of his expression and helped to dispel her own consternation at his unexpected change in mood. "You are not," he assured her, "I just thought it was prudent to say that you're a Bolton now."

"I know," She did not hide her frown from him. "Did you think I forgot?"

"No," he answered quickly, sounding and looking unexpectedly flustered. "The nobles we are to treat with and host have always known you as Sansa Stark, but you are now Sansa Bolton." His eyes never left her face. "That name carries a different weight."

"I understand," She sought his hand with hers and upon touching his, quickly clasped her fingers with his. "Thank you." She saw the sense behind it.

He nodded, "You will do wonderful." He said confidently, squeezing her hand.

She appreciated his support. It was unwavering and something Sansa had relied on since even before they were married. She would not let a few weary lords come between them. "Did Maester Luwin send for me?" The two began their walk back to the castle. She knew that there were still some details she needed to look over. It was not something she was looking forward to.

"No, he did not. Maester Luwin is distracted by another matter."

It was the slyness in his tone that made her turn to her husband. The mischievous gleam in his dark eyes, confirming her suspicion as well as peaking her curiosity. "And what sort of distraction is this?"

"A needed one," Domeric wrapped his arm around her, bringing her closer to him.

They were bundled together. Her head resting against his chest just under his chin. "A needed one?" She was not sure what to make of that.

"Yes, a needed one," He confirmed without attempting to clarify. "After all, it's my duty to tend to the Lady of Winterfell."

She liked the sound of that. "And is that what you plan on doing?"

"Until you're content, my lady."

"Have you ever been to the Dreadfort?"

"I have not," Sansa answered, with the war in the south and her responsibilities at Winterfell, she was not sure when she would finally go to the castle that was to be her home.

Lady Hornwood's smile was kind, but before she could speak, another voice spoke up.

"I have," Alys Karstark scrunched her nose in distaste at the memory. "It's an awful place."

"Alys," Lady Hornwood looked over at her future good daughter with a sharp glance.

"I was just being honest."

Lady Donella Hornwood and Alys Karstark had arrived in the morning with a contingent of Hornwood men, as well as some food and ale to contribute for the Harvest Feast. Alys had been staying with Lady Hornwood the past few months on her father's instructions after her family had gone south. He had thought it wise to place her in Lady Hornwood's care so his daughter could become familiar with the castle and the grounds which she would someday be the lady of.

They were the first guests to Winterfell whom Sansa was not related to through marriage. The others to have arrived had been Jonelle Bolton, who came from Castle Cerwyn, serving as its steward. Lady Dustin had arrived as well as Lord Ryswell, Domeric's aunt and grandfather respectively. They had gone for an afternoon ride in the Wolfswood, her husband all too eager to show off his zorse, Demon to his family.

Not that they haven't seen the zorse already, she thought wryly, remembering the conversations she overheard back at Riverrun of Domeric's prized zorse between her husband and his family. Their current absence allowed Sansa an opportunity to spend the afternoon with Lady Hornwood and Alys. They had taken light food and wine in the lord's solar. She saw this as her first true test as host while serving as Lady of Winterfell. She was aware of the expectations and of the requests that the nobility would make towards her. She was determined not to make any mistakes that could hurt her father or brother when they returned to replace her.

I can't promise a lord one thing only for Father or Robb to revoke it or overrule a decision I had previously made. She was hoping to find the right balance for this challenge and knew that it would only be more strenuous when the rest of the nobility arrived.

Thankfully for her, Donella and Alys hadn't seemed interested in seeking favors, but instead were sharing stories as well as asking after their families since Sansa had seen them more recently then they had. She had wisely left out the rumors of Lord Karstark trying to put aside the betrothal of his daughter and Daryn Hornwood to try to secure a match between Alys and Robb. She wasn't sure of the truth to them, but in seeing a closeness between Lady Hornwood and Alys, and hearing a certain fondness Alys had for Daryn when discussing the letters they had exchanged, Sansa hoped them to be unfounded.

"You have all the delicacy of a war-axe, my dear," Lady Hornwood's tone sounded equal parts chiding, and teasing.

