- Six Months Later -

Snow fell in small gusts across the turrets of Winterfell as Sansa climbed the last of the stone steps to the top of the battlements.

She cupped her hands before her face, blowing into them to keep warm as she looked out across the fields. And suddenly, she realized that she wasn't alone. Margaery stood wrapped in thick bear furs, her breath fogging before her face.

"See anything?" Sansa asked.

Margaery nodded. "Beyond that second clump of trees. That's them."

Sansa smiled, keeping it to herself as she turned away to search for the sight. Yes, she could indeed make out a faint dark shape creeping up the road beyond the trees.

"How's Olenna handling our first hint of snow?" Sansa asked.

Margaery gave a wry grin. "She had a picnic in the glass house this afternoon. Declared that she's moving in."

Sansa chuckled.

The shapes in the distance crept steadily closer.

And she and Margaery waited.

"You've heard the rumors of a naval skirmish in the Narrow Sea?" Margaery eventually said.

Sansa frowned. "Rumors." Nothing had been clear in what she'd heard, nor even which parties had been involved. It differed every time it was told, from Stannis, to Lannisters, to Greyjoys, to Starks even on occasion.

Margaery turned to look at her. "You've no clearer memories of what happened than that?"

A code between them, asking if this had happened before for Sansa. She shook her head. "I don't remember. With Stannis king, almost everything is different."

Margaery nodded and turned back to stare out at the horizon. "It's peaceful up here," she said after a long silence.

Sansa shot a sideways glance at her. "That's a pleasant way to say boring."

Margaery smiled. It was warm and full and Sansa thrilled to see it. Every day Margaery seemed to smile more than the previous one. If there was strength and healing for Sansa in being home at Winterfell, surrounded by family, she was glad Margaery could feel it, too.

"Come on," Margaery said, turning away from the view. "Let's wait inside before I go stark raving mad."

Sansa sighed, following her down the stairs. "You don't always have to use that expression, you know."

Margaery simply laughed.

...

"Theon!"

A shape was running at him. Theon braced himself, wincing as she collided against his chest.

Then, a moment later, Arya was pulling away from her hug, laughing. "Theon! What're you doing here?"

The domed palace of Sunspear surrounded them, with curtains wafting in the wind and airy silks draping the ladies. Of course, Arya stood before him in breeches and leather, her short hair tied back severely. Her arms were covered in cuts, bruises, and scrapes, but other than that, Theon was pleased to report she looked whole and healthy.

And happy. Gods, she looked happy.

Theon shrugged, unable to hide his own grin at her enthusiasm. "Visiting you, I expect."

Arya rolled her eyes. "No, really."

His grin broadened. "Selling timber. I'm quite rich, you know. Apparently being rich takes effort to maintain."

"You going to become useless like the rest of them, then?" a gruff voice called out.

Theon raised an eyebrow, stepping further into the courtyard to look. "The Hound? He's still–"

"Sandor," Arya corrected, just as the Hound added, "Course I'm still here. Her sister's paying me to look after the brat, isn't she?"

Hidden in the shadows of the corner of the room, Sandor Clegane looked as out of place as the direwolf at his feet. While he'd conceded to the heat and removed some of his traditional armor, Sandor had refused to remove all of it and appeared to be in a constant state of melting. At his feet, a gigantic direwolf lay on her side, her tongue lolling from her mouth and her eyes closed.

Both the Hound and the direwolf were sprawled next to servants whose entire job seemed to be waving overlarge fans.

Theon grinned at the sight. He offered his hand. "Well met, Clegane."

The Hound grunted, taking the hand grudgingly. "Seen much action?"

"A bit," Theon answered, when the truth was far from it. He'd sailed up to Deepwood Motte a few times now, selling his berths in different ports, and bringing southern goods in return. But while merchant ships were frequently attacked, ironborn ships rarely were. They usually did the attacking. It had been smooth sailing, and for far too long for Theon's liking.

"Heard the Iron Fleet had moved off the other way two months ago," Sandor continued. "Didn't know there were still ironborn in these waters."

A pang cut through Theon. His father had recalled the ships home, it was true. And then Theon had seen the fleet sailing past Casterly, down the coast to the south. It had been a marvelous sight. Of Theon's ten ships, nine remained with him. But his father's command to return home had gone to every captain in the fleet – except himself.

"Someone's got to hold down the fort," Theon replied, trying to sound lighter than he felt.

The Hound eyed him. "You're glad that it's you, then? Glad to be stuck in the heat and the sun?"

Theon chuckled. "The sea's far more pleasant."

The Hound looked jealous.

"Theon!" a new voice was calling. "Aren't you a welcome sight."

