Sansa V
It was late in the evening when the Umbers finally arrived at Winterfell. The long day had stretched into night, and the flickering torches cast dancing shadows across the courtyard. She watched from the sidelines as the young Umber heir introduced himself to Arya, a hint of amusement tugging at her lips. The boy, with his awkwardness and nervous energy, seemed completely unaware of the fierce spirit that was her sister. Arya would surely eat him alive, she thought with a smile, but there was something sweet about their interaction that sparked a flicker of hope in her heart.
The ceremony for Arya and Alyn Umber would take place the following evening, and after the long journey, Sansa felt an overwhelming desire to retreat to the safety of her chambers. The weight of the day pressed heavily upon her, and she welcomed the thought of rest.
Roslin had kindly offered for Damon to stay with Torrhen in the nursery, a gesture that made Sansa both grateful but apprehensive. She hesitated at first, her protective instincts flaring. But Roslin had reassured her, and Damon had been eager to stay, begging her to let him play with his cousin. Eventually, she relented, recognising that Torrhen would be a good companion for him.
As she watched them head off together, her heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Just a few years ago, when Damon was born, Sansa had struggled with her feelings, seeing only the reflection of Joffrey in her son's face. Tyrion had been so understanding, sending for her mother to help, but in those early days, Sansa felt unworthy of holding her own child, trapped by the memories that haunted her.
But now, as she gazed at Damon laughing with Torrhen, she could see how far she had come. The regret that once enveloped her seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of pride and love that filled her heart. When she looked at Damon now, she saw not just the shadow of his father but the vibrant spirit of her son, alive with curiosity and innocence.
Damon beamed with pride as he spoke about the dragons Tyrion had been teaching him about. It warmed her heart to hear him share his knowledge. In that moment, Sansa saw the bond forming between them, a connection that transcended the past and embodied a brighter future, Tyrion was Damon's father in every way that mattered.
Sansa made her way through the familiar corridors of Winterfell, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors. Roslin had insisted that she stay in her old chambers, saying, "If you're coming home, you may as well do it properly." It had been so long since she'd truly felt at home, and now, standing on the threshold of the room where she'd spent so many of her childhood nights, an unexpected wave of nostalgia swept over her.
The room looked much the same as it had when she was a girl—simple but welcoming, with furs draped over the bed and tapestries lining the walls to keep the Northern chill at bay. There was a small window overlooking the courtyard, where she had once watched her brothers spar and ride, back when Winterfell had felt like the center of the world. So much had changed since then, but the warmth of Winterfell, that deep sense of home, was irreplaceable. It was more than the stone walls or the hearth fires—it was the memories, the spirit of the place, and the people who filled it with life.
She smiled softly as she traced her fingers over the worn wood of the bedpost. Roslin had been right—this was home, in every sense of the word. Despite the years that had passed and the miles she had traveled, this place still held the essence of who she was. The comfort and safety that Winterfell offered were unlike anything she had found elsewhere, even in the grand halls of Casterly Rock.
Sansa had worked hard to bring some of that same warmth to her new life at the Rock, determined to make it a place where her son, Damon, could feel the same sense of belonging that she had once known in Winterfell. The towering, golden fortress had been cold and imposing when she had first arrived, its stone halls filled with echoes of power and wealth but lacking the heart that made a place truly home. It had taken time, patience, and her own quiet strength to begin to soften its edges.
She had filled it with light where she could, hanging new tapestries and adding Northern touches that reminded her of Winterfell—sturdy furs, soft wool blankets, and even a few tapestries. Sansa wanted Damon to grow up loving Casterly Rock as much as she had once loved Winterfell. She wanted him to feel connected to it, to long for its embrace when he was away, just as she had longed for Winterfell during those lonely days in King's Landing.
