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Chapter Text

It was an apple wine they poured, so tart that it bordered on sour. She took a sip and did her best not to pucker. Green apples, she guessed, picked too soon so the first frost of winter could not take them. They’d likely only been good for fermenting, so here they now poured at her grandfather’s table.

If this was all he could serve, then their winter stores were even thinner than she’d feared. And the state of their granaries kept up Sansa Tully late into her nights already.

A few of the servants were quietly sniffling. When Lord Vance was welcomed by her grandfather into the solar, the man’s rattling cough filled the room. Lord Clement Piper followed shortly after; his rotund belly no longer so rotund. Maester Vyman was already tucked behind a desk reading a missive while Riverrun’s steward, Utherydes Wayn, stood equally as gaunt at the other end of it.

They were up to something, those two, with their fraught whispers and glances they kept darting about. Perhaps she was paranoid, but Sansa thought a great number of those glances were coming her way.

It was a room filled with tired old men. If not for her mother the Lady Catelyn, her father Ser Myles Mooton, the mistress of Riverrun Lady Minisa, and Sansa herself—it’d have likely been a meeting of white heads and haggard visages deciding their fates.

It boded ill, and the next sip of wine had her stomach souring.

Her father Ser Myles settled beside her, kissing her temple and then murmuring into her hair: “Chin up, guppy. Your grandfather is looking far too smug for my liking, and I need you in tiptop shape.”

He was right. Hoster Tully, despite the shabby state of his table, looked a man fit to burst.

“Perhaps a raven has come from the Citadel.” She opined. “And winter is ending?”

Her father glanced out the nearest window to the rolling whiteness beyond. “Tell that to the skies.”

Sansa dearly wished she could.

Across the room, her mother finished accepting kisses to either cheek from grandfather, then graciously received any tokens of respect his bannermen saw fit to offer her. Catelyn Tully was heir to Riverrun, future Lady of the Red Fork and Mistress of the Third House, and loyal banner to the Trident King. It was a role her mother had been groomed for since she’d been a young girl with no brothers forthcoming. And in Sansa’s opinion, no finer lady existed in all the kingdoms.

Sansa’s father was of the same mind, for as soon as her mother reached them, he leapt up to kiss her hand and then sweep out her chair.

Mother touched his arm gently. “My love.” She murmured.

“My dearest lady.” Father returned.

And Sansa felt her heart squeeze terribly. When her grandfather passed, they would be in sure hands. Her mother would rule wisely, her father would command their armies, and sweet Bran would be raised to do both and more.

But what place would be made for her? Four years and four moons had winter lasted, and here she sat: her grandfather grinning slyly, his advisors buzzing like bees, and their stores run thin while her hand remained so noticeably unbound.

Grandmother Minisa passed around the table to join grandfather, one warm and weary hand squeezing Sansa’s shoulder as she passed. That was all it took. It struck Sansa like a bolt what was to come, when her grandfather ostentatiously announced: “Gentle lords and ladies, thank you for trekking these arduous lands to join me. Please, be seated.”

They sat all. A flick of Hoster’s hand, and Maester Vyman was hurrying across the room to spread a map over the table. Another flick, and Utherydes gave him the missive that had been so assiduously poured over.

“I’ve kept correspondence with Lord Denys Darklyn over this long winter, and he’s sent word—the Blackwater has seen its third thawing in less than two moons.”

That sent up an encouraged hum. Sansa felt her stomach unclench. Maybe this was good news. The best news. No reason to fear but hope.

“And further—” Her grandfather paraded. “The Yronwood has seen rains; more than half a dozen since the turning.” They all knew that while most of the kingdoms saw snows in winter, Dorne was a different beast. Their winters were bitter, dry, and cold affairs. If the rains were returning for true, that meant that…

Clement Piper clapped his hands against his gut. “Brilliant news, my lord! That’s the winter done and dusted, then?”

“I have no doubt.” Hoster declared, and a hearty cheer went across the room. Even Sansa joined in as they clacked their goblets against the table. Her father gripped her shoulder, and her mother took her hand and kissed her brow. Spring again, green shoots and flowers on the riverbanks, summer wines and fresh fruit dripping down their chins. Tourneys on the fields of Harrenhal; pennants snapping so brightly against the clouds. Fat babes, happy maids, and Queens of Love and Beauty to dance in summer halls.

The vision brought tears to her eyes.

But grandmother sat across from them, her face pinched and no cup raised in toast.

The soaring in her chest tumbled. Grandfather grinned wide. “And that gives us an opportunity. Before the ravens fly from the Citadel, we will look where no one has thought to look; win a prize before it is snatched from beneath our noses.” Then his hand fell on the map, finger speared to Winterfell.

And Sansa felt her premonition unfurl.

“The North?” Lord Vance asked.

“The North.” Hoster confirmed.

And her mother’s hands, which had once been gentle on hers, clenched ferociously tight. “The North, father? And what, pray tell, does that barren place have to offer after all they’ve cost us?”

“Cat,” Grandfather chided. “Our loss is no fault of the North, you know this.”

“I know what you’re after.” Mother hissed. “Another Tully daughter made Queen. Do you think the Trident King will be pleased to know you’ve picked up this scheme again?”

Hoster’s face purpled. “I know since the First Darry sat his arse above the God’s Eye, that not a single house of the Red Fork has been wed to the Trident Throne. House Tully and our banners must endure, and if I must turn us northwards for that, then so be it. Let the King try to interfere—I have ways that will only end in his chastisement.”

Lord Ryger looked impressed at this claim, mouth opening to no doubt ask of these ways. Her lord grandfather silenced him with a look.

Lord Vance’s fingers drummed against the table. “My lady, we saw those barbarous armies King Eddard marched to the Stormlands from the North. They skinned men alive and ate their hearts while they still breathed. Even the lions trembled to face them in the field. The victories they struck against the King of the Rock—”

“Were numerous and ultimately meaningless.” Her father interjected. “Because they took their plunder and fled. After all that bloodshed and dying, the Westerlands are headless but for a child-king, and the Stormlands have won no lands while all their heirs are possibly bastards of incest. And what did that fleeing Northern army receive?”

“Death.” Sansa murmured, for now she understood what her place was. Her purpose. To whom her Grandfather wished her wed.

Terrible rumors circled the lands. Terrible wars. Terrible kings.

“The Bastard—” Mother said, and the rumblings were growing. “Sat pretty in the Barrowlands while his uncle and cousin died in the West. How convenient that all the rapists and murders he brought below the Wall, along with those cowards who were not at their King’s side when he rallied a second army, knew exactly where to lie in wait for their returning kinsmen. And this, of course, right after the Bastard’s cousins were slaughtered in Winterfell to clear the way for him—”

“Cat.” Grandmother said, and the room chilled to silence. “I dined with Queen Lyarra Stark in these very halls, when your sister’s betrothal was made. No matter what Bolton claims may be, they were not lured to Winterfell when she ruled on behalf of her grandchildren. They did not act in self-defense. Queen Lyarra and her grandchildren were murdered, and I know Boltons were driven from Winterfell after that bloody day. And it was Lord Bolton that stood beside King Eddard in the South when that terrible battle happened. When the rumors started.”

They all knew those whisperings. That the King in the North had not died in battle, but been felled by his own swords. That his heir Robb, after his bewildering marriage to a Westerling girl, had not just fallen from his horse during campaign—he’d been pushed.

But rumors were the way of the kingdoms and the way of wars. Who was to say? All they knew was that when the retreating Northern Army led by Roose Bolton met the Neck, they met the White Wolf.

And as they said: on that day, the Neck had been slit.

Grandmother finished: “We know who it was that destroyed the Boltons to the last man, and whom every Northern house has since pledged themselves. Blood of the Starks he may be—”

“Lyanna’s Shame.” Mother interjected.

Grandmother merely nodded. “So he is. But if he had done this treachery as you imagine, do you truly think the North would pay him fealty?”

Her mother had little answer to that. “They may not know.”

“A difficult thing to conceal.” Her grandmother murmured, and then kept her counsels once more.

Lord Piper spoke. “The Dowager Queen Corenna marched an army of mercenaries on the North’s back when Bolton called the retreat—she wouldn’t have done that if she did not believe treachery in her children’s deaths. We cannot say what the bastard knew, but there was vengeance that day on the Neck. And his aunt the Dowager—she crowned him after. Named him.”

It was not a song Sansa liked, that dreary tune. There was such terrible sadness in it. Slaughter and daggers in the dark; a wolf red with blood kneeling to accept his crown from a Daughter of the Storm. All of her children slain; their cousin so wrathful in his retribution.

Some songs did not call it vengeance though, but a cutting of a loose Bolton thread. An ally snuffed before he could demand due for the bloody work to crown a usurper.

There were rumors of bitter fighting in the North before that battle at the Neck. Terrible burnings and terrible slaughters. They said the Dreadfort had been torn down stone by stone. Sansa didn’t believe that last part; to destroy a castle when winter was already upon them—

“Why would he say yes?” Lord Smallwood asked. “This King in the North? We all know Lysa’s betrothal…it was made on King Rickard’s ambitions, my lord. The Bastard might not feel the same.”

“It does not matter what he feels, but what he needs.” Hoster answered firmly. “I’ve kept correspondence with every port in our kingdom. It was not even a year into winter that the North was sending ships willing to pay any coin for food. This last year they’ve started offering trade of goods. By the gods, they’ve asked for food on credit.”

That drew a gasp from them all.

Sansa saw the shape of it. “But Grandfather, our stores—”

“Spring is nearly here.” He assured, and for the first time was staring her in the eye. “We will have spring crops and early shoots aplenty. The rivers will break their ice and our men can drag their nets once more. Granddaughter, your dowry will be our stores, and you will be Queen in the North.”

She clutched at her neck. The colors of a once dreary room now seemed too bright. Her head was swimming, caught in an indomitable current. Queen, their stores, the thinness of the faces around her, this gamble made—

“And if you’re wrong?” Her mother asked grimly. “What will be your answer when the Red Fork starves?”

Hoster cast a dismissive hand. “Spring is coming, can’t you see? The walls of Riverrun weep daily. You will all see the thaws soon, and then so too will the other Kingdoms. I will not be the only Lord to notice that the North is starving while a king in his prime remains unwed. My letter travels today. It will be done—my granddaughter will be Queen, and if any evil rises against us—it will be her sons riding at the head of that barbarous army to come in our defense.”

There were cheers again, a drumming of goblets. Sansa did not join; sightless, motionless, her mind laid barren as those winter fields.

There would be no swimming bare in the Red Fork, no jousts, no seeing all the dear faces of her friends made fresh and new by spring. Only the North. Only that bloody and barbarian king.

Her father had his arm around her. “Chin up; don’t let them see. If you cannot leave the current, then swim.”

She raised her head. If her eyes were glassy, no tears were shed. And if she had fears—small and squirming, and leaving her the scared girl once more—no one bore witness. She was Tully; daughter of a future High Lady. Beloved child of Ser Myles Mooton, he as bold as brass. She was sister to a future Lord of the Red Fork, who was her dearest companion and brightest jewel.

She was the future wife of a king.

“May we have an audience, father?” Sansa asked tremulously.

He nodded. “Your mother already seeks it. Just a little longer.”

The room emptied but for their kin. Sansa had to smile winsomely as she received her congratulations. It was not a done thing yet—but her grandfather’s bannermen made their expectations plain.

Her duty was to tame the North. Send their armies South if needed as the Queen Corenna of House Durrandon, wife of Eddard Stark, had already proven possible. Sansa would bring to her mother a goodson who was a king. When her brother Branston Tully ruled after their mother, he would have a goodbrother or even nephews on the Northern throne. And once winter was over and the starvations at an end, the trade that would be possible—

There would be no match of greater advantage her grandfather could make. She would have no knight or lord for a husband, but a bastard made king. If Sansa Tully had ever dreamed romanticisms; of pleasure barges and sweet letters dabbed in perfume, of gallant knights begging her father for her hand—they died in that very room.

Her mother’s voice came to her as if Sansa had surfaced from some great depth. “—not enough that we lost Lysa to their foolishness? To Lyanna’s treachery? That man you call King is the fruit of her shame and harlotry! He’s a Snow—he was not raised as a prince in that North, but a common squire! How could Sansa be happy married to such a brute?”

“His people are very devoted to him. You yourself saw Brandon Stark when he bewitched our Lysa—if the boy has even half his uncle’s looks, Sansa will find him comely. And from there, it is easy to find admiration. She was raised to see her husband’s virtues, Cat.”

Her father stood. “They say Northmen gut criminals and hang them bloody from their holy trees. They yet practice prima nocta—my Sansa was raised in the light of the Seven. Can we countenance such slights against her? Such horrors before her eyes?”

“Requests can be tendered.” Hoster answered sharply. “And you will find the light of the Seven has hardly stopped lords straying from their marriage beds in the South.”

Her father, from his risen place, put a hand against her shoulder. Sansa wondered if he could feel her sweat run cold as he asked: “What protections can we give her?”

“Sworn shields, a dozen guards, maids, and once she is Queen, ladies in waiting aplenty. You don’t think I’m fool enough to send her up there alone, do you?”

Her mother snapped back. “I want uncle with her.”

“Cat—”

“And I now see why you didn’t invite him to this announcement, because you knew he’d be my ally in this! I cannot believe you would ambush me in such a way—”

Truthfully, Sansa was thankful the Blackfish wasn’t here. He was a quarrelsome man when it came to marriage arrangements, and this day would be difficult without his bellowing to join it.

“She is my daughter.”

“And she is my granddaughter.” Grandfather thundered. “And as long as I rule Riverrun, you will remember that!”

Sansa found herself rising; found herself surprised that she didn’t lose her head and swoon to the floor. But here she stood: the morning bright, apple wine sour, her mother’s love for her shining so clearly that Sansa wept.

“Oh, my little love.” And her mother rushed to her immediately; took her up into warm arms as if she was but a babe again. Gods, the smell of her mother: rosemary, fresh linens, a dab of that sea grape perfume that father always brought from the shore. Would Sansa forget this scent in the North? Would her heart always ache so keenly as it did now?

“You do not have to do this thing.” Mother whispered. “I will send you to your father’s kin at Maidenpool.”

Sansa cleared her throat and then dashed her eyes clear. “He is a king, mother.”

“And a man we know not.” Her mother despaired.

But Sansa just nodded more firmly. “He is a king, and his people are starving. He will be grateful, and Uncle Brynden will know if he is kind. I will not be alone.”

“But if he is cruel…”

“We will find the measure of him.” And she looked to her grandfather. “I can meet him first, yes? I will not wed him sight unseen.”

The words bent the man’s shoulders inwards; dented that infernal will just a smidge. “Yes, of course, sweetling. I have seen no signs he wishes to come South, but you can meet him partway. We will send you to White Harbor. They will have septons and holy knights—men willing to keep you in safety before the King until this deal is struck.”

Mother pushed in. “Let me speak to her.”

Grandfather’s gaze was long, dark as these winter nights that plagued them. “Mind yourself, Cat.”

The only answer was an austere nod as her mother took her aside. The window was too bright. Her mother’s offering too quiet: “There are things you must know before you make this choice.”

Sansa felt her eyes sweep shut, heavy with the history that laid like bones upon them. “You have spoken so little of what happened to Aunt Lysa.”

“When you were a child…it was too painful to endure. She was young, in love, so bright with laughter. She would dance her nights away in the Great Hall—I saw her sometimes, in you.” Mother cleared her throat, then wavered. “We would swim in the rivers, she and I. Think ourselves mermaids destined to marry princes, and beguile them into our waters.” Her laugh was wet then, brittle. It tore a hole through Sansa. “It was only Lysa who had that destiny. When Brandon Stark and King Rickard came to one of our tournaments, she fell madly in love. Not even ten and five, and she was besotted. It served our fathers to see them betrothed.”

“And so they were.”

“And so they were.” Her mother agreed, eyes so far beyond the walls of this keep.

Mother continued: “Lyanna was Brandon’s only sister and betrothed to the brother of the Durrandon King. The North was so little involved below the Neck, that even Rickard’s ambitions could not see her married to a throne. Mayhaps that’s why she rebelled, the ungrateful harlot.”

Vicious songs had been sung of the White Wolf’s mother. None of them fit for a Lady’s ears, and yet Sansa had heard many. She had Rymund the Rhymer to thank for that. “What happened?”

“Ran off. She hid with some of her cousins, the Karstarks. By the time King Rickard found where she’d disappeared, she’d been gone for moons and insulted the Durrandons terribly. Brandon went to drag her home, but when he got there, he found that she was ruined—the girl had willfully defiled herself. So great was Brandon’s wroth, that he challenged the Karstark heir to a duel for allowing it. Maybe even having done the act himself. I believe Lord Karstark was at a bannerman’s keep that day…but it matters not. Brandon killed the Karstark heir, and when the boy’s father returned, he lost his mind in grief and murdered Brandon.”

Sansa gasped—couldn’t help the sound. To murder his liege lord’s heir, and a prince at that—it was beyond madness.

“It was war.” Mother answered severely. “And a short one at that. The Karstark line was slaughtered nearly to a man. To punish his daughter, King Rickard forced her to wed the youngest surviving son. He was only a boy, not even ten. So when that little fool came down pregnant not a moon into her marriage, it was obvious it was not her child-husband that had done the deed. That is the birthright of your King—foolishness and shame. Misery and dereliction of duty. Be wary of him, be wary of his mother, be wary of the lady who raised him.”

That distinction caught her. “Was he not raised by his mother?”

“No.” Was the sharp retort. “I heard Lyanna’s Shame was sent to the Barrowlands to be a page to Barbrey Dustin; the only woman who may have hated that harlot more than I. Barbrey was…involved, with Brandon, and terribly displeased when Lysa was chosen to be his bride. The woman was born a Ryswell, so remember this, Sansa. No Dustin or Ryswell will be friend to a Tully. It was an army of Dustins and Ryswells that helped crown the White Wolf, and they sit as his advisors now.”

She swallowed hard and took that information in. “I understand, I will be careful.”

“And do not…” Mother’s breath wavered. “Do not set your heart too much in him. They are careless, those Starks. Cruel. Do not…”

“Mother,” She whispered softly. “What happened to Aunt Lysa?”

“There came a letter telling us of Brandon. Lysa’s grief was monstrous. King Rickard offered her Eddard’s hand in his brother’s stead, but all she heard was her beloved’s death. Never to send her another sweet letter. Never to wed her. It was an accident, all that wine, that pain—she fell. The crenels were low, and she fell.”

Sansa could feel her eyes burning for the grief in her mother’s voice. Her mother was a lady, a named heir, the strongest person she knew. Catelyn Tully had not been born to be made small in misery.

“I will be careful.” Sansa repeated, then took her mother’s arm. “I will be smart, and sweet, and do as you taught me.”

And Mother gathered her strength. “Move with the currents, find your moment, and let your enemies dash themselves upon the stones.”

“Yes.” And Sansa prayed to the gods that she could do so. “The King’s people are starving. I have seen enough suffering in this life. If I can relieve any of it, I will win him.”

His fealty, his trust, his heart—

Was it a crime to want that from her husband? To hope? Barbarian he may be, but surely their hearts loved just the same. There could be some gentleness for her yet in this life.

There had to be.

Her mother grasped her. “I pray it will be so. I truly do. You are the best of us, my darling.”

Sansa raised her chin as her father wanted. As her mother had taught her. Raised her voice to the room and said: “Send your letter, Grandfather. Let us see what this king has to say.”

And so Maester Vyman did; her grandfather dictating while all their family grimly stood around that scratching quill.

Somewhere in the space of it, grandfather reached for her mother. Took her by the elbow with an aching plea: “Cat, my dearest treasure, you will see the sense in this one day. I promise. The bounty it will bring our House will be immense. We have no sweeter hand nor sharper mind than your Sansa, and she will make a queen like no other. Have faith.”

Sansa wished the same. For faith, for hope, that her husband would be kind and true, and they might find some measure of understanding between them.

That Jon Snow—Jon Stark—would be as she dreamed him. For he would be her own.

When the letter was done, she watched the wax heat. Blue. Red. Poured onto the parchment until her grandfather affixed their seal. Tully Trout; rivers and blood.

Family. Duty. Honor.

Vyman lifted the raven to the window and cast it into the cold, and Sansa watched her future wing north until it vanished against the sky.

Chapter Text

The letter of their salvation arrived on a break of the snows, the dawn shining behind the dark wings that brought it. Jon read it once, twice, then called for his council in what had once been his uncle’s solar.

It was his now, he had to remember that. Barbrey Dustin’s voice rang clear: the lords can smell doubt, Jon, always recall this. Who is strong?

The man who doesn’t flinch.

Good boy.

When he opened his eyes, the Lady Barbrey stood before him. She was older than he remembered, frailer. Her husband’s death in the Westerland War had done her no favors. Jon knew they both still grieved Willam Dustin, but the needs of a kingdom left little time for mourning.

But it seemed he would always see her as the woman who waited stone-faced in the bailey of Barrow Hall to welcome him, dark-haired and terrible in her beauty. He’d been naught but seven then and scared stiff, wrenched so far from his cousins on the King’s orders.

He had conjured so many fears for himself, so many monsters.

But she had merely lifted a hand. “Come.”

And so he’d gone; a page, her husband’s squire, a man-at-arms, through two wars and a hundred battles, and now sitting here crowned and named before the North.

Her lips quirked. “Your Grace, if you’ve called us to attend the counting of the stores again, I’d say three times in a sennight is a bit much.”

“I wouldn’t insult you in such a way, my lady.” He rose, stepped neatly over Ghost’s tail, then offered her a hand. She flitted a curtsy, gave a fond spit of beast to Ghost where he laid, and then lingered as he swept out her chair. His gaze sheared upwards. “Though I must confess, I’ve called you for a related matter.”

“Oh?” She asked, blithe as could be, as if butter had never melted on her tongue. Ghost’s tail thumped in answer.

Behind her, Glover and Lord Umber entered the room. Wordless, he slid the letter to this woman who had once been his liege lady a lifetime past.

Her brows jumped at the broken seal, then kept rising the further she read. Her face turned thunderous.

“You cannot countenance this!” She hissed.

Before she could seek to snatch the letter away—or gods forbid, throw it into the fire—he swept it back. “I am, and I will.”

“Your Grace—”

“What’s this, Barbrey?” The GreatJon rumbled. “It’s a little early in morning to work up such a sweat, but I suppose with widowhood and all—”

“Do not finish that thought if you wish to leave this room a man, Lord Umber.”

Umber shrugged broadly, grinning wide, but soon more lords and heirs and envoys were pouring in to drown the argument. Wylis of House Manderly, the new Lord Locke. Cassels, Condons, and Cerwyns, too. A Flint of the Watch and a Flint of the Finger that he had yet to tell apart. Jojen Reed, the only crannogman who’d seen fit to come up from the Neck. A token Crowl from the Skagosi. Longs, Holts, even Branches from deep in the wolfswood. A Karstark envoy to represent Jon’s half-brother who ruled the Karhold. A Hornwood, two Lightfoots. Roger Ryswell behind them, heir apparent and brother to the Lady Barbrey.

Lastly, as they had come from a camp outside the walls, were the Magnars of Thenn, Hornfoot, and the Walrus Men. What cheer and jostling there’d been in the room ground to a halt. Sigorn of Thenn just grinned harshly, knocked his fist of his chest and hailed: “King Snow!”

“Stark.” A Cerwyn muttered, and Jon did appreciate the support.

“Enough jawing.” He called above the rabble. “Sit.”

They sat, though not without elbowing and muttering, and a great deal of rattling of hilts. It wouldn’t do.

“And to be clear.” Jon added mildly. “The next man to attempt a stabbing at my council, will have his head put over the gates.”

Hands left hilts. A few globs of spit hit the floor. It’d have to do. “I’ve received a letter from the South that may offer us an answer to our food crisis.” Their famines. Their starvations. Just that morning, they’d lost another dozen souls from the Wintertown to a storm. The poor fools had been caught unaware in the hills, desperately peeling tree bark to bring back to their families to roast and eat.

“The Dowager Queen?” A Condon asked, but Jon merely shook his head. His aunt would be no help—the Stormlands had been too ravaged already.

Lady Barbrey rose. “Your Grace, if I may read your missive to the room?” Oh, she would, and poisonously at that. But every man here knew where his armies had come from. When Eddard Stark had called his banners, only green boys and greybeards had answered from Ryswell and Dustin. When Jon’s cousins and grandmother had been murdered in Winterfell, when House Bolton and all their remaining men had been wreaking bloodshed to take the North, he knew who had answered his calls. Who had been ready to stand under his banner, even though he’d already massed Wildlings thirty-thousand strong this side of the Wall.

The Umbers would never forgive him that. The Mountain Clans wouldn’t, either. While they had fought for him, they had not answered a single of his missives after. None of the clans sat his council.

It was a price that Jon would pay. There would be bloodshed someday for this, but hopefully it would not be enough to wet the ground.

“By all means, my lady.” And Jon handed her the parchment once more. But he had been taught well, so while she read aloud to them, he watched the room. The tightening of jaws, the shifting of brows, whether there be smiles or frowns or some ugly grimace between.

The largest frowns, he found, were from lords who had a female relative of marrying age. That did not surprise him.

What surprised him was the first argument to spring forth. “Have we not had enough?” Lord Lightfoot bellowed. “First your uncle’s wife drags us into a war we had no claim in. Northern blood shed for an endless Southron folly. Hoster Tully only seeks to drag us into the same!”

“He’s right!” A Holt shouted.

“Enough Southron wars!” Came the Flint cry.

Jon didn’t move, didn’t rise. The table was a massive thing; solid oak that could seat twenty men. Ghost rose beneath it, back cracking off the table and raising it by an inch. A visible flinch passed through the room. Ghost resettled with a great gusting sigh, not at all bothered by the force of his collision.

Neither was Jon: “I have pardoned some of you for your part in that endless Southern folly, remember that.”

And remember they did. Who among them had not grown bitter at a war without end? When winter loomed, and crops had been left to rot in the fields? Would a man not grow resentful at that? Vengeful? Especially when Wildlings poured over the wall upon their homes with murder and rapine in their hearts, and no good northern men to raise the defense?

There was no whisper to answer him: You were not there, Jon Snow.

He heard it all the same.

He could never know the full truth, who among them were traitors and who among them had been true. There had been a weighing between vengeance and mercy at the Neck, and to Jon’s own surprise—he’d found mercy.

But he did not know if he’d ever forgive Lady Barbrey for keeping him from his uncle’s side.

Wylis Manderly piped in. “This is different from Ned’s marriage—there is no word of military alliance in this letter. Food for marrying his granddaughter, that is what Lord Tully offers. No more, no less.”

“They expect more.” Roger Ryswell argued. “If the King marries this trout, then we’ll have half-fish on the throne who might feel called to save their kin from whatever mire they’ve gotten themselves into.”

“What true man doesn’t answer his kin?” Glover growled, and Jon heard the rebuke to himself as clear as day. Ghost pressed against his leg; snarl silent but vibrating.

The Lady Barbrey heard it, too. “Men who fight for their kingdom instead of dying in pointless wars far from it, Glover.” A dozen fiery glares answered this, but none of them moved her. Everyone knew Barbrey Dustin’s hatred for all things Stark. All but Jon, it seemed, as she continued: “Though I suppose there is a point here. Many spoke against these southron marriages your grandfather wanted, your Grace—even as proper a queen as Corenna tried to be for us…well. We all know what happened.”

It was a bitterness that would not leave them: that southron war of calamity.

But the faces around him were gaunt, all pale as the moon and sharp with hunger. There was no more time for foolishness. “Speak no more of my aunt; she has suffered enough. I will not hear her name tarnished in these halls.”

That brought the grumblings quiet once more. He was tired—four and twenty, and he felt two hundred. When would it end? “I know the state of my stores, my coffers. I have beggared my house to feed my people, and I have beggared you all through taxes when there was nothing left that I could give. I hear no solutions from this council. Every day more of our people starve. Now is not the time for recriminations of what led us here—what’s done is done. Have you food or coin you did not tell me of? Do you hoard in your halls while our people starve?”

Dozens of sets of eyes could no longer meet his. He did not doubt every house here had their own secret stores. To feed themselves if all else failed, even if their smallfolk starved to a child outside their walls.

Even Barbrey shifted from him. He had wondered about her granaries; if she’d kept some secret supply to entice him into her newest gambit. But this winter had gone far too long. Whatever she’d kept, if she had done it—she’d likely already used it to keep House Dustin hearty.

He wondered sometimes if they’d all die here in the snows, buried and hungry and never to see the spring. Gods, if there was just one soft place he could rest his head. Just one. Some gentle thing to ease his aches. He was a ravaged man who had to wear a crown; wear a strength he didn’t have so other men wouldn’t flounder.

There would never be an end for him. No rest. No respite.

No gentle hour.

“No, your Grace.” Once voice answered.

“Never, your Grace.” Another few chorused.

No respite, and he stared around the room until his gaze burned them. “I have an answer to our prayers before me. I cannot worry what will happen in a decade when our survival for another moon is not guaranteed. The children of the Lady Sansa will be my sons, my daughters, and I will raise them. If you doubt me even in this, then why did you name me King?”

One of the Cerwyns straightened. He was a man Jon had been raised with, in those early days when he had lived in Castle Cerwyn not a day’s ride for his uncles and cousins to come visit. Greet him with hugs, kisses, then gifts from their shared grandmother.

Cley Cerwyn spoke: “We are with you, Your Grace. The food is needed. House Tully is old and loyal, it will be a good match.”

Wylis Manderly followed. “I think it a good marriage as well, but my liege…I do not know how the King of the Trident will react to one of his bannermen making such a move. The last time the Tullys tried to ally with House Stark…there was anger. A deep anger.”

For the first time, Jojen Reed raised his voice. “Then he can smash his anger upon the Neck, it will give him no succor.”

“But for the Tullys in the South…?” A Branch asked timidly.

“They’ve made their bed.” Lady Barbrey decreed.

Nods then. A growing swell. A consensus was coming. “Anyone else?” Jon asked, and a few more voices rose.

Lord Umber’s broke first. “I went south once and saw Lady Catelyn—the trout’s mother—in her youth. If the girl has even half the looks of her mother, you’ll be a man well sated, your Grace.”

“The thought didn’t cross my mind.” Jon muttered, even though it had. But that pondering was a petty thing, meaningless in the face of his people’s suffering. The girl could actually look a fish, but if it brought them food, he’d happily wed her and make her his fishwife.

“She follows the Seven.” A Long of the Lake complained. A small number of scowls greeted this complaint, Wylis Manderly chief among them.

The last thing they needed was this religious schism again. “Yet even with Queen Corenna bringing her Seven-Pointed Star into marriage, we have yet to burn to the ground.” He dismissed. He wondered if any man would offer their daughter’s hand at this juncture, but for once, no overtures came. Perhaps they did not wish to be interrogated as to the state of their stores compared to the Tully.

There was a loud bellow, then Sigorn of Thenn slammed his fist into the table. “Why argument? Why fight? Steal fish-girl and her food, and the Gift will sing of King Snow.”

Jon sighed. “There won’t be any stealing—but yes. You make a strong point, Sigorn.” Stronger than any that had yet been made at this table.

“Fish-girl will be blood of our blood.” Sigorn agreed cheerfully, then kicked back into his seat. Jon tried not to rub at his aching head. Sigorn had married Alys Karstark who was aunt to Jon’s half-siblings. And though he and Alys bore no blood relation beyond a distant branching in the Stark line, Sigorn now considered them kin. It made handling the wildlings on their side of the Wall easier, so Jon had never argued the point.

“Magna of the Magnar.” The Hornfoot imparted, as if this was some great truth. Maybe it was.

The Great Walrus shoved in. “Fish good—strong. Always moving. Keep man alive.”

His half-brother’s envoy blinked at that, but seemed to find it not worth engaging in. Instead, the man turned to Jon and asked: “But what of the gold, your Grace?”

That drew some interest. Jon wanted to grind his knuckles into his skull. “Jojen.”

And Jojen Reed leapt to attention. “The swamps are still frozen, and even if they thawed tomorrow, it’d still be seven moons before they’d be warm enough for us to dredge. That gold will come back to us someday, but not now.”

It was an answer they’d been given a hundred times before, but still the lords cursed and spat. Their plunder that had come from the South and that unimaginable, suspicious amount of Lannister gold that Roose Bolton had in his baggage train by the wagonful—a moment of folly had lost it all. Roose had tried to sneak his treasures around Jon’s force, only to send it all sinking into the swamps.

Jon had no doubt that when summer came, a good dozen of his lords would be at the Neck with rakes and nets in hand and ready to help.

It was time, he knew it. Jon had remained unwed for just this: that someday he would be truly desperate, and only have one currency left to barter. His queenly aunt had spoken little of it—Jon had been a child and a bastard besides, and had never shared her confidences—but he knew Corenna had struggled greatly in coming to the North. Being a princess had not prepared her for their harsh ways, harsh living, harsh people.

This Tully girl, he knew, would find little joy here. He had heard tales of the Trident Court, and knew his own would be pitiful, coarse, and drab by comparison. Would she hate him, in time? Would their marriage become nothing but a well of poison between them?

Ned and Corenna—he was never sure if they’d loved one another, but there had been care there. Comfort. They’d ruled well as King and Queen. She had given him sons and a daughter, and Ned had treated her kindly in turn.

He could only hope that he and this Sansa Tully would have the same. That they would find some joy in each other, maybe even a passion in the darkness of their bedchamber. It was a small dream, but a dream that could bear fruit.

He had never thought to hope for a wife, let alone hope for her love.

The choice was made, he could smell it on the air. He struck the iron hot. “I will send my agreement to Lord Tully by nightfall. There is no more time; I will marry the girl and be done with it. She will be coronated as soon as we reach Winterfell.”

He rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, but he had been told he was a terrifying one. And as he rose, so too did Ghost, slinking and monstrous until the wolf was out from under the table. Jon stood, and yet Ghost stood taller. White as bone, red as blood. And Jon let their wrath burn. “As my Queen, Sansa Tully will be afforded every respect. I expect gifts and indulgences for her. And if any man speaks ill of her, I will strike him dead where he stands.”

There was shaking, a few nods, and a great deal of interest in the tabletop or even the floor. Did they remember the Neck? How he had howled? How the wolves bayed for their murdered kin, never to be seen again on this earth?

They had not wept, but they had made the Boltons weep.

Jon felt his lip curl. Who is strong?

The man who doesn’t flinch.

“Wylis,” Jon asked calmly. “Lord Tully spoke of White Harbor?”

The Manderly, bulk and all, shot to his feet. “I’ll send word to the Snowy Sept and my father. The moment Lady Sansa’s feet touch the shore, she’ll be whisked to you.”

“Good. Send a raven as soon as she arrives, I’ll meet her—” He did a mental calculation. “Beside the fork in the White Knife.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

And before anyone could conjure a reason to argue further, he barked out: “Dismissed!”

The solar emptied. There were congratulations, though few in number. His men were tired, bitter, or thwarted all. He did not expect much joy in the North for this marriage, but the food it brought would soften the blow.

To no surprise of his, Lady Barbrey and Roger Ryswell remained. Ghost stared at them both a long moment before flouncing off to lay at the fire. Barbrey barely paid the wolf mind. Roger watched the beast with eyes so wide, Jon could see the whites in them.

He snarled. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Such manners.” Barbrey murmured. “You’d think you were raised in a stable.”

“I know your quarrel with the Tullys, my lady, so let’s not mince. I have a letter to write.”

She came to his side in a swish of her skirts. He knew there was a dagger somewhere under them. It was why he carried a dagger of his own in his boot beyond the one already visible on his belt. Always leave them guessing; Barbrey had taught him all her tricks.

So when she said: “I want you to be happy.”

He knew: “You want us to be happy. Collectively. Happily in lockstep.”

“Is that treason?” She asked glibly, and Jon could only sigh.

She took that for an opening. “Tully girls are flighty; nothing in their heads but fish scales. You must have heard what Lysa did after the Karstark folly—threw herself from the castle walls. The last thing we need is an unstable Queen; selfish, short-sighted, and weak. Has Cersei Lannister not taught us this lesson already?”

His patience wore thin. “Have you had a journey south that I’m unaware of? Met the Lady Sansa to know her nature?”

“I know of Hoster Tully—and Lysa is more than enough to understand kind of women they breed. There is fear in the North of a southron marriage. We both know this; you heard the talk of Ned’s wife same as I. And you weren’t even alive for the rancor when Rickard thought to marry two of his children to the south. This will destabilize your reign, you know this. I’ve taught you better.”

“You did.” Jon answered plainly. “But we have no other choice. This girl—she will prove her mettle or not, but either way, the North will be fed.” And then quick as a viper, he caught her arm in a vice. Roger swung upright, hand to his dagger—but Barbrey stilled him with a gesture.

There was no fear in this woman for him. He didn’t know if there ever would be.

Jon quieted. Ghost stirred by the fire. “My lady, it was you who taught me the mistakes of our family are not our own.”

It was no small thing to see softness in Barbrey Dustin. A little in the mouth, the jaw, something liquid in the eyes. She was the only parent he’d ever pleased.

