CHAPTER TEN: THE RED WOLF II
Jon and Sansa, having regained their home, hold court. There, traitors are killed once and for all, and they begin to look for their older brother. The Lords of The North make new oaths, and the pieces start to shift.
Ramsay smiles when he blinks his eyes open and sees her, but not an inch of her own expression moves. At her side, Lady looms tall, and Sansa keeps watching as Ramsay coughs for a moment, his face bloody and beaten in by Jon. Some part of her wants to know what would have happened had Jon not seen her and stopped, but another part is glad she does get to see what comes next. Glad that she can do this, for her, and for Theon both.
Tilting his head back, he says in his slick voice, "Sansa." He smiles a bit wider for a moment, and still, she is unmoved, her face as cold as ice, as unmoving as the stone faces in the crypts below. What had Theon said, all those months ago, now? You are a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa. The daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, a Princess of The North. His voice grows only more salacious. "Hello, Sansa."
But then he looks briefly at Lady, and she sees a flash of something cross his face. Jon had told her that Ramsay and he had spoken briefly of dogs and wolves. He'd also told her something else about those dogs… "Is this where I'll be staying now?" Still, she says nothing and Ramsay half laughs, turning his face away slightly. "No…our time together is about to come to an end. That's alright."
She tilts her jaw up ever so slightly. This is my home. And you can't frighten me. He smiles truly now, bloody teeth and all. "You can't kill me. I'm part of you now."
Lady is a pillar of strength at her side. She remembers when the boys brought them all home, how all their eyes shined and how in awe they all were. She remembers how they'd all crowded around a table as they fed them and debated names. She remembers her wolf running to her, in Jon's room in Castle Black, and nights full of wolf dreams. She remembers their banners, flapping in the breeze, a thousand long miles. Her father's words, a thousand years ago. You are a Stark of Winterfell.
Finally, she speaks, her voice cold and even. "Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. All memory of you will disappear." And is that not what he fears the most, disappearing? All of Ramsay's life he has been trying to pretend he is something he is not. A trueborn son, a lordly heir, the Lord of Winterfell. But he is a Snow, and always has been. The king who legitimised him is no true king, just like he has never been the true Lord of Winterfell. To fade away would be the ultimate damnation to Ramsay, would it not?
All humour is gone from Ramsay's face now. Let him see me as I am, she thinks. Let him see a she-wolf of Winterfell, let him see what I have always been. He tried to break me. In that, he failed. One of his dogs growls, and she feels some grim satisfaction rise up in her as he turns to look at it, prowling through the dark, drawing closer to him with every breath he takes. He turns away from it. Face your death, traitor, she thinks, more vicious than she ever imagined herself to be.
"My hounds will never harm me," he says, meeting her eyes.
"You haven't fed them in seven days," she reminds him, not breaking eye contact. "You said it yourself. Jon said he said that I might feed you to Lady here, but she is too fine a wolf to eat the likes of you…" She tilts her head at him. "At least for now. While you still breathe."
He licks his lips, a brief hesitation, a brief hint of fear. "They're loyal beasts."
"They were," she corrects, face still cold as ice, cold as The Wall, cold as the North that they were both born into. She is as much a Northman as he is. She has just as much blood of cold Northern Kings as he ever said he was. The North is her blood. Her right. Her home. "Now they're starving."
He holds her gaze, even as the dog draws closer and starts sniffing. She thinks it might just be fear she sees in his cold blue eyes, coupled with the looming understanding of his doom. There is nothing he can do to rewrite the story, nothing he can do to stop what is coming. He only breaks her gaze when one of them crawls up and sniffs his face, hissing out orders that mean nothing to a hungry dog. "Sit. Down!" His voice rises with panic with each order.
She keeps watching.
The dog goes for his face or maybe his neck and he screams. Lady makes a noise at her side, drawing closer, her teeth bared. Ramsay's screams fill the air, and she almost turns to leave, but some fascination keeps her staring for just a moment longer. The dogs are piled onto him. The dogs he broke, the dogs he named after the girls he hunted, the dogs he forced Theon to sleep amongst, the dogs who have turned.
Even a worm will turn, she thinks. He broke those dogs, he broke Theon, he broke so many people in pursuit of his own sadistic pleasure. He tried to break her, and yet, here she stands, a living legend at her side, her home in her hands, her brothers just out there. Her house has survived, and House Bolton will be nothing more than a ghost of the North, another warning, another House Greystark. Let them see, she thinks, Let them see what happens to those who betray their Lords.
When she turns away, it is like some weight has been taken off her shoulders. She smiles and breathes freely, Ramsay's screams echoing off the stones as they slowly die out, as they are slowly swallowed by the barking of his dogs. Lady is right next to her, a living sigil, a living embodiment of the strength of House Stark. They have returned home, at long last, and The North will do well to remember it. The call will go out soon enough. The banners will descend again. And then…
Then they will get their brother back. Get their king back. And The Winds of Winter will arrive at the doors of those who betrayed them, and they will remind all the other Lords of Westeros who resisted the Andals, who gave Aegon III Targaryen his throne, who made up the brunt of the rebelling army, who toppled a dynasty. They will remind them all what house has been here, has been Kings, for eight thousand years. And then…who knows?
—
The sight that greets her as she sweeps into the main study of the Maester of Winterfell is not one that particularly pleases her. Jon has seemingly been dragged over to a cot by two people in medic's attire, who are looking at her and the rest of her sibling's wolves with wide eyes. The Maester, Wolkan, is looking at her awkwardly, and for a moment, their shared history hangs between them.
Instead of trying to talk to the man, she goes over to where Rickon is looking at her with a quivering lower lip, pulling him against her chest for a hug, and Maester Wolkan seems to take the clue and begins bustling around the room to start tending to Jon. "Rickon?" She asks her little brother, pulling away a little bit to scan his face.
He seems a little bumped and bruised, but not deeply injured. She glances at her brothers' wolves and frowns as she sees the red stain in Ghost's fur. Rickon follows her gaze and says, softly, "He shot them with arrows–Shaggy and Ghost. Some medic or horseman got the arrows out in the camp, but they were very bitey and didn't really like to be touched. He said they would be okay. They'll be okay, right?"
"Of course," she says, petting his hair back and cradling his head. "But I'll make sure to take them both to the Kennel Master and the Master of Horse and see if they have any ideas, all right?" Rickon nods, and she turns back to Jon as he groans, looking at him worriedly. Together with Rickon, they sit by their older brother, and she resists the urge to take Jon's hand in her free hand, hanging on tightly to both her brothers and never ever letting go again.
