Chapter Text
When things had settled after Littlefingers trial and execution, Sansa could put her full focus in keeping things in the North and Winterfell running as smoothly as possible without all the whispered manipulations. The lords had luckily settled enough with the news of Jon going to the Dragon Queen for help, but they weren't happy. No one was happy, least of all Sansa. She knew it was a stupid decision to let him go South. Sansa knew she should have been the one to go, more knowledgeable of treaties and politics than Jon. But he wanted to go, and though Sansa fought hard, he had won.
So now, with the gathering of grain and food all across the kingdom, as well as the smallfolk coming in droves, ready to wait out the Long Night, Sansa had a few moments to breathe. The one who had started this entire war was gone, and Sansa no longer felt like her skin itched with just a glance from the man.
Now, she could turn her thoughts towards the new enemy. The enemy that seemed more important than those fighting over a stupid throne in the South.
Two evenings after the trial, Sansa had visited Bran in his room, Arya trailing after her. They still had far to go, the broken and fractured sisters that they were, but Sansa had hope they could mend things and grow closer together once more. Settling down around the fire, Sansa turned to Bran and asked, “The Night King. How did he come to be?”
The best way to understand your enemy, was to know their origins. Know where they came from, and see if there was a weakness to exploit.
“He was a First Man, kidnapped and sacrificed by the Children of the Forest. They were at war and needed a weapon. But that weapon turned against them, and working together, the First Men and the Children of the Forest managed to weaken his numbers and build the Wall. Now, he comes again.” Bran tonelessly answered.
Sansa paused in her tracks, other questions dying on her tongue as she blurted out, “Wait, so he was created against his will?”
“That is correct.”
Curious, Arya joined in, “How did they create him?”
“The Children of the Forest pushed a piece of dragon glass into his chest.” Bran replied, a faraway look in his eyes as he seemed to be thinking about the past events. “The magic of the glass embedded into him, giving him the powers he has now.”
“Can we remove that?” And both of her siblings turned back to her at that. Sansa looked between them, seeing Bran's small expression of confusion, and Arya bafflement. “Don't look at me like that. This was a person once. Someone who had no choice in what was made of him. Why can we not find a way to revert it? Is that not fair?”
“Sansa,” Arya began slowly, as if explaining to a small child, “He's killed hundreds of people.”
“But is he in his right state of mind?” She then argued, “Has the magic warped him into this monster? Was he originally this hellbent of killing all of humanity?”
Bran took a long moment to stare at her, before his eyes fogged over to white, a sign she had learnt meant he was looking into time. She shared an uncertain glance with Arya, before Bran started to speak, eyes back to their more familiar blue, “No. He was not.”
“Did he belong to any of the houses?” Sansa continued to question, trying to see all angles of the story, “If he was a First Man, he must have been part of one of the original houses that had settled in the North.”
“The past...is foggy, the further back I go. I-I'm not too sure...” And Bran, for the first time since she reunited with him, looks like the young boy she once knew, bewildered and lost.
“Could it be just too far back for you to see?” Arya suggested.
Sansa added, “Perhaps the Old Gods don't want you to know. Some knowledge should be forgotten, I assume.”
Arya then tsked, “What even was his name? He must have had one after all.”
That, Bran seemed to know the answer to, “It has been forgotten. Like those stories with Old Nan. The legends we had listened to, how some never had names, only titles. Some people are not meant to be remembered by their name, but by their actions.”
“But,” Sansa's brows furrowed, “Without a name, how are they meant to go into the after life?”
“Maybe they get barred from it, for the deeds they had committed.” Arya commented, and Sansa nodded, seeing how that could be. However, Sansa did not like this.
“I'm still not sure. If we could find a way to take away the power, would that not be better then fighting a battle that would kill many?”
“And how would we go about doing that, Sansa?” Arya snarked, more irritated with their dilemma than with Sansa, “Even if we knew a way to take that power, how would we even do so? He still would have to be here. So a battle will still happen.”
“And I get that, but think of the lives we could save if we could just-”
“Sansa,” Bran cut in with his blank tone. Sansa hated it. “Sometimes, there are people you are just not able to save.”
Fury welled inside her, “And some people should be given the chance!” Sansa snapped, “Everyone should have the chance to be saved and not trapped in a cage of someone else's making! And I can't sit and do what others have done to me! I won't allow myself to become them!”
And she gets up, stalking out of the room, her warm cloak floating behind her with the rush of her steps. The anger in her body, at the injustice, had her hands shaking. Sansa couldn't understand completely why she was reacting in such a way. She had learnt to conceal her emotions much better than this. Perhaps being around her siblings had allowed that tight control to loosen. However, her anger was enough to take over her body, and it was only when her feet finished guiding her did Sansa pull away from her rolling emotions and thoughts.