His mother by blood lived in Karhold with his half-siblings, and yet the woman who’d raised him stood in this very room. Her hand cupped his forearm. “I know, Jon. Their failings were never yours. You have been nothing but good for the North, but Brella—”

Brella Dustin, a girl he had been raised besides, and this sigh was wrenched out of him. He picked his words like a man picked the knives that would skin him. “Brella is a fine lady—she is also a decade my junior, and one I have seen grow from her girlhood. I will make this plain to you, my lady, for the respect we share between us. I will never marry Brella.”

The softness was gone again; Barbrey’s mouth so pinched it was naught but a line. Roger shifted uneasily but was unwilling to speak when his sister commanded the room.

“I see.” She very much did not. “Is this the thanks we receive for our loyalty? Our sacrifices?”

But she had taught him all her tricks. “Do you doubt my love for you all? Markas will inherit Barrow Hall, but Konrad…I have not named a Lord to the Dreadfort yet. I have forgotten nothing.”

A holy light lit in her eyes. Roger swelled. Her hands were alive in his own. “Konrad will be your finest lord. He has always looked up to you, Jon. He will make you proud.”

This was not a thing untrue. He was older than all of Barbrey’s children but Markas. He had treasured his time with them; spent more days with each alone than he had with all his cousins combined. That was a hurt he would have to live with. A sting that would never fade.

The Starks were gone now, no summer days left for them to wile.

“Then speak no more to me of Sansa Tully. It is done; we cannot survive without their food. And when a thing is done—”

“We must endure it.” Barbrey finished, for it was her own words that she was echoing. “I will send for Konrad; he will be here for the wedding and then the coronation.”

“Glad tidings.” He agreed, and felt her hands slip away.

Brother and sister departed him arm in arm, and he wondered if this was truly the end of it. Barbrey was not a woman easily pleased nor ignored. He knew that well—his own kingship was more than proof.

During the war…she had known so many things. What had happened in Winterfell when the rumors had still been garbled. Had told him, to the day, when Roose Bolton and his forces would arrive at the Neck.

When his Uncle Ned had called his banners, she had forbidden Jon to leave. Her husband had gone with a token force, refusing to show cowardice, and Willam Dustin died for his efforts. When the pleas had come from the Wall over Wildling raids, she’d sent Jon farther North.

Prove yourself to them, show them that you will protect them.

He’d brought Wildings through the Wall to hold The Gift. If one must hunt the fox, then send a fox. He’d made peace with the Watch in this venture by the sword. A thousand Ryswell and Dustin blades had agreed with him. And when word had come of little Rickon’s slaughter, of grandmother Lyarra fighting and then dying like an animal, and little Arya forced into a wedding with the Bolton Bastard, only to have a secret blade ready for her wedding night…

They’d all died. Word had come to him swiftly. You are the only Stark. The Karstarks move with the Boltons in the South. Your mother is a traitor. Your half-siblings are the children of traitors twice over. You are the only Stark.

He would never know the truth. Between mercy and vengeance when so many loyalties had remained shadows, he’d chosen mercy. The past was done. Only what they did now would matter. He had a letter to write; to wing south in search of his bride.

Sansa Tully—by the gods, did her name taste sweet his tongue. She would be his Queen, his lady wife. His.

They would rebuild, remake, have children of their own. There would be peace and golden summers. The North would respect her as they respected him, or one and all, he would hang them bleeding from the trees until their gods were sated.

Chapter Text

The cold bit at her fingers sharper than the needle. Though as frigid as it was, she had stopped feeling its sting an hour past.

Their ship rolled with the waves; the coastline naught but a misty line off their portside bow. They’d hugged land the whole way North and soon, she knew, would be entering the Bite. And it felt as such—teeth closing so viciously about her neck. Every league travelled was a league closer to her fate. Farther from her kin in Maidenpool who’d she’d stayed naught three nights with. Farther from the red walls of Riverrun—its soaring battlements, and the sweet dogs in the kennels who always licked her hands for treats.

On and on she travelled. Farther from the rivers of the Trident, blue and gold in the morning sun. Farther from her brother’s teary eyes, her father’s shaking arms, her mother peering pale and gaunt as Sansa left the gates.

The only thing that drew closer was that Winter King. Would his arms be firm, his face be fair? Would his hands be gentle in the dark of the night?

These were not questions she yet had answer to. So in their stead she sat on deck wrapped in furs, with maids bookending her to share their warmth. They took turns offering their hands to the bitter air to work her wedding gown. It was something she had labored over this endless winter in hopes her grandfather would surprise her with a spring betrothal.

How little had she known.

Nella was chattering brightly, sharing all sort of fanciful tales as they clasped hands to keep ready for their turn. Poppy was humming as she worked the thread. The right sleeve was the swirling trout for Sansa’s mother. The left was the salmon of House Mooton for her father. They’d both be with her as much as she could have them, each red in stitch and scale and eye.

A guard came to deck. “My lady, the sailor.”

She dipped her head. “Thank you, Elston.”

The guard sketched a sharp bow. At their side her newest sworn shield—Marq Piper and heir to Pinkmaiden—shook himself upright and made a valiant attempt to pretend he’d been on watch and not staring at the sea in stupor. Poor man. For such a firebrand, the waves seemed to lull him witless.

The guard flanked to their other side as the sailor came before them. Ser Marq’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade. For as much as she wanted to know the nature of her future husband—what he would be in the quiet hours they spent alone, if he even wished such a thing—those were the wonderings of a girl.

It was time that the woman spoke. And she did not ask the spirit of the man, but the nature of a king.

“Milady.” The sailor had a brogue to him, and his bow was clumsy as he eyed her. His clothing was neither fine nor poor. He was no lordling nor merchant’s son, but one must work with what they had.

And perhaps this would be to the better. “Pleasant day, Goodman. If you have a moment to spare for us?”

“A’course, whatever her ladyship likes.” And his eyes darted again. When she smiled encouragingly, there came a surprising bit of cheek. “What would a fine lady want with a poor sailor like meself? Ol’ Ryls can sing like a nymph and dance like a—”

Ser Marq grunted at their side. Sansa pretended not to hear him.

Poppy clucked. “Watch that tongue a’fore the lady!”

The sailor just winked.

A wily one, this Northman. Sansa raised her voice. “I asked if any man in our flotilla was of the North, and my guard were kind enough to find you. I fear I have never been to your homeland in my years, and would appreciate most greatly if a man of northern birth could tell me of his kingdom’s winsome nature.”

The sailor blinked as if she’d struck him. “Winsome…? It’s a harsh place, milady. The winters are long and bitter as the witch’s brew. A man cannot even enter spring before he’s thinking of the next chill that’ll a’cross his nape. Men stand together in the North, or they do not stand at all.”

It sent a foreboding shiver through her. But needs must, and she let her voice dip piteously. “Is it all so cruel?”

The man looked harried now. “The hills are—the hills are green and lovely, milady. The sheep graze most finely in the summer, and men and their kin dig their crops unmolested. And the cliffs…the cliffs at White Harbor are beautiful when you sail past them in the dawn. Ask a northern lass to sing to you of Brave Danny Flint or The Winter Maid, and never will a tear come quicker to your eye. Folk are folk as anywhere, but I’d like to see your ladyship find finer hospitality when there is a squalling wind at your back than the North.”

An interesting set of notions, and ones to ponder over. But now to the grit of things: “Is there a particular way of greeting in the North? Anything I must know?”

“Bread and salt.” The man volleyed instantly. “They bring it to you, milday, before you pass any lintel. If they do not give it, that is a scoundrel’s house where no man nor maid sleep safe.”

“And that is all?”

“Aye.” He said. “Though if a fellow does not bring you his best ale to the table, spit on his floor, for a man who does not pour finely among his guests is no man at all. To treat such a splendid lady as yourself to some piss brew—”

Ser Marq grunted even louder. Nella made a rather strangled gasp while Poppy ruffled up.

A smile fought against Sansa’s mouth most valiantly. There would be no spitting of any kind, but— “I shall take your words to heart.”

“Good.” The sailor nodded fiercely.

Bread and salt were a detail known to her, given by secondhand story in Maidenpool, but it was nice to have it confirmed. Not a single of her kin had ever journeyed North. It was maddening how little they knew of one of their own neighbors, considering her aunt had once been betrothed to one.

This oversight left her adrift; blind to the intricacies of her role to come.

Of her homeland, she knew House Frey chafed at being petty lords. That Brackens and Blackwoods hated each other most venomously, and not a generation passed without some murder betwixt them rocking the court. She knew her grandfather was deeply jealous of the popularity of Jason Mallister, and that the man’s house held favor with the current Darry King. That a generation before, the Second House had held that honor with a bride added to the royal bloodline besides.

She knew these things, but what did she know of the North? What houses held favor? Which did not? Who of them schemed while others held fast? What subtle grudges were unspoken? What favors owed?

Her stomach lurched. How was she to be anything but broodmare to her husband, if she could not maneuver in his court? It was only through him she would be afforded any power. If he decided to keep her shut up in a tower each day, never to sit beside him nor work her own charities, this marriage her grandfather had plotted would be for naught.

Her heart would be for naught.

She was a woman blind. House Bolton had betrayed the crown, supposedly, but House Bolton was dead. Houses Dustin and Ryswell held favor, but what did she know of them? Their lords, their sons, their ladies’ marriages?

But the sailor before her would have no answer to those questions. No gentle word nor bit of wisdom to guide her.

Only harsh truths, and so she asked him: “Can you tell us of Winterfell? Of Queen Lyarra?”

At this, the sailor spat ugly on the deck. Womanly gasps abounded. Ser Marq rattled so loudly she feared he’d leap, armor and all, to strike the man bloody. Sansa raised a hand.

All stilled.

The sailor eyed Ser Marq for the first time, his armor, then seemingly dismissed the knight with contempt. He grumbled: “Not a pleasant tale for a lady’s ears.”

“The winter has blocked many roads.” She answered. “We hear so little that I must inquire. I fear saying the wrong thing out of ignorance. Please, I ask this as a boon.”

A rough, windburned hand scrubbed at a jaw. It covered over a mouth pinched slim. He stared on and on at that horizon that wasn’t. “The Fairewind here—she’d docked at White Harbor, see, and we were ashore. Men ran from tavern to tavern to share the news. Women wept in the streets. The Starks protect the North and all its people, always have. King Rickard and King Ned were good men, but the Queen Lyarra—never was a woman more just, more faithful, more fierce. Bolton scum tried to take Winterfell from her. They killed her grandchildren both; the Little Prince and Princess Arya. But that black work—t’wasn’t easy. The smallfolk sing of the Princess’s bloody blade; how she gelded the bastard on their wedding night. He killed her, aye, that rotten curr—but the Starks had their vengeance. They say the Bolton Bastard hung her Queenship’s body from the walls, and Winterfell frothed to madness. Maids threw themselves on swords so their men could get another blow. Cooks bludgeoned men with rocks and stable hands doused them in oil to burn alive. They drove the Boltons out tooth and claw, and when the White Wolf rode for vengeance, the North answered. Aye, we answered him.”

And Ser Marq spoke. “Did you fight in the wars?”

The sailor cast a glance. “Aye, I fought. To the very Neck.”

“Is it true what they say?” Marq pressed. “That you lot killed the Boltons and hung them from your holy trees?”

And the sailors face went black—empty of earthly light. “No.”

Marq scoffed. “I suppose not, some fool’s tale—”

“There weren’t enough weirwoods.”

Nella’s hands clutched painfully to hers. Sansa felt it like a dagger; like a cold wind rattling through her chest.

“Not enough,” The sailor said. “To string up all their guts. Bolton and Blackbourne and Ansley and Morrowind. Too many banners to hang them—King Jon ordered the rest be fed to the dogs.”

She wetted her mouth; wobbled inside but for a flutter. Ser Marq’s mouth flapped open and closed, bereft of anything.

“Milady.” Poppy whispered, but Sansa ignored the entreaty.

She folded her hands. “Thank you for answering us. What boon do you ask of me?”

Before this day, she’d thought of winter as white, but in this man’s eyes—it stained black. “Men are whisperin’ there’s food in these holds behind the guards. They say it’s dowry; that a high lady sails to be the White Wolf’s wife.”

The waves rocked sharp. The winds beat bitter. “Do you ask me if this is true?”

“I ask if my people will eat, milady.” Damp gathered in his eyes. “Please.”

His words passed through her like a tremble; a shaking that went to her very bones. “These boats will wait in the bay while the Fairewind docks. I will sit in White Harbor until the King comes to me. He will look upon my face and make his choice. Perhaps he will find me repulsive. If such a thing comes to pass, your ship will gather us, and all the vessels my grandfather sent will depart. If the King is willing, then every ship will dock and only more will follow.”

And the sailor’s laugh was a rattling thing. “Milady, pardon Ryls greatly, but if the King takes a’look at you and does not take you to wife, then he’s a fool.”

Her lips twitched, but she could find no smile in them. “A kindness, Goodman Ryls. Thank you.”

“Tis truth.” He muttered, then took a step back. He was looking for dismissal, though she knew he would not ask it.

She granted him. “Thank you for your time, I know you must return to your duties.”

He gave another clumsy bow. Retreated. Called: “Milady?”

Her head tilted. “Yes?”

“The King’s no fool.” And with that parting arrow, the sailor went.

Her fingers came to her mouth. Her lips were numb; kissed cold by the winds. Was it fear at last, this thing inside her?

Too many doubts yet. Too many unknowns.

There was a shifting of armor on either side, light as her men wore it onboard. Sansa felt so far from home; cast into a chartless water. “Elston, thank you. That will be all.”

The guard sketched a smart nod and left. She did not look to see his face. Ser Marq would not be so kind: “They’re animals.”

“Speak not where anyone can hear you.” She hissed.

A sigh heaved loudly. Marq came before her and dropped to his haunches. “There is yet time to turn the ships.”

“My grandfather would boil you alive.”

He shrugged uneasily but did not offer any defense to that fate. Resignation, more like.

“Kings must be cruel.” She spoke. “It is the way of things.”

“Pardon me, Sansa.” He answered, for Marq had known her since childhood, and long was their familiarity. “But that cruelty will be in your bed. They expect you to control it, and men like that—”

“We will see.” She said, brooking no further retort.

Golden and fair and so very sad, Marq Piper rose and returned to her side. Hand to the hilt. Eyes alert.

She shared a long glance with Poppy but spoke no words. Those would wait for their cabin. She would call for her great uncle first, her maids, then the man among her guard who was not a guard at all.

But that gathering was yet come.

She shushed Nella’s warblings and returned them to their task. While her maids worked on the sleeves, on all those tiny, embroidered scales—Sansa saw to the void she’d left below the breast. It’d been meant for her husband’s sigil; an emptiness she’d agonized over in the early of the winter. Who would he be? What would be his nature? Would he sing with her, dance away their feasts, give sweet words and sweeter kisses in their chambers?

It was space she’d had little time for as the years dragged on. When a granary had burned for foolishness, when bitter storms had wracked every moon, when winter fevers had swept village after village right to their very hearth.

But this was one question she finally had answer to. So on a field of blue, with thread of white, inside that aching void—

Sansa made the wolf.

/~/~/~/

There were only so many days left aboard, and Sansa made the most of them. She dispatched her guards among the sailors to gather rumors, set her maids on her trousseau, and mostly kept her uncle from beating her noble shields half to death.

Ser Marq seemed to enjoy the exertion. But Alyn Smallwood, son to Acorn Hall, hardly seemed so encouraged. The youth appeared rather more bruised every time she saw him. But it was Ser Wyck—and only named Wyck, for he had been born of the smallfolk—that held his own against the Blackfish.

Her father had picked Wyck personally from his men to be her shield. Because, her father had claimed, while nobles worried about chivalry between opponents—Ser Wyck only worried about making them dead.

Her shields took turns sitting with her when she called upon Ryls time and again. She asked for Northern tales, and the sailor granted them. Brandon the Builder and Brandon the Breaker. Brandon the Shipwright and Brandon the Burner. She rather wondered if her husband would expect one of their sons to take the name. It was hard to say. It seemed rather traditional, but the King may not wish to bring attention to his personal connection—no matter how tenuous—to the last Brandon Stark who had been murdered over the King’s own noble mother.

But still…Brandon. It reminded her of her brother Branston, which had the name sitting sweeter on her tongue.

Ryls hardly noticed her preoccupation, telling her of Winter Kings and Red Kings, then of Barrow crowns and Marsh royalty. When she’d ask for a legend not involving a Stark, he’d told her of the Rat Cook. At that point, Uncle Brynden had seized her by the arm. “Enough legends tonight.”

“Uncle—”

But he’d frog-marched her away like some naughty child. “Goodnight, Ryls!”

“G’night, milord!”

“Not a lord!” Uncle had shouted back, then wrestled her right into her cabin. “You’re not going to be able sleep tonight, and your mother will have my hide if she hears.”

“You cannot know a people without knowing their stories. The Rat Cook makes it clear how greatly the North values guest right—”

“Who doesn’t?” He snapped. “Get ready for bed.”

“I will not have you treat me as a child!”

“I’ll not treat you as a child, I’ll treat you as an impertinent one. Because you’re not going to sleep, and I’ll never hear the end of it! I should have brought one of those blasted kennel mutts to occupy you.”

She complained most vociferously. Viciously. Railed against his tyranny.

She did not sleep that night.

“Milady?” Poppy had asked of her frazzled hair upon the morn.

Sansa had smiled feebly as her maid brushed the night’s troubles away. “A poor rest, no matter.” Though perhaps tonight if she could slip her uncle’s grip, she’d ask for a more fanciful tale. Surely the North had at least one story that did not end in tragedy or breathtaking violence.

But that was not to be. By the time she came on deck, and caught that cold wind in her lungs—

The watch had spied White Harbor glittering like frost beyond their prow.

/~/~/~/

Banners whipped by the hundreds. Bales of wool, a ram’s head. Crossed swords and sentinel pines. A blue ship, a white ship. Men arrayed out beneath them all. Under dozens of pennants emblazoned with the Seven-Pointed Star, stood septons in the sturdiest holy robes she’d ever seen. They looked men ready to go on hard pilgrimage.

There were mounted knights in a slew of colors, all marked for their holy vows sworn not to lords, but to the Seven Faces.

“Well.” Her uncle grumbled. “At least they’re putting out a welcome.”

And so they were. Higher yet a merman fluttered, green and pale against the morning sun. But above all those banners flew a single one: a wolf red in tooth and crown.

Her breath juddered. “Is the King in residence?”

The Tully guard who was not a guard—yet wore their raiments as if he were one—came to her elbow. “No, my lady. That is the royal standard placing White Harbor under the King’s protection. If the King was in residence, the Manderlys would sit level with the other houses, and a banner with a white wolf would join the crowned.”

“Ah.” She murmured weakly. “Thank you, Edmund.”

The man did not answer her, merely faded back into the crowd of her retinue.

Her Uncle offered her an elbow, and she placed her palm inside it most delicately. Grace could be a veil and courtesies the fiercest armor. With Ser Marq and Alyn Smallwood behind her, and a dozen guards led by Ser Wyck at her back—she descended.

Lord Manderly waited below. The man was corpulent, and yet there was a sharpness to his face that spoke of hunger. A deep disquiet began unfurling. But the haggard lord smiled joyfully. “Lady Sansa, welcome, welcome! We’ve been anticipating your arrival most fervently.”

“My Lord Manderly.” She demurred, then offered him a hand. His house followed the light of the Seven, so surely—

He bent to kiss it graciously. She did not breathe a sigh of relief. In this, at least, she had not yet blundered. “It is a pleasure to finally see White Harbor’s fair shores. It has been a journey.”

“I have no doubts; the winter seas are no place for such a delicate flower as our Lady Sansa.”

A muscle fluttered in her jaw. She kept smiling. “You are most kind. We will be blessed to sit at your table, my lord. We have been told much of Northern hospitality, and quite look forward to seeing it for ourselves.”

But at that, Lord Manderly’s expression squeezed. It was like seeing an entire hog being shoved down a chute. “It would give me no higher honor, nor greater joy, than to have our Lady Sansa stay within our halls. Your grandfather wrote so eloquently to us of your graciousness and piety. You would be a shining jewel among us, but I fear that is not to be.”

Her heart plummeted. Had it been for naught? Had a better offer been tendered, or had the King already rejected her whole? The thought that she would have to return to her grandfather so shamed and empty-handed—

Uncle Brynden stiffened. “If you mean to be rid of us without a scrap of hospitality, Lord Manderly, be out with it.”

“Hardly, Ser Brynden!” And the lord feigned some great wound. “It is a higher power the drives us now. I cannot keep the lady here, though in my heart I wish it so! The King has requested the Lady Sansa be brought to his side—immediately.”

Relief and dread poured into the same cup. “My lord?”

“The Order of the Green Hand and the Knights of the Silversmith are prepared to ride. They will guarantee our lady’s every virtue and safety upon the road. And of course, what comforts that can be given to her during travel will certainly be—”

“Pardon me?” Her uncle thundered, begging not the faintest pardon. “We just got off the ship, and you’re shoveling us out the gate? White Harbor was the agreed meeting!”

“There was a negotiation.” Manderly answered dryly. “And the King has spoken.”

For a moment, even her uncle was at a loss. Sansa herself fared no better. What were these Northmen playing at? What possible purpose could this serve, a powerplay? To keep them on the back foot during the marriage negotiation?

Her uncle recovered quickly, and she felt him rising up—but Sansa tucked a hand across his arm. The force at which his jaw clicked shut was audible.

Sansa batted her lashes; hoped she looked dewy though a touch bedraggled. Perhaps she should not have let Poppy brush her hair upon the morn. “My lord, we all serve at the King’s pleasure. Though I would beg your hospitality for my men and maids. The seas have been particularly choppy our entire journey, and as I’m sure you know, travel by ship is not the bodily ideal. I would not wish to delay us overmuch, but as it is still early in the day—perhaps we could have a few hours of rest? Some baths and sustenance before we meet the journey again?”

And if they could plant themselves in New Castle for a time to put their ears to the ground…

There was a flicker tension in Wyman Manderly’s cheek. She could see it in him; that tug between cossetting some poor delicate daughter of the Faith, and whatever end he was driving them towards.

This smile of his was not so effusive. “Of course, my lady. I would not dream to force on you any discomfort.” He did not have to dream—he had already managed it. “There is a splendid inn along the Castle Stair. I’ll send my men to clear the way for us. Though before that time, there are others who wish to meet our shining lady, if you would be so kind.”

It seemed even Manderly’s castle would be denied to them. Had he seen through her ruse?

It bore no more wasted thought. She could see lords, their sons, even a few wives shadowed by a sea of retainers. All were waiting beneath those banners. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes casting out—

And all of them were on her.

Exhausted, smelling of brine, and still swaying with that tide that was no longer with her—Sansa smiled sweetly. “It would be my pleasure.”

/~/~/~/

Her head was ringing with names, seats; faces she was trying to stitch to the sigils in her mind’s eye. She didn’t know yet which of them were truly powerful, who among them would have uses or genuine loyalty to spare.

But it was a start.

There had been so many sights as they ascended the city. Marble mermaids at each juncture; bowls of burning oil cradled in their arms. They had been able to see the harbor and then the bay unfurled out behind them, pale and pearlescent as a samite gown. Her grandfather’s ships had waited like strange flowers blooming upon that water.

Every man, woman, and child they came across had their eyes fixed upon those masts. Manderly’s men had cleared the way, pushed smallfolk and merchants to the side, but that hadn’t hidden the starvation on those faces. The sharpness. The desperation.

Even the guards looked half-hungry and faded. It was a beautiful city from harbor to parapet—and it was seething around her like a picked-over wound.

Manderly meant to keep her retinue bottled up; steered and fixed on whatever course he’d set them. He was certainly welcome to try. Sansa had loosed her maids on the inn as soon as they reached it. Edmund himself had vanished from them somewhere in the harbor.

When Nella was washing her hair in the first hot bath Sansa had luxuriated in a fortnight, Poppy came to kneel beside her. “The King has no lover.”

Sansa did not let herself hope. “And how did you reach this conclusion?”

Poppy snorted. “Nothing smallfolk like more then talkin’ of the King’s mistresses. Her ladyship remembers our King Darry and his Moon Maid, eh?”

“That was before my time.” Though little Sansa of nine had wept bitterly for that royal love story having been proven so false. “Not a word?

“Not a word, though I can’t be sayin’ this wolf’s not discreet. The girls here said he had a Wildling lover some years past, and that’s why he let ‘em this side of the Wall. But none’s been seen at that castle of his. Only woman ‘round is the King’s mother.”

She startled so hard Nella’s hands nearly scalped her. “What—the Lady Lyanna?”

“No, the other mother.” Poppy dismissed. “That Lady Durin.”

“Dustin.” She corrected as her pulse slowly receded. “So no rumors? Are you sure?”

“Yea, not a one.”

Maybe. Maybe…?

It would be easier to win him without another woman fighting for his affections, or having already won them before she’d even arrived. And her septas…they’d said all men had hungers. If she could slake the King’s and be his only respite, that would be her first foothold in grasping for his heart.

Never mind that she only had the faintest idea of what it meant to quench a man’s pleasures.

It was a delicate hope, a girl’s hope, one clutched so swiftly to her breast. She breathed past it carefully: “That’s so wonderful to hear, Poppy.”

Her maid’s gaze turned so terribly soft. “Yes, milady. I know that you…I know that we all have hopes of this thing. And I have better news than that.”

Sansa had already been given the best news she’d had in days. “Tell me true.”

“The White Wolf doesn’t take prima nocta. Not ever.”

She would not let herself hope. She wouldn’t. “How sure are you?”

“They say the Starks haven’t taken right in living memory, and some of these wenches here are old. I asked ‘em about other lords, and they could tell me all sorts of things. Said some clans up in the mountains take right all the time. And them Boltons—they said the bastard that killed the Princess? His mother was smallfolk raped under first night. She didn’t ask her Lord permission before a’marrying, and Lord Bolton executed her husband and then took her like an animal.”

Sansa wasn’t surprised; unholy acts made unholy men. Prima nocta and all it entailed—it was abhorrent. She had been born in the light of the Seven, and every teaching she’d received told it how wrong it was for a woman to lay with a man not her husband. To steal the rights of marriage and make mockery of its holiness, was an abomination in the eyes of the Gods. Kings were cruel and hard, but she’d truly feared her family would ask her to make a marriage sinful in the eyes of her Faith.

Force her to marry a monster who violated sacred vows.

But he hadn’t. Wouldn’t—and it was as if some knobby weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Poppy took her silence as a cue. “I know this is true, milady. The girls say the septons always start preachin’ when a lord takes first night. Right heathen, it is. They even heard when some petty lord forced himself on a shepherd’s daughter. We’d be knowin’ plenty if it was the King.”

Sansa reached out of the bath and took Poppy’s hands into her own. Squeezed them. “You have done me a great service. You’ve eased my heart.”

“My family’s always taken care of yours.” The woman answered fiercely. “So do not thank me, milady.”

Sansa still laid a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Once Nella is done with me, call for more hot water. I want you and the other maids to take baths. Long ones.”

Nella squeaked in delight.

Poppy just grinned slyly. “I never be sayin’ no to her ladyship.”

/~/~/~/

Poppy’s revelations carried her in joy but for an hour. The fire in her room was blazing, but she’d already pulled a blanket over her shift when she’d begun to shiver. Poppy and her other maids were still too busy bathing to dress her, and though she’d thought to try on her own—the window had caught her, and its spell hadn’t broken since.

Their wagons by the inn’s stable were under Manderly guard. It was food inside mostly, along with clothing and tents and some other supplies, along with all her earthly possessions. The King had requested that if they came, they feed themselves, and so the baggage train followed.

Each wagon by itself had four men surrounding it: eyes on the crowds of smallfolk and hands on their pommels. All faces were too distant to make out any expressions, but…

Theirs was the alertness of the guard dog. The crowd the circling hunger of the fox.

Her disquiet born in the harbor became alarm.

Three sharp raps sounded off her door. “Niece.”

“Come in.”

And so they came, her uncle and Edmund, the younger man barely recognizable as the one who’d come with them off the ship. His face was dirty now, his clothes more ragged, not a stich of armor or Tully-red to be seen. He eyed her basin of water. “My lady?”

“If it so pleases you.”

It pleased him, so Edmund went to wash his face. Her uncle just glared about the room. “How well can you fake a swoon?”

“With the best of them.” She answered dryly. “Though I’d first ask why, before you try throwing me into Lord Manderly’s arms.”

His jaw worked. “I don’t like any of this. It could be a trap to get us out of the city’s defenses.”

“To what end?” She asked. “Manderly still sends the Holy Knights, and what use would hurting or killing us serve the King?”

“Perhaps he does not want a wife but a hostage. If he thinks he can get more food that way, while keeping himself open for alliance elsewhere…”

Edmund snorted into the basin.

“Shut up.” Uncle snapped.

Edmund meticulously took a clean linen and patted his face dry. “Our Lord Tully doesn’t pay me to shut up. Quite the opposite, in fact.” The looking glass in this room was a warped one, but Edmund eyed himself in it like a tailor checking the line of a seam. “Seizing our Lady Sansa would be breaking guest right, and the North prizes that most highly. They believe King Eddard and Prince Robb were murdered by turncloaks. They also believe guest right was broken in Winterfell when Bolton forces butchered the royal family. The King’s men seemed to have pushed these stories quite hard. Betrayals on all sides, and that King Jon was the only return to true honor. This is a very important veneer for them. Remember, the Lady Lyanna has not one child, but three. The Dustins were only able to crown their chosen bastard because they’d named Lord Karstark—father of the King’s siblings—as one of the traitors. The White Wolf executed his mother’s husband himself. That was the reasoning they used to crown him over his trueborn kin; that treachery of the father stains. If he breaks guest right now, well, that all goes down the gutter, doesn’t it?”

But Brynden Tully was not the river now; he was the stone that cleaved it. “I’m placing my niece’s safety on your word. The North these past years has been full of treachery at every turn. Just because the King wouldn’t hurt her—that doesn’t mean some other force isn’t trying to draw Sansa out. Strike her down and blame the King for it. Or open the way for another bride, mayhaps.”

Edmund merely pulled at one of his eyelids to study the eye beneath. “I applaud your ingenuity, Ser Brynden. Most nobleborn don’t think that many layers down.”

Her uncle went horribly rigid, and Sansa quickly interceded. “These Northern Houses under the Seven, they seem quite keen for the match.”

“Very.” Edmund agreed. “For another lady of their Faith to let the Holy Light finally break upon the North. Transform it—Queen Corenna was not what they hoped.”

“They expect me to convert them?”

“Not immediately, not in so many words, but yes. Did you know King Eddard built a sept for his wife in Winterfell? It was the only Seven Sacred to be built in North for the whole of her reign—as short as that was. They are rather hoping you’ll be a patron more devout and generous.”

Her faith was strong, her faith was true—

But the North had kept its gods for millennia. “That is a future problem. A difficult one.”

“Indeed.” And Edmund stopped prodding at his face. “What did your maids say, my lady?”

And Sansa, rather embarrassingly, hurriedly launched into explanation of all she’d been told of King Jon’s nature. She knew her haste made plain her hopes. Her childish urges.

Those girlish dreams.

“I have no reason to disagree with you.” Edmund answered to her rambling. He’d seen her truly, but he had no use in selling her confidences. Before departing North, her grandfather had finally revealed to her what tied Edmund to them so firmly. It was not fealty nor bonds of blood or loyalty. House Tully held the man’s secrets like a blade. Had given the man a boon. And what secrets Edmund no doubt kept of them—it was promised mutual ruin, and so they stayed united.

Besides, her grandfather would never so easily cast aside a man as useful as Edmund the Unnamed.

Her cheeks were ablaze at all these thoughts. She would not hide their color, but she would change the tune. “Did you discover anything else while you were about?”

“Beyond the Manderlys posting a very poor perimeter?”

She rolled her eyes. “Besides that.”

Edmund rubbed his jaw. “That most northern men wear a beard, and I need to grow one. Your future king will likely not be bare of jaw.”

“Scintillating.” Her uncle muttered. “Anything actually useful to add?”

The other man just smiled faintly. “My lady needs her readying, Ser. When have I ever led my sweet Tullys astray?”

“There is a distinct incident with a caravan of goats that comes to mind.”

“You wound me.”

It seemed she’d receive no more from this quarter, and so she turned to her uncle. “And what did Lord Manderly say of my request? What route we can take to hand out food as we leave the city?” It was something she’d done often enough in the villages and towns surrounding Riverrun. Her grandfather liked to keep them visible while keeping their people fed.

And it was such a sweet thing; the joy on so many faces at fresh castle bread and honey preserved fruit. She wanted the North to love her, to trust her, and this was only the first step.

“He said no.”

She froze solid. “What?”

Her uncle’s jaw went stiff. “The Manderlys say they have their own ways of distribution. You can pass out alms as you wish, but no food. They were very clear on this.”

The guards outside, the gaunt faces watching them, the look in Edmund’s eye. All of it. Each and every hollow carved and gnawed by hunger. “They’re desperate.”

“We know that.” Uncle huffed.

“No.” She said slowly. “You don’t understand, they’re desperate.”

And he finally read that ugly shift in her for what it was. “We knew they needed food…but it’s worse than that.”

She nodded once and flicked a glance to Edmund.

The man answered it. “The granaries are guarded like they hold gold—and most must be behind the castle walls. There aren’t enough to feed the people from the circle I made this side of the city.”

In her mind now she saw not the crowds, their faces, nor the mermaids holding their holy fire. She saw the empty spots between them. “Tell me…have either of you ever seen a port without dogs?”

And it was her uncle’s turn to ask: “What?”

“There aren’t any dogs.” She said, and she saw the dawning in Edmund. She’d see it in her uncle, too. “I think they’ve eaten them all.”

“By the Mother.” He hissed.

And Edmund murmured: “They’re desperate.”

“Very much.” Sansa agreed, and it curled so hideously inside of her, this thing that poured next from her mouth. “The King calls us outside the walls not to vex us, but because the number of days spent arranging this marriage will matter. We have more leverage than we believed.”

It was the first thing her uncle seemed to like hearing. “Hoster was a damn fool not to ask for military alliance. We need to pin them down.”

Edmund looked interested at this, though vaguely scandalized.

Sansa was horrified. “No. I will not have the seed of my marriage be planted in resentment. I want his heart, not an enemy! That is too much to demand at this juncture.”

“It is hardly—”

“No.” She spat. “I will not be moved in this. I will not be bargained in this. Trust that I will raise steadfast sons and build an alliance that will see us through. Do you have so little trust in me?”

“I have every trust.” Uncle answered heatedly. “But a vow in ink is much more powerful than a someday-be. We ask a difficult thing of you; it would not be your failing if you cannot achieve it.”

“The lady is right.” Edmund interrupted. “Are you asking for some faction to do her violence? A military alliance will only hold so long as she lives and gives him a son. Any moment she is snuffed before that—everything is gone. You give the North all incentive to see some accident befall her. The War of Folly and all the Stormlands demanded of them is loathed here. Lady Sansa was only received so warmly in the Harbor for her faith—not her southron blood. Once we move to Winterfell, she will no longer have that benefit. Grasp so openly for power, and so will our rivals.”

“Godsfuck.” Uncle breathed.

“And gods damn us.” Edmund concurred.

She hadn’t thought of that at all, and a tremble rattled her so finely that she felt like glass—to the point of breaking.

Her tongue darted out. Once, twice. Her hands clutched so tightly together that her knuckles strained. “I…I think it best we ask for indulgences of a softer nature. Fosterings both ways; northern boys to my grandfather’s bannerman, and sons of the Riverlands to the North. That is how fine ladies are met, and yearnings lead unto marriages flowered. We request that I get say in my children’s marriages too—make the King agree that I can reject any betrothal for them that I mislike. Certain trade concessions can be done, but nothing onerous. Offers that will sweeten the Trident King to our House, and eventually bear the North fruit. This must be a careful thing we do, or…or else…”

A sword-callused hand gripped her shoulder. “Sansa, my sweetling, I will not let a hair on your head be touched. Let these barbarians try, and I’ll run them to the quick.”

It was not butchery she feared, though maybe she should—it was a burr beneath a saddle, a swift push at the stair, a drop of poison left in a chalice. Quiet things. Deniable things.

And if the King himself was not ardent for a southron alliance, nor his southron wife…his bannermen might think they were doing their liege a favor. Perhaps his Grace would even agree with them.

What did honor mean in the North, when they forced rapine on maidens and hung men’s guts from the trees? Had there ever been safety here at all?

“Edmund.” She asked. “Do you believe the King was in league with the Boltons? That he let his kin be murdered to earn his crown?”

“I cannot answer that yet.” And his irises were as dark as the pit. “I know the Northmen deny any slander to him. That they rail and rave if they hear a word spoken against their King. I also know that despite this, they keep whispering that rumor among themselves. The story lingers here in White Harbor and gods know where beyond. It has been more than four years since those terrible wars, with a winter to distract them besides…and yet.”

And yet.

Was a King what he claimed, what his bannermen trumpeted?

Or was he what his people whispered in the dark?

Chapter Text

Lord Manderly returned to the inn, but she did not hurry overmuch. The man was a future bannermen and brother in the Faith, and likely to be one of her great allies in this venture—but she was to be his queen. She did not answer to his beck and call.

