CHAPTER SIX: THE RED WOLF I

A lady-wolf dreams of the Wall, and escapes Winterfell in the hand of a turncloak. Encountering a saviour, she heads North, to her brother. All the while, dreams of death and magic fill her nights.


The leap is, somehow, the easiest part of all.

The snows are high and thick, the storm not quite having let up. Sansa feels cold in a way she never has before, never once in her youth amongst summer snows and endless skies of blue. She was born at the end of the last Winter, but she grew up in the Long Summer, dreaming of a faraway land of stories, a land she thought lay south of her home. But it did not. It never did.

Theon's grip on her hand never wavers, though, and she takes comfort in him, at the very least. She's scared beyond words, but still, some part of her is a girl that knows Theon is her brother in all but name, and that he's there to protect her, even if she never says so. Even this new Theon, who is broken and can barely meet her eyes half the time, is at least trying to protect her.

They run for hours through the cold and through the snow. For the first few, there's a quiet in the woods around them, and then they hear the first bark, far in the distance, and they both freeze where they stand, exchanging a glance. Theon's eyes are wide and wild, and for a moment, she thinks he's going to stop moving and they'll either both be found or she'll have to leave him, but after a moment, he seems to regain himself, grabbing her by her hand again and pressing ahead once more.

She feels like crying, feels like screaming, but they're all stuck in her throat and behind her eyes, the stinging cold the only thing she feels, save for choking fear. They both know what type of man they've just run from, and Myranda's promises echo in her ears, even now. Ramsay would break them both, all over again, and there would be no coming back from that. She doesn't want to lose what little left she has of herself still.

If (it has to be if in her mind, because if she lets it become when, he's already won) Ramsay gets his hands on her again, all she would be able to do is pray that Jon or maybe someone who can rally the North will come get her before it's too late, before she gives herself the mercy of death. If Ramsay even lets her have the opportunity. He's just as likely to let her think she can end it all, give her that hope, before coming in at the perfect moment, and making her pay for trying to win.

By the time they reach the river, the barks are louder than ever, and she's so afraid it takes everything in her to move. Her foot touches the ice-cold water and she gasps out a breath, clinging desperately to Theon as she says, "I can't."

His grip on her tightens, and he tells her, looking more like himself as he does, "It's the only way to throw off the hounds." He sounds as desperate as she feels, and looks twice as afraid, but he's lived with this longer. She doesn't know how to be brave, staring across the river, feeling how cold it is.

"But it's too cold. I can't. I won't make it. I'll die," she tells him, clinging to him desperately, heaving for breaths as her tears freeze in the corners of her eyes. He looks up at her with his blue eyes, holding her hand tightly as he speaks like an older brother, speaking with seriousness but with so much care, too.

"I've seen what his hounds do to a person," he tells her, and she shudders at the memory of Ramsay's brood of bitches. He glances back, the barks steadily growing louder. "This way is better."

For a moment, she stands there, cold and afraid. But then she looks North, thinks of who exactly she's running to, and then she meets Theon's eyes again and nods. Helping her down, he guides her through the icy cold water, grip never relenting on her hand as she gasps and sobs slightly behind him, the cold seeping into every inch of her skin. Theon seems almost unaware of the cold, and she wonders if that's from Ramsay or his childhood on the Iron Islands.

They slow down a bit after the river, Theon limping heavily and her shivering from the cold. It's growing steadily darker, and she tries to find the strength to keep going as her fear never seems to quite let up, never quite lets her go. Even then, she lets Theon guide her to the safety of a fallen tree, sitting down for what she promises will be just a moment as they catch their breath.

For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the snow as it falls gently all around them, shivering from the cold and fear. Theon's saying her name, she thinks, but she can barely hear him over her own roaring heartbeat, over her own shaking breaths. But what she does feel is when he pulls her in for a hug, rubbing her back like mother used to do, rocking her softly as all her energy bleeds out of her in a massive rush, causing her to go limp against his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind, though.

It doesn't last long, though. The barks start up again, louder than ever, and she feels herself go utterly still against Theon, clinging to him desperately as he stands up, as voices draw closer. A scream presses against her gritted teeth, and she looks up frantically at Theon. He meets her eyes, and she sees an all too familiar resolve in his eyes. "Stay here," he tells her. "I'll lure them away."

"No," she whispers, holding onto him even tighter. He crouches back down, looking at her with those wide, wild eyes. "No, please. I won't make it without you. Stay here, please, Theon–"

"–You will," he cuts her off, and coming from him it's almost hard to believe otherwise. It would be impossible, if her back didn't ache from still healing wounds, if she couldn't still feel everything Ramsay had done to her, if she knew she wasn't bleeding slowly from shallow cuts on her back. "Go North, only North. Jon is Lord Commander at Castle Black. He'll help you."

For a moment, she stares at him, afraid beyond words. He meets her eyes properly then, something in his eyes reminding her of how Robb looked, in those brief moments before he'd been dragged away from her in the Throne Room. The dogs are getting louder now, and she closes her eyes once Theon pulls away, hugging her knees to her chest and trying to think only of Jon, waiting at Castle Black.

