It was a full week of meetings and talks before the Starks even began to think of going south again. A reading of Northern law had been performed daily. Every session had been followed by endless questions from the Wildlings who were considering whether or not they thought they could agree to live by the Starks' rules.

Tormund spotted Sansa as she ate with her guards in the mess hall of Castle Black. Jon and Bran were busy with Mance Rayder and yet another session spent in front of a map; Sansa did not envy them. She'd already been present for most of the meetings, and knew she'd be back in the next one before she'd like. It was a thankless job, planning where the least occupied territory was and the best places to settle the 20,000 Wildlings who had agreed to come south.

Tormund sat down on the bench beside Sansa without even a suggestion of asking her permission. Ollie Hallard frowned, about to rise to his feet – but settled back at a gesture from Sansa.

"Say I find a woman I like in a house," Tormund remarked to her. "And there's a moment where she's alone and I can throw her over my shoulder and make it out the door of the house with her. If no one comes in time to stop me, is it still–"

"Against the law," Sansa replied tonelessly. It was his seventeenth hypothetical of the same sort.

"But what if it's not her house?" Tormund asked. "Then, how am I stealing her?"

"It's against the law," Sansa replied. "You can't take someone where they don't want to be. That's kidnapping. The house doesn't matter. It's still against the law."

Tormund leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows. "But what if it turns out she likes it?"

"Against the–" Sansa was cut off by her guard Mycah rising to his feet.

"Apologize, Wildling," Mycah snarled. "Beg the princess's forgiveness, before she demands your tongue for speaking to her so."

"My tongue?" Tormund looked confused. "If she wanted my tongue, I'd let her use it. She just has to ask."

Next to wiry Mycah, the huge Derren rose to his feet, along with Ollie, on the other side of Sansa from Tormund.

Sansa put her head in her hands. "Tormund. You must stop making inappropriate references around me. My guards have no choice but to take offense."

Tormund looked even more bewildered. "But… why?"

"A princess is what we southerners consider 'important,'" Sansa patiently explained. "Not just any man is allowed to speak to me as if we are…" She didn't know how to explain it in words he would understand – or ones she was willing to say. "On more than friendly terms."

"But we are friends, aren't we?" Tormund grinned. "More than friends, since you spared my life just for liking the look of me."

Sansa buried her head even more deeply into her hands. "We're not that sort of friend, Tormund. Not the sort you steal. My guards would kill you for even trying."

Now he looked truly bewildered. "But why would I want to steal you?"

"To rape her," Mycah said, his voice tight. "As you seem so keen to describe every day."

"Rape her!" Tormund looked at Sansa, aghast. "Who's trying to rape her?"

"You are." Mycah's voice was clenched so tight he was bound to start bleeding internally.

Tormund looked more confused than ever. "Why would I want to do that? She's so little. And breakable. I don't think she's even birthed a babe or killed a man."

"Oh, I've killed a man," Sansa replied, before her sense caught up with her.

Tormund leaned forward with sudden interest. "Have you really? In battle? What weapon did you–"

"No, not in battle," she replied, declining to answer further. On her other side, Ollie had flinched. His liege lord's execution was not something she should have dredged up lightly.

But Jon had entered across the hall and it was as good an excuse as any to escape the conversation. "Another time, Tormund."

Sansa made her way to Jon, settling in across the table from him. She waited silently as he dished his food, waited as Jon took a bite, waited as he chewed the bite and swallowed it, all without him so much as glancing at her.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Jon finally said. "The Wildlings will be settled just beyond the Gift and Mance will be coming down to Winterfell with us. The Night's Watch aren't happy about any of it."

Sansa grimaced, knowing how true that statement would be. At least this time around, Jon won't have to die for it. "Alliser Thorne will be elected the new Lord Commander, then."

"Aye, appears so," Jon said, between another bite. "Not like we could have stopped that."

Sansa looked away, guilty over what they were stealing from Jon without him even knowing what he'd lost.

"We couldn't have done any of this without you, you know," Sansa whispered. "If you think Bran and I could negotiate with the Wildlings – a cripple and a little girl, neither of whom can fight–"

"I know, Sansa," Jon cut her off, looking uncomfortable. "Bran's thanked me enough already. You don't have to–" He cut off again, taking another bite.