This knowledge came from a shaking truth; a thing stripped naked and defenseless. She would be crowned. Since that letter had winged North, she had tried not to give preference to her hopes. But the knowledge had lingered that the King might say no. There had always been the chance he would receive a better offer, find her displeasing, or any number of paths that would send her back to Riverrun.

But that door had slammed shut. The North was desperate, and this choice had been made before a word left the King’s mouth. Before she even set sail. He would not choose her for anything but her dowry, and that was the way of royal marriages. She had not chosen the King either; that decision had been made by her grandfather.

It was the truth of alliances, and yet hope still quailed in her heart. Gods above—it couldn’t be borne. Lord Manderly waited below, and she could be the child no longer. A thousand rumors clashed like swords, and only she could find the truth between them.

“Girded yourself?” Her uncle asked, resplendent in his Tully armor.

She set her chin high. “As much as one can be.”

“Say the word.” He murmured, and then he was leading her from this respite and back into the storm. Their men surrounded her. Her maids fell into dutiful line. Ser Marq had the pink maiden dancing on his shield as he flanked her.

Lord Manderly waited below; tables pushed aside but helping himself to the inn’s offerings. There were a few septons in his party along with some holy sisters of the Faith. He was flanked by his guard with even more along the walls. They watched him eat with animal hunger.

She regarded him placidly. “My lord.”

He gnawed one last bit of meat and rose. “My lady, fresh as the morning dew. It is a heartening sight as I come to you bearing gifts.”

And it was true—a great hulking chest sat in the room’s center. The clasps were shining, each a wolf’s head of beaten silver.

A swell rose inside her. “For me?”

“Who else but for our fairest of the fair?” And Manderly spread his hands most beneficently. “It is from the King—his Grace sent it in anticipation of our cherished lady’s arrival. Please, open it.”

How fortuitous for him that he brought this gift out of sight of other lords, to a place where only he could take credit in its deliverance. Lord Manderly would be one to watch carefully; slippery was the man who claimed effort where little had been spent.

She flicked a hand, and two of her guard took to the chest. The men opened it and Poppy swept out the top layer. In her hands was a magnificent cloak in a style most foreign to Sansa. Winter cloaks in the Riverlands were usually of a heavy brocade in house colors, each lined with fur and hooded. This cloak was of pale wool, fur-lined, with no hood to speak of. Instead, at its shoulders laid a heavier mantle of silvery-white; a fur in kind and shade she’d never seen.

It was breathtaking.

Poppy put an arm under it to swirl out its splendor, then offered it for perusal. Sansa ran the fur between her fingers. “How lovely.”

The cloak was not in Tully colors, and only had one of the Stark’s—white. She did not know what to make of that.

“Ah.” Manderly said, seemingly amazed. “Snow bear fur, how marvelous. The King truly sent you his finest.”

The man’s surprise seemed genuine. A lord to watch for puffing himself up, but not for snooping. Perhaps there was some dependability in his nature. And it did not escape her notice that he sincerely seemed to be trying to flatter the King to her.

Lord Manderly did not just want this marriage to happen—he wanted it to work. It was an encouraging notion.

She clasped her hands formally. “This is a true delight you’ve brought from the King. I will ensure to wear it on our journey north.” And that seemed to please the room greatly. The cloak was handed off to another maid while Poppy dug further into the chest. Out came a rounded fur hat she had seen many Northern ladies wearing, with flaps tied to the top whose purpose she did not yet know. She would have to investigate it further when no one was about to see her prodding. Following it were a pair of gloves, a handwarmer, some smaller wrappings she could not make sense of, and then at the very bottom of the chest, a large sleeping fur. All were lined or made of the same fur as the cloak.

This snow bear must have been a monstrous beast.

There was no embroidery nor adornment on any garment, but the materials were all of impeccable quality. Perhaps the King meant for her to add her own embroidery? Show him she was honored by his gifts with her own efforts?

“Milady.” Poppy murmured, and there was a fold of parchment in the maid’s hand. It had a wax seal keeping it—the crowned wolf. She had seen a handful missives from King Rickard in her grandfather’s solar when she’d been a girl. Where those had been sealed with gray, this wax was white.

Her uncle cleared his throat, but she did not bid Poppy to hand it to him as her eldest relative present. She took it herself. Cracked the seal. Opened it:

To my Lady Sansa—

Welcome to the North. Our winds be bitter, but I hope these tokens of my esteem will ensure your warmth until I reach you. You will never be cold in my Kingdom.

Yours,

Jon Stark

Her cheeks flamed. How impertinent. How intimate. Not a single title before his name—and calling her my lady, as if she was already his? Here was a king with no concept of courtesy. Here was a king…

Could she call this a love letter? A king who’d hung men from trees and fed them to dogs, and mayhaps done greater horrors than that—had sent her tokens and sweet words to keep her warm on this journey.

Sansa as a young girl would have been disappointed her first betrothal gift had been something so practical. Sansa Tully who had lived through longest winter in a century, looked upon them with an approving eye.

The King had thought of her; had cared for her comfort. That tremulous hope strengthened. Had he touched these furs with his own hands as he chose them? Imagined her adorned in their splendor?

She feared yet the barbarian king who had taken his throne by storm, but beneath that waited a man she was becoming truly breathless to meet.

Uncle Brynden cleared his throat with gusto. She purposefully folded the note and slid it into her bodice. It settled over her breast; over this heart she hoped one day to bestow.

She acknowledged its presence not at all. “A wondrous compliment of gifts. Thank you for bringing them before we took leave, my lord.”

Manderley puffed up. “With all pleasures, Lady Sansa. And worry not—you will take your leave of White Harbor, but of me—not yet!”

Her head, still spinning with every thought of her King, ground to a staggering halt. “Pardon?”

“I am a knight of the Green Hand myself.” He announced grandly with a smack against his belly. “And I promised to see you in safety to our liege. Fear not the road, dearest lady, for we shall see you through to Winterfell.”

She blinked owlishly. Could this man even sit a horse?

“How joyous.” She murmured. Beside her, she felt her uncle teeter on the precipice of a shout. She patted his hand in sympathy. “We are gladdened to have your support.”

/~/~/~/

As the sennights bled away, Jon would admit that thought of a wife grew increasingly favorable to him.

The moment the ink had dried on the missive to Lord Tully, he’d sent the servants to work on a gift for his bride. Years ago, he had won the Thenns to his cause by slaying a snow bear in their hills. It had been a near thing; a fight of spear and arrow, and pure bloody luck. He’d come out of the woods thrashed half to death, and it had taken four of his men’s horses to drag the beast out. That night he had feasted the Thenns on bear meat, and with his blood on their valley floor, had finally won their fealty after grueling moons of negotiation.

The pelt of the beast had gone with him to Winterfell, but he had never made use of it. In his heart, he’d always felt it’d been meant for something more. Something he’d not yet reached. And then he had read that Tully offer.

Red of hair, blue of eye, and as fair as the dawn—

And he had known. Had seen it in his mind’s eye: a girl kissed by fire sprawled through pale fur. Bare as the moon. Her hair a nimbus of flame.

The pelt was meant for her, his Sansa Tully, and he had seen it done.

As soon as the gifts had been sewn to his standards and ferried south, winter travel or no, he’d gone on a swift tour to unruffle as many feathers as could be managed. King he may be, but no man’s word was absolute. This marriage would be unpopular on its good days, and in the interest of smoothing its way, he’d given bequeaths. Attentions. Crossed blades in training yards and then partaken in hunts.

Most of all, he’d listened.

The lord who feels unheard will make his displeasure known in other ways, Jon.

And so he’d given his assurances. No Riverlands sons would be granted land nor title in the North, and certainly no marriages would be forced. The Faith would stay on the coast, and at his solemn word, not a single leaf in a godswood would tremble.

There would be no wars; only food and the spring to come. A spring he prayed for every night with sacrifice and offering, and blood dragged red upon his brow. In these dwindling days, that seemed to ease an avalanche of fears.

Though that raised other concerns. He would have to make some things plain to his lady when she came to him. She would be his wife, his subject, his treasure. No other would come between them, and her fealty would cleave true. She could have her ladies, her pursuits, whatever trinkets might catch her eye. But she would contend herself with the sept Ned had once built for Corenna, and make no difficulties with his people on that score.

House Manderly was loyal, but he knew their aspirations. Knew the Faith of the Seven thought the North violent and heathen. Those bejeweled men and their silent gods could stay south and preach their hollow words.

They would encroach no further—his wife would only answer to him, and he would only answer to his gods.

He had never had a devotion of his own. Lord Cerwyn had tasked servants to mind him, and in later years, the Lady Barbrey had raised him among her brood. A bastard had nothing, a man-at-arms obeyed his liege, and a king belonged to his people. But this Sansa Tully…in the eyes of gods and men, they would belong to each other.

According to the girl’s grandfather, she was a gracious and pious creature. Intelligent and honest. Dutiful and beautiful, and ready to bear him sons. Jon hoped for all of those gifts and more. In every castle and holdfast he stopped at, his yearnings to have his lady in the furs beside him grew stronger. To keep warm at night and lay down his woes. To pet at his hair and give him the sweet kisses he’d missed so.

It had been so long since he’d had a companion.

There had been Etta from the maids at Winterfell, but sharing furs with a king had given her airs he greatly misliked. When she had gone to bullying the other servants, he had sent her away with vigor. Before her had been Holly of the Thenns, but of all the things a spearwife could be, comforting had hardly been one of them.

He had been happy with her for a time; had felt a man blooded in every meaning of the word. He’d only been a bastard under the banner of Dustin in those days, and meant for nothing more. No one had cared where he dallied.

Then a raven had crossed the skies to the Gift. Dark wings. Dark words. The fate of his kin and that bloody smear of treachery. Lady Barbrey had made her dreams for him plain, and he’d raised the Stark banner. After that day, there’d been no room for a spearwife beside a man waging war for vengeance.

Beside a man fighting to become King.

There had been a maid or two at Barrow Hall when he’d been younger yet; willing to sneak into dark corners with a bastard when the ale had flowed freely. But as fond as his memories were of them, they grew dim.

His tour kept on. Lords bickered and complained vociferously. He wished dearly for some softness and counsel at his side. In those dark days on the road, in the howling winds, he understood he had never known love for himself. Never held the singular devotion of another soul. Aye, he would be King for his people, and give them all that he was. But his wife…she would only be for him.

For Jon Snow, for Jon Stark—for he alone.

And his hunger for her grew by the day.

/~/~/~/

He’d returned to Winterfell but for a night when the next missive winged through the rookery. The Tully retinue was on the road, and it seemed Lord Manderly had invited himself along.

“Blast the man.”

Lady Barbrey merely flipped to the next page in her tome. “You could hardly have thought Wyman Manderly would miss a royal wedding—let alone a chance at pretending himself Queenmaker.”

“And yet my hope sprung eternal.”

“Fool that.”

He couldn’t disagree, and merely turned to Maester Luwin. “Send word to Cerwyn and Whitehill that I’m on the move. Make clear to them to expect my wife on the return.” Then shouted to the servants out the door: “And somebody get the Pooles up here!”

The Castle began to buzz around him; a hive shook to waking. A new Queen of Stark was on her way, and a royal wedding even in these lean times was nothing to be trifled with.

The maester nodded and departed with his task, and Barbrey sent a dark look after him. As Jon didn’t want to hear her complaining about grey rats for the hundredth time that turning, he complained instead: “He’ll delay my lady.”

The Lady Dustin was suitably diverted. Arched a brow. “The trout’s like to be in a wheelhouse, same as Manderly. Perhaps they’ll share.”

His glare could have scorched a hole through stone.

But the lady hardly seemed so wounded. “It’s winter, and you have Riverlanders making the trek. There would have been delays no matter who they brought along.” And then her head tilted thoughtfully. “I’ve made inquiries to the south. Your Lady Sansa has but one younger brother to inherit Riverrun. Their mother, the Lady Catelyn, had only a sister and a number of brothers who died in womb or cradle. Lord Hoster Tully can only name the Blackfish as his kin.”

Jon well saw the target she was aiming to skewer. “Then I will treasure the two children I have with my Lady Sansa greatly.”

Her scowl was an oddly familiar solace; reminded him of old times and poorly blotting his letters in her solar. “And if they both be girls?”

“Then we shall deal with that problem when it arrives.” And then cut off all further argument with a gesture. The fates and forms of his children were a truth only the gods knew, and in peril was the mortal who thought to divine them. The die was cast. Whatever children he had with his lady would be counted among his blessings.

Barbrey sniffed at that, but then reached across the desk to firmly pat his hand. She knew his dreams well—she’d been the only soul he’d spoke to of wanting a son of his own blood when he’d been naught but a bastard. Now he would have children both trueborn and Stark. And with his southern-born bride, he knew that he had not inadvertently married within the bounds of consanguinity. Accidentally bedded some half-sister.

His blood-mother’s silence from the Karhold had been deafening on that matter, and Jon was not yet sure that was a door he wanted open. Had he kin yet in the North? Or had he butchered them all in field and Neck?

He expelled a harsh breath. A moment later, the Pooles swept into the study, Vayon’s limp never seeming to slow him. “Your Grace.”

“Vayon.” He acknowledged, and felt Barbrey’s hand drift away. “The invitations?”

Vayon sketched a bow. Behind him, his daughter Jeyne dipped into a gracious curtsey. The steward answered: “Sent while you were on tour, my liege. We’ve had affirmatives from all but the Mountain Clans and House Norrland.”

Jon didn’t let himself slump or sigh. “That was expected, but the Norrlands?”

Poole shrugged. “It seems they’ve been snowed in again; they beg many pardons.”

“Give them our leave.” The Thenns of Frostgate were going to make the trek, but he couldn’t exactly hold his houses to the standards of nomads who had once lived beyond the Wall. “Anything else?”

“Hunting parties are being assembled and will begin ranging in a few days. His Grace said there would be thirty wagons of provisions along with the Lady Sansa?”

It had been what Hoster Tully promised—a token to whet their appetites for what more his lady’s hand could bring. “Indeed.”

“Then we shall manage.” The steward claimed resolutely. “The menu has already been set with the cooks. Though they ask in spring that thought be given to their spice jars. They run low.”

This did not surprise him—he knew the cooks had been overly generous when portions were thin. Jon merely nodded and hoped quietly. Great was his longing for the day their coffers would be full for luxuries once more.

Vayon hurried. “We are gathering all spare furs and bedding out of storage, and the woodcutters are bringing three cords of firewood out of the Wolfswood every hour. And…hmmmm, the candles, Jeyne?”

Jeyne dipped another curtsey. Jon had long stopped trying to curb her deference. The scar laced about her throat rippled as she said: “Supplies will hold for the week of wedding feasts and the coronation, though we may have to have some darkened suppers in the nights to come.”

It was not ideal; he did not want his soon to be wife to see them in such dire straits, but— “Survivable. Anything else?”

Vayon sent a furtive glance to his daughter. She whispered: “The banners.”

“Ah—the banners! We’re pulling all the Stark sigils from storage. Any preference for the front of the castle?”

It was Jon’s turn to glance to Barbrey.

She sighed. “Let not any guest of the North think us vulgarians, your Grace.”

He nodded. “Fully festoon the front of the castle with the long banners and pennants. The plain wolf on the field. For the Great Hall, put up the red crowned wolf. I’ll want a trio behind the head table. The crown, my personal sigil, and leave a space for my wife’s house. If they don’t bring a banner, double up my own.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

He could see both Pooles shifting in preparation of dismissal, but a thought niggled. “Jeyne?”

Her hands fluttered in her skirts. “Yes, my King?”

“You are aware of how to run Winterfell, correct?”

“Oh, your Grace, I would not flatter myself to say it so. While I certainly do help my father in his duties—”

“None of that. Be honest with me. If your father were to drop dead tomorrow, bless his productive heart—” Vayon looked rather touched at that. Barbrey snorted a laugh behind them. “Would you be able to run the castle?”

Jeyne’s gaze darted for a moment, stuck fast behind him, and then met him square. “I could manage, your Grace. Begging many pardons for what mistakes I would make in my youth.”

“I imagine those would be few in number.” He had watched Jeyne follow her father about these past four years being his most dutiful scribe and tireless helper. There was little in this castle that was outside the knowledge of the Pooles. “You are of an age with my future Queen, it would please me greatly if you would assist her in her duties and teach her of Winterfell. I know myself this castle can be an overwhelming undertaking to come to as an adult.”

“Your Grace has handled it marvelously.” Vayon assured.

His Grace had spent the first year of his kingship becoming routinely lost. The guards had been forced to fish him out of the First Keep on more than one occasion. The godswood was a rambling thicket while the halls twisted round and round. The black depths of the crypts still filled him with a bone deep sense of being no true Stark.

But he voiced none of those doubts, just nodded to Vayon and then pinned Jeyne with his gaze.

Jeyne’s throat struggled. Scar stretching. Swallowing: “It would be my deepest honor, your Grace. Thank you for placing your trust in me—I will not fail the Queen.”

“I expected nothing else.” Then he flicked a hand. “Go.”

And they went.

Barbrey remained. She shifted her tome away and moved to the map table. There was one of the greater North laid on its surface, then another of Westeros from the Wall to the Stepstones. She slipped to Westerosi shores and traced a finger south. “I’ve had a pertinent thought.”

“I’ve learned to dread those words.”

“Do not think I fear telling his Grace when he is being insolent.”

She had never feared it. Still: “My lady, we are the only ones here.”

And her eyes left the map for his. Saw him. “Jon, dearest heart, join me.”

And so he moved to her side to observe. Her hand had found Highgarden, and his heart found dread.

One long nail clicked against the wood. “I find myself thinking of Margaery Tyrell: the Queen of an Hour.”

“I believe it was more like two moons.”

She clucked. “Don’t ruin a good moniker, my dear. The land is dreary enough on its own.”

He just snorted and gestured her on. She went willingly. “War waged in the West. King Tywin had already bribed Roose Bolton to do his dirty work and then take the Northern host from whence it came.”

Jon scowled at that.

“The Great Lion knew he has the upper hand, but King Durrandon and his force still posed a sizeable threat. He’d never been able to sustain a decisive battle to cull their numbers. So when Mace Tyrell came to him promising an army, if only the Boy Prince would wed Mace’s dearest daughter…”

His jaw clenched. “I’m aware of what happened.”

“Are you?” And her voice blazed forth. “A lesser lord propelling his daughter to Queenhood on promises half-made—is this not a familiar tune? They wedded Margaery to that child, and Tywin set up an ambush using himself as bait. He would crush the Durrandons between anvil and hammer. And the Tyrells were the hammer.”

He couldn’t argue this, so he surrendered: “And the Tyrells didn’t show.”

“No.” She enunciated sharply. “They did not. The Gardener King was so furious at his bannermen making that grasping ploy, that he decreed any man who marched under the Rose banner would be declared traitor, excommunicated by the Starry Sept, and then drawn and quartered. The Tyrells raised not a single man, and Mace Tyrell went begging to his King on his knees. In that hour, Tywin became the animal in his own trap. He was slaughtered in the field. The Gardener King annulled the Lannister-Tyrell marriage, recalled Margaery, halved the Tyrell lands, then stripped them of their hereditary title of High Steward. Tell me, why do you believe the Tullys will be any more successful in their play? What if you marry and bed the girl, only for the Trident King to seize any food they try to send us? What then?”

And he saw now how Barbrey had spent her days while he traveled—finding whatever fatal flaws she could in his plans. And this was a fatal one.

He saw her see the realization in him, but she would not win this. “Apologies, my lady, I didn’t realize we were ones to disparage power grabs. A bit pulling up the ladder after we’ve climbed, isn’t it?”

Her lashes fluttered sharply. A blow struck, and she gritted her teeth. “You are the blood of Winterfell.”

“I am the blood of Winterfell and the gods know what else.” He snarled. “Do you want me to say you are right? You are, my lady, wholly. And that changes nothing. Unless you mean to tell me you’ve learned to conjure food from thin air? Have you made such magics so?”

“I mislike your tone.”

“And I mislike you undermining my every plan!” His shout crashed through the room. It was unbecoming of a king, and doubly so to the woman who’d raised him, no matter how vexing her found her. He took a steadying breath. Another.

Barbrey did the same. “…not every plan, Jon. You know this. You know I love you as my own.”

He scraped his hands through his hair—wondered how his fingers didn’t return bloody. “It is a difficult thing to remember when you harass my every step. My Lady Sansa is here, and she is coming north. The first of their ships already wait beyond White Harbor. What would you even have me do? Does the Lady Dustin believe we will get a better offer elsewhere? That we would not be made beholden to another crown, a stronger house? I have given us my best.”

“The Iron Bank—”

“Would exact a punishing price. We are beggared now. Take their loan, and every drop of gold from the Neck still wouldn’t see us through.” And he raised his brows. “What was it you said, my lady? That of a penniless king and a penniless whore, at least the whore knows how to make herself useful?”

She sniffed. “Sometimes I think I’ve taught you too well.”

“You’ve taught me well enough.”

But he knew it burned her to see the Northern Queenship snatched by a Tully twice. Knew she’d held no great love for Corenna; thinking even then, that it should have been her married to Ned and wearing the crown. Never mind that she’d already been wed and with Markas in the cradle.

There was a stubborn jut to her jaw. He did not doubt she wanted to demand he call it off and send the Tully girl right back to her ship. Make the Stark crown beholden to no one, least of all her hated foes.

He could do just that, and they would all starve. That stubborn jut trembled as her thoughts followed through. Loosened.

Her angry fervor gave way to something both softer and sharper. “Ask the Tullys their plan for the Trident King. Get assurances they have some idea in their troutish heads before you give them an inch. If you come back with a foreign queen and no food to speak of, the North will never forgive you.”

It was a painful blow, and one he took into his body. He had become so focused on the girl he’d forgotten the larger picture. Still though. Still…

Her name clung to his heart. His tongue. It had sounded so right the first time he’d heard it, like the gods had spoken it in his ear.

This wasn’t wrong—Sansa Tully was his. He knew it. They had few ties to the Riverlands, but perhaps he could exert pressures of his own? Make the Trident King think twice of stepping in the way of their arrangement?

The North did not have stores to march an army on, but that was not a thing yet widely known. And for all Jon knew himself, perhaps Hoster Tully had greater plans than he’d let on. The man’s missives had been largely unconcerned with any royal interference, even at his prodding.

He’d allow her this much. “I only serve the North.”

“I could not ask more.” And her eyes swept shut as if some great pain had overcome her. “Konrad arrived on the morn; do you wish him with you?”

“If you would not find his swift departure a great offense.”

“He is a man of an age where his mother cannot keep him. His sword will guard you.” And her eyes came open. Her hand found his shoulder; squeezed it. “Be safe. Both of you.”

“Aye, my lady.” And he waited for her to release him before striding for the door. It was time he gathered what men he needed to carve way to his bride. He reached for Ghost inside him; caught a whiff of pine, a flash of gray fur, then the sluice of copper in his teeth.

The die was cast. The candle burnt low. He prayed the Tullys would be true at their word, for if they were not—

“Jon.” Her voice stopped him at the lintel.

Turned him.

“Remember when you stand before them—it is you who wears the crown, not they.”

He saw the brightness in her eyes, the anger, the prideful slant of that obstinate chin.

He matched it. “They will.” And slid that phantom blood between his teeth. “I pray you’ll remember that as well.”

Chapter Text

Ghost streaked beyond the horses; white against white. If it’d been snowing, the wolf would have been near impossible to sight. It was a truth many Bolton men had learned just before their lives stained the snows.

Jon reached out and settled into Ghost’s skin. A rush of cold. Thunderous strength; like quicksilver through the hills. He was not a man now, but a beast of sinew and naked instinct. He felt the land beneath his paws. Scented the winds.

Nothing human lingered that the wolf did not know.

A kindness—they had been ambushed at parley before.

Ghost did not think in words, but in tongue. Scent-smell came like a garden in bloom. Pine. Man-stink. Horseflesh. The whisper of a rabbit’s foot on snow. A flurry of shadows. Something sweet, so very sweet, in the wind rolling down their throat.

The man forced words of it—it was a failing of his.

Ghost scented the air again. Quick. Mate. Quick quick quick.

Was it her?

Jon skimmed with the beast above the drifts. Not yet. Pressed in patience—a wolf crouched low and waiting for the stag to near. How sweet the blood would rupture on the tongue if only they were patient.

The wolf misliked that; imagined leaping and running the stag down. The hunt thrumming red hot. Thought shifted again. Another burst of gray fur, yellow eyes. Mate. Ghost pressed mulishly.

Soon.

And Jon withdrew. It took a moment to shear it away; let the man take a breath and slip back into his own bones.

Meeting the Tully retinue in the wilds had been a rather deliberate ploy on his part. Catch them in the open and this bitter cold. They were southron and their blood ran thin. He would feign indifference a few days towards his bride, pretend the North was not in rabidly desperate straits, then use these primitive conditions to force the marriage negotiation through swiftly.

With any luck, they would be thanking him by the time they reached Winterfell. He knew it a prudent plan—even the Lady Barbrey had been unable to raise an objection.

Over the thunder of hooves, Jory Cassel called a halt. The horses slowed. The scouts kept on, galloping towards the trees and fanning out.

There would be no ambushes on this day.

The Head of his Hearthguard cantered to meet him. “Your Grace, the perimeter’s set. Any further orders?”

Jon assessed the hills. The trees. The flat of this plain. He shot Jory a glance. “Stay with the plan. I don’t expect troubles from these harbor knights, but...”

“We’ll keep an eye on them, my liege.”

Jon sent him a nod, and Jory kicked his horse and shot away. Others circled nearer. Cley Cerwyn and Ser Kyle Condon. Lord Mollen. Benfred Tallhart. Robin Flint. Lord Edwell Locke and his brother Ser Donnel. Daryn Hornwood. Lord Ironsmith. Lord Gladstone and his son Gared. His half-brother’s emissary Eryk Holden. The Great Walrus, who for reasons unclear to Jon, had stayed at Winterfell in order to make this trip.

“Jon!” A voice called, and he turned his horse in a half-circle to meet the cry. Only one man would shout his name so plainly, and Konrad Dustin came to a clattering halt at his side. “It smells of snow on the air, shall I hurry these trout on? Their camp can’t be far.”

Jon took his deep breath. Damp, a bite of frost. “No, let them come in their own time.” The outriders had made contact a day past. It had been agreed that each party would set camp and then meet betwixt them. The Manderly would tell the Tully of anything they need know, and if the trout found no will to hurry, then neither would he.

Besides, Jon had always preferred to take the ground first and know the shape of it. He pressed towards Ghost again, ready to send him spiraling out—

But anticipation was shuddering bright. Gods, that sweetness on the air, hind quarters shaking to run towards its source. Mate mate mate.

It was Jon’s own excitement reflected back to him sevenfold. He could not trust the wolf to heel. Come to me.

The winds kicking up again. That glorious scent beckoning. Near. Want. Ghost rumbled.

Jon felt it in his bones. I know. Come.

Stubbornly, the wolf kept staring south, took one last heaving breath, then slunk back towards him. The beast snarled at one of the guards’ horses. The flighty creatures all stomped and whinnied, nearly unseating two different riders in a host of curses. Ghost trotted on, and though there was grumbling in his wake, not a single of his men voiced true grievance.

The wolf was a thing to be feared. Tolerated. He would have to push Ghost father from the horses on the return trip. The Riverlanders would not be prepared, and the last thing Jon wanted was to frighten his lady.

Konrad watched the wolf approach placidly. As Ghost had grown from cub to beast, so had Konrad grown right beside him. The wolf had chewed a set of his boots to ribbons once. Barbrey had rapped the boy’s knuckles every time he’d tried to feed the wolf bacon at a feast. It had been a joint effort—if Konrad was caught, it was only to cover Jon’s own efforts.

The Lady Barbrey could only chastise so many hands at once.

Konrad nearly fell out of his saddle to pat Ghost’s flank as he passed. “He’ll break a man’s neck one day.”

Jon grunted. “He already has.” And then shot his companion an assessing look. “You were there for that, or have you forgotten?”

A grin split Konrad’s face, dark hair falling into darker eyes as he laughed: “I was.” And then sighed joyfully. “A finer sight a man has never seen. Remember that Ansley prisoner—shat himself and gave old Arnolf’s entire plan, didn’t he? A good day, that.”

Jon just grunted again; eyes fixed firmly south. Who cared for the past when his future would be coming through those trees?

The lords and lordlings about him murmured. Konrad kept pressing. “Are you eager for her? Mother says she’s a pretty thing.”

That caught Jon’s attention. “Did she?”

Konrad just shrugged. “Aye. Said the girl would be comely, if nothing else. She also told me not to let you go soft for a pretty face.”

Lord Locke snorted. Robin Flint gave a nod. “Aye, I heard the girl was so lovely, the Trident King wanted to take her for his next mistress.”

Jon misliked that notion greatly.

Daryn Hornwood just smirked. “I heard he already had.”

It took nothing for Jon to reach through Ghost. A king could not snarl and slaver—but a wolf?

Ghost reared around, teeth snapping inches from Hornwood’s backside. His horse shrieked, eyes rolling in holy terror. Daryn shrieked as well, body whiplashing side to side as mount nearly bucked him off.

Jon could not tell if he was disappointed in failing to break another man’s neck.

The other lordlings roared with laughter, even as their mounts scattered and they had to fight them back under control. Only Jon’s horse stayed motionless. After all these years, it had grown indifferent to Ghost’s temper.

Konrad bellowed: “Hold your tongue lest the wolf chastise you again, Hornwood!”

Lord Locke grunted in displeasure. “Fool boy.” And brought himself to Jon’s side. “Your Grace, if I may have leave to speak?”

Jon grunted. “Do so.”

And Lord Locke did: “Be wary of the Manderly, I know not yet how, but they will seek to enrich themselves through this marriage by any means. They are too wealthy already; they seek to dominate us all.”

“I will keep that in mind, Edwell. Thank you for your counsel.” The Locke’s were one of the few blended houses in the North. Their father had followed the old god’s zealously, but had married Melys Goldglass, a lady from a noble house sworn to the Manderly. Where Edwell Locke followed the old gods in his father’s footsteps, his brother Ser Donnel had cleaved to their mother’s faith. They were some of the few, he knew, who would understand him in this. “Tell me, did your father and lady mother ever suffer difficulties for their differences?”

He did not have to specify which. 

The older man chewed that over. “She was sensitive to the old ways, when punishments had to be meted and the gods given their due. I know it is the way of other houses for all to attend justice in the godswood, but my father always excused her. Ladies of the Faith are a delicate sort, your Grace. You will need to mind your new wife carefully.”

Jon had already intended to. At his side, in his bed, wherever he brought her. Wherever he took her. He mulled it. “Anything else?”

“Father bought her a fine house in White Harbor; allowed her to attend services at the Snowy Sept a few times a year. And I know she took great comfort in the Septa she brought with to Oldcastle.”

He fought a scowl at that. Send his wife from his side so often, and so far? He knew the sept at Winterfell was a small thing, but it would have to satisfy her. He could at least call for a septon or two to attend her. Corenna had kept her own holy counsel, so Winterfell was already used to the intrusion.

Another few men rejoined them; Konrad, Benfred, Donnel. Lord Ironsmith. The Great Walrus returned still roiling in his laughter. Jon let the conversation fade.

Ghost pressed in. Bite?

Jon did not sigh. No.

He could smell horse-sweat, man-fear. The wolf still rumbled with their anger. Bite hard?

Still no.

The Great Walrus shot him a wink. Only the Freefolk understood what had just happened, though Jon did not acknowledge the gesture. They were sworn to secrecy. Better his other men did not know the truth of Jon’s nature.

More rejoined them, even Daryn Hornwood both nervous and shamefaced. Jon’s lip curled. “You tarnished my lady’s chastity.”

Hornwood swallowed deeply. “Many pardons, your Grace.”

But his gut still churned. He’d made a promise in his solar so many sennights ago, if any house spoke ill of his bride. He could not be a man untrue to his word. “Konrad.”

And Konrad grabbed Daryn Hornwood by the hair and wrenched him from the saddle. The lordling hit the ground with a muffled cry, and Konrad followed him down. Took him by the hair again, dragged him to his knees, then presented Jon the fool’s neck with a dagger at its base.

It was a struggling thing; pulse fluttering like the dying of a bird.

The guards murmured and watched on. His bannermen fell silent.

“You called your future Queen a harlot—named her a woman willing to give her maidenhead outside the marriage bed. My marriage bed.”

The boy scrambled uselessly in the snow. “I’m so sorry. It was a jape. Please your grace, I didn’t mean it, I lost grip of my tongue—”

Jon jerked his head. Two guards dismounted and came to them. Took Daryn’s arms and held fast.

The cries grew louder. “Your Grace, whatever boon you ask, my father will pay it. I spoke foolishly and wrongly, and you have every right!”

“I do.” And his breath drifted white on the winds. “I should send your mother your head in a bag.”

Daryn’s eyes were bright. Tears. Animal terror. “Please my liege. Please.”

It would be an ugly and wholly earned punishment. It would also garner him Lord Hornwood’s rage for an heir slain. Jon sighed. “I do not like the omen of beginning my marriage with the taking of a head.”

And Daryn sagged.

But Jon was still. “And yet.” A snarl passed through his teeth. “Konrad, make him think twice before speaking so freely.”

“Your Grace, no—” The plea went unheeded.

“Aye, brother.” And then Konrad jammed his blade right into Daryn’s mouth.

The screams were shrieking, blood fountaining down his chin. Rupturing—streaming red onto the snow.

Ghost lingered near. Hungry. Tongue lolling and tasting copper. Coveting it.

Hush.

The wolf turned away. Petulant; curling up into the snow and laying there with his back turned on them all.

Jon watched Daryn shriek and spill into the snow. He gestured for Konrad. “Join me.” And his brother did. Back into the saddle, humor high, pulling out a cloth to clean his blade before sheathing it.

He shot Jon a jolly grin. “By your command.”

Jon ignored him. Ordered: “There is a godswood a mile hence. Take him there to spit his blood and penance. Ensure he doesn’t bleed to death.”

The guards murmured. “Aye, yer’grace.” Then dragged the quivering lordling away.

Jon did not take a bracing gulp of air, though he we wished to. What fool would ever want to be King?

“A right thing.” The Great Walrus murmured.

Lord Locke nodded. So did Lord Mollen. “Indeed.”

Mayhaps he would bring all these factions together yet. His bannermen gathered to him; no more japes to be found on the tongue. Every lordling kept still. Konrad just hummed to himself, pleased in the way of things.

Jon waited.

Above them, snow began to fall.

/~/~/~/

She stared at the trees swaying in the wind. Snow fell so slowly. Her King waited just beyond them, crowned in this pale glory.

“My lady, we are ready.”

She turned at Poppy’s voice. “Of course.” And followed the woman into a tent. The Mothers of Mercy waited there along with the rest of her maids. Poppy. Nella. Mora. Prue. Pots of water heated on campfires were arrayed out. More still. Oils. Combs. Perfumes. Ribbons.

A new dress waited on her cot. Tully red—the same shade as the Trident’s mud. She knew from which river; from which watery life she’d been born. There would be no forgetting.

But by the gods, was she exhausted. Winter travel was a punishing beast.

This would be the first time she would be fully clean in a fortnight. She had to be ready for her King; he would find nothing unpleasant in her visage.

She held out her arms. Her maids started on her cloak while a Mother of Mercy saw to her head. The nature of those smaller furs had been illuminated to her when they’d left the harbor. The pieces been meant to wrap her neck, the back of her head to her hat, then down to the collar of her cloak to hide any gap of skin from the winds.

Her King had been so kind to her. While her uncle and guards and maids all shivered, Sansa had been the only warm southerner on this journey.

Piece by piece, they removed all her clothes. Mother Malla smiled gently. “Here you are, milady. A prayer to the Maiden as we ready for the King, hmmmm?” And Sansa followed along to that litany with ardor.

Bless her with beauty, with chastity, to be pleasing to the eye and innocent in her faith. Let him see her as she was. She would be a devoted wife to him, so let him know it.

The Mothers and maids joined her prayer; gave their voices so she might be heard by the Maiden above. They washed her quickly, a drag of hot water being followed immediately by a linen to dry her. Even at their quickness, a shiver caught her. It went swiftly as it could, and then she was wrapped in furs to be placed at a brazier.

Mother Malla knelt before her and clasped her shaking hands. A curl of gray hair fell from beneath the woman’s veil. Travel had been kind to none of them.

The woman spoke: “It will be well, the King is just and true. He is no heathen stealing a maiden’s gift like lesser lords. He will remain that sword that guards the North, and you will show him the ways of mercy.”

It drove a trembling fear through her.

Mother Malla just squeezed her hands. “Know this, milady, soon there will be babes blessed of the Light in your arms. The North will steer true under your sons.”

She had no answer for that, only a curl of apprehension. Faith. The zealotry in these eyes. Children of her own to love, given by this King.

