Chapter Text
She’s just finished stitching the gash on the arm of one of her men when she hears the shouts calling for Winterfell’s gates to be opened, announcing the arrival of the man and woman who have saved Westeros from a fate worse than death.
It’s been almost two weeks since the war was won, but the blood and death that it brought has yet to cease. As each day would pass, more and more of the injured and dying would fill her castle to the brim that she’d ordered everyone who could properly hold a needle to clean and stitch up every wound. The soldiers, who have been off fighting and haven’t witnessed with their own eyes the sheer devotion and service of Sansa to her people and to the North, had been completely awestruck when they were approached by none other than the Lady of Winterfell herself with a needle and a wet cloth at hand.
A raven had arrived three days ago, bearing news that the royal army was due to reach their gates in four days’ time. Since then, all the workers and servants of Winterfell have been working tirelessly to prepare for the return of the King in the North as well as the foreign queen whom every Northman is wary of. She breathes a sigh of relief knowing that, even though their party has arrived earlier than expected, her keep is more than prepared.
After offering the wounded man in front of her a reassuring smile, she rises on her feet, wipes her bloodied hands on her already bloodied skirts and waits for the procession to reach the yard.
Steadfast like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady. She repeats this over and over in her head, this mantra of hers that has kept her pushing forward even when it would feel like she was pushing against the gods themselves.
It isn’t long before they enter through the gates atop their horses, Jon comes in first followed closely by the white-haired queen.
Sansa can’t help but think it all quite underwhelming. She had been certain their arrival would be accompanied by the two dragons left to them, if not to parade their victory for all to see, then surely to dispel the whispers for the North to keep its independence. She’s sure this Targaryen queen has heard them. Why else would she decide to stay in Winterfell before going south to claim the throne from Cersei Lannister? But Daenerys’ presence here does little to deter her people from expressing their desire to hold on to their sovereignty.
It might be too late for that, she wants to warn them. For if Littlefinger’s own whispers to her are anything to go by, then there would be no freedom for the North… only a new queen. And contrary to the pretty picture he so often had painted for her, it will not be her.
Sansa gracefully drops to her knee and bows to her king. And him alone, she tells herself. It only takes but a fraction of a second for everyone else to follow the Lady of Winterfell. He is already at the center of the courtyard, only a few feet away from her. Though her eyes are trained to the ground, she can hear him inhale sharply. It doesn’t surprise her how he still finds this royal treatment incredibly discomfiting – it’s one of the reasons why she believes him deserving of it all.
What does catch her attention and brings her to lift up her gaze is the sound of soft panting and footfalls that seem to be getting nearer and nearer. The mask she wears doesn’t falter until she sees the fearsome creature making its way toward her. She can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. There are no dragons in Winterfell today, only direwolves. Just as it always should be.
“Ghost,” she whispers affectionately as the beast stops before her, eyes even redder than her fire-kissed hair. She combs her fingers through its fur, paying no mind to the grime that covers the wolf. “I am glad to see you again, my friend.”
Silent as always, Ghost leans into her touch, nuzzling up to her while she embraces him. They understand each other completely now. She’s felt his strength, his fears, his instincts, and he has felt hers in return. The direwolf stares into her eyes until it turns its head around, sensing its master who now approaches them. Ghost moves to the side as she bows her head again and waits until he acknowledges her as is customary.
However, he surprises her when, instead of bidding her to stand, he drops to his knees so that they are eye level. She has not prepared herself for this and so she can’t stop the small gasp that escapes her lips as she comes face to face with the man who has haunted her dreams the second he left Winterfell eight moons ago without the assurance of coming back alive. Immediately, she bows her head to conceal the effect he has on her.
“Sansa,” he breathes out.
His voice startles her and immediately snaps her back to attention. “My king,” she says, her voice smooth as silk, betraying nothing about the flood of emotions raging with her.
“Sansa,” he pleads so softly that only she can hear.
The desperation in his voice strikes a chord deep in her chest. It brings her back to the countless times she would walk atop the ramparts in the early dawn when her duties do not yet demand her, and whisper his name out into the winds of winter, begging him to survive, to return.
She raises her head and meets his gaze, this time ready to face his grey eyes. It pains her like a knife in her gut to know that, out here in the open, the only show of affection propriety and self-preservation will allow her is a smile. But she does it all the same. It’s what he deserves at the very least. “Jon,” she says quietly, making sure that no one hears it but him. “You have returned.”