It was a small huff of laughter that was her reaction of finding herself stood before the Weirwood tree. It's face a mocking one, and Sansa couldn't help but ask, “Was this the plans of the gods, or was this humanity’s own mistakes coming back to bite them?”
Nothing but a chilled wind was her response. Not that Sansa expected a response. She believed in the gods, both old and new, but that faith was more of a routine to keep her sane than any true belief in their help now. Too much had happened to her to believe the gods to be merciful.
Moving closer, Sansa sat on the bench under the branches, red leaves always there no matter the season. Even winter hadn't stripped the tree away it's colour. Sitting where she knew her father once sat, Sansa peered up at the tree branches looming above her, and wondered, “Is there anyway to save him?”
Maybe it was the little girl that was hidden in her heart that was taking over; hope never fully dying that there were other methods to save the day that didn't include death. She remembered wanting to banish the Kingsguard that had harmed her when she had the power. And now, she remembered how she had her second husband mauled and killed by his own dogs. How far she had changed from all the abuse and suffering.
Sansa wished to be that little girl again. The little girl with scarless skin and a whole heart and family. She wished she was that little girl, but with the awareness of the cruel world that neither of her parents had taught her.
Lowering her head back down, Sansa moved with the motion and rested her head onto her hands, face hidden from the world. Sometimes she wanted to just hide from the world forever. Run and live a simpler life. Where she was not the Lady of Winterfell. Where she didn't need to be concerned over an entire Kingdom. Where she wasn't wrapped up in war after war. Fight after fight.
It was a useless wish. Bran may be able to see through time, but that did not mean that Sansa could physically go back. All she could do was look towards the future and plan and prepare as much as she could.
The Night King.
She had only heard the tales from Jon and some of the Wildlings that had helped retake Winterfell. How his skin was ice, his eyes an unnatural blue that pierced the heart with one look. How, with a wave of his hand, the dead would rise at his command.
Her body trembled, and it wasn't from the cold.
But as she thought of all the horror stories, Sansa found her mind drifting back to what Bran had told her and Arya. A First Man. A person, held against their will and turned into something without their consent. It had Sansa remembering the cold mask she had to build up, hiding all the emotions she wished to express. Neither of their experiences were the same, but Sansa couldn't help but sympathise with the monster. The man. Someone took from him. They took his name and his right to be his own person. How could she not feel for him?
Sighing, Sansa ruefully thought, 'It seems that none of my unwanted mentors could take that stupid hope and compassion from me like they wanted.'
As she removed her hands from her face, Sansa looked at the tree again, and said out loud, “Is there anything we could do, to change him back?”
No reply.
She thought not.
Standing up, Sansa turned to face the tree, staring at the carved face that bled, “The lives that will be lost, will be of the gods doing. Because if you allowed him to become the Night King, then the lives that have been taken will be caused by the gods unwillingness to step in.”
Silence.
A gust of wind then came from nowhere, having Sansa staggering back a few steps, arms coming up to block the sharp snow that blew at her. The cold cut through her thick clothes, chilling her to the bone, and Sansa had a dreadful feeling that she had angered the gods.
Squinting her eyes through the wind, she managed to peer through her arms at the tree, and the red sap was flowing in abundance from the Weirwood face, more than Sansa had ever seen before. It was like instead of tears, it was an open wound.
What had she done?
But, as quickly as the raging storm came, it stopped, a sudden suspense of the snow in the air around her. Hesitantly lowering her arms, Sansa stared wide eyed at how the snow had paused, floating in place. With a slow, near jerking movement of her hand, she reached out with trepidation and poked at one of the snowflakes.
It fell.
They all then fell.
The snow fall resumed and Sansa had no idea what to think. Sharply looking back at the tree, the sap was dripping so much, created a thick path of red down the white bark. The face seemed to have a smile so sinister. A fake friendly smile to lure the ignorant in.
Sansa felt both the urge to move closer and to run at the same time. Instinct was screaming to flee, however, her feet began to move forward. Small, wary steps, shuffling through the snow, and Sansa swallowed thickly.
She knew it was her own body that was moving. She had control, but something told her that if she left now, her wish to find a solution to the Night King problem would be no more. She would lose that chance. If she wanted another option, she had to face this creeping horror.
However, even though she had walked time and again into the throne room, knowing of the treatment that was to come, she walked forward with fear like none other. She had married and suffered through her time with Ramsey. She had witnessed the death of her father and seen his head on a pike. Sansa had seen brutality, she had felt that same brutality, but all that experience could not prepare the immense terror at walking towards a vessel of the Old Gods.
She had insulted them. Now, Sansa knew there was going to be some price to pay. There was always a price to pay, Sansa had learnt. Nothing came for free, and nothing was left unpunished.
Stopping just before the tree, the carved face only a few inches from her own that she could smell the sweetness of the tree sap, Sansa waited with bated breath. She dared not breathe loudly, keeping it all soundless as she waited for what was to come. She had barely moments to mentally prepare, imagining what was to come.