And yet, no matter how much warmth she poured into her life at the Rock, there was something about Winterfell that could never be replicated. It was a place of memory, of love and loss, of innocence and survival. It was the place where she had learned what it meant to be a Stark, and no matter how far her life had taken her, or how different she had become, Winterfell would always be part of her.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, Sansa allowed herself a moment to breathe, to take in the weight of everything that had led her back here. She wasn't the girl she had once been—the wide-eyed, innocent child who had dreamed of knights and songs. She was a woman now, a mother, a wife, and a survivor of more than most could ever imagine. The burdens she carried were heavy, but sitting here, in the warmth of her childhood room, she felt a small piece of herself begin to heal.
Damon, too, was a part of this healing. Watching him grow, seeing the way his eyes lit up when he talked about dragons or laughed with Torrhen, reminded her that despite everything she had lost, there was still so much to be grateful for. He was her future, her light, and she would do everything in her power to give him a childhood filled with love, warmth, and the sense of belonging that Winterfell had given her.
The night outside deepened, and the chill of the Northern air pressed against the windowpanes, but Sansa felt only warmth in her heart. Here, in the home of her youth, surrounded by the people she loved, she could let her guard down, if only for a little while. Winterfell had a way of doing that—of reminding her that she was not just a Lannister by marriage, or a lady of a distant castle. She was Sansa Stark, of Winterfell. And no matter where the winds of fate blew her, that would never change.
Tyrion entered the chamber a little while later, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. They hadn't shared chambers since their time in the capital, in Casterly Rock they kept to the separate lord's and lady's quarters. But in Winterfell, necessity had brought them together again. He tossed a small bundle of letters onto the bed with a weary sigh, then moved to loosen his boots, his face thoughtful, as if the day's burdens were heavier than usual.
"Is there much news?" Sansa asked, setting aside her embroidery, a gift for Arya. She stood up and crossed the room, gently lifting the letters from the bed to inspect them. She had grown accustomed to these moments between them. Years ago, Tyrion had begun confiding in her—first small details of his day, then stories of his past, and soon enough, his deepest plans and worries. They weren't lovers, their marriage had never been consummated, but they had become friends, partners, and more importantly, they had become good parents to Damon.
Tyrion glanced at her with a faint, tired smile. "A letter from my father," he said, his voice dry with its usual hint of sardonic humor. "King Tommen and Queen Margaery are happy to announce that the Queen has entered the sixth moon of her pregnancy. And they are even happier to inform us all that she is expecting twins."
Sansa blinked in surprise, her hand pausing on the edge of one of the letters. "Twins?" She repeated, and her thoughts immediately drifted to the young boy Tommen had been, now a king. She pictured him, still so young in her memory, now with the weight of the crown upon his head and soon to be a father of not one, but two children. "I suppose congratulations are in order." But even as she said it, there was a touch of something bittersweet in her tone. Life had moved on for all of them in so many different ways.
Tyrion's lips quirked into a smirk, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Indeed." He knew all too well what it meant to grow up under his father's thumb, and the burden that would await those children, even if they never asked for it.
Tyrion sighed as he settled into the chair near the hearth, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "He's threatened us with another visit to the Rock if we don't bring Damon to King's Landing soon," he said, his voice tinged with irritation. "Apparently, we're denying him a relationship with his grandson—the future Lord of Casterly Rock."
Sansa paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she absorbed Tyrion's words. Tyrion's father, cast a long shadow over their lives. the man who ruled the realm with an iron fist, lived to Sansa now only in letters from King's Landing.
Sansa lowered herself beside Tyrion, the soft rustle of her gown barely audible against the quiet crackle of the fire. The light flickered across her face, casting long shadows, but her expression remained unyielding, her eyes dark with worry. Tywin's demands echoed in her mind, and the weight of them pressed down on her, as heavy as any crown.
"Damon is only a child," she said softly but with steel in her voice. "I won't have him paraded around King's Landing like a trophy for the Lannisters to show off."
She paused, uncertainty gripping her, but she knew she had to speak. If she couldn't be honest with Tyrion, the man who had stood beside her through everything, then she would never be able to say the words aloud. Her throat tightened as she hesitated, but she pressed on.
"I don't want him around Cersei." Sansa's voice was quieter now, laced with fear. "If anyone will figure out who he is, it's her."