Theon braced himself yet again, in an entirely different way from Arya's affection. He closed his eyes, every muscle clenched before turning to greet the newcomer.

"Prince Oberyn," Theon said, hoping his face looked civil, and not like he wished to draw his sword or disappear. "It's–"

But the man had pulled him into an embrace, patting him warmly on the back before letting him go. Oberyn stood before him, grinning happily as he looked Theon over. Tyrion had walked in next to him. Two of Oberyn's daughters had followed behind and Arya had already slipped into rapid conversation with one of them.

"The sun and waters have been kind to you," Oberyn continued, still grinning. "You look a proper Greyjoy now, without the pale skin of the North."

Theon wasn't sure if he'd been insulted or complimented. "You look well," he replied, to be polite.

Oberyn winked. "I always do." He made a gesture towards the servants. "Food! And drink!" Immediately, three servants disappeared back into the palace.

Theon cleared his throat. "I have timber and goods to sell–"

Oberyn waved him away. "Tyrion's already told me all about it. Of course we'll buy. The details can be saved for tomorrow."

The servants had returned, spreading out flagons of wine and bowls of fruit across the table.

Theon stared at it hungrily. "My men, down in the port. I have to–"

Oberyn clapped a hand on Theon's shoulder even as he looked at him, askance. "I have already sent wine down to them, of course. What kind of a host do you take me to be?" He let go, sinking into a chair at the table. "Now, sit. And before your friend Tyrion talks down my price for our Dornish red."

Theon sat, trying not to think about how many castles he'd been hosted in so far. Though Highgarden and Loras's smug face had been an excruciating experience, he had still dined on suckling pig with the Lord of Highgarden and his new Lady. Now, it was fruits and wine and roasted skewers of meats and watching Arya and Oberyn's daughters tossing pieces of theirs to the direwolf under the table.

And Theon knew – none of this was because he was a Greyjoy. If his family had raised him, each of those castles would have summoned their garrisons on sight.

Oberyn took a sip of his wine, holding the goblet aloft. "Tell me, Theon. What news of the Red Wolf?"

Theon's heart plummeted. He hadn't written her since restoring Glover's home to him, and even that had been perfunctory. It was still… painful to think of Sansa, and how she'd chosen against him, time and time again. He hadn't felt a particular need to sail for an age and a day to reach the North, only to continue that excruciating experience.

"I'm afraid time and tides have kept us from Winterfell," Tyrion said.

"Ah." Oberyn raised his goblet toward Theon. "My condolences."

When Oberyn took a sip, Theon's goblet stayed firmly on the table.

"She told me she took Bolton's head," Arya piped up from Theon's other side. "Told me she cut it off with Ice and everything. Did she tell you more?"

Theon was braced for an indignant cry of 'Arya!' but the reprimand never came. Instead, the table waited for him to answer her perfectly reasonable question.

Theon cleared his throat. "Bolton was a traitor who killed your brother. It's good she killed him."

"As was Petyr Baelish, apparently," Oberyn said. At Theon's shocked look, he added, "Do not expect that Dorne is so far that we did not receive a record of the execution. Roose Bolton confessed to Sansa's own unintentional involvement in the plot to stoke her fury. Perhaps her violence lost her face before the Northern lords, who expect their women to be tame and weak. But not here. Not where vengeance runs hot in Dornish blood."

Next to Theon, Arya gave an indignant cry. He put a hand on her arm. "I think Northern women are about as 'tame and weak' as this one."

With a grin, Oberyn tipped a nod to Arya. Sullenly, she resumed eating her food.

Theon shot a look at Tyrion, who was as surprised as he was. Apparently Dorne had informants embedded in the Stark army. An interesting fact to note, as Theon and Tyrion most certainly did not.

"Heard the Starks let an army of Wildlings through the Wall," the Hound added from the other end of the table. "Heard Jon Snow left with them."

Theon's head whipped so fast he thought it would fall off. "He can't have left the Night's Watch. How–"

"Rumor says he has." Oberyn looked delighted to know this before Theon. "The King in the North released him from his vow. Jon Snow has been named commander of the Northern army. A woman, a cripple, and a bastard, leading the might of the North. I like our friends, Theon." Oberyn tipped his goblet towards him. "Never a dull day."

"Where…" Theon cleared his throat, curiosity eating him alive too strongly to care about looking ignorant. "Where is that 'Northern army' now?"

Oberyn looked surprised. "Moat Cailin. They've been reinforcing and preparing for war against Stannis. Didn't you know?"

...

Jon swung off his horse in the Winterfell courtyard, flexing his gloved hands as they reluctantly let go of the reins.

Before he had a chance for breath, Rickon had impacted with him, knocking it from him all over again.

Jon ruffled the boy's hair. Then Sansa had thrown her arms around him, pulling in tight.

