embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

28. THE RED WOLF IV

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: THE RED WOLF IV

The Kingslayer, Jaime Lanister, arrives at Winterfell, with a sizable portion of the Lannister Army behind him. He decries his sister, and pledges his sword to the North, come hell or high water. Sansa tries to find the way forward.

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The great hall of Winterfell is so silent following Robb's hissed-out greeting that Sansa barely dares to breathe, lest she draw all attention to herself with all the noise she's making. The only sound that has broken the silence is her Great Uncle Brynden's footsteps as he comes to stand with his family. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see The Dragon Queen, whose face is alight with all the fury that is becoming of a dragon, a fury Sansa cannot blame her for.

After all, it is a fury shared by her House, for the crimes that man committed against them as well. Sansa glances at Bran and sees that blank expression on his face again, and frustration wells up in her. She needs him here, needs him to be present, needs him to be able to do what he must. They all know what Jaime Lannister did to him. They all know what hell he has wrought upon these lands, for all his selfish arrogance. He killed Jory, she thinks, and her heart hardens with rage unlike anything else.

"Jaime Lannister?" Daenerys echoes, her voice so dangerous, and Sansa can see how his throat bobs, his eyes dark with his creeping terror. Good, Sansa thinks, curling her fingers into a fist on the armrests of her chair. For a moment, no one speaks, no one dares to breathe. And then she continues, her voice almost cold with her anger, "When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father."

All eyes are on her, and she seems to know it. She settles back in her chair, and Sansa can sense how all the wolves tense, attuned to the warring emotions in their people. The Starks sit as well, after a moment, all of them save for Arya, who now looms in the shadows near Sansa, her hand gripping Needle tightly. The Dragon Queen revels in the silence for a moment, the crown on her head glinting, her strange Valyrian eyes like two daggers.

"Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat," she continues. "Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor. He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man... once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp. But I did not think that the witless coward of a man who forsook his oaths would come to the lands of The North, to the keep of a House he has also done his very best to see destroyed. Especially since his sister rules from my throne."

"She does," he agrees, his voice waning and tired. "But Cersei is mad. And…" he seems to hesitate, "I believe there is a war coming for us, something larger than anyone here, or any of our most…regretful moments. A war she cares nothing for, despite knowing full well that it is a tangible thing. She is mad, and will see you all dead, heedless of what doom it may heap upon her shoulders."

"And you are officially the last fucking person to realise any of that," Arya sneers from behind Sansa. He looks at her in alarm which morphs quickly into confusion. Sansa supposes that is only natural. After all, last he knew, Arya Stark was missing, and likely dead in a gutter somewhere, never to be found. And now, here she stands. "Congrats, Kingslayer. That is quite the accomplishment."

He sighs heavily. "She is biding her time hoping that you all will destroy yourselves from within. She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet and tens of thousands of sellswords from Essos. Never mind what forces she has marshalled from The Reach, The Westerlands, and The Stormlands." He glances at the men beside him, and Sansa thinks she sees the huntsman of House Tarly. Glancing at the shadow where she last saw Samwell Tarly, he proves to be long gone. "The men I have are loyal to me. Even if we defeat the dead–"

"How do you know this?" Robb cuts him off. "And do not make the presumption of there being a we, Kingslayer. I have put you in chains once before, and I am quite content to do it again. Perhaps you would even like to get acquainted with my wolf. Or perhaps…a dragon?" Sansa's brother raises a brow at him.

"Your Uncle has written to everyone in Westeros about it. What's more, a stranger came to King's Landing with a wight." He glances at Beric Dondarrion, who smiles flintily, and Sansa straightens. She had wondered where The Wight had gone. It would seem that The Brotherhood Without Banners took up their own prerogative…but to what end, she does not know. "And I think that this is better than facing her madness. At any rate, I intend to fight for the living and intend to protect this realm, for my sister will not. That is an oath I hope to uphold."

"Your Graces," Tyrion says, and Sansa breathes deeply, sending him a warning look, but he does not look at her. Perhaps he is too blind to see just how much he's been blinded by the wayward love he has for his House. "I know my brother–"

"Shut up," Robb hisses at him, only a heartbeat before Daenerys sends him a withering glare.

But still, for all his wisdom, Tyrion is still a love-sick fool, it would seem. He inhales deeply and says, "He came here, knowing how he'd be received by House Stark and House Targaryen alike because he believes in our enemy." He glances at Dondarrion as well. "Why would he do that if he weren't telling the truth?"

Daenerys's lip curls with fury, a fury Sansa can feel welling up in her own throat. Tyrion is not a fool in most regards, no, or at least he didn't used to be. But his life has changed him, and not for the better, she thinks. Now, he is the worst fool of them all. Daenerys's voice drips with derision. "Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat."

"You're right. We can't trust him," Sansa cuts in finally, and he looks at her with a strange expression. She hopes he sees what so many of them do when they look at her. Catelyn Tully Stark, returned from the dead, a cold and calculating woman. She is far from the girl she was last time they saw one another. And she knows just how clear that is. "He attacked my father in the streets. He tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours. He killed Jory."

And they all bristle at that. Sansa thinks of Jory with a pit in her stomach, sweet, kind Jory who helped them and knew them and loved them, and died in the streets. They said that her father held him as he died, and said that when Lord Eddard Stark was came upon in the street, he was cradling the corpse of the Captain of his Household Guard, and his tears were all spent, wet against Jory's cold cheeks. She misses the man with a sudden and horrible ache, one of wrath.

But Jaime just blinks at her, clearly confused. Arya speaks again, her voice like a knife. "The Captain of our household guard, a man who knew all of us since birth. Perhaps you do not recall him, Kingslayer. He would be just another face, wouldn't he? Another man lost in your butchery. Do you know how many people died when my father was arrested? Do you have no understanding of what you have done to anyone here?"

"Arya," Robb says, and though there is a warning in his voice, it is undercut with gentleness. Sansa glances at her brother and sees a look in his eyes, a look she cannot decipher. His crown glitters on his head as he turns back to Jaime Lannister, who seems far from ready to back down.

"Do you want me to apologise? I won't," he says, voice bright, his anger slipping through, even as he stares at the cold faces before him. Sansa can give him credit for his gall, for his bravery in coming here. That does not mean she forgives him. "We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again."

"The things we do for love," Bran agrees, and the room goes silent as Jaime suddenly pales.

The Things we do for love. She can hear Bran's voice in the back of her mind, when he confirmed that he did see them, when they were all trading their stories. She hears a murmur rise amongst The Northmen, who she doesn't doubt are putting their own pieces together. Jaime suddenly looks far more afraid than he was before, and Sansa doubts the snarling wolves before him are doing much to help. Let him see what hell he has bought, Sansa thinks.

Robb's voice is furious at this new reminder. "You pushed Bran from a window, Kingslayer because he saw you and your sister fucking. You pushed a boy from a window so he could not speak of your act. All those children who now lay dead beneath golden shrouds were yours. I would regret their deaths if I did not think it was what was owed to House Lannister for the blood they have shed. Shall I tell you of my mother, Kingslayer?"

He shakes his head, looking away, shame in his eyes.

Daenerys speaks again, her voice tight. "So why have you abandoned your house and family now?"

Slowly, Jaime Lannister rakes his eyes upwards, but not before he glances aside…towards Brienne of Tarth. Sansa straightens in her chair, heart skipping in her chest as she sees the expression on her sworn sword's face. "Because this goes beyond loyalty. This is about survival," Jaime says, and his words ring clear in the room, to a chorus of mutters from The Northern Lords, though no one raises their voice in truth against him.

Instead, Brienne of Tarth rises to her feet, the strangest expression on her face. Sansa glances at Robb and sees his eyes narrowed at the woman, curiosity bright in them. "You don't know me well, Your Grace. But I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honour," She says, carefully. Someone snorts at the comment but says no further. She continues, her eyes trained on Daenerys Targaryen. "I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it."

She turns to Sansa then, and she feels herself reel back at the sudden attention from both of them. "Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you and bring you home because he'd sworn an oath to your mother."

"You vouch for him?" She asks.

Brienne nods, eyes bright. "I do."

Robb finishes for Sansa, his voice cold but interested in a new way. "You would fight beside him?" Sansa can see Daenerys Targaryen looking at them from the corner of her eyes, and her heart may just be a chasm, threatening to open up and swallow her whole.

"I would," Brienne agrees.

All eyes are on Robb, and Sansa bites her tongue to keep from swearing. She cannot deny Daenerys Targaryen's hatred of this man, not while she fights for her own independence and harkens back on her own desires for justice. But they both know one crucial thing, and that is their location. They lie in Winterfell, now, the seat of House Stark, and the choice, at the end of the day, is Robb's. And Sansa knows where The Dragon Queen leans and knows where she herself leans. Justice. The North Remembers.

All the same…what Brienne said is true. Sansa can feel the headache growing at the back of her mind, painful and damning. Of all the places to find herself in, this is one of the worst. Sansa meets The Dragon Queen's eyes and sees a fury and a desperation that she knows all too well in her eyes, the same fires that have kept her going thus far. She glances at Robb and sees nothing of her brother, just the wolfish King of Winter, who betrays nothing of his thoughts to anyone.

Instead of addressing Jaime Lannister, Robb instead turns to the other two men who were dragged in beside him. "Who are you?" He asks, nothing in his voice beyond cold detachment, apathy, really. He is playing a dangerous game, and walking a thin line. "And what business do you have following Jaime Lannister northwards, to Winterfell, to fight an enemy straight from the legends of The North?"

"My name is Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill. Cersei bought my allegiance by saying that House Tyrell was gone, for she knew that I would not betray them. That is, unless, I was lied to and told a shadow of the truth, and then bought that way." He looks at the stormy-faced Garlan Tyrell. "It would appear, however, that her madness has bought way to me being a traitor to my rightful Lords. Once I heard of their survival, my choice was clear. This is my son, Dickon Tarly."

Someone snorts. But Robb seems far from humour, or really, much of anything. His eyes bear into the pair of them, cold and calculating, unfamiliar even to her, who has known him for so very long. He drums his fingers against the table for a moment, clearly weighing something, some decision in his mind, before he finally turns to Garlan Tyrell and asks, "What would you do, Lord Tyrell? Seeing as they are absent of their Valyrian Steel and turncloaks the same."

"You know that my–my–that sorry excuse for a son of mine stole my sword, and yet you seek to punish me?" Tarly asks, clearly furious. But he blanches when Robb turns his cold expression onto him, mouth snapping shut and his dark eyes looking coldly onto Robb, who matches it with an expression that makes his coldness look like summer in comparison. Sansa glances at Arya, and sees a tight expression on her face, her Stark-grey eyes dark and wary.