She doesn't think Ramsay quite knows what he gave her, when he told her that little tidbit. Jon, The Lord Commander. One of the most important men in The North is her brother, her big brother, Jon. If anyone can protect her, if there's anyone she knows who could probably beat Ramsay Bolton within an inch of his life and feel nothing as he does, it would be Jon. Jon, she thinks. I need to get to Jon.

Theon is speaking. She hates how he sounds now, how unlike the boy she grew up with he is now. Gone is his pride and his arrogance and all the annoying things that she thinks she now misses, and all that's left is a shell of her brother. But he's still Theon, somewhere amidst it all. Otherwise, he would never have jumped off of Winterfell's walls with her.

But it's not enough. The dogs crowd her, the soldiers leering down at her, and she tries to find strength, tries to find courage, but she's cold and she's afraid, and she doesn't want to go back. She can't go back. A soundless sob rises in her throat as the dogs press ever closer, Theon standing beside her, still trying to protect her in whatever way he can.

One of them grabs her, and she knows that Ramsay won't say much if one of them takes some of her too, sadistic as they all are. So she struggles, tries to find the wildness of Arya, the strength of her brothers, the ferocity of little Rickon, the spirit of Bran. But she's been gone from home for so long, any of it she may have lies buried deep within her, and she can't get it fast enough.

But then, one of the horses whinny, and all the men whirl, drawing swords as they see something she cannot. One of the men calls out rider, and Sansa is dropped back into the snow as the hammering of horse hooves drowns out all else, and a rider comes crashing through the trees, sword glimmering in the evening light.

Her saviour is pushed from their horse, and Sansa gasps, thinking her hope has been stamped out before it had a chance to even ignite. But her fear is quickly abated as her saviour, who is not only a woman, but who Sansa thinks she might just recognise, kills one of the Bolton men. She glances around, and sees her saviour's companion, locked in a fight with one of the Bolton men.

She hears the sound of a sword being picked up, and she gasps as she sees Theon, a sword in hand, standing protectively in front of her. The lady's companion is engaging another of Ramsay's men, and the fear comes back. She's no Arya, she never tried to learn swordplay, but she'd glimpsed enough of Robb and Jon in the swordyard over the years to know he's not nearly as good as his opponent.

But her fear, again, does not last long as, without warning, there is suddenly a sword in the man's neck. She gasps, staring at Theon with his wide eyes and shaking hands, shivering as he steps back and drops the blade into the bloody snow. He glances back at her, and without another glance at their saviours, comes to her side, and helps her to her feet, letting her lean on him as the lady and her friend come to stand before them.

"Lady Brienne," she breathes, and the woman nods, looking at Sansa imploringly. Sansa glances only at Theon as Lady Brienne comes closer, bending a knee in front of her and laying her sword in the snow. Sansa stares at it for a moment, somehow knowing that she's looking at Valyrian Steel. Even still, Sansa knows her courtesies, at the very least. "Thank you."

"Lady Sansa, I offer my services once again," Lady Brienne says, the shake of her voice betraying how desperately she wants Sansa for her to take her up on it, this time. And Sansa plans to, now that Baelish is not whispering poison in her ear again. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and…" She realises, suddenly, that she doesn't know the rest of it. She once did, she's fairly certain, still a girl who dreamed of Knights of Summer, and Tourneys that lasted forever, and heroes from ages long since gone. She glances first at Theon, and then at Lady Brienne's companion, who smiles kindly at her, dipping his head as he supplies the rest.

"Meat and mead at my table."

Sansa nods, and looks back at Brienne of Tarth, her saviour. "...meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise." Brienne does just that, coming close to where Sansa and Theon stand, resting a hand on her shoulder as she looks at Sansa kindly.

"Where to, my lady?" The woman asks, and Sansa suddenly realises that she doesn't know what to do. She'd trained to be the Lady of a Keep, trained to be the Queen of the Realm, but she never trained on how to run away, how to ask someone to keep her safe, how to tell a woman who seems fiercer than a wolf that all she wants is her brother.

"Jon–" she starts to say, but she's cut off by her own gasped-out sob, and a sudden weakness in her knees. Theon cries out her name, but it's Brienne who stands in front of her, so it's her who catches Sansa before she can collide with the ground. Sansa looks to Theon and sees the exhaustion rushing over him too. Brienne's companion, without even an order, helps Theon before he too can meet the snowy ground below them.

Brienne is all but carrying her by the time they get the horses all in order, helping her into the saddle. She glances at Theon and sees he's still largely upright, which is better than she's doing. Shivering, not entirely from the cold, she holds on tight to her horse as Brienne slowly leads them through the forest, her hands holding both her reigns and Sansa.

She doesn't come back to herself until it's well past nightfall and they're sitting around a dim campfire. Theon is sleeping fitfully beside her, and someone has wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and one over him, and when she glances up, Brienne's companion is handing her a warm cup with an even warmer smile on his face. She thanks him and asks his name, which is Podrick.