But soon enough, she has to convince Rickon that is just what they have to do. She's almost certain that Jon doesn't want Rickon to see the scars of his murder, and as disinclined as she is to keep secrets from Rickon, it's not something for right now. It had been hard enough for her to see it, and she understands not wanting to burden their baby brother with this darkness. Her own scars start to itch.
But she picks up Rickon without a word, letting him bundle his hand into a fist, her cloak half held in it, whistling for the wolves. They follow after her, Lady and Shaggydog, and before the door closes, she meets Jon's eyes. He nods at her, and the door closes behind her.
Rickon doesn't say much as they start making their way back to the courtyard, only asking to be put down as they descend the final flight of stairs. She obliges, but holds his hand tightly in hers, looking around the courtyard, with seldom a clue as to where she should even begin. She glances at Shaggydog, who is sniffing her free hand curiously.
She can see the wound in his shoulder, and while it doesn't look perfect and she certainly is no expert, it doesn't look to be bothering him too much. She can see a few careful stitches and something that looks like a salve in the wolf's fur. Comforted at the very least, she notes the appointment with the Master of Horse and The Kennel Master (whoever that will be once Myranda's father is rooted out and likely executed) for a little later. But there is still so much to do, and she doesn't have any idea quite where to start.
But then she spies Tormund Giantsbane from across the way, speaking to a group of Wildings, and gets an idea. He has cleaned up a bit, which is to say his face is no longer covered in blood of a questionable origin, and he looks a little less crazed. When he sees her approaching, Rickon looking suspiciously at him from behind her like he's still barely a child and she's their mother, he grins. But then he glances around and notices the absentee party. "Jon?" he asks, with no further greeting.
"Being tended to by the Maester," she tells him, and he nods. Smiling just a bit, she adds on, "He was injured and exhausted enough that he went willingly. I will need help having him brought to his old rooms when he is stable enough to move." Tormund's eyebrows shoot up at her comment but settle at her request, and so he nods. "But there is one other thing I ask."
"Yes?" He asks with a tilt of his head. He doesn't seem to be able to stop glancing at Rickon, or at the great black wolf he is yet to meet.
"Ramsay's corpse is in the kennels, and there are still hungry dogs there," she says, her voice rough. It takes Tormund a moment to understand her meaning, and although she had told Jon he could tell Tormund and Davos alone what he pleased, she suspects he only gave the base details, and neither man has broached the subject with her. But she's certain they must, in some part, know. His face sobers into something that resembles respect. "If you could find men who are good with dogs, they will need food. They're good hounds, and should not be punished for his choices. Burn whatever is left of him and bury the ashes in a common grave."
Tormund turns to some of his men without question and barks out a few words in what she knows is The Old Tongue to them. Glancing between him and her for a moment, they comply without a word, heading towards the Kennels with dark looks on their faces. "They will see to it that the Hounds are taken care of, and whatever that fucker has left of himself is burned before sunset. That's one person I could do without coming back." They both shudder.
Tormund glances down at Rickon and snorts. "You gonna keep glaring at me, little Jon?"
"My name is Rickon!" He says in reply, and Tormund laughs loudly, and Sansa can't help but smile, either. She pushes Rickon forward, resting her hand comfortingly on his shoulder and squeezing it gently. He stares up at Tormund for a moment, who looks at him with a raised brow and an amused expression. He does look a little like Jon with that glower, she supposes. "Are you Jon and Sansa's friend?"
"Aye, I am, little wolf," he says, and Sansa can't help but laugh, which makes Rickon smile too. Tormund reaches out to ruffle his hair, ignoring Rickon as he shrieks and presses close to Sansa, who holds him close and looks at the man, and the darker expression on his face. "But Lord Crow is alright?" She nods. "Good. Now, I don't actually know where his room is."
"Well we're headed that way, anyway," she tells him, grabbing Rickon's hand and the three of them begin to walk. Tormund's eyes rove over the walls with a sort of awestruck look, and she realises, with a lurch of her stomach, that this is the first proper Northern castle he has ever seen. Castle Black is far too decrepit and undermanned to be called that. "We both need baths eventually, and I want to get Rickon in some fresh clothes and let him rest while I make sure things are in hand."
"My Lady?" A voice from behind her calls, and they both turn to see Davos Seaworth. She smiles at him, and he approaches with his hands behind his back. He sends a cursory glance at Rickon, before looking at her. "I presume your brother is with the Maesters?" She nods. "Good. May I suggest that you also get some rest? People here seem to know what they are doing."
She glances around, pursing her lips. She is exhausted, she will admit, and they have a good few hours left until nightfall. But everywhere she looks there are men who need beds, traitors to be dealt with, and a hundred other issues that boil under the surface. Squeezing Rickon's hand and glancing around to make sure it is just the four of them in the hallway, she lets some of her defences drop as she rests a gloved hand to her brow, closing her eyes.
"My Lady?" Davos asks as Tormund calls her name in worry, resting a hesitant hand on her back when she does not answer. Rickon turns to her and hugs her around the middle, hiding his face in her dress. She rests a hand on his back and breathes deeply, eyes still closed. "My Lady, I know you must feel like you must take the whole of the keep in hand. But you are The Lady of Winterfell, and these men will not forget that even if you take the time to rest and make sure your family is all right. I am at your service."
"Thank you, Ser Davos," she says, opening her eyes and standing a little taller. She holds Rickon close to her as she meets his eyes. "I need the captured soldiers put in a war camp before nightfall. Find their leaders, and put them away from the men, in the cells. All Bolton insignia is to be burned or redone with Stark insignia. I want a headcount of our numbers and where our bannermen are. Leave Wun Wun to the Free Folk. If you can get a chance, speak to Maester Wolkan and see if he knows anyone who can detail our current stores. And find Petyr Baelish. Set him up in the guest wing, and tell him I am not to be disturbed tonight, but that I will speak to him in the morning." Davos nods.
"Any other issues that arise, run by The Maester or use your own judgement, unless it seems urgent," she adds. "We will be in my family's quarters, so if you could get water to them, that would be greatly appreciated. Tormund and I are going there now, so if you need to find us, just ask him." The man nods when Davos glances at him. She sighs heavily, feeling some of the weight slipping off her shoulders. "And make sure no curious wanderers go into The Crypts, at any cost. I want a guard on it. Burn the dead."