"Samwell Tarly is a friend of House Stark," Robb says, voice carefully neutral and even. "Not only is he one of the surest friends and allies of my brother, the former Lord Commander of The Night's Watch, Jon Snow, but he is the reason my sister Arya Stark is here today. They encountered one another, and he helped save her life from a wound that may very well have killed her. He is far more welcome in Winterfell than you are, Randyll Tarly."

"You say, after all, that Cersei lied to you about the fate of House Tyrell, the House you are sworn to. But if you were truly loyal, why would you follow the woman who destroyed them? Despite your best attempts otherwise, my lord, you are making yourself very hard to believe." Her brother arches a brow at him, and Sansa can see his jaw tick, but the man says nothing. Robb turns again to Garlan Tyrell. "Ser Garlan. What do you say in this matter?"

"House Tarly can rot, for all I care," he says, and Robb nods. For a moment, he says nothing, he just simply sits there, his eyes dark and his crown damning. Grey Wind is at his feet, and Sansa feels herself strengthened by the sight of a king such as him, at the sight of the man her brother has become. He is The King of Winter, tall and undaunted, proud and unable to be swayed from his conviction. Randyll Tarly is certainly an intimidating man…but not when placed against Robb Stark.

"Take Lord Tarly and his son to the cells," Robb says to The Greatjon, who complies without a word, dragging them out and leaving Jaime Lannister standing alone. Sansa can see Ser Barristan Selmy's expression better, now, and see how he glares daggers into the man, the man who was once a man of The Kingsguard, just like he was. And now, neither of them wear white. Brienne still stands tall, looking at Sansa imploringly, but this is out of her hands, and to deny Daenerys's pain and anger would be to undermine their own. Such is the kick in the game they're playing.

"Now, what to do with you, Ser Jaime Lannister," Robb says, his voice dripping. "Now, on one hand, a part of me wishes to throw you to your knees here and now and be done with it. Or perhaps, hand you over to The Dragon Queen and let her have the same vengeance I desire. And yet, I know what comes next, and I do not know if I should let a man who is willing to bear arms go. And yet, I think that, and then I suddenly recall my mother and the son you bore off of Cersei."

"I'm not here to beg forgiveness from anyone," Jaime says, tired now. He looks at Daenerys properly then. "And I'm not here to explain myself. I had my reasons, know that. Everyone did. But those matters, I know, matter little to you, and I understand that. All I am here to do is escape my sister and try to do something right before I die." He glances at Brienne again, and then at Daenerys. "But I leave the decision to you."

Sansa glances at The Dragon Queen and sees a strange expression on her face. Doubtless, she expected arrogance from the man they call the Kingslayer, and perhaps, once, that is what she would have gotten. But now, she gets a man hallowed out by war, a man who is only a heartbeat away from grovelling at her feet and revealing…what? I had my reasons, know that. Daenerys meets Sansa's eyes, and whatever she sees must strengthen her somewhat.

"Why?" She asks. "Why did you forsake your oaths to my father, Jaime Lannister?"

He looks at her then, a strange look in his eyes, like awe or wonder at the fact that he is being given this chance to tell his story. Slowly, he begins, careful but honest. "Your father was obsessed with Wildfire, with the champion of House Targaryen, as he called it." He glances at them, then, at House Stark, and his eyes harden slightly. " He had no dragon, no creature to dispense justice with. All he had was fire, and it consumed him, night and day. He'd burn anyone, no matter class, house, or creed."

He is looking at them as he continues, and Sansa knows why, can feel her heart straining in her chest, the first grievance of The North still running raw. "He burned Lords he did not like for he thought they looked at him funny. He burned Hands who disobeyed him. He burned men he perceived to be against him, with no thought to any of it. And then he burned Rickard Stark, and he doomed himself forever."

The room is so quiet. The Northern Lords blink at him, and Sansa knows she does not imagine the grief and the remorse in their eyes. Lyanna is a ghost to them, the spectre over them. But Rickard and Brandon are the knife in the heart.

Jaime shakes his head. "Half the country was against him, by then. And he saw traitors everywhere he looked. So, he went to the pyromancers and told them to place caches of Wildfire all through the city…under The Sept of Baelor, even." His mouth curls and Sansa feels her stomach drop as she comes to understand. Perhaps there is more to his abandonment of Cersei, something that has to do with this all, the end of the old way.

"He told them to place them under houses and stables and places of innocents. He cared not for them, cared not for the destruction he would rage in doing so. He did not care, and then it came for him. Robert Baratheon, who had killed his firstborn son upon The Trident, was coming for him at last." Jaime is silent for a moment, his head hung, his voice raw with an emotion Sansa never expected from him–bitterness, yes, but grief as well.

"But my father arrived first. And he swore–oh, how he swore–to Aerys that he would defend him, that House Lannister would not let the rabble come. And he believed him." Jaime's mouth twists and his words are decidedly bitter, then. "But I knew my father, and we could all see the writing on the wall. House Targaryen was doomed, and Tywin Lannister was never one to pick the losing side. So, I did my duty and warned Aerys as much. I told him my father wasn't true. But he didn't listen to me."

He glances at Varys, looming in the shadows, a spectre of something on his face, making his eyes go wide. "Nor did he listen to Varys here, who whispered much the same in his ear. He listened to Pycelle though, that foolish excuse for a Maester. You can trust the Lannisters, he whispered, and The King listened. The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown, he said, never mentioning the sourer stories of us. He convinced Aerys, and we opened the gate."

Jaime shakes his head again, voice trembling as he says, "And then, my father sacked the city."

For a moment, no one speaks, no one so much as dares to. Until Jaime continues, "And so I crawled to Aerys again, and begged him to surrender. He told me to bring him my father's head. To make the impossible choice, the choice I did not want to face." He looks at Sansa and them all then, eyes bright. "Burn them all, he whispered, over and over, until it was all he said. Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds. And I could not keep my oath. I could not send millions to their death for one fucking oath. I killed the pyromancer first. And then Aerys." He looks away.

For a moment, the world is silent. Sansa looks at Daenerys and sees a woman who is having the whole of her worldview overturned, who has no way of conceptualising this new and awful truth. She is shaking, Sansa thinks, and when she glances at Ser Barristan, she sees naked horror and awful understanding in his eyes. Burn them all.

Sansa thinks of her grandfather and her uncle, dead before their time, and suddenly yearns to weep.

"And still he whispered, burn them all. I don't know what consumed him then. Certainly not the notion that he was dead and dying, that he had fallen and taken his House with it. And that is where honourable Ned Stark found me." Now he looks up again, and there is rage in his eyes, rage unlike anything else, rage to them. And Sansa feels her heart clench.

"Ned Stark, who looked at me and saw a man already guilty, who never asked why. By what right does The Wolf judge The Lion? Blood is on all our hands. And yet, years later he'd throw it back in my face, hang Brandon and Rickard before me and suggest that was another failing of my honour alone, never mind the courtiers who watched as well. Only I was guilty of that crime. You'd have thought I killed his brother and his sister and his father myself."

"Perhaps my father wondered why the murder of the Lord Paramount of The North was not enough to get you to turn," Robb says, voice cool, but Sansa can hear the edge of hysteria in his voice. Jaime Lannister says by what right does the wolf judge the lion, not understanding how raw this ache was in their father, not trying to understand, just as their father never did. "I cannot absolve him of guilt. But you do not get to stand here and utter those names and disparage my father for loving them, for hating those who did not save them. The North Remembers."

"You say The Mad King hid caches of Wildfire," Robb continues. "And yet, something tells me you told no one of them. They say Cersei blew the Sept with Wildfire…doubtless, left over from The Mad King. How many died because of that, Kingslayer?"

"I didn't think…" he trails off, his mouth closing and opening as his eyes screw shut in what is doubtless pain. When he speaks, there's a strangled edge to his voice. "I am not here to pretend that I am a good man, or that I made the right choices. I have laid bare my truth–every awful edge of it, every contradiction that lies there within. I have ridden to what may be my death because I want to do one right thing before I die. I will not ask for a forgiveness that I do not deserve. All I beg is either kill me or allow me to face the end of the world."

His eyes are green, bright with pain and fury and something more. Desperation, she realises after a moment, and when she glances at Daenerys, he can see how she stares at him. Sansa swallows tightly and looks back at The Kingslayer.

"Take him to the cells," Robb says when no one speaks for a long moment, and Ser Barristan all but jumps to comply. Sansa rises to her feet, aware of her brothers' eyes on her, never mind Arya's and The Dragon Queen's. She meets Brienne's eyes, and then looks at Robb, and nods. He tilts his head at her, clearly curious, but does not stop her as she calls Lady to her side and moves to follow Ser Barristan towards The Cells…or rather, help guide him down there.

The Kingslayer looks at her carefully once he's locked in and Ser Barristan is gone. Lady is at her side, and she can see how carefully he avoids looking at her wolf, and she smiles ever so slightly. Robb and The Dragon Queen can have their conversation without her, debating what to do next, given the fact that Jaime did bring forces to their side. She has no want of being there, though, for once. She wants to speak to Jaime Lannister, instead, and ask about something else.

"Where is your sword, Ser Jaime?" She asks after a long stretch of silence. He blanches, clearly surprised by the question. He would not expect it, not compared to any of the other questions she could ask, but this one matters beyond what he may realise. He, after all, according to Brienne, is the owner of the other half of the sword he stole from them. If they can get Ice back, someday…

"It was taken from me when your men dragged me in," he finally replies, glancing at Lady once, before turning to her with a raised brow, and a clearly forced amount of casualness. "If you are meaning to threaten me with your wolf, Lady Sansa, I will inform you that this is old news to me. Your brother has done the same song and dance with me and his wolf before."

"Lady is kinder than Grey Wind," she tells him, resting her hand on her wolf's head. He looks far from assuaged by her reassurance, but that is intentional. She's not here to make him feel comfortable, after all. "And, besides, she has no taste for men like you. Whether they be lions or flayed men–they are all beneath her. As I informed my former husband before he died." She smiles at him as he blinks at her in confusion, and she laughs slightly at the expression, waving her hand through the air. "A story for another day. Do you have any idea why I would ask after your sword?"

"Because the steel belongs to your house?" He asks after a moment, finally putting the pieces together. She nods, and he purses his lips, seemingly resigned to it. "Indeed, I guess I expected that, once I recalled what the origin of the blade was. Brienne still has hers?"

"Aye, and with it she defended me, and became my sworn sword," She tells him, and he snorts and mutters something that sounds an awful lot like typical. In a cell, he doesn't look that large, and he is a far cry from the knight he was when he first came to Winterfell, so many years ago. With the missing hand, and greying hair, and lack of armour, this is no glittering knight from the songs who sits before her. Not that he really ever was one…"Why did she defend you?"

