The Godswood of Winterfell sprawled across three acres of ancient woods, its existence predating even the castle itself. Legend whispered that upon first beholding this hallowed ground, Bran the Builder deemed it the perfect site for Winterfell's foundation. The tranquil haven bore a diverse assembly of trees—ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, ironwood, oak, sentinel, and soldier pine—each tasked with guarding the secrets of the North and the Old Gods.
At the heart of this sacred grove rose the ancient weirwood, its weathered trunk a monument to the memories of generations past. Believed to be ten thousand years old, the face carved by the fabled Children of the Forest bore an expression of melancholy. Its eyes filled with tears of red sap, peering into the depths of eternity.
The great weirwood overlooked a pool of cold, black water, now veiled beneath a blanket of snow. Upon the ground, the weirwood's crimson leaves stood out against the wintry landscape, their occasional descent casting an eerie hue reminiscent of blood upon fresh fallen snow.
As dusk descended and winter's icy grip tightened, the Godswood became a realm cloaked in pristine white. Lazy flurries of snow danced through the air, enhancing the ethereal ambiance of the grove. Along the winding footpath, illuminated by torchlight swaying in the gentle breeze, ten figures draped in black and adorned with grey wolf masks gathered, five on each side, their identities concealed amidst the silent whispers of the ancient trees.
Jon, alone, stood on the cracked footpath's right-hand side, closest to the heart tree. Like the others, he was cloaked and masked, yet he sensed a peculiar difference in his own mask, its true nature eluding him. Attempting to remove both cloak and mask proved futile—they were fixed in place, shrouding his own identity to those around him in mystery.
Turning his attention to the gathered figures in the Godswood, Jon found their faces turned away, anticipating the arrival of someone or something. As they waited in silence, Jon counted their small number, noting less than half a dozen on each side of the broken path. Seeking his loyal companion Ghost, Jon found no trace.
Emerging from the shadows, a woman approached, her face concealed behind a mask unlike the others—a white wolf with red eyes, perfectly capturing the image of Ghost. Beneath her billowing white cloak, much to Jon's surprise, was a plain white dress adorned with the red three-headed dragon, sigil of House Targaryen.
As she drew nearer, Jon strained to discern her identity, but her disguise remained impenetrable. All he could glean was her slender form, obscured by a high-hooded cloak that hinted at a stooped posture, concealing her height. The only clue to her identity was the subtle curves of womanhood, leaving Jon both intrigued and frustrated by her unknown identity.
Sansa tread down the torch-lit, fractured path toward the heart tree, flanked by others draped in black hooded cloaks, their faces hidden behind grey wolf masks. Despite wearing her own mask, Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that its shape was amiss. She had attempted to pry it off, but it clung to her face.
At the path's end loomed the heart tree, the destination Sansa knew she was to reach. Positioned at the forefront, on the right side, stood a figure adorned in a mask resembling a grey wolf with golden eyes—a perfect likeness of Lady. Clad in black, he seemed to blend into the shadows.
As her cloak billowed in the wind, Sansa lowered her head against the biting breeze, her attention drawn to her own attire. Her dress, she realised, was white, embellished with an embroidered Wolfswood falcon on her breast, its form crafted from sparkling crystals. The falcon's eyes gleamed with golden thread, while its beak bore a hue of blue. Deep down, Sansa recognized this as her new gyrfalcon fledgling, Grace.
Sansa reached the end of the path, where her future husband stood opposite her. Sensing someone behind her, she turned to find another man wearing the wolf mask. Despite the mask, Sansa recognized her father's essence.
"Father," Sansa whispered.
The masked face smiled. "I once promised you I would marry you to someone brave, gentle, and strong. Back then, you weren't ready for such a man. But now, as a woman grown, I see you are prepared."
Sansa longed to embrace her father, but something held her back, forces beyond her control. Instead, she replied, "Thank you, father," before turning around to face the man her father had chosen for her.
Fear should have choked her, for Sansa had been forced into two marriages already, neither of her choice. Now it would be a third, again with no consideration for her own preferences. Yet, despite this, Sansa felt a sense of calm about the man before her. Whoever he was, Sansa trusted her father's judgment. Perhaps, just perhaps, this time she would find happiness.