Sansa reached across the table, putting her hand on Jon's arm. She was reminded of all the things she wanted to say to him, of all the listening ears she couldn't risk. From the hidden wariness in Jon, he hadn't forgotten, either.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Sansa whispered. "For every mean thing I ever did to you. I tried to send you a letter, explaining some, but I never heard back."

Jon gave her a small smile but moved his arm away. "I didn't know what to make of your letter. I sent it to Robb for him to deal with."

Sansa snorted. "He didn't have a much better time of it. Robb–"

But the sudden grief stabbed through her chest. Robb hadn't had an easy time dealing with her. And now he was gone, and if she'd only been easier on him– There were a million things she could have done to stop it, to protect him, and instead she'd–

Jon was reaching across the table, taking her hand in his own.

"I'm glad Robb had you at his side," Jon said. "I'm glad you were there for him when I couldn't be."

Sansa tried to smile at him. Her face contorted in her efforts to keep from breaking down in full view of the hall.

She looked away, clearing her throat. Jon let go of her hand. "How did Mance take our insistence that the clan chiefs be held responsible for enforcing the law against their own men?" she asked.

Jon snorted, as glad as she was to change the topic. "Poorly." He nodded towards Tormund. "Look at him. He's trying to understand and yesterday he asked me how many chickens a farmer had to own before he could take one."

"Lucky." Sansa sighed. "All I get to do is tell him how many laws his seduction attempts break."

Jon snorted into his ale. The two siblings shared a grin.

Stretching across the table, Sansa stole her own sip of his ale. Jon watched her with surprise, waiting for her to choke at the bitter taste. Sansa swallowed it smoothly, knowing exactly how bad to expect from her last time around.

She flashed a smile at Jon, who couldn't hide how impressed he was, even as she hid how her throat burned. She hadn't quite remembered.

"We're manning the other castles of the Watch with Wildlings?" Sansa asked as she set the flagon back down.

Jon grimaced. "Not yet. Can't risk them opening the gates of the Wall to a raiding party. Once winter comes, once we know we have Free Folk we can trust, then… We'll see. But we'll likely have to keep loyal soldiers alongside any Free Folk we use, and if we have to have enough soldiers to keep them from being outnumbered by Free Folk… " Jon broke off in a weary sigh. "We'll see."

…

It was slow going on the road back to Winterfell. Six hundred Stark men remained behind at Castle Black, reinforcing it with soldiers, supplies, and craftsmen and more than doubling the Night's Watch's forces. Bran planned to rotate them out every three moons. If the dead struck, they could not afford for the Wall to be undermanned. At least for now, the Wilding threat had been abated.

As the Stark party traveled south, Samwell Tarly struggling to ride among them, the lone tower of Queenscrown stood before them at the edge of the Gift.

"Your castle, King Mance," Bran said with a smile.

It was a rundown old tower, the wood of the door warped and stones tumbling. But Mance took it in with a smile in return. The ruined former village surrounding the tower was a better start for the new Wildling village than an open field.

As Mance surveyed the land his people were already busy pitching tents on, he shook his head. "All of them are alive because of you."

It was the first time that he had admitted it.

"I know," Bran said easily. "The hard part is making sure we don't regret it."

Mance chuckled. "Aye, that it is." He shook hands with the boy-king. "I'll see you down in Winterfell in three moon's time, once I've gotten this lot settled in."

"We look forward to it," Jon replied from Bran's other side.

Looking between the three Starks, Mance shook his head again. "Tormund!" he called. The redhead looked up from the tent he was busy staking. Mance continued, "Fancy seeing a proper castle?"

Brushing off his hands, Tormund walked to join them. "More proper than this?" He gestured to the lone, broken tower of Queenscrown. Sansa couldn't repress her snort. "Aye, I'd like that," Tormund continued.

"Go with them, then." Mance nodded toward the Starks. "Report back with anything I need to know."

And as soon as they had stopped, they were on their way. Their next stop – Winterfell.

…

Sansa didn't think she'd ever tire of the sight. The towers of Winterfell pierced the low fog like a castle in a dream.

Beside her, she heard Tormund gasp. "But that's a mountain," he breathed. "That's not…"

"That's where I grew up," Jon chuckled.

Tormund looked at his friend as if finally seeing the missing piece.