Relief washes over his face at her words but it is short-lived. Before either of them can say anything else, the dragon queen appears beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. Sansa doesn’t miss the way he winces when she does, like she’s burnt him.
“Lady Stark."
She bows her head yet again. “Your Grace.”
“Rise,” the other woman says.
Her tone is composed and docile, but it does nothing to put out the fury that ignites within Sansa. I am not yours to command, she wants to seethe at her. But the sight of Jon with his beseeching eyes and the distant sound of dragons screeching force her to hold her tongue and swallow her pride. She stands, breaking the eerie silence as the rest follow suit.
Jon, who has also risen, shifts his weight between his feet while the two women hold each other’s gaze. It is Daenerys Targaryen who breaks first, her lips curving upward in an excruciatingly polite smile. And Sansa, for all the ice in her veins and winter in her bones, remains impassive, her sapphire eyes devoid of any emotion and her chapped lips pressed in a straight line. She stands with her back straightened and her chin held high, almost rigid but also very much regal.
“I have much to tell you.” Jon’s voice slices through the tension in the air. He looks at the Targaryen queen with questioning eyes, silently asking for permission. It makes Sansa want to scoff and shake her fists. You are a king! she wants to tell him. When Daenerys gives him an imperceptible nod, he continues, “Perhaps we can talk somewhere in private?”
His eyes beg her to acquiesce, but it’s the last thing she wants to do even if the idea of finally being alone with him stirs an ocean of fervor within her. Everything she’s seen and heard so far has shown her that once again Littlefinger proved to be right. It irks her, truly, how that pathetic slip of a man can still taunt her even from the grave. Sansa knows there’s no way she will not have this conversation with him. However, when she catches a glimpse of two dearly familiar faces over Jon’s shoulder, she decides to do the next best thing instead.
She offers Jon a smile as hollow and diplomatic as the one the Targaryen queen gave her just moments ago. “I’m afraid that must wait until this evening, Your Grace,” she says. “As the Lady of Winterfell, I must see to the needs of my people first before I can attend to other matters. Surely you understand.”
She can read on his face the exact moment it dawns on him that she already has an inkling of what he intends to tell her. She watches as he tries but fails to keep the guilt and shame from completely showing.
It’s no use, she wants to tell him. His face is a book that Sansa has learned to read expertly during the many moons they’ve spent in each other’s company after reuniting at Castle Black. Often she knows what he is thinking or feeling before even he does. The fact that he can’t say the same about her wounds her as much as it relieves her for what good will it do if he can see her, can truly see her, if he is too damn honorable to do anything about it?
“If I may have your leave, my king, I see Lady Brienne and Podrick have also returned, and I wish to see how they are faring,” she continues.
Jon looks behind him as if to check if she is telling the truth, and Sansa has to temper down her annoyance. Before he can respond, Daenerys clears her throat. There is no smile on her face anymore.
“Lady Stark, we have more pressing matters than your –“
“It’s alright, Dany. It can wait,” Jon cuts her off with a resigned voice. Meeting her gaze and purposely ignoring the pointed stare the dragon queen is giving him, he nods his head in assent to her request.
She turns to call forth her steward. “Henrik will show both of you to your chambers. Your men will be seen to as well.”
Not waiting for Jon or Daenerys to say anything else, Sansa curtsies and walks past them without another word, disregarding the Targaryen queen’s pointed glare as well as Jon’s pained look. She finds it doesn’t require much effort for her to do so, especially when she feels her own anger, confusion and disappointment clashing within her like the waves of Blackwater Bay smashing against the rocky cliffs of King’s Landing.
Steadfast like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady.
“My lady.”
The welcomed voices of Brienne and Podrick bring her out of her thoughts. They bow their head as she nears them.
“Brienne, Pod. Thank the gods you’re both safe,” she says sincerely, the sight of her two trusted companions allow her to push down the flurry of unrest at least for the time being. “You ought to have yourselves checked by the maester.”
“There is no need, my lady,” Brienne answers. “We’re one of the fortunate ones who came out of battle unharmed.”
Immediately, Sansa crosses her arms over her chest as she shoots a pointed look at the bandage wrapped around the lady knight’s shoulder and the makeshift sling supporting the squire’s arm. “I may not have fought in battle, Lady Brienne, but I do know what unharmed looks like, and you are most certainly not it.”
