The newly crafted table, a faithful replica of Dragonstone's famed map, now dominated the chamber. Though smaller in stature, its presence loomed large, capturing the intricacies of the lands beyond the Wall. Sansa, with a touch of strategic foresight, had re-located the table to the ground floor—a room intended for the Maester, now transformed into the war room. Stark, Whitestark and Targaryen banners hung proudly, fluttering in silent testimony to the convergence of alliances.
Amidst the flickering light of the hearth, Sansa, Robb, and the indomitable Cat convened, orchestrating the next steps in the intricate dance of power. The flames cast an orange hue, painting the room in warmth, a deceptive contrast to the cool calculations transpiring within.
Robb, flanked by his sister and mother, delved into preparations for what had been officially dubbed the Lord's Progress across the North. Yet, beneath the surface, it served as a cunning ploy to gauge the unwavering loyalty of the bannermen. With Jon's marriage to Sansa casting shadows of uncertainty and whispers of discontent, the North's perception of the union demanded careful scrutiny. Especially with Jon Snow, the once Lord Commander, now steering wildlings into their midst. Meticulous planning became their armour, a shield against the shifting allegiances and latent tensions that simmered in the Northern winds. The game of thrones unfolded not just in the grand halls of kings but in the whispered conversations and subtle manoeuvres of those who sought to secure their place in the icy heart of the realm.
"Must you consult every Northern lord, Robb?" Mother's said, carrying the weight of both concern and impatience. "Your absence will be prolonged."
Robb, his fingers tracing the carved contours of the ironwood table, met her gaze with a steely determination. "I'll be consolidating all these campaigns into one. It's a task I can't escape forever. No use delaying the inevitable. The present is as good a time as any."
Sansa, her voice a measured echo, chimed in. "He speaks the truth, Mother. Merely touring the North won't suffice for unity. We must present a united front to silence the murmurs that would stir among the southern lords."
The table, aglow with the warmth of candlelight emanating from beneath, played host to the unfolding strategy. Rivers, lakes, and houses etched into the ironwood surface served as a cartographic canvas for their machinations.
"I shall begin with the mountain clans," Robb declared, his gaze fixed on the counter he manoeuvred across the tabletop. "They should prove the most pliable."
Sansa nodded in agreement. "Yet, tread carefully, brother. The path to our final destination is fraught with the ghosts of betrayal."
Robb's eyes lifted, meeting Sansa's, a reflection of shared understanding. "Bolton, Karstark, and Umber," he said with a sombre gravity. "The houses that stained their loyalty."
Sansa's gaze held a trace of caution. "Beheading Lord Karstark did not endear you to all. Greatjon Umber may yet be swayed, but Smalljon Umber is a different beast. You'll need more than strategy; charm may prove to be your deadliest weapon."
Robb's furrowed brow betrayed the weight of concern, especially the treacherous Bolton's, who loomed as a shadow over his thoughts. The wildling raids, a tempest in the North, posed a challenge that gnawed at the core of their instincts. Allowing them south clashed with the very essence of their heritage. Robb, grappling with the intricacies of leadership, mused, "Perhaps Jon's handling of the wildlings will be resolved before I return."
Sansa, a portrait of emerging wisdom and grace, countered his hope with pragmatic foresight. "The Northern Progress spans twelve moons. Even if Jon succeeds, Mance Rayder's migration of a hundred thousand Freefolk is a slow tide that will take many moons more."
Seating himself, Robb pondered the quandary. "I'm at a loss on how to approach this."
"Tell them you distrust the Lannisters," Mother interjected, her gaze unwavering.
"But without evidence, I'd be casting shadows on innocence," Robb rebutted, the weight of justice heavy on his shoulders. "Accusing them without cause, even in the face of King Robert's imminent demise, is a perilous path."
Sansa, ever the strategic mind, offered a counsel veiled in House Mormont's loyalty. "Begin with the mountain clans. Then, journey to Bear Island. Lady Lyanna declared allegiance to us as did her mother. A raven to Lord Commander Mormont, forewarning of our arrival, could be to our advantage. Aligning our cause with the Night's Watch may sway opinions in our favour."
