Sansa VI

It had been a week since Roslin had left Winterfell, and the absence of her presence lingered heavily in the air. Robb had retreated further into himself. His days had blurred together as he spent long hours in his office, buried under maps, letters, and the overwhelming weight of responsibility. He only emerged once each evening to meet with the other lords and ladies, his eyes heavy with fatigue and his mind miles away, constantly returning to the same unresolved questions of strategy, alliances, and the growing threat of the White Walkers. Every night, after the meetings, he would seek out Torrhen, putting him to bed with the same quiet tenderness that had always marked his fatherly love. It was the only time he felt connected to something beyond the looming weight of his duties.

Torrhen, the boy who had once been so full of life, so quick to laugh and play, had become a shadow of himself. The loss of his mother had changed him in ways that Robb couldn't fully comprehend. His once eager curiosity had dwindled to silence. He spent much of his time following Sansa around, never straying too far from her side. The nursery had become his new sanctuary, where he would quietly sit, drawing pictures or playing with Damon. But unlike before, there was no laughter in his games, no spark in his eyes. He seemed to retreat further into himself with each passing day, his playful energy replaced by an almost haunting stillness.

Sansa had taken on the role of Torrhen's quiet protector. She tried to engage him, to coax a smile or a word out of him, but most of the time, Torrhen simply stared at the floor, his small hands clutched tightly in his lap. The lively boy who had once filled the halls with his endless questions and laughter had retreated into himself, and it broke Sansa's heart to see him like this. She would often hold him close in the quiet moments, brushing his hair from his forehead, hoping that somehow he would find his way back to the boy he once was.

Even Damon seemed to notice the change. The young boy would look up at Torrhen with a puzzled expression, trying to understand why his cousin no longer played the games they once shared. In the evenings, Damon would ask Sansa when Torrhen would smile again, when they could return to their games. But Sansa had no answers for him, only a quiet, sad smile, hoping that with time, the light would return to Torrhen's eyes.

When the boys were asleep or occupied with their tutors, Sansa would retreat to her mother's chambers, Catelyn was ill and growing weaker with each passing day, her body betraying the strength she had always shown.

It had begun the morning after the devastating news of Ned and Jon's executions had reached Winterfell. Sansa had gone to check on her mother, but when she entered the room, she found Catelyn still in bed, her usual energy and resolve gone. At first, Sansa thought it might be exhaustion—after all, the weight of so much loss had been unbearable for them all. But as the days wore on, it became clear that this was something more.

Her mother's strength seemed to drain from her like water slipping through cupped hands. Each day she grew paler, her appetite dwindling to almost nothing. Servants would bring trays of carefully prepared meals, but Catelyn would only pick at them before turning her head away, her once vibrant blue eyes now dull and unfocused. It pained Sansa to see her this way, a woman who had once commanded respect and admiration now reduced to someone who could scarcely lift her hand to hold a cup of water.

By now, Catelyn rarely spoke. She would murmur a few words to Sansa at the start of each visit, her voice faint and raspy, but even that effort seemed to take too much from her. Most of the time, she simply lay back against her pillows, her gaze distant, as though she were staring into a world beyond this one. When she wasn't asleep, she would listen quietly as Sansa spoke, offering no response beyond a soft nod or the faintest twitch of her lips.

Sansa filled the silence with stories of her day, recounting small moments with Arya, Torrhen, and Damon. She spoke of the boys' lessons, of Damon's endless curiosity and Torrhen's quiet thoughtfulness. She told her mother about Arya's sharp wit and the way she had taken to teaching the boys how to wield wooden practice swords. Sansa hoped that these stories would bring her mother some measure of comfort, that they would remind her of the life still thriving in Winterfell, even as hers seemed to slip away.

One afternoon, Sansa had decided to bring Torrhen and Damon to visit their grandmother, hoping the sight of the boys might spark something in Catelyn—a smile, a spark of vitality, or even a fleeting moment of joy. The boys had been eager at first, carrying flowers they'd picked from the garden, their small hands clutching the delicate blooms as they made their way to her chambers.

But when they entered the room, their eagerness faded. Torrhen's grip on Sansa's hand tightened, and Damon clutched his flowers to his chest, his wide eyes fixed on his grandmother. Catelyn, once so vibrant and full of life, lay motionless against her pillows. Her skin was pale, her frame thinner than they had ever seen, and the sight of her labored breathing unsettled the boys.

"Grandmother?" Torrhen's voice was soft, uncertain.