"Thank you," she tells Brienne again, sipping on the warm drink. She's not quite sure what it is, but it's good. Brienne nods at her, smiling a little awkwardly as the conversation peters out, Sansa feeling a little too tired to try and figure out what to say.

Eventually, Brienne breaks the silence, glancing at Theon. "He said your brother is the Lord Commander at The Wall. Is that who you were speaking of, before…?" Her questions trails off, but Sansa gets it well enough, nodding, holding tight onto the cup. "I will take you to him, if you so wish, Lady Sansa. When I swore myself to your mother, I promised to bring her daughters to safety."

Even if Brienne had been ordered to bring Sansa somewhere away from Westeros, even if she'd been ordered to bring Sansa to someone else, Sansa thinks she'd dig her heels in until Brienne brought her to Jon. Her younger siblings are nowhere near close enough to her to protect her, and of her three big brothers, Jon is the most likely to really be able to fight and keep her safe. She wants her big brothers.

Robb is who knows where, now, a prisoner of the Lannisters still, if he's even still alive. Theon has gotten her this far, yes, but she can't say how much of his strength came from adrenaline and fear and what will happen to his fragile state once he's truly safe. Jon is the one true hope she has left, and she suddenly wants him more than anything she's ever wanted before.

"Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Podrick asks her, and she suddenly realises she'd been crying with a twinge of embarrassment. But when she looks at Brienne and Podrick, there is no stinging pity on their faces, nothing but gentle understanding and care. It makes her cry harder, her sob waking up Theon, and then he's hugging her close, hands intertwined on their laps.

Brienne is looking at Theon like he's a puzzle she can't quite figure out. She likely knows who he is, by now, but whatever commentary the woman might have about him she does not offer up. Sansa is grateful for it, not wanting to have their travel be highlighted by cold silences and unbearable accusations. Theon saved her, and that's clearly enough for Sansa, so Brienne seems to be making it enough for her.

"Thank you," she says again, still not sure what else to say. There is more to say, more questions to be had, and she knows that soon enough, Brienne will catch a glimpse of something that makes her want to tend to Sansa's wounds, but that is not right now. For now, Sansa buries closer to Theon, and sleeps without dreaming, the world all but lost around her, save for Theon's gentle breathing, save for his arms around her. Once, she'd have sooner pushed him away. Now, she never wants to leave.

If she and Theon are this changed, she can only wonder what Jon will be like when she sees him again. She hopes he's not too different, familiar enough that she'll have some sense of normalcy. And Ghost will be there, no doubt! The thought of seeing a dire wolf is both happy and twinged with remorse, her heart yearning for her own wolf, her beautiful and lovely Lady. She hopes she's safe, wherever she is.

The nightmare starts with Ghost, normally so quiet, howling and throwing himself against a door. Voices are raised outside, shouts mingling with sobs, and she looks around, confused. I must be dreaming, she thinks, but the ground feels so very real under her, and she can smell blood in the air. The door opens, and in an instant, Ghost is running out, a blur of white in the dark night.

She follows at a slower pace, her sister at her side. Instincts that are not her own guide her to a man in black, on his knees in the snow, and she buts against him, pausing when he turns to look at her and she sees her uncle's face. I must be dreaming, she thinks again, but when she sees what he holds in her arms, she realises this is no dream.

Jon lies in this man's arms, dead. She whimpers, looking around in fear as shadows loom closer. Men in black surround them, and she bristles when Ghost growls. She's never heard her brother's wolf so loud, never heard him like this. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. I will wake up and it will be okay, and this will just be an odd nightmare. She tries to ignore how real the wind feels, how sharp the smell of blood– Jon's blood –is in the air.

The man who looks like her uncle orders Ghost down. He complies with a glare towards the men. She whimpers again, pressing closer to her sister, who stands large and angry, looking at Jon with a look in her eyes that makes the part of the wolf that is Sansa shiver. She wonders where Arya is, where their wolves found themselves. She cannot believe this is real, that her wolf is at The Wall, that Jon is dead in the arms of a man who looks so much like their uncle.

But father said Uncle Benjen was missing beyond The Wall, she remembers distantly. It feels like a lifetime ago that she was having dinner with her father and her septa and Arya, all the way south in King's Landing. Now, she wishes more than anything that she could go back to those days of sweet summer, hug her father one last time, closing her eyes as she hides her face in his chest. This can't be him. This can't be real. This isn't happening.

Jon is lifted up, and she can do nothing but follow and watch as he's placed on a table, as someone presses their fingers to his chest and they come away a crimson red. They're all speaking, discussing what has happened, but the words very well may be underwater. Sansa, through her wolf's eyes, can do nothing but stare at the corpse of her big brother, wishing for something to come down and tell her that this is just a nightmare, something to tell her this is absolutely not real.

She's shaken awake before she gets the chance. She stares up at Theon, backed by the light of the fire behind him, eyes wide with concern. He says nothing as she throws herself forward, holding him tight in a hug, heedless of how tense he is. After a moment, she pulls back, glancing at the fire and at Brienne, who meets her eyes and nods. She stands, and Theon follows without a word.