Horns called from their party and horns answered from the parapets of their home, welcoming them back.

Brynden rode ahead, happy to leave the party of Stark siblings. He sneered at Jon when given the chance and kept silent the rest, displeased by the child whose existence dishonored his niece.

That was fine by Sansa. She and Bran could make peace with their uncle away from Jon.

As it was, she took joy in watching the delight creep steadily over Jon's face.

"Welcome home," Sansa softly said.

Figures rode out of the castle to greet them, indistinct in the fog of the morning. One figure stood away from the rest, bulky in furs, with a direwolf beside.

And suddenly, the wolf was running towards them.

Jon flung himself off his horse. "Grey Wind?" he called incredulously.

The direwolf smashed into Jon at a full run, knocking him onto his back on the snow. Before he could even catch his breath, the wolf had pressed himself against Jon, wriggling and writhing, before dancing away again to circle round.

"Grey Wind!" Jon laughed. The wolf pressed towards Jon and he grabbed it to him, wrestling the gigantic beast to the ground as Grey Wind yipped and snarled and danced away again.

Jon looked up at Sansa, his face filled with incredulous joy. He turned back towards the figure who had been at Grey Wind's side. "Robb!" he called, grinning. "They told me you were…"

The fog drifted aside. Margaery stood before the castle, wrapped in furs twice her size.

Sansa watched helplessly as the horror of Robb's death played across Jon's face anew. His last flicker of hope extinguished. Jon hung his head, staring into the snow around his knees.

Grey Wind slipped beneath Jon's downturned gaze, grinning as broadly a puppy beneath his one good eye. Mechanically, Jon ran a hand through the wolf's fur.

Around them, others of the castle exchanged greetings with their party, Catelyn hugging Bran, Howland Reed clasping arms with his two children.

Sansa approached the slumped Jon, her feet crunching through the thin snow. "Jon," she said softly. "This is Margaery Stark. Robb's widow."

Margaery had held back her approach at Jon's shouted confusion. She crossed the final feet to the pair.

"Well met, Jon Snow," Margaery said evenly. Sansa couldn't tell if the wetness in her eyes was a trick of the light. "It appears I've been immediately outranked in my direwolf's affections."

"Your direwolf?" But a moment later, Jon seemed to remember that Sansa had not introduced Margaery as a Tyrell; seemed to belatedly hear the House that had been attributed to her. Jon forced a grin, small though it was. "Don't worry, my own will come claim me soon enough–"

A white shape hurtled from the woods. Grey Wind leapt from Jon's arms, knocking him back again, and chased after it. A moment later darker grey shapes joined, Ghost, Lady, Shaggydog, and Summer all frolicking with Grey Wind in the snow. Only Nymeria was missing from their pack.

"It's good to see him play," Margaery said softly, watching the wolves. "He's been… better, after returning to Winterfell, but I still hadn't seen…"

Sansa smiled, knowing exactly what she meant.

But Jon's face had crumpled at the reminder of why Grey Wind hadn't been himself. "Excuse me, my lady." He strode back into the castle, knowing his way with as much familiarity as if he'd been back to Winterfell yesterday.

Margaery turned from watching Jon's retreat to Sansa, studying her in the clear morning air. "I found something interesting in my room."

"Oh?" Sansa tried to study Margaery in turn but the other girl's face was as unreadable as Sansa had ever seen it.

Margaery hummed. "Tucked away in a drawer in Robb's desk, stuffed alongside other letters of unimportance. Here." She handed a letter across. "Tell me what you think of it."

As she opened it, Sansa spotted her own handwriting, the parchment beneath it faded and wrinkled from years and miles.

To my dear brother Jon,

I know you won't believe me, no matter what I say, so all I ask is that you remember this letter, thinking back on its eccentricities occasionally. One day, they will make sense.

Fire and dragonglass kill wights. You'll find some up north, but there's plenty on Dragonstone when we need it later. Valyrian steel kills White Walkers.

Oh, and congratulations on becoming Lord Commander. Our father would have been so proud.

Uncle Benjen is lost to the Far North. There's nothing you can do about it, Jon. I know it hurts and I know you miss him, but he is not your priority. He cannot be.