Catelyn's eyes fluttered open at the sound, and for a brief moment, there was a glimmer of recognition. She lifted a frail hand, managing the faintest of smiles, but the effort was clearly taxing. "Torrhen… Damon," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The boys stepped closer, their flowers forgotten in their hands. Damon reached out to place his on the bedside table, but his movements were hesitant, as though he feared getting too close. Torrhen lingered by Sansa's side, his usual courage replaced by a quiet, trembling apprehension.

Catelyn's smile faltered as she saw the worry etched on their young faces. She reached for them, her hand shaking, but the sight seemed to overwhelm the boys. Torrhen buried his face in Sansa's skirts, and Damon's lip quivered as tears welled in his eyes. Sansa knelt to comfort them, her own heart breaking as she realised the visit was causing more harm than good.

After the boys had left, their flowers still lying on the table untouched, Catelyn summoned what little strength she had to speak to Sansa. Her voice was weak but firm, laced with the determination that had always defined her.

"Don't bring them again," she said, the words slow and deliberate. "I don't want them to see me like this. I want them to remember me… as I was. Strong. Whole. Not…" She trailed off, her hand dropping to her side as if even speaking had sapped the last of her energy.

Sansa nodded, her throat tight with emotion. She wanted to argue, to tell her mother that the boys needed her, that they would want to be by her side. But the look in Catelyn's eyes silenced her. There was a kind of acceptance there, a quiet resignation that Sansa couldn't bring herself to challenge.

The days passed in a blur of sorrow and routine. Each morning, Maester Potis, the Maester that had replaced Luwin, came to Catelyn's chambers, bringing new medicines and mixtures in the hope of restoring her strength. He examined her carefully, his brow furrowed with concern as he adjusted her treatments. Sansa watched anxiously, clinging to the faintest hope that one of his remedies might bring about a change.

But nothing worked. The medicines went untouched more often than not, and even when Catelyn did take them, they seemed to have no effect. Her strength continued to wane, her body growing weaker with each passing day.

One evening, Robb joined Sansa at their mother's side. He had been distant in recent days, consumed by the weight of leadership and the looming threat of war, but tonight he stayed, his hand resting on Catelyn's as he sat beside her bed. His face was grave, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights and unspoken grief.

As the quiet settled over the room, Maester Potis entered, his expression somber. He hesitated for a moment, glancing between Sansa and Robb before speaking.

"My lord, my lady," he began, his tone gentle but unwavering. "I have done all that I can. There is no physical ailment that I can cure. Your mother's body is failing because her spirit has been broken. She has given in to her grief, and…" He paused, as if searching for the right words. "She has chosen to let go. For that, there is no remedy."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Robb's jaw tightened, his hand clenching around his mother's frail fingers. Sansa felt the weight of them settle in her chest, crushing the fragile hope she had been clinging to.

"She's just tired," Robb said finally, his voice rough with denial. "She'll get better. She just needs more time."

Maester Potis's gaze softened, but he said nothing. His silence spoke louder than words.

Sansa reached for her brother's hand, her own trembling as she clasped it. "Robb," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "We have to… we have to be with her. While we still can."

Robb closed his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Finally, he nodded, his grip on their mother's hand tightening as if he could will her to stay just a little longer.

That night, as the chill of winter pressed against the stone walls of Winterfell, Robb and Sansa remained steadfast at their mother's bedside. The chamber was dimly lit by a single flickering candle, its warm glow casting long shadows over Catelyn's fragile form. She drifted in and out of restless sleep, her breaths shallow and uneven, her once-commanding presence reduced to this quiet, flickering light.

Robb sat closest to her, his hand wrapped around hers, his thumb gently tracing over her knuckles. His voice was low but steady as he spoke, recounting the memories that had been etched into his heart.

"I remember when you rode south for Father," he began, his gaze fixed on her face as if willing her to hear him. "You didn't hesitate, not for a moment. You were so strong, Mother. You always were. You risked everything to bring him back, to protect us."

Sansa, seated on the opposite side, listened quietly as Robb continued, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wiped away a tear that slipped down her cheek as Robb's voice softened, tinged with emotion.

"And when I married Roslin," Robb said, a small, bittersweet smile crossing his lips, "you smiled so brightly. You told me I'd made the right choice, even when I doubted myself. And when we came home to Winterfell after the war…" His voice broke, just for a moment, but he composed himself quickly. "When you welcomed us, it felt like… like we'd found peace again."

Sansa reached for her mother's other hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwined with Catelyn's. "I remember the last time we were all here," she said softly, her voice trembling. "You and Father… Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Jon, and me. We were all together. It feels like a lifetime ago now." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. "Soon, there'll only be three of us left."