“My mother.” Her tongue struggled for a moment. “She was not easily blessed. Only my brother and I came to her, and I fear that I…”

“You will be blessed.” And the Mother gazed up at her so surely. “All of the North prays for you, milday. Every Mother of our Order has given birth to many babes before taking our vows. We will stay with you and guide you through every bed you have, marriage and birthing both. You shan’t be alone. We will be your walls and beacon to the gods.”

She prayed it true. “Thank you, I will treasure you at my side.”

A ripple passed through the tent. The Mothers were pleased. The septons had grilled her in her studies and rote memory of the Seven-Pointed Star the entire journey north. Tested her. Tested her faith. The Mothers had watched it all.

Now it seemed they found her true, and thank the gods. Sansa had won her first base of support.

Mother Malla smiled so broadly, the wrinkles at her eyes became crags. “You honor our lowly Order greatly.” Then turned. “Come, you wenches, wash our lady’s hair. We shant have long to dry it.”

Poppy came behind her with Prue, and Sansa sank down to lower her head into a warm bowl of water. “Mother Malla?”

“Yes, milady?”

“How should they dress my hair? The south has a certain…intricacy of style I did not find in White Harbor.”

“Ah.” And the woman understood. “Do not mistake this plainness for how it always is. The winter is a time of humility, prayer, and hardship. Ladies of both the old gods and the new, do not put on excessive airs when the people suffer. In the spring, oh, the flowers and braids you shall see. You will wear many crowns, my lady. Spring buds and summer bounties and the harvest wreath. “

She felt the girl once again for how excited that made her. What lady did not dream of gowns and crowns when they were young? “I look forward to the seasons to come. But today, for the King?”

Another of the Mothers clucked. “He’s t’be her husband, he should see her in her beauty.”

Poppy was glaring. “The North should see my lady as she is, a prized daughter of House Tully.”

The mothers nodded. So did her maids.

“Aye.” A Northwoman murmured.

Mother Malla dipped her head. “I think we can come to a compromise. Our King should witness his lady wearing her finest glory to please him, hmmm?”

/~/~/~/

The snow was falling harder when she slipped from the tent. Her uncle was waiting for her. She expected some grumble, some roll of the eyes for the wait.

There was none, and no preparing her for those misty eyes upon her. “You look a dream.” Nothing for his kiss falling so gently upon her cheek.

There were so many of their men about, hers and Manderlys both, but Uncle Brynden took her from them and guided her to her horse alone.

“How have I come here again?” He asked the winds. “Another of my Tully girls preened ready for a Stark?”

His grief laid so old and raw. It wounded her. “Oh, Uncle.”

“It is alright.” And he stroked her hand. “Let an old man be old for a minute more. It seems just a day ago I was helping Cat to toddle her first steps, and now here you are—me giving you away to some grubby beast. Where have all my little girls gone?”

Her breath rushed watery. Warbling. “Say not such things, I am here.” While tears sprang fast.

His eyes carried a dampness of their own. “All men are beasts.” He answered. “I just pray we find you a kind one. Kinder than Brandon.” And that foggy gaze rose beyond the trees. “I wonder if he’d have made Lysa happy. If she could have endured this place. What we’ve asked of you…even I did not understand the breadth of it.”

Had she failed them already? “I can do this.”

“I know, and we still should not have asked it.” And he turned them both then; gripped her shoulders and stared her in the eye. “None of us could have done this thing. Hoster, myself, your mother.” His eyes swept shut. “Sweet Lysa.” And then came back open. “None. I have seen your strength these past moons, and I could not be prouder of you. You could have collapsed under the weight of this, and instead, I only find you flourishing. You have a beauty of strength in your spirit not even the heavens could match.”

It was a heretical thing to say. It made the tears fall from her eyes.

“Oh.” She whimpered. “You’re ruining the maids’ work.”

He merely chuckled and kissed her brow. “They’ll forgive this old scallywag. Listen to me, my little love. Be wise, watch the man carefully, and do not let your head be turned. This marriage does not have to happen. If you think him kin-killer, duplicitous, or cruel—we ride for White Harbor like the wind. Promise me this. You will not sacrifice yourself upon Hoster’s altar.”

She knew it would not serve her grandfather to see her dead. It served no one. But this love of theirs, this faith…

“I promise.” Her uncle was a man of bluster, of few words when in a black mood. This praise he bestowed upon her would be remembered to her dying day.

She whispered: “I love you.”

And he answered. “As I love you.” Then hugged her tight. Armor and cloaks; a clack of his sword off the chain about her waist. A full thing, lifting her from the very earth.

When her mother had held her in Grandfather’s solar, when her family given their goodbyes at the gates, right at this very moment—she’d known her family’s love in the strength of their grip.

And that was why she fought this battle.

The Tullys would endure.

He released her. Her breath spilled white as a cloud. “The King awaits.”

“Let him wait a minute more.” But he still gathered her up to put her astride her horse. Gripped her knee. Side saddle; a strange creature that she’d become. Cloak of white, Tully red, hair a crown of braided fire while the rest fell towards the earth.

She touched his hand once, and he went.

That was the signal for the holy knights to mount. For her sworn shields to come to her. For her Uncle to lead the retinue, blackfish shining so grimly in this winter air.

“Ride!”

/~/~/~/

The wait was near intolerable. Ghost was naught but an oddly shaped hill under the snows. Jon did not dare reach for him; try to breathe her one last time. He might storm the Tully camp if so, and that would be a poor start to winning her.

He would have her. Heart, body, soul. And so he did what the patient wolf would do: waited in hunger.

A cry broke. “Tully riders approach!”

Their horses snorted and pawed the ground. He could hear the thunder of hooves now, the snapping of banners. The scouts slipped the wood and scattered into his guard. Ghost quivered behind them but stayed invisible in his fortress of snow.

The riders broke the trees.

His breath snared.

Tully trout whipping on the wind. Manderly, Greenhand, Silversmith. Cove. Fairchilde. Goldglass. A hundred banners in all, and there so glorious beneath them—

Riding among those knights was a single woman. His scalp needled; shivered. The white fur of the cloak he’d sent billowed out. Gods above. Her red hair streaked behind her like that comet from so long ago.

It sparked a fire in him.

She was distant, just a pale creature among the snows, but closer and closer she came to him. Skirts fluttering, head forward, red as the weirwood.

Pale as the dawn.

Her eyes were blue.

“By the fucking gods.” Benfred Tallhart breathed.

Robin Flint made a noise like he was swallowing his tongue. Jon wasn’t far behind him—only iron will kept his jaw clamped shut. The Great Walrus whooped and slapped his knee. A low whistle left another impressed mouth.

She glided closer yet, resplendent. Beautiful. He knew then that the gods had touched him, for here was a woman carved by their own hands. Their gift to him. All those years of worrying if he had done the right thing—they all wiped away. The gods held him in favor, and there was no denying it. All the North would know it the moment they looked upon her face.

His crown was assured.

Breath left him. Want flooded.

“You lucky rat.” Konrad hissed, and then the Tully retinue was before them, and there was no more time for useless jibes.

He had to have her; she was his. He needed to take her from her saddle and throw her over his own. Ride hard for Winterfell. It was a mad thought, but his hands clenched in want of it. A thrumming built. Growling. He was with Ghost now, smelling and breathing while seeing the world through too many eyes.

Mate.

Yes. He agreed, though perhaps that thought had been his own.

The oldest knight, gray and sharp as a knife, guided his horse a few steps forward. Jon’s lady sat motionless behind the man; her eyes fixed on Jon’s. He stared back at her. Yearned for her. Could she feel it? Did she understand that the gods had fated her for him?

Her tongue darted, one flash of distant pink. He wanted to follow it, and almost ignored the knight as he declared: “Your Grace.”

It was excruciating to drag his gaze from his lady, but drag it he did. All eyes were on them. All eyes had seen his struggle.

He cared not.

There was a black fish on that armor, sinuous and dark, and Jon knew: “Welcome to the North, Brynden Tully.”

“A pleasure.” The man answered. Knife-like; no pleasure at all.

A hurdle for him, then. Jon merely gazed on. “Dismount your people, Ser.”

He saw the man’s eyes dart to the snows before them, the blood there. Jon wondered if he’d say something, perhaps flee.

The man did neither. “And will you dismount the same?”

Impertinent. “Yes.” If only to get her closer.

Not a single of his guard or banner stirred until all the Tully retinue had their feet on the ground. He watched his Lady Sansa through it; how she waited for her great uncle to come to her and help her down. Her every moment was grace incarnate. It killed Jon to watch it—no man would ever take her from her saddle again, only he would have that pleasure.

The thrumming grew. Hunger. Jealousy rabid.

Her eyes came back to him, so wide and doe-like.

Need.

The thought was his and the thought was not. Her below him now, some distance yet, but her mouth pink as a rose. Parted. Her arm in her Uncle’s, a hand in her skirts. Lifting. Curtsying. “My King.”

He would be. The thrum became a howl.

And the words curled so hot and glorious in his mouth when he answered: “My Lady.”

She shivered beneath him, and something in him cracked. She knew the future, understood it. The gods had breathed the truth into her as well.

And her voice was the softest thing, a spring breeze upon his ear. He wondered what it would sound in a moan; bitten off in trembling gasps while he put his head beneath those skirts. He wanted to know. He wanted so badly. He wanted—

The wolf shuddered. Rose. Shook the snows away.

Brynden Tully’s eyes flared wide, hand clawing for his pommel. The Tully guards shouted in alarm. Steel rattled, screams rose, and he realized—fuck, fuck—

Ghost!

Her eyes went wide. Her mouth fell open.

And in one great bound, hunger red hot, the wolf broke from their ranks and bore down on Sansa Tully.

/~/~/~/

The trees had parted so slowly for her, like a veil being lifted.

He is there. He will be there.

It did not matter now, hat or no, cloak or no. She was shivering; excitement and fear and hope and wonder.

They’d found the scouts first, or the scouts had found them. Harsh-faced men all. But their leader had said: “The King waits.” And so they’d followed.

It built and built inside her; this flood that would break the dam. Would he look upon her gently? Find her fair? Feel some first bloom of love in his heart? Florian had looked upon his Jonquil and been struck down in the same breath. Could this be the same?

She was a girl. A fool. A creature yet hungry for her own tale to start. Gods. She had to be brave as her uncle thought her, as courteous as her mother had raised her.

As clever as she had ever been in this mortal life.

The trees thinned. The snows met them again, and there across the field was a dark host. So many men, and she saw no crown among them.

Where was he?

They picked up speed. She tried to find him, pluck out any detail from those men mounted before that great hill of snow.

Where was—

A sear across her breast. Thunder. Dark eyes so distant—

And yet she knew. Black curls made wild, the furs about his shoulders both rich and gray. The half-moon of his banners all bent to him, and how he burned.

Closer and closer and closer she came. The hoofbeats matching the strike of her heart. Gods above. That mouth on him, so lush. He was of an age with her, hale and hearty and so strong in the saddle. The breadth of him—it knocked the breath from her.

The distance grew small, and his gaze pierced her like the lance. She did not know how she was not left bloody on the ground. Her grandfather had not lied to her; he was comely. The handsomest man in all the lands, and the fairest of its kings. And his eyes…

They never left her. They ravaged her.

She could not breathe for it. The only thing that kept her knees from knocking together, was the horse that sat between them. Would he be sweet? Gentle?

He did not look gentle, he looked a beast.

Suddenly, inexplicably, her uncle was standing beside her horse. “Come.”

She had missed something. By the gods, she’d missed the greeting, of all the stupid thoughtless things to do. But then her uncle was taking her by the waist to help her down. She had to do better; she could not let the King think her a lackwit here to do naught but stare at his face.

The marriage negotiation was going to go terribly. How could she fight for anything, when she wanted him so ardently?

They moved forward and she sought him again. Another sear—the King’s eyes were already upon her. This close she could see their color, grey as the furs that sat his shoulders. There was no mistaking him. This man could be naught else but a king crowned and blooded.

Let him find her pleasing. Let him find in himself some affection for her.

She prayed to the Maiden again, silent and formless. Her uncle halted. Then, gracious as she had ever been, she took her skirts and lowered herself before him. She cherished the words as they left her: “My King.”

And his gaze scalded her. Something between her thighs shivered hotly in answer.

Mother, Maiden, Father—

“My Lady.”

Forgive me.

His was the deep rumble of the blacksmith’s bellows, smooth and dark as river stones. Warm as cinnamon in mulled wine and drinking of it deep.

He would be her undoing.

A flurry of movement. A heave. Some great white form rushing up behind her King. It was massive. It’s head—for it was a head—came above the horses. Turned.

Red. Red eyes. Red as blood.

Screams shattered the air around her.

Sansa had kept many a dog as a girl, all carefully picked from the kennels for their gentleness. Soft ears, wiggling tummies, the sweetest cries. She had loved them all; carried them about like dolls and fed them from her own plate, even at her mother’s scolding.

They had been loyal and loving to the last. Her sweet Jonquil had died just this winter, the storms too harsh and her bones too old. Sansa had wept bitterly for her gentle companion. She’d seen her faithful friend taken to the Trident, the ice broken, and her body laid into the embrace of its waters.

She’d had dogs, so she knew: this was no dog.

It was a wolf.

The beast lunged for her, and horses shrieked. Paws the size of great shields thundered against the earth.

Just as when she’d seen her King, her brain became empty. Vacant of all sense. That could be the only explanation for what followed. When that the wolf bore down on her, ears high, tail windmilling, with that perfect, fluffy, adorable face—she just opened her mouth.

Gasped: “Puppy!” And threw her arms wide.

Her Uncle was knocked clean aside. A great head met her chest then lifted her right off her feet.

Her entire body was pressed into fur. She was dangling off the wolf, and she gasped again: “Look at you! So big!”

The entire great beast waggled under her. He slowly let her slip back to the ground and latch about his neck. A large pink tongue nearly scoured her cheek from her. Distantly, she could hear her uncle’s armor clattering as he scrambled away.

These moons had been too long. Her mind had fled. She giggled then, tensions breaking into pure madness, and shoved her face into the wolf. The beast wiggled even more, and she sighed giddily: “I’m so happy to meet you, too! What is your name, my sweet prince?”

“This fool is hardly so sweet.”

Her heart surged into her throat. Slowly, so very slowly, she leaned away from the wolf to see if her fear was true.

It was. The King was beside them and breathing hard, his face white as milk. He’d run to them.

Every thought in her head became a thing of idiocy. “I think he’s lovely.”

One hot palm met her elbow; gripped it hard as she felt the King’s barest tremble. As he asked: “My lady, are you alright?”

“I am in fine form.” And she blinked slowly, not daring to move lest he take that palm away. “Perhaps a touch winded, your Grace. I think your wolf knocked my uncle to the ground.”

“And this beast will beg many pardons for it.” And the King grabbed a great fistful of the wolf’s fur and forced its head to turn. “You will, won’t you? Causing my lady and her retainers all this fright, you wretched creature?”

“I was not frightened!” Mostly surprised. No one had told her these sorts of wonders were waiting in the North. “He is wonderful, though perhaps overeager in his affections.”

“We’ll work on that.” The King snarled, and the wolf whimpered most piteously.

She gathered the wolf close and whispered into his fur. “You have my pardon, sweet boy.” A warm, chest-shaking rumble answered. Another lick came to her cheek.

The King stared at her until she was squirming. Until he asked: “And I, my lady? Have I earned your pardon?”

He was lovely, this close. His eyes an endless gray, his beard trimmed neatly, his mouth a delight. And the heat of him— “You have done naught wrong.”

He chuckled darkly. “I did not control this fool beast, and for that, you and your men have my apologies. I never wish you to be in fear, my lady. I will only keep you in safety. I promise you this.”

How else could he keep her? She shivered hotly once more. “You are very kind, your Grace. I know you speak true.”

He gazed back at her so seriously. “Aye, for you? Always.” And it nearly knocked her off her feet—even more than the wolf.

There was still clattering, she realized. Men murmuring from the northern contingent and arguing ferociously from the southern. Her uncle bellowed: “Get that beast away from her!”

The King leaned around her. “My lady is fine, no harm meant or done!”

“That wolf—”

“Is trying rather ardently to win her affections!” And then the King leaned back in, his voice dropping low. “As am I.”

Hope sprang like a fountain within her. There was blood on the snows, a wolf in her arms, a Barbarian King still holding her elbow. This would be the beginning, she knew, the beginning of everything.

She flushed. “You’ve succeeded so far.”

His eyes danced. “Then let me keep on, my lady. I’ve hardly begun.”

Her uncle kept on, too. “Sweetling, please come away from the wolf!”

She whispered to the King. “I’m not sure that I will.”

Ghost rumbled and wiggled. The King gripped her tight. “A smart choice.”

Another cry. “Sansa!”

And he gave her a most roguish grin. “A pretty name for such a gracious lady.”

And Sansa knew then, in these winter wilds, under the hand of her future husband—

Her heart had been stolen for good.

Chapter Text

She was so soft beneath his hands. Sweet. He took her in with every breath, and tried to remember what it was to have sense.

It was an impossible task.

In the moment of the rupture he had felt Ghost’s eagerness, had feared swords being drawn. Blood being shed. A broken bone or five, because Ghost had never learned to be careful with those both small and delicate. The thought of his Tully lady screaming; frightened or wounded, or some horrible combination of the two—it had driven his heart into his throat.

And yet here they now stood: her face radiant with her smiles, and the awed looks she kept bestowing upon them both. She kept her arms firmly wrapped around the wolf’s neck. Her every giggle nearly unmanned him.

Jon knew the North had never seen her like.

Ghost was almost shaking with glee. Sansa-sweet. Sansa-sweet scratch?

Quiet, you. He rebuked.

Ghost just nosed her cheek again. Never, in all his years, had Jon so desperately wanted to be in place of the beast. Maybe not to lick her face, but—

He would have settled for that too.

She shot him a bashful look. “If I may be so bold, your Grace, how does one acquire a wolf?”

“Be as bold as you wish, my lady. I’ll never fault you.”

And she pinked up beautifully at that. He could see it all the way down her neck; her furs had been knocked askew in the commotion. He made quick remedy of it, adjusting layers just so, and allowing himself a brush of his knuckles up her throat.

Her lashes fluttered. Throat working, lips parting. He wanted to press in; taste that gasping breath on her tongue. See how sweet that mouth really was—

Behind them, Brynden Tully cleared his throat for the tenth time that hour.

Jon regretfully drew his hand away and made sure her furs were settled. Gods forbid he let his lady catch a chill.

“This wolf.” He said, coveting her rosy cheeks. Coveting her eyes perhaps guiltily darting back to his face. What had his lady been thinking? He cleared his own throat. “When I was a boy, before my uncle was king, he and his children came to visit me at Barrow Hall. When we rode to a river to play one morning, we found a mother-wolf who’d been slain by many an arrow. Beneath her body were three pups with the fourth gripped in her teeth. After quite a bit of childish cajoling, my uncle gifted them to us.”

“A lovely if sad story.” She affirmed, her eyes on his and one hand stroking white fur. “Then you have been all that your sweet Ghost knows. Was he ever so small as a pup?”

“He could fit in my hands.” He murmured, then raised his hands as if to demonstrate. Her eyes darted again and took keen interest of his palms. That was good. His hands would take interest of her soon enough. Arms, hips, thighs. Her cu—

Another cleared throat behind them. Jon did not roll his eyes.

Sansa just cooed and stroked Ghost further. “I wish I could have held him then.”

“There will be other pups.” He dismissed, then finally succumbed to his weakness. Eyes falling shut; slipping into Ghost’s fur. Feeling those sweet strokes for himself.

It was glorious.

And he was done with waiting. His eyes flew open. “Bring the lady’s horse!”

“Your Grace?” She asked tremulously, but he just slid a hand to the small of her back and gave Ghost a hard shove.

“Daylight wanes. Come, let me see to your comfort at my camp. You’ve traveled a long way, my lady.”

“We have.” She demurred. “You’re very considerate.”

“Hardly.” He answered, and this time gave Ghost a mental shove instead. The wolf rumbled and sulked, but trotted beyond the circle of horses. Disappeared into the wood.

His lady let out the saddest little sigh. Fretted: “Will he return?”

“I have no doubt he’ll be waiting for you at camp.” And he would, the absolute wretch. No doubt to put his head in her lap and nuzzle for more of her stroking. Jon felt a man robbed.

A Tully guard came with her horse. The Blackfish followed right behind them. The guard was a few years Jon’s elder; dark of hair, dark of eye, and long of face. Jon would have thought him a Northman if not for the silver trout upon his breast.

“My lady.” The guard murmured, and Jon quite misliked those words upon the man’s tongue.

Before he could make any fuss of it, the Blackfish was there and demanding: “Where are you taking my niece?”

Impudent, to speak to a king in such a way. Jon fought a grin. “My camp. Where else would we negotiate the marriage?”

“Our camp is—” The Blackfish rallied.

But Jon wasn’t interested in hearing it. “Send word to your servants to break it down and join ours. Or don’t. Either way, the Lady Sansa is coming. Come or go as you please, Ser Brynden.”

The Tully guard stayed still. Brynden moved closer; bit out piece by piece: “You haven’t married her yet.”

“Only a matter of time.” Jon answered mildly, then gestured for the guard. “The lady’s horse.”

The guard shifted but did not move. It was a subtle thing then, so swift and so far in his peripherals, that Jon almost didn’t catch it. His lady nodded once, and the guard immediately brought the horse to her side.

His lady had been pliant to his will…but it seemed her guards were pliant to hers. Not her uncle’s.

An interesting wrinkle.

“Thank you, Ser Wyck.” She murmured, and now there was a name to go with that dour face. She was reaching for the knight, readying herself to be lifted.

But Jon wouldn’t see it borne. He put his hands about her hips—and what lovely hips they were, so curved beneath his palms—and lifted her. She let out the smallest gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for purchase.

One day and one day soon, they would be holding each other just the same, but he would be standing between her thighs. Tasting that gasp. Rutting into her slowly.

He gazed up at her as she gazed down at him. Her chest trembling. Her cheeks so flushed—

Jon very, very regretfully, put her onto the horse. He signaled over his shoulder for one of his guard to bring his own mount.

Brynden Tully circled to her other side. Hissed: “Sansa.”

She just smiled down at him placidly. “Please join us to the King’s camp, uncle. We are well in hand.”

The look on Brynden’s face told Jon that the man did not consider things in hand in the slightest. Still though, the lady was seated, and the reins of her horse firmly gripped in Jon’s palm. If Brynden Tully thought to grapple with him for it, the man would be sorely disappointed in the outcome.

With an almighty snarl, the man relented, calling for his own horse as Jon drew her away. He was not interested in waiting further.

She called down. “Will there be no introductions?”

Jon cast a glance to his lords. Half were seated on their mounts while the other half were scattered about. Those astride had no doubt been ready to flee if Ghost had truly done her violence. He scoffed. “They will wait.”

“They are your banners.” She said, not an argument, but a declaration all the same.

“And they will still be here in an hour.” He stopped his pace. Stared up into those blue eyes once more. Drowned. “They shall linger before the mediation. I will introduce you then. But be of a mind, my lady, those negotiations will be short.”

“Why so?” She asked.

A guard came with his horse then. Jon mounted easily; still gripping her reins tight. Konrad was already wheeling to join them, shooting Jon a gimlet eye. That look would only darken in the hours to come.

So would many more.

But he cared not. “Because, my lady.” And he brought them side by side. “I mean to be wed to you by sunrise.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her mouth opened and then went shut.

It seemed she was in agreement.

He kicked his horse to canter, and then he and his lady rode.

/~/~/~/

She was unsteady on her feet. Even Ghost waiting in the King’s camp, tail swishing to see her, could not right her symmetries. There had only been the King’s voice. His palms like brands. Her hips were still aching for him, and so was that womanly place betwixt.

She had never burned this hotly before.

The septons would name her sinner. Lascivious. Filled with avarice. Lustful and unchaste and—

But in that moment, in that glen, there had only been the King guiding her away. She had been unable to do naught but be swept along. Be swept up.

I mean to be wed to you by sunrise.

He had spoken madness, and yet she could not grasp for a single doubt. It could be a trap, a ploy, some smokescreen to deceive her—

But his promise had sounded so wonderous, like something from a song. And it had felled her.

At his camp, the King unseated her, lifting her as if she were but a feather. Her hips were now twice branded. She would not admit that she clung to him after her slippers met the snows, but cling she did.

His hands stayed on her hips and squeezed. His breath washed hot at her temple. “I am gladdened I chose these furs for you.”

She shifted back in his arms. “Oh?”

His mouth tugged up. “I understand now it would have grieved me to see you draped in another man’s kill. These were meant for you. You look a winter dream dancing upon the snows.”

Her heart fluttered. Her lashes, too. Such words—never, even in her most secret dreams, had she imagined an adoration so sweet. She was shivering now, and not for the cold.

It was not to last. A moment later, her uncle arrived with thunderous clatter. Ser Wyck and Ser Marq were only a horse length behind. Her uncle’s displeasure could be heard in the force of his boots striking the ground.

A pity. She parted from her King. “Thank you most kindly, for words and furs both.”

But the King’s hands did not part from her so easily. “Thank me not for your care, my lady. It is all you deserve.” And his grip tightened one last time before loosening. Brushing at her skirts; fingers trailing so hotly. “And of my words, what is kind about the truth?”

Another shiver rippled down her scalp. “Perhaps their delivery.” She confessed. Though by the gods, if he kept this up, she would be swooning within the hour.

Though not if her uncle had anything to say of it. He came to her side, hand slipping beneath her cloak and taking a fistful of her dress. He dragged her back half a step as he declared: “A tent for my niece to freshen up. And food if your people can manage it, your Grace.”

Never had she heard that address filled with such spitting venom. She understood her uncle’s ire for the distress caused. She also wanted to slap him across the face. Such naked insolence in the face of a king she was meant to charm and wed—

But the King just seemed amused. “By all means.” And then his gaze lanced to her. “Any favored dishes?”

It was a courteous gesture, but she well knew the reason this marriage had been brought forth. “Whatever your cooks can manage, we will be happy for any nourishment.”

He nodded once, lips tugging up, not even sparing a glance for her uncle’s furious visage. There was an order of address among nobles, especially when an unwed lady was present. First a man would speak her eldest male relative. Preference was given to her father in some circumstances, and in others, her grandfather as patriarch of their house. If her kin found a stranger agreeable, attentions would then be directed to her and an introduction made. A man could speak to her, but must always be wary if her kin withdrew their favor, or redirected the conversation back to the matters of lords and men.

So here laid her conundrum: were the ways of the North so different? Or was the King ignoring all common courtesy? To speak to her repeatedly at her uncle’s obvious ire, while staring at her so intensely…

It was not how any lord or knight should stare at a lady. She knew this, but he was neither lord nor knight—he was greater than. And the blessed gods forgive her, she did not wish to bid his eyes away.

Her uncle cleared his throat again. The man was going to make himself hoarse if he kept that up.

Still though, she heard the signal for what it was. She curtsied deeply. “If you’ll bid us leave, your Grace.”

The King’s eyes skimmed her so darkly, sole to crown. “I will find you in an hour, my lady. And please, tell-off Ghost if he tries to follow you into a tent, he knows he’s not allowed.”

She smiled rather secretively at that. “It will only be a soft scolding.”

“More than the beast deserves.” And the King shared that secret grin. Dipped his head. “You’ve a gentle tongue, my lady.” But did not turn.

Her uncle looped their arms together, and she likely only avoided a stringent frog-marching by dint of the other Northern lords arriving. Her uncle was many things, but he would allow no more disunity to be seen between them.

Servants flooded out; the camp buzzing at the return of their King. Faces came around every corner to stare at her as they passed.

But the King stayed where he stood, and his gaze only left her when the tent fell shut to separate them.

/~/~/~/

Her uncle waited only long enough for Ser Marq and Ser Wyck to take up posts at the tent, before snarling: “That absolute bastard!”

Edmund, who was ducking in behind them, noted dryly: “His mother was unwed, yes.” Then turned to the guard at heel. “Go around back, ensure no one is listening.”

The guard nodded at once and pulled the tent closed. That left only she and Edmund to contend with her uncle’s temper.

And what a temper it was. “That bloody mongrel did that to frighten us—he was hoping the wolf would make us piss ourselves!”

She gasped. Not for the language, but for the surprise that her uncle was agitated enough to say such in front of her. She rallied. “He did not!”

“He refused to call it off!” He shouted back.

“The King did not have time!” She cried, then tried to reign her temper in. If she was shouting, her uncle would only be driven to greater heights. She hissed. “You did not see him. He was shaking when he came to me; the King was as frightened as the rest of us.”

“Then he carts about a beast he cannot control—”

“Ghost is a darling!”

“He could have bitten your head off!”

This gasp was strangled. “You take that back!”

“I—”

“How has it fallen to me to be the voice of restraint?” Edmund asked to the heavens above. He stepped between them. “Tempers, my dears. Are we not all on the same side? Let us take a calming breath.”

She did, quite deeply. Uncle Brynden just scoffed.

Edmund hardly looked impressed. “Are we not delighted? I think that went rather well. If Lord Tully was with us now, he’d be rolling out his best barrel of wine to celebrate. You saw how the King looked upon her.”

Her uncle growled. “Am I supposed to take delight in that mongrel unclothing her with his gaze right in front of me? The gall on him!”

Edmund just glanced about. “Well, considering why we’re here—”

“Don’t you say it.”

“—yes.”

It was slanderous and unchaste and horrible, these claims of theirs, and she stomped her foot. “The King was doing no such thing!” He would never. He was true, and sweet, and—

Both men turned a disbelieving eye. Edmund offered: “My lady, you must understand, when a man looks upon a woman—”

She shrieked. “And what would either of you know of it?!”

Her uncle spluttered. “The same principle applies!”

Edmund just looked exhausted with them both. “Have we forgotten there is a marriage negotiation ahead?” And that sobered them all.

Edmund and her uncle were set in their ways, and she knew there was no use in dissuading them. She held the truth; had felt it that first moment she’d locked eyes with her King. The grace of the gods had been upon her.

She did not know why they had called her to this place, to this marriage, but this was their work being done. She would divine the holy truth and do their will on earth. Then she and the King would be wed as he had promised.

But good sense—and every lesson her grandfather had poured into her—sent her to her uncle’s side. Taking his hands into her own. Asking: “Are we not kin under the same banner?”

Her uncle took a deep and shaking breath. His shoulders dropped half an inch. He grasped her hands in return. “We swim the same waters; I will never forget that.”

“Never.” But her eyes swept shut. “The King said something as we left the glen.”

Her uncle’s squeeze was gentle now. “Some words I must chastise him for?”

“No.” And her gaze flew open. “He said the negotiation would be short—he means to be wed to me by the morrow.”

Her uncle’s hands spasmed. Edmund’s expression went horribly flat.

But Brynden Tully’s voice drew steady as a blade. “It is easy for a man to be kind for a day.”

“Indeed.” Edmund agreed, head tilting, eyes rocking back and forth as if he was staring beyond these walls.

Her uncle asked: “How much time do you need?”

“At least a night and a day. The longer the better.”

“I’ll see to it. Edmund,” Her uncle ordered. “Go make some friends.”

The man nodded. “By your command.” Then slipped from the tent like ink into a dark water.

Her uncle reached to touch her hair so gently; tuck it behind her ear. “Keep Ser Wyck with you at all times, the Piper boy too, if you must. I wouldn’t trust Smallwood to piss in a pot. If things come to a head…stay with the guards. Promise me this.”

“I…” Good sense told her to be cautious. Her heart told her quite the opposite. Her body warred within itself; a fish swallowing its own tail. “The King was kind.” She confessed. “He said such sweet things to me.”

“Words are wind.” Her uncle responded, voice breaking like stones upon the ground. “I will see you wed happily, Sansa. Whatever form that must take. Keep your eyes clear—we still do not know what other hands felled the Starks.”

She swallowed and remembered his hands keenly, so warm and large. Their gentleness. The sureness of their grip upon her body. She felt the weight of the King’s gifts, held the warmth of his words, until she answered: “I promise you, none of them were his.”

/~/~/~/

Servants were rushing to and fro and making an unholy racket before him. The Lords were not brave enough yet to approach, and the lordlings even less so. As it was and would always be, Konrad came first to join him.

“So,” His brother asked. “Where’s the beast gone off to now, hmmmmm?”

Jon only had to reach into himself a moment to find Ghost still sulking at the edge of camp. Not ten minutes ago, he’d spied the wolf—nearly belly to the ground—creeping towards their lady’s tent. As much as the Blackfish’s wroth amused him, he knew he had more to inflict on the man yet today. Ghost trying to climb into the tent with her might be the last straw.

Let the knight’s nerves be spared an hour, if only to suffer Jon’s next volley.

“About.” He answered evenly.

“You know, I really did think for a minute there that he’d eat her. How intent he was.” And Konrad’s expression turned sly. “Not that I blame him, she is a tasty trout to be sure. Tell me, would you eat her in a single gulp, or try to—”

“Be very careful what you say next if you wish to return to Winterfell upright.”

Konrad just clicked his tongue. “You’ve become so dour since they put that crown on your head.”

Jon shot him a long glance. Venomous.

His brother merely lifted his hands in supplication. “The lady’s fine name shall not be sullied by my lips. Though I think you made it very clear to her uncle that her name, and all other parts of her, were about to be sullied by your—”

And Jon reached out, jamming his hand under Konrad’s doublet and pinching a fistful of skin. Hard.

Konrad shrieked, voice breaking right in twain. The boy leapt away, then stared about furtively with burning cheeks. Somewhere behind them, Cley Cerwyn began to cackle. Konrad shot Jon an equally venomous glance. “You vermin. You know I can’t hit you back! You’re the King—they’ll cut off my hand!”

Jon smiled then, for how could he not? “They would.” He agreed with cheer, for all was well. Truly. The North would be fed, the gods had given him their blessings, and his soon-to-be wife would be back in his arms within the day. He could almost taste her skin now. The sweetness that must linger there. Gods, when she’d been clinging to him, if only he’d thought to press his face into her neck—

Konrad chivvied near. “I can tell what you’re thinking.”

“The King’s hand has been known to pinch twice.”

“Cruelty, cruelty upon mine house and body, sworn so faithfully to my liege.”

“Shame, that.”

Konrad merely rolled his eyes. Jerked his chin. “What are the servants doing?”

“Supposedly constructing the war tent. Supposedly.” And then signaled violently.

One of the steadholders leapt out of the scrum. Queried: “Your Grace?”

“I’ve seen armies break with less chaos. What’s the issue?”

The man shifted from foot to foot and refused to meet his eyes. Jon sighed. “An honest answer, Demmon.”

The man’s tongue darted out. Came with an offering: “Ah, well. Your Grace is watching, see.”

“I can’t imagine how any of you get work done in the castle, then.”

“Uh—yes.” And the man hurried. “Apologies, we thought your Grace’s orders weren’t to construct the great tent today, so we’ve been trying to—”

And he grasped the problem. “Demmon, tell everyone they understood me rightly. There’s been a change of plans.” Then he paused. Considered. “Announce that if the tent is ready within an hour, a cask of ale will be opened for the men when we return to Winterfell.”

Demmon’s face brightened. “Aye, your Grace!” Then he hurried to do as bid. Jon watched his own words spread like a wave through the crowd. The noise immediately halved as they fell into smoother order.

Konrad just surveyed it all. Arms crossed, stance even. “Is this the tent you claimed we weren’t putting up? So we could delay the Tully’s a few days longer to freeze their arses off?”

Jon merely grunted.

“This is very much looking like you’re being turned by a pretty face. The thing mother explicitly sent me to stop.”

He did not scowl. “My lady is here and so am I, any day we can receive their food sooner will be a blessing.”

“I don’t argue it.” Konrad said, and yet Jon heard argument all the same.

But this was Konrad. They had shared bedtime tales and tumbled in the mud, traded scraped knees and whacked bruises with wooden swords. They had slain men and waged war together. There were some dues even a king must pay. “Has the Lady Barbrey poisoned you to this as well?”

Konrad snorted. “Hardly. Tully, Durrandon, Lannister—perhaps not that last one, but it makes no difference to me who you wed. You’ll have a wife, and we’ll not starve. Consider me assuaged. Hell, she’s a pretty thing, and she’ll give you pretty daughters.”

Jon liked that thought immensely. He hummed as he considered it, pleased at the thought of little red-haired princesses he could gift all manner of spoils too. After spoiling their mother first, of course.

He sighed. “And yet.”

“And yet.” Konrad agreed. “Everyone is watching. If you favor her and those Tully too much—”

“Am I not meant to favor my wife?”

“In the bedchamber, with bloody baubles, with all the babes you’ll put in her! Not with lands nor titles, nor whatever else they’ll claw.”

It ground out of him. “I have made no promises.”

“And yet you hurry. The lords see how much you want her, and so do these trout. We are beggared already, do not beggar us twice.”

“Or what?” He demanded with a snarl.

But Konrad just stared back at him bleakly. “I will be standing between you and a thousand swords sooner than I feared.”

Jon had no answer to that, gut twisting round and round. Always a catch, always a second dagger. Always another army beyond the next bend.

A king could never rest until his bones were in the ground.

/~/~/~/

“Did you see her?” Ser Donnel asked. “Just petting that wolf like he was some kennel mutt—no fear at all!”

“Trust a southron girl to treat a beast of the wilds like a lapdog.” Lord Locke replied in disgust.