And over the top of the red head pressed against him, Margaery watched them all. She no longer looked out of place amid all the Northerners, even if her coat she stayed bundled up in was twice as thick.

Jon broke away, not sure if she expected an embrace as his goodsister, or–

Margaery stretched out a hand towards him. "Welcome home, my lord."

Jon took her gloved hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "It's good to be home, my lady."

Her lip twitched. "I believe I've told you before that it's 'Your Grace.'"

Jon let go of her hand. "And I'm not a lord."

Then Brynden the Blackfish strode away from the training ring to take Jon's hand firmly. Jon clasped his hand in reply, with a deep nod, pleased to no longer receive his hatred – though the change did worry Jon. It meant Sansa had been far too successful in convincing the Tullys that his bastard birth had been a lie.

Margaery watched it all with veiled interest. From the training ring, the Blackfish's strange sparring companions of Brienne and the Kingslayer watched, as well.

"How goes it to the south?" Bran asked from his wheeled chair.

Jon knelt to pull him into the final embrace. As he stood, Jon looked back over his shoulder toward the gate into Winterfell. "Went well, I'd say."

The party greeting him turned to follow his gaze. Wagon after wagon rolled into the courtyard. Piles of dragonglass glittered from their backs.

Sansa eyed the carts with pleasure. "And the scorpions?"

"Mounted along every wall of Moat Cailin, and more in the field, besides," Jon replied. "Repairs on the rear and walls of the fortress are underway, but slow."

Too many eyes watched them, Jon realized. Sansa realized it at the same time, as she turned to the group and said, "I've refreshments inside for you after your long journey. Shall we?"

Sansa led the way. Somehow, as Jon fell back to the rear of the party, Margaery ended up walking next to him.

"I've been positively bereft, you know," Margaery said to him in an aside, her tone casual.

Jon couldn't help but grin. "Oh? There's only been two feasts in the month I've been gone?"

Margaery looked at him, aghast. Then finally, she admitted, "Three." A laugh burst out of him. Lacing her arm through his, she used the motion to hide her whisper. "But I had to dance with Torrhen Karstark at every single one! Have you seen him dance a reel?"

Jon's lip trembled as he tried to hold back his smile. She smirked up at him, her arm through his, looking utterly at home.

He liked the feel of her hand on his arm. Liked it, and was worried he'd grow too used to it. Regardless, he couldn't stop his reply, "And I was supposed to have saved you from this? Have you seen me dance a reel?"

"Yes," Margaery replied primly. "And then I wouldn't have had to dance it with Torrhen Karstark."

Jon shook his head, amused all the same.

The moment they stepped within Winterfell's halls, they all stopped, shedding their thick fur coats for the castle's warmth.

"Jon!" Dacey Mormont was running down the hall towards him, her arms stretched wide as if to fling herself into his.

So smoothly he almost didn't notice, Margaery shifted in front of him, straightening out a wrinkle in his collar. By the time Dacey had slowed to a stop before him, Margaery stepped aside. Her smile towards Dacey was full of warmth.

"Good to see you, Dacey," Jon greeted.

"Glad you're back," Dacey replied. But she kept her distance. And Margaery remained by Jon's side as if she belonged there.

"Oh!" Margaery said as if she'd forgotten, turning to Jon. "Do let me take your gloves, my lord."

"My… gloves?" Jon asked.

"Yes," Margaery calmly replied. "Your gloves. They seemed in need of mending."

Jon's gloves seemed perfectly fine, to him. But her slender fingers were already wrapping around his wrist, her touch grazing his skin as she peeled the leather from his hand.

Behind her, Dacey had walked away.

Jon frowned down at Margaery as she bent to take the second one. He found it difficult to focus with her fingers trailing down the inside of his wrist. "You're going to mend my gloves?"

"Of course not." When Margaery looked up at him, his gloves in her hand, there was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "But I'm sure Sansa will when I ask her."

Jon shook his head, about to protest that his gloves were not in need of anything, but Margaery had already tucked them into her belt and slipped her arm back through his own. She seemed fond of leaving it there. Jon couldn't say he minded.

"Is there a feast tonight?" Jon asked as they walked the final way towards the planning room.

"Of course," Margaery replied, looking askance at him. "In your honor, to welcome you home."

Jon nodded. "If they play any reels, I'll save you from Torrhen Karstark."

Margaery beamed. "Then I'll slip the fiddler a dragon to make sure he plays one."

Jon laughed, enjoying his final free moments. Then, the war room was upon them. Jon had to step inside, letting go of Margaery's arm to come around the front of the table as she took a chair at the side of the room.