Mance Rayder is collecting a Wildling army, the biggest the North has ever seen. We'll need them to face the Long Night. Tormund Giantsbane is dependable and will grow to call you brother. If you let them into the North, the Night's Watch will kill you. There are ways you can come back from this death, but the events preceding it are too precarious for you to risk it blindly.

I'm sorry for every harsh word I've ever said, to you and behind your back. I wish I'd learned my errors early enough to apologize to your face, but I was a stupid, stupid girl and I beg your forgiveness. I love you, dearest brother. Take care of yourself.

Please don't show this letter to anyone. Memorize it and burn it, if you can. Write frequently and I can give more helpful advice.

Your sister,

Sansa

P.S. If I'm acting too nicely for you to believe it's me, I can always insult you until you do. Please don't make me.

Sansa's hands shook as she lowered the letter.

"Don't bother trying to destroy it," Margaery said conversationally, surveying the troops pouring into the castle. "I've already had copies made. And sent."

Sansa tried to swallow, but there was no spit in her mouth. A dull roar of fear pounded through her head. "Are you… are you trying to…"

Blackmail me.

Margaery turned to her with a cold look in her eyes. "I don't know, Sansa. Am I?" She turned away again. "Why don't you tell me what I'm doing."

Sansa stared into the distance, seeing nothing. A million possibilities whirled, of ways to explain, to dodge the truth, to… None that Margaery would believe.

If Sansa valued Margaery's friendship, only one option remained.

With a deep breath for courage, Sansa turned to Margaery. Margaery watched her, braced for Sansa's lie to be delivered straight to her face.

Sansa resolved. "Meet me at the top of the broken tower in an hour. And I'll explain everything."

…

"Really?" Jon panted, carrying Bran on his back as he trudged up the spiral stone steps. "You had to pick a tower for this secret meeting?"

"Can you think of a better spot where we won't be overheard?" Sansa replied.

Jon grunted.

When Sansa nudged the warped wood of the door open, Margaery was seated on the floor on the other side. She'd even brought pillows for herself and Sansa to sit on.

Instantly, Margaery was on her feet. "Oh! I didn't realize…"

"You're not the only one Sansa owes an explanation," Jon said. He lowered Bran down to the pillow that Margaery had brought for Sansa.

"And there's no point in my not knowing, if both of you do," Bran explained.

Jon took a broken stone for his seat, expecting Sansa to take the other. But she paced before the window, unable to calm.

Finally, she rested her pale fingers on its ledge. "Bran, this is where you… where he…" But Sansa shook herself. "I must start at the beginning."

When she turned from the window, Jon, Bran, and Margaery all looked back at her. Their faces were open and waiting, with trust, patience, and friendship writ large.

Slowly, Sansa sank onto the other broken stone.

"Once upon a time," she started. "when Father was imprisoned for treason against Joffrey, he declared that he'd lied about the incest, that Joffrey was the rightful king and he had sought to take power through treason. And Joffrey still took Father's head. And I was still forced to watch."

"But he didn't," Margaery replied, frowning. "Ned Stark died declaring Stannis the true king. Few flocked to support the Lannisters, after that."

"Yes," Sansa admitted. She took a deep breath. "Because I wrote to Father and asked him not to lie. I knew Joffrey would have no mercy for him. I knew that this time. Because I… hadn't, the last time." She swallowed again. "The last time I lived this life."

The air was strangely still in the top of the tower, as none of her listeners dared breathe.

Taking in another deep breath, Sansa forged ahead again. "Last time, both Arya and I lost our wolves. Last time, Robb broke his betrothal with the Freys to marry a commoner he'd fallen in love with, one that, this time, I had sent away before he had the chance." Margaery recoiled as if stung. Sansa continued. "And last time, when Robb sent Theon to Balon Greyjoy to negotiate an alliance… Theon joined Balon's revolt against the North. Theon sacked Winterfell, killed Ser Rodrick, Maester Luwin, and more. He… killed two boys. Burned their bodies so that everyone thought Bran and Rickon were dead as they fled to the far north."