“Still though—” Donnel answered his brother.

Lord Manderly volleyed back. “A braver and more gracious lady, none of you will ever meet!” The man had been peddling the Lady Sansa’s virtues for the past half-hour, not that Jon had been hanging on his every word.

Benfred Tallhart answered it. “Considering I would’a pissed myself, a brave one she is indeed!”

And then the Great Walrus was bellowing: “Aye! Girl likes wolf, and wolf likes girl! A good omen she’ll pet our White Wolf just as tenderly, oh?” Then let out a bellowing laugh at his own joke.

Jon was thankful for his beard, for even he felt himself growing ruddy at that.

A few of the lordlings laughed as well. For all that his lords stared stone-faced at the wildling, the younger men just seemed to find his walrus-tusk helm and bawdy tales a fascination. Jon supposed he should be thankful; perhaps later generations would not loathe each other so vociferously.

Lord Ironsmith scoffed. “The food is what’s important.”

“And heirs aren’t?” Cley Cerwyn asked incredulously.

There was a great bit of chortling at that, and then the tent once again descended into hashing out their meeting piece by piece. Every man shot him assessing looks when they thought him unaware. Hurdled compliments or speculations about his lady, as if hoping to get a rise out of him.

Such was the way of things.

He kept his focus on Robin Flint, who on behalf of his lord father, was fiercely petitioning for royal favor and the gold to sponsor a new flotilla on the western coast. To better watch the Iron Isles, of course. The Flints of the Finger would never ask for more.

“The Ironmen and their ways are gone and dead.” He answered.

But Robin stayed earnest. “They yet light false beacons and use their ships to trick us into crashing on their shores. They scavenge the goods our gold paid for. All our trade with Old Town passes through those waters—”

And excitement went a’skittering through his ribs. It was not for the Flint’s words. No, it was for his lady’s arrival. He knew it not by announcement, but by Ghost’s loud jolt of—SANSA-SWEET—ringing through his head.

Pats? Was the next bolt, quickly followed by a burst of rapture. Pats!

He stepped away. “I’ll give long thought to all you’ve brought forth. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The man immediately bobbed a nod. “Of course, your Grace. If you need know more, please call on us in Winterfell.”

Jon just nodded. Turned. A phantom of fingers scraped down the back of his scalp, his neck. He held in a shiver as he stepped outside the tent. He found his lady, her guards, and then her scowling uncle a few dozen yards away. All men stood shuffling as she cooed over the wolf: “Did you miss me, sweet boy? I missed you so much. Can I scratch your ears?”

Ghost let out the most needy whine Jon had ever heard, then bent his entire front half to the ground. It put his head at the perfect height for scratches. Another whine followed.

Jon was damn well close to doing the same. He watched for a few long moments, then strangled the tether of the warging to say: “My lady.”

“Oooh!” She let out a shocked little gasp. Gave Ghost one more hurried scratch, then gathered up her skirts to hurry to him. Another deep curtsy followed. “Your Grace.”

Ghost just sulked behind her, shot Jon a narrow gaze. A distant burst of: thief!

Jon pushed back the thought of a wolf biting another for hogging the kill. Put teeth behind it.

He immediately put his hands beneath her elbows and lifted her. “I am not a man in need of a wife to kneel to me.” Well, perhaps not in this way, but if she was amenable to a few of the others…

Her cheeks flushed. “I am not yet your wife.”

“You will be.” He assured. “Consider this permission to come to my side with all haste.” As she always should. His lady should never be farther than an arm’s length away.

“Of course.” She answered, breathy in a way that had him imagining her on her back. Her thighs parted. The blue of those eyes darkening…

But that was a dream for a later hour. He offered an arm. “I believe you wished an introduction to my lords?”

“Oh, yes.” And she tucked her hand into his elbow. “I met many of Lord Manderly’s banners, but I wish to know all the North’s nobles if I am to be a good queen to them.”

That encouraged him. “An assiduous learner, are you?” It even allowed him to ignore that Ser Wyck once again at her heels. That blond knight too, both young and comely, and of a house not Tully.

Strange, that.

She darted Jon another glance; snared him. “Always, my King. You should have heard our Maester complain for my pilfering of his books.”

He grinned at that; tucked a hand over hers and then pulled her away. “I can’t imagine he chastised you harshly, a sweet face like yours.”

She laughed. “Perhaps not. But my mother, I can promise you, was not so easily stymied by a trembling lip.”

“No mother is. The Lady Barbrey was never fooled by tears, nor any fibs we could come up with.”

“In trouble much, were you?” She asked, voice arch and delightfully tart.

He wanted to take the taste of it from her tongue. “Rogues, we were. But all boys are. I shaped up well enough—I was wearing Dustin livery by ten and three, after all.”

“So young?” She asked, tone dipping. Surprised? Upset?

He could not say. “As you were studious with your books, so was I with my sword. Bastards always grow fast, I fear.” And then watched her face intently. He was King, aye, but he’d been bastard once too. Better he know her mind in these early days.

A few flickers passed, too quick to catch. A clench of the teeth. A loosening of. “You were, I am certain, the most devoted man of House Dustin’s ranks.”

Those were not the words that he’d expected. “A kindness, my lady.”

But her gaze stayed with him. “I am curious, how did you go from a man-at-arms to king? It is a leap that few have managed.”

None had but him, as far as Jon knew. It was a piercing question from her, his little lady with her books and dewy eyes. There was a keen mind beneath that fiery hair. Perhaps it was churning as quickly as his.

That notion invigorated him. “When I was the last Stark alive in the North, the banner had to be raised. I was released from all vows by Lord Markas Dustin’s own hand. He then pledged his fealty to me.”

And he still remembered that moment, those letters. The scything shock of death passing through. Konrad staring at him wide-eyed and ashen. Dizziness overflowing. Markas, a lordling where Jon had been nothing, pledging his utmost devotion. A thousand Ryswell and Dustin blades taking the knee. The rallying cry burning through the Freefolk clans.

His heart thundering.

He shook it away. “Come.”

If she had any more volleys for him, then his lady would have to hold them. A moment later they were ducking into the tent, and all lords and sundry were coming to pay respects. Ghost settled outside with a gusting sigh.

Jon ignored it. If the beast, after receiving all her gentle touches, tried to play himself as the injured party—

The lords descended. If Jon had thought himself the only man to leave her side dazed by her charms, then he was a fool.

She charmed them all.

Robin Flint, Cley Cerwyn, Benfred Tallhart, Gared Gladstone. Lordlings who had warred and bedded down with plenty of maids, and yet each was tongue-tied as a green boy by her smiles. And if he glared at each of them fiercely after his lady turned her back, well, that was between him and his banners.

She complimented Ser Kyle Condon for his knighthood, then asked after his trials most sweetly.

From there it was to Ser Donnel and his brother. Lord Edwell Locke was a man who liked few and gave respect to even less. Yet when she asked after their lady mother, the lord gave a civil answer and looked as if he’d been struck.

Lord Manderly latched to her at that point and followed them about the tent, ignoring all of Jon’s sharp glances and the Blackfish’s grumblings.

She inquired most assiduously after Lord Ironsmith’s children, then left even Lord Gladstone—one of the Lady Barbrey’s most loyal men—unable to come up with a backhanded jape, just a stumbling bow over her hand before she left him.

She named Lord Mollen’s house words to him with startling ease, despite the man being little more than a petty lord. She even knew to ask how close his lands sat to Winterfell, then made overtures for him and all his beloved grandchildren to come and sup if she had table.

It dawned on Jon slowly and then all at once. Marrying his lady would be what gave her titles and crown. And yet Hoster Tully, bewilderingly, had already sent him a Queen.

It was the gods work again. A lady this perfect, this poised, and spirited to him in this moment of desperate catastrophe—

If he’d any doubts of the path before him, they vanished.

The only man that managed to keep a sour face before his lady was Eryk Holden, nephew to Lord Holden, and emissary for Jon’s half-brother Eddard Karstark. It was not, Jon knew, any failing of his lady’s graces that kept Eryk stone-faced and curt. As of this hour, Eddard was Jon’s only heir. But his Lady Sansa and the babes she represented—barring all calamity—would knock his half-brother firmly from the inheriting line.

It had given Eryk Holden certain privileges and sway, representing the heir to the Winter Throne at court. Those would soon fade. But true to their word, Eryk and his uncle Lord Holden, had kept the peace in Karstark lands these past years while Eddard still grew. Eryk himself had fought valiantly to ensure his half-brother’s every interest was looked after, no matter who had tried to trample them.

And for that, Jon would not sting the man too severely for his less than welcoming spirit.

One figure though managed to stymie his lady completely. They came to the Great Walrus last, and her eyes bounced across the man no doubt searching for some sigil. He knew what she saw instead: wild furs, that bedamnned helm with its curling tusks, animal teeth hanging about a thick neck, the deep gouge in his left cheek that only left twisting scar behind. The sheer size of the man. He wasn’t called the Great Walrus for nothing.

Her hands curled tighter at his arm. He placed a bare hand over hers.

The wildling let out a booming laugh. “Fish-girl!”

To her credit, she didn’t quail, though he heard the faintest squeak come to his ear.

The Great Walrus squinted down. “Doesn’t look much a fish, has the White Wolf lied?”

“I’ve explained sigils to you before, Walrus.” Jon answered, and saw a sly look crawl across the man’s face. The old walrus was japing, plain as day.

“Trout, actually.” His lady recovered in haste. “And I am afraid we have not yet made acquaintance.” Then gave Jon a sharp little pinch inside his arm.

It took bodily effort not to laugh. She was enchanting. “Lady Sansa, this is the Great Walrus, Lord of the Bay of Ice and the spill of the Milkwater. His firstborn, The Red Walrus, is the new Lord of the Eastern Shore.”

A little divot appeared in her brow. “Near the Wall?”

“Aye!” The Great Walrus agreed, then thumped a booming fist off his chest. “Our Wall, now!”

The rest of his lords bristled. They hated that wildlings had come this side of the North, but to hear those words—it was not a thing well taken. Though Jon knew few grasped what truth had just passed through their ears.

But the Wall would be a later battle.

He saw the moment his lady realized exactly to whom she was speaking. Heard the creak of leather at her back; Tully guards gripping their pommels especially tight.

She just smiled ever so radiantly. “A pleasure, my lord, to make your acquaintance. On another day, I would wish to hear more of your holdings.”

The Great Walrus’ ability in the common tongue had improved enormously over the past years, considering that when Jon had first met the man, he hadn’t spoken a lick of it. But Jon could tell by the man’s increasing squint, that at least a few turns of phrase had sailed clear over his head.

No matter. “My lady wishes to hear of your lands and kills one day.”

That, the man understood. “Aye! Walrus, stag, mammoth—all told one day. Teach fish-girl proper ways!”

“That sounds lovely.” She agreed, seeming as if she meant it. Jon knew she had not the faintest idea of what she’d just agreed to. She’d learn, though. It’d be good for her, if she truly wished to be Queen of them all.

Jon gave her hand a swift pat. “We will feast you and yours gloriously, Great Walrus. Now—” And raised his voice to the tent at large. “I am pleased at this warm welcome for my Lady Sansa to the North, but the day grows late, and the marriage negotiations must begin. Konrad, Lord Mollen, I would appreciate your attendance. For all others, I need no more obligations of you.”

As he expected, this raised a whole host of complaints. All had hoped to sit in on the negotiation. Perhaps to throw stones in its path, perhaps to air grievances. Most would only want to see their own needs served.

He would suffer none of it. “This is a marriage between House Stark and House Tully, no other.”

“But a royal marriage—”

Jon could not see who had uttered it. He interrupted anyways. “My marriage, and I’ve had enough of loose tongues today.”

That sent every mouth snapping shut. More grumbling, yes, but no voices raised above the others. Jon jerked his head to dismiss them. Slowly, the tent emptied out. Even Lord Manderly, lingering determinedly in some back corner, was eventually ushered away.

The servants flowed back in, bringing chairs, constructing a table, then carrying sideboards with food. A late dinner, or perhaps an early supper. A pair of scribes showed up, hauling all manner of parchment and ink.

His lady looked a bit faint at the whirlwind.

He asked her: “Alright?”

Whatever she’d felt then, she swept it back in. Covered it with a gracious smile. “Of course, my King.”

He wasn’t sure he believed it. Wasn’t sure if he should enquire further. But then Konrad was beside them and saying: “I see you’ve kept the lady from me. Shall I be wounded that you deny me her graces?”

Jon would deny those graces to every man, if such a thing were possible. Gods bedamn him that it couldn’t be so. He had avoided this moment as long as he could—if there was one man in the kingdoms to know every story to embarrass him, it was Konrad.

“Hardly.” He lied, then presented his lady forward. “Lady Sansa, Konrad Dustin. We were raised together at Barrow Hall by the Lady Barbrey and her late husband, Willam. If I could only name one man as my brother, then it would be the one before you.”

Konrad’s eyes brightened at that, a smile breaking like the sun over his face.

His lady smiled, too. “Then I am most pleased to meet you, Konrad.”

“The pleasure is utterly mine.” And then, surely just to tweak him, Konrad darted forward. Took her hand and kissed it most ostentatiously. “You are a lady who tames wolves, and I delight that you’ve come North to tame the unruliest of them all.”

Her mouth curled higher. Jon told himself not to be jealous for any smile drawn—she deserved to always be adorned by good cheer.

“Oh?” She asked tartly. “My sweet Ghost does not hold that title?”

Konrad scoffed “He is a charming and well-behaved wolf, as you have seen. This one standing with us, on the other hand—”

“I can have you exiled.” Jon grumbled.

“And miss my startling wit? Perish the thought.” And Konrad grinned. “Give me the first feasting-seat of honor at your side, my lady, and I will have all sorts of unruly tales to share.”

“I shall consider it.” She answered primly, but when she turned to Jon, and shot him a smile that was simply devilish—

He smiled back. Did not begrudge the embarrassments that were sure to follow. Not if it made her smile as such. Made him think of other ways, other chambers, where he could have her looking so impishly up through her lashes to him.

Where her hands were tucked in his arm, he covered them. Rubbed a thumb in the soft valleys of her knuckles. “You wound me.”

“You will surely survive it.” She returned.

And then the Blackfish was there again. Gods, it had only been hours since he’d laid eyes on his lady, but he already longed for the day when her uncle could no longer steal her away. Tully guards followed, then that blond knight who remained unnamed.

But that was easily rectified. “My lady, I’ve yet to be introduced to your companions.”

“Oh!” She looked rather chastised at that, which hadn’t been his intention. But before she could say otherwise, she hurried: “Of course. My uncle who you’ve already spoken with: Ser Brynden Tully, Hero of the River Road.”

It had been a battle of decades past, and long before his birth. But Jon could not deny that glory. “Any Lannister army thwarted is a deed well-done, Ser.”

The Blackfish’s lip barely twitched. “Quite. I’m sure even a man seated far North as your gracious self, has heard a thing or two of Lannisters.” And there it came: the first gauntlet thrown.

Jon knew it would not be the last. He could hardly blame the man. He would be wroth too, if a creature as libidinous as he came to steal a niece as sweet as Sansa Tully.

He had known he’d be made to pay for that business with Ghost. It seemed that debt was already due. But he would weather all blows for her. Once she was his, her hand willingly bound to his beneath the heart tree, he’d destroy any man who thought to have her.

“I unfortunately have.” Was his only answer, and then his lady was guiding him again. She was a steady hand at that, pressing him forward while seemingly following along.

From among her guards, she plucked a young, dark-haired lad. Offered: “This is Alyn Smallwood, heir to Acorn Hall. One of my lord grandfather’s bannermen.”

The boy was nearly shaking in his boots. “Your Grace.” Then bowed his head deeply.

Jon didn’t feel much of anything, looking at him. He mostly wondered why the boy was here. Men clinging to the hem of his lady’s cloak for some chance at power, mayhaps? The gods knew he had enough lords clinging to his. “Well met, Alyn Smallwood.”

The boy just bowed again, then took the quickest route he could back into the scrum.

Next came Ser Wyck, but though the man was squarely before them, he was passed over with no introduction. That told Jon his station without any further explanation.

At last they came to the blond. There was the likeness of a woman, bare and pink, sewn over his breast. Jon had thought the South rather more prudish than that.

“Ser Marq Piper.” His lady announced. “Heir to Pinkmaiden, and the third of my sworn shields.”

That explained the naked woman, then.

This Riverlander barely dropped his chin before meeting Jon’s eyes square. Another puffed up knight, it seemed. Jon had seen his like before.

But a moment later, the rest of her words trickled in. Alarm pierced him. “Your what?”

She blinked rapidly. “My shield? Named to protect me in the North.”

He’d heard her words, and yet they made no sense to him. He looked to the man again. There was no trace of resemblance between the two, though perhaps— “Is he some cousin of yours? Kin?”

“No.” She answered, now clearly bewildered. “He is son of my grandfather’s banner; it has been many a generation since Piper and Tully wed.”

Did her family care so little for her safety? Her good name? He looked to Konrad to ensure he had not dreamed this, but Konrad was already looking between knight and lady with equal horror.

His voice crawled chill. “Ser Brynden, a word.”

There were not cutting remarks this time, no bluster. The man had heard the change instantly, and Brynden Tully stared back at him with a gaze most black. Jon knew the same would be reflected in his eyes. They moved to a farther corner, the servants immediately scattering at his roil. Brynden waved the other Tully guards away and followed.

His lady stayed clinging to his arm. “Your Grace, I’ve said something to displease you—”

They were far enough from the others, now. He gripped her hands tightly. “You do not displease me.” Then wheeled on her uncle. “Are all southron lords so crass with their daughters’ safety?”

“What are you implying?” The knight snarled. “The only crass accusations I hear come from your mouth, your Grace.”

“You have left her alone with men not kin? Who have not supped of her father’s tables nor taken warmth at her mother’s hearth? Blood of her blood, bound by weirdwood oath?”

“They are sons of loyal bannerman. They swore vows in the sept—”

“I care not what words they spilled in a room of empty stone!” And those words crashed loud enough to be heard by all. It galled him. Men of other houses and of their own agendas—they could not be trusted with her safety. Her chastity. He knew the nature of men, and empty words and dollops of oil upon a brow, could not ensure any honor.

He could see the stir in Brynden Tully now, roiling up dark as any summer storm. It did not break. His lady was petting at his arm, voice so soft as she asked: “My King, please, I do not understand this. Are there not sworn shields in the North?”

He snorted out a harsh breath, nostrils flaring. “No.”

But her voice stayed gentle, sweet as a babbling brook. “If we had daughters, then who would guard them? Ensure their safety in these lands?”

That she already thought of daughters between them, softened the fury inside them. Cracked open his jaw. “Every Northern house has Hearthguard. Families who have been sworn to us with generations stretching back into the mists. Many a Stark cousin or bastard has married in, or started lines of their own. My Hearthguard is kin to me. They have sworn oaths beneath the heart tree to serve the Stark in Winterfell. Men and women of the hearth have no lands. Their only purpose is to defend their liege and give succor. In another life, in another time, I might have found place among them protecting my cousins.”

She took a breath, and he could hear its shudder in her chest. “And Alyn and Marq are not kin to me. Not of the hearth.”

“Yes.” He agreed fiercely. “So I will not have it. Have they been left alone with her? Have they—”

But Brynden knifed through. “She is always surrounded by maids. And vows sworn of a knight are more holy and true than any that can be spoken!”

Jon stiffened, wrath rising so red—

But her voice crackled with fear. “I have not been ruined, I promise you. My King—”

Horror flooded him. He turned his back on the knight and only looked upon her. Over that sweet face so open and scared. It made him want to sweep her up in his arms and hold her safe.

It also made his stomach fall.

He took those soft hands. “I know that, you do not have to raise any defenses to me. But such a thing cannot be borne in the North.” And his gaze gouged towards her uncle. “Whatever vows they made, break them. And swear them to silence. I have every faith in my Tully Lady, but if the rest of the North hears of this—they will speak ill.”

Brynden Tully burned with wrath, but at those words, he took an ashen pallor. “You know not our ways.”

“And you know not ours. Name those lordlings as guests of your family, and no more.”

The man chewed on that like shards of glass. “We will not leave her defenseless. We do not know this place yet.”

He felt some vicious insult bubbling up his throat.

But his lady hushed it. “Ser Wyck is a man of my father’s table. He has no house nor lands, and can stay as my shield. The other guards are the same; they are of families sworn to House Tully for generations. All is well, uncle. To lose two blades is no great calamity.”

“Sansa…” But the words trailed off as if some great weight had crushed them. Her uncle sucked in another breath, then promised with driving heat: “So be it. Know that I will stay at her side, your Grace. No order nor blade would keep me from her.”

“You are a man worthy of your spurs, Ser Brynden.” And Jon did not think he could name many a man fiercer. They were careless, these southerners, but at least they loved deeply. “See it done. And of your men, those who would guard her must break oath to the Trident when she weds. I will not have men of split loyalties surrounding my wife. I will bid me and mine to silence. There are only so many men I can cut the tongue from, before the North casts me off.”

Brynden’s gaze lit like a blade beneath the sun. “Cut many a tongue, have you?”

“Ask yourself why the snows were bloody before you on the morn.”

The Tully stilled. Demanded: “What did they say of her?”

“Named her mistress to your Trident King.” And his head titled dangerously. His lady stilled, too. Sucked in a trembling breath. He forged on: “After that, the only thing that came from his mouth was blood.”

“I see.” Tully said, and Jon knew he did. At last.

Even fools could learn.

“Do not think me a man who trifles, Ser Brynden.”

“No.” The man agreed. “I doubt any make that mistake, your Grace.” And for the first time, that title had an echo of respect to it.

It would suffice. “A moment with my lady.” He requested, and in a rare show of mercy, it was granted.

Brynden Tully went to the guards and drew all away but Ser Wyck. Jon had little doubt the man would return to his niece in haste when the matter was settled.

Servants were still about, and so was Lord Mollen with the scribes. Konrad remained, but his brother would keep any silence. Lord Mollen would have to be prodded to see what had been heard. 

But first and most importantly—his lady was shaking like a leaf. “I am sorry.” He whispered. He turned them again, his hands careful on those slender shoulders.

Her eyes would only meet his chest. “Yours is not the error.”

“I have frightened you. I did not mean to cast accusations on your dignity. My anger sometimes gets the better, I fear. However I may rage though, know not a drop of it will ever be for you. No matter what is to come…you will always be safe at my side.”

Her gaze rose. “That is no easy thing to promise.”

“I did not ask for easy.”

Her mouth thinned a moment, lashes lowering. “I suppose not, with you marrying me.” And her gaze came back clear as the winter air. “How much do your lords oppose our union?”

He held in a sigh. So sharp, his lady wife to be. “You have the support of Manderly and his bannerman. Konrad will be named Lord of the Dreadfort soon, and we will have what backing he can scrape together. There are no others. The rest will be a slow campaign.”

It was an ominous portent, but his lady stayed naught but steel. “I had hoped for more, but I did not expect elsewise.”

“You won some admirers today with the wolf.” He promised. “And I do not doubt your graces will win us more.”

“Us?” She asked.

“I do not mean this to be some half-union.”

Her eyes began searching his face then, some glittering spark to them like wonder. “I have so many things I wish to know of you, that I do not know where to begin.”

His gaze drifted down. “I could say the same of you.”

She sniffed. “Flattery again, your Grace.”

“And may I shower you in ever more.” And he took up her hands. Squeezed them. “I suppose we must go to separate sides of the table now.”

She flushed at that. “Perhaps, but only so we may one day be back on the same side.”

That was too much to bear. He lifted a clasped hand and kissed the back of it. Felt that sweet skin beneath his mouth. Gods, was she soft.

That rosy flush became an ember in her cheeks. “Your Grace.”

He drew his mouth away. “Do not chastise me, it will only encourage me further.”

“To what end?” She asked in perfect innocence. It was too doe-eyed a look to be some coquettish flourish.

But he felt the hunger of the wolf all the same. “To ravish my sweet lady, of course.”

She was aflame now. She tugged her wrists from him, and he happily let her flutter away. Bared teeth after her.

“You—you!” She clutched the furs over her breast. “Say not such words until you wed me!”

“If that is my lady’s wish.” He agreed. “And then I will say all sorts of things to you. Would you like that?”

“Ooohh!” She spun away from him, and his delighted laughter followed.

Brynden Tully returned then, river lordlings nowhere in sight, and with a scribe and septon in tow. They all moved to their sides of the tables; took up goblets. Konrad shot him a look, but he only shook his head.

Jon raised the toast to meet her blushing gaze. “To happily wedded bliss, shall we?”

Chapter Text

If the King meant her to be flustered for the negotiation, then he succeeded. His gaze blazed through her as they drank toast, and some dark smolder built below her breast in answer. Those knuckles of his, gripped so heavy around his cup. She remembered their gentle slide up her throat. And gods above, those hands of his…

Rough, hot, and so carefully cradled around her. She’d wanted to grip him back palm to palm. A thing that only wives did.

But she hadn’t been brave enough, still shaken over that near miss only moments before. If he’d truly thought her ruined, and banished her from him—it was too horrible to contemplate.

It was untenable.

There were chasms yet filled with the mysteries of this North. Those days traveling with the Manderly retinue at her mercy had surely been wasted, for else she wouldn’t have blundered so. Marq. Alyn. That wrath upon her King’s face.

She had to be better. Know more. Live and breathe this foreign kingdom, until it became her home.

It had hardly seemed to bother him, though, when that reaping scythe of fury left them both unshorn. The glitter to her King’s eyes then. Such words he’d said to her, without even a betrothal between them to lessen the scandal. Had he been testing her? If so, then she had failed. Admonishment had left her tongue, but in its wake, thoughts had bloomed of what else his brogue could drag up her skin. Shivering; whether each breath would be followed by those powerful hands—

His eyes passed over her one last time, cup lowering, a smear of wine clinging red to his lip. He licked it away.

She trembled. If her septas could see her now, they would have ordered her into cold baths for a moon.

Whatever impure desires were burgeoning, she swallowed them with her wine. Lifted a prayer to the Maiden. What King would want a lascivious wife?

No, she would give him no more reason to doubt her chastity. She could not behave the harlot and expect him to believe her virgin. The septons had always preached that it was the woman, born imperfect, that teemed with lust and insatiable appetites. Fool be her to have thought herself above such failings.

There was no place for these things outside the marriage bed, and even then, she could not let herself be ruled. Become an inadequate wife; derelict of duty and preoccupied with vulgarity.

She would tame herself. Be worthy of him.

A moment later, she realized her King had been speaking. When had that transpired?

“—begin where these things always do.” He stated. “Dowry.”

“And dower.” Her uncle grunted.

The King’s eyes just slid to her again, smirk curling. “Indeed.”

Had he seen her eyes fixed upon his mouth? The thought shamed her. Her eyes swiftly dropped to the table in the hopes of composing herself, yet her cheeks would not stop burning.

But the King was merciful. His attentions turned: “Do the terms remain the same?”

Her uncle leaned back in his chair. “Some.”

The King’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Do go on.”

She watched a muscle jump in her uncle’s cheek. If he thought the King an easy man to shake, it seemed he’d be disappointed. “The food shipments remain as written by my brother. Wed my niece and crown her your Queen, and the flotilla at White Harbor will dock. Shipments will continue every fortnight until the North harvests its first spring crop.”

“What else?” The King asked.

She knew it did not please her uncle that he had yet to make a dent. The man scowled. “As part of my niece’s dower, certain lands have been set aside in the Red Fork in Lady Catelyn Tully’s name. Her lady mother will send these incomes as allowance to help support Lady Sansa’s household.”

“Aye.” The King answered, gaze sharp. “And these lands shall not be inherited by our children, then?”

“No.” And a weathered hand gestured. “They will remain in Trident hands, and unto Trident hands pass.” And their own scribe pulled out a sheaf of parchment to offer to his northern counterpart. Figures of her allowance, no doubt, too vulgar a thing to be said aloud. It was then handed to Lord Mollen who eyed it shrewdly. Nodded once. Cast her uncle a gimlet eye.

Brynden Tully returned Lord Mollen’s piercing stare with equal heat.

It was then passed to the King. He regarded it in near disinterest before setting it aside. “I would think you consider me a man unable to support my wife.”

Her uncle’s smile came most thinly. “A proper royal court takes gold, your Grace, and we will not have her shamed.”

This time, the muscle fluttering in a cheek belonged to the King’s. “Shame will never be the Lady Sansa’s mantle.”

It brought a heavier flush over her. Brought another glare from Lord Mollen to her uncle.

But before her knightly kin could throw volley, the King called: “Edgar, the Queen’s Dower.” And Lord Mollen passed him a great and thick gathering of parchment. The King’s smile then was a well-honed thing. “Two thousand years past, the Queen Eleanor Stark created the dower lands of the North to be passed from queen to queen. Every woman crowned is expected to add to them upon marriage…though it seems circumstances now must force us otherwise. Those lands were bound together so a queen can support her household, and if need be, raise armies.”

Those words startled her enough that she almost dropped her cup.

Her uncle was a man poleaxed. “Armies?”

The King just hummed. “Indeed. Many a northern queen has come to a husband or son’s aide. It is winter now, but in those ledgers, you will see the incomes expected and the Skutilsveinr that will be sworn to her. A Winter Queen has not lords, but she will have swords aplenty.”

“Sworn to…” Her uncle kept struggling. “Who will be sworn to her?”

And Konrad Dustin spoke: “You have your knights in the south, we have our Skutilsveinr—men of the table who ride for their liege. Their lands are given in fief by lord or crown, and in return, every Skutilsveinr will mount and bring his men-at-arms and levies if she calls banner.” And Konrad stared her in the eye. “You will be expected to sup each of them at your table once a turning to keep the bond, my lady.”

Her head felt like a bell struck. “Of course.” She answered faintly. Her mother was to be a High Lady ruling in her own right, and yet even the Lady Catelyn was expected to have husband or son to call her armies. A man to lash allegiance and banner to.

There was a flutter of panic in her throat. “My King—I will not be expected to lead them, will I?”

His gaze left her kin and softened towards her. “Not if you do not wish it. As your husband, if we were at war, it would be expected you would pass their allegiance to me. But if the worse should come to pass you could lead them, or name a trusted man to do so in your stead. But we are not at war.”

“Thankfully.” She agreed, but her stomach was still in knots. Of all the things she’d expected—this had hardly been on the list.

“A lady is not versed in the ways of war.” Brynden Tully rebuked.

The King’s eyes dragged from her, so bright in their wrath. “A Queen is.”

How utterly barbaric. How utterly terrifying.

The parchments and ledgers were passed over. She did not snoop over her uncle’s elbow to look—but snoop she did. Page after page after page. The Queen’s Dower was extensive.

For all her uncle had lived by the sword, where her grandfather had been heir, her uncle Brynden had been the spare. He had been given a lord’s education as fine as anyone. “And what of the Dowager Queen?”

It was Lord Mollen that answered. “If a Dowager lives to see her son crowned, she will have a choice of lands to retire to after her son weds. The Dowager will have those incomes while the bulk of the Dower goes into her gooddaughter’s hands. But the Queen Correna—she forfeited all right in return for a stipend…and that Prince Robb’s bones stay buried in the Stormlands.”

It spawned a grief that was not hers down in her chest. Every song of the Daughter of the Storm was a tragedy. That the woman had lost everything, and still given up more to keep her son’s bones—

Sansa prayed it was no portent.

There was a moment of silence to let those words settle, until her uncle was saying: “So who controls the Queen’s Dower as of now?”

The King’s jaw pulled tight. “The Lady Barbrey manages them in the name of the Crown. They know no neglect.” And clipped it off so sharply, he invited no further inquiry.

Her uncle was not delighted by that, and the two of them shared a long glance. They knew Barbrey Dustin was a dangerous name to any Tully. She also knew they both wondered if those lands would be relinquished so easily.

Konrad Dustin caught their look. “Fear not, my mother is one of the cleverest minds you’ll meet. I have no doubt she has the Dower lands whipped to shape.” Though this lord-to-be, thankfully, had not divined the full nature of their exchange.

She merely smiled. “That is most welcome to hear. I’m sure the Lady Barbrey has much to impart to me.”

At that, both the King and Konrad looked unsettled. Ill at ease. While she wished her King no pain, she had a duty to her house and their kingdom to come. She would not be stymied, even by his mother in all but name.

Her uncle merely turned a few pages of ledgers, eyes tracking so very quickly. Beneath the table he squeezed her knee. It was a good sign. He would not show it to these Northerners, but—

Her leaned in. Said on the barest breath: “You will be the most powerful woman in the kingdoms.” And drove a shiver down her spine.

A foreboding—a perilous destiny suspended above.

Had Corenna Durrandon once felt the same?

Her uncle nodded then. “We will review the ledgers further in the coming days, but we will tentatively agree that my niece’s dowry will be the food, and her dower the allowance from Lady Catelyn and the lands allotted to the Northern Queen. We expect the dower agreement to be presented to her at the sept’s door once she’s wed.”

The King’s eyes—which had blazed at the mention of days—turned to a furrowed brow. “You wish me to find a sept to give her the marriage agreement in front of?”

Konrad and Lord Mollen looked equally befuddled. She wondered how much of her marriage would become this; one half speaking while the other stared back in bewilderment.

To her left, Septon Hugor asked: “Your Grace, Ser Brynden, begging many pardons for the interruption, but if I may speak?”

Both men gave pugnacious noises of assent. Septon Hugor, for a man who had donned the Star and been sent to accompany a future queen—was more youthful than any man she’d known to hold such station. He was of barely forty years, with hair only beginning to gray. He had preached to their retinue from the Seven-Pointed Star passionately while being unrelenting in ensuring she knew its tenants from first page to last.

His praise had been spare but heartfelt. His eyes had shown clear. And he had been a welcome breath of air, after a lifetime of listening to the hunched and ancient Septon Osmynd preaching in Riverrun’s sept.

Being a man of northern birth, but of the Faith—she thought Septon Hugor might be the only person at this table who had a foot in either world.

The holy man continued: “Your Grace, Ser Brynden speaks of the marriage customs of the Faith. A formalized listing of the dower is written by the man’s family, read by the bride’s, and once both parties assent, it is given in care to the sept until the man and woman are made one under the Seven. The agreement is then returned, so the man can present it to his wife on the seventh step outside the sept. It is sometimes accompanied by a gift—a wheelhouse, some fine lacquered box, jewels, a horse. It is done so that all present may know she is cared for and honored, and no quarrel can be made of the dower’s contents.”

“Ah.” The King said, as if that had unveiled some great revelation.

“Seems like a great bit of kerrufle, when arms can be gripped and a thing agreed upon.” Konrad grumbled.

There was more rustling from her guards. A tightening of her uncle’s fist. Ire.

Septon Hugor, however, stayed placid. “You would be amazed at the bloodshed that occurred before we reached such enlightened ways.”

Her uncle drummed his knuckles upon the table. “As the septon said, we expect the dower to be gifted to her on the seventh step, and not a single further.”

“No Winter King—” Lord Mollen interrupted thunderously. “Has ever wed in a sept!”

He uncle’s shoulders wrenched up, back now as straight as an arrow, eyes blazing as he snarled: “We will not consider her wed until vows are made under the eyes of our gods.”

Tensions rose like headwater, like a flood. And yet the King reclined in his chair. “Edgar, is that true? Not even my uncle and the Queen Corenna?”

Lord Mollen turned. “He wed Corenna under the heart tree alone.” He answered harshly. “Do you think your kingly grandfather would have ever agreed—a son of his making vows in a sepulcher?”

“And yet my uncle had one built.” The King answered, low and sharp, and Lord Mollen quieted. He was a broad man, that Lord Mollen, burly and rigid and over twice the King’s age.

But he did not argue.

Konrad swiveled in his seat, gaze burning into the King’s head. Hissing: “Jon, the lords will throw a gods bedamnned fit.”

The King ignored them both. “There is a heart tree a mile from this place. If I took your niece and wed her there on the morrow, what would you do, Ser Brynden?”

She knew the Northmen married before their trees, but she had never fully followed that notion through. If the King took her and wed her in his northern ways, and bedded her as all husbands did—would her gods consider her ruined? A woman still unwed and now defiled?

She could only see the side of her uncle’s face, but knew those same thoughts were running through his head. Wriggled ugly behind his teeth as he spat: “You would not receive a single grain.”

She could feel the roil now; the black undertow that could drag to death.

But it was Septon Hugor again that calmed them. “The Seven see in all ways, all places. Remember now the words of Saint Arrian: even in the darkest hour, nothing exists outside their gracious sight. You will find the vows before a heart tree are not so different from those you know, Ser Brynden.”

“The Snowy Sept…” But her knightly uncle left the question half-formed. She knew to voice it was to give the King and his men egregious insult.

The septon knew that, too, for he answered hastily: “There is not a royal marriage the Great Septon has not blessed and celebrated, Ser Brynden.”

And so it was: the Faith of the North acknowledged marriages of the old gods as true. She knew belief in the south from the other Radiant Septs may not be so understanding. May consider it heresy. But the Northern Faith lived in a strange land. Accommodations had to be made. Understandings reached.

And was that not the same for her?

“Two weddings.”