Tyrion stilled, his gaze fixed on her. His silence made her heart race, and for a moment, she feared she had gone too far, voiced her deepest concern too openly. She could see the tension in his face, the way his fingers curled slightly as if in some effort to control the frustration he surely felt.
But when he spoke, his tone was calm, though his words carried a quiet, unmistakable edge of defiance. "Who he is, Sansa," he said carefully, "is my son. And nothing will change that. Not Cersei, not my father, not anyone."
Sansa smiled softly and gave Tyrion's hand a reassuring squeeze. She could feel the weight of his thoughts before he even spoke, the hesitation in his grip telling her that what was coming next was not going to be simple.
"And what about her?" Sansa asked, her voice quiet but steady. "Is there any news?"
Tyrion paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with the knowledge he carried. He shifted slightly, as if weighing how much to reveal. "Varys says she grows restless," he began, his voice low. "Daenerys is tired of waiting. She wants to strike now, to press her claim, but Varys is having a hard time convincing her to hold back, to be patient. She's... eager, maybe too eager."
Sansa's brow furrowed as Tyrion spoke of Daenerys Targaryen. The name carried with it the weight of a storm, one that could reshape the world. Sansa had known from the moment she'd first heard of Daenerys that this was no ordinary queen. She thought back to the day she had found Varys' first letter, urgently summoning Tyrion to Meereen to meet the Dragon Queen. A year had passed before Tyrion finally confided in her that he had been in secret contact with Daenerys, weighing the possibilities of her claim to the Iron Throne.
Tyrion had told her about the silver-haired queen—a girl who had been forged into a conqueror across the Narrow Sea. Sansa imagined her: Daenerys, born in exile, growing from a frightened child into a ruler who commanded armies and dragons alike. She had freed slaves across Essos, leaving a trail of cities in her wake that whispered her name as if it were a prayer. Now she ruled from Meereen, where she sat as Queen, not only in title but in the hearts of the people she had liberated.
When Tyrion first revealed these conversations to Sansa, his loyalty had still wavered. He had been torn between his duty to the family that despised him and the growing knowledge that Tommen, while good-hearted, was not truly the king. Everyone knew Tywin Lannister ruled in all but name. And when Tywin's time came, the real danger was clear: Cersei would seize control. Tyrion's loyalty to Tommen, the sweet boy who had always shown him kindness, was tested by the dark future looming over the Lannisters.
But everything changed when Damon was born. Tyrion had grown restless, his sharp mind turning constantly toward the precarious balance of power in Westeros. One year after Damon's birth, he left for Meereen under the pretense of negotiating trade talks between Westeros and the city. Sansa remembered the anxiety that filled her in the months of his absence, the uncertainty of what he would find there. When he returned, he was no longer conflicted. The talks had failed, as they were always meant to. But Tyrion had returned with one undeniable truth: Daenerys Targaryen was the rightful queen. She was the one who could bring down the Lannisters and end the cycle of violence and cruelty that plagued the realm.
"It is time for my family to fall," he had whispered to Sansa in the quiet of the library after returning from Meereen. The words had chilled her. Tyrion, who had fought so hard to survive his father's scorn, was now prepared to see the Lannister dynasty toppled. Sansa had seen the look in his eyes—one that told her he wasn't turning back.
In the three years that had passed since Tyrion's secret trip, much had changed. He acted as Daenerys' unseen advisor within Westeros, a silent player moving pieces on the board while Varys remained at her side, serving her directly. Daenerys' impatience had grown; she was a conqueror by nature, and every moment spent waiting felt like a delay in her destiny. She wanted to strike, to take King's Landing and claim the Iron Throne as her birthright. But Tyrion had urged her to be cautious. The game was not yet won. There were whispers of Stannis Baratheon gathering men once more, and it would be folly to bring down the Lannisters only to leave the realm vulnerable to another claimant. Striking at the wrong time could be disastrous.
Sansa knew the delicate balance they were trying to maintain. Tyrion's position was precarious, walking the fine line between serving the realm and protecting his small family. He was working from within the Lannister web of power, while subtly shifting allegiances in favour of Daenerys. Sansa had watched him do it, marveling at his ability to weave between loyalty and rebellion without ever fully revealing his hand.