"Sansa," he says softly, still so unlike the man she was raised with. Theon isn't a quiet person, isn't supposed to be quiet. He's loud and he's larger than life, he's not this beaten-down man who can barely meet her eyes even as he says her name. Her heart strains in her chest, and she keeps crying, holding his hand tightly as they peel away for some privacy, but still in sight of the flames.

"I dreamed I was Lady," she breathes, and he stills, finally meeting her eyes. His grip on her hand tightens, and so does hers, until it's nearly bone-crushing, needing something to keep her tethered as she speaks. "I was on The Wall. Ghost and Nymeria were there, and Jon…he was dead. His chest was all bloody, and there was a man who looked like Uncle Benjen, but it can't be him–"

"Dead?" Theon whispers back, looking like the words don't even make sense to him. Sansa can't blame him. Jon was supposed to be safe from conflict, from The War that has already taken so much from their family. He was supposed to be the one who she knew was untouched by it all, the one person so far removed he could still take her in. The only one who she knew she could have back. If he's dead…what does that mean for her? "Jon?"

She nods. Even then, she still says, with a fierce shake of her head and more strength in her voice than she feels, "It was a nightmare." She glares at the snowy ground, body shaking. "It has to be. I was dreaming, it wasn't real. Jon can't be dead. He's…Jon." She trails off lamely, not sure what else she can say. Jon is Jon. He'd always seemed strong in his own way, and she never let herself worry for him, because he was supposed to be safe in the cold, away from Lannisters and The War and people who would use him against them all.

"I can't lose him," she whispers into the night air, looking at Theon with wide, wild eyes. He's staring at her, looking so much like a fish out of water, like he still doesn't know what to say. She wants to scream at him and tell him to tell her she's being a fool. She wants to hold him and never let go, and try and find a way to scrub the nightmare from her mind. She tries to find The Wall in the dark, but it's still too cloudy. "I can't…I can't lose him, Theon. He's all we have left."

Theon flinches, looking away. "He'll protect us," she continues. "Ramsay is still looking for us, but all we have to do is get to Castle Black, and Jon will keep us safe. Ramsay won't be able to touch us if Jon and Ghost have any say in it. I have to…He has to be okay. He has to be there." If he's not, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of her mind, Ramsay will take you back, and everything you did will be paid back for. The fear comes fast at that thought.

"Jon will have me killed the second I step through that gate," Theon says softly, and Sansa tries not to let herself think that Theon may be right. She was never close to Jon, never as close as they should have been, but there are things she knows, things she still remembers about Jon. None of them make Theon's future look all too bright.

"I won't let him," she still says, because if she doesn't believe in that, she can't believe in anything. Jon still lives, she thinks, over and over again. Jon still lives, and Theon will too. "I'll tell him the truth about Bran and Rickon. I tell him what you did for me, how you saved me. Jon can be reckless, yes, but he's not cruel, Theon. He will listen."

"And the truth about the farm boys I killed in their place. And the truth about Ser Rodrik, who I beheaded. And the truth about Robb, who I betrayed," he says, each word flatter than the last. Sansa struggles for words for a long moment, looking at Theon with wide eyes as she tries to figure out how to tell Theon what she knows in her heart to be true. Jon will listen. He will listen if she makes him.

But she remembers flashing eyes, her older brothers sparring in the yard. She remembers a dark look in the corner, something unsettling. She remembers how Theon and Jon never got along. But she also remembers what it was like to see Theon again for the first time. What it was like to realise that Bran and Rickon were alive. What it was like to jump off a wall into the snow.

"When you take the black, all crimes and ties are forgotten and forgiven–" she starts to say, but Theon cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"I don't want to be forgiven. I can never make amends to your family for the things I've done. They'll keep you safer than I ever could," he purses his lips, looking away. "Jon is strong, Sansa. Stronger than me. I don't know about nightmares, about wolf dreams, but I do know that Jon Snow is a stubborn man. He'll live, no matter what it takes."

She wishes she could say his words comforted her. But all she can do is stare as she processes his words with a shake of her head. The tears come again, and she sobs soundlessly, shaking her head again and grabbing Theon by his arms when he tries to go. "You're not coming with us?" He says nothing, and she gasps in disbelief, looking around for something to keep her here. "You…please, Theon."

"I would have taken you all the way to the Wall. I would have died to get you there," he says, voice shaking, eyes screwing shut. The sun is rising in the distance, the first whispers of dawn peeking over the forest. Brienne's fire is close by and she can hear her moving, getting ready for the day. "But, I…"

His voice trails off. Even then, Sansa thinks she might just understand. Theon has a long road ahead of him, a road that she hopes ends with him being able to forgive himself. But that road isn't her road. Her road ends with being in Jon's arms, her road ends with her taking her home back from the man who beat her black and blue, her road ends when her family is all together again. But is Theon not a part of that family too? Is he not her brother, just as much as Jon is?

"What if he's gone?" She whispers softly, trying to pretend she's not terrified of what she saw in the night. She doesn't want to lose Jon, she never let herself think that the end of this road would be empty save for her. Ramsay had told her that Jon was the Lord Commander, and it had been like sun after rain. She doesn't want it to have been a mirage. "What if Jon is dead?"

