A/N: I just got engaged to be married! The awesome news is that I am incredibly happy. The less awesome news is that I am now incredibly busy. I didn't want TNR's update schedule to become the far side of never, so I'm spending less time revising and what little time I have just writing, so that I can stay on track for finishing this story before I die. Please excuse any dips in quality with the knowledge that the rest will come that much sooner. ️
As promised, I have waited to post again until I had this and the next 2 chapters written and I will be posting them every other Monday until they're spent.
Hope you enjoy!
The stone walls of Moat Cailin loomed over Sansa as her party drew near. No banners flew on the ramparts. If the Stark army that Robb had sent North had given word of their taking the fort, Sansa would not have been in any castle to receive it.
"Ho, there!" came a voice from the castle. Faces dotted the battlements, now that she was close enough to see. One called down, "Is that the red wolf banner of Sansa Stark?"
"It is!" Brynden called up to them. "And the Blackfish! Who might you be?"
By way of answer, the gates creaked open. Then Lord Glover rode out to meet them, with dozens of men at his heels. All exchanged happy hails and greetings with other soldiers in Sansa's party.
Glover rode up to her. "Apologies for the confusion, my lady. Our banner burned in the taking and we did not have another." His face grew solemn. "My sympathies over your brother. He was a good man – and a good king."
"Thank you, Lord Glover." For once, Sansa was pleased by the compliment to Robb and not shaken by the loss of him. "And I have received word that your home has been secured from the ironborn that stole it from you."
Glover sagged with relief. "But… how? My men and I were to ride there to reclaim it after taking this fort."
Sansa smiled. "Theon Greyjoy, Lord of Casterly Rock, went to treat with his sister."
Glover chuckled. "That sly dog. Give him my thanks, if you see him before me."
"I will," Sansa said, hoping to give Theon much more than that. "The men with you," she had to ask. "How many…?"
Glover smiled. "Four thousand men, most of them Starks, and all of them at your command. The ironborn fled to the sea before us and we've few losses. Come inside, my lady, where we have a few fires burning and a little meat."
Four thousand. Sansa fought not to give an audible sigh of relief. It had more than pained her to only travel with six thousand of her own men. Now, the Starks would have ten thousand, plus the two thousand Riverlands men under Brynden.
"I would love that," Sansa told him.
...
After all her generals and lords had sat and talked with her and decided all the war-like things, Sansa retreated up to a little stone room, lit with faint candles in the falling night, where she could sit and think through her options herself.
Margaery sat at the other end of the table to share her candlelight, Margaery's hand occasionally making elegant loops words across the parchment before her. In the far corner, Lady and Grey Wind slept in a pile, her head atop his chest, the gnawed bones of a stag carcass shared between them.
Glover and a hundred of his men were heading home. It was only fair, Sansa knew, and he said he'd be back to Winterfell as quickly as he could – once he knew his home and his people had been taken care of. Manderly was writing for more support from his father. Once her party reached Winterfell, Sansa was sure of more support from Bran.
They'd have to leave two hundred archers here at Moat Cailin to reinforce. It was a willing parting, as Sansa was done with surprises from the South, something that every man in her party shared.
Margaery scratched something out viciously before writing anew, her expression never once changing.
"Is everything alright?" Sansa asked.
"Perfectly," Margaery replied, never lifting her eyes from the page.
"What are you writing?" Sansa said.
"The world's greatest love letter," Margaery replied, finally looking up. "I have to ensure Edmure doesn't go running off with some tavern wench before I'm ready to make use of him. I'd hate to have to arrange an accident for her."
Sansa studied Margaery, saw from the mischief gleaming in her eyes that the other girl was joking… mostly.
"Do you need any help writing?" Sansa said.
Margaery snorted. "No, sweet child. I'm flattering your uncle." She looked up again, her mischievous smirk back full-force. "It's positively lurid."
Sansa winced. "Ah. I'll… leave you to it, then."
Margaery resumed her letter. "Fetch me some persimmons, will you? I'm worried they'll go sour soon."
With a sigh, Sansa stood, wandering from the room to find a servant. From a hallway over, she could hear Olenna griping to her maids about the cold.
Cold, and they weren't even yet properly North, weren't even yet into the palest shades of winter.
No matter how long the Tyrells ended up staying, Sansa would be forever grateful. It was her job to make sure they even lasted to Winterfell.
...
