310 Harrenhal
Sansa had worn the crown of Queen in the North. for four and a half years. A reign steeped in an unmistakable solitude. The passage of time etched with the bitter absence of her sister, Arya, whose pursuit of the mysteries west of Westeros left Sansa in a state of profound isolation.
Deep within her, an unspoken fear festered. Arya lost to her, whether dead or simply missing, deciding never to return. Bran, despite his mystical abilities, once a beacon of guidance, told her they faltered against the vastness of the open sea. His sight unable to pierce the horizon, and Drogon, the dragon they hoped to wield in the search, danced beyond his control, eluding their grasp. If he'd been able to see through the eye of the dragon, he may have been able to find her.
The weight of Arya's absence might have been bearable, if not for the enigma surrounding Jon's fate. The former King in the North embarked on a journey to Castle Black, crossed the Wall, and vanished into the icy unknown. Tormund's returns brought no answers; he spoke of Jon leaving with Ghost for a morning hunt, their traces swallowed by the wilderness. Yet somehow, Sansa suspected he knew where Jon was, but wasn't prepared to tell her.
Sansa's inquiry about Jon's whereabouts began with Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven. Yet, his response was cryptic, veiled in the enigmatic language characteristic of his newfound role. Every time he told her the same thing, it was best she didn't know, just that he existed in the past. He would tell her more when the time was right.
The complexities of Sansa's feelings toward Jon, contrasted with how she felt for Arya and Bran. The tangled emotions eluded her understanding. It transcended the mere distinction of him being her cousin rather than a brother or half-brother. Shared hardships bound them, and their parting had left a bitter taste. Their last encounter, Jon's courtesy masked an unforgiving undercurrent. Sansa harboured a silent hope for reconciliation, a distant dream she knew might never unfold.
Forgiveness, an elusive spectre, lingered as the crux of their discord. Throughout Jon's reign, he unknowingly served as Sansa's anchor, a pivotal figure in her life. In the cold light of adulthood, her childhood dreams, with the heroes they entailed, had turned into a naïve notion. That was until Jon emerged, breathing life into her hope. Sansa never told Jon how she felt, his significance surpassing that of any other person in her life, before or since.
As a young girl, Sansa had yearned for heroes. The life taught her the relics of a bygone era, if they even existed at all. Jon shattered that notion, offering a glimmer of reality to her childhood fantasies. The might-have-beens danced in her thoughts of what-ifs.
When Sansa left Kings Landing to return to Winterfell, a pardon had already been scripted. Ready for when she was crowned queen. Nobody would question her decision to bring him out of exile. She longed for Jon by her side, co-rulers of the North, a united force.
Grief, once a heavy cloak, had yielded to a resigned acceptance. Bran stood as her sole living kin, therefore the burden of carrying on the Stark legacy rested heavily upon her. An heir to Winterfell seemed an elusive prospect. The inevitability of marriage loomed, and though no shortage of suitors sought her hand, Sansa had postponed such considerations while focusing on the North's reconstruction.
Compromise, however, awaited her in the south. Harrenhal, the stage for Bran's five-year celebration as king, beckoned. The prospect of leaving Winterfell, the ancestral seat that demanded a Stark's presence, weighed heavily on Sansa's heart. Yet, Bran reassured her, promising resolutions to both her concerns and the Northern predicament.
Marriage, her personal dilemma, seemed to be the puzzle Bran intended to solve. Sansa, resistant to the idea of wedding a Southron lord, couldn't fathom what alternative Bran envisioned. All she knew was he had a task for her, and if she completed the task, he would give her the husband she deserved.
As his sister, duty compelled her to attend the celebrations, where the unknown fate of her future would unfold amidst the festivities. It wouldn't be the first time a tourney at Harrenhal would affect the fate of Westeros.
Amidst the impending celebrations, other matters loomed on Sansa's horizon. Bran's letter, a tantalizing promise of news regarding Jon and Arya, hung like a question mark in her mind. The revelation was reserved for a private tête-à-tête at Harrenhal.
Three years had passed since winter's icy grip relented, allowing spring to unfurl its blooms. The onset of summer eased the journey south, turning even Winterfell's walls into a haven for lighter dresses. Sansa, though no longer fond of such garments, recognized their necessity in the Riverlands. The warmth of her winter wardrobe would stifle her in the burgeoning spring heat.