"A question I find myself asking as well. Perhaps the wench is fond of me," he tells her, but his sharpness is easy to see through. He is as startled by Brienne's defence as she was, and it has hit him deep in the heart. He probably expected to die here, especially once he realised that The Dragon Queen was here. And yet, he came, and yet, he lives–he is sitting in a cell, yes, but he is living still. What a strange day this has been.

"Brienne is my sworn sword," she reminds him with a raised brow. "And I am a Princess of Winter. I will not tolerate disrespect to her, no matter what companionship you may share with her. Tell me, Ser Jaime, do you believe that we should let you fight for Winterfell?"

"You're letting that Targaryen Queen fight for your precious Winterfell," he says, green eyes glinting. "And her house has just as much Stark blood on their hands as mine. Tyrion is here. And whispers say that two Ironborn are with Daenerys Targaryen, including one Theon Greyjoy. Tell me, Princess, would you allow Theon Greyjoy to fight for Winterfell, if it came to it? Your brothers live, indeed, but could you forgive him for everything else? You Northmen swear justice and vengeance, but where do you draw the line? When must you give up your damned convictions and foolish honour?"

"Theon has repented, and earned my forgiveness," she tells him. He looks at her strangely. "Theon has made his mistakes, I do not deny. Still, I have a place in my heart left for him, for he learned, and for he paid for what he did. You…I am not sure I can say the same. Three children dead seems like justice to me, vengeance for my brother–who you crippled–and my father and my mother–who were murdered by your House. A missing hand…is tragic, but House Bolton has paid for their own treachery already, so I cannot say it shames me."

"You're not the little girl you used to be, are you?" he says with a snort.

"No, I'm not," she agrees. "And I would place much of that blame on your House, but…tell me, Ser Jaime, did you see the spot of blood on the floor before you earlier?"

He's a little pale, but still, he says, with that forcible casualness of his, "Yes, it was rather hard to miss. What poor sod was it? Some Southern fool who tried to bite at The Wolves and paid the price for it? Don't tell me you fed the fool to your wolves?"

"No, not quite," she says, smiling in truth now. "It was Lord Petyr Baelish." He goes still and looks at her with naked confusion, mingled with…perhaps, is that terror? She sighs slightly and continues to speak, unable to stop smiling as she recalls how he died and how it all came to be, in the end.

"He helped steal me away from King's Landing following Joffrey's death," she tells him, and he looks far from surprised by that. "He hid me in The Vale, and then decided upon the brilliant idea of marrying me to the bastard of the dreadfort, Roose Bolton's now legitimate bastard, Ramsay. Ramsay…was a cruel man. I escaped, eventually, going to The Wall, where my brother, Jon, was. Together, we gathered arms and it was then that Baelish came crawling back. He was long gone from my trust, but he had his uses, especially when it came to taking back our Home."

"But, eventually, he overstepped too much, as he was wont to do. He tried back my House into a corner of his own making and whispered the wrong words. He died almost two weeks ago. But we have kept the blood as a reminder to everyone as to what happens to people who betray The North, to those who think they can bend us to their will." She tilts her head at him. "Right alongside the desecrated House Frey, and the bones of Ramsay Bolton, which are now no more than dust. Roose as well, though Ramsay robbed us of that vengeance. Now all that remains is House Lannister."

He looks at her like he has no idea what he's looking at, and no sense of the game she is playing. Which is exactly where she wants him to be. He has come to Winterfell, and now he will face what that means. "I will not argue for or against your survival, Ser Jaime, and I appreciate the fact that Brienne has defended you and that you have brought men to our cause. But do not think of this as a kindness. We are ready to destroy you and your House if it comes to it. The North Remembers."

"Yes, I know. That is a phrase you and your brother have both thrown in my face," he mutters, looking at her darkly. She lifts her chin as he continues. "How can you be sure your bannermen won't murder me? You did not give me bread and salt. Even if that Queen and your brother decide to keep me alive, what stops someone from undoing this all and making Cersei that more insane?"

"I thought bread and salt didn't matter to House Lannister," she says, sickly sweet. And it has the intended impact, as he visibly flinches and looks away. "If Robb keeps you alive, and The Dragon Queen somehow agrees to it, that decree will be respected. For, we will all be fighting under the same banner, at the end of the day. We will show you the courtesy that was never shown to our House in turn. At least until the dawn comes again. There are many trials to be had after the dead are gone."

She knows the only way Jaime survives is if Daenerys allows him to, and Sansa will not argue against it. This is her blood, this is her grievance, and though she has shown enough restraint to leave some of it to Robb, Robb cannot deny her this justice without her doing the same to her. He will live, likely, but only till The Dawn comes again. And then, it will be justice and vengeance. She does not think he is on Arya's list, but perhaps he may end up there.

For a moment, silence hangs. And then he asks, in a wary tone, "What happened to House Frey? I know what the assassin said–Winter came for House Frey. Those are words from your House. What hand did you have in this, Princess?" His voice drips with mocking derision at the tone again, but she barely pays attention. She pins him with her gaze until he seems to writhe under it, uncomfortable with the look in her eyes.

"I killed them," a voice calls from behind her, and Sansa barely manages to contain her shock. Jaime goes pale as a sheet when he sees Arya come through the shadows, Nymeria at her heels. Her silence is shocking to both of them, but he does not manage to hide his terror and shock. "I snuck in, and slit Walder Frey's throat. I poisoned the rest. They were on my list, Kingslayer, the list of people I seek to kill. A list that your sweet sister is at the very top of. What do you think I plan to do to her?"

"You killed the Freys?" He asks, sounding horrified. He laughs in horror when Arya nods in assent, looking at both of them with naked terror. And Sansa cannot blame him for it, though it does make her feel viciously satisfied. He blinks at them, all of his arrogance and strength fully gone now in the face of death, the face of terror. Two wolfish Stark girls, two she-wolfs who have been changed and remade by the hands of his House. They are what they are because of what his House did.

Ser Ilyn, bring me his head! She swallows the heavy lump in her throat and fights to regain herself. The past is gone, she knows, and all any of them can really do is move forward. And it aches, burns her to look at him, and know everything he and his House did. He pushed Bran from a window, his bastard son cleaved her father's head from her neck with his own sword before her own eyes, and his father murdered her mother and put her brother in chains. The North Remembers. But what happens when they let themselves be consumed by it all, by their bloody vengeance?

"I did," Arya says with a roll of her eyes. Sansa is perhaps the only one of her siblings with an actual proclivity towards patience, with perhaps the exception of Bran. But none of them very much like to repeat themselves unceasingly, Arya least of all. She leans against the columns that border the door to the cell, her two blades glinting in the flickering firelight of the torch that rests on the holder above her. She seems unconcerned about her closeness to the flame.

"You say Cersei has gone mad," Arya says, and Jaime straightens. "And though I can sit here for however long I like and tell you why I think she's always been mad, I do not think that is a productive use of any of our time. So, why do you say she has gone mad now, Kingslayer? What has she done?"

"She brings sellswords from Essos in, people who will abandon her. She courts Euron Greyjoy, a man consumed with madness and magic, who makes The Ironborn look tame. She thinks herself untouchable despite…The Freys, and spends her time planning how to bring your House down. Even when your Dragon Queen broke our forces in The Reach, she did not care, and insisted that they would persist." His lip curls and Sansa resists the urge to poke at the mention of a courtship. "She has alienated much of the army. The men who follow me are those dissenting men, and forces of House Tarly, who feel as betrayed as their lords by her lies."

Sansa and Arya exchange a weighty glance. Of course, they both know that Cersei wishes to see them dead, for they both recall well the proclamation she had made. They are the biggest threat to her, a proof that her reign has not lasted, and their allyship with Daenerys Targaryen is probably terrifying to her. But Jaime says that he is consumed with it, with an honesty and belief that is so certain in him that she dares not try and think he is being false.

"She wants to see you all dead, ruined before Winter," Jaime continues, leaning forward, his green eyes bright. "I do not ask you to trust me but know this. She laughed when she saw the wight. I know she has been slashed by The Iron Throne. She laughed, and said that it would be best to let The Northmen freeze themselves to death or dig themselves their graves as they deal with the…how did she put it to me–Targaryen Whore Queen and her army of foreign Savages. Nevermind The Wildlings."

Sansa inhales deeply and rests her hand on Lady's head for some strength. Her wolf presses next to her and makes a sort of gentle noise, one that makes Sansa smile slightly, much warmer now by the strength of her wolf. She hardly knows how she spent so many years away from her, does not know how she possibly survived. Arya saved them both, and Sansa will never be able to repay her for that action, despite how angry she was back then.

"Speaking of…" he says, sending her a look that has her bristling. "I see not only a lack of Wildlings here, despite hearing all about how The Starks have lost their minds and sided with them, but an absence of your bastard brother. I don't suppose he's looming in the shadows, waiting with his wolf to kill me as well or intimidate me as well. All you Starks seem to take joy in doing that, don't you?"

"There is some humour in it," Sansa agrees. "For I have found that all a man's courage tends to suddenly disappear when he faces a direwolf. But as for the matter of Jon, he is upon The Wall again, helping our Uncle defend against The Others. By my guess, he likely arrived only recently, though, with the weather. He took The Free Folk with him, what ones could ride and fight. For, by our uncle's telling, we have perhaps only a month left until they come. And The Watch cannot fall until then."

He looks at her oddly. "I also wonder, though, how did he escape his oath? Everyone in Cersei's small council is nattering on about oathbreakers as if they cared before now, and I do admit I find it curious that he has been allowed to run free in The North as an oathbreaker."

"And it will remain a question in your mind, Ser Jaime, for that business belongs to Jon alone," she tells him, before sending him another look of warning. "And I would also warn against asking too many questions, Good Ser. For, as you well know, there is no love for you here, and too many questions will raise suspicions. I do not think you wish to be seen as a spy sent by Cersei."

A frighteningly real scenario, though Sansa does not wish to think too much about it. Cersei, she thinks, would have sent him alone if he sent him at all, with little to no army behind him. The fact that he has an army behind him at all speaks volumes and leads her to feel disinclined towards seeing him as a spy. But if he is a spy, though, they will root him out before long…or, more accurately, the wolves will. They have always had an uncanny sense of people, and Sansa knows to listen to her wolf when it comes to people. And Lady has not growled openly at him, not without provocation.

She will not trust Tyrion's word on this matter, just simply trust herself and her wolf and her House. That has always been the best bet in this world, has always been her compass since she first came upon The Wall and reunited with Jon and Lady and Nymeria and Ghost. All she can trust is her house, and who knows what choice Robb is making upstairs in the Great Hall?