The weight of their grief hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet palpable. As the hours passed, the night deepened, and the room seemed to grow colder. Catelyn's breaths grew shorter and shallower, her chest barely rising with each strained inhalation. Sansa clung to her hand, tears streaming down her face, while Robb leaned closer, his voice breaking as he whispered to her.

"Mother," he said, his voice raw with emotion, "it's okay. We'll be okay - we'll take care of each other. You don't have to fight anymore. You can rest now. You can go. You can be with Father again… with Bran and Rickon and Jon."

Sansa sobbed quietly, burying her face in the blanket draped over her mother's frail form. Robb's grip on Catelyn's hand tightened for a moment, as if to anchor her, but then he let go, his hand trembling as he wiped at his own tears.

Catelyn's lips moved faintly, though no sound came. Her breathing slowed, each breath lighter than the last, until finally, with a soft exhale, she was still. The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence stretching on for what felt like an eternity.

Robb leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his tears falling freely now. "Goodbye, Mother," he whispered.

Sansa could only nod through her sobs, her hand still clutching her mother's. The candlelight flickered, casting one final glow over Catelyn's serene face before the flame guttered out, leaving the chamber in quiet darkness.

In that moment, the loss was suffocating, but so too was the love that filled the room—a bond that would carry them forward, even in the face of such profound grief.

Robb had arranged for the funeral to take place the following evening. He would have preferred to wait a little longer to allow more time for preparation and reflection, but with the threat of an army capable of raising the dead looming closer each day, he dared not delay. The risk was too great, and he could not afford to take any chances. The ceremony was to be held in the godswood. Though their mother had not been a Stark by birth, she had lived and loved as one in every way that mattered. She would be remembered as a Stark in both name and spirit.

Sansa found herself unprepared for the occasion in more ways than one. When she had packed for Arya's wedding, she hadn't thought to include any mourning dresses. Robb, noticing her predicament, had offered one of Roslin's dresses, but the size difference between the two women proved to be a problem. Roslin was significantly shorter, and her dresses were ill-suited for Sansa's taller frame, leaving her with few options. In the end, Sansa was forced to wear one of their mother's old dresses.

As she slipped into the black gown, Sansa was struck by a flood of emotions. The dress, though a better fit than Roslin's, was still tight in some places and awkward in others. Yet the act of donning it felt deeply personal, even comforting, despite the physical discomfort. Wearing her mother's dress was a way to honour her memory, to feel close to her once more. At the same time, it was a mournful experience, as every stitch and seam seemed to echo the absence of the woman who had once filled it. Sansa felt both embraced and burdened by the weight of her grief, wrapped in the fabric of a life that had now passed.

As she stood before the mirror, adjusting the gown, she thought of her mother and all she had endured to protect their family. The dress smelled faintly of lavender, a scent Sansa had always associated with her mother. Though the godswood awaited her, and with it the solemn duty of saying goodbye, Sansa took a moment to steady herself, letting her hand rest on the fabric over her heart. She resolved to carry her mother's strength into the ceremony, knowing that her family would need it just as much as she did.

"Are you ready?" Tyrion's voice was soft as he leaned against the doorway, his expression carefully composed, though his eyes betrayed the sorrow he felt. Standing beside him, Damon fidgeted with his small hands.

She nodded, though her throat tightened as she tried to steady her breathing. Crossing the room to kneel before her son, she gently took his hands in hers.

"We're going to say goodbye to your grandmama today," she explained, her voice trembling slightly but warm with affection. "I thought it would be nice if you held one of her handkerchiefs during the ceremony, so it'll feel like she's still with you."

Damon's brow furrowed as he processed her words, but his hands eagerly accepted the piece of fabric she held out to him. It was exquisitely embroidered, a delicate combination of fish and wolves swimming and running in an intricate design. In one corner, the letters "CT" were stitched with precision; in the opposite corner, "CS" stood in matching thread.

"It's the handkerchief she made for her wedding to your grandfather," Sansa said, her voice soft as she ran her fingers over the fabric. "It meant a great deal to her, and now it can mean something special to you."

Damon stared at the handkerchief, his small fingers tracing the stitching. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and uncertain. "Papa told me she isn't truly gone," he said quietly, his voice catching Sansa off guard.

Sansa's head tilted slightly in surprise, her gaze shifting to Tyrion, who stood watching them with a tender, almost apologetic smile. "He said she'll always be with me, watching me, looking after me."

"Exactly," Tyrion affirmed, stepping into the room and resting a hand on his son's small shoulder. "When people we love leave us, Damon, they're never truly gone. They stay here." He placed his hand lightly over the boy's chest, where his heart beat steadily beneath the fabric of his tunic. "As long as you keep them in your memories, they'll always be a part of you."

Damon clutched the handkerchief tightly, his lip quivering slightly as he looked at it again. "So she'll be with me forever?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sansa smiled softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "Forever," she promised.

Damon nodded, his resolve steadying as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand. "I'm ready," he said, his voice stronger now, though it still carried the weight of his young grief.

Tyrion straightened, giving Damon's hair a gentle ruffle before meeting Sansa's eyes. "It's a difficult day," he said quietly, his gaze warm with support. "But we'll get through it together."

Sansa rose to her feet, her hands smoothing down her gown as she took a deep breath. "Yes," she said, her voice firm despite the ache in her heart. "We will."

As the three of them made their way down the quiet corridors of Winterfell, Damon holding tightly to the handkerchief, Sansa felt the grief pressing on her like the weight of the stone walls around her. But as she glanced down at her son, her heart swelled with determination. She would carry this burden, and she would help Damon carry his, for her mother's memory and for the future they still had to build.

As they entered the godswood, the cold northern air clinging to their skin, Sansa's eyes swept over the gathering. Torrhen stood near the front, his small figure framed by Arya and Alyn. His dark tunic seemed to swallow him whole, and though he stood tall, his face betrayed the confusion and sadness of a child trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. Around them, the lords and ladies of the North were gathered, their faces solemn, their breaths misting in the air as they waited in reverent silence. Yet one figure was conspicuously absent.

Sansa walked steadily toward Torrhen, her hand firmly clasped around Damon's, while Tyrion matched her pace just behind. Damon clutched the embroidered handkerchief tightly, his knuckles white, as though it were a lifeline. When they reached Arya, Sansa released Damon's hand to embrace her sister. Arya's arms wrapped around her with a stiffness that spoke of the emotional walls she had hastily built.

"Where is Robb?" Sansa whispered, her voice barely audible as she pulled back to look into Arya's face. As Lord of Winterfell, Robb should have been here already, standing ready to lead their family in this farewell.

Arya's lips tightened into a thin line, and her voice was low and gruff when she finally answered, "He wanted to bring her in himself."

Sansa frowned, glancing instinctively toward the far edge of the godswood, but her brother was nowhere in sight. She turned her attention back to Arya, who stared ahead, her jaw set in a way that Sansa recognised too well. Over the past two weeks, Arya had not shed a single tear—not for their father, not for their brother Jon, and not for their mother. Her grief seemed locked away, unreachable, leaving her pale and hollow-eyed, a shell of the vibrant girl she once was.

Sansa touched Arya's arm gently, but her sister didn't react, her gaze fixed on the weirwood tree as though she couldn't bear to meet anyone's eyes. Beside her, Alyn stood awkwardly, his discomfort plain. Marriage to Arya had never been an easy undertaking, and the weight of her loss now seemed to stretch the fragile bond between them even thinner. In the short two months since their wedding, Arya had lost not only both parents but also Jon. Whatever chance Alyn might have had to truly reach her seemed as distant as the sun on a winter's day.

Sansa's heart ached for her sister, for the weight Arya carried and the pain she refused to show. She opened her mouth to say something, but before the words came, a low murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads turned, and Sansa followed their gaze.

At the edge of the godswood, Robb appeared, a solitary figure pulling the cart bearing their mother's body. He had insisted, Sansa realised with a pang, on doing this himself. Even from a distance, she could see the strain in his features, the tightness in his shoulders. His grief was raw, unhidden, and it clung to him like a shroud. Robb's steps were slow but deliberate, and as he came closer, the gathered lords and ladies parted to let him pass, their heads bowing in respect.

Sansa's breath caught as she saw their mother's form. Catelyn was wrapped in her finest gown, the Stark direwolf embroidered in silver thread over the gray wool. Her hair was brushed and smooth, though streaked with white that seemed more pronounced now in death. The sight was both beautiful and devastating.

Robb reached the centre of the godswood and stopped before the weirwood tree. He stood still for a moment, staring down at their mother's body as if he could will her back to life. Then, with a heavy breath, he looked up, his eyes meeting Sansa's briefly before he turned to the crowd.

"My mother," Robb began, his voice hoarse but steady, "was the heart of our family. She was a shield for us all, a fierce protector who gave everything for her children and her home. She stood tall in the face of every trial, and now… now she rests in the arms of our father."