Yet, Sansa's heart still wavered when it came to Damon. He was the future Lord of Casterly Rock, the only son of Tyrion Lannister, and now she feared for him. If Daenerys were to succeed in her conquest, what would that mean for their son? He had Lannister blood, but he was no enemy to the dragons. Sansa wanted to believe that Daenerys would see that, that she would spare them when the time came, but the future was full of uncertainty.
Tyrion had often told her that Daenerys was different, that she wasn't like the rulers who had come before. But power changed people, and once she set her eyes on the Iron Throne, Sansa feared that the Dragon Queen might not stop until every Lannister was dead.
Still, Tyrion was right about one thing: Tommen's reign was a lie built on the ashes of Robert Baratheon and the schemes of Tywin Lannister. The real power was in the hands of those pulling the strings behind the scenes—those like Tywin, like Cersei. And soon, Daenerys would arrive to pull those strings herself, her dragons casting shadows over the world Sansa had known for so long.
But as much as she feared the unknown, Sansa had come to trust Tyrion. He was cunning, yes, but he was also kind. He had protected her in King's Landing, and now they protected each other. If there was a way through the chaos ahead, she believed Tyrion would find it.
Tyrion's gaze was distant, his mind already calculating the risks, the strategies. "I need to speak with your brother, see where his head is. Robb will be crucial in all this. The North is strong, and if they rally behind Daenerys, others will follow. But I need to know if he'll bend the knee to a Targaryen."
"Wait until after the wedding," Sansa advised gently, her voice calm. "Let this time be about family, about peace, if only for a few days. You know how he is. Robb doesn't make decisions lightly, and rushing him will only make him more cautious."
Tyrion nodded, but his brow was still furrowed. Sansa could tell the burden of this choice weighed heavily on him.
"Robb has no love for the Lannisters," she continued. "He would never align himself with them if he thought there was a better option, not after everything that's happened. But if he sees Daenerys as a safer option for his family—for the North—he'll support her. All you need to do is show him that she's the better path forward, that her fight is the one that offers the most hope for his people."
Sansa's words hung in the air between them, and she could see Tyrion's mind turning, the wheels of strategy already beginning to grind. Convincing Robb wouldn't be easy—he was fiercely independent, protective of his land and his people—but she believed it could be done. And if Tyrion, with his sharp mind and clever tongue, could persuade her brother, then the tides of war might shift dramatically.
"Daenerys offers something the Lannisters never will," Sansa added, her tone thoughtful. "Change. A new beginning. If Robb thinks there's a chance for peace, for rebuilding the North without the South's games, he'll consider it. But Tyrion..." She hesitated for a heartbeat, knowing the next part was more dangerous than any plan they'd spoken of before. "If Robb chooses to back Daenerys, he'll need to trust her. And that trust can't be betrayed. If she wants the North, she has to prove she's more than just fire and fury. She has to be someone they can follow."
Tyrion leaned back, his expression contemplative. "Daenerys has the dragons. She has the armies. But what she doesn't have is the realm's loyalty, not yet." He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Convincing Robb is just the first step. But you're right. He'll be key. If he stands with her, others will fall in line."
Sansa's hand lingered on his, offering him a steadying presence. "Then wait," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "After Arya's wedding, we'll have time to think, to plan. Robb is a Stark. He's seen too much betrayal to rush into anything, but you know him. If you speak to him as a friend, as a brother-in-law, not as a Lannister, you might be able to make him see the bigger picture."
Tyrion looked at her, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. "You're cleverer than people give you credit for, you know that?"
Sansa smiled slightly, her gaze unwavering. "I had a good teacher."
Early the next morning, Sansa decided to take a walk through the familiar grounds of Winterfell with Damon. It hadn't been easy to pull him away from Torrhen, but her father, Ned, had stepped in. "I need Torrhen for some Lord of Winterfell business," he'd said with a gentle smile, ushering the boy away. Sansa had noticed how much Ned had changed since his time in King's Landing. The weight of the past still clung to him, but his priorities had shifted. Now, his focus was on his family—his children and grandchildren. He seemed more intent on being present for as long as he could, treasuring the moments they had together.
As Sansa and Damon strolled through the chilly morning air, she began to recount stories of her childhood, of growing up in Winterfell before the world had changed. She spoke of her brothers, her adventures in the castle, and the innocence that had once coloured her view of the world. Yet, as much as she tried, she couldn't tell if Damon was truly listening. He had always been a quiet child, his attention often absorbed by the world around him rather than the words spoken to him. His wide eyes wandered, taking in the towering walls, the dark stone buildings, the swirling banners that adorned Winterfell.
When they finally reached the courtyard, Damon suddenly froze in his tracks. His eyes were locked on something, wide with awe. Sansa followed his gaze and saw what had captured his attention—Greywind, Robb's direwolf. The wolf had grown even larger than she remembered, watching over the courtyard like a silent sentinel. It struck her just how much time had passed since she had last seen him.
The sight of the direwolf stirred something deep within Sansa, an ache that had long been buried. Memories of Lady, her own beloved direwolf, rushed to the surface. She rarely allowed herself to think of Lady anymore—there was too much pain in it—but whenever the thought of her surfaced, it hit her hard. That terrible day, years ago, still haunted her. If Lady had lived, she might still be by Sansa's side now, a fierce protector through all the trials she had faced. Sansa imagined her lying by the fire at Casterly Rock, curled up beside Damon, watching over them both with those intelligent, loyal eyes. But instead, Lady remained where she had fallen—buried in a shallow grave in the Riverlands, her memory fading with time, forgotten by everyone but Sansa.
Sansa was abruptly pulled from her thoughts by the sound of hooves thundering into the courtyard. Two riders arrived at a swift gallop, their horses kicking up clouds of dust as they came to a halt. Both riders were cloaked in black, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods. They dismounted quickly, handing the reins to the stable hands before exchanging a few quiet words. One of them paused, straightened, and looked up. His eyes met Sansa's, and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.
"Jon," she whispered, barely able to believe it.
Jon Snow, her half-brother, had grown into someone entirely different from the boy she had once known. His face was shadowed by a thick black beard, and his body had filled out with muscle, far more solid and imposing than he had been when she last saw him six years ago. The long years had hardened him, both in spirit and in form, but his eyes—those grey Stark eyes—were unmistakable. They held the same warmth and depth she remembered, though they were tempered now with the weight of all he had endured.
Without hesitation, Jon strode toward her, closing the distance between them. When he reached her, he wrapped her in a firm embrace, one that spoke of all the years they had been apart, of all the battles they had fought, and all the hardships they had survived. Sansa clung to him for a moment, the sudden rush of familiarity and family overwhelming her. She hadn't realised just how much she had missed him until now, standing here, reunited after so long.
When Jon pulled away, his eyes swept over her, as if trying to reconcile the memory of his sister with the woman who now stood before him. "Look at you," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I hardly recognised you. You've changed so much. Are you well?"
Sansa gave a faint smile in return, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "As well as I can be," she replied, her voice soft. There was a depth to those words, a weight that Jon understood better than anyone. They had both been through too much to ever be truly "well" again, but they had learned to endure. That was what being a Stark meant—enduring.
She placed a gentle hand on her son's shoulder and turned him slightly toward Jon. "This is my son, Damon," she said, her voice filling with quiet pride. "Damon, this is your uncle Jon."
Damon, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, blinked up at Jon. The boy was still young, perhaps too young to fully grasp the significance of this moment, but there was a curiosity in his gaze. Jon knelt down to Damon's level, his expression softening as he regarded his nephew. "Hello, Damon," he said kindly, offering a hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
Damon, shy but curious, hesitated for only a heartbeat before reaching out and placing his small hand into Jon's. His fingers, so delicate and new to the world, were dwarfed by Jon's large, calloused grip, the hand of a man who had spent his life fighting and surviving. Damon looked up at his uncle with wide, uncertain eyes, his voice barely a whisper as he said, "Hello." The word was soft, yet it carried the tentative warmth of a child meeting someone important for the first time.