Jaime sighs with a tight-lipped smile, looking far from surprised at her reticence. She knows that whatever rumours and whispers of House Stark that have come South must be strange and hard to sort through, and knows that any man would seek some clarity in them. But, all the same, he is far from trusted by them, and they will defend Jon as best they can, given everything that has happened since he fled to The Wall.

I know what he is. How did he know? How in all the world did Petyr Baelish uncover that rock, and what did he plan to do with it? That, perhaps, is the most terrifying question that has been left unanswered with his death. Jon is not someone who will be easily bent without breaking him in two. Whatever plans Baelish had would have seen her brother broken…or more likely dead. A picture of me on the Iron Throne, and you by my side.

Arya's eyes are on her, but she does not look at her sister, rather keeps her eyes on Jaime. "I thank you for telling us of Cersei, though. I am far from surprised that she has given herself over to madness, and I will say again that you are perhaps the last to realise so. But what is done is done. Cersei will destroy herself, or be destroyed, and you know this. I would advise that, if you seek to do right, to undo your wrongs, you give your love up. She is gone. The woman you knew is gone."

Jaime looks at her with this pained expression that reveals the heart of it, right what she suspected. He knows Cersei is gone, and he knows it well. And though it is hurting him, it has pushed him this far already. And that…that means something. Jaime Lannister knows what his sister is at last, and has crawled North, into the hands of his enemies, for he believes it safer for him than in the circle of her arms. A tragic end for the pair of them, but one long since deserved. Their love has killed tens of thousands, after all.

Footsteps draw her attention away from The Kingslayer, and she and Arya both straighten and turn as they see someone approaching. She smiles slightly as she recognises Brynden Tully, who pets Nymeria as he passes, nodding at Sansa and Arya before coming to stop before the cell. He sets his torch aside, on the holder opposite the other one. Arya, notably, did not bring one of her own, but Sansa can't say she's surprised. Her sister, as much as she loves her, is a little strange.

"The Blackfish," Jaime drawls, all his casualness coming back. But Sansa can see how he's not looking at Arya, who looms silently, her blades glinting at her sides. The Kingslayer tilts his head at the man, raising a single golden brow as he says, "I thought we'd encounter one another earlier. When we took Riverrun, I was rather sad to see you had swum upstream once more. Though, I doubt you plan to run away this time. Otherwise, you'll start developing quite the unwanted reputation, won't you?"

"Such a silver tongue, Kingslayer," Brynden says dryly, rolling his eyes. "Perhaps I just simply wished to not have to deal with your delighted crowing of your victory. I know all about how your army dragged Robb southwards to that bastard son of yours, so he could go laud a victory that was not his, and born of treachery. I am a far older man than you are, Kingslayer. I know when it is time to leave, and cut my losses."

And I doubt he wanted to face the shell of a man that has become our uncle, Sansa thinks to herself, and looking at the tightness around her uncle's eyes, that is true. Edmure Tully is out of their hands, and they have not made an effort to contact their poor uncle, knowing he will be far too traumatised by what happened last time to help them. And though it clearly hurts Robb and Brynden both to make that choice, they know it for the better. Edmure's fear of what happened will be no help.

But thoughts of Edmure bring thoughts of The Vale, and Robin Arryn, their only cousin to them (for she cannot bring herself to think of Jon as her cousin), who has been under Baelish's thumb for so long now. Royce had sent men out to The Vale to get their little lord truly back, and for that, she is grateful. Royce has been a very helpful man, and though paranoia crawls in her mind around everything Baelish knew, she knows the slip did not come from him.

She shakes her head, drawing herself back to the present moment. Brynden and Jaime have seemingly just been hissing words at one another, bristling like only two old men can when they have fought on opposite sides of the same war for nearly a decade. He will never forgive The Lannisters for Catelyn's death and Edmure's heartbreak. And she knows that a part of him certainly wishes to be able to murder Petyr Baelish himself for Lysa. All three of his brother's children were ripped from him.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," she says, cutting him off as he starts nattering on about The Siege of Riverrun again. Her uncle looks at her then, smiling slightly when she sends him a look. He looks some shade of fond, and while she knows he is far from intimated by any of them, he does put on a good show of pretending he is. "Is there a reason you are here, uncle, besides your intention to argue incessantly with Ser Jaime?"

"Yes," he says, looking suddenly far more grim. His blue eyes, the eyes they share, dig into her for a moment before he says, in a grave voice, "The Dragon Queen wishes to speak to you."

—

The queen looks weary and tired as Sansa comes into her little solar attached to the chambers they gave her. She notes Tyrion's absence almost immediately, and Sansa cannot blame her in the slightest. The man is blinded by his love for his brother–which Sansa cannot blame him for, either, knowing how finicky love can be–and it is far from helpful when it comes to the issue that is at hand. Love is a dangerous thing, hard to control, but it's also destructive too, in matters such as these. Daenerys doesn't need a brother. She needs someone with a clear mind and clearer vision.

Is that me? Sansa finds herself wondering as she sits across from The Dragon Queen, taking the proffered wine and sipping slightly. She does not drink nearly as much as Tyrion or Cersei, yes, but she will not deny that she enjoys a good cup or two. But she does her very best to do nothing in excess, and this is no different. Especially when Daenerys Targaryen is looking at her very intently, like she is a piece to a puzzle that she is still trying to figure out.

Sansa hopes that the woman does not intend to use her as a catspaw. She hopes the woman has learned that lesson already from Littlefinger. He tried to make House Stark his pet, and he paid the price for it.

"You spoke to the–" Daenerys's voice catches on the word, just barely, and she continues on with a shakier tone. "You spoke to the Kingslayer?"

"I did," Sansa agrees, keeping her voice measured and even, perfectly careful. She followed after them because she wanted to know what business he had here, wanted to look him in his eyes and ask, and also because she didn't want to be a part of whatever argument was bound to end up exploding in Robb and Daenerys's faces. Sansa knows her brother's temper well, after all. "It was far from perfectly insightful, but I digress."

"What did you speak of?" The Queen presses, and Sansa feels herself soften, just a bit. There is a desperation in this woman's eyes, a desperation Sansa understands too well. She has been put on the back foot–they all have. They'd all see Jaime Lannister dead, but what happens to his army, what madness would that put into Cersei, and how does that look to the rest of The Seven Kingdoms? And will they end up dooming themselves by killing one of the best living swordsmen around?

"I asked him why Brienne defended him. He said he had no idea. I asked him where his sword was, for it was half of our Greatsword, Ice, a blade of Valyrian Steel. It was stolen from us when my father died…and used against his neck, too." She inhales shakily, closing her eyes against the memories that press close, far too close. "He said it had been taken at the gate. And then we spoke of the past. Of treachery and of Littlefinger, too. I gave him what warnings I could. I asked him why we should ever dare to allow him to Winterfell."

"And?" She asks.

"He gave no real answer. So, Arya came and told him of the end of House Frey," Sansa continues, looking away, outside the window, as Daenerys flinches slightly. That had been quite the hand of theirs to show, but perhaps honesty is their best weapon, at least in this delicate game, or at least in times like those. "And then he spoke of Cersei's madness. Of her foolishness. She is content to leave us to fight The Others, but it would seem that Jaime Lannister has no intention to die without putting up a fight first. He loves her, still, but she has burned all who come near. Him, as well."

"And then the Blackfish came, and my uncle and he spent all their time bickering like two old nursemaids," Sansa finishes with a sigh. The Dragon Queen laughs slightly, but the sound is hollow. "I am sure I do not have to tell you how thin a line we walk. I trust him little, if at all…and yet, Brienne swears to him. A woman I trust with my life and my honour. He rode here, knowing what would greet him. He left Cersei."

"He murdered my father," Daenerys says softly. "And yet, he spins this…this tale that is horrible to believe but easy, too. I…I don't think my brother ever knew of that. As far as he knew, Jaime Lannister turned when the hour was dark, for his own gain. As far as anyone knew. And he broke his oaths, but if what he says is true, saved millions from my father… but doomed how many more? I tell myself I am not my father. I tell myself I am going to make a new world. And yet, there that man stands, a crossroad between it all. I am lost when it comes to him. Vengeance to answer for pain, or delayed justice for the price of our survival?"

"It isn't easy for me, either," Sansa says, looking at her as kindly as she can. Daenerys's purple eyes flicker to her, confusion in them, but rawness and a sudden vulnerability, too. Sansa smiles sadly. "I look at him and I remember he is the son of the man who made it so my mother was murdered before my brother. I look at him and remember how my older brother was thrown to his knees before me, how he screamed and pleaded and tried to save me. I wanted to be the one who brought you home, he told me."

She picks at her dress, mind so far away. "Jaime Lannister gave rise to the monster who murdered my father before my own eyes. He mocked my mother right after he heard of our father's death. He pushed my brother from a window, crippling him for life. And I wonder–I wonder, every night–what could have been avoided, had he not? Had Bran had two working legs, would Theon have ever turned? Would Winterfell have fallen? Would my father have died?"

There are tears in her eyes, she knows. A wound has been reopened in her, and she can see Robb still, bloody and dirty and on his knees, his face held between her shaking hands. Tyrion's relayed words, Robb's desperate pleas, the words of their ancient House ringing clear in that room. He'd screamed her name, and plunged her into the icy depths of despair and bitter longing with only three words. Winter is Coming. Winter is Coming. Winter is Coming.

"I do not know what to do," The Dragon Queen confesses. "It is easier to hate him when I believe it to be an act of selfishness, the actions of a man who turned when the hour was darkest. But if that story is true, if it holds even an iota of truth–and Varys and Selmy say it does–then what does that mean? I hate him still, but I cannot deny what he did. He made a choice, a hard choice, one that doomed my house, but kept so many more alive. Somehow, somehow, Jaime Lannister is not the man I thought him to be, and it all crumbles as I realise that."

"You do not need to forgive him," Sansa says. "Robb, Jon, Arya–they have not fully forgiven Theon, have they? I have because it is all I can do. But they have not lived what I have, and they have their aches and wounds that they cannot get over. And yet, we welcomed him in, because his heart is true, and he seeks what Jaime seeks, I think. A second chance. The chance to do some good before the end. To fight for The Living."

"You do not have to let him go free, either," Sansa continues, looking intentionally at Daenerys. "If he dies by our hands, Cersei might go fully mad, but we can use that. He is a bargaining piece and a chance for you to show how you answer the crimes of others. Jaime Lannister is not a good man. He has crimes to answer for…but they may be able to wait until the dust has settled." The Queen's breath hitches, tears in them.