Alys merely smiled. "You can thank my brothers for that."

"When did you visit the Dreadfort?" Sansa had not been surprised by Alys' answer. The Dreadfort had a reputation that would not simply fade into the shadows now that Sansa was to become its Lady. She thought it important to hear so she could know how best to improve her future home.

"Several years ago, I went with my father and Torrhen. When father went off to speak with Lord Bolton, Tor and I explored, or more he did and dragged me with him." The mirthful memory was enough to make her lips twitch before the solemnness returned in the retelling. "He tricked me into going into this one room and then he closed the door behind me." She shuddered, "I was scared and only glanced around the room before knocking on the door and shouting for my brother to open it." She paused, warring emotions clouding her face. "It's not a pleasant castle, my lady ."

"Don't startle her," Lady Hornwood chided with a disapproving tsk.

"She didn't," It seemed a challenging thought for so many to grasp, her being the Lady of the Dreadfort, but it had never been one for her. "I'll just have to make sure to be a better host for your next visit," She offered, knowing how important it would be to maintain good relations with the Hornwoods, who they shared a border with.

The two took her words very differently. Alys Karstark's head had already made an instinctive turn to dismiss the idea. Lady Hornwood was more subdued. She didn't say anything for a long second, watching Sansa carefully while seemingly weighing the offer, before giving a small smile and nodding. "I would like that very much, Lady Bolton."

Sansa was delighted, but hid her excitement behind a polite smile which she gave to Lady Hornwood. She had met her first challenge as not just host of the Harvest Feast, but as future Lady of the Dreadfort, and it could not have gone better.

Ysilla:

She stepped back once the candle was lit.

The Sept at Runestone was damp and chilly. It was nestled in a distant corner of the castle. It's position was a testament to how long it took for her family to accept these new gods. The rest of the Runestone was ancient, but not this place. Their castle was built by the Bronze Kings, and everywhere you gazed you could see remnants to her family's legacy. The Sept however, was built after her family had lost their title as the Bronze Kings. When they were forced to bend the knee to Artys Arryn, who became the King of the Mountain and Vale. Each face of the Seven was carved out of these jagged rocks that had been placed when the sept was being made. The slab of stones served as the altars and were formed in the expected star shape while still leaving space to allow visitors to walk between them as well as to kneel or light candles in front of a particular face.

Ysilla Royce was standing in front of the Maiden. Hers was ornate with colorful gems inlaid in the rock, including onyx, pearls, and rubies. There were a series of candles placed under the beautiful depiction of the Maiden. Hers was the only one lit. After her father had dismissed her with his news, she made her way to the Sept. Father will likely send a servant to visit to insure I lit one. He was one for tradition. Their very words were We Remember, sons and daughters of House Royce were expected to remember their histories and honor their traditions.

It has finally happened. She had been prepared for this news. So she was not surprised when Father summoned her to inform her that they would be leaving for the Redfort in the morning. Where I'm to meet my husband. The name flickered before her like the lit taper. Mychel Redfort. Father did not speak his name when he gave her his instructions, because he didn't need to. She had known for some months that he was interested in a match between their family and the Redforts. And it's my duty to honor it.

A bride was expected to light a candle to show her appreciation at a respected betrothal. Ysilla's lit hers out of obligation not gratitude. She stared at her candle just long enough to observe a respectful silence before she moved towards the Crone's altar. This stone altar's carving was not as richly decorated as the Maiden's. It showed a wizened face with eyes inlaid with obsidian staring out at its supplicants. She was made to hold a lit lamp, but her altar did not carry a flickering flame, instead a piece of beaten bronze was placed within the lamp's carving. The metal would gleam when the sunlight strewn in from the windows.

Ysilla lit a candle at the Crone's altar. There were a few others already lit, but she did not wonder why theirs were, because she was too busy focusing on the reason for hers. This candle was not lit out of duty like the Maiden's had been, but out of desire. She needed guidance, and had been taught that the Crone would listen to one's pleas, solve their trials and bring them wisdom. Her lamp was a beacon to those who felt lost and Ysilla Royce felt very lost.