After weeks of hard riding on the Kingsroad, suddenly, from miles away, Sansa spotted the familiar towers above the trees. Her excitement, her thrill of longing, of unexpected dread at whatever they would find inside the stones of her home had been rolling over her in waves for hours.
The desire to abandon all decorum and urge her horse into a gallop lurked behind every twitch of Sansa's hand. Home. She looked behind her, at the thousands of men following, then at the trees ahead, straining to see around the next bend–
"Sansa." Margaery's voice was full of irritation, riding at her side. She was buried in furs, even with the air only crisp against the cheek. "We'll get there when we get there. Winterfell's not going anywhere."
Sansa shut her eyes, begging the gods for an ounce of serenity. The gods denied her. "You're the Queen in the North; you can lead this army, can't you?" Sansa muttered. "While I race off to make sure?"
Margaery snorted. "By all means. And I'll make sure to lead it somewhere warmer."
Catelyn rode up to Sansa's other side. "Seven hells, can't this army move any faster?
Margaery and Sansa shared a grin.
...
And then, after another agonizing hour, the stone towers of Winterfell loomed before them. Only the final stretch of the Kingsroad across an open field stood between Sansa and her home.
Horns sounded across the castle. More horns answered, and slowly, the gates crept open.
Men spilled out through the gate, many of them mounted. A dozen men rode towards their party, two young men and a young woman in the lead.
Margaery looked at Sansa, but she had as little idea what was going on as anyone else. Thankfully, Brynden and Umber called a halt.
The three riders drew rein in front of them. "Hello, Mother!" the dark-haired young man called. "Hello, Sister! Welcome home."
The man sat confidently atop his horse, a grin wide across his face, a metal contraption attached to his saddle and around his legs. The leather armor he wore looked well-used, a bow and quiver slung against his back as if they always rested there.
Sansa gaped at him. "Bran?!"
His grin widened, enjoying her astonishment.
Catelyn rode to him, crushing her son against her. There were no words to her grief, her love, her joy at being able to clutch at least one son in her arms. Bran returned the embrace just as tightly; he'd said farewell to Father and Robb years ago and would never get the chance to speak to them again.
Bran's two companions shifted behind him.
Eventually, Catelyn let go of him. Bran cleared his throat. "Mother, Sansa, this is Jojen and Meera Reed," Bran said. He shot a quick, calculating look Sansa's way. "Father sent them to me years ago."
Catelyn clutched at him. "And Rickon? He's–"
"He's back inside with our father," Meera answered. She had a pretty, practical look about her that Sansa found she liked very much. "Bran said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell and he insisted that we ride out to you."
Sansa studied Bran, noticing as he tried to hide his study of her, in turn. "Bran, you know our Northern lords," she finally said. "But allow me to introduce you to Uncle Brynden, the Blackfish–"
Brynden rode forward with an easy smile for his great-nephew as he clapped him heavily on the back. Bran winced and returned the smile.
With a deep breath, Sansa continued, "And Margaery Stark, of House Tyrell, the former Queen in the North. Margaery, this is Bran Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."
Sansa had offered Margaery any position she liked at Winterfell – but that wasn't truly Sansa's to grant. Bran's letter had given Sansa his authority, but… If the way Meera watched him was any indication, he might be reluctant to dilute Meera's authority with a former Queen, especially a Southron whose ways would clash so strongly with their own.
"Your Grace," Margaery said, somehow managing to make a gesture of a curtsey from the back of a horse, her skirts held wide beneath the furs and her head dipping gracefully.
Bran dipped his head in return. "I welcome you to Winterfell, Your Grace. Anything that is within my power to grant is yours, goodsister."
Sansa let out her breath, grateful beyond words that Bran had meant what he'd said without hesitation.
With a flick of the reins, Bran rode closer to Margaery. "I see your grandmother is also–"
As his horse neared, Grey Wind growled.
Bran turned to the wolf, startled–
Grey Wind snapped at Bran's horse. It reared, whinnying loudly and kicking in the air.
A soldier shouted, "Look out!"
Brynden started forward–
Bran's eyes flashed white; his horse settled.
As quickly as his eyes had filmed, they cleared. "I'm alright!" Bran called from the back of his perfectly calm horse.
The men looked on, ready for the horse to rear again.
"Grey Wind," Bran called admonishingly down at the wolf. "You remember me, don't you?"
