Sansa Stark sat in her chambers, the letter from her father cradled in her hands. The weight of surprise hung in the air, and her thoughts travelled back to the days in King's Landing, where memories clung like ivy to stone walls. Ser Barristan Selmy's dismissal from Joffrey's kingsguard had sparked whispers within the Red Keep, elusive murmurs that had become the elusive trail of a ghost.
Sansa had heard tales of Ser Barristan fighting for Daenerys. Yet, when the Targaryen ruler set foot in Westeros, there was no trace of him. Sansa assumed Ser Barristan met his end prior to Daenerys leaving Meereen.
Sansa longed for a confidant, someone with whom she could unravel the mystery. The absence of Jon Snow, the one person who might have held answers, loomed over her thoughts like a shadow beyond the wall for sixteen moons, the length of a season's turn. The unknown stretched before her, an uncharted landscape of uncertainty.
If Ser Barristan had, in some twist of fate, joined forces with Daenerys in their past lives, Sansa mused, she could have sought solace in Jon's counsel. His closeness to Daenerys may have given life to a conversation regarding the missing knight. But Jon was absent, his presence a void in her life. The silence of his absence echoed in her mind as she grappled with the unknown fate of the former kingsguard.
Instead of journeying toward Daenerys, Ser Barristan's path led to Jon. Sansa wondered how this would affect their changes.
Satisfaction bloomed within Sansa at the prospect of this addition, a chess piece in the unfolding game. Her hopes whispered for Jon to share in her sentiment. Amidst the kingsguards, only The Hound and Ser Barristan had shown her kindness.
The man was old. The truth was in every line etched on his face, but Sansa recognized a different role for him. That of Lord Commander.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sat on the small council. Ser Barristan's experience, would be invaluable to Jon navigating the intricacies of ruling the Seven Kingdoms.
As Ser Barristan drew near, the Queenscrown courtyard buzzed with anticipation. Soldiers eagerly awaited the legendary Ser Barristan the Bold. His mere presence, inspiring, those aligned with their cause.
Sansa waited in the courtyard, to her left was Lady, the direwolf, sat regally, and to her right was Samwell Tarly, who held little Sam in his arms as Gilly was helping Maester Fell tend to an axe wound.
Sansa's eyes widened in surprise as Ser Barristan arrived on a small cart. He was accompanied by two chests. An unexpected from her father. Sansa was curious about what message lay within those chests.
The absence of the Kingsguard armour unveiled a different facet of Ser Barristan. He wore boiled leather, paired with a winter cloak bearing the Stark colours. To the casual observer, he appeared as an elderly visitor, a stark contrast to the expectations of the soldiers gathered to witness his arrival.
Sansa understood the deception; Ser Barristan might bear the appearance of age, but beneath the facade lingered the skill of a seasoned warrior, capable of outmatching any soldier, even with a blindfold.
Ser Barristan climbed down from the cart, his movements and Sansa. An instinct to bow was quelled by a subtle shake of her head, a silent reminder that such gestures of deference were reserved for private moments. In public, she couldn't be acknowledged as royalty. The unspoken understanding passed between them, instead Ser Barristan offered a tiny nod.
"Ser Barristan. Welcome to Queenscrown. I am Lady Whitestark, and this is Samwell Tarly, son of Lord Randyll Tarly." Sansa said, extending her hand.
The knight caught the unspoken cue, gracefully kissing the back of her hand. "My lady." he replied, his tone measured. "I am thrilled to be here. Your father has told me much about you."
Sansa's smile held a subtle charm. "All good, I hope."
"Most certainly." Ser Barristan affirmed, a warmth in his smile as Lady whined in the background.
"I hope you don't mind, but I think she wishes for you to stroke her." Sansa remarked.
Having spent three moons surrounded by direwolves, Ser Barristan had no fear of Lady. He extended his hand and tickled the wolf behind her ear. The gentle interaction with Lady became a subtle confirmation that this old knight and the wolves of Queenscrown would become firm friends.
"What a beautiful wolf." Ser Barristan said, his gaze appreciative. "And very well behaved. Is it true Lord Whitestark has a white wolf?"
"Ghost is white when he hasn't been rolling around in the mud." Sam chimed in with a sigh.
Ser Barristan extended his hand toward Sam. "Lord Samwell?" he inquired.
Sam shook his head, a modest smile on his face. "Just call me Sam."
"Certainly, Sam." Ser Barristan acknowledged.
Sansa interjected, "If you'd like to follow me, I will show you your quarters."
"Ahem, if I may speak in private," Ser Barristan requested. Sansa nodded, exchanging a knowing look with Sam, who promptly excused himself to the rookery. Barristan scanned the surroundings before addressing Sansa, "Your grace, I was given strict instructions to take the chest on the cart to your solar. Arya said you'd know what to do with it."