"As my Lady Commands," Davos says, dipping his head and turning around the corner without another word. The wolves finally follow them at that moment, turning the corner. Lady, Sansa thinks, might just give Davos's hand a lick, and that might just be a laugh she hears from the knight. She smiles, and turns to Tormund, to see that he is looking at her oddly. She raises a brow.
"Why do you want to guard The Crypts?"
She sighs heavily, looking aside. "Neither Jon nor I have been there, yet. I was not permitted to wander the Keep when I was here under Ramsay and Roose Bolton's thumbs. I visited it before the wedding, but I was not…I was not myself, then." She inhales shakily and feels Rickon stiffen against her at the mention of Ramsay's name. Tormund glances down at him, and she gives him a look that conveys that she knows is nigh despondent. "I do not want any curious visitors paying visits before either of us get a chance to. I believe my mother's bones are there too, now."
Tormund nods, looking more serious than she's ever seen. She continues down to their old rooms without another word, and he follows in silence. It is only when she glances back at Rickon she breaks the silence, and asks, "Do you think Bran's old clothes might fit you, if there is any in his room?" He shrugs, and she sighs. Brothers are truly unbearably stubborn, sometimes.
They reach the hall, and she finds herself pausing outside the door to what was once her room. The room that Ramsay…she closes her eyes again, holding Rickon tight to her, heedless of how Tormund's gaze on her sharpens. "Rickon," she says, voice shaking, "Go to Bran's room, and see if you can find something that will fit you. Meet me in Robb's room, and we'll work on getting cleaned up." He starts to protest, but she opens her eyes and levies him with a look that she knows she got from her mother.
"Promise you'll be there?" He asks in a soft, timid voice. She feels her heart strain in her chest, and she crouches down, cradling his face between her hands. She tries to speak, but she cannot, so she simply brings his face forward and kisses his brow with a smile.
Finally, she manages to say, in a whispery voice, "I will be there. But I need to speak to Tormund alone, for a moment. And no listening in, understood?" He makes a face. "I will tell you more later when we are both fed and rested. But I…not right now, Rickon. Go." She pushes him forward slightly, and he trudges down the hall to what was once Bran's room, Shaggydog following behind him like a shadow.
Then she turns her eyes to the door to her room. Tormund is silent, and for that, she is grateful as she reaches out and brushes her fingers against the door. She doesn't quite know who told him that this was once her room, but she knows that she'd sooner burn the whole of the room out than sleep in it again. But Winter is Coming, and she wants to stay true to what she told Ramsay. She wants to be able to beat him, to outrun his ghost. And so, she turns to Tormund.
"That was the room where he…where Ramsay–" she cannot say the words, her voice cutting off into a choked-off sob. Tormund takes a half step forward and rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. She is grateful for him, truly, and although she doesn't know fully what led him to be so fiercely loyal to Jon, she's glad his loyalty extends to her too. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders again. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home. And you can't frighten me.
"I want it all gone," she says from behind her clenched teeth. "I do not care what happens to it. But I want that room gutted. I never want to see anything in there again. Give the dresses to girls who want them, the bed to someone whose bed I will take in turn. The tapestries, the wardrobe, all of it. Gone. Find me something new. I do not care if they're half eaten by worms, I want all of it gone, and replaced." Not that she is likely to get something that is torn up or degraded. She is still a Stark of Winterfell, and The North would not make her suffer that.
"I will see to it that the Spearwives do it, and if I may, will tell them what I know of him. They will sympathise, and they will see it done with efficiency," he tells her, hesitating for a moment before squeezing her shoulder and looking intensely into her eyes. She does not think she has seen the man this serious in her life.
"You may tell them." She sniffles. "Half our men know anyway. I heard some of Ramsay's men calling me The Bolton Whore." Theon threw the real Bolton whore off the walls, she thinks with a fierceness and hatred that surprises her. She has thought little of Myranda since she found Jon, but standing in these halls, on the other side of the room that was her prison, she cannot say that she is doing a very good job of outrunning her ghosts.
Tormund's expression darkens. "And should I tell Jon that before or after I find those men and hand them over to you for your judgment?" He smirks and gives a half-bow. She would think it mocking, if she had not heard from Jon that the Free Folk prided themselves on independence, on not being kneelers. She swallows around the lump in her throat as his eyes dance with light, and he says, with an exaggerated flourish, " Your Grace. "
"Just Lady Stark or even Sansa would do fine," she tells the man. He barks out a laugh, and she finds it in herself to laugh as well, running her fingers over the wood grain. "Robb is the King, not me. And you don't owe me titles. You've done enough for us all."
"Aye, I suppose I have," he says, glancing back down the hall. "That pup brother of yours might start screeching for you soon, I reckon."
"Likely," she agrees with a sigh, massaging her temple, before gesturing towards a door a little ways down. "That's Jon's room. If you want to check in with the Maester, do so, and see when he thinks Jon can be moved. And let me know. Rickon and I will be in Robb's room." She gestures to his door, and Tormund nods, turning away and leaving without a word. Sansa spares one last glance at the door that separates from her nightmares, before going to Bran's room.
Rickon has procured some clothes, and Sansa is struck by how alike he is to Bran was when she last saw him. And now Bran is closer in age to Robb and Jon back then than he is to how old Rickon is now. Sansa herself removes her own cloak, throwing it over one arm as she grabs Rickon's hand and brings him to Robb's old room.
As Rickon sits on their brother's bed, Sansa takes just a moment to look over the space. It's frighteningly similar to how it all used to be, with the same fur-covered bed, the same tapestries on the wall, the same little bits and bobs. She goes over to his desk and sees that a half-written letter to Jon still lies under a few other papers. He must have been interrupted while he was writing, and never got the chance to finish it, She thinks.
Someone knocks on the door, startling her out of her reverie, and she opens the door to find a few maids, holding a steaming basin in hand along with a few towels. Thanking them profusely, she lets them set the basin down on Robb's bedside table, and the towels on his bed next to where Rickon is fidgeting. Sansa sits down next to him as they leave, wetting a towel and ringing it out over the basin.
"Rickon?" She asks, folding the towel in her lap, and glancing at her brother as he sits at her side. His blue eyes are wide and guileless, for just a moment. For just a brief, lovely, moment, she can believe that some of his innocence survived the war, that one of them has made it out in a shape that somewhat resembles who they were. She reaches out and brushes a stray hair from his face. His eyes hold onto her. "Did Ramsay…did he hurt you? Did he touch you?"