The Riverlands, once ravaged by war, misrule, and winter, had transformed into a verdant paradise. Fertile farms toiled beneath the sun, trees cast soothing shadows, and rivers sparkled like diamonds, reflecting the sunlight in a dance of glistening waters. Even the ominous silhouette of Harrenhal, visible in the distance, appeared less gloomy against the backdrop of rejuvenated lands.
Harrenhal itself, a relic of darker times, was to be the stage for a strange event. Bran, against expectations, had sanctioned a tourney, an unusual choice given the history of the last Harrenhal tournament and its far-reaching consequences. The fields surrounding the castle would soon host a vibrant display of tents, each bearing the sigils of noble houses.
Another reason for Sansa's appearance, was Harrenhal itself. Once under the dubious ownership of Littlefinger, had unexpectedly become Sansa's burden as she uncovered her name in his will. More specifically, the name Alayne Stone, the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish. The revelation was discovered in the aftermath of Bran's ascent to the throne when the scramble for the rightful owners of castles and lands began.
Bran had refused to let her give the castle away. Instead, Sansa, harbouring no desire for the imposing castle, had suggested Bran appoint a trusted castellan in her stead. Bran suggested this option would transform Harrenhal into the seat for her yet unborn second son, or a daughter's dowry.
A convenient excuse, she thought, knowing the castle's proximity to the God's Eye and Isle of Faces hinted at deeper motives Bran might have harboured. His promise of children, had somewhat eased her concerns for the future of house Stark.
Amidst the financial challenges that plagued the Six Kingdoms, Bran still secured a substantial sum, a hundred thousand gold dragons, for the tourney's victor. The promise of such wealth ensured the event would be grand, drawing almost every house to take part. Yet, Sansa's invitation stood alone from the North, a calculated move to avoid any foreign northerner seizing the victory, while ensuring the tourney's coffers were filled from southern funds.
Sansa had always deemed Harrenhal the gloomiest, darkest castle in all of Westeros. The blackened towers, scarred by the flames of Balerion the Black Dread, stood as a stark testament to the destructive might of dragons. A lesson too recently learned to be forgotten. Merely five years prior, Daenerys Targaryen, in her descent into madness, had nearly erased King's Landing from the map. Like Harrenhal itself, a reminder of the danger of dragons. One which nobody wished to see repeated.
Approaching on horseback, Sansa pondered the appropriateness of her arrival. No need for clandestine entrances; the tourney loomed two months away. Bran, however, required her presence early, harbouring undisclosed matters regarding Jon. As the official Lady of Harrenhal and tourney overseer, she conceded to his wishes. Bran's reassurances of minimal issues in her absence carried a weight of trust she granted him.
As she neared, the towering outer walls obscured the tops of Harrenhal's five towers. Riding through the enormous gate, which was of a similar height to Winterfell's drum keep, Sansa found Tyrion waiting for her in the courtyard. Sansa had expected Bran to be the one to receive her, yet it was Tyrion, accompanied by Wyllem and Lettys, who knelt as she dismounted from her white palfrey.
Sansa approached Lord Tyrion, a courteous smile, hiding her disappointment, adorned her features as she neared. "Lord Tyrion," she greeted.
"Your grace. I am most happy to see you looking well." He said,
His warm smile revealing the passage of time. The once-prominent scar now a subtle detail among the lines etched on his face. A testament to the challenges faced as Hand of the King to Bran the Broken.
"As it is you, Lord Hand," Sansa acknowledged with a reciprocal smile. "And how is Lady Lannister?"
Tyrion, once the perpetual bachelor, had finally wed. He had married the youngest daughter of a minor lord in the Westerlands, a name even Sansa struggled to recall. The girl, dishonoured at a young age, faced challenges in securing a good match. Tyrion, showing compassion, had married her, a union, already proving fruitful with one child already born and, if rumours held true, another on the way.
"I am most well, your grace," Tyrion affirmed, gesturing to the couple beside him. "This is Ser Wyllem Brockway and his wife, Lettys."
Sansa smiled. "I would like to thank you for looking after Harrenhal for my future son or daughter."
"Your chambers have been made up in the Kingspyre Tower, your grace." Ser Wyllem informed her.
"Thank you, Ser Wyllem. If you would care to lead the way." Sansa said, trailing behind as they ascended what could only be described as a gargantuan structure. The Kingspyre Tower, despite its slightly lopsided appearance, stood as the largest tower she had ever laid eyes upon.
