The sound of a horn blowing pierced through the air, alerting Sansa to the arrival of newcomers. She emerged from her chambers to find Bran, his face flushed red with embarrassment, and Robb, looking sheepish. Bran hurried ahead, seeking refuge from the embarrassment of his previous peeping antics.
"Did you speak with him?" Sansa whispered to Robb as they descended the steps.
Robb nodded, his expression reflecting the mortification of the encounter. "Thank you for that. It was the most humiliating thing I've ever had to do."
"I'm certain Arya will top it," Sansa remarked with a smirk as they reached the courtyard.
A small crowd had gathered, their laughter echoing in the air. Among them were the familiar voices of Theon and Ygritte. Sansa manoeuvred through the throng until she spotted them, both wearing broad smiles.
Theon appeared different, his once short hair had now grown long, and a beard reminiscent of Jon's adorned his face. Sansa fought back a laugh; he didn't look absurd, but peculiar. Ygritte remained unchanged, though the scowl that often graced her features was absent. As her gaze settled on Theon, there was a hint of something in her eyes—affection, perhaps even love.
Sansa pondered the potential dynamic between Theon and Ygritte. With Theon holding a prominent position in their military ranks, a union between a Freefolk and a figure of high status in the North could improve relations between the Wildlings and Westeros. Although, she couldn't help but wonder what Jon's reaction would be, given his history with Ygritte. Would he feel a pang of jealousy toward Theon?
Sansa pushed aside such musings. Dwelling on insecurities about her relationship with Jon served no purpose. Despite their limited time together as a married couple, she needed to quell such doubts. Instead, she approached Theon and enveloped him in a hug.
"You look well," she complimented with a smile.
Theon's expression darkened. "You do not." His gaze lingered on the yellowing bruises marring her face.
"It's nothing," Sansa dismissed with a shake of her head.
"It doesn't appear to be nothing," Theon retorted, his tone sharp.
"She risked herself for the Freefolk," Tormund interjected, drawing attention to Sansa's bravery.
Both Theon and Ygritte exchanged surprised glances. Ygritte, Jon's former lover, had always regarded Sansa with disdain, but now her gaze held a sceptical edge.
"I wouldn't say that Tormund," Sansa admitted, her cheeks flushing.
"That evil fucker was targeting all the Freefolk women with hair like fire. Lady Whitestark thought she was his next victim. So she ventured down to the lake alone. She was right. The bastard tried to assault her, wielding a knife. If it weren't for the wolves, she'd be dead," Tormund recounted, prompting another blush from Sansa.
Theon's eyes widened. "The Boltons?" he inquired.
Sansa felt a surge of satisfaction wash over her. "It was worth every bruise," she smirked, relishing the thought of Ramsay's demise once more.
Tormund draped his arm around her, drawing her close. "She may appear delicate on the outside, but inside she's got the makings of a true warrior. All we need to do is ply her with sour goat's milk," he grinned.
Sansa shot Tormund a pointed look. "You only want me drunk on that stuff to settle your bet."
"Me?" he feigned innocence. "I would never." Laughter rippled through the courtyard.
Turning to Theon and Ygritte, Sansa offered, "I'll have the servants draw your baths. Your rooms are prepared and waiting."
"Um, Sansa, I mean, Lady Whitestark. Would you mind if Ygritte and I shared a room?" he inquired.
Before Sansa could respond, Ygritte interjected, "He stole me," showing their relationship according to Freefolk customs. Sansa, familiar with their traditions, understood the implication. By their laws, Theon and Ygritte were married. While Sansa had suspected their closeness and potential for marriage, the revelation still caught her off guard. Yet, she swiftly composed herself.
"I suppose congratulations are in order. Of course, you may share a room. I believe this calls for a small feast," she announced with a smile.
"Theon, can you help me with my archery?" Bran asked.
Theon looked up to Sansa, who nodded. "Aye, I'll give you a few lessons," She watched as Theon tousled Bran's hair. "But Ygritte here is better than me," he added with a slight smile. At that moment, Sansa realised Theon's genuine affection for the wildling woman. Theon was so cocksure about his abilities, and now he was deferring to a woman.
He turned to Sansa, a request clear from the expression in his eyes. "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with you in private," he requested.
"Of course," Sansa agreed. "Shall we adjourn to my solar?"
Theon nodded, looking somewhat uneasy. "Would you like to rest first?" Sansa inquired.
"I'll let Ygritte take a bath first," Theon replied, looking uncomfortable.
"Follow me," Sansa said, leading Theon to her solar.