She smiles softly, gently, and offers a hand, which Daenerys takes after a moment, looking at her with a look that makes Sansa feel unmoored. Daenerys Targaryen has no family, as far as she knows. She has been a woman alone in this world, and she didn't have a saviour, didn't have a brother at her side, to hold her hand and tend her wounds and love her with the whole of his heart. She has only herself, with no one to dry her tears and tell her it's going to be okay.

Once, months ago, now, Sansa had asked Jon to kill her, should the battle for Winterfell go awry. There is no sword I would rather die on than yours. She knows it had broken his heart to hear those words, just as it had broken her heart to have to ask. Two broken-hearted fools they'd been, clinging to one another. I ask because I do not know that I could do it myself, nor that I could bear to die alone. But Daenerys…as far as she knows, never had that. She was alone, by and large. There was a brother, but Robb had said that she said he was far from any of them, in the end.

"I know we have stressed all our grief and our pain to you, and I thank you for all the ways you have at least tried to listen," Sansa tells her. "I think, for us, the grief of Lyanna, of Rickard, of Benjen, comes from the fact that our father never spoke of them. All we knew of them was the tragedy, and with our father gone, ripped so violently from our hands when we were all so young…our pain is not singular. But it feels so lonely to us. We were torn from one another."

"I know you watched him die, just as your brother saw your mother die," Daenerys says, squeezing Sansa's hand gently. "And I can clearly see the wounds left behind. I lost my brother Viserys to my first husband. But I did not love him, by then, as you love your siblings. I…in the deepest part of my heart, Lady Sansa, I am sorry for it. No child should watch their father die. No family should suffer what you have."

"But we have not suffered alone," Sansa says. "Our House was not the only one broken by war. It is hard for us to sympathise with your House, and I won't waste my breath reminding you why. You know why. You know what role your House played. But despite that, we are not beyond sympathy. I, in whatever way I can, understand. Your House was broken for the crimes of two foolish men, leaving you the sole survivor. My siblings and I had the hope–at the very least–of one another."

She thinks of her uncle Benjen, for just a heartbeat. He is so alone, in a sense. His family is gone, torn to shreds, ripped from him and made ghosts and bones and ashes. She has all her siblings. He has none…just like Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa had some hope. Hope of Arya, the hope Ramsay gave her when he foolishly told her of Jon. And that hope did bloom. She found herself in Jon's arms eventually, found someone strong enough to hold her as she collapsed, and she did the same to him as his ghosts came to haunt him.

"The choice should lie in you, Daenerys Stormborn," Sansa says. "If we demand all our justice and all our vengeance, but deny you yours…what does that make us? Hypocrites. The House of The Dragon was broken by Jaime Lannister's choice, no matter what the reasoning behind it is. His father helped murder your sister-in-law, your niece, and your nephew. That is a pain I do not dare to deny. And it is a pain I understand, in some part. The pain of loss, the pain of longing. We will follow your choice in this matter."

Sansa thinks of Jon. He is the betrayal of her words, the lie she tells. Daenerys Targaryen is not alone, not in truth. Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, still lives and breathes. The Blood of The Dragon does not live on only in this queen before Sansa, and her words are made weaker by it. But her conviction remains, and the strength is still seen by Daenerys, who knows nothing of the truth. Perhaps she will hate Sansa for these lies, one day. But for now…their hands remained intertwined, understanding between them in force.

"And yet, I do not know how to make that choice," Daenerys says softly, looking away, outside the window, to The North and the snow. "My heart yearns for vengeance, for my father avenged, for my brother's dreams to come true. And yet, my mind wars. It whispers of what he did, of those words. Burn them all. My mind knows that I cannot so easily bargain away a soldier such as him. My mind knows I am not the only one who has made painful concessions in the past few months."

They both know of what she speaks. Sansa thinks of Lyanna, sheltered and naïve and drawn from home by whispered promises from a gilded prince, and her heart is a cavern. All she knew of Lyanna for most of her life was the one story. Her father could never bear to impart their stories onto them, for the grief would swallow him whole if he so much as tried. Sansa can barely think of him without wanting to scream herself horse and sob until she has nothing left. She knows the anguish that must have torn him asunder.

"Winterfell must stand," Sansa replies after a moment. Daenerys nods, clearly understanding the choice that must be made here. "But when The Night is gone, and The Dawn has come…what then? Justice can prevail, light can come back into the world, and we can make things right. When I asked Robb to spare Theon, when I first wrote to him, I asked him to do so until after The Long Night. Ser Jorah has been allowed here because he wants to serve during it, and will leave after. So…perhaps that is your best option. But I leave the choice to you. This pain is yours."

The Queen nods in mute thankfulness. Having no more to say, and with the distinct impression that enough has been said already, Sansa nods and leaves, wanting to go find Robb, now, needing to know what he spoke of, and how it all ended with The Dragon Queen seeming so despondent. Seeing Daenerys Targaryen so lost is…unsettling, for lack of a better word.

She finds him in his solar, which she expected. But he is not alone, and that is a surprise, until she recalls one of the other things they learned from Jaime Lannister. Beric Dondarrion sits across from her brother, his one eye glinting with near madness, a slight smile on his face.

"Princess," he greets, and Sansa glances at Robb. Her brother nods, mouth pressed into a thin line. All the same, she can see that he is grateful for her presence, grateful that she is here. Of all of his siblings, they both know that she is the one with the most astute political mind. He probably would have asked after her in time, anyway. She sits next to him, and looks at Lord Beric Dondarrion, who is still smiling crookedly as he says, "His grace and I were just discussing the wight I sent to Cersei."

"The wight you did not design to inform anyone of," Robb says flatly, though he sounds far from angry, just tired and a little frustrated. Not with Beric, she'd guess, but rather at himself for not thinking about what happened to the wight. Though, to be fair, the Bolton attack he'd spoken of, the looming thought of Winterfell, and all that was occurring at the time would doubtless be distracting to much of anyone. Her brother sighs heavily, "Is there a reason you did not tell me? I want to trust you, my lord, and yet–this is a snag, is it not?"

"A snag indeed, and one I am prepared to take the fall for," Dondarrion says with a shrug, so strangely casual about this. "I understand how this looks to you–I will not deny that–and I will admit I have grown used to my own authority being the only authority. But my reasoning was along the lines of what I said to you and The Dragon Queen on Dragonstone. Banners do not matter when it all comes down to it. I did not send it there in hopes of swaying Cersei. I did it for one reason alone, a reason that has proven to be a victory."

"To get people to dissent," Sansa surmises, and he nods, smiling widely now.

"Precisely," he agrees, and Robb sits back in his chair then with another sigh, his eyes on The Lightning Lord. "If I could sew quiet chaos into the Southern court, and perhaps even bring swords to our cause, that is a victory. And, if it comes from–nominally, at least–The Night's Watch, Cersei will have a harder time turning our gift away. A few of my men dressing in black helped to sell the illusion right until they came up to her and told the real truth and made it so if she did try to turn them away, some Lord would doubtless start crowing and driving her up a wall. And, now, here we are."

"And The Wight?" Robb asks, a heavy tone in his voice. "I would, after all, prefer that Cersei doesn't have a creature of The Night King in her possession."

"My men took care of it, don't worry," Beric says, still smiling. It is a strange smile. Sansa recalls him being handsome, once upon a time, but life has been hard to The Lightning Lord, and it shows. She does not know how many times he has been reborn, but she'd guess it is a larger number than is probably good. Death after death does take its toll on the body, and Beric Dondarrion is a very clear sign of that. "I also share in your desire to not give Cersei the weapon of our enemy. She is a madman."

"You don't say," Sansa says with a slight scoff. Beric turns to her, his eyes dark as he looks at her. She lifts her chin slightly, lacing her fingers together on her lap, resisting the urge to rap them against her knees for comfort. Sighing, she glances away and says, "Though, I find myself wishing that it was not Jaime Lannister who was brought into the fray by your choice. He is, after all, quite the unwelcome figure here in The North, and to House Stark and House Targaryen both."

"You spoke to The Dragon Queen?" Robb asks, sounding like he already knows the answer. She nods, and he hums, while Beric Dondarrion looks on with those glinting eyes of his. "Good. She said she'd seek you out. It would seem, Sansa, that she has found your counsel to be helpful." She smiles tightly, and she can hear the thread of tension in his voice as he continues, his eyes bearing on her. "Did she reach a decision?"

"I gave my counsel, and she seemed to listen," she says, not looking at either of them. "It would seem, Lord Dondarrion, that she has taken the spirit of your words to heart. I told her that we had no place to make this choice for her, but she is at the crossroads herself. Jaime Lannister will pay for what he did, for she will not rest until he does. Such is the way of people like us. And yet…he is a sword that we can use. She knows this, and as much as it hurts, she seems to understand the heart of the matter. If we deny him, deny his seemingly true intentions, what precedent does that set for all that comes next?"

Her words hang in the silence for a moment, until Beric Dondarrion speaks. Somehow, she'd nearly forgotten he was here as she spoke, as she reflected on what she and Daenerys spoke of. "A good choice for her to make. A Queen who cannot accept help readily, who refuses to see the usefulness of someone because of her own pain, will be doomed to fall. Not that her anger towards The Kingslayer is misplaced. It is just that we fight something larger than us. We will unite, or fall."

"Indeed," Robb says grimly. "And though a part of me wishes to kill him for all he's done, and I know that the same desire is in her heart, I think we both have realised the same awful truth. Jaime Lannister came here, and that says more towards his intentions, more than Tyrion can even defend for him. He is here to fight for the living, and killing him is a victory to The Night King and a mistake against Cersei…not that I think he will survive till summer. Neither she nor I will let that happen, I'd say."

"You both see clearer, now," Beric Dondarrion says, rising to his feet, that damnable smile on his face again. He looks at them with his bright, glimmering eyes, a secret in them, a wild madness, maybe. He is what happens when the power of The Red God is stretched to its limit and its end. Sansa thinks of Jon and the red scars on his chest and feels her heart strain as she thinks of her brother meeting the same fate as the man before him. Her brother, a shadow of a man, a corpse made living, a ghost made tangible.

"Blood and pain blind people," he says, his hands behind his back, his smile unceasing. "Your pains and your grievances are real, yes, as real as our enemy. But in the shadow of our enemy, what do they mean, and what do they matter? Our path to survival comes from forgiveness, comes from repentance, and from being able to set ourselves aside in the pursuit of the greater good."