Before he can stop himself, Podrick lets out a chuckle and earns a glare from his knight and a smile from his lady. Upon seeing the disapproval on Brienne’s face, he swiftly mumbles a halfhearted apology and clams up in an instant to Sansa’s amusement.
“There are others who’ve had it far worse, my lady,” Brienne speaks again.
It’s the way her eyes drop to the ground, the way her tone loses its edge, the way her straight shoulders sag a little bit when she says it that cause Sansa alarm. She knows that look. It’s the look of the Stranger’s messenger.
She lays a hand on Podrick’s uninjured arm. “Pod, please find Maester Lucan. Tell him I have need of him. Brienne and I will be in the godswood.”
“Yes, my lady.” The squire bows his head before leaving the two women to carry out his task.
Slowly, Sansa steps closer to her sworn shield and loops an arm around hers. “Walk with me, Brienne,” she tells her gently.
Together, they make their way to the godswood, but not before she steals a glance behind her to the King in the North and the dragon queen. She knows the dangers of doing so, yet she does it anyway.
Any other time she wouldn’t have allowed herself to fall into such temptation. It’s why she’s made it this far – her acquired aptitude to guard and mask her own desires and emotions, her innate ability to be ice and steel and Stark.
But this time, she allows herself one moment of weakness.
It doesn’t surprise her that Jon has his back to her as he talks with Henrik, possibly about the state of Winterfell and the North. What does surprise her are the striking amethyst eyes that are staring straight into hers, almost as if they are sizing her up, challenging her to a battle she is destined to lose.
Sansa, however, doesn’t blush or waver at being caught. Neither does she look away or cower in embarrassment. What is the point? They both know what the other wants, and they both know that the key to getting what they want is the bastard-turned-King, the man who is half wolf and half dragon.
Instead, Sansa Stark meets Daenerys Targaryen’s gaze with eyes that are just as striking and tilts her head in a small nod of acknowledgement before she lets Brienne lead her to their destination.
She wishes that the cool and self-assured façade she wears extends to her insides, but the rapid beating of her heart and the heaviness that is forcing its way down her throat are a sharp reminder that her expertise in pretending, while enough to fool everyone else around her, does absolutely nothing to convince her foolish heart.
For the first time since she stopped being a pawn and decided to become a player, she loses her footing. Suddenly, she feels frighteningly incompetent at this game she’s become a master in, all because of a single word that now pounds in her head and chest like a thousand swords clashing against each other in war.
Dany. He called her Dany.
As soon as they are deep enough in the godswood where she’s certain no curious ears and wandering eyes linger, Sansa turns to her closest confidant. “Who is it, Brienne?”
“My la-“
“It’s just us now,” she reminds her gently.
Brienne lets out a long exhale. “Sansa,” she finally says without any of the hesitation or awkwardness everyone else would expect to hear from her when she addresses her lady.
At first, Sansa thought the lady knight would never be able to call her by name without her face contorting in a grimace. And it did seem that way for a time until a familiar face from both their past showed up in Winterfell’s gates leading an army of lions to help the wolves and the dragons fight off the Others.
For all his show of smugness and arrogance, Jaime Lannister remains entirely ignorant of the greatest achievement he’s ever done as far as Sansa is concerned. If it weren’t for him and the peculiar attention he kept showering her sworn shield, Brienne would’ve never been so desperate enough to cross that line between seeing her as someone she’s honor bound to serve and treating her as one would a friend. The Maid of Tarth had no one to turn to but her when the Kingslayer’s attentions had become too confusing for her to understand.
“I didn’t see Jaime among the men who have returned,” Sansa says hesitantly.
Brienne’s eyes soften at her words, and immediately Sansa feels the anxiety within her lessen. “He is alright,” the knight says. “I told him to remain at the back of the army. He’d already gotten away with insulting Daenerys to her face once. I reckoned he wouldn’t be as lucky the second time.”
She breathes a sigh of relief, smiling.
It’s not just because of Brienne that she’s relieved to hear of the Kingslayer’s survival. No one was more surprised than her when Jaime Lannister entered the gates of Winterfell, walked right past Jon and Daenerys without sparing either of them a glance and knelt in front of Sansa to pledge his sword to her. She was sure that Daenerys would’ve fed him to her dragons then and there, but Jaime didn’t seem to care about the dragons or their mother.