However, this? This was different. Gods were not humans. Gods did not think like people. So Sansa could not think up anything. Her mind was blank with fear.
Then-
A drip of ice ran down her spine, like snow had managed to get under the collar of her dress and seep into her skin. A tremor of her body. A cold breath of air on the back of her neck. She knew the sensation of another person standing close to her, standing directly behind her.
Something was stood behind her.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Sansa did not turn. She did not want her eyes to look upon whatever was there. And in her stubbornness to stay still, to not look, the thing behind her took the initiative.
A pair of hands moved, touching her shoulders, to then trailing them down her arms until the fingers laced with her own. A weight then leant upon her back, in the middle of her shoulder blades. Whatever it was, it was shorter than her, but that did not take the fear that she felt away. The weight stayed, and Sansa concluded that it must be the head, laying on her like a lover or friend. Like they were familiar with one another.
The fingers in hers then tightened and a whispered croon of a voice spoke in her ear, “Why so scared child? Isn't this what you wanted?”
The head moved, dragging itself up until that cold breath brushed her skin again. The voice was now closer, like it's lips where directly next to her ear, “Don't you want to save the monster?”
The tongue in her mouth was heavy, and Sansa struggled to speak, to get even a word out. But she managed. It was more of an exhale of breath though, terror unable to fully project her voice, “What is the price?”
“Oh, price? You care about price when you care about your people? Must choose, must choose.” It's voice was high, like a child, all playful and teasing. The hair on her skin stood as the hands began to move Sansa's. Now, she had to open her eyes, slowly cracking them open to meet the Weirwood tree's face. It was grinning.
Her hands came up and Sansa couldn't hold back the need to look at what was holding her. The skin was black. Black like coal. Like they dipped their arms and hands into ash. However, the skin seemed textured like bark.
It's hands were small, but the strength was immense in them. Sansa tried to force her hand down, not wanting to touch the tree, but the other continued to move her like she was nothing. It laid her bare hands upon the tree, palms covering the eyes, and immediately she felt the sticky wet sensation of the sap marking up her clean skin.
“Must choose, little Stark. Save the people or save the people? Either way you will win. But the cost of the power to take the magic from the monster will be needed.”
“What do you need? Why must there be a price? You are gods. Are you not all-powerful?” She spoke this all rushed, unable to conceal her fear.
The fingers tightened again, a painful grip that had Sansa wincing. It's voice than lowered, a warning, “Too many questions. Why do you humans ask so many questions?”
Words flicked through her mind, trying to decide on the right answer and Sansa settled with a weak reply of, “Because it's the only way we learn?”
“Boring.” It muttered. Then sighed, more irritated than angered. Still, with it's face to her back and hands linked, the thing – the god – said, “I need your blood on the tree. After all, giving a human godly powers is forbid. But that doesn't mean we can't take over a human's body.”
The winter wind had chilled her lips dry, now cracking that Sansa had to lick them before she asked, “And that's what you will do? Remove the control from me?” She did not like that idea.
It hummed, and a strange shiver rippled through the air. Through her body. “When the time comes, yes. I will take over your body, and remove the magic from the monster. When it is gone, you will be left to clean up it's mess.”
“Why do you need my blood?”
Another sigh, and Sansa knew she should probably stop but she needed all the information before committing to the deal. Still, the god answered her question, “A connection to forge so that I may enter your body. It has to be willing of course. We've seen what an unwilling sacrifice will become after all.”
It was like the cold had entered her mind, freezing in place at what the god had insinuated. Stuttering in disbelief, Sansa asked, “Are-are you saying that if the man was willing, the Children of the Forest would have had a weapon that they could control?”
The god giggled, like this was all a game and not lives hanging in the balance, “Consent goes a long way, child.”
The silence that lingered after the god's words had Sansa exhaling a trembling breath. Closing her eyes again, she weighed out the pros and cons of agreeing. And looking at it logically, the pros were heavier on the scale.
'For my people.' Sansa thought with finality. A resignation. What's one more sacrifice after all? And breathed out, “I consent.”
The fingers on her palm sharpened immediately after her words, and dug in deep to her skin, causing a pained gasp to burst from her chest. They dug and dug, until the sudden retraction of the claws had her letting out a whimper of relief. She had experienced pain, but Sansa never truly got used to it. Especially after the months of healing she had, growing used to no longer being hurt.
Then, the god's hands flattened her own against the tree, mixing her blood with the sap, and the jolt of lightning that ran from her hands to her chest had Sansa trembling, overwhelmed by what she could only assume was the god's power. It was terrifying and exhilarating and it only lasted a few seconds luckily. Sansa felt that if it stayed longer she would have burst, overfilled with something she was not made to contain.
The hands then slowly slithered away, dragging up her arms before disappearing, with only the gods soft and amused departing words, “I will come when the time has arrived, child.”