Sansa exchanges a glance with her brother and sees her own confusion mirrored back at her on his face. She looks back at Beric Dondarrion, and oh is it strange to see him. He looks almost wrong with that gruesome smile and his shadow of life in him. He is a man pretending to be something he is not, something he has not been since he fell in the shadow of The Mountain. Whatever is left of the man he used to be is smaller than he lets on, Sansa would guess. He is a man with one cause left to him, one path laid before him.

"I will leave you now," he says with a bow. "Your Grace. Princess."

And then he is gone, leaving Sansa with Robb. He deflates slightly, the air of kingship slipping from him as he runs a hand over his face, looking exhausted and older than he is. He does not take the crown from his head, and it's a shadow over his face, a looming spectre that he cannot deny. His blue eyes, the eyes they share, the eyes their mother gifted to them both, are weary and dark as he stares silently at his desk.

"I hate this game we play," he mutters, tilting his head back and sighing heavily. "I hate that Jaime Lannister waltzed up to Winterfell. Howland guesses he and his men snuck past The Iron Islands and came from The West–hence them not being caught by Cerwyn, The Neck, or White Harbour. If they ran hard through The Wolfswood, they could–and they did–sneak up on us. And that terrifies me. I hate that I am sitting here, trying to fight a war to The North, while Cersei looms in The South, a shadow in the back of my mind, one who will be perfectly prepared when we launch ourselves south."

"You mean to send our armies south?" Sansa asks, raising her brow. Robb sighs again.

"I don't know if I'll have another option. She has declared herself to this war, but we will be expected to answer in turn. And as much as I wish otherwise, I cannot ignore the negotiations that are soon to come forever." He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, and Sansa knows what nags at his mind–for it's what haunts her too. "And the truth will come out eventually. And that alone may destroy everything we have made towards peace."

"Unfortunately for Jon," she says, smiling wryly, "His best chance at survival is marrying her, or becoming The Prince of Dragonstone. Our best hope, by and large, is either of those. I don't know what she'll demand–a bent knee, a movement towards it, or the like, and I don't seek to. I just want to keep Jon safe, and for better or for worse, he will have to make a hard choice, in some matter. You cannot be the groom. The Ladies of The North will riot. But Jon is unmarried. As am I."

"I will not hand either of you off unwillingly," Robb tells her firmly, his jaw clenched.

She sends him a fond look. "And I thank you for that. Of course, the choice lies in Jon, at the end of the day, and I don't know what he will think of it. He hardly speaks of it, in the first place, and who knows what he'll do when he's forced to confront it, at last?" She clenches her skirt in her hand and forces herself to breathe deeply, to not let the terror and worry that always comes with Jon take her over. "He will not make telling her easy, will he? I worry about him more than her, now."

"As do I," Robb says with a grim smile. "And no, he will not. But I have to believe that if we stand with him, if we find a way to assure him of himself, of the fact he will always belong with The North, and will always be a Stark, first and foremost, perhaps we can find something for it. Even if he's her groom or The Prince of Dragonstone." He snorts a little.

Sansa nods, feeling a headache come in. She loves Jon, with all her heart, though she will not deny how hard of a man he is to know, to love. Wild and reckless and vicious, he is a man shaped by things beyond them. Whatever comes next…whatever fate meets them, it will hinge on Jon, and Jon alone. And she does believe he will do what is best, that he will make the right choice. And all the same, the dark thoughts linger. Worries that have no harbour, no base, but stay all the same.

They are the fears of failure, the nightmares of seeing him die for his choices, the terror that she may see him fall for them. She cannot lose him. She refuses to. And he will not fall easily, he will not die cleanly. But that isn't comforting.

It's terrifying.

—

Sansa can feel Tyrion's eyes on her, sharp and critical, but she refuses to look back at him. He can stare all he wants, searching for her wavering conviction, but she will give him nothing…even as fear crawls up her throat and dark thoughts find their harbour.

Their large meeting room is rather empty with only Sansa, Robb, Daenerys, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and her great uncle, Brynden Tully–along with Lady and Grey Wind, who are dozing off near the fireplace–in it. Her uncle is nearest to the pups, sitting in silence by the window, looking out, though Sansa doubts he is not paying attention to the conversation at hand. But it would seem, all the same, he has no interest in adding to the conversation at hand.

At least Robb and Daenerys seem to be speaking civilly. It would seem that they have come to their agreement when it comes to Jaime Lannister, who still sits in the cells, but there is the matter of the Tarlys and the army that came behind them, and so much more. It is not a large force, numbering just under one thousand, and none of them are Northmen besides. They have no defence against the cold, and will find little companionship amongst their fellow soldiers–for many of them have spent many years fighting against one another, killing friends and kin. The hatred runs deep between them all.

And that will make this far from an enjoyable experience over the next few weeks, Sansa knows. There is fear of assassination, of course, but she is far more worried, at the end of the day, about the soldiers and the men. The North Remembers are far from empty words, after all. She knows that, someday soon, she will hear a report about a skirmish in the yard, and someone will be expecting something of her in return. Even just thinking about it gives her a headache, and she hasn't even really had to deal with this looming issue yet!

"Wintertown is emptier than normal," Robb says, drawing Sansa's attention back to the matters at hand. He's got a map of the general area laid out, one that shows not only Winterfell and Wintertown, but Castle Cerwyn and a large portion of the Wolf's Wood, as well. "So, we may be able to harbour people there. Lord Cerwyn and Lord Reed are working on making sure that the small folk are headed Southwards–but I'm hearing from Last Hearth, Karhold, and Deepwood Motte, that those who are more North are far more unwilling to go Southwards to Moat Cailin and The Neck."

"The Night's Watch controls the gift," Tyrion says, and Sansa glances at him then, and only then. There's a grim look in his eyes, one that she does not like. He has been changed by the years since Joffrey died, and not for the better, she thinks. "I know that they neither take orders from you, nor have the full strength to fully police, but could they be of any help in this matter? They, after all, will be the first ones who feel the hammer of The Night King, and will be the ones who least want to give him any edge."

Robb runs a hand over his face, and she sees how he deflates slightly, looking so exhausted. The War is taking a toll on Sansa's brother, but she finds, much to her terror and chagrin, she doesn't know how to fully help him. "I don't doubt that my Uncle is already aware of this issue, and is doing what he can. But we cannot expect The Night Watch to be able to do much of anything. This duty will lie to us." He looks at Daenerys. "How have your Dothraki been faring in the snow?"

She looks at him oddly, clearly not sure what he's getting at. But Sansa can see the picture that is forming, and…yes, perhaps that could work. "They have been adapting quickly. The main issue is the cold and the lack of being able to forage, but I also know that some of the wildlings who have remained here have been helping them, in that regard. Why do you ask?"

"They are the most mobile force around, capable of crossing great distances quickly," Robb says, staring intently at the map before him. "If they are aided by The Free Folk, and guided by some Northern Lords, they could perhaps be enough to get people out of their homes. If I send some of the marcher Lords out across The North to the great regions, orders from me in hand, I think we can get most of them to pool out. And if they are aided by the Dothraki and Free Folk both, perhaps…"

"I see where you are going with this," Daenerys says with a nod. "I will speak to my Bloodriders, and have them organise contingents. I don't imagine we want the groups to be larger than fifteen?"

Robb nods, and Sansa starts counting the Largest Northern Houses off, muttering them under her breath. Stark, Umber, Karstark, Bolton, Hornwood, the two Flints, Woodfield, Locke, Manderly, Dustin, Reed, Ryswell, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Glover, The Mountain Clans…and Mormont too, I suppose. She clears her throat and says, "There are sixteen large regions of The North, including our lands, but not The Gift. The lands of House Bolton are ours for now but will need a patrol of their own…" she frowns, quickly doing the maths in her head.

"In groups of fifteen…with sixteen sections, that's over two hundred men leaving Winterfell," she says, not comforted by the number. Yes, it would ease their burdens a little, but that is a lot of men to organise and marshall and hand-pick. "Ten Dothraki, four wildlings, and one lord to each…we could certainly do it, but we have to be quick in gathering the forces."

"I will speak to my Bloodriders, and we will do what we can before sunset. If you speak to your lords and The Free Folk by tonight as well, we can probably get them out by tomorrow afternoon, with luck," Daenerys says, smiling slightly at them as they startle. She is so readily agreeing, and Sansa, someone once burned and twice shy, finds herself pleasantly surprised by that. She smiles back at Daenerys as she explains, "I want to help, in whatever way I can."

"Thank you," Robb says, genuinely enough. Daenerys smiles slightly, and then they begin talking about something more. Again, Tyrion's eyes rove over to her, and she feels herself bristle, despite herself. Drumming her fingers against the table, she looks to her Great-Uncle, who meets her eyes with a dark look. He had been speaking to them both when Daenerys had knocked at the door, Tyrion beside her, and Ser Barristan her shadow. Speaking to them of other matters–speaking about Jon.

And there it comes again, that nattering fear.

Sansa knows that Tyrion saw how on edge she and Robb had been when he'd suddenly shown up as they were talking about the one thing that they are trying to keep from him and his Dragon Queen. Certainly, their unease showed on their faces, and now, she thinks, Tyrion Lannister is poking the belly of the beast in a foolhardy quest to see the truth. His presumption infuriates her, his arrogance enrages her. Since he has gotten here, he has seemed like nothing more than a foolish idiot to her.

Which is concerning in and of its own. She knows how clever Tyrion Lannister is, and she does not know what game he is playing otherwise, what secret lies beneath him as he looks at her, as he stares at her and tries to pick her apart. She is not his pet to know, his toy to pick apart, a pawn for him to place and figure out. He is in Winterfell, her home, and he would do well to remember that.

The conversation pitters out, both Robb and Daenerys having nothing much to say. Perhaps now the Dragon Queen will ask what they were speaking of beforehand, what could make them all look so grim of face and why they seemed so startled when she and Tyrion came. Perhaps she will give Tyrion Lannister the opening to try and pick them apart and understand. Perhaps Sansa will then be forced to meet his eyes.

Sansa feels like the walls are closing in, and with a sudden need for fresh air, she leaves the room with a harried excuse that has Robb looking at her in worry. Lady follows, and to little shock of hers, her Great-Uncle follows after her, follows her to the hall and rests a hand on her lower back as she pauses suddenly, and tries to remember how to breathe. Terror has almost consumed her, now, choking the life out of her. She thinks of Jon, of how close it all came to ruin, and–

"I am afraid of what comes next," she says softly. He moves his hand so it rests on her shoulder, and he pulls her away into a shaded alcove, where they are free from prying eyes. She presses her hands to her eyes as tears begin to rise. "When the dead are gone, and Jon's truth is laid bare. I want to trust The Dragon Queen, I want to like her…but Tyrion is in her ear, and he always plays his own game. And what happens if Jon is caught in those crossfires? What if our only chance at peace leaves him in misery?"