Sansa's gaze shifted to the chests on the cart, a furrow forming on her brow. "The other is mine. Your father kindly had some new armour commissioned. New armour with the house sigil of the new king." he added, unveiling the purpose behind the mysterious contents of one of the chests.
"I would like to see the contents of both chests. That is, if you do not mind." Sansa expressed with a smile, her anticipation for the new Kingsguard armour palpable. The mysterious gift from Arya only added to the intrigue, a puzzle she was eager to unravel.
"Of course not." Ser Barristan said, with a smile.
Sansa guided Ser Barristan, to her new solar. The family wing, stood separate from the original keep, which now belonged to Maester Fell. It was now a library, Maester Fell's solar and chambers, the rookery, and sick rooms.
Sansa hadn't considered Kingsguard accommodation in her initial vision of the castle. However, space was repurposed, creating suitable quarters for the elite protectors. For now, Ser Barristan would occupy the room next to hers.
Inside her solar, Sansa's gaze lingered on the chests. The lids were lifted, revealing Kingsguard armour gleaming in the firelight.
It lacked the ostentation of King Robert's or Joffrey's, but its simplicity held an undeniable elegance. The craftsmanship spoke volumes, a testament to the skill of the blacksmiths who had forged it. As proud as she was of Jon embracing his Targaryen lineage, the sight of the house sigil made Sansa shudder. Memories of Daenerys brought back, an unwelcome image of the past.
Her mind grappled with the clash between the dragon and wolf imagery. Jon might bear the name Aegon Targaryen, but he was, at his core, a wolf. The armour should reflect that, Sansa mused, perhaps with a subtle engraving of a wolf somewhere. Yet, her attention was diverted as she noted the absence of a white cloak, a signature garment of the Kingsguard.
"No cloak?" Sansa questioned, a frown knitting her brows.
Ser Barristan, engrossed in inspecting the contents of the chest, had not noticed this missing detail. "I cannot see one, your grace," he replied, his voice steady.
"Then I shall make the new cloak, although I believe it will differ from that which you are accustomed to. There is no wolf representation on the armour, and Jon is more wolf than dragon. Mayhap a wolf embroidery for the cloak," she proposed. However, Ser Barristan's expression hinted at less-than-impressed sentiments.
"A white wolf on a white cloak with two red eyes, bearing the Targaryen sigil, is my plan. When you meet Ghost, you will understand," she explained with a smile. "Jon without Ghost is unthinkable."
The second box yielded a collection of books, clothes, and scrolls. Sansa's initial confusion lifted when she spotted the mockingbird pin, and the realization hit her like a sudden gust of wind. She slammed the lid shut.
"Your grace?" Ser Barristan frowned.
"Paperwork." She sighed, weariness tinting her voice. "All ruling is about, is paperwork and administration. I'm sure we could solve all wars if every contender were forced to sit in a room with boring paperwork for a year. We'd have an uncontested victor within a day," she quipped, a touch of humour in her words. Ser Barristan joined in her laughter.
"How long do you think it will be before his grace returns?" Ser Barristan inquired.
Sansa's head shook in a subtle denial. "He's been gone sixteen moons. Admittedly, most of that was at Castle Black to train him to go north of the wall," she replied, a practised lie rolling off her tongue effortlessly.
"How do you know he is still alive?" Ser Barristan asked, his curiosity etched on his face.
Sansa, conscious of the knowledge imparted by her father's letter, acknowledged the unspoken understanding. "Lady would know. The direwolves are linked to one another. If something happens to one of their litter, we know. And we are part of that litter." she explained, she glanced at Lady.
Ser Barristan's surprise, showed in his gaze. "I take it there are things regarding the blood of the First Men which will require for me to adapt to."
"There is magic in this world, Ser Barristan. After all, dragons once existed. And my spies tell me more have hatched across the Narrow Sea." Sansa said.
Ser Barristan paled at the revelation. "Your father mentioned them. But tell me true."
"Daenerys Targaryen." Sansa replied. "I knew they'd hatched around the time of the comet, so I presume they must be hatched by now."
"Have you seen them, with your... visions?" he asked.
Sansa nodded. "They need to be controlled by the right person. And I'm not entirely sure Daenerys is the right person."
"Why?" Ser Barristan asked, his curiosity etched on his furrowed brow.
"She's like her father. I believe Jon has the ability to control them. Or at least one of them. He isn't a tyrant. He doesn't want power or to lead. Jon just wants peace and to live quietly."
"What is he like? Your father said you knew him better," Ser Barristan asked, a hint of scepticism in his expression.