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Sansa sat in her solar across from Theon. He cradled a horn of ale, while she sipped from a cup of watered-down cider. Despite Theon and Ygritte's mission to establish settlements for the Freefolk, Sansa sensed that their conversation veered toward a different topic altogether. After all, any discussion involving settlements would involve Mance.
"Was it a spur-of-the-moment decision, or did you plan it?" Sansa inquired.
"I planned it for days," Theon confessed, surprising Sansa. "But I want to do it right. I understand that Freefolk customs won't be embraced south of the Wall. Ygritte doesn't like it, but she understands I can't change that. So we want to wed according to the old gods," he explained.
"But don't you worship the Drowned God?" Sansa queried.
"Not really," Theon replied, shaking his head. "I don't believe in any gods. But the Freefolk follow the old gods, and it feels right to formalise our marriage in their way."
"And what about your father?" Sansa pressed. "He won't be pleased with this arrangement."
"From what you've told me, my father couldn't give a damn about me. Asha is his heir, not me. I've spent too much time on land, haven't I?" Theon remarked.
Sansa's heart sank. There were many aspects of the life Theon could have led that she had not disclosed to him. Being rejected by his father was one of them. Theon had pieced it together on his own.
"Do you wish to marry here in Queenscrown?" Sansa inquired, though she already knew the answer.
Theon shook his head. "I've grown up with the Winterfell Godswood. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. I'd like to marry her there," he declared.
Sansa nodded in understanding. "The decision isn't mine to make. It would be up to Father or Jon. I wish I could say it would be straightforward, but there's a risk it could upset your father and provoke him to invade the North," Sansa remarked, pinching the bridge of her nose. The memory of the previous war sparked by Theon's actions lingered in her mind. Was history about to repeat itself?
"I have no intention of waging war against the North if that's what you're worried about," Theon assured her. "I want to settle down here."
Sansa knew Jon's desire to grant Theon the Dreadfort and a lordship, but she hesitated to make any promises until they were certain they could deal with Roose Bolton. There was the pressing issue of protecting the North while its forces were away fighting Jon's battles in the South. Suddenly, an idea struck her.
"I can't reach Jon; he's leaving King's Landing in a few hours and is preparing for his departure. He'll be occupied with transferring his belongings to the ship. I'll write to Father, and we can discuss it with Mance. If the Freefolk who remain agree to defend the North against any potential retaliation from your father, then I'm confident we can agree. You'll have to accompany me to Winterfell, along with anyone Ygritte wishes to bring," Sansa proposed.
Theon nodded thoughtfully. "I expected it would be complex," he acknowledged. "But our union is already sealed. Father can't undo that. Now it's just a matter of formalising it with documentation and witnesses."
Sansa concurred with a nod. "Jon is reluctant to involve the Freefolk in his conflict, preserving their strength for the looming battle against the army of the dead. Yet, I believe they will safeguard the North, especially with one of their own at the centre of the issue."
"Thank you, Sansa," Theon expressed with a smile.
"You won't have much time to rest. We depart for Winterfell in a few days. Mance and I will need your recommendations on settlement locations," she informed him.
"I've already prepared it, your grace," Theon smirked at the formal address.
"Freshen up," Sansa urged him out of her solar. "I have a small feast to arrange and a discussion with Mance." She smiled as Theon bowed and exited, leaving her alone.
Despite her happiness for Theon, Sansa felt a headache creeping in. She rose from her seat, smoothed her skirts, and descended to the kitchen to organise the feast.
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The morning dawned with the most brutal hangover Sansa had ever experienced. The previous night's feast had been lively and enjoyable, but Sansa had let herself get carried away with the revelry. Part of her celebration was for Theon and Ygritte's marriage, as it meant she no longer had to feel uneasy whenever she saw the wildling woman near Jon. She could now relax in her presence and get to know her better.
Tormund had insisted that it was customary for everyone at the feast to drink sour goat's milk. Sansa doubted the truth of his claim, but she refrained from calling him out, not wanting to disrespect their customs. She indulged in the foul-tasting concoction. Though she had only consumed a single cup, it had left her far more intoxicated than she was accustomed to. Sansa wasn't a heavy drinker, so it had taken little effort. Now, however, she was paying the price.
With a dry mouth that felt like sawdust, Sansa reached for the water on the bedside table. She checked on the dragon egg resting by the hearth, noticing that the fire needed another log. Summoning the strength to rise from the bed, she placed a small log on the fire to keep it burning. After greeting both Ghost and Lady, she prepared herself for the day ahead.
To her surprise, her breakfast was delivered by Sam, who also brought her some powdered willow bark to ease her pounding headache.