“I made a vow to your mother to keep you safe. With your permission, Lady Sansa, I ask to be granted the honor of fulfilling it,” he’d said to her.
She had every intention of throwing his offer back at his face – Littlefinger had already told her about what he did to Bran. But before she could do so, Brienne had asked to speak with her in private. It had been the knight’s words that made her change her mind, that and the fact that he offered his service to her in front of the daughter of the mad king he’d infamously killed.
Since then, Jaime had gradually become one of Sansa’s constant companions. She appreciated how he didn’t ask for her forgiveness, telling her right away that he does not deserve it, that he only wishes to atone for his crimes against her and her family.
Immediately, he set out to prove his worth to her. When murmurs of a rivalry between two of the most beautiful women in all the seven kingdoms began to spread, he’d made it clear to everyone whose side he’s on. He would always pick a fight with Daenerys’ men, taunting Greyworm or one of the Dothraki. He would always make sure that he would be Sansa’s escort when Daenerys would be accompanied by Tyrion, no doubt to show that not all Lannisters favored the Targaryen over the Stark.
“Sansa,” Brienne says, pulling her away from her thoughts. She doesn’t understand the sullen expression on her face when she’s said so herself that Jaime is well.
“Yes?”
“Theon did not make it.”
She stands motionless as the words sink in, acutely aware of the dull ache that is slowly filling her lungs, threatening to suffocate her.
“Oh,” is all she can say.
In spite of his betrayal, of the crimes he committed against her family, Theon would always hold a place in her heart. He was the only one who could ever truly understand what she went through with Ramsay, the only one she’s sure of who would never look at her scars with disgust. He saved her from Ramsay, not as a ploy or as part of some grander scheme. No, Theon knew firsthand what that monster could do if he got caught and still he helped her, was even willing to sacrifice himself to allow her to escape. Jon might’ve been the one to hand Ramsay to her on a silver platter, but it was Theon who made it possible for her to reach Jon in the first place.
Sansa thinks back to the time Theon returned to Winterfell as part of Daenerys’ company. By then, she’d already known that in spite of their shaky alliance, Daenerys wanted Jon to give up his crown and swear fealty to her, desiring to sit on the iron throne to rule all of Westeros. Seeing Theon, whom she thought to be her ally, with the woman who wanted to take the North made her see red. She was livid, thinking him a traitor twice over, and she made sure to let him know.
“I… Sansa, I thought I could help you get Winterfell back from the Boltons,” he’d stuttered as he practically trembled in her solar. “By the time I found out you’d already succeeded, we already allied with her.”
“Well I did, I took back Winterfell from Ramsay, and I did it without your help or hers,” she’d spat back. “So now you can go back to wherever you came from and take your dragon queen with you!”
Theon had gone to his knees then. “It’s my sister, Asha, who will rule the Iron Islands. I do not want it, any of it. I only wish to stay here and serve you if you would have me. That’s all I want, Sansa.”
And that was all he did. Since that day, he was constantly by her side, hovering like a handmaid would her lady, only taking his leave when she was visited by Jon.
Oh Theon.
“Was it quick?” She hears herself ask.
“Yes. He did not suffer,” Brienne answered solemnly.
Sansa doesn’t have it in her to study Brienne’s face to inspect for dishonesty. Instead, she nods her head, accepting the answer she’s been given.
“He did what you asked of him up to the very end,” her friend continues. “He protected the king as best he could, even if His Grace made no attempt to conceal his dislike of him.”
At that, she couldn’t help the sad smile that tugged on her lips. “Theon never did care about what Jon thought,” she says fondly.
“You would know more than I,” Brienne says before pausing to clear her throat. “There is something else I must tell you.”
“What is it?”
Cleary hesitant, Brienne says, “We’ve heard whispers about it before, but now…”
“But now what?” Sansa presses even though she already knows where this conversation is heading, but deciding it’s best to first speak about it to the one person who has been honest with her from the start before discussing it with anyone else.
“I heard it once from Daenerys herself after the war was won,” Brienne eventually admits. “She told King Jon that she has kept her end of their agreement, and that now she expects him to bend the knee before they march south to claim the iron throne.”
“I figured as much.” Sansa sighs. “What was Jon’s response?”
“He said he must speak with you and the rest of the Northern lords first. She was none too pleased with her answer, that much was obvious.”