Grey Wind hesitantly sniffed Bran's boot, even as he eyed the horse warily. Then, Grey Wind turned to Bran and gave his hand a lick before sauntering away.
Sansa watched Bran… and knew.
He looked away, suddenly unwilling to meet her gaze. To the men, he called out, "We'll head back to the castle and swap stories over a roast boar and kegs of ale."
The men whooped at that, the army grateful to set off once again for the warmth of the Stark's ancient, mighty stronghold.
Bran rode away, leading the men back to the gates. Once inside, Catelyn flung herself at Rickon, wrapping him in her embrace and peppering his hair with kisses. He, too, was older than Sansa expected; if not yet a young man, he was certainly no longer a baby.
But Sansa couldn't take her eyes off the older of her brothers, as a trio of servants assisted Bran off his horse, taking his bow and quiver as they settled him in a wheeled chair whose design was infinitely familiar to her. How much of him was Bran and how much was the Three-Eyed Raven? How far could he see, could he shape? How much did he know of her?
"We'll need rooms drawn up for our guests," Catelyn was saying to her servants, who were overjoyed to be reunited with their mistress. "Comfortable rooms for Brynden Tully, Olenna Tyrell, Margaery–"
"No," Sansa realized. Both Margaery and her mother turned, surprised by her interjection. "Margaery should have Robb's room."
Catelyn's lip quivered. She gave the maids a stiff nod. "Follow me, my lady," Catelyn said to Margaery.
"It's Margaery, please," the girl replied softly. She and Catelyn passed a look filled with a shared grief. Both had lost Robb. Both had lost a husband.
Catelyn put a hand on Margaery's shoulder. "Alright," she said with more warmth, and led her from the courtyard.
Sansa remained, studying her brother. And as Bran sat in his chair, Meera at one side of him and Jojen at the other while he greeted each of the Northern lords in turn, Sansa realized what was missing.
She waited until the line had dwindled, the lords heading into the castle for a warm meal and strong drink.
"Bran." Sansa sidled up to him. Instinctively, Meera and Jojen peeled away. Bran looked warily up at her as Sansa asked, "Bran, where is Hodor?"
Bran's wariness turned to confusion. "Who?"
...
While the feast raged on, Sansa slipped out of the great hall. She left Lady back inside, tussling happily with Shaggydog and Summer while Grey Wind's one eye kept watch from Margaery's side. The only person Sansa hadn't spent months with, whose stories she desperately wished to know, was swamped with duties as king to all his newly arrived vassals. Bran wouldn't be free to answer her questions about his secrets for ages and Sansa just…
She trailed her hand across the stones of the walls, delighting in their rough familiarity. Winterfell had never fallen. Bran and Rickon were safe and strong. Thanks to her. Thanks to Theon.
The mystery of Hodor niggled at Sansa, yet she was no closer to a solution. Hodor had been with them as children. For Hodor to no longer be in the Starks' service was one thing, though it would have been strange enough. For Bran to have no idea who one of their most loyal servants was?! Bran's own most loyal aide? How in seven hells had she changed something that had to have happened before she'd started re-living her life – before Sansa had even been born?!
There were no good answers, no matter how she mulled it over.
For once – for now – she tried to let it lie. She let out deep breaths, reminding herself that not every problem rested on her own shoulders. The North had a king to lead it again and Sansa could just… be.
She hadn't cared where her feet had led her as she wandered through the castle and was surprised to find the godswood in front of her.
The brilliant red leaves of the weirwood loomed in the distance.
Gently, cautiously, she made her way through the familiar ground. It was her first time back in years and she knelt before the tree, uncaring of the mud as she rested a hand against the bark's carved face.
She didn't know how to do this properly, but given her… unique… situation, she felt she owed the Old Gods a try.
Thank you, she thought to the representative of their gods, as old as the North itself. I don't know why you chose me, or what I've done to make you think I'm up to the task, but… Thank you. I got to see Robb again, and Father, and… hopefully there's still a chance left for the rest of us. For Theon.
She closed her eyes, her thoughts solemn as she dwelt on the family she'd lost and the ones that remained. She wasn't sure what else to say, slowly drawing her hand away.
A cold, northern wind caught in the leaves of the weirwood, rustling against the branches.
You're welcome, the wind said.
Sansa froze. It was Bran's voice. Not the voice of her brother, laughing back in the great hall, but the voice of his shell that had become the Three-Eyed Raven: the Bran from her own time.