Cat, though sceptical, voiced her concerns. "The Mormonts may be easily appeased, but Karstark, Bolton, and Umber—the true heart of this matter—will hear whispers long before Robb arrives. Gossip shapes opinions, and we risk facing judgments before we've had the chance to plead our case. Is it wise to let rumour precede our diplomacy?"
Robb, finding solace in his mother's counsel, acknowledged, "The hardest houses to sway set the course for the rest. Once they bend, the others will follow suit."
Sansa, her gaze lingering on the map, confessed a trace of unease. "House Bolton is a matter of concern for me." she said.
"Father sends a hundred men, and as long as Lord Eddard lives and Robert sits the throne, Roose Bolton will keep his ambitions in check." Robb gave her a measured assurance.
Sansa's sigh carried the weight of her apprehensions, met with Robb's pragmatic optimism. "We will begin with House Umber. Smalljon betrayed us, not Greatjon. He remains loyal."
His mother, a keen observer, questioned the approach. "What words will you choose when you face them?"
"I thought to seek Lord Commander Mormont's aid," Robb answered, fingers tracing the contours of the map. "A raven to each house, confirming the truth of my words. Jon, I hope, will understand the need of a gradual integration. A hundred thousand Freefolk at our doorstep is a torrent we may not withstand."
Sansa, the bearer of unique insights, interjected, "Jon is accompanied by Tormund and a woman named Ygritte. Tormund, I know. He's a man of honour."
A flicker of disgust crossed his mother's face, her words laced with prejudice. "Wildlings have no such honour, they can't be trusted, Robb. Filthy, violent, uncouth—no manners. I won't have you associating with such people."
Sansa's gaze, steady, turned towards their mother. "I've known Tormund Giantsbane, Mother. In some ways, you speak the truth about the Free Folk. Survival beyond the Wall demands a unique set of skills. No dresses, no courtesies—just the raw necessities to endure. North of the Wall, they can't build castles like ours; they must wield steel to survive. At least their honesty is a blade honed by necessity. Jon... "
Mother's lips pressed into a tight line, an unspoken disapproval etched on her face. "That husband of yours," she sneered, the words laced with disdain that betrayed a stark contrast to her demeanour in the presence of Father and Jon. "is nothing more than dragonspawn, raised as a bastard. Mad as his grandfather. The more I ponder this lunatic plan, the more I question your support."
Robb, caught in the crossfire, sought clarity. "You backed Jon and Sansa's union, supported him as King. What's changed?"
A shift in his mother's stance, revealed her wavering resolve. "I've reconsidered. Robert is a good man." she said.
"Who won't see the year's end," Robb countered, his sister echoing the sentiment with a nod. "Robert, is a whoremongering, fat lazy King. Joffrey maybe golden-haired and handsome. But he is not the paragon of virtue you believe him to be." Sansa said.
"Do you forget the atrocities of the Mad King, your husband's grandfather? What his father did to our aunt? What happened to your Uncle and Grandfather? Your husband bears a legacy tainted with the blood of our kin." his mother's voice, laden with the echoes of past betrayals.
"Jon is as much a Stark as I am!" Sansa asserted, a spark of defiance in her eyes.
The proclamation elicited a sudden surge of anger from their mother, who, without hesitation, delivered a resounding slap across Sansa's face. "An annulment. As soon as he returns," their mother declared, her words a chilling decree.
Robb, standing witness to the familial clash, grappled with the desire to intervene. Sansa, however, held her ground, and a silent agreement passed between them—she knew Jon better than he did, and for now, she would be the voice. "What grounds warrant an annulment?" Sansa asked.
"Non-consummation. A certainty," their mother retorted, her disdain palpable. "Only Lannisters, Targaryens, and baseborn bastards engage in such incestuous relations. Cousins by blood, but raised as brother and sister. His blood may sing for it, but I know your heart, Sansa. You won't let him touch you."