Rickon pauses. "He never laid a hand on me." She breathes deeply, closing her eyes. Pursing her lips and saying nothing, she brings the cloth to his face and wipes away the mud and the grime that coats it. He squirms a bit like they all used to when they were younger and their mother would wipe a lick of dirt off their cheeks but stills after he gets used to the warm water and the ministrations of the cloth under his hand.
"Sansa?" He croaks. She meets his eyes and sees a look that is no longer guileless, no longer one that belongs on the face of a boy no older than ten. "I don't want to be a Lord," Rickon whispers. She pauses and lowers the wet towel, her eyes scanning his face as tears well in his eyes and his voice begins to shake. She grabs his hand and squeezes it, suddenly wishing she did not have to bear this all alone. "I want Osha back. I want…"
"Osha?" She asks, voice no louder than a breath, than a whispered confession. Rickon's face is tear-streaked, and his lower lip trembles. With a shuddery breath, he throws himself forward into her arms and starts sobbing loudly. The wolves press close around them, and she holds him tight, rocking him like she can remember her mother rocking her when she was sad. She misses her mother. That realisation aches, knocking all the breath from her lungs in an instant.
She pries the story out of him slowly. About the Wildling Woman who helped him and Bran escape when Theon took Winterfell, about the woman who protected him fiercely over the last few years. The woman who let Shaggydog get away when they came upon the traitorous Mors Umber and his men. About the woman who died by Ramsay's hand. The woman whose corpse Rickon was brought to see. She wishes she made his death last just that much longer, now.
Rickon cries heavily against her. She holds him close and buries her hand in his hair. She thinks of another man, a head on a spike, a lifetime ago. Maybe he'll give me yours. The image of her father's head has never left her mind. The memory of Osha's corpse will never leave Rickon, but she holds him tight like she can squeeze it out of him. Her little brother. Her little heart.
Rickon lets himself be dressed in Bran's old clothes, and another maid comes by then, with a new dress for Sansa. Rickon giggles as she tells him to cover his eyes, quickly changing into a dress that isn't mud-splattered with a few streaks of blood, courtesy of her hug with Jon from earlier. She hangs it off the back of Robb's chair, undoing her hair as she sits again next to Rickon.
Lady and Shaggydog jump up on the bed behind them, and Rickon laughs brightly as his wolf gets on his back, demanding belly rubs. Rickon all but splays himself over both of them, and Sansa watches the scene with a smile, her own hand buried in Lady's fur. She can still see some traces of pain and grief in Rickon's eyes, but he's smiling and giggling and still has something light left in him.
She thinks of how Jon looked atop Ramsay, the utter hatred in his eyes as he rained down punch after punch, vicious blow after vicious blow. She thinks of Jon's certainty when he levied his sword at Littlefinger. She thinks of a shadow in the corner, of grey eyes that were always narrowed into thin slits, of cold looks and winter blood. She thinks of a man being devoured by dogs, and the feeling that had curled into her. She thinks of a gilded king, dying and choking, standing on a bridge, just out of reach. Maybe he'll bring me yours.
They are not…she and Jon are not the children they were. And Rickon isn't either, but at least he still has a chance to be a child. He's ten years old. He still has some time left to find something good in him and to keep it good. He still has a chance to have what they never got. She reaches out, and cradles his head, bringing it forward to kiss his brow.
"What happened to you?" Her little brother asks at long last, and she sighs, looking away. He reaches out and grabs her hand, smiling at her when she looks at him. He looks like Robb, and Sansa feels her heart clench in her chest, a melancholy expression on her face. "What happened to Jon?"
"Jon's story is not mine to tell fully," she tells her little brother, drawing him closer to her side, and rubbing his arm gently. "And it is up to him how much he tells you, and when. But what I will say is that Jon has had a hard few years, and has faced many challenges. As have I."
"After…after father died," she begins, and Rickon stills at her side, curling his little hands into fists on his lap, "I was still a prisoner of the Lannisters. Robb was a treasonous Lord to them, and I became their little tool, the thing they held over Robb's head. After he was betrayed, they brought him to King's Landing. They paraded him, beaten and broken and betrayed, in front of me." He told Tyrion to tell me that he loved me. That he was sorry.
She does not tell Rickon of those words. She does not tell him about how Robb looked in the throne room, the ice in his eyes, the utter defeat and exhaustion that mingled with whatever pride he had left to him. She does not have the strength to, nor does she want to share those words. They are her and Robb's alone. Their own confessionals. Their own private weaknesses.
"Then Joffrey died, and I was stolen from the city, escaping at last with my life. I spent many months in the company of our Aunt Lysa, and Petyr Baelish, an old friend of our mother. He taught me a lot about this world." Her lips curl into a bitter smile, and she looks anywhere but her little brother's wide blue eyes. Robb's eyes. My eyes. "And then he sold me like chattel to Ramsay Bolton to be wed."
Rickon looks at her in horror. She smiles sadly down at him, getting off the bed to crouch in front of Rickon, his hands cradled in hers. She reaches up, briefly, to run her fingers alongside his face, and for a moment, he's her older brother, on his knees before her, a hundred eyes on them. The memory fades, and it's just them, just Rickon and Sansa, in their older brother's room.
"He hurt me, Rickon," she whispers. "I will spare you the details, but he did things to me that I will never be the same because of. But he is dead, know that. He is dead by mine own hand–I watched him die. He will not hurt us ever again. He cannot hurt us again. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and now there are three. Winter is Coming."
"Winter is Coming," Rickon echoes in his too-young voice.
She smiles wanly, once again reaching up to his face, this time to brush a few stray hairs back. "Father told me something, a very long time ago. Arya and I had been arguing, but he told me something that I have remembered since; The Lone Wolf dies, but the pack survives. He told us both that, I believe. Reminded us that no matter what happens, we are sisters, and always will be, and cannot be divided when Winter comes for us all. There is no power in this universe that can undo kinship."
"You are a Stark of Winterfell, Rickon," she says, voice growing a little stronger with each word. "I do not ask you to be a Lord if you cannot bear it. I would see you happy with a life you have chosen for yourself. But Winter is Coming, truly coming, and you will always be our brother, always will be A Stark. Our house has power, and our blood does as well. We are what will guide The North and one another through the cold."
"We are stronger than those who have tried to break us. We have survived The Andals, The Targaryens, a thousand winters. Winter is in our blood, and this is our home. Do you understand?" He nods, looking a little nervous. She raises her chin, and smiles tightly. "Good."