Theon meets her eyes, then. There's something intense in them, something that reminds her of Robb. She inhales shakily, trying to not look away. "You are the Lady of Winterfell," he says softly. "You are a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa. If Jon is…you make it right. Avenge Jon, remind the North who you are. The daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, a Princess of The North. You are Sansa Stark, you were the Stark of Winterfell while there."

"I can't fight," she says softly. "I have never even killed a man. I can't stand alone against the Night's Watch."

"You aren't alone," he says, almost smiling now, as he looks towards where Brienne and Podrick are. She follows his gaze, squaring her jaw as she thinks it over. Her father's words come back to her, all the sayings she used to dismiss because they were so very Northern, but are now her only comforts in the night.

"Wolf dream?" She asks, remembering Theon's words suddenly. He freezes at that, and she furrows her brow, looking more carefully at Theon now. Frowning, she asks, "Theon, what is a wolf dream? That's what you called it."

"Robb called them that," he whispers, voice breaking on her older brother's name. "Said that sometimes he'd see through Grey Wind's eyes in the night. He told me about it once, when we were still in Winterfell. He never told anyone else, as far as I know…Sansa…"

"What?"

"I never told him this, and we never spoke about it after that first time, but I think that means he's a warg." She pauses, glancing around. Theon lowers his voice, sounding hesitant. "I think we both know it's no chance that we just found the perfect number of dire wolf pups for you all. I think we both know what their mother dying fighting a stag might mean. If you are having these dreams, through Lady's eyes…"

"They're real," she says, firstly, voice flat. "They're real, and I am a… warg? My brother is–If they're real, Jon is–" she shakes her head, running a hand over her face, breaths coming in fast. Again, she shakes her head, trying to remove the thoughts from her head, but they stick around stubbornly. She looks at Theon through teary eyes, and sees a look of regret on his face. "Theon…"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, but she doesn't let him continue, throwing herself forward and hugging him tightly, staring at the snow-covered ground through teary eyes. Theon doesn't hug her back, shaking in her hold, but she tries to pretend that it's alright, that this goodbye won't last as long as all the rest. At least she gets to say goodbye this time.

"Come back to me," she says fiercely as she pulls away. She knows that promises like this are a bad idea, that every other time she's said goodbye thinking that she'll see them again, they've either died or been ripped from her hands. But Theon saved her, and Theon ran with her. In Winterfell, he was the only scrap left of the life she knew she'd never get back. He'd saved her. He'd taken her hand and jumped off Winterfell's walls. He killed Myranda. He was ready to go back to Ramsay if it meant I'd make it to Jon.

Theon says nothing, she grabs his arms, pressing their brows together as she says, feeling fiercer than ever, "Promise me, Theon. Wherever you go, whatever happens, you better come back to me. I owe my life to you, and I want to repay that debt. I'll tell Jon what happened, and we'll find you when it's time. You're one of us, too. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. You better come back."

"I have to go home first," he says softly, looking anywhere but her. She wants to sob, tell him that he's her home, that he was always a part of her home. But there will always be parts of him she cannot understand. A kraken raised by wolves. A boy taken from his home for mistakes he did not make. A ward with a sword looming over his fragile neck at all times. Traitor. Turncloak. Kinslayer. The first glimmer of hope she had in years.

She wishes she could take it all back. She wishes they never left. She wishes she was thirteen again, the stars in her eyes, her family all together. She wishes she told Robb she loved him. She wishes she told Theon he was one of theirs. She wishes she didn't call Jon only her half-brother. She wishes she tried to understand Arya. She wishes she could hug Bran. She wishes Rickon wasn't left so alone. She wishes and she wishes, and none of it has ever come true.

They're all gone to the wind, gone to time. Mother and Father are dead. Robb is a prisoner. Jon is hanging in between limbo. Theon is broken. Arya has been gone for so long, Sansa doesn't know if she could recognise her if she was right in front of her. Bran is somewhere in the wilds, a crippled boy who once loved to climb and laugh. And Rickon, her baby brother, so small, too young to have to face the reality of The War that tore them all apart.

The last time she saw any of them was in King's Landing. And she wishes she could say that the last of her family she saw was her father, awful as that memory might be, or even her sister, strained as they might have been then, but it's worse than both of those. Watching her father die had killed her too, and realising Arya was gone was a particularly twisted gift, but Robb…

She watches Theon go with a lump in his throat. He's living in fear of them all, of Jon especially right now. She thinks of Jon with a pang, but her memories of Jon are really just memories of Robb, with Jon playing the part of a shadow in the back. She wishes she spent more time with Jon, wishes she knew more about her half–her big brother than he was a bastard and he would probably keep her safe. Or that he might just be dead.

She knows plenty about Robb, more than enough to make thinking about him in any capacity hurt. They named your brother King in the North, Cersei had hissed at her once, and how sweet it had been to hear that! She'd pictured Robb riding in a hundred and one times over so many long months kept trapped in The Red Keep, armour gleaning, hair like fire, before he'd run to her and pick her up and take her home. She knew she shouldn't have ever trusted in flights of fancy, and yet, she still believed he would save her.