All faces turned at her voice.

“My lady?” The King asked gently.

It gave her courage. “Two weddings, one in sept, one before the…the heart tree. Two sets of vows. Two weddings.”

“Two wedding nights.” Konrad Dustin grumbled.

For reasons unclear to her, Konrad then jolted, knees striking the table with a bang. The King utterly ignored his sworn brother’s squawking as he announced: “I think my lady has the way of it. Two weddings.”

“The sept first.” Her uncle demanded.

“No.” The King answered, simple as could be, then turned on the septon. “Where is your nearest holy ground?”

“The Last Sept, your Grace.” The man answered instantly. “At Highpoint.”

“Only two days ride and over the Knife.” He murmured, seemingly mulling the distance. “I’m sure the Whitehill’s will be thrilled to host a royal wedding.”

“Your Grace…” Lord Mollen tried.

The King shook those words away. “Near everyone is gathered at Winterfell already. A thing out of their sights will stick less in their minds. I wed my lady tomorrow at sunrise—the heart tree was already blooded today. We only need some weirwitch or goði to hold the ceremony. We bed down for the day, then we ride for Highpoint where I’ll wed her again.”

Lord Mollen chewed that like some bitter tincture. “And then you have nearly all the nobles of the realm missing the royal wedding.”

“There is still the coronation.” And then her King rolled a shrug, seemingly indifferent to this plight. She had attended the marriage of the Crown Prince of the Trident as a very young girl. She remembered it still. The flowers that had fallen like rain. A violet silk banner the bride had walked on the length of Harrenhal. A feast the likes of which— mummers and singers and strange wizards from across the sea, cakes to the rafters and pigs cooking in every hearth—she’d never see again in this life.

Even if this marriage would not have half that splendor, she knew any noble would be wroth to miss it. “My King, surely we can marry at Highpoint, then wed in your ways at Wintefell…”

But he shook his head. It quieted her instantly. So did his answer: “It is a fortnight to Winterfell—longer with your wagons in tow. My lady, a wedding in the ways of my people must happen first. You will be Queen in the North, not the Trident.”

A very North that was desperate now. Starving day by day. She dipped her chin. “I understand.”

Her uncle, by his stiffening, did not understand at all. She gripped his leg and dug nails in. He hissed back: “You’ll be ruined—”

“The Faith acknowledges it.”

“The Northern Faith.”

“Of whom I’ll be Queen.” She spat.

There was silence on the other side of the table while they hissed their confidences. The King’s eyes shut; a pinch of his fingers at the bridge of his nose. “We do not have further time. I assume, Ser Brynden, you will not give signal to your ships or brother until I wed her in a sept?”

“Your Grace is correct.” Her uncle agreed stridently. “But you are not wedding her tomorrow.”

“Oh?” The King asked. It was said with venomous languor, like the rising of an asp to bear its fangs.

Or perhaps a wolf.

“We have not yet reached the changed terms.” Ser Brynden bit out. “And I imagine those will take time to hammer in place.”

A smirk split the King’s mouth. Curled. “Go on, what are these changes?” And the sight caused a strange flutter low in her belly. Made her long for a sweet kiss from that mouth.

She prayed the septon could not hear the avarice of her thoughts.

“My niece has say in her children’s marriages. She can make as many rejections she wishes until there come matches that please her.”

“Done.”

Her uncle blinked hard. So did the Northern side of the table.

“What did you expect?” The King asked. “My Lady Sansa, I imagine, will only be devoted to our children’s fortunes. Any match that would upset her would be a thing poorly done.”

She felt hot, her furs too heavy on her frame. Her skin left aching. “Your Grace, thank you. I will only do the best for our children and the North.”

His mouth worked a moment. Our. No breath behind it, but his mouth so red as he answered: “I know.”

Only sheer willpower stopped her from hiding her flaming cheeks with her hands. She just stared back at him. Yearned.

Her uncle, though, always seemed to sense when her eyes lingered too long. “We request fostering as well. Northern sons to Tully bannermen, and Southern sons to the North.”

That pinched Lord Mollen’s face. Had Konrad Dustin claiming: “And have our kin burned for heathens?”

Her uncle rolled his eyes to the very heavens. “No one is being burned. You Northmen aren’t the only ones to give a damn about guest right. Kill the son of a lord, given into their care? Such a house would be throttled dead within a year.”

Konrad stumbled over that, thwarted, but she could see him already boiling another argument.

He did not get to speak it, for Septon Hugor interjected: “That horror was hundreds of years ago, and I believe we do not want to rehash the argument of who started what. Remember those hunts.”

Memory stirred in her. Once, in some dusty corner of history, there’d be a rattling of hilts around the Starry Sept for crusade in the North. Word and whisper come that children of the faith were being slaughtered in the streets. Stalked in the woods. Eaten. But House Manderly had stayed silent. The Neck impregnable. Whatever violence had transpired, it had ended in silence. Another chapter of history closed. Crusade had again turned again to the east, to Andalos: to war with Pentos slavers and Dothraki screamers.

She did not wish to see such a chapter spill ink again.

“Indeed we do not.” The King agreed. “When summer comes, we can discuss what southron sons my wife would invite North. I am certain that once our people see no one is getting strung up or burned, there will be lords who wish to please the Crown and return the gesture.”

Konrad Dustin just shook his head, mouth pinched white. Lord Mollen grumbled: “By the King’s command.”

Her uncle, for once and thankfully, spoke assurances. “I promise you, your Grace, that any ward of Tully banners will be given the finest education. The Houses of the Red Fork are generous and will gift them well. Perhaps they shall learn ways of war and trade, that could not be realized elsewhere.”

“Perhaps,” The King allowed. “That is a fine hope to have.”

It was not a ringing endorsement, but it was an agreement all the same. It was enough. She knew that with time, careful invitations to court, and boys of North and South falling in love with the maidens of distant castles—these chasms would slowly be bridged. She would have Northern lords who understood her Southron customs. Have lords in the South with fondness for their Northern foster families and willing to strengthen alliance. To trade. To foster more sons, and perhaps one day daughters as well.

It was a quiet thing, a slow thing. But understanding usually was.

Though right then, she could see a different understanding flowering in her uncle—he was running out of stones to throw.

“Trade.” He announced, as if he wasn’t now fully grasping to delay the King’s path. “We want there to be agreements in place for the Red Fork, Maidenpool, and the Trident Throne. Beneficial ones.”

Lord Mollen snorted. He and her uncle shared another furiously locked gaze.

That lord braced himself across the table with thick arms. Asked so fiercely: “Beneficial to who, hmmmm?”

Tully-blue eyes flickered up and down. Considered. She watched their perusal with a morbid sort of interest.

“I’ve always found men can make things mutually beneficial, if they try hard enough.” Her uncle returned with a curl of the lip—but she wouldn’t quite call the expression on his face a sneer.

“Bold words.” Edgar Mollen murmured.

For the first time since they’d come North, she could see her uncle fighting off the fiercest sort of grin.

It was finally the King’s turn to be clearing his throat. “Is the Trident Throne behind House Tully in this?”

She did not let herself stiffen. Her uncle was old enough hand at this that he did not betray them with a flinch, either. But the Trident Throne was a difficult thorn.

“House Darry will not interfere.” Ser Brynden allowed, which was not the most heartening claim that could be made.

But she did not wish to lie to her King. To be found a liar later, she knew, would destroy any trust they would build between them.

“Can’t they?” The King rumbled. “Seize your food? Your ships? Blockade your port and name you traitor?”

But Brynden Tully had never known fear. “Can? A man can do anything, your Grace, this is a question of will. I understand that we know not each other's kingdoms, so let me be plain now. My brother is an infuriating meddler whom I would never share words with if he did not hold all the children I raised for him inside Riverrun. You have never had to tangle with him and been left the fool. If you think Hoster Tully would ever put himself in a position to lose, then I cannot help you.”

“That is all well and good.” The King snarled. “And yet it gives me no assurances that this marriage’s dowry will come.”

Her uncle shrugged as if that bothered him not. “Our ways are our own, you can accept our word or not. I have no others for you.”

It was, perhaps, a poor thing to say. A terrible thunder was building in the King’s face.

“Watch your tongue.” Lord Mollen snarled.

“If I don’t, will it be watched for me?” Ser Brynden asked glibly. Gods above and truly, her uncle had never known fear.

But she had. Seeing how her great uncle and grandfather warred all these years…she knew it was not so much that Brynden Tully wouldn’t answer, as it was that he didn’t know. Her grandfather had been sparse with his secrets even to her. The man had just assured her that the King would wed her. The deal too sweet and the need too great.

She let out a simply wretched sigh. It shook all the men at the table out of their snarls. Their glares. Their endless posturing.

“My lady?” The King asked most solicitously. “Are you well?” And his eyes were soft, too.

Her heart fluttered to have his gaze again. It made the faintness she had thought to suggest utterly genuine. “I think I am need of some fresh air, my King. If we could be allowed a moment’s pause?”

“Of course.” And he was rising from his seat to come to her. It made her want to fall into his arms. But no matter how warm the thought of walking at his side made her, it wouldn’t do.

There were plots afoot, and she could not go about them if the King was on her heel. She pressed her instep over her uncle’s boot. He received that signal with uncouth joy. “The guards will take her, your Grace. We can’t have any undue influences now that the negotiations are underway.”

For the briefest moment, the King looked putout, as if he was a young boy denied his desserts. It was quickly replaced with the darkest sort of scowl. “I’m sure we can keep our words to safe harbors.”

But her uncle, clearly taking unholy glee in denying this, was having none of it. “We must insist. It is a matter of honor now.”

That had a kingly scowl deepening. She wanted to sweep it away with her fingers, press in close. Put the tips of her fingers to his mouth and—

The King’s face relaxed. “Then I insist Ghost accompany her. He is the finest guard in camp.” And his words had a pleased sort of ring. Pleased for the smile being wiped from her uncle’s face, mayhaps?

It was hard to wonder though, with her heart so busy leaping. Even these few hours had been too long since she’d last pet her sweet boy. She curtsied hurriedly. “Thank you, my King. I will be the safest lady in the North with a white wolf at my side.”

He grinned. “And always a white wolf shall be.”

/~/~/~/

It was not a thing he was proud of, but need had forced his hand. The Tully’s were keeping secrets. He knew it was no accident that his lady had interrupted when he started pressing their omission. It was obvious she wanted to discuss the current sticking point without their northern ears about.

Unfortunately for her, he’d sent the sharpest ears in the North along.

He slumped in his seat, eschewing all arguments both Konrad and Edgar Mollen were flinging, to let his eyes sweep shut. He ignored men often enough like this that all his lords knew it a fool’s errand to try to speak when he was thusly.

It came with impossible swiftness. Cold rushing across his muzzle. Paws heavy in the snow. Joy shaking their hindquarters. Sansa sweet sweet sweet, pat pat pat!

He urged focus. Ghost cared not—only for shoving his head even further into her chest. Soft!

Her smell overpowered him. Sweet, fragrant. Something deeper and headier coming from beneath her skirts—

A sharp little swat fell across their snout.

Not Ghost! The wolf complained, raising their head from where Jon had gone nosing at her skirts. The wolf asked: Claim?

Not now. He snapped.

Mate.

Quiet.

The wolf was a wolf—a mind not made for human tongue. It made Jon’s head pound like the blacksmith’s hammer to decipher words when as the beast.

“…did not tell you…?”

“—has he ever?”

“—suppose—”

Ghost whined loudly. Licked at her shoulder.

The bite of lust he felt at her faintest taste, nearly unseated him from the warg.

“Oh, my perfect boy…aren’t you sweet…so gentle!”

“For the love of—”

“—not that mean old trout, lovely boy—”

Her fingers got particularly deep into the fur. Scratched with nails. Sent his scalp tingling, and him aching to be closer.

But that belonged to the wolf.

Scritchy ears!

Shush. He pushed.

No shush. Scritchy.

Perhaps he should not have been so smug in this plan.

“The guards will—”

“—Edmund—”

She finally pushed Ghost back from her, and he saw her through the wolf’s eyes. Color smeared strangely for a direwolf. All he could see was red. Sense memory flowed—weirdwood sap, hinterlands white, the furs of a deep warm den—

Just her red hair, her breath. All pressing that sweet scent onto their tongue.

Red Sansa. Red Ghost. Observed the wolf.

Red Sansa. The man agreed.

Home? Mate?

Soon.

They were walking now; she at Ghost’s side and petting at his neck. Seeping her scent into their fur—claiming them in her own way. Perfect, lovely, so very delicate. Always to be protected with tooth and claw.

Man-fear stunk on the air from the guards. He misliked it. Why would he ever want to smell anything but Sansa? But he knew a snarl would only make it worse. Piss. Caustic heat.

Another Tully guard joined the pack. Ghost breathed deeply. The guard had a strange smell-taste. Not fear, not…

The wolf had never smelled anything like it.

“—dig you out of a—”

“Honestly, uncle. Go stretch your legs. Edmund—”

Brynden Tully left the pack. She stepped arm and arm with the guard. The wolf rumbled their discontent, but she did not even turn before shushing them.

The man forced the wolf down as far as he could and listened hard.

Sansa’s voice came first. “What does my grandfather have to keep King Rycherd in check?”

The guard answered: “I cannot tell you.”

“How can you, of all people, not know?”

“Oh, I know very well, my lady. Let me be frank: your grandfather loves you, but while you are allies, you are not on the same side anymore. He tells you his blackmail, you tell your King, and then who holds the cudgel over Rycherd then, hmmmm?”

“He forbade you?”

“Indeed. A choice you may have to make in time for your own children, once their interests compete with yours.”

A sharp little sniffle. The scent of salt. “Am I Tully no longer?”

“My lady, you will find that a name means nothing and everything at once—but only if you remember its shape. They can only take that if you let it go.”

Sad? Ghost asked. Pushed in a nose. The man lost thread for a moment, too busy feeling her little fingers scratching at their snout. Those warbling giggles.

Damnit, Ghost.

Somewhere more distant yet, his head was beginning to throb like a second heart.

“—hint? Some assurance?”

“I think you need only bat your eyes at him.”

He felt like an egg being cracked, mind slipping red from his skull—

“Edmund.”

Another sigh. “One of Rycherd’s favorites did something wretched to another house. The King found a different neck to fill the noose. If he moves against your lord grandfather, he will spend the remainder of his reign with a court in civil war.”

And Jon had heard enough.

The warg snapped like a broken tether, his eyes flying open with its force. The tent was gray overhead. There was ale on the table, food yet on his plate.

Night was coming.

“Have a nice nap?” Konrad asked peevishly.

Just the sound of his brother’s voice was enough to make his head clang. Jon groaned and dug his palms into his eyes. “Not nearly.”

/~/~/~/

Though that begged the question: whomever this Edmund was—he sure as hells wasn’t a guard.

/~/~/~/

The Tully returned soon after. He watched with a certain amount of pleasure as his Lady Sansa gracefully swept out her skirts before slipping into her seat. She was a vision in motion.

He could not help but ask: “Are you well, my lady?”

Her cheeks were still red from the bitter winds outside. Lovely. “Certainly, my King.”

“Good.” And he met her gaze. “Can you make assurances that your grandfather has the matter in hand? That your dowry will arrive?”

Her lashes fluttered rapidly—he’d pushed her on the backfoot with that question. She swallowed heavily, but did not break from his gaze. “I can, your Grace. The dowry will come North. Our house words are Family, Duty, Honor. You will be my husband, my duty, and my honor. I will not fail you.”

He thought of the sky, of the sea, of Long Lake glassy in high summer. Blue. There came a time when trust could only be given with hope held fast. The rest belonged to the gods.

And she was gods-given. “So be it.”

Then felt Konrad’s incredulous gaze on the side of his head. Heard his brother hissing: “Mother is going to kill us.”

Lord Mollen just sighed. For being petty lord, the man was unusually gifted in matters of governance. He had become one of the Crown’s most trusted advisors. And, Jon was certain, as soon as they got back to Winterfell, the man would be complaining to the Lady Barbrey vociferously over his kingly behavior.

Jon let his eyes linger a moment longer on his lady. The sweep of those long lashes. The first embers of devotion smoldering in those eyes. It made him voracious. “Then let us talk trade.” And gestured for one of the servants. “Fetch Lords Locke and Manderly.” Then turned returned his gaze to the knight. “They control the two largest ports in the Kingdom, I am sure they will have many insights to gift us.”

“A joyous thing.” Ser Brynden answered flatly.

Jon had seen the Tully’s every effort at delay. They had all gone rather poorly. He wondered how many more were left.

His lady looked to her uncle. They shared a long glance. A dip of her chin; a sigh from his mouth. “There is one other matter that we have neglected.” 

“Really?” Konrad asked.

Jon wondered if his brother was in need of another jab.

“Indeed.” Ser Brynden answered mulishly: “Bridal consent.”

How many endless things did the South need to involve in their marriages? It was a wonder they ever got anything done. He girded himself once more for the madness. “And this involves what, exactly?”

It was Septon Hugor that answered: “A septon never presides over a wedding reluctant, your Grace. There are usually meetings between septon and bride, then septon and groom, to ensure all parties are willing. And of course, there are the matters of consanguinity to determine—”

Jon waved it away. “I am willing. My lady?”

Her cheeks were still red, though perhaps not from the wind any longer. But before his sweet lady could open her mouth, her uncle cut over: “She met you today, your Grace. We simply cannot countenance such a lack of courting.”

How terribly grievous. “Must I shower her in more gifts?”

But it was her sweet voice that responded. “My King, I would love it ever so much if you would spend the day with me tomorrow. So that we might know each other better and come to an understanding.”

If they thought they could distract him from the negotiation with temptations of his lady’s presence—they were bloody well right.

“Chaperoned.” Her uncle added.

“Of course.” She agreed most pleasantly, then turned those fluttering lashes on him. “And you would bring your sweet Ghost as well?”

Lord Mollen was nodding, and Konrad swiftly clapped his hands. “This sounds excellent. Let myself and the lords with Ser Brynden discuss trade, while you spend time with your lady. You need not worry; I am sure we shall come to an equitable agreement.” And drag their feet as long as possible without Jon there to raise the lash.

Though if he could spend a day winning his lady to his side, so she would help hurry this thing on…

No one could win against them. But gods, did he mourn that sunrise wedding. Another night without the promise of a wife soft and bare in his arms. It was cruelty.

He didn’t sigh, for what man would when Sansa Tully would be on his arm? “My lady, I would be pleased to join you for the day. May we break our fast together?”

He begrudged the wait, but with her eyes aglow, and her fair face so alight with pleasure—

“Nothing would please me more.”

He could not regret the choice.

/~/~/~/

“Drag it out as long as you can.” Her uncle ordered, and it was not so hard a thing to do. Hours with her King, uninterrupted by lords or kin? They would have to drag her away.

They broke fast as promised, sat in another tent while her uncle and the Northern lords toiled away at trade. Ser Wyck was at her back, along with half a dozen Tully guards. Her King had no men with sword beside him, just a wolf outside the door.

She doubted even Ser Wyck could win such a fight.

A servant brought a fire-warmed bowl of water. They both washed their hands.

“You look lovely, my lady.” And the King held out a palm, offering her the only bench at the table.

She placed her fingers gently into his. He squeezed them, then helped her to her seat.

She was wearing a new dress today, greens and blues with fragile pink flowers stitched by her own hand. It was her own quiet hope for spring. But to voice a prayer was to endanger it. “Your words are nearly as handsome as yourself, your Grace.”

He grinned. “Now who’s being liberal with the flattery?”

There was only one trencher of bread. A hunk of meat fresh. What looked like some bits of root and vegetable in a stew.

There was only a single set of cutlery.

“What is it?” He enquired.

It seemed to be one of those wretched bits of misunderstanding again. “Are you not eating?” She asked carefully.

He sat on the bench right beside her. Thigh to thigh. Set her aflame.

“We eat together.” Was his easy answer. “Does the South not dine as such?”

“I have shared dishes.” She said. Never a plate. Never the same knife and spoon. Never—gods above—the same cup.

“Then I shall teach you.” And then he was cutting at their meat. “A man prepares the food for a woman. Lower station for higher. Younger for older. Here.” And he had speared a bit of meat. She took it delicately from the knife with her teeth.

His eyes were fixed upon her mouth. She could not deny that he was staring.

She swallowed quickly. “Thank you.”

“What have I said of your care, my lady?”

A warm shiver overtook her. “I will not thank you again. Be prepared for an ungrateful wife.”

“I yearn for the day.” He murmured, then continued his cutting. Eating with his fingers while offering her morsels off the knife. They moved to the soup next, sharing the spoon and then the cup. She swore she could taste him; some spice greater than either wine or stew could bring.

Her neck was burning, her chest. How did the North eat so vulgarly? How could they look each other in the eye? “Who else have you shared trencher with?”

“Oh,” He answered. “All of the Lady Barbrey’s children, herself, her husband. My lords, at times, though I would call those battles more than a meal.”

How gauche. Trying to imagine herself sharing supper with Lord Manderly, or the Great Walrus—it sent her body into revolt. “How can you…?

His mouth turned up most smugly. “Is my lady appalled?”

“Do not put words into my mouth.”

“Just morsels.” He agreed, then offered her the bowl. “The broth, sweet lady.”

She sipped at it most resentfully. “Be that as it may, I am trying to imagine sharing plate with your lords.”

He stiffened. “You will do no such thing.”

“Do married ladies not?”

“My married lady will not.” And then scowled at the walls as if he was laying a curse beyond this very tent.

It seemed she would be insulting his nobles soon enough, but truthfully, it also eased her. It was difficult enough to be eating in front of her guards as such. Trying to picture her sitting so close to some unknown man who was offering her food, his thigh beside her, and their lips pressed to the same goblet?

The King had grown wroth at her having guards not kin, but then expected unwed ladies to dine with men as such? What a strange and heathen place she’d come to.

They finished eating, leaving her surprised that she did not come away scalded. Though the ache between her thighs his breath left upon her cheek…

He offered an arm. “Shall we stroll?”

“Oh.” She agreed dazedly. “Lets.”

And so they strolled. Ghost gamboled to their side as soon as they departed the tent; accepting her petting and then a single kiss upon his snout. The King looked harried by that. “So even the beast receives your kisses?”

“Does the North make taboo of a wolf receiving a lady’s affections?” She asked tartly. If they did, then it was a taboo she’d be breaking.

“I would hope not,” He answered. “For then I would be a lonely wolf indeed.”

That sent her flushing once more; it seemed she did little else around her husband-to-be. They walked arm in arm, her sometimes reaching to give Ghost a swift pat. They circled father from the camp towards the trees. Some of his Hearthguard joined them. A few on horse, most on foot, and all ranged wide enough to give them the illusion of privacy.

Ser Wyck was somewhere farther behind them, boots kicking through the snow.

It was an illusion, but an illusion she had long grown used to living in.

Questions circled on and on in her head. A river dammed. The most important of them stayed tucked beneath her tongue.

This had to be a delicate thing she did.

“Is your family well in the South?”

And he had given her a good place to start. “Most well, though I am sure my brother Bran will be horribly jealous of all the sights and wonders I have seen without him.”

“All boys long for adventure.” He mused. “How old is the lad?”

“Ten and three, and convinced he is already a man grown who should see the world and fight in wars.”

The King shook his head. “All boys are fools.”

He had worn Dustin livery at the same age her brother was now. She could not imagine it. “They are called too young. And wars seem to bloom as easily as flowers.” She sighed heavily. “Was it true the Westerland War started because Cersei Lannister bedded with her brother?”

He snorted. It was an indelicate noise. “Indeed. My lords heard it from King Durrandon’s own mouth. Prince Jaime was visiting his sister, and when the King stumbled upon them abed, he killed them both. Bashed in their skulls.”

She flinched at that. It was horrible violence, but what woman could be such a fool to invite it? “A war of folly—” She caught herself too late. “Apologies.”

The King just stroked her hand. “How can I blame you for calling a thing what it is? That war was madness. How many sons died because King Durrandon killed King Tywin’s? He could have done whatever he wished to his wife, and Tywin Lannister wouldn't have lifted a finger. But to kill his golden heir? Jaime Lannister was prince of another kingdom, and Durrandon had no right. The moment he did that thing, there would be no peace. One king had to die, and so the rivers ran red with blood.”

But that was not the end. His gaze went distant, and then terribly bright. “Though can I blame him? Any man who would think to look at your bed—he’d have more to fear than a shattered skull.”

Her throat clicked. “I would never—”

“I know.” He answered softly. “I know. I am just a wrothful beast with wrothful dreams. Mind me not.”

She tried not to—she would never give him cause for such violence. “I am sorry for the price the North paid for that war.”

“As am I.”

“When your cousin married Jeyne Westerling…she was a southron lady of no importance to your lords. Was he truly…did they…?”

“You are no Jeyne Westerling.” He answered fiercely. But a black storm was boiling in his eyes. “Robb rode with the Karstarks that day. A Karstark Lord who had a son by way of a Stark Princess.”

“Your half-brother.” She confirmed.

“Yes.” He snarled. “There was never proof. We would have thought it some tragic accident if not for what followed.” And then his eyes gouged to her. “My lady, I would have there be honesty between us.”

She did not startle, though something inside her shook at his gaze. “Trust is a slowly built thing.”

“Perhaps.” He answered. “But do not think me a fool who doesn’t notice when someone is driving me towards their own ends.”

His hands did not tighten on her. They kept their pace. But she took her shame into her breast. “I am sorry.”

“I will accept your apology, but only if you tell me the truth. What do you want to ask me? I will not harm you for a question.”

This had been a journey most strange for her. Soaring highs and bitter lows. Incessant waiting and creeping exhaustion. It had been endless, and she clutched onto him for strength. “The day I learned I was to wed you, was the day my grandfather sent the marriage proposal. I always believed I was to marry some bannermen to strengthen ties, or one of the Seven Houses to bring my mother new ally. What did I know of the North? What did I care? It was naught but rumors and songs, and the distant word of armies passing through. I have been trying to learn all that I can, but I still know naught.”

He put his hand again over hers. His glove was heavy thing. “I cannot blame you for that.”

She shook her head. “Now those rumors matter, and I cannot tell one from the other. Were all the Starks truly murdered? And by whom? If the northern lords so hated their crown prince for marrying a southron lady, what would they do to a King who did the same? Would all the Starks be slain again?”

“I will not let you be harmed.” He snapped, voice like naked steel.

But that steel would soon be bared on her, and she could only feel her grief. “Would that my only fear be forces outside my wedded house.” And she swallowed it. “Outside my own marriage bed.”

The King stilled.

They halted. He viciously waved the guards away, and they fell back even further. She nodded to Ser Wyck and sent Riverland ears away. Beyond them, Ghost stood rigid as the sentinel pines. Rumbled; a thunderhead building in the chest of a beast.

His voice tore colder. “You ask if I killed my kin?”

Her throat was burning and struggling to swallow. “You cannot tell me you have not heard these rumors.”

His only answer to that was frigid silence.

Honesty, he’d asked for honesty—could they not have it? “I do not mean to be cruel, please do not ever think that. But if you are a man willing to see the destruction of kin for crown, then I will be dead before the year is out.”

His eyes were the smoke of a furnace flame. Roiling. Rising. Horrible in their heat—

And then he looked away from her. Breathed the billows. Let the storm pass.

She feared this moment. Felt her eyes sting. Carefully, so, so carefully, she reached and stroked a hand at his arm.

He spoke at her touch: “When I was at Barrow Hall, before the wolves, my cousins came to me. My grandmother sent tunics along as a gift; direwolves sewn to the breast by her hand. Bastard colors.” The winter sky was silvery. It sheened that damp in his eyes. “I still have them all.”

It put a lump into her throat.

He pushed through. “We played with Barbrey’s children and wards and butcher boys. Those were the days of summer. Of laughter. And Arya, little Arya, she wanted to play with swords. Be the fiercest little shieldmaiden the lands had ever seen. We dueled behind a granary. Little cuts, little bruises, a thing of children.” But his gaze had gone so far from her. “The trouble we got into for that stunt—if I thought myself too old to have a switch taken to my backside, then I was a fool. But that night…she ran to my room. Kissed me on the cheek and said she loved me best of all our kin.”

The winds were barren. Whistling. Rattling both tree and bone.

His breath poured white. “I loved her. And so many years later, a Bolton bastard tried to rape her to make himself King. When she castrated him with her knife, he beat her to death.”

She could not stop herself, arms pulled from his and then wrapping around him. Under his cloak, around his back. Her face to his chest. The hilt of his sword dug into her hip.

She cared not.

Slowly, gently, his arms came around her shoulders. He took a shuddering breath. For a time, they only held on. Swayed with the winds.

They did not part with any haste.

His eyes were bright, and she knew hers shined the same. A tear fell from her. “I am so sorry.”

And grief cracked raw in his voice. “As am I.” But his gloved hand came up; thumb wiping that tear away.

She trembled. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I want you to survive.” He answered. “You will, and that will be my first order as your husband. I have asked for honesty, so I shall give you the same. I know the Boltons and their banners were involved in the plot. It started with Robb in the south, then King Ned, then it moved North with such swiftness, I know none of it was accident. I know that Lord Torrhen Karstark was involved, and that my blood mother in Karhold turned against her husband, and then Arnolf Karstark when he joined with Bolton forces to take the North. She gave us the information we needed to rout Arnolf in the field.” He took a heaving breath. “The Lady Lyanna sent my half-sister and Alys Karstark to beg me for their safety. To bend the knee. To spare my half-brother as a competitor to my claim. They thought that I—that I would…”

“You wouldn’t.” She argued fiercely.

And that seemed to bolster him. “I wouldn’t. For the other lords, I have my suspicions, but there were too many involved. If the North was to survive the winter, I had to pardon them.”

That couldn’t have been an easy thing to forget. To let go. “Do you think them likely to rise up again?”

“We have seen enough war.” He answered, but his jaw kept working. “But any man can be pushed. I need this marriage with you quickly, my lady, do you understand? The gods brought you to me. Fated us. Do you not feel it?”

The graces were on her again. Their light. That trembling. “Yes.” She breathed.

And he nodded so quickly. “I knew you felt it—I knew you understood. We need to bring prosperity back to the North as swiftly as we can. Food first, then gold, then babes. Heavy bellies and filled coffers are what make for peace. No more squabbles or southron wars. Peace.”

“And then we and our babes shall be safe.”

“Yes.” He agreed vehemently.

And at last her path was clear. The gods had showed it. “Will you teach me? I know there is so much to learn of your people, but I am willing. I will be the best queen that I can for them.”

“I will teach you anything.” And his gloved hand was still on her face, his fingers stroking. “You are like nothing I have ever seen.”

“I will be a good wife to you.” She whispered.

His eyes were flitting. To her gaze, her lips, her breast. Was he—was he?

There was heat building in her thighs, longing shaking in her hands. Her mouth tingling and waiting for…?

“Tell me, sweet lady, does your southron courting allow for kisses?”

For this. She licked her lips and answered on the faintest breath: “Only if they’re stolen quickly, your Grace.”

“A wolf is a thief most swift.”

“Then surely—”

And then his mouth was over hers. Warm. Warmer. A sweet and gliding pressure. Not one kiss but a dozen. She gasped her delight, and then his tongue swept into her mouth so hotly.

She had never kissed like this. It was positively indecent.

Another gasp broke her from him and had her swaying. His arms came around her back to gather her close. His chest was so broad; sturdy enough to hold her trembling frame.

“There you are, my lady.”

“Am I?” She asked dazedly. She was staring at his mouth again and spellbound. “Should we be returning to the negotiations…?”

“In a minute more.” He promised slyly, then swooped down to press his mouth to hers again.

The King kept his promises, for her kisses were stolen most swiftly indeed.

Chapter Text

Her uncle was not pleased to see her returned less than a day after being tasked to engross her royal betrothed-to-be. She had no apologies. She understood now—this marriage was to be hastened with every tool at their disposal. Though she did blush rather fiercely, for her uncle and every man in this tent only had to take one look at her mouth and then her hair, to understand how she and the King had spent their morning occupied.

That unimpressed gaze turned. “How glad I am to see that rectitude is not yet dead in the North.”

But Jon Stark was shamed for nothing. “All a lady’s virtues are treasured in these lands, Ser Brynden.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The King ignored that pointed rebuke and glanced about. There was a distinct lack of parchment on the table. He was a creature unamused. “Well, my lords, I see you’re all still hard at work.”

Lord Locke looked aggrieved; Lord Manderly stricken. Lord Mollen barely spared them a cantankerous glance.

Konrad Dustin was as unenthusiastic as the rest. “We are gladdened for your quick return, your Grace.”

“How eager of you.” Her King responded, hand still pressed firmly over her own. “It seems that I will be joining you for the day, my lords. My lady has some finishing touches to put on her wedding gown, and I fear my skill at embroidery is not up to muster.”

That fluttered a girlish giggle out of her. “I’m sure my King could manage a few inner stitches.” She assured.

A corner of that red mouth she had mapped so eagerly with her own—it curled up. Looked impossibly fetching. His voice went lower: for her alone and not these lords about. “I will see all my lady’s stitches soon enough.” Then brushed a kiss upon her cheek.

The rasp of his beard. The heat of him.

She thought, rather guiltily, of how much she yearned to kiss him again. A wedding night both greedy and lustful. A thousand kisses, and none of them stolen. Her only mercy was that the septon was no longer in attendance to see the avarice upon her face.

Only her uncle. “Niece.”

Not since she’d stolen all the kennel dogs to her chambers in tender youth, had she heard such a scolding. But she was that child no longer.

Her chin rose. “Uncle. A moment of your time, if it pleases.”

In answer, her uncle rose with vigor. Took her from the King—who squeezed her hand one last time—then marched them both from the tent.

They stared walking, her uncle stiff as a board beside her. It took but a moment for the first volley to arc. “A scoundrel who takes liberties—”

“Hush.” And her voice was the barest breath. “We came to an understanding, he and I.”

“I’m certain you did.”

Her nails dug into his arm, harsh and sharp as her hissing: “Enough.”

For the first time in all her days, her uncle was struck to silence. He stared down at her. Saw. “Tell me plainly.”

She couldn’t; they were still surrounded by the King’s men. Even in their deliberate hush, she chose her words carefully: “Our fear of the King’s nature—it was untrue.”

A breath whistled. “And how would you know?”

“I asked him.”

And Brynden Tully swore with blistering heat. “An easy lie to—”

“And yet there comes a point when trust can only be given.” She rebuked. “As you must now give your trust unto me. The King yet weeps for his cousins. If he is a liar, then he is the finest I have ever met. We could spend moons in these drifts and know him no better.”

“I have never doubted your cleverness.” Her uncle ground out. “But you look upon him as your mother once looked upon your father. Your eyes are not clear.”

“My eyes are open.” Came her answer. “And If I look upon him as mother did father, then I am lucky.”

He scoffed. “Your head is turned.”

“Perhaps.” She agreed, watching the gentle drift of snow from above. Fearing it—fearing that spring was no nearer to come. But she knew: “For he is brave and gentle and strong.”

Her uncle had no answer, just another white breath amongst the fall.

Her breath curled just as pale; a frost born from the stillness. “He does not know who killed his kin beyond Bolton and banner. He has given pardons to all, and yet starvation and doubt has pressed the North to the knife. No more delays, uncle. You will finish this trade agreement tonight, and you will not make me queen of a hamstrung kingdom. I will wed him on the sunrise and let him take me to our marriage bed. The very moment he says his vows at Highpoint, we will send for the food and you well tell grandfather to be generous. Then we must hurry to the Winter Court. A king in the wilderness is not a king who rules.”

And her uncle’s eyes clenched shut—a grimacing pain. “You are his granddaughter utterly.”

She knew it was no compliment; not from one of these quarrelsome brothers. One day though, she knew her uncle would understand. Would see the prudence of this action when their reign flourished, and her children were princes of this land both safe and cherished.

They could only push forward now, and quickly at that. “Take me to our tents, I must gather the maids to finish my gown.” Then realized: “Set a guard to find Edmund, I have need of him.”

Her uncle’s scowl was a gouge in his face. “What for?”

“Those who saw to the deaths of the Starks may wish to see more.” And her breath poured pale as those ghosts. “The King does not yet know who killed his kin—but he will. We will make sure of that.”

/~/~/~/

She did not remember sleeping, only waking. The hot coals of a brazier. Shadows wavering. Mora curved at her back asleep beneath the furs.

One shadow drew darker from the tent walls. Spread. Crossed the narrow space to kneel before her cot.

Her eyes were gritty with broken sleep. “E’mund?”

“My lady.” The shadow returned, and his face tilted, the brazier revealing the Unnamed to her gaze.

Her fingers still stung from the needle. She had worked in too much haste, but she still rubbed at her aching eyes when she asked: “This could not wait for morning?”

“No.” He answered sharply. “Your uncle is wroth, but the deal is done. You are betrothed. The King’s servants are already lighting fires in their holy wood to prepare for a wedding on the morn.”

“Good.” She answered, and wished to sag right back to sleep. “My gown—”

“Poppy enlisted some of the Mothers; they yet work by candle. I have no doubt your raiments will be ready when the time comes.” It was a dismissal, and that brought her further into wakefulness. Edmund was never so hasty with her.

House Tully and this man had been bound from before her birth. All through her life, Edmund had come to her bringing candies and strange trinkets from his journeys. The man would give her all the childish secrets her heart could ask for in trade of a song in the hall, a poem in her hand, some small favor sewn by her needle.

He had traded her treasures for groats. She held Edmund in her affections, but so rarely had she understood him. Even now, with the secrets her grandfather had imparted—

She could not dream those horrors.

He rubbed at an eye in mirror of her, nails stretching the skin. It pulled down his eyelid—revealed veins both broken and bloody. She touched his hand and brought it away; kept him from scratching to the quick.

He surrendered willingly. “I have something for you.”

“Secrets?”

“Not yet,” He answered with ill-concealed disgust. “But news all the same. Servant and guard both speak well of the King. He does not whip or beat their kind except in most deserved circumstance. They say obstinate lords are more like to suffer his wrath. He has not taken a woman to his bed in some time—and they have never carried bloodied linens from his chambers. Never seen a woman come crying or bruised from his arms.” But his brow was low at that announcement, wrathful. 

Mora slept on behind them.

Her head throbbed. “Then why do you fret?”

“There is always a chance.” He answered harshly. “A man becomes a different beast in the bed chamber. A king to one lover and a monster to another.” And his hand came open, gold shimmering molten in his palm. It was a ring not for one finger, but for two. Twisting and sinuous.

“Edmund—”

“You cannot say I have no experience in the nature of men.” And his lip curled wry. “In the bed chamber or otherwise, hmmmm?”

She could not claim such, only huff at him, eyes still fixed on that portentous token. Her heart twisted at its shape.

“Watch.” He murmured. “When you wear it, bring your thumb inside your palm, and slide the metal so—” And then a needle slid out, both silent and unbearably sharp.

She swallowed hard. “Poison.”

“Yes.” He answered, twisting it just so, and revealing its glitter-point smear to her horrified eyes. “The Gom Jabbar—the high-handed enemy.”

“Where did you get such a thing?”

“A distant land.” He answered. “In another lifetime.” One of which they would never speak.

But his gaze swung back to her, veins broken and the angle of his head grotesque. “If he means to hurt you, draw him close and dig your nails through his hair. Sharply. He will not even feel the needle slide in his scalp. The poison takes but a minute to incapacitate, then it will slow him until his heart stops.” It was offered on jagged breath, and a gorge rose in her, for she knew Edmund only spoke from experience.

Her head began to shake. “My King is kind—”

“Humor me.” He asked, then took her hand from the bed. The ring slid shut, hiding its terrible purpose in its winding form. He slid it onto her fingers. “If all is well, then I will be glad for my lady. I hope he is gentle with you.” His chest rose and fell and rose. “I hope you will find all the earthly pleasures of this life. I know your septas have been miserly in this, but there are so many wonders yet for you to indulge. He has a fine mouth—ensure that he uses it.”

She flushed hotly. She wanted to rip this ring from her hand. Another strange trinket from his journeys, and the most terrible of them all.

But he kept her palm, kissing the ring and then her knuckles above. Fearless. “The King is coming, dress and be ready for him.”

Her heart rose. So did the Unnamed as he made for the dark.

“Edmund.” He stopped at her voice. Stared unto her face; watched fervently as she slowly repeated: “Edmund.”

His eyes fluttered shut at the roll of his name, something so rapturous sinking yet towards the earth.

“Edmund.” She ended. “Has uncle told you of our needs?”

And those black eyes flew open. “Our Ser Tully has. Fear not, I will see the truth found.”

“Be careful.” She ordered, but he was already gone from the tent. The ring laid heavy and still horribly warm from the heat of his skin. From Edmund’s fears. From his horrors still bleeding out on them all.

It did not bear thinking. She shook Mora awake with a hand unadorned.

“Milady?” Mora slurred.

She steeled her spine. “The King is coming, help me dress.”

/~/~/~/

Edmund spoke as truly as ever. She barely had her bear pelt about her shoulders when a guard was announcing the King’s presence through the tent.

“Oooohh!” Mora hissed, swiftly pinning her last braid. “To call on you at such an hour—”

“The wedding arrives soon.” She assured. “And I am certain there are things he must impart. The guards are with us, do not fret.”

The maid just hummed, then whispered conspiratorially: “I suppose of all the kings that could come to a lady in the dark—”

“Hush!” She gasped, then giggled outrageously. Mora joined her.

Once her hair was set, the maid went first, and then the guards parted the tent. It was black as ink without, white eddies dancing on a bleak air. And there stood her true betrothed: furs heavy, torches flickering, and eyes cast so very covetously.

A wolf come from the night.

And there was another wolf beside him. Towering and bone-pale; sweet as confectionary.

The King lifted a hand, and she hurried to take it. The servants and guards dutifully fell out of earshot. In a swirl of cloaks, he brought her before him, gripping their gloved hands between their bodies as he asked: “Are you well?”

She could not help but smile. “Well enough. Has it gone as we hoped?”

Ghost began nosing at her shoulder. She tried to pull a hand to pet him, but the King redoubled his grip. “The beast has received enough affections today. I fear he will become a fat lapdog if such things keep up.”

She huffed outrageously. The audacity on the man. “Bite your tongue!”

Ghost whined at that. The King cast an unimpressed look at his companion. “You’ll live.” Then turned to her. “The deal is struck. And no matter how your uncle loathed it, the betrothal contract has been signed. The dower was written by Konrad and handed to your septon. I’m sure he will even forgive me for the sore wrist by tomorrow.”

“The poor, wretched creature.” She agreed with a put-upon sigh. “You are a demanding king.”

His lip merely twitched, not quite unfurling into the smile that she’d hoped. “Truer words, my lady. It seems I must demand more of you this night.”

“Whatever for?”

His gaze traced her then. A slip to the mouth, a slow fall down her throat. His thumb drawing up her glove and resting upon the ring beneath.

The flames licking up her insides snuffed. She curled her hands tighter, pulling his thumb off the ring and the two of them even closer. Edmund always glanced around every corner and ferreted every secret. It was his nature; a man of paranoias and warnings. But what did he know of her King? Edmund had never seen the damp in his eyes, heard that horrible catch in his voice.

Felt the gentle shelter of his arms.

That cherished voice snared her whirling thoughts. “In the North…our weddings are of old ways, of old tongues.”

“And?” She asked carefully, giving him every bit of her attention lest he sense her troubled mind.

She had clearly misunderstood, for his voice had an echo repetition as he said: “The ceremony, the vows, they’re in the old tongue.”

“Oh!” And her stomach fell. “I don’t know how…”

“I understand.” He assured. “I am the one to blame in not realizing sooner. My men have already found a weirwitch for our ceremony—or the weirwitch found them, if I am being truthful. She will have the heart tree ready for us on the morn, but someone must teach you the vows.”

Her head was rushing like a spring flushed water. Ghost pressed his nose to her shoulder and then licked her, drawing both a giggle and these thorny fears away. While her King could keep her hands—

She smacked a kiss on Ghost’s snout.

Her betrothed sighed mournfully. “You will be the death of me.”

“Do not be so somber.” And then, with no warning at all, she boldly pressed a kiss to her King’s chin. She darted away just as quickly, scandalized at her outrageous behavior.

But that finally drew the smile that she’d wanted. Burnished it to a brighter grin. “Aye,” He laughed. “I’ll take that trade.”

“Compromise in a marriage is very important.” She agreed assiduously. A cold wind lashed her skin, but she could barely feel its whip. What woman would take a chill, when such a heated gaze rested upon her flesh? “Are you my tutor for the evening, your Grace?”

The torches wavered with the winds. Gold on his cheek, a kiss of bronze across his mouth. The light catching embers in his eyes. “Indeed. No other shall hear these words from your lips.”

And at last came that shiver. “And what are these vows?”

One of her braids came loose in winter’s hand. He finally let a palm go; a press of his leather clad fingers rising up her temple, catching her hair and then drawing it behind her ear. His gaze stayed on her. Searched her. “There are three vows. The man speaks first and then the woman answers. You will swear to keep our hearth ablaze, that you will be faithful, and that all my enemies shall become your own.”

Only three? That seemed too few. She took a shuddering breath. “And what will you vow?

His fingers drifted to her jaw, traced her slowly, then fell regretfully. “That I shall keep your table filled with plenty, that I will be faithful, and that your enemies shall become as mine.”

She knew: “I can promise you that and more.”

His mouth tilted up. Gaze so fixed. She thought for a moment that he would kiss her—

But no heated touch landed upon her.

“Listen carefully.” And then he spoke in his ancient tongue. It was a harsh thing, old and guttural, the snarl of it clawing up the back of his throat.

It fell from his lips like stones, and she swallowed their unwieldy shape into her mouth. They were hard to twist, to form. But he spoke again, a patient teacher, and she repeated back to him over and over.

How many times that night they said their wedding vows to one another…

When the last word slipped from her mouth, he swallowed it. Gave the kiss that she’d been longing for.

It left her breathless. She could not remember shutting her eyes, yet here they fluttered open. “Careful, your Grace, or I would think us already wed.”

That dark gaze scraped past her to the tents. “I dearly wish.” And then he kissed her one last time, gave a third: placed it so softly against her brow. Lingered. “Rest a little longer, I will see this thing arranged.”

There were shadows under his eyes as dark as graves. She squeezed his hand. “Why must it happen with the sunrise?”

He came away from her and she missed his warmth most fiercely. But she knew with the fall of the moon, she’d never have to miss him again.

He spoke holiness. “The gods are in the winds, the waters, and every place between. We are closest to them in the changing. When the earth shakes to spring. When the sun kisses the moon. Sunrise, sunset, we breathe with the gods.”

It was another litany she did not know, but she would not let these waves rise above her head—there was time now. Not enough, but some.

She lowered her head in deference. “Thank you for your teachings, my King.”

A smirk spread across that mouth. Scalded her. “Don’t thank me yet—I have more teachings for you on the dawn. Ones I will enjoy far more ardently.”

Her cheeks bloomed scarlet, and she swatted his hands away. “You are wretched. Uncouth, unkingly—”

He swooped a kiss on her. Hands on her hips, hunger on their tongues. Murmuring against her mouth: “And your husband to come. Sleep well.”

/~/~/~/

She slept none.

/~/~/~/

The buckets the servants carried steamed. They filled the copper tub one after the other in remarkable order. Courtesy from the King; a tender gift before this wedding.

Her bones ached for its warmth.

She put one hand into Poppy’s, another into Prue’s, and then they lowered her naked into the water. Heat rushed up her frame so deeply it had her gasping. Sinking. Melting.

She slid under. Her King spoiled her utterly. When they were next alone, perhaps she’d kiss him right on the mouth. Reach for him first. He had so loved her darting kiss only hours ago…

She surfaced, hands sinking into her hair. She groaned. The waters sloshed about, and for a moment, she dreamed herself back in the Trident. But only for a moment; just enough to taste that strength of home. She would not yearn, for soon she would make a new home beside her husband.

Her strength would not waver.

They rinsed her hair, then let her drift awhile longer. A scattering of winter petals gathered by the Mothers. Oils from Maidenpool. Lemonwood soap from the sun-sear of Dorne.

“My lady.”

And her eyes came open. She found Mother Malla sitting on a low stool beside the tub. The old woman offered her hands, and Sansa gently set her palm into that grasp. The Mother’s skin was thin and dry, gnarled by years of woman’s work and delivering babes into this world. But oh, was that grip still warm and strong.

The Mother turned. “Alright, maids you say? Out with thee, this is no conversation for your ears.”

Poppy riled up, ready to argue, but Sansa had a sinking feeling what this conversation was about. And the Mother was right: unpledged maids had no place in it.

Her order came gently. “Fetch my jewels and gown. It is well.”

The maids shuffled; Poppy grumbled loudly. Yet in the end, they left as bid.

Mother Malla patted her damp hand. Made her think of her own mother so many leagues away. When she’d dreamed her wedding all these years, in so many ways with so many castles and grooms, it’d always been with her mother at her side. This woman was not the Lady Catelyn—but for a moment, the love offered almost felt the same.

The godsservant spoke: “Excuse any impertinence, my lady, but for the good of the North I must ask. Of the marriage bed—what have your septas told you? Your mother?”

She rather wished to sink right back into the tub.

Another Mother tisked. “Don’t be shamed now, milady. Better to go in with clear eyes, eh? I tell you, had this shepherd’s boy trying to get his wife with child for a year—turns out, the silly blighter was only rutting and spilling upon her thigh!”

Her face went shockingly hot. Imagining anyone rubbing against her thigh—the sheer indecency.

“Desmela!” Mother Malla snapped.

Mother Desmela just rolled those shoulders that could put any milkmaid to shame. “The girl is to be in the marriage bed soon enough. She should know where the King’s to stick it.”

“Pray the seven graces and leave my sight, Desmela.” Mother Malla despaired. “And away with the rest of you!” The rest of the Mothers clucked and chuckled, but obeyed. Sansa felt surrounded by no less than a flock of cackling hens.

Silence blessedly draped down, an empty air but for her and this holy woman. Her robes were well-worn; patched and waned. Even the green sash about her waist in honor of the Mother was not a verdant green, but the shade of some weakly shoot trampled in the dirt.

Sansa knew to where her first patronage of gold would go.

“I am no septa, my lady, but I can at least say that before my vows I knew a husband well.” And the woman’s eyes were piercing. “You do not have to say a word, only listen. What our dear septons who have never felt a woman’s touch have to say—drive them out. Do whatever feels lovely with the King. If you like his kisses, ask for more. If you like his stroking, tell him to delight you again. He will ask to see you naked and touch you everywhere, and that is well and good. Take joy and glory in your husband, for the making of a babe is a rite most holy.”

The heat in her cheeks was now a dull flush. Spilling down her throat, her breasts. She had never been so uncomfortable in her nakedness, even in this clouded water.

The Mother’s posture stayed so terribly proper. “Between your legs is a well of pleasure. Have him touch you there. Most husbands will give a wife anything if she asks prettily enough. He will likely call it something more indelicate, but men are indelicate creatures at heart.”

This did nothing to lessen her flush.

But the Mother’s eyes were upon her. Pale and rheumy. Impossibly bright. “This is the most important part, understand? The things you take pleasure from will make your well flow. This is to ease your husband’s manhood inside. If you are not wet between your legs, do not let him near you, and set his fingers and even his mouth there to pleasure you again. The breaking of your maidenhead will sting, perhaps tug. It will surely ache. But there should be no agony. If he is within you, and it is a torment greater than being struck, then you must scream.”

She quailed down into the water. No septa had ever dared whisper that she disobey a husband, let alone— “But he is the King.”

Mother Malla’s eyes were torches. “And you will be the Queen and Holy Mother of this North. For him to damage your womb is treason against the Gods.”

She wavered, no longer burning but needling, thinking fearfully of that ring glittering amongst her combs. That foreign and aching shape: Gom Jabbar.

Holy wrath came like a squall—and it passed just as quickly. Mother Malla softened; gnarled hands cradled once more. “No matter. We have only heard great things of King Jon. He is the son of a Princess and the blood of Kings. He is noble of spirit, so have him care for you. You must peak in your pleasure for your seed to be released, and then he must spill inside you. Not on your thigh or stomach, but inside. And soon enough you will have a babe. Make sure to stay on your back for a time after he spills, and when we reach Winterfell, I shall work with the cooks. There are hearty foods to make the lady a fertile land.”

“Thank you.” She answered faintly. “You are most attentive.”

“You may come to me with questions. Any at all. And my lady, take whatever pleasures you can—your husband will send you into the torment of the birthing bed soon enough.”

She had no answer to that. What possible words could be found?

Mother Malla just patted her hand. “I saw your maids had veil and pins ready—but we must do away with those. When one enters a godswood, it must be bare of any concealment. He will see you as you are, and you shall see him.”  

/~/~/~/

It was not black now but some misty grey. Silvery. The faintest limn of a pearl’s gleam found upon a distant shore. Her uncle’s armor nearly glowed. She thought of the teachings of the Warrior—of true and faithful knights winged in heavenly light.

Brynden Tully was the most faithful of them all.

He kissed her hair. “I have horses with provisions packed, we may flee in but a moment.”

She laughed wetly. “Uncle.”

“I know.” He whispered. “I know, you have your heart set. I told him last night he would treat you finer than any queen upon this earth. That even the Mother would look upon you jealously for how your husband treasures you.”

She wore her uncle’s love like armor upon her heart. “And what was my King’s answer?”

“The wretch agreed with me.” The man grumbled. “And what was I to do then?”

This laugh poured brighter. Her uncle plucked a favor from his armor and dabbed away her tears. It was one she had sewn him for a summer tourney so long ago. Her uncle had won the thing, then crowned her his little Queen of Love and Beauty. It had nearly made her heart burst. He’d put her on his horse before him, the crown so big it kept falling in her eyes, and then they rode as the grandest knight and queen while the crowd threw them flowers.

It brought her tears anew.

“We can’t have you go weeping to your wedding.” Brynden Tully griped, but she knew there was no strength behind it. Only his gentle encouragement: “Chin up. Let’s show them the steel of a Tully, hmmm?”

That dried the tears. This was a joyous day, as that tourney had been so long ago. It drew her tall and proud. “Let’s.”

And she put her arm in his for the last time as Lady Sansa Tully.

The snow had been packed down and scattered with those strange winter flowers. There were four women waiting in the trees dressed in white. They were singing, silvery and clear. Echoing.

Pale powders and paints had been cast across their faces—transformed them into creatures otherworldly.

Spirits called from the dawn.

Each had a long silver rod in their hands, gracefully bent as the limb of a willow. Lamps hung from each with glittering flame.

Two women flanked forward while the others fell to heel. Their songs carried on; pale lights guiding them through the trees and deeper. The walk of the bride, the King had told her, was a time of deep reflection. He had spoken rightly.

The song lifted her prayers so far and away.

But she had so many. That her grandfather had seen clearly and that spring was to come. That she would guide her new people to prosperity, and honor her husband in the act. That every word that fell from her mouth would be good and true. Be the will of the Gods upon this earth.

The trees rose higher than basilica doors. The roots were now above their heads.

They stepped through an ancient wood that was older than men, and her prayers fell away.

The roots had been curved into an arch. They slipped through.

Breath escaped her.

A great white tree towered ahead, arms adorned as if in rubies. Strange black garlands dipped from its branches. There were men and women in sweeping half-moons before that tree, all silent and still. Fires were kept burning among them as high as towers. They did not turn their eyes to look upon her.

No, only three gazes found them.

King Jon Stark faced their entrance; bronze crown in his inky curls, and naked steel stabbed into the earth before him. He stood tall before those roots and immovable. Implacable.

But higher on those roots was a woman. She was the strangest creature Sansa had seen yet. Not from the dawn, but of the dark. Black across her eyes, black around her throat. As if all had been slit and left to bleed ichor. And from that mouth, red smeared bloody down her chin.

And Sansa knew who this woman was—Weirwitch.

Smoke billowed from the fires lit. It smelled sweeter than any incense and filled her throat.

The Weirwitch opened her mouth and cried out. Her teeth were bloody.

Ser Brynden Tully halted, and the lamp bearers drew away. The song was done.

The Weirwitch called in the old tongue, and to Sansa’s surprise—her uncle answered in it. She understood naught of his words, just her own name and then Tully ringing through. The King answered it with his own words, and she only grasped Jon and Stark.

A sweep of an arm, a hand splashed red, and the witch beckoned them. Towards her future. Towards her King.

And there the third gaze waited.

The heart tree had a face with eyes as dark as pits. They wept bloody tears over a mouth gaping and ravaged. Sansa could not tell if it was laughing or screaming.

The smoke poured thicker. Cloying. Her knees locked.

Her uncle halted and gripped her tight. A lash of terror tore up her insides. She had to move forward, she had to, but that face—

There was a soft padding behind her. In a whisper of snow, a wolf came to her side. That musky scent she had buried her face into filled her nose. Her heart steadied. Her eyes drew up. To him, to the King. He did not move nor speak, but she thought his eyes beseeched her forwards.

Those very eyes that were soft now. She swallowed and took a step, keeping her gaze on him. She would not look into the abyss again. Beside her, the wolf stepped too. She took another. Another.

It was alright—she was safe among the wolves.

The sword in the earth was all that stood between them now. Her King raised a palm, a smear of red drawn upon it.

The Witch called out again, piercing as a raven’s cry. Behind her, the flames crackled as further kindling was thrown upon them. The smell of the smoke became earthier. It clouded through her skull.

But she knew these words on the witch’s tongue, recognized them. And she answered them in the oldest tongue of all: “I take this man.”

With trembling hands, her uncle let her go. She crossed the steel, her hand finding the King’s and something sticky smearing between them. The wolf followed her, winding behind the tree until his great head came about the other side. He watched them all with eyes so red.

Her King drew her before him among the roots and then, at last, the vows began.

She did not stumble. She did not hesitate. They spilled from her mouth like water. Hearth. Faith. Foe. 

They were still gripping hands when the witch came with a red cord to bind them together. It felt righteous, to be bound to him as such. The witch gave invocations, and then Lord Locke led a goat up to the tree. Its throat was slit before them, and the first gush of life gathered into a bowl. The rest was left to fall into the roots.

She didn’t flinch. What was blood to a woman who had seen tourneys? Had seen it come out of her very body?

A shivering sound, a clatter of bones at the wrist. The witch was strange this close. Hair blonde yet threaded with white. Skin smooth yet the crags at the eye deep. The woman’s hands were as smooth as a girl, but she had the gnarled knuckles of a crone when her hands curled.

Those very hands reached reverently for the heart tree. The witch’s palms dragged through its tears, and even not understanding the old tongue, Sansa knew right then the woman was speaking thanks. The sap upon those fingers looked as blood, then even bloodier when dipped into the goat’s offering.

Behind them, more tinder was thrown onto the fires. She could taste the smoke as if she was drinking it; it was headier than any wine.

The first splash of blood came shockingly hot against Sansa’s cheek. Her insides quivered at it, but she kept her back straight as a sword. The Weirwitch drew on her cheek, then mirrored it upon the King’s. Went to her other cheek, then his. Their foreheads. A sticky swipe of blood and sap was then slipped down both their lips and chins.

Her husband looked so terribly fierce. A barbarian king, they’d promised her. And a barbarian she’d been given.

The Weirwitch pulled away from them, turning towards all those faces uplifted. She called out: once, twice, thrice. The first two times, the people echoed her.

The third time, they stayed silent as the Stranger.

And then above them—the sun broke. Pinks, pales, golds. Her King’s crown shining like the heavens had touched him.

But the sun was in his eyes, and in the end, that was all she saw. Their gazes locked, gray to blue, and so warm she felt she could shed all her furs and never feel the frosts again. His lips tugged up just a little, and she saw neither blood nor sap—just her King smiling at her.

She smiled, too.

Against the weirwood, Ghost’s tail thumped like a drum.

Their bound hands squeezed. A rough thumb stroked at her wrist.

A goblet was brought from below. Iron and roughhewn with wolves a’howling. A pouch opened in the Weirwitch’s hand from whence some manner of herbs were poured into the cup. Then, with ritual stillness, three drops of weirwood sap followed. Three drops of blood. The witch held the cup above their heads, words tumbling like stones down a mountain. She cried them out to the sun, to the weirwood. To all.

The witch gave Jon the cup, and with his unbound hand—he drank of it. Deep.

He passed the cup to her, nodding ever so slightly, gaze encouraging her as best as he could.

She could not hesitate. They thought her soft, some southron craven—and it wouldn’t be so. She tipped it back and drank.

It was mead, she realized, honeyed and sticky. Resin and copper. Some lingering aftertaste that stayed on the tongue.

The cheer that broke from the crowd was deafening; rumbling then rising until it scraped against the heavens. Someone, perhaps the witch, was pulling the goblet out of her hand—

And then her husband was kissing her. Blood on the lips, blood on the tongue. Licking its taste right out of her mouth.

She was a woman wedded.

She was a wife.

And what was a new wife to do, but throw an arm around her husband and kiss him in the dawn?

/~/~/~/

There was a great tent set up beyond the heart tree. As soon as their hands were unbound—and the blood drunk out and off of their mouths by more offered mead—the crowd nearly chased them into it.

Her husband had only laughed and then swooped her up in his arms. “Open the barrels! Roast the meat! Rest and revel today, my kinfolk, while I see to my wife!”

Great guffaws and cheers answered this. She just clung about his neck, very intently examining her husband’s jaw from the underside. It was a very handsome jaw, in her opinion. Her husband carried her away from all the arms trying to slap them on the back and safely into the royal tent.

It was quickly tied shut behind them, and then the crowd drew away. Shouts grew louder, songs, then the Great Walrus bellowing: “You call this a wedding??!” Followed by a crash and delighted feminine shrieking.

They were, for the first time, alone with one another. She was free to do whatever she wished. It was an earth-shaking notion. No maids, no irritable uncles, no bannermen to stop their mouths or hands.

Not a single judging eye upon them, as she rubbed his cheek and asked: “What are they doing out there?”

“Whatever joys they can find, as we shall do the same.” And he nuzzled into her palm, kissed it. He did not seem to mind the sticky slide of weirwood sap he found there.

“I should wash—”

“You look fetching in your bridal paint.” And he wasn’t putting her down. “That will wait, wife.”

She shivered bodily.

“Do you like that?” He asked lowly, pressing his mouth to the hinge of her jaw. “When I call you wife?”

“Maybe.” She allowed, then wrapped her arms around his neck. Clung tighter. “Would you like me to call you husband?”

“Yes.” He groaned, and that sound vibrated into her, sent her scalp tingling with his nearness. If he could keep his arms around her forever…

“You are so lovely.” He whispered, mouth pressing hotter and hotter. “Since the moment I saw you, I wanted this. To take you to my tent and take off your dress, while you sighed so sweetly.”

She shivered again, but it was a colder thing. She dared not touch his face with her hand shackled in gold. This was her husband, her King. If she asked him to be gentle—he would. She knew he would. He’d been gentle in his kisses, why wouldn’t he be gentle in the rest?

No matter how fervent that hunger smoldered in his eyes—

He drew back abruptly. Before she could ask, or even use a hand to draw him back, he carefully set her on her feet. Shucked off his cloak and doublet and crown, then rubbed at her arms. “My lady—can I call you by your name?”

She nodded quickly.

“Sansa.” He said, so curled and worshipful, it could have brought her to her knees. But he just stared into her eyes. “You can call me by my mine. When it is just us, we are a man and woman. A husband and wife. When you are in my arms, it will only be good between us, understand? Only things that you want.”

The knot building in her gut slackened. “I understand.”

He just hummed and then kissed her again and again, until he drew her back into his grasp. What they’d had a day ago had been but a taste. Now it came deeply; indecent and wet, and so thrillingly obscene. They did not have to stop—mouths joined until the only thing she felt was his heat, and that pleasant shudder humming between her thighs. Somewhere in those kisses her hand slid under his tunics. His skin was hot, hair coarse and his body solid beneath.

He felt so powerful under her hand.

He pulled away.

It made her unbearably cross. “Jon!”

He grinned. “I like how that sounds in your mouth. Now, my lovely Sansa, can I take you out of this dress? I promise not to tear a single stitch—I did say I’d see them all.”

Her heart was a hummingbird in the cage of her chest. But she understood now, at last. “Let me take off my jewels first.”

He nodded eagerly. She found a low table and took the pearls from her hair, the sapphires from her throat, then with her husband still behind her gripping her hips and kissing lazily at her neck—she clattered off that unholy ring.

She smiled. “I am ready.”

And a rumbling groan answered her. He pulled off her back just enough to get at her laces, plucking them with unusual quickness, for certainly no maid had ever been this eager to get her out of a dress. When she felt the cloth slack so much neither her shoulders nor hips were carrying its weight, she tucked her arms to it. Turned around.

Reverently, his fingertips touched the embroidery between her breasts. He gave her a boyish grin. “I like the wolf bit.”

She laughed. “Thank you, I worked very hard.” Then let the dress slide down. “I worked hard on this, too.” And gestured shyly at her shift beneath. It was lower cut than anything she owned, made of the finest silks. River lilies, silver trout, and little fanciful flourishes that took the greatest skill in needle to achieve. She had only taken it out to sew when she’d been alone in her chambers at Riverrun; furtive in her work and eyes straining by candlelight.

And it seemed every precise stitch had been worth it, for her husband’s eyes grew wide, then dark. Had that red mouth parting to say: “Gorgeous.”

His hands gripped her sides, nearly spanning her waist. The silk was so thin. It was as if he was against her bare—and he could be. They were man and wife, and all was holy between them.

“Please be gentle with it.” She whispered, hoping he understood.

And his eyes rose from the embroidery about her breasts—or perhaps her breasts themselves—to promise: “I’ll be gentle with it all.”

It flushed her entirely. It put her fears to rest.

He pulled closer, mouth brushing hers, then sinking in. It was a breathless thing. He led her forward and then he was sitting upon his sleeping cot—though it was large as any bed she’d ever seen in a castle. He tugged her into his lap. A dark curl tumbled into his eyes, shining along with that grin. “Yes?”

She tucked that curl away. “Yes.” Then kissed his jaw. He made a noise of approval, and then tentatively, she was kissing at his neck like he had kissed hers. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and then his chest. He was broad. So warm.

“Just like that.” He murmured, and his hands were skimming at her back. Her thighs. “Just like that. You feel so good.”

It all felt good. The press of his hands, her skin trembling, the drag of silk between them. Warmer and warmer and warmer.

Their hands tangled at his hips as he pulled off his heavier tunic, then yanked off the one beneath that. His chest was abruptly before her, bare and broad and flecked with scars. And when he pulled her to him—

Flesh met flesh. Ignited. Sent her gasping. Her skin rippled like pebbles being thrown into a forest pool. Spreading further and melding together and building higher.

The hum between her thighs was a tremble; was a thing that felt beyond her control.

No wonder the septons warned against any touch. It was beyond temptation.  

One large hand cupped her jaw, thumb rubbing over her bottom lip. She sighed, and then he pressed his thumb firmly to hold her in place. He began mouthing at her shoulder, pushing at her shift with a scrape of teeth—

And the strap fell away. Her cheeks flamed, for her breast was now bare. She did not know whether to squirm closer or away from him.

“Hmmmmm?” Came his questioning hum.

They had warned her that husband would wish to see her naked. “Yes.”

His mouth moved to the other side, pushing off the other strap. The rest of her shift fluttered to her waist, and then he leaned back from her. There was no denying where his eyes were fixed, nor the sort of flush he was drawing from her cheeks to navel.

“Well.” He said jovially. “No man is ever to know, but you have the most perfect breasts in the kingdoms.”

She nearly slapped him. “Your Grace!”

That brought his eyes cheerfully darting up. “Sansa.”

“Jon.” She huffed. “You cannot possibly say such a thing.”

“I’m the King.” He shrugged, the tug of that lopsided grin making her burn so hotly. “I can decree it: the Lady Consort’s breasts are fine and fair. Tipped seashell pink and so perfectly kissable—”

“Jon!” She was aflame. She was burning.

But as if to prove his point, he kissed either breast, sending an impossibly sharp jolt between her thighs. She nearly leapt out of his lap.

He just gripped tighter and reseated her, pressing a kiss over her heart. “What do you like best, wife?”

“Best for what?” She asked, as if she was some fool, innocent doe before the hunter’s lance.

His brows rose. “Has my wife never touched her breasts in the dark? Found some little pleasures that she likes for herself?”

Each word was a rebuke. “That is unladylike!”

His hands slowed. “Never reached between your thighs?”

And she grew scarlet. Perhaps, once or twice or even three times, she had left a feast with a belly full of wine and an ache betwixt her legs. Perhaps she had reached down to that place with a curious hand and—

But she would be put to the sword before admitting it. “I know naught what you ask.”

“Hmmmmm.” He hummed, clearly not believing a word out of her mouth. He gave her hip a quick pat. “Well, I suppose our lessons arrived much sooner than I hoped.”

And off he went into them: “Some women—” And he licked a broad stripe across her nipple.

She gasped.

He grinned. “Like their breasts licked. Others like them sucked—”

And then he did just that. She squealed.

“There’s rubbing and pinching of course, but I promised to be gentle tonight.” And then his mouth was on her again, sucking followed by a gentle pull of the teeth. A hot palm came upon her other breast, squeezed, and then his fingers circled the nipple with the barest touch. Thumbed it. It had her tingling and shaking, and not knowing what on this earth to do with herself.

This felt a sin, but hadn’t she been told to glory in the marriage bed? She was desperately grasping at his shoulders, convinced she would tumble. He just reached for one of her hands and set it into his curls. She gripped those instead. He moaned.

Another searing jolt. A wetness dripping onto her thighs. She was burning. How she was ever meant to look another soul in the eye again—

“Come here.” He said, mouth gone from her skin as he pulled her sideways in his lap. An arm went around her back to hold her while his fingers rucked into the shift at her waist. “Can I see you?”

An anxious little flutter passed through her. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll rub you until you come through the shift.”

Mother Malla had been right—men were indelicate creatures.

“But—peaking—” She had never done such a thing. “You have to peak too—in me. For the babe to come.”

That sat him back a little. “There is more to the marriage bed than making babes.” And he kissed besides her nose. “And I’m going to show you. First my fingers, then my mouth. Then we’ll worry about these babes of ours.”

“You’d put your mouth…?” Her eyes darted down.

With a shake of his knee, he jolted her legs apart, then cupped a hand over her womanhood. Gripped down. “Yes, I’ll put my mouth right here. Kiss you and lick you like I did your breasts. I promise you’ll love it.”

She nearly clamped her legs over his hand. Though not—she feared—to keep it away. “That is indecent!”

“Nothing between a king and his queen is indecent.” And his gaze scoured her. “I promise you, my little wife. Plenty of your southron lords go to your septs and pray to your gods. And when they return to their chambers, they get their wives to ruck up their skirts so they can set their greedy mouths to worshipping a cunt instead.”

She made a tiny sound like a trampled bird. It was obscene. It had her shaking. The dampness on her thighs was spreading. “…kiss me again.”

His face showed no sign of disappointment. “Of course.” And he did. The air was so cool on her naked skin, his mouth was hot, and so was the seeking dip of his tongue. He had a hand on her breast again and thumbing so gently.

She was shaking. She wanted to be closer. She wanted...

She tucked her fingers into her shift and lifted her hips. When he felt her moving, one of his hands came to join her in pulling the garment off. She was only in her smallclothes now. His fingers danced along them. She gasped into his mouth.

And then her husband pressed to some miraculous place. Her hips bucked up, and she could feel him smiling against her mouth. “Let me.” He murmured, and then he pushed her small clothes aside and touched there again. Skin to skin, the slickness of her. The rumble in his chest told her he was enjoying every moment of it.

And so was she. His fingers circling tighter. Quicker. Drawing lower towards her entrance then back up again. Tightening. Tightening—

The tether broke. Stars fell. That precipice she had bumped against with clumsy fingers and wine-thick blood—she tumbled over it. But she also tumbled in her husband’s arms. When the lights faded from her eyes, and the shaking between her thighs was a sweet if painful ache, she found herself clutched up to his chest. He was kissing her cheeks with ardor.

“Oh.” She whispered.

His next kiss fell across her lips. “Oh?”

It left her dazed enough to confess: “I had always wondered how it felt, when the ladies whispered of it.”

He nearly broke away from her. “Really?”

She scrunched down. “The marriage bed is the only place for—”

“Really.”

“Don’t look so smug!”

He lifted his chin. “A man who has given his wife her first peak, can look however he wishes.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Undoubtedly. My enemies dread it, my wife will come to love it.”

“We shall see.”

“We can see right now.” And he rolled her onto the bed, pulled her smallclothes down, then sinuated himself between her thighs. Shouldered them up.

It had been one thing for him to touch her, but now he was looking at her. Right there. She had thought herself beyond burning, but here she caught flame again. She covered her face.

“You have a lovely cunt.” He murmured, and then he covered her. If she thought his fingers had been indecent—his tongue was a mortal sin.

“Jon!”

“You deserve every pleasure.” And then he kissed her there as he promised he would on her cunt. “I’m going to ready you, alright? With my fingers. That will make it easier later. I know I can’t stop it from hurting…but I’ll do everything I can, alright?”

“Alright.”

And so he did, his tongue slick and hard, and then one of his fingers sliding into her. She had never felt such intrusion, but then he sucked and flicked his tongue so hotly, she forgot the discomfort. He worked her so slowly and then so deeply, she welcomed the second finger and then cried out for a third. This was surely holy ecstasy, the rhythm of his mouth and the slide of his fingers—

And then she was shaking apart again.

Her hands slipped from her face. Her cheeks were tingling, her chest. Floating. She stared down at her husband, curls wild and half spilled on her stomach. His mouth shining.

She trembled. “They told me you’d be cruel—barbarian. But you aren’t. You’re the kindest husband a woman has ever had.”

Waves rolled through. A wrathful heave upon his brow. A saddened lessening across his mouth. “Let men say what they will. We will know each other in total one day. We are bound. You will have every joy that I can give you.”

“I want to make you happy.” She confessed. “I want our marriage to be good. I want to have a home.”