And the weight of the god's presence was relieving, Sansa collapsing to her knees, her bloodied hands dragging down the bark, and she took in gulping breaths of air. Leant against the Weirwood tree, she continued to suck in the sharp, cold air, body wracked with terrified shakes. Slumped and shocked, Sansa couldn't stop the hysterical laugh that bubbled up from her burning lungs.
What had she done?
“What have you done, Sansa?”
Bran showed more emotion than Sansa had ever seen on him since his return to Winterfell when she saw him the next day. He found her in her solar, going over supplies and numbers, and just let out that whisper of...horror? Shock? A mix of both and more? Either way, he was not pleased.
“You have changed the direction of the future. Do you understand what this means?”
“Yes,” Sansa couldn't help but snap, palms aching from the wound the god created, “I have potentially saved lives, Bran. I know what I have done and there is no backing out now.”
A lie. She still could not fully comprehend the sheer magnitude of what she had done. But no one needed to know that except her and the god.
Bran gave her one last look of all-knowing disapproval that still ticked her off to see from her younger brother, before leaving. Who was he to judge her for trying to save her land?
The wound on her palms never healed. They stayed fresh like an only day-healed wound, ready for the weak skin to be broken once more, letting blood bead out. Sansa took to wrapping the wound and wearing gloves when outside her rooms. Questions would cause more problems and Sansa was trying to solve problems, not create more.
She had also gone to Arya after her talk with Bran, wanting to let her sister know what she had done. And unlike Bran, though she still seemed skeptical, was supportive of her decision. Sansa was grateful to have someone on her side.
Things went on afterwards, the weight of her deal with the god only known to her and her siblings. Everything else moved as smoothly as Sansa could make it, keeping an eye on the rising number of small folk that continued to flood the large castle and castle grounds as the days crept by. Food was made twice a day in a communal pot, handed out to everyone who passed by. One bowl each. Everything had to be rationed and Sansa did the same. She made sure all the lords and ladies ate the same amount as the commoners. She had seen the riots Joffrey had caused with his greed. She would not allow her people to starve and then sit in luxury like he did.
Sometimes, Sansa would even go out there to get a bowl of stew, instead of the private kitchens for the nobility – food and ration still the same just made separately. She would get her bowl and talk to the people, asking after their concerns, seeing if there was anything she could do. Most just wanted a clean and warm place to sleep. And she did her best to provide them with that.
One day, she had sat besides a group of young girls. They seemed to have made friends after their families had come to Winterfell for shelter, and Sansa found that afternoon delightful, watching them play with their threadbare dolls and roughly made toys. They talked to her about all the stories surrounding their toys, about all the adventures they had been through. And that night Sansa went digging about in all the old storage rooms, going through old family heirlooms that were never thrown out. She found clothes, blankets, toys, and some books. Mending the clothes as best as she could, the next say Sansa had her and a few other servants handing them out to those in need.
The sight of the children smiling and laughing with their new toys had a small bit of sadness in her heart lifting. It was hard to find joy in these dark times, and Sansa found it difficult personally to come up with thoughts and feelings to distract her heavy thoughts, and this short moment of joy added to the good memories she was trying to create.
The lords and ladies of the North were enraged, yelling over one another after the announcement of Jon bending the knee. A part of her wished to join in. Her fight for her kingdom was carved into her skin and her half-brother had tossed it all away by kneeling. She wished he was here now so she could turn to him and scream, 'Why? Why would you do this to your people?' All that her family had died for, all for nothing. Given away to a false queen. Sansa had no doubt the Targaryen was a queen, after all, it didn't really take much to crown a person. Just needed plenty of people to rally behind you and land to own and watch over. However, nothing in Westeros was her's. She was not a queen of any of the Seven Kingdoms, not matter her blood as a Targaryen. They may have been an old blood line, but in Westeros, whose own bloodlines ran for over thousands of years, their two hundred year dynasty meant nothing. It meant nothing.
And Jon knelt.
As if all that these last years of pain and anguish were for naught.
However, this was her half-brother, and the Starks needed to be a pack. The needed to show loyalty to one another after the treachery that had occurred. Weakness would not be good.
So she argued and did her best to make them listen. And after a long time, her throat raw despite not having yelled, they settled with disgruntlement. But the dread and discomfort still settled heavily in her stomach. Jon's return would be not the most welcoming, Sansa predicted.
She...did not like Daenerys Targaryen. The woman was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. But she did not like the way Jon looked to the woman for direction. Where was the man who was the Commander of the Night's Watch? Where was her brother who stood firm against her mother's dislike? This new man was not one she liked.
However, though she may be Lady of Winterfell, she was not Queen, and could not uproot his decision. So she smiled, whole-heartedly welcoming her sibling back with open arms, and took the other woman's false pleasantries with a cool demeanor. She was mentored to read between the lines. To speak with flowery speech that hid the true meanings behind her intentions. Sansa would not be caught by this woman's smiles.