Stepping from behind the heart tree, a familiar figure emerged—a man in grey robes adorned with a maester's chain. With thinning white hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a gentle smile, Maester Luwin addressed the gathering.
"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" he inquired.
As the man beside the bride whispered her name, only she and Maester Luwin discerned it. To everyone else, only fragments of the proclamation reached their ears, "... comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"
The groom's voice, muffled by his mask, concealed his identity, leaving only the words, "Who gives her?" audible.
Transfixed, the spectators remained unaware of the identities of the couple. Neither bride nor groom knew each other, their voices and features hidden behind masks. Despite the mystery shrouding the ceremony, its purpose was unmistakable to all involved.
Northern marriage ceremonies were brisk affairs, with introductions followed by prayers and a cloaking ceremony, yet that part was missing. A celebratory feast would ensue, but again, this particular wedding deviated from the norm. Instead, the bride and groom were led to an unused chamber within the grand keep for the bedding.
Inside, a crackling hearth cast a warm glow, illuminating a vast four-poster bed that dominated the space. Despite the cosy and romantic ambiance, one significant issue persisted—they remained unaware of each other's identity.
Frustrated, the groom attempted to remove his mask, mirroring Sansa's own efforts. Yet, before she could catch a glimpse of his face, Sansa woke from her slumber. The entire peculiar wedding had been nothing but a dream—a vexing one at that, as she remained ignorant of her mysterious husband's identity. Perhaps it was a portent of yet another marriage in her future.
Jon found himself roused from his dream just as the bride moved to unveil her mask. Confusion engulfed him; throughout his life, he had never entertained thoughts of marriage, nor did he desire such a change. Jon couldn't bear to burden any wife or child of his with the Snow name, aware of the implications. Despite the loss of his honour, Jon remained resolute in his principles—he was not a man to inflict cruelty, especially upon an innocent child.
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Sansa determined that their daily routine of breaking their fast in her chambers had to cease. They needed to be more visible, seen dining in the great hall with everyone else. However, Jon insisted on warging into Ghost to assess the men he planned to spar with. Thus, they agreed to spend one last morning alone in her chambers before limiting such seclusion to twice a week. This arrangement would afford Jon the opportunity to warg into Ghost and communicate any necessary information to Sansa until little Grace was ready for Sansa to practise her skin-changing abilities on the bird.
As Jon settled into a comfortable chair, he relaxed his mind and body. Soon he was in the body of his enormous direwolf, gazing out across the training yard. There, he observed two Vale soldiers entering the armoury. Rising from his spot, Jon followed them, his paws padding across the slush-covered yard. He waited outside, listening to their conversation.
"No," one of them declared. "Don't believe a word of it."
"Old Royce swears by him," countered the taller soldier with mousy-brown hair. "And I trust Old Royce."
"He's called Old Royce for a reason, Jimmen. Hint, it's 'cause he's old." "Oh, fuck off, Trev. Anyway, I've heard he'll be in the yard this morning. Rumours are he's the best swordsman in the North," Jimmen remarked. "Pah, it's not exactly hard. All barbarians with axes and morning stars up in this shithole. Probably the only Northerner who's learned to swing a sword," Trev scoffed, and they both laughed.
"I'll show you," Jon thought to himself.
"Reckon we ought to provoke him? I hear he's got a temper," Jimmen suggested. "And how would you know that?" Trev inquired. "Well, a friend of a friend, of a friend—his brother is in the watch. Turns out the once dead Lord Commander can easily wrap his hand around a man's neck and lift him up with one hand," Jimmen relayed, sounding impressed with the knowledge. Jon himself was impressed that they had uncovered this part of his history. It was one of the many instances he'd experienced bursts of uncontrollable strength.
"And you believe that?" Trev asked.
"Not really, but I bet he's got a temper if you provoke him properly." Jimmen rightly said.
"How do you provoke a man who came back from the dead?" Trev pondered.
"Dunno. I suppose we could always talk about his sister," Jon could hear the glee in Jimmen's voice.
"Not again," Trev sighed. "For fuck's sake, Jimmen. If anyone hears you mouth off about what you'd like to do to Lady Sansa, you end up with your head on the block."