Her uncle sighs and gives her a hug. She leans against him, grateful that there are still people left in this world that she can lean on, that there are people she can trust, wholly and completely. He pulls back, his eyes raking over her, tight around the edges with worry. "I will not tell you to not be afraid, because I know that helps with nothing," he tells her softly, squeezing her shoulders a little. "All I will tell you is to trust in yourself, to trust in your brothers. Stand together, and you will be alright, hm?"

"The best option, we all know, is making him heir or groom. But I fear how Jon will take it. He wants nothing to do with it. I think he'd sooner doom himself to some menial fate than face her, with the truth laid bare. And I fear for him because of that." She inhales shakily. "She has shown restraint and forgiveness, when it comes to Jaime Lannister, at least. And that comforts me. But I will not know comfort while Tyrion continues to sniff at the edges, trying to find the truth. He is bold, bolder than he should be."

"Aye, he is," Her uncle agrees grimly. He was there in that meeting where Tyrion dared to suggest a debt that had to be paid, and he was there to see Robb's sparking temper. And he is smart enough to realise that there must be something more to it all, more to Lyanna, and she does not trust in him being wise enough to know when to lay off. He is a man who takes what he wants, who gets what he needs, with no regard for the turmoil he leaves behind. She knows this well. She was married to him, once upon a time, after all.

"What if he figures it out and tells her?" Sansa asks him softly, naming the fear that has been slowly consuming her. Her uncle's jaw squares and he looks away from her for a moment with a dark look that gives her no comfort. It is a troubling and terrifying thought, one that they crawl so near to. All of it swirls together into a storm she cannot escape, a cascade of water she cannot breach, a nightmare that does not end. She doesn't want to lose Jon to any of this–to himself, to The Dragon Queen, to poisonous whispers.

"Then we face the storm," her uncle says, running his hands down her shoulders, smoothing the fabric of her dress there. His eyes are bright and keen, sharp like a sword, and smarter too. He was one of Robb's best councillors, she reminds herself. He travelled with Arya. Those are small comforts, but comforts all the same. "You are strong, Sansa. Tyrion is a clever man, but that is not enough to win a war. And this is a storm he would do well not to create."

And Sansa can picture it. There are many questions left unanswered about Lyanna, but still, the North loves her, the wolf-maid who was ripped from her home and died in The South, the grave of their people. Her son is all that remains of her, and if The South dares to take him from them, they will pay the bitter price. She wishes it was comforting. But the thought of the blood that will spill in that war is enough to make her feel sick.

A war for Jon will be a war that destroys them all. Perhaps that is her fear. Tyrion has no idea what he encroaches on, no idea what he comes dangerously close to. And that is what allows him to be so foolhardy, to be so blind to the warnings all around him. Most people would bow out after being faced with Robb's temper once. But the way he'd looked at her as he came into that room and saw the looks on their faces, tells her more than enough. Tyrion was not brought to fear. He does not understand the nature of what he is dealing with. And yet…

"Sansa," Her uncle says gently, smiling at her. When he looks at her, his eyes soften, and she feels her heart swell. She knows well enough that some of it is the ghost of her mother, the ghost that lies ever in her. But he knows she is not her mother, knows that she is her own woman, and she is grateful for that. He glances around. "Take some rest. I do not think you need reminding that stressing yourself to death is not a productive use of your time."

She laughs slightly at that, shaking her head and petting Lady as her wolf comes next to him. His smile softens, and he pats her shoulder, taking a step back then. "Trust in your brother–both of them." He adds an intentional look with the second comment, and she laughs again. "Jon may be…resistant to this matter, but he's not an idiot. And Robb knows what he's doing. And, at the end of the day, if Tyrion Lannister pries too deep, we will find a way to answer."

"We cannot make war with her," she reminds him, glancing down the hall towards the meeting room. The hall is thankfully, very empty, but the fact that Littlefinger somehow learned of Jon has sewn paranoia into him. And as much as she knows that was likely his goal, and desires to buck against it, she cannot stop herself from worrying about who may be listening, worrying about what ears she cannot account for.

Her uncle just tilts his head a bit. "Who said anything about war?" She blinks at him, furrowing her brow as she sees the look on his face. Again, he smiles, though it is more a smirk than anything else, making his eyes glint. "There are other ways to get what we want, other ways to remind Tyrion Lannister that he is our guest–without making him fear us or turn against us, of course. His arrogance will need quelling, eventually, won't it?"

"You would think he had learned his lesson well enough from what happened to Littlefinger," she says with a scoff, and he makes a face of agreement. She opens her mouth to say something but pauses as she sees someone round the corner. Garlan Tyrell. Stepping out of the alcove, she smiles at the man, who startles at her sudden appearance but composes himself quickly with a smile and nod.

"Ser Garlan," she says, watching how his eyes track towards Lady and her Great-Uncle–who leans against the wall behind her–for just a moment, before returning to her, but not before he nods at the man they call The Blackfish, "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No, my lady," he says, looking around the hall. "It would seem you have caught me exploring. There is no council for me to attend right now, and the yard is in the middle of an argument about something or another, and so I decided to get some peace and quiet and see this great Keep I have grown up hearing so much about. Winterfell is truly beautiful, my lady."

She smiles, walking over to him. She glances at her Great-Uncle and nods, and he nods back after a moment, before leaving them be. "In that case, allow me to give you the proper tour. Winterfell can be a labyrinth, I know, especially to those who have not grown in it." He laughs at that and offers an arm before they begin to walk. She looks at him. "Dare I ask if there is anything that has particularly caught your interest?"

"Besides everything?" He replies with an easy smile. She smiles at that as well, feeling herself settle. Once, he may have been her good-brother, and she as his good-sister. That is long gone now, but she can be genial to him all the same, especially when she recalls Margaery, though the thought makes her heart sting a bit. "This keep is gorgeous. I heard much about the seat of House Stark in my youth, but even despite the past decade, it has surpassed all those stories."

"Have you toured the Wolfswood?" She asks him. "I was never one for riding in my youth, but I know it is beautiful in the snow–and quiet, as well, if that is what you are seeking." His loud laugh echoes through the hall. "You said there was an argument in the yard. Is it anything I should go break up?"

"No, I don't think so," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "It was simply a disagreement between some Dothraki, Unsullied, Knights, and a few Wildlings even about matters of combat. It was genial enough, for a debate between a pack of highly trained soldiers, I suppose. Nothing but my poor ears were bleeding when I left."

Again she laughs, feeling so much lighter, so much better from just a few traded words and a few gentle smiles. For the first time in so long, she remembers why she was so enamoured with the glitter and beauty of The South, remembers what her younger self saw in the lands of summer and songs, remembers the pull of it all. That little girl hasn't been allowed so much, and she will never come back as she was. Sansa isn't the girl she used to be. But she can still give that little girl some hope, give her some warmth, some shred of the dreams she wanted.

The snow falls gently around them as they begin to walk the grounds. She asks after his grandmother, and his smile widens then. "She wrote to me just yesterday, actually. Asked me to tell you she says hello," he says, though Sansa would guess he is just as aware as she is that Olenna Tyrell does not simply make social calls. The Queen of Thorns may not have come to Winterfell, but Sansa has little doubt that she will see the woman again, come what may. There is much left for them to say.

Which reminds her…she looks more intently at Garlan Tyrell, squeezing his arm slightly as she says, "I have been meaning to offer you my condolences about Margaery and Loras. Your sister was one of the only people who was ever kind to me in King's Landing, and the debt of her kindness and friendship is one I cannot repay." His eyes cloud with familiar grief, and she feels a sudden guilt at the fact that the gods have gifted her all her siblings, alive and hale, while Garlan's two youngest siblings now lie dead in the fires of Cersei's making.

"Thank you, my lady," he says, voice thickening slightly with his emotion. He sighs heavily and looks away. "I know I am not the only one in the Seven Kingdoms with a grievance towards Cersei–I am not even the only one here in this keep with one. But all the same, I feel an ownership of the wrath that consumes me when I think of her. If I could do it, I'd ride south and avenge my little sister and brother. I would kill that woman where she stands."

"A sentiment that is shared by my House," she says, thinking of Arya. They all know what Arya did, but there's no use bringing up the fact that Cersei Lannister lies on her list and in her sights. She looks up at the softly falling snow as they draw to a stop, breathing deeply, before looking properly at Garlan Tyrell, the knight they call Garlan the Gallant. "Whatever we can do to see her dead, it will be done. She will answer for every crime she has laid upon these lands. That, at least, I can promise."

He smiles, a little shrewdly now, a tighter and sharper thing. The smile of a politician, the smile of someone who is walking a line and knows it. He glances at Lady, sniffing around nearby, unassuming if but for the fact that she is the size of a small horse and thrice as dangerous. "I don't suppose you intend to use one of your Direwolves for the deed?" He sends her an intentional look, and she knows what he is about to ask after even before he says, "They say that was the fate of your second husband."

"Lady is too good a wolf for Cersei and Ramsay both," she says, a little primly, with an edge to her voice that he doubts he misses. Her court is not the field of battle, her weapon is not a sword, no. But she is no less sharp, no less dangerous, no less crowned in her assurance of herself. "Their bones perhaps are well enough as something to chew on. But I would not disgrace a beauty such as she with something as vile as either of them. Ramsay got the dogs. Who knows what Cersei will get?"

"A blade she cannot see before it's too late, I'd hope," Garlan says with a twist of his mouth. "And someone willing to wield it."

"I doubt there is a shortage of either," Sansa says, and he nods, his lips pursed. She wonders what haunts his mind now, what dark thoughts simmer. Vengeance is a fire that burns hot and bright, and can make a way so clear but destroy you all the same. Her sister may be the one who will do it, but what then? What is left of any of them when their vengeance is had, their enemies are gone, and the dust has returned to the graves of the past? What happens when all you have left to do is grieve?

Silence looms between them. He seems to be avoiding looking at her, his eyes roving around the courtyard they have found themselves in. All around, the sounds of Winterfell in motion can be heard, but in this courtyard, with just the pair of them and a wolf as the population, she feels at last removed from the oppressive fear that gnaws at her every time she sits and thinks about the future ahead.

The snow falls so gently around her, throwing her back to the day she left, the day she came home, the day she came to The Wall and fell into Jon's arms and felt whole again. She looks at Ser Garlan Tyrell again just as he does the same, and he gives her a tight-lipped smile, before bowing slightly. "Thank you for your company, Lady Sansa." He kisses her hand then, looking up at her with an expression she cannot decipher. "But now, I take my leave."