Sansa sighed, grappling with the complexities of her connection with Jon. Her father's understanding only scratched the surface, and the truths she uncovered beyond the Wall added new layers to their bond. The kisses shared, a calculated public display, held a purpose that extended beyond mere romantic sentiment. But that wasn't the question Ser Barristan had posed.
"Jon is a wonderful man. He's honourable like Father, although he has traits Father does not possess," Sansa began, her voice carrying the weight of genuine admiration. "He can be far more politically savvy than Father. Jon is also a leader. People love him. They want to follow him. He inspires something. Jon knows how to deal with all types of people. However, he has the bluntness of a northerner. He doesn't like people talking in riddles. If you ever have to tell him something he doesn't want to hear, say it in plain common tongue. He can take it and would more likely thank you for your honesty."
"Even if it were about him?" Ser Barristan probed, seeking the nuances of Jon's character.
"Especially if it is about him. If he is mistaken, tell him."
"I wouldn't presume to tell a king." Ser Barristan asserted, a note of deference in his tone.
"Why not?" Sansa's frown revealed her earnestness. "A trusted advisor is there to tell him when he is right and wrong. How can he be a true ruler when he is sometimes wrong? And believe me, I have had this conversation with him. He won't react badly. Jon isn't a violent man. He is one of the finest warriors in all of Westeros, yet he despises taking lives. Jon is kind, gentle, wise, and strong."
"I cannot wait to meet him." Ser Barristan admitted. "He sounds like quite the man."
"I know you wish to know if he is like his sire? Both in looks and temperament," Sansa observed, sensing a trace of disappointment in Ser Barristan.
He nodded. "I suppose I do. I hear he looks like a Stark."
"Jon is prettier than the typical Stark men. He has the colouring of a Stark and the long face. But that is where it ends. Women fall at his feet, whether he is a bastard or a king," Sansa remarked, her gaze lowering as if to shield a hidden truth.
"And you? You were raised as his sister. I can imagine that is... awkward," Ser Barristan ventured, acknowledging the complexities of their relationship.
"We interacted little as children. I barely acknowledged him, and at times was cruel to him. Things are different now. We've seen things and felt the experiences together. I'm not claiming it is a love story like the songs..." She could sense Ser Barristan's amusement, and he chuckled. "But I trust him more than anyone else in the world. Only Arya comes close. We would die for one another. And if anyone tried to hurt him, I would be the first in line to kill them."
Ser Barristan's smile reflected a certain understanding. "That sounds like a type of love from the songs to me. To be fiercely protective of one another has its own romance."
Sansa laughed, the genuine sound ringing in the air. "I suppose. But right now, I miss him. I need him here." Ser Barristan, though smiling, couldn't completely mask the weariness in his eyes, a product of his travels.
"Forgive me. You must be weary, Ser Barristan. Would you like me to show you your quarters? They are only next door. I've had you a bath drawn." Sansa offered, her words a mix of courtesy and a genuine desire for solitude, a chance to delve into the mysteries concealed within the chest Arya had sent.
"You don't have to go to so much trouble, your grace." Ser Barristan said.
"Nonsense." Sansa smiled as she led him to his quarters. "You need to rest."
Once back in her solar, Sansa delved into the contents of the box Arya had sent. Scrolls and books dominated, accompanied by a mockingbird pin and a selection of clothes. How had Arya procured this assortment? Sansa's mind instinctively went to the rumours of Littlefinger's disappearance. Initially assuming he had retreated to the Vale, Sansa now reconsidered. Could Arya have eliminated him?
She extracted two large, weighty books from the chest, Sansa opened one. At first glance, it resembled a standard ledger, but a closer inspection revealed numbers too vast for conventional accounting. Her finger traced the almost indecipherable writing, a script familiar only to those accustomed to such intricacies.
"Money for tourneys, feasts, and other things to meet the king's needs," Sansa murmured to herself, the words revealing the financial intricacies of courtly affairs. She turned her attention to the second ledger, she discerned the origins of the funds. Coded entries filled the pages, but Sansa, well-versed in many of Littlefinger's codes, quickly deciphered them.
Pouring herself some wine, Sansa pondered the implications. Littlefinger's use of codes suggested a hidden agenda, a clandestine underbelly beneath the façade of financial transactions. As she settled in for the night, Sansa knew unravelling these cryptic entries would unveil secrets of Littlefinger's deceptions.
Sansa checked the chest, to see if she could find anything else of interest in there, when her hand caught on something sharp. She pulled out the culprit, a dagger. One she was very familiar with. It was the one Littlefinger had given to Bran, and then to Arya to kill the Night King. Carefully, she wrapped it in a piece of cloth, and placed it inside the drawer in her desk. She returned to the ledgers, to decipher the state of the finances of the seven kingdoms.