—
She sweeps into Petyr Baelish's rooms the next morning, regarding him coolly. His hands are folded behind his back, and he looks at her with a lecherous grin that has her blood boiling. She'd made the conscious decision to leave her wolf outside for the time being, and last she'd seen her, she'd been sitting with Alys Karstark and a few other lords as they broke their fast. The rest of the wolves are with Rickon and Jon, who was moved early this morning.
"Sansa," he greets when she makes no move to say anything herself, a far too wide smile on his face. She feels her stomach roll, but she does not let her dissent nor her unease show on her face. He looks around the room, something shining in his eyes. "I have heard many things about the great castle of Winterfell, in my lifetime. It surpasses all the stories, in truth, especially now that I am seeing it in the right hands. I thought for many years that I would end up here, in some way…" His words trail off.
To whisper poison in my mother's ears? She thinks, resisting the urge to make a face. Instead, she nods, looking around the rather simple and very utilitarian guest room. He is neither a principal bannermen nor a trusted ally. He did not get the first pick of rooms, but it is a nice room, she supposes. She herself had slept in Robb's room the night before, and Rickon had slept beside her until she rose and left him with Jon for the morning.
"It is good to be back," she agrees evenly. "At my home, with the banners of my house flying. And is made only sweeter by the knowledge that Ramsay Bolton is dead." Littlefinger looks only politely surprised. She supposes the whispers would have travelled, already. She continues, "The executions will play out this afternoon, as soon as Jon is prepared to do so. I suppose you will want to be there for them?" She meets his eyes then.
"Is Lord Snow alright? I am yet to see him–"
"Did you think I wrote to you because I intended to let you into the council of me and my brother? You are a guest here, my Lord, and neither you nor the Knights of the Vale belong to any of the houses that make up our banners. I thank you for your help. But do not think I did not notice how quickly you got here, as if you had intended to come no matter what. And do not presume to ask questions that you have no business to," she cuts him off, surprising the man. "Tell me, Lord Baelish, do you intend to be present for the executions and deliberations that follow?"
He pauses for a moment, looking at her like she is a stranger. She tilts her head at him, and he clears his throat, clasping his hands in front of him. His signet ring glimmers on his finger. "If my Lord and my Lady...The Princess of Winterfell allow me there."
"Indeed," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You are now in The North, My Lord. Justice is served by our own hands here, and you would do well to remember that. I have not forgotten who brought me here, and do not think for a single moment that I have. I called for you because the situation demanded that I did, but that does not mean I like the sight of your face any more than before. Now, if you'll excuse me."
She turns to leave without another word. But his voice causes her to pause in the doorway, looking back at him cooly, "Sansa." She says nothing, and after a moment of apparent deliberation, he continues. "Do you know what I want? Did you not wonder why I came here in the first place?"
"Of course I did," she says instantly, her hand on the doorway. "And I thought I did. I don't think that I ever truly did."
He smiles sharply and draws closer to her. She squares her jaw and straightens. "No, you weren't. You see, every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes." He draws closer, until he is a breath away. "It is a picture of me on the Iron Throne…and you by my side."
He leans in, but Sansa is there, holding up a hand to stop him. Their eyes meet, and she lets all her derision leak into her voice as she says, almost mockingly, "It's a pretty picture."
"News of this battle will spread quickly through the Seven Kingdoms. I've declared for House Stark for all to hear." He says, eyes bright with a burgeoning madness, a scheme larger than she thinks anyone but he knows. She raises a brow at him, and she knows when his eyes fill with something that makes her skin itch, he sees her mother.
Her voice is colder than anything as she tells him, "You've declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It's never stopped you from serving yourself."
"The past is gone for good. You can sit here mourning its departure or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here at Winterfell or a motherless bastard born in the south?" He tilts his head at her, something cruel in his smile.
"They will follow their King, My Lord. Robb Stark still lives, and until then, Jon and I are merely servants of The North, hands to his will," she draws closer to him, letting a cruel smile cross her mouth. "Do not speak to me of what The North should do, Lord Baelish. This is not The South, and I suggest you remember that before it ends in your death by my brother's sword. He will doubtless show you his skill before today's end. Good day, Lord Baelish."
—
When she sees Jon, awake in bed, with Rickon leering over him, it's like her heart grows wings and takes flight. She rushes forward towards him, barely remembering to close the door behind her before she's in his arms, cradled close by him. For a moment, they cling to one another, one of his hands in her hair, the other around her waist, her own arms around his neck.
Rickon pushes himself up between them, and they both laugh and for a single moment, she's happy to just be here, to be with her brothers, their wolves all around them, beacons of warmth and fur at their sides. She looks around Jon's old room. It is just as unchanged as Robb's was, and when she meets his eyes, she sees the same glimmer in his eyes.
She helps him get up and hands him the clothes she'd procured earlier in the morning, ushering Rickon away to go get dressed himself. She steals away for just a moment to check her hair and clothes, coming back into Jon's room right as he is helping Rickon fasten his cloak around his shoulders, his own cloak thrown over his chair still. He fastens it on, and there they stand, The Three Wolves of Winterfell.
"I will call The Lords to The Godswood for the execution," she tells Jon, and he nods. "You should preside over the executions, as you are better suited to passing the sentence." He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Their father's words ring out between them in the silence, words Sansa knows despite never once having attended an execution alongside her brothers. But she still knew what her father's justice entailed.
"You are the Lady of Winterfell, I believe," Jon does say, and she sends him a look that has him smiling wanly, nodding along. "All right." Then they both look to Rickon, who blinks up at both of them. Sansa takes a deep breath, watching Jon do the same before he crouches in front of their little brother. "You will not be a boy forever, Rickon. You will come to the execution. You understand?" Their brother nods, and Sansa takes Rickon's hand, leaving Jon to his thoughts for a time.
She trusts Jon to pass on the words and platitudes of Northern Justice to Rickon when the time comes. So she does not try to do so herself, instead, she makes sure that news is spread through the castle that all Lords are to come to The Godswood for the execution of those who have betrayed The North. When she tells Ser Davos to gather said traitors, he nods, looking for a moment like he wants to say more, but he does not do so.
She leaves the man to his duties, and together, she and Rickon wait in The Godswood for the better part of an hour as men pour in slowly, looking around at the great woods with a sheen in their eyes. She herself waits at the base of the tree, the pond at her feet, rippling softly with each snowflake that settles on its surface. Rickon leans over it, transfixed.
The Godswood goes quiet as Jon enters, Longclaw at his side. He stands beside her, a flinty and grim smile crossing his lips. She traces her eyes over the scars along his face, and swallows tightly, resisting the urge to wring her hands in front of her, watching the entrance to the Godswood of their House, waiting for those who betrayed them to come forward.