And then she was wedded to Tyrion, and her dreams of Knights and Maidens and endless Summers and Robb crashing in, sword held aloft, glimmering in the sun, died on her wedding night. Tyrion may never have touched her, but the grief did not abate. Robb could not save her, she would have to save herself. She was learning. She was figuring out how to live.

And then he'd been thrown in front of her, and none of that seemed to matter. He'd looked up at her, eyes as blue as a clear summer sky, hair askew, face gaunt. She'd tried to keep living, keep her armour, telling Joffrey that Robb Stark is a traitor to the realm, pretending he didn't see him flinch, and yet, Joffrey knew what he wanted. She'd drifted forward, like a ghost in the wind, and held her brother's face between her hands, for a brief moment that seemed to almost last forever.

I love you, she wanted to say, but the words seem to be forever stuck in her throat. Voice weak and broken, he told her, "I wanted to be the one who brought you home." Pain had crashed over her, and there was nothing she wanted to do more in that moment than pull him in for a hug and never let go. But she let him go and looked at him, hoping he could see how much she wanted the very same thing. She wanted him to save her. He wanted to save her. They both were dreamers, once.

Joffrey called for him to be pulled away. Her heart hammered a war beat in her chest as Robb seemed to snap back to attention, screaming her name into the silent hall. Her world seemed to pause, and she still thinks that she forgot how her name sounded on the lips of those she loves. Tears well in her eyes, and Robb screamed three words that have sent her world into perfect tilt for all these long months since. "Winter is Coming!"

The words had washed over her like cold water, awakening her from some dream of evil and false warmth. He'd looked at her, a hundred things unsaid, and she'd felt her veins freeze, felt Winter wash over her. You are a Stark of Winterfell, their father had drilled into all of them since they were old enough to understand, one way or another. Even Jon had gotten some sort of it, and though she used to turn up her nose at him, now all she thinks of when she thinks of him is home.

They'd sent a blow to the back of Robb's head for what he said, though. She'd screamed, lunging forward, clawing desperately at the arms that wrapped around her, pulling her away. The last thing she still remembers seeing is Robb, on the ground, looking beaten down in a way she'd never thought he could be. He was her older brother, and is there not something so tragically and untouchably perfect about them?

She doesn't know how she got back to her rooms that day–Shae, probably. She does remember how she'd looked out across Blackwater Bay and cried, dreaming a dream of better days, warmer winds. But she's Northern, and she's never not been. The blood of the First Men runs hot in them all, the blood of a thousand generations.

At some point after, late that night, her husband had come to her, an odd look in his eyes. She'd opened her mouth to ask, but he'd beat her to it. "I spoke to your brother, Lady Stark," he says, a sharp and deathly serious look in his eyes. She'd frozen in her seat, looking at him with wide, anticipatory eyes. Glancing back at the door, he'd poured himself a drink before coming to sit next to her, tension in every part of his body.

"He told me to tell you that he loves you, my lady." She'd gasped, needlessly closing her eyes against the tears that would come no matter how hard she tried, body shaking like a leaf in the wind. "To tell you he's sorry he didn't save you, and that more than anything, he wanted to. And to tell you it's going to be okay."

She didn't know what to say to him, then. Things had been oddly simple back then. Joffrey and Margaery were to marry, and Robb's death would be the final act of the night. She'd have to watch her brother die, just like father, and he'd done what he could to ease her heart before it. Ever the big brother, forever a shining light in her heart and her head, he'd go to his death knowing that his little sister knew what mattered.

And now, she looks out on the North, astride a horse, his words rattling around in her head. Nothing makes sense anymore. Every single thing she knows has felt crooked since Joffrey died. Petyr shepherded her away, killed Aunt Lysa, sold her away. What was he, in his mind? A hero, a villain, or just something in between? Ramsay had taken her maidenhood, Theon forced to look on. She's running to Jon's arms, the brother who she turned away from for years.

Robb is somewhere out there, the prisoner of a Queen. Jon is ahead. Theon is leaving her. Who knows where Arya is in this too-large world? Brienne said she saw her, and Sansa wants to weep because it feels like hope to know that Arya might be alive, and hope has been hard-pressed to survive, recently. Theon said Bran and Rickon live. She doesn't let her mind linger on them, beyond the thought that her family is scattered to the wind, when all they should be doing, all they ever should have done, is stay together.

I love you, she'd tried to say to Robb, but he'd been the one who'd had the strength to say it first. He's always been the strongest of them all, always been a better man than all the rest of them combined. She'd called him a traitor for all the court to hear, and he'd told a man who he had no reason to trust that he loved her. Confessed so much just for her. Gave her strength through three words.

Brienne stops them as night falls, saying that they'll be at the Wall in a day and a half's time. Sansa cranes her head up to try and catch a glimpse of it through the mist that has seemed to cover The Gift for the past few days, but it's to no avail. She thinks that Brienne could have made it on her own in less than a day, that they're no more than thirty or so miles away, but Sansa is not going fast.