Sansa felt her throat tighten, tears pricking her eyes as she listened to her brother. Robb's voice faltered for a moment, but he pressed on. "We are here today not only to mourn her passing but to honour her life. Catelyn Stark was a woman of courage, of strength, and of love. And though she is gone, she lives on in us—in our memories, in the values she taught us, and in the bonds we share as her children."

Robb's words washed over the gathered crowd, resonating with the quiet power of his grief. Sansa reached for Damon's hand, gripping it tightly as tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her son clutched the handkerchief, holding it close to his chest, his young face etched with confusion and sorrow.

As Robb stepped aside, Sansa found herself moving forward, her steps light yet deliberate. She knelt before her mother's body. "Goodbye, Mother," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'll make you proud. I swear it."

When she rose, Damon stepped forward hesitantly, holding Tyrion's hand for support. Sansa watched as her son reached out and gently placed the handkerchief atop his grandmother's folded hands, his gesture both tender and brave. The sight broke something in Sansa, and she turned away, Tyrion instinctively took her hands in his, stroking them gently and subtly with his fingers.

One by one, the family came forward, each saying their own silent goodbyes. Arya's face remained stone-like as she stepped closer, her voice low and inaudible as she whispered something Sansa couldn't catch. When she returned to Alyn's side, her hand lingered in his.

The ceremony concluded. Several of the gathered lords, their faces etched with sorrow and respect, stepped forward to help Robb carry their mother's body. Catelyn Stark's form, now wrapped in her funeral shroud, was lifted carefully onto the wooden stretcher and borne toward the courtyard. Sansa and Arya followed in silence, their steps heavy with the weight of grief.

In the courtyard, the pyre awaited. Its structure was simple but sturdy, built of oak and pine, the wood stacked high and doused with oil to ensure it burned brightly and completely. The Stark banner hung solemnly nearby, its direwolf sigil rippling faintly in the biting northern wind.

The lords and ladies of the North began to disperse. Tyrion, standing beside Sansa, exchanged a look with her that spoke volumes. Without a word, he gently took Damon's small hand in his and gestured for Torrhen to follow. Alyn stepped forward, his expression as awkward as it was kind, and joined Tyrion in shepherding the boys back toward the nursery.

"They shouldn't see this," Tyrion murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Damon clutched his father's hand tightly, casting one last glance over his shoulder toward the pyre before letting himself be led away. Torrhen hesitated, his small body trembling, but when Sansa crouched and whispered, "Go with them. Be strong for Damon, for me," he nodded reluctantly and followed his cousin.

As the doors to the keep closed behind them, only Robb, Sansa, and Arya remained. The courtyard was quiet now except for the faint rustle of the wind and the steady crackle of torches. Robb stood closest to the pyre, his face a mask of grim determination as he prepared himself for what must come. Sansa and Arya flanked him, their grief palpable in the silence that stretched between them.

For a long moment, they simply stared at the pyre. Catelyn's body, wrapped in the stark white of her shroud, seemed almost peaceful atop the carefully arranged logs. And then finally, Robb stepped closer to the pyre. The torch in his hand wavered for a moment as he took a steadying breath. With a swift motion, he pressed it to the oil-soaked wood. The fire caught quickly, flames licking hungrily at the pyre as they rose higher and higher. The warmth spread through the icy courtyard, but it did little to ease the cold gripping Sansa's heart.

As the fire consumed the pyre, the siblings stood together, watching in silence. The flames crackled and roared, the light reflecting in their tear-filled eyes. Robb's hand clenched into a fist at his side, his grief manifesting in the rigid set of his shoulders. Sansa stood still, her face streaked with silent tears, while Arya's expression remained eerily calm.

"I hope she finds them," Arya said quietly, breaking the silence. "Father. Jon. Maybe even Bran and Rickon." Her voice cracked on the last names, and for the first time, her composure faltered. She wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, unwilling to let the tears linger.

"She will," Robb replied, his voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. "If anyone deserves peace, it's her."

As the pyre burned down to embers, the three of them remained, rooted in place. Sansa felt the weight of her mother's loss settle deeper into her chest, but she also felt a flicker of resolve. They had lost so much, but they were still here. Still standing.

Eventually, as the flames dimmed and the night deepened, Robb turned to his sisters. "Come," he said softly. "We need rest."

Sansa glanced back at the smoldering pyre one last time before following her brother. Arya lingered a moment longer, her dark silhouette framed by the dying light. Finally, with a heavy breath, she turned and walked away, leaving the courtyard silent and empty beneath the cold northern sky.