Jon spread the map of Moat Cailin across the table, ignoring the mulled wine Sansa had set before it. Bran, Brynden, Sansa and Margaery all watched him. In these meetings, the girls rarely spoke, as warfare was not their interest, but listened intently. Bran was similarly content to listen. Brynden, however, was quick to volunteer suggestions and his experience invaluable. He didn't know Sansa's secret, nor Bran's, but they had told Brynden their fears: dragons and the dead.

Jon jabbed his finger at the front tower of Moat Cailin. "Scorpions have been placed here, here, here, and all along the main wall. We've reinforced the gate with fresh wood, repaired the gaps in the stone, and carved new arrow slits to rain even heavier fire on any attacking force."

Brynden nodded approvingly.

Jon dragged his finger to the rear of the fort. "It'll be three months, at least, before we've a decent back wall. With all the swamp land surrounding it, hauling in decent stone from the quarry takes ages. Not to mention what poor condition the rear two towers are in."

Brynden spoke up. "That's never mattered for Moat Cailin. An army would have to attack from the south, coming north, and it's perfectly defended from that side."

Jon shook his head. "We're defending against–

"Dragons, I know." Brynden frowned as he said it, not quite believing the possibility.

"They've been here before," Bran said quietly. "Why's it so outrageous that they could come again?"

"Because you're talking about defending a stone castle," Brynden replied. "Those don't do well against dragon fire, no matter how many scorpions. If you've seen Harrenhal… well, I guess you haven't. It's burnt to a crisp. Stone – burnt to ash and rubble."

Sansa reached for Margaery's hand. "Highgarden–" she whispered.

"Bristling with scorpions," Margaery whispered in reply. "Loras confirmed."

With a nod, Sansa let go.

"There must be some way to defend a castle against dragons," Bran asked Brynden.

His uncle sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Not 'defend.' I'd not go that far. Make yourselves a difficult target, aye." He sighed again, studying the map.

With his finger, Jon drew an arc from the front of Moat Cailin to the back. "Assuming she marches north with her dragons and her army, she'll fly around to our exposed rear while we rain arrows on her troops. Meaning our defenses are only as good as Moat Cailin's rear can withstand a blast of dragonfire."

Brynden frowned, still studying the map. He gestured further down the road south of the fort. "What you want are stronger defenses here. Rig a section of the road to sink. Dig hidden murder holes. Lob wildfire. Anything that would keep troops pinned down within range of the fort's scorpions. It'll make her choose between using the dragon to support her infantry, or using it immediately on the castle. Ironically, you want her to choose the latter."

"How's that?" Jon asked.

Brynden looked up from the map, but his smile lacked levity. "If you want to kill a dragon, that is. You want every archer and every scorpion trained on one target. You want the dragon exposing itself to as much fire as possible while it burns you to the ground. Maybe some bastard will get in a lucky shot."

Jon sighed. "That's not very optimistic about our chances."

"It isn't," Brynden agreed. "If you're facing dragons, count every castle as lost right now. The only tactic that has ever worked was the Dornish."

Jon caught Sansa's eye as her face filled with smug satisfaction. The last time he'd been back, she'd harped on about how important their Dornish friendship was for a week straight.

"Hit and run," Brynden continued. "You use bands of troops, all too small for a dragon to bother with, that can spring up at a moment's notice and disappear just as quickly. The Dornish sustained heavy losses. But the Targaryens lost dragons."

Jon ran a hand down his face. "We'll need those castles. We'll need them against the–"

Brynden scoffed before he'd even finished. "The dead? Unlikely. The idea that–"

"I've seen the dead walking," Jon cut in, trying not to be harsh, no matter how many times he'd already explained it. "I've seen their army. It's heading here, to this castle you say we can't defend against dragonfire."

"Winterfell was built to survive in a battle against the dead," Bran said. "That's what it's for."

"No castles are built to withstand dragons," Brynden replied. "None save Casterly Rock."

"Then, how much is it worth to not bend the knee?" Margaery said.

Slowly, the room turned to look at her.

"If we need Winterfell intact to survive the dead, and we'll die if we don't have it, how much is kneeling worth?" Margaery continued. "Kneel to Daenerys now and rebel later. See if we can use her dragons against the dead. No matter her other atrocities, she may help with that."

"That's what Torrhen Stark once thought," Bran replied to Margaery. "The King Who Knelt."

"You've no way to know if she'll light the dead on fire – or you," Brynden replied. "That was always the Targaryen way."

Except that they did know, according to Sansa. And they knew Daenerys would help against the dead. And then they knew Daenerys would begin burning them all alive. Margaery was far from wrong, Jon thought. They had to survive the Long Night before they had the luxury of caring who sat on the throne far to the south.

Still. Apparently he'd had to kill the Dragon Queen personally, the last time. He didn't look forward to finding out the details of why.

Jon couldn't read how Bran had meant his statement, but if the time came, it would be Bran's job to do the kneeling, not his. "Perhaps it is the Targaryen way, perhaps it isn't. Regardless, we've got to defend ourselves until we know. But a dragon flying alone is a good way to get a dragon killed." He looked at Brynden, who gave a nod of agreement, and Jon continued, "If she has to march her whole army north to support her dragons…"

Bryden gave a dry chuckle. "Invading the North in winter. If she's foolish enough to try it, I look forward to seeing it."

Jon stared, transfixed, at the back of Moat Cailin on the map, where dragonfire was likely to raze. He didn't dare imagine all of its defenders burning, the screams, the stench of flesh…

Jon closed his eyes.

Brynden clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, lads. Let's go talk to the rest of the lords and generals and tell them what we've already decided."

"Yes, about our great war we're about to have with Stannis," Jon said. "Who regularly ships us dragonglass, expels members of his dwindling court, and punishes crime in King's Landing." Jon levered up to his feet wearily. "Let's go tell the Northern lords all about what a danger he is and what new defenses we've erected against him."

"The funny thing is that they believe us," Bran replied.

...

As the men headed toward the hall, Sansa wandered into the training yard. Margaery joined the men, but Sansa had had her fill of war meetings over her lifetime. She'd join when they needed her – and not a moment before. Instead, the sound of thwacking swords drew her nearer and she found herself leaning atop the railing of the training ring, feeling as if she were twelve yet again, watching her brothers spar.

The ring was filled with raw recruits, blunted blades in hand as they smacked into each other. The pair nearest her broke off, catching sight of her with startled expressions.

"Princess!" one boy called. "I didn't see you–"

"Continue, please," Sansa replied. "I came to see the state of my brother's army."

They tried to resume their training, but kept casting glances over their shoulders at her as their sword swings went wide.

She ignored them, watching the others. They were raw, of course, and young. But there was determination on their faces. It was good to see Ser Rodrik walking amongst them, shifting the positions of grips and bellowing commands. She remembered when it had been Jon, Theon, and Robb that he'd been bellowing to. Though it seemed hard to remember them ever being this young.

And suddenly, Sansa realized she wasn't the only one watching the recruits.

Brienne and Jaime stood off to the other side, talking quietly to each other. Jaime flung a hand toward the ring, the manacle on his wrist clanking, as Brienne scowled.

Sansa crept closer, hoping to remain unobserved.

"Ser Rodrik has trained men for longer than you've held a sword," Brienne was saying to Jaime in an undertone. "You've no reason to assume–"

"It's not an assumption if I can see it right before my eyes," Jaime snapped. "Not a single one of these boys will be able to parry properly with their feet pointing the opposite direction."

Only Brienne's immense patience kept her from rolling her eyes. "I'm sure they couldn't parry you," she said scathingly. "It's their first day holding a blade. I'm sure you couldn't parry Ser Rodrik, when you'd had as little training."

But Jaime was suddenly smug. "Ah, so you've finally conceded that I'd beat him now. Good to know."

"Back when you had two good hands, perhaps," Brienne said sharply. "But now–" Abruptly, she spotted Sansa behind them. Brienne broke into a jerk of a bow, her cheeks flaming. "Princess."

Jaime turned to look at Sansa, entirely unconcerned. "She's taking me for a walk," he said blithely. "I've been a good boy today, you see."

Sansa couldn't help her smile, even as Brienne's scowl deepened. Nothing had pleased Sansa more than giving Jaime's entire care and keeping into Brienne's hands. He'd shown marked improvement almost instantly.

"If they're holding a blade wrong, then show them how to do it properly," Sansa said. Jaime blinked at her. "I'll clear the ring for you, if you'd like."

"Yes, training Stark recruits," Jaime said, suddenly bitter. "Wouldn't my dead family be proud."

Sansa shrugged. "Don't show them, then. It's of no concern to me. Thought you'd already been sparring in front of them."

"I can't stop them from watching, can I?" Jaime said, still bitter.

"Can't stay in shape for your cunning escape unless you spar," Brienne replied with dry humor.

"Yes," Jaime said. "And I hope all your Stark recruits get splinters from their wooden swords and die of the rot." He shot a glance at Sansa. "No offense meant, princess. It's been lovely seeing the sun today, while you have your little bit of it left."

Sansa waved a hand dismissively towards him. "Oh, hate us all you like; I'm not about to punish you for it. The gods know I prayed enough curses at Lannisters while I was in Joffrey's tender care."

Jaime was scowling across the ring at the recruits.

"How's the hand?" Sansa asked him.

He grunted in reply.

"Better," Brienne answered. "I doubt he'll fight one-handed again, but his two-handed is better by the day."

"Planning on putting me on the front lines?" Jaime sneered. "If you shackle me tightly enough to the Beast, here, perhaps she can control my limbs. Then the Starks will have a proper knight, yet."

Brienne stared off at the training ring, pretending his words hadn't hurt.

"Planning on any number of things," Sansa replied calmly. "None of which involve maiming you."

"That's amusing, coming from the bitch whose bitch bit me," Jaime said.

"Jaime!" Brienne cried, pulling on his chain. He fell over towards her. "You will have a civil tongue when–"

"It was war," Sansa said, ignoring his slight and Brienne's outrage. "I didn't think you were going to apologize for killing Lord Karstark, either."

Getting to his feet again, Jaime looked down at his hand, flexing it and watching the scars ripple. Brienne watched him, mollified. He shrugged. "Can't say as you've been stingy with your healers, at least."

Brienne gave a nod, following his gaze. "Talisa has treated him well, princess. No matter that he was a Lannister."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Who?"

Brienne looked up from Jaime's hand, looking confused by Sansa's oddly intent gaze. "She arrived with the Mormonts and has been serving as a healer for Winterfell. Talisa Maegyr. Do you know her?"

...

Sansa sat silently in Winterfell's infirmary, watching the dark eyed nurse go about her business. She'd never met her before, had never spent a moment wondering after the woman's fate, other than that Theon had handled her and kept her far from Robb.

Talisa pushed back her sweaty hair with her forearm as she surveyed the room. Suddenly, she spotted Sansa and came closer. "Is there something I can help you with, my lady?"

Sansa smiled. Talisa would never know who she was to Sansa, who she could have been. How she would have gotten all of the Starks killed, simply for loving a man who loved her in return.

"Yes," Sansa replied, keeping her emotions at bay through force of will. "Tell me what the status of our infirmary is and what you need."

Talisa looked around the room, at the many cots, mostly empty, and rows of shelves, mostly full. "Your lady mother sees to our needs, princess," Talisa said. "And most of the injured that can recover are on their feet." She turned a stern eye to Sansa. "That is, so long as you and your brothers don't go making more."

"How is Maege?" Sansa asked, not trusting the woman's own report of her healthy status.

"I don't think we can stop her, if that's what you're asking," Talisa said, with a sudden fond smile. "She'll walk fully again, you can count on that. Though I'm not sure she'll fight."

Sansa nodded. She had thought the same. And from what little fight Maege put up when Sansa had sent her home to Bear Island to finish recovering (and to be with her youngest daughter), Sansa thought that even Maege had agreed.

...

Sansa penned a letter she long should have before. When the fight truly came to them, it would already be too late.

Prince Oberyn,

If the fancy ever strikes you to come North, know that our doors are always open to you. Bring whatever entourage you please and we would love to entertain them. I believe there's a great deal we could still learn from each other.

The Red Wolf

If they were going to try Dornish tactics against the dragons, it made sense to have some Dornish involved in the process. If Oberyn interpreted her vague invitation to include a fighting force, no matter the size, then all the merrier. She couldn't risk anything more descriptive to a raven crossing the entire continent.

This time, she showed the letter to Bran, receiving his nod of approval, before handing the note to Maester Luwin and watching the raven flap away.

It wasn't enough, Sansa knew. But with the Vale out of reach to Baelish and the Stormlands firmly in Stannis's grasp, only the West and Dorne remained to fight over.

She hadn't heard from Theon in months. At least Lord Hornwood had written her, reporting that Casterly Rock was still under Theon's control, that he'd sailed frequently up and down the coast, and that the Iron Fleet had been seen on the move.

Sansa worried her lip as she stared out at the falling night. Hornwood had not reported Theon back yet. She had no idea if he were on a trip at sea, wandering around the halls of Casterly while Hornwood's raven flapped it's way to her, or… if Theon were already back with his father.

She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts. Worrying would do her no good. Instead, she sank into sleep as best she could, knowing that tomorrow would have enough troubles of its own.

...

It seemed like moments later, someone was shaking her awake.

"Princess," Maester Luwin said, his thin, strong fingers gripping her shoulder. "Princess, an urgent message came in the night. You must come quickly."

Sansa blinked, sleep falling from her eyes the more of his words she processed. "Tell me," she commanded, sitting up and pulling a dressing robe around her shoulders.

Maester Luwin hesitated. "King Bran has the missive now. I'd suggest you join him."

As Sansa strode through the halls, she turned to Maester Luwin, about to tell him to send for Margaery when Sansa saw the other girl already striding through the corridors towards her, with deep circles under her eyes and hair in disarray.

"My servant woke me," Margaery said, falling into step with Sansa. "Said a rider came. What–"

"I don't know," Sansa replied. When she knocked on the door of Bran's room, it opened for her. Jon, Bran, Meera, and Jojen were already there, seated around a small table, somber looks on their faces. Maester Luwin stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"I dreamt of screaming," Jojen whispered. "Screams that wouldn't stop. What…"

"Tell them," Bran said tonelessly, not lifting his eyes from the papers in his hands.

Maester Luwin cleared his throat. "Ships have landed in Blackwater Bay. The Red Keep…"

Sansa clenched her robes in her fist. "What is it? It's been attacked?"

Maester Luwin looked away. "It's been destroyed."

Sansa could barely breathe. "Stannis?" Maester Luwin shook his head. "Davos?" Sansa tried again. Again, Luwin shook his head. Panic rose in Sansa. "Shireen?"

The maester closed his eyes wearily. "Princess… everyone is dead. Dragonfire, they say, razed through the castle. Caches of wildfire exploded. The flames spread for miles. Flea Bottom is gone."

Margaery was pale. "The Iron Throne? Who…?"

"A Targaryen girl rules from Dragonstone, with three dragons seen circling in the air above the island and foreign armies on Westeros's shores. Tywin Lannister has been named her Hand of the Queen, with Varys, Baelish, and Balon Greyjoy serving beside him."

Jon was solemn. "Anything else?"

"The new Queen has sent us a missive."

Bran looked up from the small slip of paper. He passed it to Sansa, who held it with shaking hands as Jon and Margaery read over her shoulders.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of Mereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains says to the North:

Kneel or burn.

When Sansa lowered the slip of paper, looking to Bran, she saw that he was still reading a different sheet. "Bran?" she asked. "What else…"

"She sent terms of surrender." Bran's voice lacked emotion, reminding Sansa sharply of the Bran she'd left behind. "Thank you, Maester Luwin. That will be all."

With a quick nod, the maester left the room.

"Term number one," Bran read, the moment the door had closed. "Jaime Lannister is to be returned to his family at Dragonstone."

"To be expected," Sansa said.

Bran read on. "Term number two: Brandon Stark of Winterfell is to accompany him to Dragons tone and swear fealty to Queen Daenerys, First of her Name."

Sansa swallowed.

Meera looked worried. "Unlikely they'll let you leave."

Bran gave no reaction. "Term number three: Sansa Stark is to accompany her brother and Jaime Lannister, and remain in Dragonstone as a ward of the crown."

Margaery spun toward her, a flash of fire in her eyes. "Sansa?"

"I'll…" But for all the stoic facade Sansa tried to project, she could feel it crumpling. She would not be fine. Baelish was there. He would want many things from her, this time. Things she would not want to give. And he would be her only ally.

Sansa closed her eyes.

A tremor sounded in Bran's voice. "Term number four: Jon Snow will return to the Wall, to whatever punishment the Lord Commander sees fit to give him."

Margaery sucked in a breath, turning just as fast to Jon. Other than a clench of his jaw, Jon gave no reaction.

"He'll kill you," Margaery breathed. "Thorne will call it desertion and kill you, he won't just–"

"Term number five," Bran read on. "For the honor of retaining their lands and lordly titles, the Starks will pay a yearly tribute of ten thousand gold dragons to Balon Greyjoy, their new liege lord and Warden of the North."

Silence fell around the room.

"Well, fuck that," Meera said.

"They don't expect us to accept these terms," Sansa said, her voice as empty as Bran's. "It's just an excuse. Something to say we've disobeyed before she wages war upon us."

"Then what's the point of telling us?" Meera replied.

"To get us scared," Jon said. "To show us the power she wields, and what she wants to do. We could offer counter-terms–"

"No."

Each of them turned, shocked to see that it was Margaery who had spoken.

"Even considering these terms shows weakness that she will not forget," Margaery continued, a fire burning higher in her eyes. "The North is not weak. We are not friendless. There are no terms of hers that we will accept. If we call, allies from north of the Wall to the cape of Dorne will answer."

"To answer what?" Jojen asked. "Riding to their own deaths? Putting their own castles in the line of dragonfire?"

Jon shook his head. "The dead are coming. We can't risk the lives of the North in a petty war before we've even faced the army of the dead–"

"We won't be there to fight the dead!" Margaery's fury rose. "You think Winterfell won't be her dragons' next target? You think Balon Greyjoy will lend us aid in that fight against the dead? You think he'll be gracious enough to spare us our fighting men, his new thralls, from his mines? You think we can afford to feed and clothe the Army of the North with the taxes he'll levy?"

"Targaryens fought the dead last time!" Jon roared back, getting to his feet. "They fought alongside the North! We'll need their dragonfire if anyone in Westeros is going to live to see the dawn!"

"Yes," Margaery said with barely restrained fire of her own. "Last time, the Targaryen army reinforced the North's defense. This time, I look forward to seeing how well Rickon will command the Northern army." She spat the name. "Seeing as how Bran will be imprisoned, Sansa raped, and you dead."

Jon looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

"So, what are you suggesting?" Jojen said. "We wait here, in the North, for her to attack? We can defend the North more easily than we can attack. That's always been true."

Reluctantly, Margaery gave a nod. "Yes, if we have to."

"More banners will come to our aid once Daenerys turns on their homes," Sansa added.

"No," Bran finally spoke up. Sansa's heart beat faster with worry. He couldn't be considering the terms, not–! "They won't come support us until we stand for something, and not just against Daenerys. No one in any other kingdom has any reason to help us if all we care about is our own freedom."

"Stand for something…" Sansa ventured. "Or for someone?"

Immediately, Jon spun on her. "No. Don't you dare. This isn't about–" But he cut off the moment he caught sight of the confusion on Margaery's face.

"Jon," Margaery said, her brows knitting together. "What don't you want Sansa–"

Jon stalked to the window, staring out into the wisps of falling snow against the black of the night. He rested his palm against the glass.

"Jon," Bran said.

"I'm not doing it," Jon replied. "I'm not–" His open palm curled into a fist. But he couldn't finish that sentence, either.

"Jon?" Margaery said again, her voice as soft as silk as she walked toward him. "What aren't you doing?"

Closing his eyes, Jon leaned forward, letting his head rest against the glass.

Sansa wondered if the glass hadn't been there, if Jon would have hurled himself through the window to escape them.

Margaery rested a hand on Jon's arm. He flinched – then opened his eyes, steadily meeting her own.

After only a few moments, he looked away from her, a sigh falling from his lips. "My father was Rhaegar Targaryen." Margaery released his arm as if it had burned her hand. "I've a claim to the Iron Throne."

"A claim stronger than Daenerys's," Sansa continued for him, as Margaery stood stunned. "Though we've little to back it up, save one dusty book in Oldtown."

"And my father," Jojen Reed replied. "He was there with Ned Stark the day he took you as a babe from the Tower of Joy. I've asked him about it. He'll testify. Everyone knows he was there with Ned as Lyanna died."

"I've seen the wedding," Bran added. "Before the heartwood tree in King's Landing. Rhaegar married Lyanna Stark, Jon's mother. He's legitimate."

"Seen…?" But Margaery snatched up a blank piece of parchment, wetting a quill. "Give me the name of the book," she demanded.

"What?" Sansa looked at her. "Why?"

"Because Oldtown and the Hightowers are Tyrell banner men and my mother's family," Margaery replied. "And I'll be sending a copy to every Great House in the seven kingdoms."

"No." Jon's tone was not harsh, but neither did it hold an ounce of give. "There's no point. I won't do it."

Margaery turned to take him in. "You won't do what?"

"I won't be your king," Jon said. "Not because of some damned book, and some bannerman, and some vision from a tree… No. There's got to be some other way–"

"To get you out of doing your duty?" Sugar dripped from Margaery's smile and it was a thousand times worse than her fury. Jon recoiled as if she'd slapped him. "Every lady ever born knows she will do her duty as commanded and spread her legs for the man to whom she's wed," Margaery continued. "But heaven forbid Jon Targaryen take up his family name to spare the entire country their deaths by ice and fire. Maybe you'll get your wish and die before you're made to suffer the indignity of actually wearing the crown we've made you claim in order to save the kingdom."

Jon opened his mouth, trying to defend himself, but he closed it again with a shake of his head. "I'm no king. I can't…"

"You can, Jon," Sansa started. "If we can't put someone other than Daenerys on the throne, the entirety of Westeros will burn. Then, whatever's left will be taken by the Night. If we want the rest of Westeros to fight for us, we have to fight for them. We don't have another choice."

Everyone waited for Jon to speak, his silence as loud as thunder.

"It's Aegon," Jon whispered, sounding pained.

"What?" Margaery said.

"Aegon Targaryen," Jon replied, lifting his head to face her. "Jon Targaryen just sounds so…"

"Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name," Bran said. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The shield that guards the realms of men."

"All hail," Sansa whispered.

Margaery watched Jon, saying nothing, and Sansa couldn't for a thousand dragons have guessed the thoughts flickering through her mind. All Sansa knew was that she saw the same fire that had lit Margaery's eyes all night.

Margaery turned to Bran. "Give the Dragon Queen this reply: Starks do not kneel and ice does not burn. Winter is coming for them all."