"Theon?" Margaery breathed. "But he… but you…"

"Theon knows," Sansa said simply. "He's known the truth ever since the day I left for King's Landing. He believed me when no one else would, rescued me, when–"

Sansa cut off. Margaery needed to know this part more than any here. She spoke slowly, so that no word would be lost. "Last time, the Tyrells aided the Lannisters in the Battle of the Blackwater. They crushed Stannis. And they did this for a marriage between you, Margaery, and Joffrey." Sansa stared down at her hands, unwilling to see the other girl's reaction. "There was no Theon to rescue me. I was still Joffrey's plaything, even after my betrothal to him had been set aside. You were kind to me, though," Sansa admitted. "In the midst of all of it. I liked you very much, even though I was still an idiot little girl and very much your pawn."

"You're not sixteen," Margaery said, with the full realization that had been growing for months.

"No," Sansa admitted. "Seventeen next month, though closer to twenty four in my mind. You tried to get me married to Loras and off to Highgarden, but the Lannisters married me to Tyrion. He was kind. But at your wedding to Joffrey…" Finally, Sansa looked up at Margaery, needing to see her reaction. "Your grandmother poisoned and killed the king."

Margaery's eyes went wide. "Grandmother– she wouldn't– not when I was to become Queen, not when–"

"Joffrey was brutal and your grandmother spared you from him. So, you married Tommen, instead," Sansa continued. "And you were Queen… for a time."

"'Like you did with Tommen,'" Margaery said, sounding as if she was reciting.

Sansa paused, utterly confused. "What?"

"'Like you did with Tommen,'" Margaery repeated, as if that made the meaning any clearer. "It's something you said to me after Robb died that I never understood. About why the Lannisters hadn't killed Robb before we were married. Because then I could have fulfilled my betrothal with a different Stark."

"Like you did with Tommen," Sansa breathed, instantly understanding her past mistake. In her grief, she had confused the two Margaerys.

Margaery gave her a small nod. "It's good to clear that up. I'd never been able to puzzle it out. Continue, please."

"I had gotten away from the capital by the time you married Tommen," Sansa continued. "But I knew Cersei well. She would have hated that you were Queen, hated how good you were, how loved, how much her own son preferred you. The Faith Militant grew in power and I can't think it was a coincidence. They had Loras and you imprisoned. You turned it around on Cersei, got her imprisoned, made her take a naked walk of shame through King's Landing–"

Margaery's lip twitched with pleasure despite herself.

"–and when it came time for Cersei's trial, she didn't show up to the sept. She let you and Loras and your father wait for her inside with all the Faith Militant… and she used caches of wildfire to blow up the entire Sept of Baelor. Every single person inside died. Your grandmother was the only Tyrell left alive."

Margaery studied Sansa, not sure what to say.

Sansa began again. "Tommen flung himself from a window after the explosion in the sept. I suspect he loved you. Your grandmother was killed later, when the Lannisters sacked Highgarden. Every one of you died."

Margaery drifted off in thought, staring at her hands laced in her lap.

Sansa braced herself. "Jon, you… you became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Jon started, not expecting her address.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said quickly. "I'm sorry that we took that from you. They would have elected you after the battle against the Wildlings. Stannis saved the Wall, last time around, and with us doing it, this time, I wasn't sure–"

"Go on, Sansa," Jon said patiently.

And suddenly, Sansa realized she didn't want to admit the entirety of Jon's story. She didn't think his resurrection, his claim to the throne, or his dragon-riding should be general knowledge. Some things were just too dangerous and could be used in too many ways. Ways that Sansa couldn't predict.

"I've changed much," Sansa admitted. "But not enough. Last time, Robb died at Edmure's wedding to a Frey, betrayed by the Boltons and killed by the Freys in their own home. Mother died there, too. Baelish – who plotted the assassination of Joffrey with Olenna – married me to Ramsay Bolton. He's… sadistic. More cruel than any I've known."

"He's still alive," Bran added. "Likely with Bolton troops flocking to him."

Sansa nodded. "He killed Rickon for sport, last time around. When we find him, we cannot let Ramsay live."

Both Jon's and Bran's eyes were filled with a steady determination and silent agreement. Sansa was surprised to see that Margaery shared the same look.

"The Army of the Dead?" Jon asked.

"On the move," Sansa replied. "The Night King will strike in around three years' time, when winter truly falls. I've already brokered a deal with Stannis for dragonglass – which we can make into weapons that will kill the dead and the White Walkers."

"I'm sorry, the army of the what?!" Margaery said.