As a girl what she hoped for in a husband was someone who wasn't too old or fat, or cruel. Mychel Redfort was none of those. He was handsome and the Redfort was not a far journey from Runestone. She would not have to live too far away from her family, but still she wasn't rejoicing. I want to be a good daughter, she told the altar, to make father proud, their family proud. But I will marry a man who shares his bed with another. That was the truth that tempered her hopes and her happiness. And she's a bastard, who already has his heart. She was left to wonder and worry what her role was to be in this marriage. Am I to bear his children while forced to watch him spoil his paramour? Am I to be embarrassed in my own home, shamed by my own husband? She felt the wetness in her eyes, but she kept her gaze steady on her candle.

"Ysilla?"

"Did father send you?"

"No," the voice answered, "You're leaving with him tomorrow?"

"I am," Ysilla didn't search for where he was coming from. "I am off to meet my betrothed."

The footsteps stopped somewhere to the left of her, out of view. "Is that what father said?"

"No, but why else would I go to the Redfort?"

Andar Royce didn't have an answer for her. Her oldest brother stepped into the dim light. He chose to take his seat in front of the Maiden's altar. He was tall even when sitting, straight back, and broad shouldered. His dark hair was cut short, with a well trimmed beard that covered his cheeks and chin. He was more than ten years older than her, so even her earliest memories of him were of him already as a young man, disciplined in his fighting and his learning. He was already a husband and a father before she was ten and two.

"You lit the candle."

"I did," she glanced over to see his attention was on the altar, not her. Ysilla had expected father to send a servant; she didn't think he'd send his heir. Despite what her brother said, she saw this as her father's move even if Andar considered it his own.

"Why?"

"It's expected of me." What else am I to say?

"You said that Father didn't tell you, you were betrothed."

She frowned. "Why else would I be going to the Redfort?"

Andar made a deep humming sound in his throat. "That is a question for father not for me." He got out of his seat, but instead of moving closer to her, he moved further away. It took her a long second to see that he was approaching the altar of the Warrior. There were some candles lit at its altar. She was responsible for two of them. The thought of her absent brothers made her throat constrict.

"Father doesn't answer my questions," She wasn't trying to be petulant, just honest. Only Andar would think father would treat them in the same way he was treated. He was Father's heir, they were not. It was why Robar went to the Reach and Waymar to the Wall.

Don't fret, Silla, Waymar was smiling that confident smile he always wore, where he thought no idea of his was a bad one and there was no problem he could not solve. You'll soon hear great tales of your brother at the Wall.

It was only the last message from the Wall, she remembered now, and it had not been written in her brother's hand. It hadn't been about some heroic adventure or great deed he had performed, but of Waymar's death in a ranging north of the wall. The empty feeling in her chest grew at the memory.

"We cannot all be as fortunate as you, brother."

Andar lit a candle at the Warrior's altar. "Everything is about to change, Ysilla." His voice was low and solemn. "And we all have our roles to play."

A/N: It's been a real struggle to write anything and then whatever I ended up writing regardless of the story, I'd despise it and delete it and on and on the cycle went. My skills and confidence have pretty much plummeted. I'm saying this as an apology and as a warning because the quality of my writing has dipped considerably.

Okay, with that out of the way here are the author notes for this story:

The Vale nobility is a mess in regards to what's available. I feel like a lot of it is planned to be fleshed out in book 6 through Sansa/Alayne's story, but well that hasn't come yet. So I'm trying my best and making do.

Ysilla is a character in name only so I'm trying to create a character that is not only compelling but is believable in this world. I'm not sure I've succeeded, but this is the best I can do.

Also I know there's probably a great deal of disappointment for such a long wait to basically get a pivot/transition chapter. However, with the Lannisters in King Landing arc complete, this chapter helps us with the next main arc the north plotlines and the Vale. Also unlike OBAS, this story isn't going to be 60+ chapters, its around 30. I can't promise to update faster b/c of real life problems, but this story and series isn't abandoned.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire