The view from Winterfell's walls was awash in grey. A misty, cold, storm had settled on them, making Sansa miss the foul, putrid, clear air of King's Landing. She flexed her fingers in their gloves, willing them to fight the cold.
The Dreadfort lay miles away in the direction she looked. The Bolton fortress did, as did all the hopes of the North. And all of Westeros, little though it knew it yet.
Sansa let out a long breath, watching it plume and dissipate amid the grey. But the cold had begun to settle into her bones and she decided on a walk around the ramparts to clear her mind, stretch her legs, and warm the rest of her.
Below, Margaery was entertaining the ladies of the castle with the baker's finest, their voting on delicacies in full swing. Sansa had greeted them all with her best niceties from Margaery's side. But Margaery could not have been more in control if she'd tried: plying the ladies with sweets and compliments in turn, denying her smiles to those that had offended her. Until they presented her with proper supplication, that was.
Sansa had snuck away after the first round of riotous laughter and from the sounds drifting through the windows as she passed, the gaiety had continued just as strongly in her absence.
Theon was out there. Jon was out there. Ramsay was out there.
And Sansa had no idea what was going on.
She was going to lose her mind.
A tall shape leaned against the wall further on and Sansa strode towards the person, unfamiliar in the misty shades of grey.
Brienne gripped the tower as if it were the only thing grounding her. Sansa stopped beside her, a soft smile on Sansa's face as Brienne turned.
"Princess," Brienne said with abrupt awkwardness, her face reddening. "I had not thought–"
"'Sansa,' please," Sansa replied. "I owe you a great debt for how well you cared for your charge. Lord Tyrion would not have sworn to King Jon had Jaime faired otherwise, nor rehabilitated so well."
Brienne's blush only darkened. She dipped her head, then looked back to the horizon. Sansa was content to do the same, staring out at the murky grey, their two breaths pluming into the unknown.
"Have you lacked for anything?" Sansa asked.
"No, prin– Sansa," Brienne replied.
Sansa's smile was wide, glad that Brienne was willing to share in the informality. Silence stretched again and Sansa didn't feel like breaking it, knowing the quiet Brienne would not feel any awkwardness in it.
"I do not like being left behind," Brienne finally said.
"No, nor I," Sansa agreed. At catching Brienne's frown, Sansa added, "Though I'm intimately familiar with feeling useless. I'm sure for you it's a new sensation."
Brienne grimaced. "Not as new as it should be."
Renly, Sansa remembered abruptly.
"Would you want to be a Kingsguard again?" Sansa softly asked, with no idea if it was her place. Brienne spun to look at her, shocked, but Sansa continued, "I know Jon only has the one, but I didn't know if you'd…" She cleared her throat. "If you want the position, I will petition him on your behalf. But I did not want to assume your desires."
Brienne let her gaze drift to her hands, still gripping the stones of the parapet. "My father hated that I wanted it. That I forswore all inheritance to take the role. But what use is an inheritance to me if I cannot find a suitable…" She scowled, breaking off. "If I am to remain a maid, better a Kingsguard than a spurned child."
"You would prefer not to remain a maid?" Sansa asked.
Hurt flashed in Brienne's eyes as she looked up at Sansa. "I do not need your pity, my lady. My hand is my own."
"My apologies," Sansa replied. "I did not mean to offend. I do not think your choices are so limited. Men of the South are perhaps more… rigid in their views of femininity than men of the North. Or men in the North." She cast a sly, searching look Brienne's way, but Brienne seemed to have missed her meaning entirely.
Instead, Brienne's hurt look had only deepened. "I have met Tormund. You will forgive me for finding him unsuitable."
A laugh burst from Sansa. "I did not mean Tormund," she said between more giggles.
Finally realizing she was not being made the butt of any joke, some of the tension eased from Brienne's tall frame. "Has…" She cleared her throat, the casual, girlish question seeming foreign to her lips. "Has someone else expressed interest?"
The only times Sansa had seen Jaime away from Brienne's side had been when his presence at Jon's demanded it. "Not to me," Sansa replied. "But I do not think it unlikely."
Torrhen Karstark would also be a strong match, or perhaps even Gideon Bolton. No man who had fought beside either Maege or Dacey Mormont would ever again doubt a woman's place in battle. But Sansa was not likely to suggest either northman with Jaime still so visibly attached.
Though she doubted either Jaime or Brienne had noticed. The last time, it had taken facing the world's end for either of them to act. Still, Sansa missed Jaime's gift of the "ser" before Brienne's name whenever addressing her.
"Princess Sansa!" a voice called out.
Sansa turned, surprised to see Meera walking along the ramparts towards them.
Meera and Brienne exchanged nods as she approached. "A moment alone, princess?" Meera asked Sansa. Brienne passed a nod to Sansa and walked away without being asked.
Sansa turned to Meera. "What is–"
Meera pressed a raven's note, its seal broken, into Sansa's hands. "From Jon."
Desperately, Sansa unrolled it–
Hold the reinforcements, read in Jon's hand. Coming home.
And that was it.
Sansa looked up at Meera, certain that she was missing something.
"Bran thought it might be a code to you that he hadn't caught," Meera said.
Rereading its few words again, Sansa slowly shook her head. "None that I know."
Meera sighed. "Then Bran said it meant that whatever happened couldn't be trusted to a raven. Why couldn't Jon have at least said whether they'd taken the castle, or how many men they'd lost?"
"I suspect Bran is right," Sansa replied, handing the letter back. "We'll see upon their return, I imagine."
Meera tucked the note away. "And then you'll be off to the south. You, Jon, and the lot of them."
Sansa nodded, hating the feeling of relief. Anyone who had gone to the Dreadfort could be dead or wounded and she had no way to know, but the boil had been lanced – what was, was. "Yes, immediately after the wedding." She studied Meera, suspecting the other girl was as close to her goodsister as Bran might ever pick. "Look after Bran, will you?"
Meera gave a serious nod. "The North depends on him."
" I depend on him," Sansa clarified. "All the Starks do. Don't let him…" She searched for the words. " Lose himself. We depend upon Bran remaining Bran, not on his abilities."
Meera raised an eyebrow. "It's a hard job, telling a king what he can and can't do."
"It's your job," Sansa replied. "No one ever said it wasn't a hard one."
Meera cracked a smile, recognizing Sansa's meaning: she was Bran's closest confidant, if not his open queen. "I try."
"And," Sansa added, remembering who else was remaining behind. "Stick close to my mother. She'll be the fiercest ally you could ever ask for and will be honored to take you under her wing. It might take Bran asking her, however."
A hint of a blush tinged Meera's smile as she pretended not to understand why Bran would ask on her behalf. "Thank you," she softly said.
Sansa clasped Meera's hand in both of hers, but the rest of her words – the wishes for Meera to look after the safety of her home, the fear of not seeing it again in ages, perhaps not again in this lifetime – were too near to her heart to say aloud.
Meera squeezed Sansa's hand in reply. Sansa wondered if she'd understood them, anyway.
...
Days later, the cry of the scouts sighting riders had half the castle falling out into the courtyard, hair hurriedly braided, coats pulled on lopsidedly.
Sansa knew they had hours before the party made it through Winterfell's gates. Knew – and there she stood, helpless, with the rest of them.
Her hands were clasped in front of her, her eyes focused straight ahead as she thought her silent prayers. Margaery had made fast friends with Wynafryd Manderly and Alys Karstark and the three were laughing gaily off at the other side of the courtyard. Sansa knew Margaery well enough to know that their anxieties were shared; Margaery knew Sansa well enough to know the pretense at gaiety was beyond her.
Sansa's fruitless meditations were interrupted when a man stepped up beside her more closely than most dared. She looked up, surprised to meet Oberyn's dark eyes studying her.
"The men return from the fortress of the bannerman whose head you took," he stated without preamble. Sansa managed a nod. Oberyn tilted his head, his study continuing. "The man you named traitor before us back in Casterly Rock."
Immediately, she looked around, worried someone might overhear. But no one stood between the courtyard pillars sheltering them and those further away were paying no mind.
"Yes," Sansa simply said.
Oberyn lifted a finger, tracing it along her neck. Sansa shivered. Its path followed the scar Bolton's assassin had left on her. The line was thin but long; Oberyn's touch traveled the full length. "He came too close," Oberyn murmured. He let his finger drop.
A smile quirked the corner of Sansa's lips. "What would you have had me do?"
Oberyn smiled in reply, full of all his warmth. "I believe I told you at the time. You chose against my suggestion."
That she marry him, Sansa remembered vividly. Warm laughter bubbled up from her. "Yes, then none would have dared touch me. But if I had, Roose Bolton would likely still be here with us. And then where would we be?"
"Already marching south," Oberyn replied. At Sansa's aghast look, he tossed her a saucy wink.
Winterfell's gates crept open. Any desire to reply to Oberyn was lost as Sansa stood transfixed. Men streamed through the gate and into the courtyard, all soldiers that she didn't recognize.
Shouldn't the king have been at the head of the column? Sansa couldn't help but worry.
Then came Umber, and Karstark, and–
Her breath released.
Jon rode through on the back of his black stallion, flakes of snow in his curls and on his cloak. Margaery left Alys and Wynafryd behind to sweep her most perfect curtsey, the long skirts of her dress leaving swirling eddies of snow.
"Welcome home, my lord king." Her eyes cast upwards from her curtsey, every inch of her the devoted queen in supplication.
Jon was stiff in his dismount from the hours in the saddle, but before Margaery could even rise he had crossed the courtyard to her, her hand in his as he pressed a kiss to the back of it. Her smile threatened to eclipse the weak winter sun.
Sansa peered past the men entering. Surely, that couldn't have been all of them. Where was Steelshanks and Gideon Bolton? If they weren't here, surely it didn't mean anything that Theon hadn't arrived yet, hadn't–
But as soon as she thought the worry, Theon rode through, his dappled grey practically prancing beneath him. He was unhurt, sitting easily on the horse.
Sansa hid her face in her hand, taking steadying breaths. Jon and Theon were fine. Any other problems were fixable.
Beside her, Oberyn chuckled.
Sansa lowered her hand. The look he gave her, full of fondness and lacking any jealousy, told her that he'd read her own worries for Theon like a book. She sighed; no use hiding it. "Would you have gone with them if I'd asked?"
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "You'll never know if you never ask."
She chuckled and gave him a wry shake of the head.
Theon swung from his horse, heading for Jon, and Sansa felt herself drawn to them like a lodestone. Oberyn followed behind her.
But Jon surveyed the courtyard. He announced to all gathered, "The Dreadfort is ours!"
Huzzahs answered him throughout the castle.
Sansa waited for the rest of Jon's speech, but he turned away to Margaery, gripping her hand tightly as he pressed another kiss to the back of it.
"What of Lord Gideon and Steelshanks?" Sansa asked. "Are they back at the Dreadfort?"
Jon turned to her as if surprised she existed. "They stayed behind to rally Bolton deserters to the cause. They'll join us on the journey south."
Reflexively, Sansa turned to Theon to gauge his reaction, but his face was… empty. It was as if expressing any emotion at all would be far beyond him.
"Theon?" Sansa pressed. "Everything went… well?"
His eyes barely flicked to her. He dipped his chin. "Well." With that, Theon strode past them and into the castle.
Sansa turned to Jon. "Did he kill Ramsay? Was it a terribly bloody affair? How many men did we–"
But Jon's laughter cut her off. "Ramsay wasn't there, Sansa. We didn't lose anyone; the castle was abandoned."
Sansa swallowed. Not good. There was something Jon wasn't telling; something he didn't know Ramsay well enough to have seen. It wasn't as if she could ask him in front of the gathered men of Winterfell. She'd have to wait for a private audience and who knew how long that could take after he'd just arrived home.
She clutched at his sleeve. Jon turned, surprised, immediately shifting his focus to his sister. "Double your personal guard," she whispered. "It's not like Ramsay to roll over without a fight. There's something he's planning, something…"
Jon dipped his head. "Theon said as much and we already have. Tell me if you discover anything beyond that."
With murmured reassurances, Sansa took her leave. Her gaze followed after Theon, desperate to know what he'd seen.
After a hushed conference between Margaery and Jon, he broke away with a broad grin. "The preparations are ready! We wed upon the morrow!"
More cheers followed the pronouncement. Yet Sansa slipped out of the courtyard, her feet following the path to Theon's room.
There was no one in the corridor. She rapped lightly on the door. "Theon?"
There was no answer.
"Theon, are you there?" Sansa asked again.
A long silence stretched. Finally, shuffling sounds came from behind the door. It opened. Theon leaned against the opening, his hand never releasing the door. "What do you want?"
Sansa swallowed. He was not himself, but today and all the other days, he'd made it clear she was no longer entitled to his confidences. "What happened?" she softly asked.
A scowl tore through the emptiness on his face. "It was abandoned. Everyone was ecstatic to not have to besiege it."
Sansa tilted her head. "Happy to overlook something?"
He snorted without humor. "The bodies hanging from the walls, maybe. Or the impaled wolf on the spikes. Or the message written in blood on the walls that said, 'Welcome Home, Cousin!'" Theon sneered as he listed them.
Sansa recoiled, feeling her heart in her throat. "He's still out there. And he's planning something, and–"
"Of course he's still out there," Theon spat at her. "Everyone knows it and no one gives a shit about one lost Bolton bastard. You think Jon or any of them are going to spare men to hunt him down? When we've now been freed to resume the march down to King's Landing?"
"Bran will," Sansa immediately realized. He'd Seen enough of the worst parts of her life that she wouldn't even have to do any convincing. "The moment we're gone, he'll scour the hillside until Ramsay's found."
"He won't find him," Theon replied.
He still sounded bitter and Sansa didn't know what to do. He was taking this too hard and too personally. "It won't be the same as last time, Theon. Not with allies and an army around us–"
Theon's face immediately closed off, a mask of stony rage descending. "Leave me."
When she took a step backwards, he slammed the door shut in her face.
Sansa had no idea what she'd done wrong.
...
The ceremony started in the sept, the same as Catelyn and Ned's own wedding, and planned to continue on to swear the vows again before the heartwood tree in the godswood. Sansa couldn't have been more pleased to be seated in the front row of the sept, Bran on one side of her, Arya on the other, Rickon beyond her, and their mother after him. Their family was as whole as they'd been in years. Even the gods themselves had seen fit to bestow a miracle upon them, as Arya had willingly put on a dress. Jon looked so happy where he waited at the top of the sept and Margaery was nothing less than radiant as she walked down the aisle on the arm of one of her male cousins. Where she walked, gasps and tears were left in her wake. Sansa couldn't help but smile, happy for her friend and her family.
It was only once Margaery had completed her journey to the front of the sept, mounting the steps, that Sansa let out a gasp of her own.
Margaery's cloak was not the Tyrell green that she had worn in both of Sansa's lifetimes to every one of her previous weddings.
No, Margaery's grey velvet cloak bore a Stark wolf embroidered on the back. Tears welled up in Sansa's eyes as she recognized the garment Robb had once fastened around Margaery's shoulders.
In the strongest terms she could, and without saying a word, Margaery had made her family claim clear for all the world to see.
"Is that…?" Arya whispered from next to her sister. For her answer, Sansa could only manage to clasp Arya's hand. Her whole face was contorting in her effort to keep from breaking into loud, ugly sobbing.
Thankfully, the vows were long and by the time Margaery's cousin stepped forward to remove the family cloak from Margaery Stark, Sansa had regained some emotional control. The black and red Targaryen cloak that Jon replaced it with had been as finely made as anything in the North and Sansa herself had overseen the work. It was a beautiful, intricate thing, the dragon's tail writhing and swirling across the back. Sansa focused on that to keep from missing the loss of the grey cloak which was clearly so dear to the both of them.
"I am his. And he is mine."
"I am hers. And she is mine."
The crowd was raucously happy as Jon and Margaery kissed, Sansa and her siblings very much included.
Though Sansa couldn't help realizing that Margaery Targaryen had just become the third member of the smallest Great House in all of Westeros.
...
Theon had never been more happy to see the bottom of his mug of ale. It gave him an excuse to flag a Stark servant down, pointing aggressively into his cup where he wanted the liquid poured. It wouldn't be long before he saw the bottom again and then he'd get to start all over.
Drowned God, he hated weddings.
On reflection, perhaps he just hated Margaery's weddings. If she had the nerve to get her new husband killed, Theon would kill her himself before she could throw a third one.
The fiddler in the great hall struck up one of the same songs that had been played down at Casterly Rock and it took every remaining shred of Theon's self-restraint not to throw his mug at them. He couldn't make himself forget that day, no matter how hard he tried. The scent of the roast boar, the taste of the sticky sweet cake, the feel of her hand in his own, her perfume wafting past him, the feel of her body when he tugged her close–
The wolf impaled on the Dreadfort's spikes, blood and entrails covering its body.
Its severed head lying at his feet, blood covering its fur.
Theon leaned his head into his hands, hands fisted in his hair. If he was going to make it through the night, he needed more alcohol and fast.
But when he reached for his mug, a new face was sitting across the table from him. Theon scowled at Podrick, even as the boy forced a smile at him.
"What do you want?" Theon muttered, pouring the ale down his throat.
Podrick hesitated. "Lord Tyrion sent me to check up on you. He was worried… well… You're not usually like this, even when drinking, and…"
Theon snorted. He searched around the room, trying to ignore the way his vision bled at the edges when he moved his head too fast.
The Starks had found a red boy's coat for their new vassal Lannister to wear, if not so fine a one as what he was used to. It hadn't been hard for Theon to find him amid the crowd of the wedding feast; the loudest laughter in the room came from the table where Tyrion sat as he tried to balance a serving girl on each knee.
Theon pointed at his target. "You mean that Tyrion?"
More hoots bellowed across the room as one of the girls fell off Tyrion's knee and threatened to topple the whole pile with her.
Theon continued his level glare at Podrick. " That's who was worried about me?"
Podrick sighed. "In his own way, yes. He spotted you over here and said, 'The boy's doing a fine impression of me. Let's see if I can't race him.'"
A snort burst from Theon. That sounded more like Tyrion. Theon took a long drink of his ale. " You were concerned, then?" Which sounded much more like Podrick.
"Surely there's got to be something to distract you," Podrick said. "Plenty of lemon cakes, lords to meet, or girls to dance with–"
Theon cut him off with a snarl. "You think some common little chit is going to distract me? She's sitting right bloody there!" He gestured toward the high table as he said it, mug in hand, and saw as some sitting at the tables around him turned to see what he'd been shouting about. Theon hunched back over himself at the table, not eager for anyone else to witness his misery.
His glance at the high table had been a mistake. Arya looked his way, then turned to her sister, tugging on the sleeve of her gown. Her red hair moved as she turned–
Theon shifted on the bench, his back firmly to her and the high table. He stared at Podrick. This was his fault. "It's your fault, you know."
Podrick raised his eyebrows. He looked curious and amused by the accusation. "How's that?"
"Dunno." Theon took another sip of his drink.
Podrick's look shifted to one of disapproving pity and Theon felt his anger bubbling up uncontrollably inside him. "Don't you dare," he spat. "If she won't have me, then fine. Our betrothal wasn't sworn before the gods or anything so stupid. But she could at least have the decency to let me go my own way. I'm not some… some dog to trot when she calls, up half of Westeros then down the other. ' Come home, Theon,'" he mocked. "Come home to what? And why? You see any ships round here for me to fight?" Theon gestured at the room, grateful that the music had swelled and buried his angry rant. "Then why the hell'd she call me home?"
Podrick blinked, trying to process his words. In all their time together, Theon had never before more than referenced Sansa, let alone shared anything approaching a confidence about her. "Maybe she misses you," Podrick replied.
Theon rolled his eyes. "That must be why she sent me off as soon as I got here. Off to face one of the world's true monsters."
A severed wolf's head, lying before them on the flagstones of the Dreadfort's entryway. Theon had nudged it with the toe of his boot to check if there had been some trick to it. But it had been just an ordinary wolf's head, every inch of it matted with dried blood.
"She depends on you," Podrick replied. "Isn't that a good thing?"
"Oh, and I can depend on her, then?" Theon said scathingly back. "Depend that she won't go off and get herself betrothed to Loras fucking Tyrell?"
He'd said the name loudly enough that Podrick was shushing him. Perhaps he shouldn't swear so loudly about the bride's brother. He was now goodbrother to their king. Gods.
Theon took another swig of ale. "If you see her dancing with the Viper, tell me so that I can leave before I have to kill myself."
"Ser Jaime said you were useful at the Dreadfort," Podrick bravely tried to change the subject.
Theon snorted. "Was I? Telling them Ramsay'd hung the flayed bodies to scare them? Really worth weeks of sailing 'round the horn and then weeks more overland for that sage bit of advice."
"Telling them that Ramsay would only have left the castle if he knew he had a way back in," Podrick steadily insisted. "Ser Jaime said that Lord Gideon didn't bother trying to hold the castle once you said that. He just took Steelshanks and headed off to the nearby town to begin recruiting Bolton men for King Jon's army. I'd call that dead useful."
Dead.
The severed wolf's head, soaked in blood. It was a taunt, plain as day, but all that the rest of the men had seen was a threat against the Starks and their house sigil. Theon had stared at it, transfixed, feeling as if Ramsay were speaking directly to him.
Severed heads already dripped quite a lot of blood, so what was the point in making sure the wolf's head was covered in that blood?
To dye it red.
Here's your Red Wolf, Ramsay had been saying to them. Sansa had cut off his father's head; Ramsay was vowing to return the gesture.
Theon dropped his head into his hands, wishing the revelers around them wouldn't laugh so shrilly. What business was it of his if Sansa got herself brutally murdered?
He let out a helpless groan.
Even if he stayed, what the hell did he think he could do to stop it? And didn't it make him all kinds of an idiot to even be considering it?
Podrick reached across the table, patting Theon on the arm. The boy had no idea what he was consoling Theon about. Theon didn't feel like explaining; he sat in silence, drinking the rest of his ale, and tried to receive the gesture, all the same.
...
Sansa couldn't keep from beaming as she looked around the room, drinking in the sight of family and friends as they laughed and feasted and celebrated their king and his new queen.
The ceremony at the godswood had been short. Instead of Margaery's cousin again walking her to Jon at the weirwood tree, as was customary, they walked to it together. Her hand was on his arm as he smiled at her. Ghost strode at his side and Grey Wind at hers. Both wolves waited solemnly next to their masters as they repeated their vows before the carved face in the ancient tree.
In the great hall, Sansa had to fight back tears thinking about it - happy ones - and desperately looked at their guests to distract herself.
Arya was off chatting with Dacey Mormont and warmth spread through Sansa at the sight. There were so many female warriors here for Arya to train with, and all happy to have her join their ranks.
"So?" Bran leaned over to Sansa, sitting by her side. "What do you think? Would Dacey be a good fit? We've got to have someone continue her training once Oberyn leaves."
A frown creased Sansa's brow when she turned to Bran. "Is he?" Bran nodded and Sansa sighed. "A pity. I'd hoped to keep him here for at least a moon longer."
Bran shrugged, stabbing at his plate. "Ellaria's pregnant. He's eager to be home."
Sansa's mouth twisted as she took a bite of her own food. She hadn't even noticed Oberyn's paramour had been missing, let alone asked after her . What an amazing friend to him Sansa had been.
"A new life growing," she couldn't help musing. "One that didn't exist before."
Bran grinned at her. "I'm pretty sure Ellaria isn't the only one. You've wrought your fair share of changes, Sansa. One's sitting right there," he replied, pointing at Oberyn, dancing with one of Margaery's Redwyne handmaidens.
"And another's talking to Arya," she said back, looking at Dacey. Killed at the Red Wedding, last time. It felt shockingly good to be able to speak so freely about both of her lives. "We should ask Arya who she wants to train her."
Bran rolled his eyes. "Of course we'll ask Arya. I was just asking if you– nevermind."
"Now, there's something interesting," Sansa murmured, watching as Gendry came up to Arya, dropped low into a wobbly bow, and offered her his hand. Arya's hands went to her hips in irritation, something scolding on her tongue, but when Gendry looked up at her from his bow with hurt and confusion in his eyes, Arya snatched his upraised hand and pulled him behind her as she marched to the midst of the dancers.
Sansa hid a grin in another sip from her goblet.
Bran frowned after them. "Who's he?" He turned to Sansa; his frown deepened at her secretive grin. "You know him?"
Sansa shrugged. "A bit. He's been… well, my fallback plan, if things with Stannis went poorly."
Bran was ill-amused at her drawing out the secret and Sansa laughed and took pity on him. "He's Robert Baratheon's bastard. Gendry Waters. An excellent blacksmith and a good friend of Arya's."
Bran's eyes went wide. He watched as Arya led Gendry through the dance, shifting the positioning of his hands as they went. "Give me the rest of this plan, then," Bran said. "Since it seems to be going well so far."
Sansa took another sip of ale. "Mmm. Nothing much to it, really. Jon legitimizes Gendry, we betroth Arya to the new Lord Baratheon – adding even more legitimacy to Gendry's claim and strengthening Jon's hold in the region – and then we give Stark support to their journey through the Stormlands as they wrangle the minor nobles into supporting Gendry and Jon against the Dragon Queen. She killed their beloved King Stannis and they should be eager for revenge, especially from the even-more-beloved Robert's heir." An old thought resurfaced and Sansa added, "Brienne should train Arya, then. Seeing as Tarth is one of those minor Stormlands holdings."
Bran nodded agreement. "The best plans are often the simplest ones; they can stand up to the most revision." He looked over at his older sister. "Did you plan to tell Arya? Or were you waiting for the legitimation?"
Sansa sighed. "Let me tell her. If she's against it, not even the best plan will work. If she's for it… then I pity the Stormlands lords. She'll be phenomenal for them."
Bran cackled.
Further down their family table, Sansa spotted Samwell Tarly talking to Jon, grinning at him and offering congratulations. But when Sam turned to his new queen, a quiet amusement stole across his face.
"I hear we're kin now, of a sort," Sam said to Margaery.
She smiled at him with a placid lack of understanding. "Jon's told me all about how you fought together at the wall, and saw White Walkers, and–"
But Sam was shaking his head. "No, my lady. My queen. Your grace. I mean…" He cleared his throat. "Your brother Loras is married to my sister."
Margaery stared at him, blinked, and broke into a laugh. "I suppose we are, then, Samwell Tarly." A wry smile twisted her lips. "Welcome to the family, goodbrother."
Jon snorted into his goblet. "I pity his sister."
Margaery shoved his shoulder. "Loras will be excellent to her! He's never anything short of gallant, and will buy her anything she wants, and–"
Jon was still laughing and when she went to shove him again, he caught her hand. With a smile, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. "He'll provide her with lots of heirs, I'm sure."
Margaery blushed and looked away. With a grimace, Jon realized his own mistake: Robb had also not provided Margaery with any heirs. Sansa could see as he shifted his hand under the table, covering Margaery's. She laced her fingers through his own.
Sam grimaced. "Let's not talk about my sister and her heirs, yes? Bit premature."
And then Margaery was giggling along with Jon. She gestured Sam into a chair on her side of the head table, eager to get to know Jon's best friend and her new family.
"Have you spoken to Theon?"
Bran's soft question pulled Sansa from her observations of the happy couple with all the speed of a bucket of ice water thrown over her.
Bran repeated it as if she hadn't heard. "Have you talked to him?"
Sansa sighed. She had only dared glance toward Theon's corner of the room a handful of times throughout the night. Every time, the sight of his back so purposefully turned towards her speared her like a lance.
"What do you think?" Sansa barely kept from snapping back.
Bran sighed. He swirled his spoon in his stew, focusing on it instead of his sister as he pulled his words together. "You've said he knows all your secrets. Yet he hasn't spilled a single one." Bran looked up at her. "Theon sailed all this way at your request, Sansa. It's not his burden to clear the air between the two of you."
Her mouth twisted unpleasantly at the truth in his words. "Would you believe me if I said I was a coward?"
Bran snorted. "Yes. Not that it excuses you."
Sansa flicked a bit of her mashed potatoes at him. "When did you become so wise?"
Bran shrieked, brushing the potatoes from his sleeve. He mock-glared at her. "You have assaulted your king, I'll have you know."
"Off to the stockades with me, then." Sansa leaned back contentedly in her chair.
Bran shook his head. He leaned closer. "I've a worse punishment for you: go talk to him."
With a gasp, Sansa recoiled. "King Bran the Cruel, they'll call you."
Bran made a shooing gesture towards her and in his most dismissive tone, added, "You will not be allowed back into your king's presence until you do."
With a groan, she lurched to her feet. Sansa hadn't had as much to drink as most of the revelers, but definitely more than she was used to. Still, she was mostly steady on her feet as she made her way through the tables of the great hall, throwing small smiles to those who greeted her.
And then Theon sat before her, his back still to her. Suddenly, Sansa couldn't make herself do it. Not when he clearly so little wanted to speak to her, not with her head so fuzzy, not with her heart so light for her family.
She looked around the room, knowing Bran had been serious in his threat.
Arya was dancing in a larger group of younger nobles whom Sansa barely knew. Oberyn was holding court with a group of young ladies and he winked when he caught her looking. But Sansa knew that despite Theon's pretense at ignoring her, he'd know if she sought out Oberyn's company before his own. It was not a wound she wished to keep digging deeper.
At a nearby table, Brienne looked faintly ill. Jaime was engaged in a heated conversation with her at her side and Tormund grinned across the table at the pair. Sansa wasn't about to stir up that hornet's nest any further with her own presence.
Near Brienne, Meera and Jojen sat off by themselves at the side of the room.
Sansa targeted them instantly and made her way to the back table.
"Princess," Jaime called out to her as she passed him. Sansa stopped. Jaime jerked his head across the table to Tormund. "This savage claims he's yours. You should teach him some manners before someone else does."
Sansa raised an eyebrow at Tormund, who grinned back at her, unabashed.
"Tormund?" Sansa asked.
He laughed. "If the fancy man wants the big woman all to himself, he should have stolen her already. I'm not harming anyone, am I?"
Brienne reddened, but it was nothing to Sansa's delight at watching Jaime squirm.
"Perhaps not," Sansa replied, coming around the table to sit next to the Wildling. "But there are certain things we don't say out loud, south of the Wall."
Tormund eyed her seriously. "It's not breaking a law, is it?"
Sansa couldn't help her smile. "It is not. But it may make Brienne wish to sit elsewhere. You should use her name if you're going to refer to her."
"That's Lady Brienne, to him," Jaime snapped.
"'Brienne' is fine," Brienne said weakly. "I'm not a lady."
"Lady," Tormund tried the word out in his mouth. He asked Brienne, "Means you were born in a castle like this?"
"Not so grand as this one, no," Brienne quickly answered. "But I was raised in a castle."
"The Tarths were kings of their island and have ruled it ever since," Jaime added almost indignantly.
Brienne fought a small smile.
Tormund turned to Sansa. "This is why you say you're important? Because you were born in a bigger castle than hers?"
It was Sansa's turn to fight off embarrassment. "Well, er, not quite." Brienne looked as unruffled as ever but Jaime suddenly seemed to be enjoying himself. "I was trying to explain what it meant to be a princess," Sansa explained to them.
"Then, yes," Jaime cut in. "It's because her castle is bigger."
Tormund nodded as if he'd known it all along.
"Don't ask Ser Jaime how big his castle is," Sansa said with a grin. "Then you'll really be in for a surprise."
But Tormund waved his hand dismissively. "Umber said Kingsguards swear off girls like Crows. Means he can't be important at all. Not compared to a lady," Tormund said suggestively to Brienne.
Jaime looked so immediately put out that Sansa had to hide her laughter behind her hand. Brienne wore a look of severest pain.
"Sansa," Brienne redirected. Jaime raised an eyebrow at the informal address. "Why does Tormund think he belongs to you?"
"Because she captured me," Tormund replied before Sansa could. He swept his hand across the room. "Saw all of the fighting men of the Free Folk, fiercely battling the Crows and killing them one by one. And out of all of them, she spotted me. Kissed by fire, just like her. A sword in one hand, and my other around a Crow's throat. She liked the way I fought and took me for her own." He winked over at Sansa. "Isn't that right?"
Sansa's blush deepened; Jaime seemed even more pleased at her discomfort. "I… you were Jon's friend, so when we arrived, I…"
But Tormund was shaking his head. "You want us to believe that in the middle of preparing for war, Jon sent a letter to his sister to tell her how much he liked one of the ones coming to kill him? No. You liked the look of me." He grinned proudly.
"Is that…" Brienne hesitated. "What actually happened?"
Sansa sighed. "It's close enough."
"And now, I'm here on behalf of the King Beyond the Wall," Tormund continued. "Thanks to the little princess and her good eye." Tormund wrapped an arm around Sansa's shoulders, pulling her to him. With his other hand, he ruffled her hair.
Brienne was aghast. "Tormund! You can't do that!"
Tormund looked to Sansa. "Why not?"
Sansa batted his hand away from her hair and tried to smooth what remained of the braids she'd pulled it back with. "Too much," she told him with a glare. He shrugged, closer to unphased than she would have liked.
Jaime was frowning at him. "Do you treat every woman you meet this way? Commoners, ladies, and princesses alike?"
"Oh, no," Sansa replied for him. "Just the ones he likes. And I'm much too weak and breakable for him to mean anything by it."
Tormund gave her a nod of confirmation. "I like a woman who's tall. And strong. Like a bear."
He leered at Brienne as he said it and she took the comment personally. "Try to ruffle my hair like that and you'll have broken fingers," she snapped.
A shameless grin spread across Tormund's face. "If that's the way you like it."
"It isn't the way I–!" Brienne broke off in a growl.
Tormund's grin widened.
Jaime let out a long-suffering sigh. "Not that this isn't fun, but–"
"You've killed a man, I'm sure of it," Tormund said to Brienne, ignoring Jaime entirely.
"I have," she answered stiffly.
Tormund closer over the table. "Have you birthed a babe? You've the frame for it. Strong, wide–"
"Tormund–" Sansa protested.
"I am still a maid," Brienne said hotly, color rising to her cheeks.
He recoiled in shock. "You haven't been with a man?!" But he said it loudly enough that someone three tables away could have heard. Those nearby were turning around to look.
"Tormund!" Sansa hissed. "You can't say that! That's extremely inappropriate and–"
Brienne spoke with a stiff fury. "I am a highborn lady. We do not sell our virtue so cheaply as to peddle it about on street corners."
Next to her, Jaime looked like he wanted to kill Tormund.
"So?" Tormund said. "I'd be happy to do the job for you. I know how to treat a woman right, make her squeal, make her–"
The chair scraped loudly on the stone as Jaime stood. Sansa worried he'd call for a sword. If he tried to challenge Tormund for satisfaction on the offense to Brienne, he'd be well within his rights but, regardless, Sansa would have to find a way to put a stop to it. Good relations with the Free Folk could end if it went badly for the one who was trying his hardest to learn their southern ways.
Stiffly, Jaime turned to Brienne. "My lady, if I might have this dance?"
Shock exploded across Brienne's face. "But…"
Jaime offered her his scarred right hand. "You usually protest that you are not a lady. But I have found out your ruse: you've been one this whole time."
Brienne's blush darkened till it blotchily covered her whole face. "I… I don't…"
"I will be offended, shortly," Jaime replied.
Brienne took his hand in an instant.
Still blushing, she levered to her feet and followed him to the edge of the dancers. She only risked shooting looks at him when she thought he wouldn't catch her. Jaime tried to look indifferent to having her in his arms but the faintest smile had curled his lips and refused to let go.
Watching them dance together – so awkwardly, so full of repressed fondness – Sansa couldn't help but grin. Perhaps there was hope for them, after all.
"How did he do that?" Tormund mused. "I've been trying all night and never even got her to crack a smile. Now she's got her hands all over him." Tormund turned to Sansa in bewilderment.
"You had the misfortune to try for someone who's already claimed," Sansa told him. "I've had her guarding him for months. They know each other very well."
"Claimed?" Tormund frowned, back to watching them dance. "How can I tell if someone's claimed?"
Sansa sighed. "It's a manner of speech. Just that… they're both fond of each other."
Tormund turned to Sansa, every bit as confused. "He's sworn off girls. How can he claim her when–"
"I don't know," Sansa quickly replied before Tormund could get descriptive. "And neither do they. But you'd be best off finding another woman to pursue."
But Tormund looked forlorn. "There's no one else like her. Not in all the mountains or all the valleys of the Far North."
The last thing Sansa wanted to do was console anyone on a lost love. It reminded her too much of what she was avoiding. "No, there's not. But there'll be someone else, anyway."
With that, she stood, squeezed Tormund's shoulder, and wandered off through the tables of the great hall back the way she came. She wove her way across the room to the man who looked the most miserable here, still sullenly hunched at his table.
Across from him, Podrick looked up at Sansa in shock. "I'll just…" He stood, gave a little bow, and walked away.
Theon turned, confused… and the moment his eyes met hers, a scowl crossed across his face.
Sansa stifled the aggravated sigh she wished to give. Instead, she walked around the table and settled in across from Theon. "Hello." She gave an attempt at a casual air.
Theon grunted at her. "Princess." He clutched his mug of ale tightly in his fist.
She closed her eyes, praying to the gods for strength. "If anyone should be on familiar terms with me, it's you, Theon."
He snorted. Another sip of his ale was his only answer.
Sansa sat in silence feeling every heartbeat as the moment dragged on. There had to be something of the million things she wished to say that she could muster up.
"How's Yara?" Sansa settled for.
Theon grunted. "Haven't seen her since she helped the Dragon Queen torch King's Landing."
"Ah." Silence lapsed. "How has it been with Podrick and Tyrion–"
Theon leaned across the table. "Look, you don't have to pretend at niceties with me. Go back to your family and enjoy the party. Alright?"
A frown cut across Sansa's face. "I'd rather be here with you. If it's all the same to you, that is."
Theon gave a non-committal grunt. He took another swig of ale.
"How was everything down at Casterly Rock?" The moment the words left Sansa's mouth, she realized it was the first she'd thought to ask.
Theon stared at her. "Why'd you call me north, Sansa? To answer stupid questions? To ask about my family you barely know?"
To have you at my side, she wanted to answer. To wage war together against all our enemies.
I was scared, she could say. Scared of facing dragons without you.
I missed you so much it ached, she barely dared whisper to herself.
Instead, she flagged down a serving girl, grabbing her own flagon of ale. Sansa tossed a gulp back, wincing at the taste.
No smile tugged on the corners of Theon's lips as he continued staring her down.
Sansa sighed. "We were calling the banners. It seemed time–" A dreadful thought hit her, one so horrible she could barely comprehend it. "You're not sailing south with us?"
Theon's level stare continued. "I haven't been asked. Are you asking?"
"Yes," Sansa immediately replied. "Begging, if I have to."
Theon looked away. "I'll see what my men think, then."
"You command them," Sansa replied. "You tell them where to sail, where–"
Theon spun back towards her so fast that Sansa jumped. He slammed his mug onto the table as his eyes blazed. "You think I don't know that?"
Sansa swallowed. "I… my apologies. I spoke without thinking."
Looking away, he took another drink. "You're asking me to betray my family, Sansa. To break a Greyjoy blockade with Greyjoy ships. It's a good thing you had the decency to at least ask. You'll pardon me if I give my men the same opportunity."
Shame rolled through her at her careless treatment of him. How long had she been taking him for granted? A long, long time, a small voice answered.
It was long past time she do something to rectify it.
"I've missed you," Sansa barely managed to admit. "I need you. I've been lost without you and I don't know what I'll do if–"
"You'll manage," Theon replied. "You've survived so far."
Sansa looked away, hurt and shame and hatred rolling through her in waves. She loathed being vulnerable and she'd tried anyway – for him – and he'd instantly thrown it back in her face. It burned even worse than she'd feared.
"Would you have wanted me to cut off Bolton's head for you?" Theon asked.
Not understanding his point, Sansa shook her head.
Theon gave a sharp nod. "Then I can't see as you've needed me. And now you've got two kings to look after you. Still can't see as I'm needed."
"Nothing I've done would have been possible without you." Sansa hated the fervency in her own voice. " Nothing."
Theon laughed. "Maybe not with Robb, but do you think I hold any sway with Jon? With Bran? Not a candle compared to yours, anyway. No, Sansa. You'll do fine without me."
Sansa leaned towards him across the table, barely restraining herself from spitting the words. "I had to command an army. I had to rely on the chained Jaime Lannister to save my life and appoint Umber my second in command and hope he didn't get us all killed. If you think, for one second, that I don't wish you had been at my side through all of that–"
"I was off at your command," Theon spat back. "Doing your bidding with Yara. You blame me for that, too?"
"Not blame," Sansa said. "I wished you could have been everywhere at once. It's hard when you're the only–" One I trust. But she bit back the words. They had once been true once, but weren't anymore, not with her family around her and Margaery almost as close as blood.
"Only errand boy you have available?" Theon growled.
"Only one who can get anything done." Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. "Why do you insist on fighting me, Theon? I thought we were friends, thought we were…" she trailed off, unwilling to say the words. They had been so much more than that. They had been betrothed and in love, when she tried to pledge herself to another. Her gaze fell to the table, unwilling to meet his own.
But Theon raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for her to finish her sentence. "Yes, Sansa. Do tell me what we were. I've been dying to know."
She swallowed, not looking away from the grain on the wood. "I have wronged you," she whispered. "And I will never stop being sorry."
"A pretty sentiment." Theon knocked back his glass again. "Tell me: why haven't your brothers married you yet to one of these shitpile Northern lords? Your family was so eager to sell you, before."
Sansa whipped her head up to gape at him. " What?"
Theon shrugged. "Robb's position was tenuous; Bran's and Jon's are even more so. Yet there is no mention of securing their holdings with their eldest sister's hand, the notorious prize, while talk of the unruly Arya's hand is bandied about."
The serving girl reappeared to fill Theon's mug and both of he and Sansa waited, staring at the other, until the girl had left.
The moment she did, Theon leaned closer to Sansa across the table. "Did Oberyn withdraw his offer? Did Robin Arryn fall off the Eyrie? Were you waiting until Bran named the unwed Gideon to head House Bolton?"
Hurt flashed in Sansa's eyes, quick and sharp. He knew her history with the Boltons; he had no business even suggesting such a thing. Theon's brows drew together, perhaps realizing that he had gone too far.
"I had to lead an army." Sansa's voice was utterly devoid of emotion. "There wasn't time for me to be hosting suitors–"
"Time enough to marry Loras," Theon replied. "What changed?"
She was sick of being derided. Sansa stood. "There were benefits to my remaining unwed."
"Ah, yes." Theon raised his mug mockingly to her. "You can only reel one fish in. But you can leave ten hooked on the line."
Sansa leaned closer only to hiss, "Then consider yourself freed." She stalked away from him, skirts swishing with her fury as she flung herself from the hall.