"Dead," Jon evenly replied. "I've seen them beyond the Wall. The dead walking and wielding blades to kill the living, along with the White Walkers leading their army. It's what the Wildlings were fleeing. It's why we let them into the North."

Margaery looked as if she'd been stunned too many times, in too quick of succession, to even process the new information.

"The other thing you need to know…" Sansa took a deep breath, unsure of this more than any other. "Is that dragons are coming. Three of them. Daenerys Targaryen gathers forces across the sea as we speak and she is hellbent on reclaiming her throne. She will come, with fire and with blood, and the seven kingdoms will burn."

Jon leaned forward. "Is there no treaty we can make? No path forward where we use her armies to help against the dead?"

Sansa took a deep breath. "Yes," she finally admitted. "It's how we beat them last time."

Jon frowned. "Then why do you look so upset about it?"

Sansa closed her eyes. If her dislike of Daenerys was a petty bias against a rival queen, these people she trusted most in the world would hopefully show her that. If her dislike was valid, Sansa had to have faith that they would see it, too. She could not keep something this significant from them and still tell them all to trust her.

Wise leaders had trusted advisors, as she'd so often lectured Robb. It was time she started living by it.

"Daenerys wants the throne for the throne's sake," Sansa began. "She burns her enemies alive and is quick to see betrayal. She rules by her whim and is exceedingly kind to her friends… when she remembers they exist."

Sansa soldiered on. "Daenerys let Highgarden be destroyed. She let Olenna die. One could say she avenged the death, but what use is that to the extinct and ravaged Tyrells? She let her allies in Dorne be captured and tortured without even an attempt at rescue, and the same with her Greyjoy allies." Sansa paused. "But when King's Landing did not welcome her with open arms, when they were too slow to ring the bells of surrender… she turned her dragon on the city and burned it to the ground. Over a million people, turned to smoke and ash by her rage."

"But we allied with her. The Tyrells were her allies," Margaery said. "Why, if she was so horrible?"

"Yes. As did we. The choices were Daenerys or Cersei," Sansa simply said.

"Cersei?" Jon frowned. "You mean she ruled through one of her children, one of–"

"Cersei," Sansa insisted. "With all her children dead and no Baratheons left to argue, she had crowned herself."

Jon ran a hand down his face, full of a lifetime's weariness. "Stannis then? Is that what you're saying?"

Sansa hesitated, not willing to put forward her best card, to breathe the rumor and desperate hope into the dusty air of Aegon Targaryen. "I'm not sure what I'm saying. But it might not be a horrible idea for the North to remain independent."

"What stopped her?" Bran asked, and Sansa realized it had been quite some time since he'd spoken. She didn't quite know how to answer and was glad when he changed it to, "What can kill a dragon?"

"A White Walker's spear," Sansa replied. "And a scorpion's bolt. If there are other methods, I do not know them."

"And what stopped her?" Margaery asked. When Sansa hesitated, she added, "If she was ever stopped. Or, how did you… come back… here?"

Sansa gave a secretive smile. "I didn't die, if that's what you're asking. The North was stable – and free. I'll keep the details to myself, if you don't mind." They chuckled, and Sansa let out a breath. "As for Daenerys… you stopped her, Jon."

He raised his eyebrows, but waited for her to continue.

She winced, not wanting to say the words. "Daenerys was taken with you. She wanted you for her Prince Consort. And you… She had long stopped listening to advice or reason. After taking a throne of ash, she declared that she would destroy all the Houses of Westeros and break the wheel forever. And you, well…"

"I killed her," Jon answered. "Didn't I?"

It was Sansa's turn to be struck dumb. Slowly, she gave a nod.

"You mentioned a free North," Jon said. "A queen like that would never allow that to happen. No matter whose counsel she listened to. Not while she lived."

Margaery turned to look at Jon, trying to take his measure.

"Did I die?" Bran suddenly asked. Sansa turned to him in shock and he added, "I noticed you mentioned both of them, but not me. So." Bran steeled himself. "Did I?"

"No," Sansa replied. Jon let out a breath. "And yes."

Suddenly, everyone was more confused than before.

"You forged that note to Howland Reed, telling him to bring Jojen and Meera to Winterfell," Bran said. "You changed my fate long ago on purpose. That's why you haven't mentioned me."