The fur bristled on Ghost's back as Jon continued to listen.
"I never said I wanted to do anything other than make sure she's a real ginger. Remember, the upstairs should match the downstairs thatch," Jimmen said.
"It's the other way around, you fucking idiot," Trev sighed. "The downstairs should match the upstairs thatch. Like a thatched roof? Knobhead."
"Ow!" Jimmen cried out.
Jon couldn't see what he was complaining about, but talking about Sansa in that way was doing him no favours.
"Keep your gob shut!" Trev snapped.
Jon realised he had missed part of the conversation, but it already fuelled his anger enough for a sparring session. Opening his eyes, he found himself back in Sansa's chambers. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"That was quick," she remarked. "What did you find out?"
Opting for a half-truth, he replied, "I think at least one of the soldiers has been spending too much time staring at the Lady of Winterfell for his own good."
Sansa's cheeks flushed pink, which struck Jon as odd. She had always been the object of men's admiration; he couldn't fathom why she was blushing. "Is that all?" she inquired.
"They want to provoke me to lose my temper. It seems my reputation has spread far and wide," Jon sighed. While he had been initially impressed with Jimmen's knowledge about what happened to Thorne that one time, it did concern him. How would Littlefinger react to such gossip? "I'm worried about one of the things they said about me."
"What?" Sansa asked before biting down on a grape.
"You remember I told you that sometimes, when I get mad, I'm different, stronger. Like when I held Ser Alliser up with one hand?" Jon asked, and Sansa nodded in understanding. "One of the soldiers knew. And if he knew..."
"Then Littlefinger either already knows or he soon will," Sansa interjected, leaning back and lacing her fingers together. Sansa wasn't sure if all men were like this; she had never witnessed it in her father or brothers. But in truth, she had never seen it in Jon either. From how Jon had explained it, he had no control over his strength, which was concerning. Yet she knew she was safe with him.
"I'm going down into the yard to spar," Jon declared, finishing his ale.
"I've got some ravens to go through. After that, I'm going to say goodbye to Maester Rhodry," Sansa informed him.
"Who's staying here as the maester?" Jon inquired, fastening his sword belt around his waist.
"Maester Medrick was assigned to House Hornwood, which, after Ramsay's death, no longer exists. I'm considering offering it to Larence Snow, the bastard of Halys Hornwood. But that comes with complications," Sansa explained, noticing Jon's frown of confusion. "The Manderlys will be unhappy, as Halys was married to Donella Manderly. Of course, the Glovers will be pleased, as he is being fostered there," she clarified, pinching her nose in frustration. "Anyway, until the situation with House Hornwood is resolved, we'll make use of his maester. Out of the three I've worked with, he seemed the best."
Jon approached her, cupping her face in his hands, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He hoped she didn't notice the lingering touch, driven by the forbidden desires stirring within him—traits of his bastard, Targaryen bloodline.
"Rather you than me," he grinned. "And whichever Maester it is, as long as you decide who to choose, then I trust you to make the right decision." With those words, he made his way to the door. "For now, my Lady," he bowed his head as he opened the door.
Sansa rolled her eyes affectionately, a smile playing on her lips. "Go hit something if it makes you feel better," she chuckled.
"Aye, it does," Jon replied, closing the door behind him.
"Men!" Sansa grumbled good-naturedly.
"I heard that!" Jon's voice echoed from the other side of the closed door, leaving Sansa alone at last.
Sansa touched her forehead where Jon had kissed her, feeling a warmth that lingered longer than expected. She pondered how Jon, with his limited experience in matters of affection, could gauge the propriety of a sisterly kiss. As far as Sansa knew, Jon had never given or received such a gesture, even a simple thank-you peck.
Entering the connecting solar, Sansa found Grace nestled in her cosy wooden box, chirping eagerly for food. Despite the chick's pleading, Sansa knew the importance of maintaining a feeding schedule. No amount of begging would sway her from her routine.
Seated at her desk, Sansa was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," she called out, half-expecting Littlefinger. To her surprise, Maester Medrick entered, welcoming himself into the room.