Sansa stood beside them, watching the interaction with a quiet, growing sense of warmth. It was rare for her to feel such moments of peace, but seeing her son, who had grown up amidst so much uncertainty, form this first bond with her brother stirred something deep inside her. It was a fragile connection, but one she desperately wanted to nurture.
Jon rose slowly, his gaze lingering on Damon for a moment longer before turning back to Sansa. "He looks like his father," he said softly, the words almost surprising in their simplicity.
The comment caught Sansa off guard. She stiffened, feeling a ripple of something close to panic, though she quickly suppressed it. Jon didn't know the truth of Damon's birth. Jon only saw the boy, and what he believed to be a reflection of his father.
Sansa let out a slow breath and allowed her gaze to fall upon Damon. She studied his features for a moment—his sandy blond hair, the curve of his mouth, the sharpness of his eyes. Perhaps he did look like Tyrion. "Yes," she replied, her voice steady but laced with an unspoken tension. "He does."
"This is Gendry," Jon said, gesturing to the man standing beside him. "He's my steward at the Watch." There was a momentary pause as Jon's eyes flickered toward Sansa, a brief hesitation crossing his face. "Gendry, this is my sister, Lady Sansa Sta—Lannister," he corrected himself, the name slipping awkwardly from his lips. "Lady Lannister."
Sansa's heart tightened for a brief moment at the sound of her married name, but she held her composure. She had grown accustomed to it, though it still carried with it the shadow of her past, of everything she had endured. Forcing a gracious smile, she inclined her head slightly as Gendry stepped forward to greet her.
"My Lady," Gendry said, bowing his head respectfully.
Sansa took a moment to study the man before her. He was equally as muscular as Jon, perhaps even more so. His build was the kind that came from years of hard labour, not just the training of a soldier. His black hair was tied back in a simple bun, and a dark stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rough-hewn, yet somehow noble appearance. But it was his eyes that caught her attention—piercing blue, bright against the ruggedness of his face. For a fleeting second, Sansa thought she recognised him, though she couldn't place from where.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ser Gendry," Sansa said warmly, offering him a polite nod, the formality of her words slipping easily from her lips, as was expected of her.
Gendry's expression shifted, a flicker of discomfort passing through his eyes. He shifted slightly on his feet before speaking, his voice low and humble. "Just Gendry, my lady," he corrected gently. "I'm no knight."
There was a sincerity in his tone that caught Sansa off guard. His humility, his grounded nature, stood in stark contrast to the many lords and knights she had known over the years. It was clear that Gendry was a man who hadn't sought titles or glory, but had earned his place through sheer hard work and loyalty. There was something refreshing about that, something familiar.
"Well then, just Gendry," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'm honoured to meet you nonetheless."
Gendry gave a humble nod, his piercing blue eyes briefly meeting Sansa's before flicking downward, as though uncomfortable with the weight of her gaze. His humility was palpable, a stark contrast to the men of power and status she had grown accustomed to dealing with in her years at court.
Jon cleared his throat, breaking the brief silence. "Right then," he said with a hint of warmth in his voice. "We should go see our hosts." He glanced down at Damon, who had been watching the interaction quietly. "Damon, may I borrow your mother for a while? I could use her company to escort me to the Great Hall."
Damon blinked up at Jon, his face soft with curiosity, and then looked to Sansa, as if seeking her permission. Sansa smiled at her son and gently ruffled his hair, reassuring him. "You can come too, sweetling," she said softly. Damon gave a small, understanding nod, clearly still in awe of his uncle.
Jon held out his arm to Sansa, a gesture both courteous and familiar. Sansa, with a light smile, looped her arm through his. For a moment, she felt the comfort of old bonds, of family that had endured so much, now walking together through the ancient halls of their childhood home. Together, they turned toward the Great Hall, leaving behind the courtyard, where winter winds whispered through the stone walls of Winterfell.