With that proclamation, their mother stormed out, leaving behind a stunned Robb and a tear-streaked Sansa, her hand gingerly touching the red imprint on her cheek. The tears, Robb understood, were not born of weakness but of seething anger.
"How often does she do this?" Robb inquired, his voice a mixture of frustration and concern.
Sansa, gathering her composure, took a deep breath. "Mother is constantly trying to poison me against Jon. I don't think she realises she's only pushing me away. She doesn't seem to understand..."
The truth dawned on Robb, and he voiced the revelation, "You love him." Sansa nodded, the weight of her emotions mirrored in her tearful gaze. "How long?" he asked.
Sansa's gaze lowered, her admission weighed down by the burden of revelation. "I think it might have been before we returned, though I didn't realise it then. I was petty with Daenerys, too petty, blinded by jealousy," she confessed, finding solace in the hearth's flickering flames. Robb settled beside her, sharing the warmth and the heavy confessions that lingered in the air.
"I suppose I still clung to the hope that gallant knights and princes existed in the world, those who would save me," she continued, her eyes seeking understanding from her brother. "But Jon saved me in ways I can't articulate. I wanted him for myself, to share quiet evenings pouring over ledgers, drinking ale. Just the two of us, or simple talks, while I sewed, and he went through the ravens."
Robb nodded in comprehension. "It was the life you dreamed of as a girl. You were wed in every sense but one."
Sansa affirmed with a solemn nod. "Then... he met her. Gods, how I despised her," she admitted, her face contorting in disgust. "I knew they were... intimate. It was the one thing I couldn't provide. I was his sister; it wasn't proper. If only we had known back then." Her hands found her face, and the sobs overtook her. "I love him, Robb. I don't want Mother to force me into choosing between them," she confessed, her tear-stained eyes lifting to meet Robb's gaze. "But if I had to choose, I would choose Jon."
Robb, taken aback by the conviction in her voice, probed, "You hated him before. Have things changed so much that you would put him above Mother?" The complicated dance of emotions, entangled with family loyalties and forbidden affections, played out in the flickering firelight, casting shadows on Sansa's confession.
Sansa's affirmation carried weight in the dim-lit chamber. "I would. Not only that, but Melisandre was right. He is the Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai, the Last Hero," she declared. Robb, his brow furrowed, grappled with the revelation. The tales of the Last Hero were ingrained in the Stark children's memories, woven into the fabric of their upbringing. What made Jon so special in the tapestry of ancient prophecies?
"What makes you think that?" Robb inquired, his curiosity piqued.
"We only discovered Jon's truth upon our return," Sansa began, her gaze steady. "Bran tried to drop hints about Jon being... special. While Jon was on Dragonstone, Bran shared a story of a prophecy involving Aegon the Conqueror and Torrhen Stark. Aegon had dragon dreams, and Torrhen was a seer. Both knew the long night would come, and their descendants needed to unite to face the looming darkness—the song of ice and fire."
"The pact of ice and fire," Robb nodded in recognition. "Aye, I remember."
Sansa delved deeper into the revelation. "There's more to it. The blood of Aegon, a descendant of his, would guide us through the long night. He would unite the realms of men, be our saviour from the encroaching darkness surrounding Westeros. The saviour, born of ice and fire. I initially thought it was Daenerys. The ice part never crossed my mind. Jon wasn't a prince; how could it be him? But now I know the truth. Jon is the son of ice and fire." She paused, taking a deep breath. "How can I choose Mother above a man I love, whose destiny is to save the world?"
"Why did you think it to be about Daenerys? She isn't a prince, she's a woman." Robb interjected, a frown etching lines on his forehead.
Sansa clarified, "The prophecy is in Valyrian. 'Prince' can refer to both male and female."
"But what is your role in this? Did Bran mention you needed to marry this hero?" Robb pressed.
Sansa shook her head. "He told me I had a part to play. I could make the Prince stronger or weaker. In our last life, I made Jon weaker. I think this is the reason Bran sent us back. I can make Jon stronger by supporting him."