Upon entering her chambers, Sansa found a pleasant surprise. The walls, plastered and whitewashed, emitted a bright and habitable aura. A view of the godswood from one window offered a comforting sight. However, every other window revealed vast vistas that explained the tower's towering height—Harren the Black's strategy to oversee his dominion.
While not reaching the Wall's towering stature, she could witness the expansive landscape for miles, particularly on a clear day like today. The thought crossed her mind: useful against many threats, yet defenceless against dragons. Sansa could only hope that the sole remaining dragon would remain over in Essos and not cause trouble during the upcoming tourney.
Sansa's handmaiden, Cecily, followed her into the chambers, chattering animatedly about the views and the castle's peculiarities compared to Winterfell. Sansa welcomed Cecily's company; her talkative nature provided a welcome distraction from the weightier aspects of her responsibilities. There was a certain comfort in Cecily's ability to discern when to speak and when to maintain silence without Sansa needing to utter a word.
A knock on the door interrupted their exchange, revealing a breathless servant with a flushed face. "His grace would like to see you in his solar," he announced. "He says I am to escort you."
Bran's chambers, were on the ground. They lacked the grandeur of Sansa's, however their location were more practical considering Bran's chair. As the Lady of Harrenhal and a reigning Queen, Sansa's quarters held a certain regality. In contrast, Bran's chambers may have been smaller, but the solar surpassed hers in size. And at least it shared the same floor, unlike her own solar, which was below her chambers. Sansa had to admit to being a little bit jealous. She preferred the practicality over the grandeur. Such was the woman she had become.
Upon entering Bran's chambers, she found him seated with his familiar vacant gaze, his eyes milky-white. Without even speaking, she had an eerie feeling his attention still focused on her.
"Your grace," Sansa, tested the waters to see if he would respond.
Suddenly, his eyes returned to the Tully blue colour. "Your grace," Bran replied.
A smile graced Sansa's lips. "It is good to see you once more, Bran."
A faint smile curved Bran's mouth. "You too, Sansa. Please sit. I must speak with you about Arya."
"Your letter suggested it was about both Jon and Arya?" Sansa said, trying to prepare herself for the onslaught of bad news.
"First of all, Arya," Bran replied, his voice maintaining its typically monotone cadence. "She's alive and well, and will return to Westeros, one day in the future."
Excitement surged through Sansa, her voice betraying her anticipation. "Did she find what was west of Westeros?"
"Yes," Bran affirmed, unmoved by her enthusiasm. "She found the further east."
Sansa's disappointment flickered briefly. She had hoped for Arya to discover a new continent, however, her hopes of seeing Arya again, alive and well, took over the disappointment she felt on Arya's behalf.
"Now that I have found her, I can see when she will eventually return to Westeros, although not for another two years. She is still to have many adventures before she can settle," Bran explained, his enigmatic smile revealing little of the specifics. "She needs to be ready to settle. Arya has a purpose to serve."
"And Jon?" Sansa pressed on. "Is he alive?"
"He is. Jon is helping me. But now he needs your help." Bran revealed, prompting a frown to crease Sansa's forehead.
"How? He is north of the wall. Do you wish for me to pardon him?"
"Jon is where I sent him. You must join him, but you do not need to go north of the wall. That is the reason I brought you here."
"I can't just leave; I have the north to run."
Bran smiled serenely. "There is time. You won't be away for long. I'm sure you, of all people, understand the power of magic."
Sansa, having witnessed the extraordinary, couldn't deny the existence of magic. Unlike Bran, Jon, and Arya, who possessed unique magical abilities, she had no such powers. Jon had been resurrected, and she knew he could see through the eyes of Ghost, Arya mastered the art of faceless assassination, and Bran... well, Bran was Bran.
"Tell me more." Sansa said.
"I had to send Jon north of the wall for various reasons. Unfortunately, the green-magic there is weaker than it is at the Isle of Faces. Which is why he has been gone for so long. If you follow my instructions, you will be only gone for a moon's turn, although you will be where I send you, for what feels like four years."
Sansa wrestled with the dilemma of leaving the North to its own devices. Standing, she turned to face the giant hearth, contemplating the weight of the decision.
"If you don't, Jon will die, and the North will suffer. Something is coming." Bran warned.
The mention of Jon's fate seized Sansa's attention. The notion of a looming threat contradicted her belief that the White Walkers were vanquished. Turning to Bran, she voiced her confusion. "I thought they were gone."