"How did you know?" Sansa inquired as she mixed the powder into some water and downed it in one gulp.
"I drank the goat's milk too, your grace," Sam replied, shaking his head. "Never again."
Sansa chuckled. "Jon says that every time."
"He warned me, as did Gilly," Sam admitted, handing over a message. "Maester Fell asked me to deliver these to you."
"Thank you, Sam," Sansa acknowledged, accepting the scroll from him. The plain black wax seal indicated it was likely the news she had been expecting.
Sam departed, leaving Sansa to her breakfast of bread and crispy bacon, washed down with watered-down cider. Once alone, she wasted no time in breaking the seal and scanned the contents of the letter.
Dear Sansa
You will need to line an ironwood box with a special paste made from:
Ten parts dragonglass
Two parts sand,
A quarter part weirwood paste
One part water.
Paint the mixture onto the inside of the box, only a thin layer is needed. Leave it to dry for at least an hour. Once dry, fill the box with molten dragonglass. Place the item inside molten dragonglass, leaving just the top of the item visible. Do this the day before you leave, to allow it to cool from the outside. The dragonglass may feel cool to the touch, but it will keep the item warm on the inside. Dragonglass is what was used on Dragonstone. Or so I am led to believe.
You will need a weirwood branch to make your smithy hot enough to melt the dragonglass.
I believe Samwell Tarly may be of use to you in this experiment.
Good luck.
Maester Aemon
So, that was the crucial information for transporting the egg south. Sansa had been awaiting this letter, knowing she couldn't depart Queenscrown until it arrived. Doggedly, she swung open the door and called out to Sam, who was already at the end of the corridor.
"Sam!" she called after him.
Sam turned around. "Yes, Lady Whitestark?"
"Could you come back? I need to speak with you for a moment," she requested.
Sam hurried back to Sansa's room, his round face flushed and his breath laboured from the haste. Sansa shut the door behind him and gestured for him to follow her into her chambers, where Sam appeared visibly uneasy.
"How can I assist you, your grace?" he inquired.
Sansa took a deep breath, knowing she was about to share a significant secret. The only individuals aware of the dragon egg besides Jon were Maester Aemon, with whom she had been corresponding, and now Sam.
"Read this," Sansa instructed, passing the letter to Sam.
He furrowed his brow as he perused the contents of the letter, then looked back at her with a puzzled expression. "Is he referring to dragon eggs?" Sam inquired, and Sansa nodded. "Do you possess one?"
Sansa led him to the hearth and pointed to the white egg with red veins, though the veins remained concealed by the flames.
"We found it in our special cave," Sansa disclosed. "We've been keeping it in the fire. Jon says it's incubating. He believes it is alive, he can feel it."
"Seven hells," muttered Sam.
"Jon and I have only shared this with Maester Aemon, and now you. It's a secret that must be safeguarded. Not even Gilly can know," Sansa emphasised.
"Of course," Sam assured her.
"Do you think you can manage it?" Sansa inquired.
"We have plenty of dragonglass," Sam nodded. "There are a couple of weirwood trees nearby to gather the sap. We've also got sand for the mortar. We just need a box and to apply the paste."
"How long do you think it will take to complete?" Sansa pressed.
"The box and paste can be prepared today. We might even have enough time to fill the box with dragonglass. However, I'm uncertain how long it will take to heat the furnace enough to melt the dragonglass. Typically, wood would have the opposite effect, but weirwood bark is unique and possesses properties even the maesters don't fully comprehend. However, I believe the box could be ready by tomorrow. If we place the egg inside in the morning, it should be ready to transport the following day, if Maester Aemon's theories are correct," Sam explained.
Sansa led Sam into her solar. "I want you to transcribe everything. Avoid making it clear that it's for an egg. I'll allow a decree so that your requests will be prioritised. The carpenters and smiths will cease their current tasks and focus on this," she instructed.
They both settled at her desk, Sam transcribing the recipe while Sansa drafted the missives. She sealed the letters with her wax emblem. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can head to Winterfell," she remarked.
"Is there anything else, your grace?" Sam inquired.
Sansa shook her head. "Once you've completed your preparations, I want you and Gilly to get ready to depart. After the egg has been packed away for a day, we'll set off for Winterfell."
Sam grinned. "I'm eager for it," he said. "I'll get started right away." With a respectful bow of his head, he left Sansa to her breakfast.
As she leaned back and took a sip of cider, Sansa realised that not only had her headache vanished, but today marked the day of the royal wedding. It seemed like it was going to be a promising day indeed, Sansa smiled at the thought.