Robb, took Sansa's hand in his. "As soon as he returns, you must consummate the marriage," he stated, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
Sansa nodded, her eyes revealing a mix of determination and fear. "I know. But I'm scared of the pain. After what Ramsay did to me."
"Was the Queen enamoured with Jon?" Robb asked, a pragmatic edge to his inquiry. Sansa's nod prompted him to continue, "If she looked at him like he was a god, then Jon knows how to please a woman. I suspect this Queen would be very demanding, not one for continuing with a poor lover."
"No, I don't think she would be one to settle for anyone less than—exceptional," Sansa agreed.
The air in the room hung heavy with the weight of unsaid words and unexplored territories. The hearth's flickering flames cast eerie shadows, and Robb's questions, like spectres, lingered in the dimness. The ironwood table, now a replica of the Dragonstone painted table, bore silent witness to the Stark siblings grappling with the complexities of love, loyalty, and the unknown.
"And you trust Jon not to hurt you?" The question, uttered in hushed tones, created an undercurrent of discomfort. Sansa's response, a gentle nod of her head and a blush, unveiled unspoken intimacies between Jon and Sansa. "What are you afraid of?" Robb's question, hung in the air like the unsteady flicker of the candlelight. The room, adorned with Stark and Whitestark banners, harboured the echoes of ancestral duties and sibling bonds navigating uncharted waters. Sansa, the epitome of Northern resilience, met Robb's gaze with a soft smile—a subtle plea for understanding and acceptance. "If you are the one to make Jon stronger," Robb continued, his words laden with the weight of familial expectations, "put your own concerns aside and let him be your husband." The pragmatic counsel echoed through the room. The discomfort, palpable in Robb's unease, mirrored the shadows cast by Lady Catelyn's lingering presence. "It would be so much easier if you had a woman to talk to," Robb confessed, laying bare the limitations of fraternal understanding. Sansa's smile, a beacon in the dimness, held the promise of a forthcoming conversation with Gilly—a woman of trustworthiness and sweetness. In the style of Stark resilience, Sansa prepared to navigate the complexities of love and duty with the wisdom of a confidante, seeking solace in the company of shadows and flickering flames.
Sansa offered a warm smile. "Gilly will join us with Sam. She's trustworthy and kind. I can confide in her."
Robb acknowledged with a nod and a faint smile. "Good." He lifted a tankard of ale from the table, silent toast to the fleeting respite from familial intricacies, grateful that the discussion concerning Sansa and Jon had reached its conclusion.
"How many men will accompany you?" Sansa's practical inquiry cut through the dissipating tension, a reminder of the looming realities beyond the war room's confines.
"Father is sending sixty soldiers. They should be here any day," Robb replied, his voice carrying the weight of forthcoming responsibilities. The anticipation of his bannermen's loyalty lay heavy in the air, a palpable undercurrent beneath the surface. "Have you heard from Jory?"
"Not since he left Moles Town two days ago. He should be back on the morrow." Sansa yawned, a testament to the weariness borne of familial and political responsibilities, signalled the end of their deliberations. "I'm going to go to bed. I'll send the letter to Lord Commander Mormont on the morrow. Jon should still be at the wall."
"How do you know, Sansa?" Robb's inquiry carried a note of curiosity, a glimpse into the intricate knowledge Sansa held about the movements of those beyond the walls of Queenscrown.
"Jon won't be setting off until he sees the comet in the sky. Then he'll have an idea where to find Ygritte. It is also when Daenerys hatches the dragon eggs." Sansa's replied.
"How long before the comet is in the sky?" Robb's weariness mirrored Sansa's the encroaching fatigue, a reminder of the impending challenges that awaited.
"About four moons." Sansa's departure, punctuated by the murmur of her footsteps, marked the end of their nocturnal council. "Goodnight brother," she whispered, a sisterly kiss on Robb's cheek, leaving him alone in the room.
"Goodnight Sansa," Robb replied, finishing his ale, and heading to his chambers to rest..