The lady knight looks around, checking her surroundings before speaking again. “I also overheard talk amongst the men, Tyrell and Martell men in particular, saying that the dragon queen intends to marry His Grace,” she reluctantly says. She looks at her with eyes full of sympathy and guilt as though she was to blame for the news she’s brought. “It would be the easiest way to bring the North to heel, they said. And…” she stops herself short, eyes widening in alarm and it is clear to Sansa that she never intended to say that last part.
“Tell me,” she says, wringing her hands together. She knows she’s not hiding her nervousness well, but she finds that, in Brienne’s presence, it’s easy for her not to care.
Brienne seems to deflate then and there, accepting defeat in this game of dancing around bitter truths – a game they both know Sansa hates playing regardless of how good she is at it. She lets out a weary exhale. “They also said that King Jon would certainly agree to wed her since they think he’s half in love with her already,” she says almost regrettably. “It would seem they too have heard about their… previous dalliance.”
She nods absently, ignoring the sharp pain Brienne’s words have inflicted. Of course everyone knows, she thinks. If Littlefinger didn’t make sure of it then Varys definitely would have.
“Daenerys Targaryen is the most beautiful woman in Westeros,” Sansa says in an calm, collected voice. “She’s shown strength and bravery, and loathe as I am to admit it, we would all be dead if it weren’t for her dragons. I wouldn’t be surprised if every man falls to his knees for her.”
“But Jon Snow is not every man,” Brienne says. “He is king.”
“If he gives in to her demands, he will soon be king in name alone,” she whispers unexpectedly, surprising even herself.
Her friend’s eyes harden, her jaw clenching. “Then he will be just like every man,” she says crisply. “And the North deserves better. You deserve better.” There is caution in her voice, worry that her words might upset her lady, but there is steel in there as well because Brienne is nothing if not honest and brave.
Sansa holds her gaze then, the two sharing an unspoken understanding. She lays a hand on Brienne’s arm and squeezes, hoping that small gesture is enough to convey the gratitude she feels.
“Come, Brienne,” she says. “I fear Maester Lucan will have a hard time finding us this deep into the woods. I want him to check on your wounds,” she pauses, raising a hand to stop her from whatever rebuttal the knight wishes to say. “And then you are to bring him to our men who need immediate attention.”
“My lady –“ the knight tries regardless, formally addressing her.
“Pod will stay with me,” she assures her with a smile. “I have to find Asha Greyjoy.”
Brienne still doesn’t move. Instead, she carefully asks, “What about King Jon?"
“What about His Grace?”
“He wishes to speak with you, no doubt about the demands of Daenerys Targaryen.”
“Aye, he does, but he will have to wait. Theon was a good man. I wouldn’t be here now if not for him. The least I can do is to offer my condolences to his sister. I know what it is like to lose a brother,” she pauses, Robb’s face suddenly appearing in her mind, before she forces it away.
“Do you think His Grace will give her what she wants?” Brienne can’t help but ask.
Sansa isn’t surprised by the hint of uncertainty Brienne is showing regarding Jon. It’s always been that way since Castle Black, and she supposes it’s her fault. The fact that she lied to him about Littlefinger back then didn’t exactly encourage Brienne to trust him. The knight has always made it clear that while she thinks Jon is a better man than most, her loyalties are with Sansa and Sansa alone.
“We have yet to speak of her,” Sansa says. “I shall wait for us to do so before I think anything more of it.”
It’s a lie, and they both know it. If there’s only one thing Sansa Stark is good at, it is thinking ahead, calculating and measuring every step she must take, contemplating every possibility and every scenario, in order to choose what the best course of action is. Everything she’s gone through, every scar in her body has hammered that lesson into her. It’s simply impossible for the Lady of Winterfell to ignore such a critical matter especially when it concerns the North for everyone knows how ferociously protective she is of her home and the land it belongs to.
But there is a reason why Sansa chooses her company over anyone else’s in times like this.
Unlike Littlefinger who hungered for her every passing thought out of obsession, unlike Jaime who never seems to know when to shut his mouth, unlike Arya who sometimes forgets that she is no longer the girl who had called her horseface when they were younger, unlike Bran whose greensight unnerves her at times, and unlike Jon who hasn’t yet learned how to keep his emotions in check, Brienne knows when to leave Sansa alone with her own thoughts, trusting implicitly in her lady.
It is that trust that makes Brienne nod silently as she leads Winterfell’s beloved Stark out of the godswood.