Her body aches from bruises and cuts and the unbearable cold. She has to stop more than she likes, more than any of them likes, she thinks, but her rescuers have said nothing. Theon had been much the same, if not worse, and yet, they have not made very fast progress through The Gift as Brienne and Podrick have helped her and Theon recover. They've been good to them both. She wishes Theon could stay, though.

"Are you excited, Lady Sansa?" Podrick asks her later that day, a genuine smile on his face. Sansa likes him, she thinks, likes his seemingly unbreakable spirit and ever-warm smile. He's one of the rare few good people she knows is left in this world, and she'd hate to see it be broken. He deserves to stay happy. "Your brother is Lord Commander on The Wall. When did you last see him?

She doesn't think of the knives in the dark, the man in black holding Jon as he died, does not let that nightmare cross her thoughts. It can't be real. The Gods couldn't be so cruel to rip Jon from her hands right before she had a hold on him…could they?

"When I left Winterfell for King's Landing," she says softly, wringing her hands anxiously. "We weren't close, back then. He was the bastard. I was the lady being trained to be a queen. But he did find me, before he left. Gave me a hug and told me we'd see each other again. I remember laughing and saying he'd have to call me your grace. He just laughed and said he'd remember that. I suppose I am. He's the only one I know I have left."

She smiles softly, thinking of Jon. They should have known each other better, and she finds herself wishing their goodbye had been something better. But they'd both been young fools, going towards their fates, having no idea what was coming. But he'd promised they'd see each other again, and the second Ramsay told her he was Lord Commander, it had come right back to her, unbidden.

Robb couldn't save her. Theon was broken before he knew he would have to. The Hound is something she still doesn't think she quite understands. It was a lady of an isle who came to her aid, not a knight of summer. Her heroes have never been what she expected, but she thinks, just this once, that she knows what her future ahead looks like, for however long it is between her and Jon's arms.

Podrick smiles gently at her. She wishes she had better stories about Jon to tell, memories that were just Jon. But most of them are really just stories about Robb with Jon as a character in the back, living in the shadows she helped cast. She wishes she could turn it all back and stay in Jon's arms, that day in that hallway where the sun streamed gently through, and wishes she could save them all.

She wishes a lot of things, but if King's Landing taught her anything, if seeing Robb beaten down and Theon broken said anything, it's that wishes don't always come true. Winter is Coming, Robb had screamed at her, and she knows now that dreams are for summer, for spring, for fair-weather friends. But wishing and dreaming don't get you through the dark, only you can. Nothing can save you but yourself and a little bit of faith.

She lays down to sleep, the snow falling gently around her. Brienne has first watch, and while she knows that her protector would never let it happen, a part of Sansa still thinks that she'll be buried by the snow and forgotten by all by the time dawn comes. The cold will consume her, lull her away into a gentle and endless sleep before she even knows what it's done. She will become one with Winter, and the world will fade and disappear and nothing will matter again.

The blood of the First Men runs hot through her, does it not? She is as much a Heir to the Kings of Winter as all the rest of her family. Winter is in her veins, in her blood, in her eyes. Is this not her home, too? If she is to die, she thinks she'd like to die in the snow, die on her own terms, in the lands of her father, in the lands that raised her. Remind the North who you are. The daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, a Princess of The North. You are Sansa Stark, you were the Stark of Winterfell.

But a fire crackles close by. The wind is soft, the snow gentle, and she feels warm enough that she can sleep. Thirty or so odd miles away, as wolves howl in the night, a wall of ice runs with blood. A sword is left abandoned in the snow, an uncle holds vigil, and a woman tries to find it in herself to perform a miracle in the name of a god whom she cannot understand anymore…

Sansa opens her eyes, and sees her brother, shirtless, on a table. Someone has thrown a blanket over the lower half of his body. A woman, six men in black, a flaming-haired man, and a man dressed in roughspun clothes stand around him. She is in the corner of the room, trying to understand why her nightmare seems to be coming back to her. Jon's chest is bloody, she can see that from here. One of the men looks like her uncle, but her brain still refuses to believe it is him.

There are two others at her side. The part of her that is not Sansa knows who they are, so she does not panic, just watches through yellow eyes as Jon's hair is cut, the blood washed from his unmoving chest. Sansa wants to scream, wants to be there already, wants to understand why Jon won't breathe, why the world seems so cold, why her wolf won't let her. She wants the world to just make sense again. She just wants her brother back. Is that too much to ask?

The woman speaks into the night, words rising like a storm. Everyone's eyes are wide, hope and desperation meeting, mingling, and then marrying on their faces. Sansa tries to go to Jon, but her wolf takes over so much that all she can do is watch as the woman's words settle in the still air, watch as hope and faith and desperation and all the things that should be able to save someone do nothing.

She thrashes, once, in her sleep. Across a dying fire, Brienne of Tarth looks suddenly to her lady, and debates what to do. Sansa is heedless to all of this, desperate as she watches it all fail. Jon is still not breathing. The man who looks so much like her uncle is saying nothing, but she can see the crestfallen look well enough. No one moves for a long moment.