"Bran?" Sansa whispered.
The Three-Eyed Raven, he corrected her, still in her brother's dead-toned voice. I am the memory of this world. Of all the worlds. All those years, you prayed for vengeance. For another chance. Use it how you will.
Sansa vowed she'd be more careful what she prayed for.
The wind faded away, a final sense of amusement lingering on the breeze.
Suddenly, she noticed that the woods were darker than she expected, the fading wind sharply cold against her cheeks. More time had passed than she had thought.
"Sansa?"
When she turned, Bran sat at the edge of the pond next to the weirwood, alone in his wheeled chair. He spoke with the voice of a boy, a hint of wariness in his tone. It was nothing like the voice of the Three-Eyed Raven that she'd heard rustling through the leaves. With the grace of the gods, it never would be.
"Yes, Bran?" Sansa stood, wincing at the stiffness in her knees.
"You've been gone for hours," Bran replied. "Mother wanted to call a search, but I knew…" He trailed off uncertainly.
Sansa brushed dirt from her skirts. She walked towards him with sudden resolve in her steps. "Yes, I expect you did know," Sansa said. "How much else do you know?"
"Some things," he replied, still studying his older sister. "And sometimes a lot more than some things."
Sansa took his hand, trying to ease the wariness from his tone. "I expect we're alike in a lot of ways. And different in even more."
She had understood his riddle, his hint towards his abilities, and Bran let out a relieved sigh. "Yes. And Jojen, well, he's… like me. He's not able to see as far, or as often, but at least he knows what he's seeing."
Sansa lowered herself to a fallen log next to her brother, unwilling to move from this section of the woods where they'd be least likely to be overheard, next to the symbol of the god that they both apparently served. "I've lived this before," she simply said, growing familiar with the explanation. "I've only the one lifetime's experience to me, but it helps more than enough. At the very least, I know who ultimately cares about the Long Night and who wishes us dead."
Bran studied her. "Then you knew that I was a greenseer."
"And a warg," Sansa replied. "Although in my time–"
Bran held up a hand. Sansa stopped. With every word deliberate, he said, "You once told Robb that greenseers see a fixed future couched in riddles."
A thrill of fear coursed through her. For Bran to have observed a single, private conversation, half a continent away… The possibilities were endless – and terrifying. Slowly, she nodded.
"We're supposed to, anyway," Bran continued. "But only some of my visions are clear. Most of them… splinter. They break into little fragments too small to even piece together. At least looking into someone's past is always clear of splinters. Well…" His gaze was piercing as he stared at his sister. "It is for everyone but you."
Her breath caught.
"I see horrible things," he said. "Impossible things. I look in your past and you're older and married and to horrible men, men who–" Bran broke off, looking away as he fought back tears.
Instantly, Sansa wrapped him in a hug. Bran sank into it, hugging her back just as desperately.
The sobbing Bran in her arms was worlds away from the dead-eyed Bran who had told her how beautiful she'd looked on the night Ramsay had raped her.
I'll fight for him, Sansa thought to the red-leafed tree just feet away from them, no matter the gratitude she'd just expressed. I'll fight to my dying breath to keep him from becoming you. I'll fight to keep from watching my little brother die again while he still lives.
The wind made no reply.
"You don't need to look into my past," Sansa whispered to Bran. "It's not a nice place. I'll answer any questions you ask."
Bran released her, wiping the back of his hand against his running nose. "I don't want to ask them. There are some things you haven't touched and splintered yet, some events I can still see. I'm worried that if I know more, you'll splinter… me."
Worry lanced through her. "Do you need me to go? To leave Winterfell?"
"No." Bran's reply held no hesitation. "No, we need you here, no matter the splinters. Besides, I looked as best I could at the splinters surrounding our trip to the Wall. Around Jon." A hint of mischief filled her brother's face. "The only splinters where Jon agrees to leave the Night's Watch are the ones that have you in them."
Sansa sat stunned. In some distant corner of her mind, it had always been a possibility that Jon could join them earlier than expected. But Jon had denied Stannis when he had asked; Jon had kept his vow when Robb had called the banners. Only death had split him from his brothers of the Watch… a death that Sansa had always worried about weaving the specific circumstances to bring him back from, this time around.
"You don't mean when he…" Sansa breathed, unable to make herself say the final word.