Maester Medrick, a man of middle age like many maesters, possessed a slim frame, grey hair, and thick, dark eyebrows highlighted his lively features. His face exuded a perpetual air of curiosity or humour, and Sansa couldn't help but smile at the thought of his playful demeanour. His talent for whimsical voices, a boon for him when his time came to treat the next generation of Hornwood children, a quality Sansa found endearing. Overall, she was already quite fond of the man, despite knowing him for only a short time.
"Please, take a seat," Sansa gestured to the chair opposite her. "How can I assist you, Maester Medrick?" she inquired once he had settled into his seat.
"This scroll arrived for Lord Baelish this morning," Maester Medrick replied, handing her the parchment sealed with the four chains of House Umber.
Sansa had a particular reason for keeping him close: he had agreed to help her infiltrate Littlefinger's ravens. The plan was simple - intercept his messages, copy them, and stay ahead of his schemes. With a furrowed brow, Sansa unfurled the scroll and read its contents.
Lord Baelish,
A group of wildlings has been sighted heading south, numbering around five thousand. However, I should note that at least half of them are children and the elderly. While we didn't witness their passage first-hand, some of the Bolton men who escaped to Last Hearth provided us with this information. They're on a trajectory toward Winterfell, having already traversed Long Lake. At their current pace, they'll likely arrive within a fortnight. Should I mobilise the remaining forces?
Lord Ned Umber
"What is it, my Lady?" Maester Medrick inquired.
Sansa handed him the letter and furrowed her brow in thought. Jon would need to handle this. "What do you think?" she asked.
"I believe Lord Jon should be the one to address this matter first," he suggested.
"How long can you keep hold of this letter?" Sansa inquired, stroking her chin. "Before Lord Baelish grows suspicious."
"Only a day, my Lady," Medrick replied.
"I'll bid farewell to Maester Rhodry and find Jon," Sansa decided. "In the meantime, I want all northern correspondence to Lord Baelish opened and copied. Let me review them, and I'll decide which ones he should receive."
"Do you believe this is wise?" Maester Medrick questioned. "What if he discovers our actions?"
"What can he do? I am the Lady of Winterfell. Those letters should rightfully be addressed to me," Sansa asserted, her tone sharp with frustration. Her ire wasn't directed at Medrick; it was aimed squarely at Littlefinger, who was overstepping his bounds as if he were the true Lord of Winterfell. "I need you to intercept any missives from the Red Keep, and anything involving House Tyrell," she added with a frown.
"Understood, my Lady," Maester Medrick acknowledged. "Would you prefer to review the accounts this afternoon, or shall we leave them for Lord Baelish?"
"As Lord Baelish wishes to play the role of Winterfell's lord, let him handle the dreary tasks," Sansa declared. "I'm dreadful with numbers, and accounting was his government role. But keep a close watch on him. I suspect his accuracy might not be as impeccable as it should be. Can we arrange for two copies of the accounts? One for Lord Baelish's official use, and another for my records?"
"I can make another copy this afternoon, although it might postpone my review with Lord Baelish. Perhaps tomorrow would be more suitable," Maester Medrick proposed.
"That will suffice," Sansa agreed, anticipating the maester's departure. However, he appeared unsettled.
"Is there anything else I can assist you with?" she inquired.
"It's just that Maester Rhodry informed me of Lord Jon's injuries and the miraculous recovery that allowed him to return to the land of the living. During my time at the Citadel, I developed a keen interest in the magics and myths of Westeros, as well as the religions spanning the known world. I would like to examine Lord Jon's wounds and, if possible, aid in their healing," the maester explained.
"I'm uncertain whether he'd be willing for you to study them; he seems uncomfortable with letting anyone see them. However, he might agree to you attempting to heal them. I know they cause him some discomfort. I'll speak with him about it," Sansa concurred, noticing the excitement on the maester's face.
"I'll begin work on that book and the copies you require," Maester Medrick offered as he rose from his seat, bowing respectfully. "My Lady."
"Thank you, Maester Medrick," Sansa replied with a smile as the maester exited the room.
Returning to her chambers, Sansa draped her cloak around her shoulders. It was time to bid farewell to Maester Rhodry, who was departing for Castle Cerwyn.