They'd spoken, briefly, about this particular part. Of course, it had been all overshadowed by the uncertainty that they'd even get this far, but they'd both agreed to do the executions in The Godswood, in the sight of the Gods, as opposed to the normal execution spot, a few miles out from Winterfell. This is as much about dispensing justice as it is about showing the gathered Lords that The Starks of Winterfell have returned and still serve the Gods of the North. That, and getting that many people who don't know the area out there had been too much of a headache for them.
When they're finally brought through, a breathless silence falls over the assembled petty lords and soldiers. Some ten to fifteen men are marched forward, the leaders of the betraying armies, and a few officers who'd refused to bend the knee, and one or two servants who'd been too deep into The Bolton's treachery. Amongst them is Myranda's father, and she thinks of Theon, briefly.
Sansa glances at Jon and sees a cold look on his face, sees a look that makes her think, for a split second, that her father stands there, the cold Lord Paramount of the North. But then Jon slowly draws Longclaw, and it's just her brother, a cold man but not as much a Lord as their father was. A motherless bastard, Baelish's voice whispers in the back of her mind.
Three Lords are thrown in front of Jon's feet. Mors Umber was killed by Tormund in the fray, but Arnolf Karstark, his son Cregan, and Rodrik Ryswell survived, and now stare up at Jon, their hands bound and faces bloody. With the assembled people, there stands Alys Karstark, her husband at her side, a cold winter beauty with a face like stone even as Arnolf Karstark spits at Jon's feet and hisses out, "You traitorous, bastard, cunt. "
"I'm not the one who turned his cloak against his rightful king," Jon reminds, hands holding Longclaw steady, face betraying no emotion. Sansa remembers a brother who bristled at all mentions of his bastardry, but now, it barely seems to phase him anymore. She keeps her grin to herself. "You all swore yourselves to House Stark. You swore oaths to Robb Stark, your king. You broke those oaths, and for that, you are to die. If you have any last words, my Lords, now is the time."
Arnolf Karstark spits on the floor again, turning his burning eyes to Alys and her Husband. "You all are the traitors here. My house owes no allegiance towards The Young Wolf, not after what he did! I die knowing I died on a side that doesn't side with wildlings and bed with savages." He turns to glare at Jon. "You'll be a kinslayer, boy, if you do this."
"I would remind you that your brother committed a crime. My own brother answered with the sword, as I will," Jon says with a shrug. "And I am not your boy, My Lord." Jon's eyes narrow into thin slits, dark as a storm, cold as Winter air. "Do not presume so. And I'm just a motherless bastard. What does kinslaying mean to me?" He shrugs, ignoring Arnolf as he curses him, turning to Cregan.
The younger lord says little, his voice dripping with derision, "I die with pride, Lord Snow. I go into my father's halls unashamed. Can you say the same?"
"Aye, I can, and I did," Jon says. "I have seen the darkness that lies beyond, Lord Karstark. That is all I saw, anyway. Darkness."
Finally, he turns to Rodrick Ryswell, who bows his head. "I followed the Boltons because the honour and ties of my house demanded so. I know the crime I have committed in your eyes, my lord, and I understand it. But do not ask for my repentance. I did what my duty demanded, and I hope that I would always choose to do so." Jon nods and looks to the sky and the softly falling snow.
Clearing his throat, he takes a step back, bowing his head, Longclaw gleaming as he begins to speak lowly and deeply. "In the name of Robb of the House Stark, first of his name, King of the North and Lord of Winterfell, I, Jon Snow of Winterfell, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and brother to the king, sentence you to die in the sight of Gods and Men."
The blood stains remain for a while after all the executions have been carried out and the bodies have been dragged away. Sansa stares at the blood as Jon speaks to Rickon in low tones, remembering the first execution she ever saw. Her father's sword had shined in the summer sun. This was nothing like that, nothing like the horror of that day. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Joffrey did not have the courage to kill their father himself. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!
She turns away without a word, Lady following her as she makes her way to the walls, to where she and Theon jumped off the outer wall into the snow bank below. She stands there, ignoring the glances of the soldiers and their whispers as the wind and snow swallows them, staring out at the white expanse beyond Winterfell. She reaches into the pocket of her dress and palms the letter Maester Wolkan had shown her that morning before she met with Baelish.
"I thought I might find you here," a voice calls from behind her, and she smiles slightly as Jon draws nearer, coming to stand beside her. His voice is gentle and kind as he looks at her, and says, "Are you alright?"
"I'm thinking about the day Father died," she says softly, sighing when she feels Jon pause beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him lick his lips and hears him exhale heavily, before he rests his hand on her far shoulder and draws her in for a one-armed hug. Her breath shakes before she continues. "He didn't even have the courage to do it himself. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword–is that not what father said?"
"He did, aye," Jon agrees, voice and eyes distant. "And he also said that 'Ours way is the old way.' Father always made sure we knew that we weren't like the Southern Lords and that we never were going to be. I don't think any of us quite understood what that meant, not until it was too late."
"I certainly didn't," she says with a bitter laugh. "All I wanted to be was a Southern Bride and a Southern Queen. I didn't understand that nothing would ever not make me a Stark, not until…not until father died before me. Not until The North rose up and I found myself comforted by the Gods of our Father, not my mother's gods. Not until I saw what The South truly is–a cesspool of deceit and lust and power-hungry snakes." Her voice grows angrier with each word, and she exhales loudly.
"We were children," Jon reminds her, sounding almost sad for a moment, before he turns to her, grabbing her shoulders and making her meet his eyes. "Young children who didn't know better. But we're all home now, and they cannot take that from us ever again. Cersei will hear of this soon. She will try to upend us, but we have to trust in one another. Winter is coming."
"Winter is here," she corrects, procuring the letter from her pocket and handing it over to him. "The Raven came from The Citadel this morning. A White Raven. Winter is here." For a moment, he stares at the letter in his hands, an unreadable expression on his face.
Jon laughs slightly, looking around at the softly falling snow that rests in their hair and the furs around their shoulders. "Well, father always promised, didn't he?" They both laugh at that and for a moment, she feels like a girl again, caught in summer snows. But this is Winter. And with Winter comes the dead and the cold and The Long Night. This is to be the longest Winter the whole of Westeros has seen in centuries. And all that stands freely of House Stark is a girl, a bastard, and a little boy.