Bran's face scrunched in confusion. "I mean when we leave Winterfell for the Wall tomorrow after we've finished resupplying. I made sure the wagons were ready to travel before you arrived and we've beds and nurses here to tend to the wounded while we're gone."
Sansa let out a breath. He didn't know about Jon's death. "Well, then." She shot a glance at her brother. "Think it will be a short trip?"
Bran shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"No," Sansa muttered. "No, it's really not."
...
Catelyn was to remain behind, with Rickon, Margaery, and Olenna. Jaime had taken up a permanent residence in their dungeon, with a number of trusted Stark men as guards. Sansa's only request was that the guards include Brienne. Catelyn had been confused by the odd request, but thankfully agreed.
Sansa knew Brienne could defeat him, should Jaime get his hands on a sword. She also knew Brienne wouldn't stand for anyone threatening Jaime, Stark or no. Sansa had no faith in the skill or loyalty of anyone else.
If Jaime also found Brienne entertaining, and Brienne made sure Jaime was well taken care of, well… Sansa wasn't about to complain.
As Sansa surveyed the men heading North, and to war, yet again… a tall figure she didn't expect walked towards her, the thick leather and furs almost hiding her womanly shape.
"Dacey Mormont, princess." The woman gave a quick nod. "My mother's remaining in Winterfell while she heals and told me to take her place leading your guard." Abruptly, Dacey shifted awkwardly. "If you'll have me."
Sansa took Dacey's hand, touched beyond words. "It would be my honor." At least Sansa had visited Maege in Winterfell's infirmary, had made sure her leg was healing as best it could.
"I… don't know my new guards," Sansa reluctantly admitted. "Not after…"
"Mother said you might say that." With a shrill whistle, Dacey beckoned a dozen men over to their stretch of the field. "These are all lads I've fought beside in your brother's battles. I'd trust them with my life ten times over. I'd trust them with yours."
Sansa shook hands with each of them in turn.
"Mycah Topper, from House Glover," one lanky man said.
"Derren Botley, one of Karstark's," a man as big as a bear added.
The last man to take her hand hesitated. He had thick dark hair and the strongest look of the North of any of the men. "Ollie Hallard, princess. I fought for…" He hesitated again. "Roose Bolton."
Sansa reached for his hand, knowing he would never offer it, and forced him to shake. "Well met, Ollie Hallard. Has Steelshanks been treating you well?"
"Oh, yes, Your Grace," he said enthusiastically. "He gets on well and mostly the men follow where he tells, Your Grace. I mean, princess, I mean–"
Sansa cut him off with a gentle smile. "Half my men call me 'princess' while the other half call me 'lady.' Either is fine. Though I'm afraid there's another Lady whose approval you will all have to receive in order to safely guard me – your own safety, I mean. Lady!"
At once, her direwolf trotted over to Sansa's side. Lady stood at a height with Sansa's shoulder and every inch of her was thick with muscle – a fear-inducing sight. More than one of the men swallowed.
"Hold out your hand for her to sniff," Sansa said. "If you mean no harm to me, then she means no harm to you."
Each man did so. One by one, Lady sniffed their hands. The wolf passed over each in turn before locking eyes with Sansa and giving a satisfied huff.
The men – her new guards – let out sighs of relief.
But Sansa beckoned Dacey closer. "This is Dacey," Sansa explained to Lady. "She's responsible for guarding me – second only to you, Lady. If she calls, aid her in any way you can."
Lady locked eyes with Dacey, taking the woman's measure. Then, slowly, Lady stretched her nose to bump Dacey's arm. Dacey slowly lowered a hand to the wolf's fur. Lady allowed one pet and then sauntered away, weaving back through the rest of the army.
"All of you can ride?" Sansa asked, reaching for her own mount. Dacey grabbed the reins, holding her horse steady as Sansa slipped into the saddle. Nods answered her from the men. "Then ride."
Horns called out across the field. Bran rode forward, Meera and Jojen at his heels as he led the combined Stark and Tully forces.
Sansa nudged her horse faster to join them, her own guards falling in behind her. Brynden gave her a warm nod, followed by nods from Karstark, Umber, Manderly, and Steelshanks. Once again, the North marched for war. Twelve thousand they might be, but this was the North, was their home.
Let them come, Sansa thought, thrilling at the sight. Let the armies of the world come and break themselves upon us. We'll be waiting for them.