Sansa nodded, grateful that he'd understood.

"And Theon never attacked," Margaery added, watching Sansa.

"He kept us safe, instead," Sansa insisted. "He's been loyal to us ever since I returned and if my telling you the truth made you doubt him, then I shouldn't have told you."

"This is a Theon who never attacked Bran," Jon said. "He saved you. Of course he's not the same." Just as she was relaxing, Jon added, "But it's good that we know his weakness."

"Just let me handle him," Sansa snapped. "He's our best asset when treated properly."

"Would you like to marry him?" Bran offered.

Sansa sat stunned.

"I'm fairly sure you can have your pick of anyone in the Seven Kingdoms," Bran continued, with a cheeky grin.

"Yes," Sansa faintly replied, shocked by her own reticence. "But…" She swallowed, hating as she realized the truth for herself. "We have allies to win yet for the fight against the dead, and–"

"Sansa," Jon cut in sharply. "We're not going to sell you for some horses."

"You'd better," Sansa replied. "If you plan to survive that fight against the dead. But, no. I meant that there are alliances I can garner if I am still… available."

It made her feel dirty to say the words. It reminded her of a conversation she'd had long ago with Robb, about the North's friendship with Oberyn Martell. Did she think Oberyn would come North to fight the dead if she called?

Were she unwed? Very likely, yes.

Were she otherwise, she did not want to think about the answer.

A sudden thought came to Sansa and she turned towards Margaery. "Please use discretion over what, if any, you tell your grandmother. I know she's a talented player of the game, but–"

"Of course she is, but that's what you're worried about," Margaery replied. "Strong players are unpredictable. Should I be offended that you're not worried about me?"

She said it with a tease of a smile and a knot in Sansa's gut untied. Try as she might to explain it, none of the words sounded right in her head. "It took me an embarrassingly long time to learn how to play the game," Sansa admitted. "But I did it by watching Cersei and Baelish… and… and you." Letting out a breath, Sansa risked a glance up at the other girl. "I told you all of this so that you would be unpredictable. So that you could help me be unpredictable."

Margaery studied her in reply. "You've trusted me with quite a lot."

"I trusted you with my brother," Sansa said. Guilt cracked across Margaery's face as sharply as a whip. Sansa quickly continued, "And I haven't regretted it since. He would have said the same."

For all that the girls had disagreed about Robb taking the Iron Throne, that had not been the only thing to kill him. Sansa had contributed plenty of her own mistakes, as had Robb, himself. Margaery had loved him, deeply and truly. Sansa could only be grateful for that.

Margaery looked at Sansa, not sure what to make of her as her own face struggled to remain composed.

"I've not been here a full day and I've already heard good things about the Widow Queen," Jon said, tilting his head Margaery's way. "It's good that you came North. I'm glad we got the chance to meet you."

Margaery could make no reply. She could not even raise her eyes from her lap.

"Thank you," she finally said, and stood. Her eyes remained on the floor, hiding the tremor in her voice. "Please excuse me."

And she exited the room and down the tower, her footfalls disappearing into the distance.

Bran shifted on his pillow. "Alright, Sansa. Say the other bit."

Really, she should have been done being surprised by now, but, "How did you know?"

Bran shrugged. "I saw that every time I offered to legitimize Jon, you stopped me. I could never get you to give the explanation."

Jon's look of hurt was sudden and deep.

To stem it off, Sansa quickly said, "Jon, your mother was not some tavern wench."

Slowly, his face cleared. Slowly, Sansa found the strength to continue. "She was Lyanna Stark."

Jon's face curled in revulsion. "That's disgusting, Sansa. Father would never–"

"And your father," she continued, knowing she had to get it out immediately or she'd explode. "Was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon fell instantly silent. Bran gaped at her.

"They were married," Sansa continued. "In the style of his gods, in polygamy, and in the style of hers, at a heart tree. Your birth was legitimate. The Bran of my past life confirmed it. You…" But Sansa's mouth was suddenly dry, the words hard to form. "Daenerys Targaryen talks about her claim to the Iron Throne, but… Jon, yours is superior. You're the Targaryen heir."

A/N: I have been aching to write this chapter ever since writing the first one. Please tell me your thoughts! I'm dying to hear them. ❤