And then they're all leaving, they're all giving up, leaving Jon alone, save for the man who looks so much like Benjen. Sansa doesn't want to believe that this nightmare is real, doesn't want to believe that if it is real, that Benjen is ahead, as well. But she thinks she knows the truth now. Her uncle sobs soundlessly, hanging his head as his shoulders shake from the weight of silent sobs.

At her side, her brother perks up, and the world seems to hold its breath for a moment. For a moment, Sansa feels trapped in between her body and her wolf, watching silently as Ghost comes to Jon's side and rubs his hand with his nose, red eyes looking imploringly towards Jon. For a moment, nothing happens, and then, and then, and then Jon breathes again.

Of course, that's when Brienne shakes her awake.

Sansa stares at her, tears in her eyes, shoulders shaking. "My lady?" Brienne asks her softly, surprise colouring her features as Sansa sobs loudly, clinging to her like how a baby clings to its mother. Awkwardly, Brienne hugs her as she tries to figure out how to make all her wild thoughts make any sense. She'd told only Theon about her nightmare, of the knives in the dark, too afraid to say it too much and make it real.

She pulls away from Brienne, heedless of Podrick and Brienne's questions. The snow has stopped falling, and now, when she looks North, she finally sees it, glimmering in the moonlight. The Wall looms ahead, and she thinks she can just about make out lights atop it, the flames of the men watching, no doubt. She wonders what it's like up there, and if Jon will take her there if she asks.

"I saw Jon," she whispers, not knowing what else to say, how she can explain why she's crying, if not for her brother. "He was dead. His chest was bloody. I was a wolf. I was my wolf. He was lying on a desk, and he was dead, and then–then he wasn't. I saw him, I swear, but I thought I was dreaming. But–But what if I'm not? What if Jon is…" she can't say it.

You are the Lady of Winterfell, Theon had whispered to her. If Jon is truly dead, brought back or not, and she can grasp vengeance, she has the power to take it. With every other Stark in the wind, she is all that is left to dispense justice. Her eyes are fixed on The Wall, the end of the world. Justice entails death upon The Wall. She knows what her father would say. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

She wishes she listened to him more. But now, all she has is the memory of his voice and words that have been passed on for years between their house, words that promise winter and justice and the cold. She always wanted to be a Southern Queen, but looking out at the snowy world around her, she knows that she's got the North in her, above all else. The North raised her. It made her.

Cersei taught her. Baelish used her. Ramsay took everything from her. But she's lived through it all. She escaped all of them. She lives, the snow in her hair. Her hair, the colour of weirwood trees, the colour of the gods she ran to the second her father lost his head, the second the news of her mother's death passed her ears. The Gods who watched her grow. The Gods who she knows are real.

Warg, Theon had called her.

Brienne meets her eyes, a ferocity burning in her blue eyes. Sansa gapes at the woman, shaking from her tears, feeling wrung out and cold in a way that she's never been before. Brienne takes her hand, and squeezes once. "Then we make them pay. We do what we can, and we find safety where we can. But if your brother is anything like you, my lady…there is more strength in you both than I think you know."

I love you. She can imagine Robb saying it, just as the words Winter is Coming ring in her head, in his voice, over and over again. Tell her I love her. Jon had smiled at her, despite it all, when she left, and hugged her and laughed. We'll see each other again. The I love you had gone unsaid, pushed aside and ignored, but she wishes now that she said it. I love you. I wanted to save you. We'll see each other again. Winter is Coming. Winter is Coming. Winter is Coming.

She couldn't save herself, but she remembers, well enough, how it was all she wanted for so long. To be saved by her brothers, to have them pick her up and carry her home, to be able to let them hold her and to know there was nowhere safer in this world. Her brothers couldn't save her, not until Theon, but she thinks that maybe she should try to save one of them too. Maybe she should try to do what they could not, because they'd want it too.

She looks at The Wall, and then at Brienne. "We ride at first light," she says. "And we don't stop until we are there. I am going to find the truth. I am going to avenge my brother, if need be. I won't let them take one more person from me. I am going to get my brother back."


sorry this took so long. kinda forgot about it for a hot second.

anyway notes:

-a shorter one this time around, just establishing some sansa, but it's still got some fun things here, NAMELY my boy theon. while he never gets a POV, (one of two of the larger stark brood to not, sorry bro), he's gonna show up a lot more in the next part of the story, specially once we get back to a certain king...but telling him from this outsider POV, mwuah.
-one of mt fave things about writing fics w multiple POVs is writing the same scene from different POVs. Case in point, not only Robb and Sansa's reunion in the throne room, but all the shit at the wall. She is very much gaslighting herself, lmao, but even then, she gets a very interesting perspective into things there...
-that last line...phew. while obvi sansa isn't gonna go the arya route of total and complete revenge, she's got her own debts to settle. and she is that bitch, and i think at this point, if someone takes one more person she loves from her, she is gonna just do what it takes to get revenge/justice

next up, three wolves converge. to say i am excited for this next chapter would be an understatement.