"Robb should be here," she says softly, and Jon's face falls into something grim and serious. "We both know he still lives. You feel it in your bones as much as I do, I know. So long as he lives, he is The King in the North, and we are nothing more than people trying to do what we think he would want. So long as he is a prisoner, so long as The Lannisters hold damn near every Norther House in a noose, we will never be able to be ready for what comes." Jon nods, and she looks at him. "We need to find him, Jon."
"I know," he says, voice no louder than a whisper. "It's our first and only priority. But…where is he? There's been no word of him since Joffrey died, and while we know he is not dead, we have no idea where he could be. How do we even begin looking for him? Where is he?"
"I don't know," she whispers hoarsely.
—
A week and a half later, most of the Northern Lords have made their way to Winterfell, and the question of Where is Robb becomes the most popular topic of conversation. She, Rickon, and Jon sit at the high table as Lords squabble and debate, and she sighs for not the first time, looking around the room and meeting Ser Davos's eyes.
Three days past, they'd dismissed Lady Melisandre from The North. She'd been shaken by the stories of what she'd done, but the true horror had been seeing the worn and strong Onion Knight nearly crumble apart with his grief. It had taken everything in Jon to keep himself from doing something reckless, or so he said, and she finds that she cannot blame her brother. Burning a child alive in the name of your God, and for it to mean nothing in the end… Sansa shudders to think about it.
She exchanges a look with Jon. The Lords seem to understand Rickon's lack of interest in Lordship and respect their authority, but it's not easy to keep the peace between the Valemen, Northmen, and the Free Folk, even with the respect they have. At least it has resulted in only a few petty brawls, she thinks, watching as Tormund rolls his eyes in response to another accusation of them all being invaders.
The argument rises to a fever pitch, but many eyes turn and voices grow silent as Lyanna Mormont rises to her feet, and clears her throat. Eyes turn to her as the hall falls into complete silence, and Sansa sits back, curious as to what the little she-bear has to say with that sharp tongue of hers. "While you all sit here debating, the real enemy gathers strength."
"Jon Snow speaks of an unfathomable Winter and an Army of the Dead. The Wildings speak of a Horn that can crumble The Wall. We all know what is coming, and we all know the words of House Stark. Winter is Coming, " she turns to look at Jon and Sansa, briefly, before turning to another Lord. Cerwyn, Sansa thinks. This will be interesting.
"Lord Cerwyn. Your house is pledged to House Stark, and yet, you did not ride with them," she says, and the man dips his head in shame. "We have all sworn the same oath, to the same house! We are Northmen and we know no king, but the King in The North, whose name is Stark. It will take a King of Winter to help withstand the coming Winter, and while we squabble and argue, he lies in chains made for him by those who betrayed us!"
"Lord Snow and Lady Stark have tried to tell you this, but you have not listened to them. The longer we let Robb Stark sit in chains, the closer we get to the hour of his death. We have to find him and bring our king home. That is Lady Stark and Lord Snow's goal, or so you would know if any of you could stop arguing for long enough to pay attention to them." She turns to them. "My mother and my sister rode with your brother. My uncle chose you to be his steward, Lord Snow." Jon bows his head.
"Bear Island remembers, The North Remembers! Bear Island will follow you. Bear Island will find their king!"
Lord Cley Cerwyn stands slowly, face ashamed and ashen. "Lady Mormont speaks harshly, but truly. I did not do my duty, despite my oaths, and the blood between my House and House Bolton." Sansa remembers his father, Medger, well enough. Ramsay flayed him living. "I was ruled by fear, and I will regret that till my dying breath. But I remember my king, I remember the Young Wolf." He draws his sword. "And House Cerywn will do their part to find him."
Next to rise is Robbet Glover, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "I was the first Lord you came to. A black bastard and Ramsay Bolton's wayward wife, or some would say. But you are wolves of Winterfell, and I made an oath to you." He draws his sword, and lifts it high. "The North Remembers! And I will say what I said that day: I do not intend to be swallowed by the snows. Robb Stark is our king, and it is our duty to bring our king and kin home, at long last."
One more Lord rises, well more so, one Lady rises. Alys Karstark lifts her chin and says, "Blood lies between our houses, I know. I loved my father and will grieve for him to the last, but that does not undo our oaths and our history. Our houses are bound together, in kinship and history. The Sun of Winter will follow the Wolves of Winterfell, our kin, as we have for hundreds of years."
And then it is an outpour. From Umber to Manderly to Liddle, Lord after Lord pledges their swords to the cause, pledges their sword to Jon and Sansa's hunt for their brother. She exchanges a look with Jon and sees a bright glimmer of satisfaction reflected back at her. Their father's death ignited the North, and not even the snows could kill that ember. Because Robb, the first King in The North since Torrhen Stark, made it more than an ember. He made it all a wildfire.
Tormund says a little too, about following Jon this far and having no intention to turn his back on the man who was willing to die for them. That gets a few raised eyebrows, but Sansa is sure the story has passed in some capacity through the assembled Lords, so no one makes a move to ask for clarification. Jon thanks Tormund, and that leaves only the Knights of the Vale.
Petyr Baelish, of course, takes that moment to sweep in, seemingly heedless of the distrustful and wary eyes on his back. The Valemen have been accepted as much as any Northman could ever except an outsider, given their role in the reclamation of Winterfell, but a man like Littlefinger will never be accepted by the North. He bows low, and says, "Lady Stark."
"Lord Baelish," she replies cooly, and for a moment, she knows he is thinking of her last warning to him, their last conversation. Do not speak to me of what The North should do, Lord Baelish. This is not The South, and I suggest you remember that before it ends in your death by my brother's sword. "What is the will of the Vale?"
"I have declared for The North," he says, smiling a smile that makes her fingers curl into fists on the arms of her chair. "I have only met your brother and king once, many years ago, but I am struck by the loyalty he inspires here. I will do my part to see him come home and back into his seat." Of course, you will, she thinks, pursing her lips. So he can be within your reach to play your games with him and possibly put me in his place. I know your heart's desire.
"Of course," she says cooly, smiling coyly. "And I will hold you to that, My Lord. This is The North. You have seen what we do to those who break their Oaths. Do you understand, Lord Baelish?"
"I do," he says, looking up at her with a little less genuine smile. Her face is a cold mask, and he nods and turns away after a moment, slipping back into the shadows from whence he came. She squares her jaw and settles back in her seat, as Jon rises to his feet.
"One of the only ways we know to kill White Walkers and their wights is Dragon Glass, or Obsidian, as the Maesters call it," he nods his head towards Maester Wolkan who dips his head. She is still yet to speak to the man about the history between them, but she is beginning to suspect that his obedience was born of fear, like so many others. "Fire kills wights, but not the Walkers. Valyrian steel works as well, but that is…not easy to reproduce." A few scattered chuckles fill the room.