She watches him go, feeling her sudden loneliness like a band around her. Breathing deeply, she turns to go, only to startle when she sees someone leaning on the archway that leads to the courtyard. Doing her best to school her expression and not betray her frustration at his continued presumptiveness, she goes over to the man and says, in a sharper tone than she fully intends, "Tyrion."

"Sansa," he greets, as aware as she is that they can be as polite and proper as they want, but that won't change much of anything. His mismatched eyes flicker towards where Garlan disappeared, and then he looks at her with a raised brow and a slight smirk that makes her bristle slightly. "You know he will report everything you spoke of back to his grandmother, so she can get better stock of you?"

"I am well aware of that," she says tightly, looking at him darkly. She'd suspected that since he first mentioned Lady Olenna, but she cares little. She knows her truth, and who cares what Garlan Tyrell whispers to The Queen of Thorns about the elder she-wolf of The North? So long as he does not pry into the darker secrets she holds, she cares little for his words. "You are not the only one, my Lord Tyrion, who understands people quite well. And I am far from the girl I once was."

"Indeed," he says, looking up at her with an expression she can't decipher. "Many underestimated you. Most of them now lie dead."

"Such is the natural progress of our world," she says, taking a deep breath before pinning him with the full weight of her gaze. To his credit, he does not flinch, just raises a curious brow. "Is there a reason you seek me out now, My Lord, while we are alone? After all, we were just in a meeting together." She does not ask why he is no longer in that meeting. It had been close to ending when she left, anyway.

"My, you really have adopted Northern bluntness," he says with a low chuckle. She smiles a little at that, darkly hoping that he is reminded of perhaps her father. Ned Stark was Northern to the bone, with all the hatred of flowery words and veiled meanings that she has come to adopt herself. Otherwise, she reminds herself far too much of Littlefinger. "Many stories have been told about House Stark in the past few years. Of wayward daughters, broken kings, and bastard Lords….and secrets, if Petyr Baelish is to be believed. And I find myself curious at the truth behind them all."

"Every Great House has its secrets," Sansa says with a shrug, looking up at the falling snow as her heart begins to hammer in that familiar lay of worry for Jon. Tyrion is proving her fears and suspicions right already. "And though mine might have a reputation of cold-tongued honesty, and saying exactly what we mean almost always, that does not mean we have our own secrets. Surely you do not mean to pry where you are not wanted?" She sends him a sharp smile.

And still, he is not swayed to fear, and he just smirks in reply to her, eyes dancing with a sort of madness that reminds her painfully of their brief and wayward marriage. Which…she cannot say she is surprised. She knows she is changed, can feel it in her bones, but looking at Tyrion, she knows he is as well. She has not heard much about what came after Joffrey died, but she knows the blame was placed on him, and she knows he now runs free. She knows he killed his own father. That alone says more for him than words ever could, more than he could tell her.

"Certainly not," he says, though she does not believe him fully. He is the true danger here. "I just simply wish to make sure that we all stand on even ground while we face our coming doom. Cersei and The Night King are both made stronger by our weaknesses and our division. All I seek is peace and allyship, no matter what form that takes. All I wish is to see The Good of The Realm come to pass, and to make us friends, not bitter enemies."

She nods, and she cannot deny that he sings to many of her own wants. She wants a future, she wants peace, but do they have the same definition in their minds? She remembers The Blackwater and remembers how cold Tyrion Lannister could be when put to it. He was never cruel to her, but that does not mean he was a saint. He wants peace, he says, but she knows his own power is weaved into that word. He wants a future made for him.

Sansa just wants to see summer. She wants to laugh and she wants to love, and she wants to have her brothers and her sister beside her. You will see a hundred summers, she told Rickon when he asked why Jon had left, why the world was as it was. And that, she finds, is all she really wants. Her family at her side, the wolves bounding through the world, and the sweet breeze of warm air on her face again. She cannot have the dead, but this she may be allowed to have, should it all turn out how she so desires.

"How did your brother escape his oaths?" Tyrion suddenly asks, drawing from her thoughts of endless summers and songs. She frowns as she looks at him, furrowing her brows as she sees the genuinely troubled look on his face. "I know how you Northmen feel about oathbreakers and duty. If Jon Snow was truly an oathbreaker, he would be long dead. And yet, I know he is free of The Wall, released from it all. How, I wonder? How does one escape an oath for life?"

For The Watch. She can hear his voice, even now, and how it broke on the words as he told her the story with tears in his eyes she'd wiped away. They murdered her brother, and Benjen avenged him. But still, the wounds ache. She saw him die, saw Benjen cradle his bloody and broken form, his tears falling onto Jon's cooling cheeks as he sobbed and held him like he was the most precious thing alive. The image will never leave her, she knows. It will haunt her till she dies.

"Jon's story is not mine to tell," she tells Tyrion, looking away from him and breathing deeply. This is a confidence she will not betray, a song she will not sing to this man. This man, who only a few days ago suggested that they owed something to The South, to House Targaryen, even. House Targaryen is owed something, she knows, for all their suffering and their blood, but it is not, and will never be, The North. The North is owed so much as well, after all.

The debts of Lyanna, and Brandon, and Rickard, and Catelyn, and Eddard, are yet to be cashed in. A Lannister always pays his debts, they say, and yet, here this one remains. Her heart seizes in her chest, and she forces herself to take a deep breath, to not unravel as she stands here, in the dangerous company that is Tyrion Lannister. She knows far better than to trust him.

She wrings her hands together and looks away. "Blood lies over it all–you know this as well as I do, Tyrion. The secrets we hold are bloody ones. I fear for what comes next. I fear for what has already begun." She looks at him, her eyes sharp and dangerous, like a wolf. "Your brother's coming is a herald of doom, some of the more superstitious people say. Cersei's madness will not abate, and it has driven him away, already. That means it is worse than we knew."

"Tell me, my lord, can you make the hard decision?" She asks him, a sudden fire burning in her. He looks at her strangely, like he does not recognise her. And she supposes he wouldn't. Their marriage wasn't a real one. He only ever knew a scared girl who was surrounded on all sides by enemies, and only ever knew a wolf in a cage. But now she is free, and her teeth are bared, and her fury and her fear are married into an inferno.

"Before my father died, he bit his tongue and pushed away his honour, for my life and Arya's. He declared Joffrey The True King, knowing it was a lie–and all for the hope that we would live. Your own Queen has allowed her father's murderer to walk…not free, but to walk this road to war. And they both did so for the same cause, for the chance at it being the choice that saves lives. They put their honour and their sense of rightness away." She looks at him darkly. "Could you do that, when it came to them? Could you step aside and let them die?"

"I know how loyal you are to your House–and I cannot disparage you for that, for I am much the same," she tells him, still looking him in the eye. "When it comes to it though, and you stand opposite her, what then? What choice do you make?"

"The right one, I would hope," Tyrion replies after a moment, looking up at her with the oddest expression like he is seeing something larger than her. "We both are people who seek to protect those who we love, those held dear to us. I mean, the second Littlefinger mentioned your Aunt, not only was your sister there, knife ready, but all The Northern Lords looked ready for blood, themselves."

She forces her face to remain smooth like ice, and just as unbothered. "Lyanna Stark is a painful reminder of what has been done to us," she says, and only then does she let some emotion come in, as she glares slightly at him. "I know that Littlefinger was trying to sow discontent, whispering of rumours he had heard and sudden truths he came upon. But he was a fool, a fool who was trying to divide us. There is nothing about Lyanna for you to know. He knew nothing, and he died for it."

"He seemed rather sure of himself," Tyrion ventures.

She forces herself not to snarl, to not rage, because that will betray her fear, and her fear will betray the truth. She lies through her teeth. It all comes back to Lyanna. There is something to her, something dangerous and wholly destructive if told at the wrong time. Forcing herself to remain calm, as still as unbroken snow, she says, "He always seemed sure of himself–that was how he made himself seem powerful. Knowledge. But look where it got him!

For a moment, silence hangs. She can feel his eyes on her, sense him weighing his words and his options. Finally, after a long time, he sighs heavily and speaks at last.

"You know as well as I do, Sansa, that I don't believe you when you say there is nothing more to your Aunt." She straightens, raising her chin and looking up at the falling snow so as to not betray any more. "And I will respect your reticence. But I like to know things, and I do not like to be caught unaware. Your sister did not react as she did because Lyanna is a wound to her. She killed him almost the near second to which she was mentioned."

"You walk a dangerous line, my Lord Hand," she says, allowing her voice to grow cold as ice. She meets his eyes once more, and says, "I would watch your step, lest you fall into a pit of your own making."

---

notes:

First off, no more updates till june! Im still writing, I just cannot feasibly post consistently this month. I mean like. this chapter is a week late. so i think that says more than enough

-one of the difficulties I'm facing right now is there are so many things going on, and so many threads to pull on. i know jaime and brienne have fallen to the sidelines more than i meant to, but I'm still trying to see what i can do to get them back on centre stage. but full confession, i don't know what i can or cannot do there :(

-this whole first section is almost half the chapter and OH am I glad for it. I know there has been a lot debate about jaime, and it was deffo helpful when it came to how I want to do him. I have a very set plan for him, and his confessional to dany is an important part of it. Im not here to give jaime forgiveness or make dany forgive him (bc that's hypocritical compared to the Starks). Im just here to—for lack of a better word—humanise him, and give him the chance that everyone is giving everyone. EVERYONE is making painful concessions. And Jamie's the one who sees a cell, in the end, for however long it is.

-now dany hasn't forgiven him. But she (and Sansa) are being forced to see another side, one that is difficult for both of them. To dany jaime is the man who grabbed the glory. To Sansa, he's the man who kickstarted the ruin of their house…and they're not wholly wrong. But theres a layer to it that they didn't know, a piece to it that changes everything. THAT alone is why dany decides to let him fight, and delay his penance till after. Idk if this makes sense, but im down to chat and discuss in the comments (civil tho pls)! I know this is a controversial topic, but all I ask is you trust me. There is ABSOLUTELY a method to my madness here, and jaime has a role he is yet to play here…

-and now, Sansa and dany come to understand one another. I was listening to the track 'winterfell' from s2 over and over again as I was writing that part and OH the emotions you guys.

-now for something that isn't jaime related: beric! I lowk forgot about the wight, and had to have a reason as to why jaime went north. It ended up being a perfect storm, and adds just that much more intrigue. Beric is playing his own game, to his own ends. Remember what he said to dany while at dragonstone, after all. And that part gave me an idea for the next few chapters…

-tyrion is starting to really suspect something is up…I dont think ill have him put it all together but I still hope to make it fun. Next two chapters are a doozy, after all. :))

next up, the red god makes its will known (but not in the way you think)