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Maester Fell and Mance Rayder had joined Sansa in her solar before she went to visit Ser Barristan. She had expected the journey to Winterfell to take place in just under a sennight, but now it had been reduced to two days. Jon trusted Mance, so Sansa also placed her faith in the King of the Freefolk. However, she wanted assurances that Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, would be treated with respect if left in Mance's care.
"Maester Fell, when do you expect Ser Barristan to be ready to journey south?" Sansa inquired.
"He's not recovering as quickly as I'd hoped," Maester Fell sighed. "But he's no longer a young man. As we age, the healing process takes longer. I would recommend a sennight for travel by carriage, while a moon's time would be preferable for horseback," he explained.
Sansa turned to Mance. "We plan to depart in two days. Can I count on your assurance that he will be treated with the utmost care? He is not only the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but also a very important man to Jon."
Mance nodded. "Aye, we'll take care of him," he assured her before turning to the Maester. "We have some poultices that might be more effective than those used in the south. We could offer help in his recovery," he offered.
Maester Fell appeared uneasy at the suggestion of using wildling medicines, as he likely considered them to be unorthodox. Sansa saw an opportunity to foster goodwill and nodded in agreement with Mance's proposal.
"If Ser Barristan agrees, I can't see why not," Sansa stated firmly, while Maester Fell appeared aghast at the suggestion. "I think we ought to ask Ser Barristan right now."
Sansa rose from her seat, motioning for the two men to follow her. They made their way to Ser Barristan's room, where Sansa knocked gently.
"Come in," Ser Barristan's voice responded from the other side of the door, though it lacked its usual strength.
Sansa entered first, signalling for Maester Fell and Mance to wait outside for a moment.
"Your grace," Ser Barristan attempted to rise, but Sansa gave him a stern look.
"Lie down, Ser Barristan. I need you whole and well, which means rest," she instructed.
"Yes, your grace," Ser Barristan complied, and Sansa noticed a flicker of relief on his face.
She settled into a chair beside his bed and took his hand in hers. "Ser Barristan, a northern council, is to be convened soon. Jon will be returning north, which means I must travel south to Winterfell."
"Of course, your grace. When do we depart?" he inquired.
"I will leave in two days, but you won't be going anywhere for at least a month," Sansa informed him.
Ser Barristan looked horrified. "How can I protect his grace from a bed?" he asked, his concern clear.
"Jon will be perfectly safe in Winterfell," Sansa reassured him. "But we need you well for when we begin our campaign. That means following the Maester's orders precisely. However, Mance tells me the Freefolk have their medicines, which might prove beneficial to you if you're willing to try them. If their practices succeed, it could speed up the healing process."
"I'll try anything," Ser Barristan agreed.
"May I let Mance and the Maester in to hear your agreement?" Sansa inquired.
"Of course, your grace," Ser Barristan replied, offering a weak smile.
Sansa beckoned them inside. "Maester Fell, Mance, you may enter now," she called out.
"I am committed to doing whatever is necessary to regain my health," Ser Barristan informed them. "I will accept the treatments offered by the Freefolk."
"These treatments may not yield results," Maester Fell interjected.
"And if they don't, at least yours will," Sansa replied with a sweet smile. "But there's no harm in trying."
"We have experience with injuries like his," Mance explained. "We often treat such wounds."
"Very well, that settles it," Sansa concluded, clapping her hands together. "Mance, please search for your best healers. And before you go, there will be a meeting with Theon and Ygritte in my solar this afternoon."
"Aye, Lady Sansa. I'll find a healer and see you this afternoon," Mance acknowledged before departing to find the healers.
Once Mance had departed, Maester Fell let out a sigh of relief. "I'm not convinced about this," he cautioned.
"What harm could it do?" Sansa countered.
"As long as their methods don't conflict with mine, and I oversee everything they do," Maester Fell replied with another sigh.
Sansa turned to Ser Barristan. "Are you in agreement?"
"Anything to regain my health and serve your graces," Ser Barristan affirmed with a smile.
Sansa rose from her seat and smoothed her skirts. "Excellent. I'll visit you tomorrow and just before we depart. Uncle Benjen and my brother Bran will remain behind to keep watch," she assured him.
"I wish to be prepared for when we march to war," Ser Barristan insisted.
"You will be ready," Sansa reassured him. "Now, I'll let you rest."
"I'll expect you tomorrow, your grace," Ser Barristan bowed his head.
"Tomorrow, Ser Barristan," Sansa acknowledged with a smile. With that, she left Ser Barristan to rest, while she and Maester Fell to make preparations for the journey to Winterfell.