"Luckily, I believe that Dragonstone might just sit upon a mound of Dragonglass," he says, causing many to perk up. "I have sent a letter to The Maester on Dragonstone, requesting that he confirm this. I have also sent a raven to Old Town and The Citadel, where Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch is in training to become a Maester, by my orders as Lord Commander. I have requested he confirm this as well and search for other possible solutions. Until then, all we can do is fortify the North and look for Robb."
"I have to admit, my Lords, we are at a disadvantage. The Horn of Joramun was never found in truth by Mance Rayder or The Free Folk, and all lands North of The Wall have fallen to The Night King. The Wall is doomed to fall in time, and there is little we can do against it, save for dig in and prepare for The Winds of Winter to come to us." He inhales deeply. "I have also written to my uncle upon The Wall, to speak not only of our victory here, but to see what The Rangers are reporting, and how soon he thinks Winter will come for us."
"We all may die, but it is our duty to stand against this. House Stark was founded in the aftermath of the first Long Night, and The North was born of it." He curls his hands into fists on the table. " I am the shield that guards the realms of men –those are words of the oath of the Night's Watch. And while I have fulfilled my oath, and am free of my vows, I do not intend to give up on this fight. Winter is coming, and it's coming for all of us. We must prepare."
—
They spend hours deliberating, and by the time she and her brothers get to eat dinner in father's solar, she is far too exhausted to even consider speaking to anyone else. But even then, when Maester Wolkan announces that a woman claiming to be a Brienne of Tarth is at the gates, she tells the man to send her and whatever companions she may have with her to them immediately.
She'd sent Brienne to try and win the Blackfish and the Tully Army, and while there has been no whisper of her success, the lack of a Tully army says enough. But Brienne does not look fully disheartened as she comes in and bows to them both, smiling awkwardly when Sansa hugs her, and then Podrick, who smiles a little easier.
They're both introduced to Rickon, who stares in wonder at Brienne as she sits down, running a hand over her face tiredly, before diving into her story. "Riverrun remains in the hands of the Lannisters, but they have made your uncle Edmure their puppet Lord, now. Your great uncle Bryden held the castle for some time, but was rooted out at long last by Jaime Lannister."
"So he is dead, then?" Jon asks, sounding a little grim.
"I cannot say for certain," Brienne says, a slight smile crossing her face. "I escaped the keep, myself, and saw nothing of the Blackfish. But I have reason to believe he may have escaped yet again. I believe the words I overheard was that The Blackfish has once more swam upstream. He seems to have quite a pension for slipping out of Lannister hands." A fish indeed, she thinks.
"Good," Sansa says, tracing the wood grain of her father's desk. "Did he seem to have any sympathy towards our cause?"
"Once I convinced him the words I carried were truly yours, he had some," Brienne tells them. "But he was guarded and wary, and for good reason. He did not seem happy that his nephew was a prisoner, nor that his home was overrun with Lannisters. He told me that he hoped Winterfell was reclaimed, but his duty was towards Rivverun and the survival of his own house, first. He was…very defensive. I do not know for sure, but I do not think he revealed all that he knows."
Sansa exchanges a look with Jon, who crosses his arms and appraises the lady knight with a sharp eye. "In what way?"
"He was particularly dismissive of you, My Lord," she says, and Jon raises a brow as if to say, and are you surprised? Sansa loves her brother and knows that her mother's words were not the right ones, but that does not mean that House Tully has no reason to chafe at their father's actions. To turn their noses at the bastard he fathered off some woman. "And not in the…you're a bastard and an insult to my house, way. More in the…he almost seemed to want to talk about anything but you."
Jon furrows his brow, looking troubled. Sansa mulls over it for a moment, taking a sip of her drink before asking Brienne. "How did you escape, my lady?"
"The Kingslayer," she says, and both their eyes snap towards you. "He…he did swear an oath to your mother, my lady, many years ago. An oath that he would not take up arms against House Stark and that he would ensure the safe return of her daughters. He was the one who armed and armoured me and set me out to complete our mutual oath to ensure the safety of Lady Catelyn's daughters. Those oaths compelled him to let me go and to not raise up arms against me. I do not ask you to trust him, but he did let me go freely. In that, he has remained true."
Sansa says nothing, taking another sip of her drink and pursing her lips. Jon is quiet and contemplative, and Rickon only seems to be half-listening. After a moment, he gets off his chair and goes to sit with the three wolves near the fireplace. Sansa smiles at the sight of her little brother leaning against his massive wolf, Ghost and Lady at either side.
Ghost and Lady. Shaggydog. She straightens and then frowns, looking at Jon in alarm. "Jon," she says, panic rising into her voice. He raises a brow, opening his mouth to no doubt ask what's wrong, but she beats him to it, "Where's Nymeria?"
Notes:
-i think tormund and sansa's relationship is one of the biggest missed opportunities in this portion of the show. you're telling me jons #1 hypeman doesn't get a single scene with his 'kissed by fire' little sister? not one? hello? anyway, tormund is rapidly becoming both of them's biggest fan
-rickon...he was kinda a question mark in my head for a hot minute, but i do like the idea of him being like 'i have seen too much bloodshed caused by lords and spent too long away from that life to ever be able to go back and also i am just a scared and traumatised kid'. that's why i DID age him down for this fic, because also i just don't think his show age works for me? i really like the idea that rickon was a TODDLER when his whole family fell apart. there's something really heartwrenching about that
-something i want to make clear real quick is that-in robb's current absence-Jon and Sansa are filling his roles, of course. But Jon is much more the military leader. Sansa, meanwhile is THE stark in winterfell, and is the one running the castle. Jon is presiding over the executions, yes, but Sansa is running the castle, rewarding the bannermen, and filling Robb and especially Ned's shoes. That's why I had her have THAT convo with Rickon. She is passing on the words and warnings of her house to the next generation, just like her dad did to her and all her siblings.
-all i will say on the blackfish is that he was one of robbs chief advisors, and would know some things that others would not. that and, there is a reason he got a specified character tag on this fic. this is not the last we will see of him, and i am very excited to delve into what role he's gonna play, and what his experiences have made him...
-oh my i wonder where nymeria could be going
Next up, a choosing is held upon the wall. (no arya yet, but i think this next chapter should come pretty easily, so hopefully you all arent waiting for too long to see what type of chaos she's sewing now)