"It is not the White Walkers. It is something else. A power that needs to be controlled. It must be controlled by ice and fire. Jon is the embodiment of ice and fire. You are ice kissed by fire. It must be you. If we do not control it, then the white-walkers will return. We need its magic."
Sansa sighed, a sense of resignation settling in. "What do I have to do?" she asked.
"You and I will journey to the Isle of Faces. I will give you some weirwood paste to help you with your journey. You will stay there for a moon's turn, if you follow my instructions carefully, you will wake after that time. As will Jon in the north," Bran explained. "The paste is more effective here, little time will pass during your absence. Jon needed to spend the entire time in the north because I couldn't send him to the Isle of Faces. Your times will merge when you arrive. The magic I am sending with you will bring him back sooner."
Concern etched Sansa's features as she questioned the practicalities, "And what about food, water, sleep?"
"The weirwood paste will sustain you. You need not worry about any bodily functions; eating and drinking will not be necessary."
Despite Bran's assurance, Sansa couldn't shake her worry. "What happens then?"
"Jon will find you. But be warned, Jon will be slightly different. He knows he is to meet someone, but not who. I am sending you back before you meet Jon to settle in."
"Settle in?" Sansa asked, her voice uneasy, reflecting her dislike of the vague directive.
"You are to spend time in the guise of another. You and Jon are there to gain knowledge," Bran said.
"Why could you not just tell us before Jon left?" Sansa asked.
"Two reasons. Time and enemies. Our enemies will be gone by the time he returns. And time was needed, especially for Jon," Bran reiterated, reminding Sansa of Jon's lingering distrust. "He needs to learn to trust you again. You cannot work together without that trust."
"How?" Sansa's desire to regain Jon's trust etched lines of determination on her face. "I did it because I thought he should be King. I believed he would make a just King. He I the most dutiful man I've ever met. No offence, your grace." She realised how Bran could have taken that comment as an insult, after all, he was doing a good job of managing the six kingdoms.
"None taken." Bran's smile revealed a confidence in his convictions. "I completely agree. He needs to become a King. He just doesn't know it yet."
Sansa's confusion deepened. "You are forfeiting your crown?"
"If you both succeed in what must be done, it will bring the unity, peace, and a security that has not been seen for thousands of years. But you must help Jon. Only you have the knowledge to help him on his quest." Bran side-stepped the answer.
"What are we looking for?" Sansa's curiosity spurred her inquiry.
"Knowledge. You will not realize you have gained the knowledge you need until you return," Bran cryptically explained.
"Isn't there an easier way to gain this knowledge than going into the heart of the weirwood?" Sansa asked.
"It cannot be taught because it is something magical, and you need to feel the magic. The same applies to Jon. It must be built slowly." Sansa nodded in acknowledgment of Bran's sagacious words. "It is about experience. It will help you deal with what is coming."
"Where are you sending me?" Sansa asked, settling back into her seat.
"You will find yourself in the years leading up to Robert's Rebellion. You will experience the entire period until the sack of Kings Landing. Do not think to try changing anything as will not be able to; you will be a merely a participating observer. Events will force you into the thick of everything that happens. Despite this, you will not be able to tell anyone of your knowledge, except Jon, when you meet him." Bran wore a rare smirk, an unusual expression for the Three-Eyed Raven.
"What?" Sansa's frown deepened, trying to discern the strange look on Bran's face.
"I am giving you four more years of life experience. Use it wisely. A Queen must learn everything she can to ensure there are no historical repeats." He warned.
Sansa nodded, realising she might see her family one last time. It was a chance she couldn't really refuse. "Will I get to see Mother and Father?"
Bran smiled and nodded. "Among others who died before you were born."
Excitement bubbled within Sansa at the prospect. "When do we leave?"
"On the morrow," Bran told her. "It will take two days to get there. I recommend you have a good night's rest."
Sansa rose gracefully from her seat and leaned over to Bran, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for letting me bring him home." She said with a slight frown. "He will return home afterwards, won't he?"
Bran nodded in affirmation. "Yes. He will be where he should be, which is not beyond the wall. Goodnight, Sansa. Sleep well."
Taking Bran's words as a dismissal, Sansa kissed him on the head and left his chambers. She returned to her own quarters with her heart thumping in excitement. Not only was she going to see the past and discover what really happened in the build up to Robert's Rebellion, but more importantly, she was to help Jon in his mysterious quest.