And the dragons. Oh, how she could imagine her ancestors wrath at the sight of dragons flying over the North and Winterfell once more. The sight of the army marching into her home, the dragons flying above, Sansa felt exhausted once more. When would they ever learn about inviting enemies into their home?
When Lady Mormont spoke up, Sansa watched Jon. He spoke about doing whatever he could for the North, like setting aside the crown was easy. And maybe for him it was. He hadn't been king for long. Not long enough to know that the power that came with it. Not necessarily the power she had seen Joffrey use, but what it symbolised. He set aside the North's right to independence. He made it seem that all those lives lost, were easy to forget. And the North never forgot.
Her mind was constantly running with all the tasks that needed to be completed, worries over the people and the land, the god and the Night King situation, and now she had to worry about the dissent between her own people once more. It was enough to cause a headache, which was the last thing she needed.
However, once Tyrion spoke up, solemn and dark words that did well in mollifying the upset Northern nobles so they rallied together under the banner of survival, Sansa had to address the issue many seemed to forget: food.
She had prepared for her own Kingdom's army, the Vale bannermen, and smallfolk. Not for thousands more men and dragons.
“Whatever they want.”
Her heart froze in anger, turning to slowly glance at the other woman's self-satisfied face. Sansa wondered if she understood the exact threat she had spoken, especially to people who were meant to be her allies. 'Dragons can eat whatever they want, including you.'
Subtly glancing at the lords, mainly catching Lord Royce and then Arya who was hidden in the shadows at the back, the caution and understanding in them had Sansa knowing she was not the only one who took Daenerys Targaryen's words as a threat.
Gods help them all if they somehow made it through the battle to come.
Unless directly talked to, Sansa did not interact with the woman. She went about as before, keeping Winterfell running in top shape, making sure everyone was eating. She almost went to Daenerys, ready to demand a reason for her audacity at bring a full army without any food or supplies, as if expecting a Kingdom just healing from a war and still trying to feed itself should be able to feed her people.
And she hated the way her people felt unsafe around these new comers, children flinching and adults scurrying away. It was not so much because they hated the army, it was because they were scared. Scared for what was to come. Scared to know if they were to die in this war. They just wanted to be safe and happy. Smallfolk rarely cared about who was their leader, as long as they were treated well. And Sansa did not want her people to be mistreated and mistrusting of their leaders.
Another thing that set her on edge once more, was the sight of Varys and Tyrion. Seeing those from her time in King's Landing had her caught off guard, like stepping on a loose stone. She knew the death of Joffrey was not on her, but the technical threat for her arrest and execution via Cersei was still there. And seeing Tyrion made her stomach churn in a different way, remembering their wedding night. The terror she felt, how he had touched her. He had backed off, but the sensation of his hands on her still had her skin crawling. She hated people touching her now, could not stand it unless she knew deep in her heart that she could trust them. And right now, it seemed only three people had that; Bran, Arya, and Lord Royce.
It seemed that Lord Royce also knew of her uncertainty and fear, keeping close to her side as they went about Winterfell, making sure things were running smoothly. She would miss him terribly when he went back to the Vale, and only hoped he would send her letters and keep in contact.
One evening in her solar, Sansa was unwrapping the blood speckled wrappings to observe the wound. They did not have any spare bandages, all saved for the expectant wounded and injured after the battle, so she would wash her two bandages to keep it all clean and let the wound air out as they dried by the fire.
Sat on the chair by the flames, Sansa stared for a long while at the marks. She wondered at why the wound never healed, still so fresh even after a month and a half. Closing her eyes, Sansa hung her head and sighed tiredly. Too much. Her mind was filled with too much. She did not need more to think about.
A knock.
Looking up, Sansa called out, preparing to hide her hands, “Who is it?”
“Arya.”
At the muffled response, Sansa relaxed, “Come in.”
The door creaked then clattered closed. The sisters watched one another for a bit, Arya's grey eyes moving to stare at Sansa's hands. The red head did nothing to hide it from the younger girl's sight, having already seen the god's marking.
“Still haven't healed then?”
She shrugged, faking indifference so as not to worry her sister, “I don't really expect it to. Maybe, after I go through with the deal, they might scar over or something, but,” And here Sansa gave a huff of laughter, turning to gaze at the fire, “What's another scar on my body really?”
Silently, Arya moved closer and sat on the hearth. Gently, she reached out and cupped Sansa's reddened palms. “Does it hurt?” She asked with that blank curiosity she had adopted these days.
Shrugging once more, Sansa replied, “Not really. I've grown to ignore it. Sometimes when I stretch my palm a bit too much, it stings. But that's all.”
“And the other injuries?”
Sansa looked up sharply at that question, seeing the keen eyed look from her sister. It was quiet, only the crackle of the fire, before Sansa sighed again, “They ache at times, though I've also adjusted. More layers, trying to keep myself moving so my limbs don't grow stiff.”
A pause of silence. “I'm sorry for what you went through.” Arya whispered.
“I'm sorry for what we all went through. That should have never happened...” Sansa replied softly.
When the council stated that all those who could not fight were to be placed in the crypts, Sansa nearly agreed. Until she remembered.
“The Night King can raise the dead.”
All talking stopped, and they turned to her. Steeling herself, Sansa reminded them, “We are going up against an enemy who can raise the dead. We will not be placing those who can not fight into the crypts where they will be trapped and killed. There will be children in there.”
Dawning realisation on many faces had them figuring out a new plan, until Arya stated, “They could go to the underground hot springs.”
Having been mulling over where they could hide instead, Sansa perked up, remembering the hidden chamber. “Yes, that's perfect, Arya.”
Facing the rest of the council and seeing their confusion barring Jon, Sansa explained, “There is a door in the kitchens that lead to the underground hot springs, the ones that heat the castle. It's a large chamber, and I'm sure we could fit those who can not fight in there.”
“Couldn't the dead break through?” Tryion wondered, sipping his wine.
Arya shrugged, “If they manage to get into the inner keep of the castle, then I would say we were all going to be doomed anyways.”
It was a dark thought, but these were dark times. They all looked away from Arya, contemplating her words, until Jon nodded, “The hot springs it is, then.”
Sansa would have to prepare the chamber for those taking cover. Blankets, some food and water. If the battle goes well enough that they win, then they wouldn't have to wait too long. Just enough to get through the fight.
Head already making mental calculations and supplies, she was jarred from her thoughts when the meeting concluded, lords and ladies filtering out of the room. Arya stayed behind, and Jon seemed to almost do so, before leaving after giving the sister's a lingering look. His expression was one of longing, as if he still thought he was not a part of their family. Granted, they were keeping the whole possible saving the Night King plan a secret from him, but with his closeness to the Dragon Queen, they figured it would be best just in case he told her.
Arya sidled up to her and said softly, “You will not be there, will you.”
And Sansa shook her head, “It will be expected, as I can not fight. But if I want to save the Night King, then I will have to actually be there to face him.”
“And who will keep them all calm and controlled?”
Collapsing in her seat, Sansa leant her elbow on the arm, rubbing her face tiredly, “I don't know, Arya.” She thought about how Cersei had left the Maiden's Vault when Stannis was attacking, and the women went into a panic. Sansa helped calm them all down, and they looked to her for the rest of that night for guidance. It was expected of her now to do the same thing, though none of those women were here now. She was not a fighter, of course she would seek safety with those who also couldn't fight.
Sighing, Sansa looked up at Arya, “They will just have to stay calm without me. I'm sure that as long as no one goes into hysterics and flees the chamber they should all be alright without me there.” Now if only Sansa could convince herself of her own words.
Nodding, Arya hopped up onto the table, sitting in front of Sansa, and said, “Where are you going to be that night then?”
“Most likely in the Godswood. Bran had said the Night King would be coming for him, so where Bran is, I will be.”
“As will I.” Arya stated firmly. Sansa stared. Raising an eyebrow at her, Arya explained, “In case your plan doesn't work, I will be there to kill the Night King. Bran told us how, so I will be back up.” Then, rolling her eyes as if exasperated by her, her little sister japed, “Like I would leave my too defenseless siblings by themselves to defeat him.”
Rolling her own eyes in amusement, Sansa drawled, “Thank you so much for protecting us, Ser Arya.”
Her sister's answering grin was cheeky and enough to ease some of Sansa's stress.
Seeing Theon again, being able to embrace him, was like a weight off her shoulders. Another member of her family had returned back to her, back to her home, and she felt the safety in numbers, especially with the enemies lurking about. It was also a relief to have someone how could understand the pain she went through personally. Arya had been there a few times when Sansa had woken from a nightmare. Since returning and making amends, the sisters spent many nights sharing a bed together like when they were younger.
And in doing so, Sansa got to see her sister's nightmares just as Arya got to see her's. However, what they both went through was very individual that it was hard to relate to one another at times. They could comfort and offer and ear for one another easily. But that depth of understanding, Sansa had missed. With Theon, she got that back.
After their reunion, Arya had come into the hall, made a face at Theon, but gave him a hug as well. And when all the formalities were over with, Sansa and Theon took themselves to the privacy of her mother's solar, where they could talk.
Theon looked at her with such earnest and honest eyes, and Sansa knew he would forever be trying to make up for his betrayal, though Sansa knew he had already paid it ten fold. Sitting by the fire, Theon was the first to speak in their comfortable silence.
“I still get nightmares.” He admitted in a quiet voice.
Sansa gave a wry smile as she replied, “I do too. And my body, it aches from all the scars left behind.”
He sighed ruefully. “Yeah. I've found massaging the area that hurts can help.” Theon then advised.
Humming, Sansa added, “Stretching too. And sometimes I will have waters skeins of hot water placed on my back. Arya does that for me when it gets too bad at night.”
Frowning, Theon looked thoughtful, “I might have to try that. There wasn't much to heat up water with when on a ship.”
She smiled, offering, “I could heat some for you tonight if you wish?”
“I would like that.” And he returned the smile.
Theon was brought into the 'Save the Night King' plan, seeing as he and his Ironborn would be guarding her and Bran in the Godswood. And she knew she could trust him with this plan more than Jon, which hurt her heart. She wanted to trust her half-brother. She wanted to be able to confine in him like she had done when they were reunited. The way Daenerys had twisted him into a too complying and faithful follower had her burning with anger. If it wasn't for the fact that she had a massive army with her and two dragons, she would not have hesitated and shoved her off Winterfell's walls. Preferably the highest one at that. However, she couldn't so she settled for cold and cool words exchanged with her, knowing for a fact that they couldn't have an independent North with her alive.
After explaining the plan, Theon was skeptical, but agreed to help. That trust could be seen as naïve, but they had jumped from Winterfell's wall, running for their lives together. Their trust and loyalty in one another was unwavering, and Sansa hoped that Theon would decide to stay behind once the war was over. She wanted him by her side.
The wind was mellow, not too harsh though it still nipped at her bared skin. It was the night of the battle, and many were huddled around fires, eating what could be their last meal. Sansa knew just because she was their sibling, that currently both Arya and Jon were sharing a bed with another. She was overjoyed Arya had found someone as kind as Gendry, but resolutely ignored that Jon was more than likely laying with Daenerys. And if her suspicions were correct, Brienne was with Jamie. A relationship that she did not want to understand.
Sansa herself could not think of ever having sex again. Her past experiences were enough to forever put her off of the activity, and seeing as Theon...was of his own situation, the two of them enjoyed their meal with each other, softly exchanging words and waiting for the signal to prepare. Sansa planned to use the rush of preparation as a cover to hurry over to the Godswood, not wishing to garner questions over why she wasn't with the others seeking shelter in the hot springs. Gilly would be leading them, having shown the woman where the entrance was.
Sipping her soup, Theon asked softly, “What will you do with the Night King? Once he's saved?”
Mulling the question over, Sansa answered slowly, “I hope...that I can discuss that with him. I would gladly open a room up for him. He must have much to heal from after all that, that magic in him. I wouldn't just remove it and then throw him out to survive. That seems unfair.”
He let out a soft laugh, more of a breath of air, and replied, “You are too kind sometimes, Sansa.”
“I thought I've grown rather ruthless over the years.” She commented lightly, and Theon frowned in response, not looking happy with her words.
“Maybe to some. You've definitely guarded your heart more, which is understandable. But even despite that, you've always offered mercy. Except of course to those who've harmed your family.” His words were spoken kindly and she liked that he understood what many didn't about her.
“Our family,” Sansa then corrected him, and enjoyed the bashful expression on his face as he ducked his head. “And you could argue that the Night King has harmed our family.”
“True.” Theon shrugged, then a small smile grew on his lips, “However, as you've pointed out, it may have been completely against his will. If we free him of this magic, and he still wants to kill us all, well now we've got a mortal Night King that we can kill.”
Sansa chuckled, “Glad we have back up plans.”
Her palms ached. They burnt with searing pain and Sansa knew that the god was watching as they gathered around Bran, waiting. Arya was in the shadows, waiting, and the Ironborn cast Sansa strange looks at her joining them. With the dagger her sister gave her, Sansa stayed by her brother's side, eyes peeled for movement. Ears straining for footsteps.
It was a long time until anything happened. They could here the battle on the other side of the walls, the trees doing nothing to cover the sounds of men dying, the dragons' roars, and the chilling shrieks of the dead. It was muffled, but it was heard.
And then soon, they came.
Sansa knew she would just be in the way as the men fought, so she stood beside Bran, dagger clenched in a fist so tight she knew they were white. The wounds on her palms ached fiercely, throbbing to the beat of her pounding heart. She was terrified. No matter how Jon or the Free Folk described them, the white walkers froze her to the core with just a single glance at them.
They staggered towards them, cut down but never ending. And one by one, she watched as the Ironborn fell, staring horrified at the death in front of her.
And just like that, it was only Theon left to protect them. His leg nearly gave out after he stabbed the last white walker. Sansa couldn't help herself and left Bran's side, hurrying over to brace Theon, taking his weight.
Grunting in pain, he caught her worried gaze and gave a silent nod. His body trembled from exertion, and looking up, Sansa realised that they were surrounded, but none of the dead moved.
Except, when a small amount stepped aside, and she watched as the Night King walked through. He stood tall, unwavering in the power he knew he had. Frost covered armour and something out of a nightmare. Nothing could have prepared just how cold his gaze was, staring at them unblinkingly. Two of what Jon had said were his generals flanked the Night King, and next to her, she felt how Theon was weakly trying to push her behind him. She wouldn't budge.
Instead, Sansa's eyes stayed locked with the eerily glowing blue. Her teeth were gritted, the pain in her hands almost unbearable, but she stayed firm, willing her fear back down her throat. To scream would not be helpful in this moment.
The wind blew, leaves rustled, and Sansa then heard the laughter of the god. Closing her eyes, blocking out the image of the Night King, Sansa focused on the pain in her hands, and whispered in to the winter air, “I offer my body as a vessel.”
Everything stilled.
The echoed cries around them hushed into silence. Sansa heard nothing but the pounding of her heart and the soft coo from the god in her head, 'I accept.'
Peeling her body away from Theon's, pausing to make sure he was stable on his feet, Sansa straightened up and opened her eyes. The pain of her hand throbbed one last time, before she felt fingers crawling down her skin, locking into place around her own. The weight on her back returned, only this time, it engulfed her like a blanket thrown over her head and body.
She saw everything, but her body was not her own to control. Sansa felt as her head was cocked to the side, and a voice not her own speak out to the Night King, “Come forward, monster. I have a deal to complete.”
It was mocking, uncaring of the severity of the situation. And the blank features of the Night King twitched enough to show that what the god had said affected him. That he noticed there was a shift in the air. However, it was so minute in movement that Sansa could not tell what emotion he had felt.
But, maybe he was curious, because he stepped forward, his two generals staying in place. The Night King stalked with the fluid grace of a predator, and Sansa began to move closer as well, tugging her gloves off as she went, the leather falling onto the snow. Light steps, too calm of movement for how hard her heart was beating as she grew nearer to this deadly enemy.
Glancing at the sword on his back, watching as his arm raised to unsheathe it, Sansa's heart leapt. She was going to die. She just knew it.
The god laughed in her ear, 'You're too interesting to let die, little Stark.'
It was not comforting, and Sansa swallowed thickly, throat dry. It was painful.
And just as the Night King lifted the sword up, ready to strike forward into her chest, her body moved. The god took a quick step to the left with her body, spinning quickly around, and coming in past the Night King's defense, it plunged the dagger Sansa forgot she had, straight into his chest. At the attack, the Night King faltered, surprised, his sword falling to the ground.
Her unarmed hand came up then, and wrapped around the blade, before beginning to dig her fingers into the wound. This close, Sansa watched as the Night King furrowed his brows, as if pained. She watched as he looked down, and she followed his gaze.
Her hands were black. They looked like the god's, burrowing deep into the Night King's chest and she felt as her hand latched around something sharp and so cold, it burnt her hand. Sansa had no control over her own vocal cords, because if she did, she would have cried out in agony. It was too much!
And it seemed that way for the Night King as well as he let out a pained gasp, and collapsed to his knees, Sansa following down with him. A grin not her own started to stretch her cheeks until it hurt, “Time to be mortal once more, monster.” The god cooed, and yanked Sansa's hand back sharply, taking with it the shard of glass that had been plunged into his chest, the dagger falling out with the movement.
The glass was dark and covered in a thick viscosity. In the fire light, the fluid glinted red, near black. Then, the god tightened her fist around the shard and it cracked, cracked, and shattered into pieces, a ferocious wind bursting outwards, her hand the epicenter.
Around them, Sansa heard as the dead collapsed into ice dust, shimmering to the ground like fallen snow. The Night King's blue eyes continued to glow only momentarily, flicking about in panic at the loss of his army, until they faded in their unnatural light. Faded until they fell into a warm brown.
So very human eyes looked up at her, and the god parted her lips and spoke it's final words, “You should be grateful to this little Stark, monster. No mercy would have been shown on you without her.”
And Sansa felt the god recede from her mind and body, and she hadn't realised that she wasn't feeling the cold until the sharpness came back suddenly. Inhaling sharply at the freezing temperature, she couldn't hold back a shiver.
Then, glancing at the Night King, Sansa watched in awe as the blue and ice melted from his skin. The strange crown like horns chipping off and the baldness gave way to hair. It peeled off like a shell from a boiled egg, bits and pieces revealing his pale skin and blond-ish brown hair. He...had freckles on his nose and cheeks.
Enraptured, Sansa watched this mythical monster crumble away and show the human that was underneath all the death and violence. Unconsciously, her arms moved and she grasped his upper arms, steadying him as he slumped forward.
Throughout it all though, the Night King's gaze never wavered once from her's. His now brown eyes stared at Sansa, and he seemed to be waiting for something.
Pursing her lips, Sansa glanced back at her brother and Theon, noting that Arya had come out and was helping to brace the older male. They all seemed just as stunned as her that her stupid plan had worked.
It then settled in. Her plan had worked.
She had saved the Night King.