And he came up her body and kissed both her cheeks, catching a tear as he cradled her face. His eyes were not just grey; they had the palest flecks at the edges. They glittered like stars. “You will. Winterfell was not home to me either, but we’ll make it so. For each other and for our babes.”

“Together?” She asked.

He sealed it with a kiss. “Together.” Then breathed against her. “There will be pain.” He confessed, and she knew he did not only mean this bridal bed before them.

“I know.” She answered firmly. “But we will endure.”

His hand went between her legs again, a gentle and rousing touch. The furs were then pulled over them as he kicked his breeches off. He came down upon her, thighs so strong against her own. Bare. A ripple spread down her back and put her finest hairs on end.

They would be man and wife for true.

He took her hand and guided her down to him. Let her feel his shape. Know him.

“How…?”

“We are made for each other.” He promised. “You’ll see.”

It felt like she was doing something impossibly wicked, having his length in her palm. Hot and smooth and aching. The way he groaned and then had to brace himself over her when she gave him a squeeze—

She was amazed not a single of her septas burst through the tent to yank her out by the ear.

“Stroke your hand up and down.” He gasped, and she did. Avidly. Watched his face at every shaking breath and clenching of his eyes.

She had a king at her mercy in one hand. They said a queen held her king in her fist, and she had never quite understood those words until today. How positively scandalous.

“Mercy.” He begged. “Mercy, wife, or there will be no chance at babes.”

“You should have your pleasures, too.”

“Inside you.” He groaned, and she released him. Braced herself.

He stroked her legs. “No, easy. Let me in. This is a dance, not a fight.”

His fingers were rubbing that sweet place again. She sighed happily. “I love dancing.”

“Good.” He whispered, and then she felt his bluntness. “You’re so good. Breathe.”

She breathed, and he sank into her. She bit off a whine, trying to let him in as he’d asked. How had the gods intended this?

Slick gathered to his fingers again. He rained kisses upon her mouth. Cradled them skin to skin. “Just a little more.”

And he pushed through. She could not describe the sensation. It was the ecstatic, terrible pain of becoming a wife. Of becoming something new.

Not Sansa Tully, but Sansa Stark. The wife of a wolf.

“Gods.” He swore. “Sansa, lovely—”

She pressed a kiss to him. Shared breath. “I want my babes, your Grace.”

He huffed a wet laugh against her collarbone, then groaned. “And your pleasures?”

“Those too.”

And he began rocking into her. Sliding. She thought of his fingers inside and knew, somehow, they could get there again.

She dragged one of his hands to a breast, and he let out a delighted moan. Their mouths tangled, slow and deep, his callused fingertips found that sweet place again. This was what the heavens intended, joining man and woman as one.

“Jon.” She whimpered. “Jon.” It would not be as wonderful as the first time, edged in this pain. But this was duty—nothing was more important to a Queen than bearing a son.

But it was hope, too, for nothing was sweeter than creating love with her husband.

“Sansa.” He answered. “Gods—” And pushed his forehead to hers. Skin and heat and that driving slide—

The peak came as a shadow of itself. He shouted, the thunder to her echo. Heat flooded her body as he spilled. They fell together, and he rolled off and then tucked her to his side. They were a single line—mouths and shoulders and hips and knees.

She slid her ankle between his legs, then kissed his chin. A dream was unspooling inside. “There is a vow in in our holy marriages.” She whispered. “That I am yours and you are mine, from this day until the end of our days.”

He nodded. “I like that.” Then laid his mouth against her sweaty brow. “I am yours, you are mine.”

“I am yours.” She agreed. “And you are mine.”  

Then as every vow they’d ever made each other, she sealed it with a kiss.

Chapter Text

In the brazier light, the sweat on her skin glowed; made her looks like something bronzed come out of the blacksmith’s furnace. Forged just for him.

And he was a thankful beast. He smoothed a curl away from her forehead; cherished that smear of sweat created by their pleasures. He pressed his mouth there—mapped her hairline and then the bridge of her nose with his kisses.

He wanted to know every inch of her.

She sighed sweetly, curling even farther into his body as if she wanted to be one with him again. He would prove it to her—it would always be good between them. His next kiss found her mouth. “How rests my wife?”

“Perfectly.” She answered, and her lashes dipped lower. Her gaze glittered up through their fanning. “My King has a very fine bed.” Her mouth curled at that. Mischievous. It heartened him. She had been such an anxious creature even an hour ago. That she felt safe and bold enough to flirt with him now—

“A bed that is happy to have you.” And he kissed her again. He knew this marriage business would suit him well. To return to her every evening, bare and sweet amongst his furs? What man could ask for more?

For a time, they kissed languorously. Deeply. Mapped one another in this lazy afterglow. As brave a face as she’d tried to put on it, he’d seen her discomfort ripple through when he’d first moved inside her. There was no rush now. They were consummated: no one could take her from him.

A second time, a third, all the times to come—they could wait. He and his wife had other matters to attend.

He leaned away from her, and she gasped deeply. Flushed beautifully. Then, she sniffed the air. He could smell it as well—smoke and the fatty crackle of meat over a fire.

“What is that?” She asked.

More and more often this past year, he’d decreed that he and his lords would eat the same pottage as the servants. He would not feast on meat daily in monstrous gluttony, while his people starved with only grass and bark in their bellies.

But gods, did the smell of meat these days make him voracious. Stir a bone-deep hunger. And he knew it was not only the wolf that wanted to gnaw.

“That.” He said, gripping his wife all the closer. “Is our goat.”

“Our goat…?” Her brow scrunched. Leapt. “Oh! I suppose that is sensible—waste not, want not.”

“Indeed.” He agreed, hoping the gods would not begrudge him this. In another time, in a land of summer, they would have only taken the choicest cuts to feast each other, then left the guts to the gods and the meat to their creatures. In that other life, he would have sacrificed more to the heart tree than a single goat.

But such a thing couldn’t be countenanced now. Every bit of the sacrificial beast that could be eaten, would go into hungry bellies. They would eat too, he and her. After all—he had vowed to keep her table full. His wife would never know starvation.

Once his lady was sated by all he could provide her, they would see to the Weirwitch and her soothsaying. The witch had granted him this boon, and they would honor it.

He rose then, taking the linen beneath them and wiping himself from most of their joining. He then carefully tucked the furs about his wife before she could catch chill. Bereft of their bed, he gathered a few cloths and set a shallow bowl of water into one of the braziers to heat. At his naked wandering about, his wife sucked in a breath.

He grinned at her flushed face. “Shall I bend for you again?”

She scowled at him, gathered the furs close—but didn’t take her eyes off his arse. “You are a man without shame.”

“Nor a single stich of cloth.” He agreed cheerfully. “I am yours for perusal, my lady.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“That’s not what you were moaning in my arms a few moments ago.”

She huffed at him. Delighted him. Such a proper creature, his lady wife. He’d see her mussed and less than proper soon enough. But first…

He filched the bowl from the fire and set it on table to begin washing himself. Face first, taking away the godsmarkings that had dried and pulled taut at his skin. His wife pretended to look away—but he saw her eyes keep darting back to him. Perhaps he took too much pleasure in washing his cock under her gaze, but who was here to accuse him of such things?

“Come.” He kissed her brow. “Let me wash you. Some seed will spill—let it fall onto the linens.”

“I’m to stay on my back.” She argued. “The Mothers said—”

“Sansa.” He called, and she hushed. Let him tuck his fingers into the furs and pull. “There will be time for that another day. The lords will expect us to join them in feasting, it is the way of things.”

She pouted most fetchingly. “In a marriage of the Faith, we feast first, then the couple has the night to themselves.”

“Wait through a feast to have you?” He snorted at the notion. He could see her breasts now, her stomach. She was pale and smooth as a pearl. Lovely. He wanted to put his mouth to her and have her squealing again. “You Southron have strange ways.”

“And you Northerners have yours.” She shivered then, the furs down to her knees. Her long limbs shifted as she reached for a cloth.

He tugged it away. “Let me care for you.”

This time, she kissed him: a firm press to the mouth. “If my husband wills it.”

“He does.” And he cradled his fingertips beneath her jaw. Her face rose, lashes fluttering shut as he washed her bridal paint away. It had enthralled him, seeing her so fierce and properly northern. Their marriage morn and the steel of her, would be remember to his dying day.

The water in the bowl was faintly pink by the time he reached between her legs. He pressed there for a moment; hoped the heat of the cloth could provide her some relief. She just clutched his forearm, squirming and sighing and damn near breaking his will.

His hands spasmed. “Perhaps your Southron ways have a point.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “What?”

“Nothing.” He grumbled, hating every man waiting for them outside this tent all the more. Some of his seed slipped from her onto the linens. Blood. Only a thin streak, but proof all the same. No one could raise objection: not of his wife’s chastity, nor over those fool sworn shields brought with. She was his.

“Go dress.” He murmured, and she obeyed, plucking up her shift and then slipping it on. He hated to see her hidden away. With a sigh, he bundled the linens together and then searched amongst the furs. The goat had been so little, and all things needed sacrifice.

He pulled his oldest fur from the pile. From where she was slipping her dress back on, his wife asked: “What are you doing?”

“Gathering for the witch, it is a dangerous thing to look into the current of time—but she is willing to do so. Give portents and Greensee.”

Her tongue darted out. Nervous. “Only the gods know what may be.”

“And the godstouched.” He corrected, for this was a thing his wife would know. “If a weirwitch grants you a thing, you give thanks and ask no further.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. “I understand.” She said, but there was a moment he thought she’d say more. Give breath to that possibility. Instead, she turned around. “Is my husband as capable of lacing a woman as unlacing her?”

He eagerly dropped the bundle to bed. “Let’s find out.”

/~/~/~/

The first thing to greet them outside the tent was an unruly wolf. Jon threw out an arm, catching Ghost across the chest even as he wiggled and whined, then licked his wife’s cheek along with most of her head.

The wolf breathed the scent-smell, trilled: Mate! Mount mate mount! Then sent a surge of gray fur directly into his skull.

Jon held the flinch. “Yes, you wretched beast.”

His wife just giggled in joy as the wolf licked her again. She patted him eagerly, and Jon sighed louder. It stopped her not at all.

“My poor King.” She giggled. “So beset by his woes.”

“There is not an hour that goes by.” He grumbled, then ordered: “Go find a deer to put in your jaws instead of my wife.”

Ghost nuzzled one last time. Mate. Then offered quieter, but all the more joyous: pack.

And his heart softened.

Pack. He echoed, for it was a thing most true. The only thing that was. Both he and the wolf dreamed of gamboling wolves once more. In the woods. In Winterfell.

And Ghost nuzzled lower. Pup soon?

All softening was replaced by a swat at the beast’s snout. “Off you get.”

“Jon!” His wife snapped.

He could not explain the beastly presumption. “You give him too much leeway.”

“And you give him cruelty.”

“If you believe a blow by a man has ever hurt him—”

“Say another word, and I shan’t take off my shift again.”

And Jon Stark, King in the North, felt his jaw firmly click shut.

/~/~/~/

The singing and shouting had only grown louder in their time abed. When she met the morning air on her husband’s arm, it was to revelers dancing: arms locked and spinning in circles around the fires. There were no empty hands, all were filled with horns of ale or heels of bread, or even axes that were being thrown against a dead tree to great jeering.

A few held the writhing body of another.

Benfred Tallhart, Robin Flint, Cley Cerwyn—all seemed to be cavorting with maidservants where anyone could see. When no one but her seemed aghast at their behavior, she wrenched her eyes away. The idea of being in her husband’s arms, squirming the same as those maids…

She would not shame either of them with such thoughts. Perhaps Northmen acted as such, but never she and her kingly husband. Hard work was ahead of her, it seemed, to set a better example to this court.

The crowd gave a roar at their entrance. Her uncle stood among them, eyes knife-sharp and fixed on her face. She nodded to him, smiling her joy, and Brynden Tully’s shoulders fell slack. He took a great and gulping quaff of ale, then joined the tumult coming to sweep them to the fires. He half-hugged her in the chaos, lifting her onto his boots. Her husband kept grip on her arm and then straightened when Brynden Tully slapped him on the back.

“Well met, your Grace.”

Her husband smiled. “It is Jon to the man who stands my good-uncle.”

Her uncle cleared his throat wetly. Patted them both again. “On with you both.”

She was so happy she could weep.

The crowd kept pulling. A great stump had been made into a table; chairs and cups and trenchers already laid.

A toast was raised to them as they sat: “To the King and his wife!”

It was answered thunderously. “TO THE KING AND HIS WIFE!”

Her husband lifted their cup, drank with the crowd, then passed it to her. She drank as well.

It was then that the goat was brought from the fire and butchered before them. They took the King’s portion, and then her husband held her hand against his thigh as they divvied each cut to their subjects. Gave their favor in the order they saw fit.

She carefully noted her King’s choices. That the first went to Konrad, then Lord Mollen, then curiously to Lord Ironsmith before going to Cley Cerwyn. Her uncle followed shortly after. Lord Locke was served before Lord Manderly. Ser Kyle Condon before Lord Gladstone. Eryk Holden, that Karstark emissary, received a thin if choice bit of meat. Jory Cassel and Head of the Hearthguard came before more than a few lordlings to her silent surprise.

When the carcass was half given, she realized there was not enough to go around. It seemed the entire camp was here; guards and servants and retainers all flocking. It was too little goat for so many hungry mouths.

She squeezed her husband’s palm.

He turned to her. “My lady?”

“If I may make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

His fervency was bare; a thing to be cherished. Few husbands valued their wives so highly. He was truly a man as good as her father.

She was the luckiest woman in Westeros. “I know our wagons have become my King’s own upon our marriage. But please, take of them and the next three cuts of meat to make pottage for the servants—they have toiled hard to make this wedding so.”

Dozens of eyes turned to her, all terribly bright. It was so little to give, but the pottage would spread the meat enough to give every servant a taste.

Her husband’s gaze scalded her. Silently, he raised her knuckles and kissed them. Called out: “As my lady says, the next three for the servants. And the one after that goes to the guards!”

There were cheers, a stomping of feet, a flurry of bows and then deeply given curtsies. The retainers not yet served only rustled at this gift.

One maidservant came to their side and kissed her hand. Whispered: “Your Grace.”

Sansa wasn’t yet so—the crown could only be put on her head in Winterfell. But she nodded all the same, heart squeezing viciously at the gratefulness in those eyes as the woman shuffled back on her knees.

The rest was divvied; the retainers assuaged. Dancers circled. Axes thunked into wood. Men cried out to the skies. They ate with her husband feeding her every morsel. As they did, the crowd brought little tokens. Garlands of winter flowers and holly. Carved wooden tokens in shapes she could not parse. Rocks shined to a jewel’s sheen. Even a few bits of jewelry made from the bones of a bird.

“Blessings and talismans.” Her husband murmured in her ear. “Things given of the godswood and fashioned of their devotion.”

She whispered faintly: “And the lords?”

His mouth pulled thin. “They will have their time in Winterfell; how are they to preen to one another, without everyone here to envy their gifts?”

“How indeed?” She murmured, and so their meal continued. For every gift, she accepted it graciously as if it was the finest bolt of lace. The greatest mantle of gold. Soon enough, her husband was drawn away by a few lords. By the look on his face, he loathed the separation. But politics were the way of feasts even at a wedding.

It seemed though she was not to be lonely. His seat was swiftly taken by Konrad Dustin and that easy grin of his. “Goodsister.”

“Am I?” She asked curiously. No Ryswell or Dustin was friend to a Tully—and he was both.

But Konrad merely tapped his cup against the wood. “If he is my brother, then you are my sister. And I can tell you have pleased him—so none of us shall quarrel.”

A question stuck half up her throat. She could not contain its utterance. “Have I?”

It was a reckless burst; she knew it the moment it left her mouth. What fool was she to show vulnerability to a son of Barbrey Dustin?

But the man merely considered her words, no derision upon his brow. His eyes stayed dark. Ponderous. “You are a lady, so perhaps you would understand this—to know in your bones how lesser you will always be to the firstborn son.”

It drew her upright, that single drop of honesty. Her lady mother had her beliefs, but Sansa was the one who would make a home of these lands. Who was to say what Dustin and Tully could become, given the time to flourish?

She wetted her lips carefully. “There was a time before my brother’s birth when it was thought I’d be heir to my mother, as she was to my grandfather. Once my brother was born though, I was different in their eyes. It is a truth only a fool could ignore.”

“Indeed.” He agreed. There was no flame in that gaze, just the stillness of a drowning water. “Jon was the brother I looked up to, the one who stayed by my side. Though I suppose he too has become the firstborn, crowned as he is.” He shrugged carelessly, but it was not careless. Neither was the look in his eye. “But a man cannot help but love his brothers. You have known him little, but I have seen Jon smile more this morn than he normally does in a moon.”

She took that notion into her body. Chewed it. Swallowed whole. “I thank you for your illuminating words.”

“No thanks needed.” And he leaned close. “When you are Queen, my arm and sword shall be yours, as they are his.”

She felt it again—that blade of destiny above her head. Would it fall? “You are a devoted man, Konrad Dustin.”

“I am a man about to take hold of lands who plotted to murder the royal house. I would only hope for my sister’s ardent support—that she be devoted to my success as I am to hers.”

Threat or promise? Bane or boon? She spoke her own portents: “Family. Duty. Honor. If you are my brother, than I will see to nothing less than your greatest fortune.”

“Excellent.” He grinned, then raised his cup as if they were aligned. “A toast, my lady. To family.”

“To family.” She echoed, and hoped it was no ploy: this offering of his.

They drank together.

And then her husband stood behind them. “What’s this, then?”

Konrad spread his arms. “I’m wishing your wife good fortunes. Gods know she’ll need them, fool that she wed.”

Her husband scowled. “Remember that you will have wife soon enough for me to share tales to.”

Only a scoff answered him. “Remind me not—mother is on about it enough. A Bolton banner daughter to strengthen my support. She must be comely and obedient and fertile of womb. I have no doubt what horrors await me at Winterfell.”

She snorted indelicately. “How joyous any bride would be to hear that.”

Konrad laughed. “I will surely grow kinder once I see her lovely face.” And then the man rose, slapping the King’s shoulder as he went. “Glad tidings to you. And show your wife a good time, hmmmm?”

A tussle broke out immediately. Ale sloshing. Her husband snarling: “Speak of my wife—”

“We’re at your wedding, who wouldn’t speak of your wife?”

Just when she thought someone would be flung into the stump, they separated. Konrad straightened his cloak and drank his ale as if nothing had transpired. “What’d old Locke want of you?”

Her King just sighed. “More complaints about the trade deal, nothing you haven’t heard.”

“Does he realize Manderly’s port is five times that of Old Castle? What did he expect?”

“Everything for his house and a pittance for the others.”

“Every lord’s most ardent wish.” Konrad groaned. “If my head ever gets that far up my own arse, slap me.”

“That is absolutely a promise I can keep.”

“You are terribly violent.” But Konrad still saluted them both with his cup before departing.

Her husband watched him go before leaning down to her. He gripped her shoulder tight. “It is time.”

She placed her cup down before he could see its tremble in her hand. “For what?”

“The witch.” He answered. “The Greenseeing. Come.”

/~/~/~/

She’d thought, perhaps, the witch would be less terrifying in the daylight. More a woman and less an otherworldly creature.

How wrong she’d been. The weirwitch’s shadow—it stretched long.

The fire was high. The fire was hot. Her skin prickled at its heat. A single step closer, and she knew her skin would cook.

A servant threw thorny branches into its maw. They made the smoke darker and sent it pluming; all monstrous and black as soot. One of the lamp bearers had their bundled linens in her arms. The woman scurried to give them over to the Weirwitch.

The witch lifted the sheets until they unfurled. Proffered them for all eyes to perceive. Sansa would not let herself flinch at those stains; blood and seed and their holy union marked for all. This was the Northern way—at least it was not sheets hung like bloody banners for a whole breakfast feast, as she’d seen some Trident lords do.

The red fur her husband had brought with was given over next. The witch spoke in the old tongue.

Her King answered in the common: “My first kill as a boy; a red hart taken in the depths of summer.”

There were encouraged murmurs at that. It seemed the crowd approved, though she did not understand why. With both furs and linens in hand—the Weirwitch tossed them into the fire. The flames snarled and grew. Towered. They rumbled like a furnace.

More branches blooming thorns were thrown in. A hush fell as all eyes turned upwards.

Her husband drew her near. Said on the barest breath: “Look not to the flame. Fire lies, it eats. It covets. It will not tell you the truth. Look to the smoke.”

She tried to do as they did, but her eyes found nothing.

The witch stood stock-still; gaze fixed. Sparks danced like fireflies in the eclipse of her eyes.

Sansa could taste the smoke in her mouth. There was no movement. No words. Bleak sun, black skies.

And then the witch’s mouth cracked open: “SONS!”

Her heart stuttered.

Screams greeted it. Howls.

“SONS!”

Jon was grabbing her, lifting her. Clutching her to his chest and kissing her deeply. It knocked the wind from her body.

The howls kept rising: “SONS! SONS! SONS!”

He broke away. “You see? All the babes you want—a succession. Our rule will be well.”

Her heart quailed. Even the lords looked madmen now, howling and beating their chests. A dance was whipping together; a wild circle of hands and limbs that shrieked to the heavens. She saw her uncle wide-eyed and pole axed. Lord Mollen seized him bodily and dragged him into the dance.

But the witch had already returned her eyes to the smoke. She was the boulder in the whirlpool; the lone figure in the madness.

Her husband still hadn’t set her down.

“Shall we see to the making of these sons?” He asked her, so very hungry. So very hopeful.

She nodded quickly and though she twinged between her legs—she was stirring again. She hungered as well. No one would see them leaving, and she could be in her husband’s arms and away from this.

Her husband lifted her and took them through the snows. The garlands of flowers and holly had already been hung on their tent; their blessings gathered.

But as they reached the door—a raven’s cry: “Magnar!”

And her husband turned.

The Weirwitch stood behind them, eyes blackened as that smoke. Her shadow stretched over them. “There are words for you of paths not said aloud.”

Somehow, the woman speaking in the common tongue scared Sansa as nothing else had. It crackled through her bones. When her husband set her down, she had to clutch on to him.

“Tell me.” He ordered.

And the witch did. “I saw tumultuous streams; churning. Swords like light upon the waters. Rivers flowing over castle walls. There were wolves in the currents, but I could not tell whether they swam or drowned.”

He stiffened, muscle rippling like steel beneath her palms. “Anything else?”

“Shadows, dark places.” Spaketh the smoke. “But there always are.”

His jaw worked. Sansa could see the whites of his eyes. “My thanks for not—"

And for the first time, she watched someone cut over her husband. The witch interrupting: “An ill omen is never spoken to all, lest men try to seek it.”

Her husband did not bat an eye at the insolence. “Thank you. We will send you and yours on well. Winterfell is open to you.”

The Weirwitch had not skirts about her body, and yet she performed some mockery of a curtsy before turning away. The creature slipped from them as that black smoke did; its great tower still blotting the sky beyond.

She pushed her cheek to his shoulder. “They are just words.”

“Not from a witch.” He breathed.

She could not stop her trembling. “I will ask the septons and Mothers to pray for guidance. For protection.”

“You will not tell them what was said.”

“Of course not. Every husband and wife have secrets of their own.” She gripped him then, pushed her mouth beneath his jaw. To his lips. It turned him towards her, and she promised: “I am a Tully, I fear no river. Our children will be wolves and trout both—they will swim. I will carry you through these currents if I have to.”

“Carrying—” He rumbled. “Is a husband’s job.”

“Your enemies are mine, and mine are yours.” And she kissed him again before taking his hands. “We will see this thing through. This is our wedding day, and no one will steal it from us.”

/~/~/~/

His wife took him into her body twice more that day. First frantic and grasping, then slow and aching. He called a bath later to take her pains. When she crawled into their furs after, so warm and sweet-smelling, he guarded her with his arms and held on.

He called Ghost to lay outside their door. He let his eyes slip shut for a moment, just to rest. To think.

But they both slept through to morning.

/~/~/~/

That night though, he dreamed of rivers so wide, they swallowed castles whole.

/~/~/~/

Highpoint was a pale edifice set above the ridge at the jag of the Knife. The baggage train was yet trailing behind them making the crossing by raft. The North kept the river broken of ice by whatever means during winter. It was the only reasonable way to get goods down south with haste, and barges towed north.

His wife rode before him the whole way. He’d refused to hear anything of wheelhouses. It’d meant changing mounts every few hours for the weight of them both, but it was worth it to be whispering in her ear and have her swatting his hands.

He told himself portents could mean anything, and that the witch had also spoken of sons. Surely that meant they had time. Surely…

But the future was a many branched thing, and who knew what calamities waited on each?

He could only focus on the matters at hand. “What else?”

“There are many prayers and songs—but I do not think we will have time to teach you them. If you mean us to be at altar tomorrow…the vows are enough after you cloak me.”

It was a foreign thing, but the longer they talked of this cloaking, the more it appealed to him. Bringing her under his protection, his colors? It made him rather insatiable.

He swept aside her hair and kissed her neck. “And will my wife teach me these things?”

He could see the pink crawling up her nape. Hear her breathy sigh. “It would be my pleasure.”

He hummed at that promise and imagined others. But then she continued: “There are a dozen to learn.”

He groaned. “You Southron do not take half measures, do you?”

“Not if we can help it.” And then she plucked up a thread that was even less welcome. “You will need to put me on my own horse. I can’t have Lord Whitehill and his lady see you pawing at me on our first meeting.”

“The lords along have already seen such.”

She cast him a glare. “And that is a fact I cannot rectify. This, on the other hand.”

He sighed gustily. “If my wife wishes.”

“She wishes.”

How grievous. He called a halt, and Jory cantered to the head of the line. “Your Grace?”

“Check with the scouts.”

The man circled his arm overhead, calling a few riders that surged ahead. Jon signaled for a horse to be brought for his wife, then grudgingly dismounted to help her down. The horse brought was a gentle palfrey; one of the fine mounts the Ryswells had gifted him over the years. It would serve her well.

The lords took the rest to get themselves in order, then have their retainers raise banners. Ser Brynden trotted to their side. “All’s well?”

One of his wife’s maids was fussing with her hair, adding glittering pieces and pins all about. He rather liked her windswept, but knew that was not the impression she wanted to make.

“All’s well.” He agreed. “We will be in beds and linens for three nights, who’s to complain?”

“Lord Manderly’s arse in that wheelhouse, most like.”

Jon snorted.

“I’m ready.” His wife called, and Jon much more happily lifted her onto the mare. Anything to have his hands on her hips. He would hold her the same tonight—drive into her. She had not wanted him so gentle just that morning; perhaps she would be eager for more.

He mounted back up and missed her weight between his arms. But there was nothing for it. “Ride!”

And they rode. The purple pennants of Whitehill snapped high above the walls. So did the seven-pointed star. The gates were already open to welcome them, and they thundered across the causeway.

The family was arranged to meet them. Lord Whitehill, white as his name and wizened of his seventy years, stood at the front. The man had been a lord longer than Jon had been alive. He had been too old to ride in the Westerland War, and so had sent his sons in his stead.

That had made him one of the few lords to have been in the North during the civil war. When the man had heard of Queen Lyarra’s murder, he had demanded his servants put on the armor his gnarled hands could no longer lift, and had ridden to Jon’s side without waiting for him to strike a single victory.

He did not know what the Whitehill brothers had gotten up to in the south, but Lord Ludd Whitehill was a man of few peers.

At the lord’s side stood his wife, the Lady Imogen of House Lake. She had a gentle, heavily lined face, and wore her husband’s colors proudly. As proudly as that pointed star about her neck. It seemed in this marriage, conversion had been the answer to their differences.

That disquieted him.

Their son and heir Ser Karl Whitehill was on his father’s other side, along with his wife, the Lady Astrid of House Cove. Further along were their children, a boy and girl near to an age with Konrad, with a few younger ones tucked at their backs.

When he dismounted, they all knelt; Karl Whitehill keeping a discreet hand at his father’s elbow to help him down.

He did not bid them to rise until he had unseated his wife from her mount. He squeezed her hand. He did not move until she squeezed back and placed her arms in his. They were one, and the North would know it.

“My lord, rise.”

And Karl Whitehill helped his father back up, though the son was pretending he was doing anything but. Ludd Whitehill was a proud man. “Your Grace, we welcome you and the Lady Sansa Tully to Highpoint.”

He nodded generously. “Thank you—though a correction. You welcome my wife, the Lady Consort Sansa Stark.”

Ser Karl and the Lady Astrid’s eyes flew wide. The children tittered for a moment, then went silent at their grandmother’s glare.

Lord Whitehill didn’t skip a breath. “We are gladdened to welcome the Lady Consort of Winterfell. Whatever is needed, we will be happy to provide.”

And Jon’s lady answered him with the voice of a songbird. “I am sure you will provide most excellently, my lord. I have heard you keep a fine sept here in your castle; I would be most grateful if you would offer my King and myself use of it.”

“Oh?” The man asked. Eyes darting faster; checking every face and pennant before him to divine their purpose.

But Ludd Whitehill was not a man he wished to agitate. “Indeed.” Jon interceded. “We are in need of a marriage before my lady’s gods, if you are amenable.”

The Lady Imogen was an old woman long past her years of youth, and yet she fluttered like a girl. “Oh, Ludd—isn’t this marvelous? The King marrying in our sept! Oh, my Lady Sansa, the sept here has been kept near for a thousand years. You will find it beautiful and worthy of your needs.”

Lord Whitehill vacillated between jubilant and horrified. “Your Grace, we mean to give you whatever you need, but a wedding feast—”

“Fear not.” He interrupted. “My lady’s family sends provisions. We will gift a few wagons unto you for doing us this service.”

“Your Grace is kind.” Lord Whitehill allowed.

Lady Imogen barely contained herself from clapping her hands. “Come, come, let us share bread and salt—then I will tour the Lady Sansa to our sept and septon, we have much to discuss.”

He glanced to his lady and saw the hope in her eyes. Felt the squeeze on his arm. Her first welcome as his wife had gone splendidly, but he’d known the Whitehill’s would be hospitable.

The true challenge yet waited at Winterfell.

/~/~/~/

Though she did not have to wed at dawn, she still woke under its glow. Ribbons and pins and headdresses and veils—all took their work.

It was Septon Hugor that called upon her first that morn. She wondered if he was come to apologize for the dustup the previous afternoon; that she had been forced to intercede when the argument between him and Highpoint’s septon had nearly boiled over. Who knew arguments on wedding officiation could be so calamitous?

The dispute had bewildered her husband. “What does it matter which man marries us?”

She’d just patted his hand. “Consider it a point of prestige.” Then raised her voice to scuttle it. This was another septon’s ground, but she knew it was no small thing that the Snowy Sept had chosen Septon Hugor to accompany her. She had little doubt the man was expected to ascend the hierarchy—perhaps become Great Septon one day and represent the North.

And she intended the Crown’s relationship with the Northern sect to be nothing less than cozy. Their support, their swords, their preaching—she would have them all for House Stark. A man who had the gods on his side—or a woman for that matter—was an opponent undefeatable.

Septon Hugor’s gaze was steady. “Thank you, my lady, for blessing me with the chance to preside today. This is the beginning of everything; the gods have chosen this moment.”

She gestured a hand to the seat before her, and he took it gladly. Set his well-worn Seven-Pointed Star between them. Her fingers found the trout of her right sleeve and traced it. “Chosen this moment for what, exactly?”

“The North…” His gaze went past her to the whiteness beyond the windows. Beyond these walls. It was a wistful stare. “The North is not heathen as you understand it—as I’m sure other septons have tried to say. The Northmen feel the gods’ grace and see the Seven’s beauty in all of creation. But they were here in these far-flung lands so distant from any teachings—of any knowledge of the gods’ true faces. The Northmen try to pay homage in the only way they know how, and an old thing is hard to dislodge.”

That was a notion she had never considered. “You think they are only misplacing themselves—that when the Northmen worship at their heart trees, it is the Seven that hear them?”

“Who else would?” Septon Hugor asked, and who indeed?

But there was a strange twist in her stomach. A sinking fall. “Your name, Septon Hugor. Was your mother so devout to name you for the King of Kings?”

A sadness crossed him then; so too did a shaking of his head. “She was of the old gods.” And he lingered there. “As was my father. I do not wish to speak of ill things. He was an unkindness upon her and all of his children. He demanded blood. Sacrifice. When one birth felled my mother in the fields, a Mother of Mercy came upon her. You would know her—our Mother Malla. My mother did not pray to the Seven, and yet they heard her cries and sent deliverance. Mother Malla delivered that babe alive, then delivered my mother and all her children from the cruelty of her husband. We were all scattered about in secrecy. It was the septons in White Harbor that showed me kindness. Grace. That the world was not this small, miserable thing. There is love and purpose for us all, if only we let it in. I was named for my father—but when I donned the star, I shed his name and chose another.”

It laid a shadow upon her heart. “You chose well.” She murmured, and felt a quiet grief for that boy. His siblings. His mother. She was gladdened there had been some succor for them, but never could there be enough to erase memory of such things.

“The Lady Consort is too kind.”

She did not feel kind; only a deep apprehension. “What begins today?”

His voice rose. “Your kindness and light will be an example to them all. The North, your husband—they will love you, and you will guide them to the Seven.”

“That is no simple journey.”

He only nodded, not aggrieved at her rebuke. “Agreed, it will likely take years. But invitations to join the Queen in the sept on the seventh day, your reading of the Star in the Royal Court, the very grace of your being—they will not be able to help being drawn to you. The glory and the truth of the gods will shine through.”

It was a burden that was terrifying to carry, but she knew what happened to the souls of heathens—of the seven hells down below. Those endless sufferings. Her fingers worried at her stitches, mind flying to her husband. Fearing.

What would become of him?

She formed her questions slowly; did not let them stumble off her tongue. “But why hasn’t it happened before—why did the gods not choose Corenna?”

The lines in his brow deepened. “Corenna Durrandon was faithful, but she brought septons from her homeland.”

And Sansa understood. The last time a High Septon had been chosen of the Seven Radiant, the Great Septon of the Stormlands had snubbed the Northern contingent terribly. That grudge was felt even half a century on. The septons in the storms would have wanted no help, and the septons of the snows would not have given it, even if begged.

“I see.”

He considered her. “I believe you do. Southerners could never convert the North. The Andals broke upon the Neck, and so too do any Southron attempts at conversion. We follow the Faith, but we remain children of the North. The gods chose us because they knew we’d understand our kin and help guide them. And you…a lady has converted a kingdom before. Think of Harmund II Hoare and his wife Leila Lannister. It was through her piety and devotion, that he learned to reject a false god and bring the light of the Seven across the Iron Islands.”

“Bold of you—” She said. “To speak of Lannisters in the North, and of Hoares to a Trident lady.”

“Forgive me.” He bowed his head immediately, and yet his eyes rose to hers. “But it seemed a prudent comparison.”

Perhaps it was—it was preached even now, that it was Leila Lannister who had brought the Faith to the Isles and into her husband’s heart. Tamed him.

Perhaps it wasn’t—for Harmund had fostered with the Lannisters, and perhaps Leila had very little to do with any of it.

And truly, being of the Seven had not stopped the Hoares from enslaving and murdering their way through the Riverlands. Nor stopped Harren the Black from his many vile deeds.

The Ironmen had followed the Seven in name alone, and now they were dead. A ruin of themselves. When they had brought slaves with unknown sickness to their homeland, when the Riverlands had risen up and cut out their beating hearts—the rest of the Kingdoms had blockaded the isles. Allowed starvation and plague to burn until there was nothing left.

She hated these endless portents. “Those are discussions for later days, septon. Today I only worry for my wedding.”

“You will be a shining bride.” He agreed at once.

Yet still a question lingered. “And that I found the marriage bed before the Seven heard my vows…?”

“They heard them.” He promised. “And we know they are forgiving of all things, as long as a soul is truly repentant. My lady…of the ceremony, are you still sure you want it shortened?”

“I do not think my husband is ready to stand in a sept for seven hours.” And her mouth curled up at the very thought. “Have mercy on him, I beg of thee.”

“Happily given.” He agreed with all optimism. “The gods will work on the King as they see fit. The dower and all else are ready.” And then he slid his Seven-Pointed Star across the table. “I have marked my favorite passages. If you need any comfort in the coming hours, the holy words are here for you.”

She took that well-thumbed book. “Praise be to the gods.”

/~/~/~/

Of his second wedding, Jon Stark could say little of the ceremony. It was long and dry. Droning. The incense too sweet and the walls too confining.

But there remained a single joy, and that was his bride. She came like a jewel into the sept; hair shining and braided as if she’d already been crowned. When he had been allowed to raise her veil, she’d dripped with emeralds and sapphires. White opals and pearls. They had arranged it like she was some river lily come into bloom. And she had shone.

Yet the brightest luster was the joy in her face. It kept him enthralled through the slog of this. So too did her voice—he had not known it until today, but when she sang, she had a voice that could make grown men weep.

She was a jewel, his wife, and more precious than anything that could adorn her. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was unbecoming—but he had once been bastard, and these thoughts remained. Once upon a time, his eyes would have been gouged for even looking at her.

But his hungers had been stronger. Stronger than any man or usurper. He had clawed and risen and warred, and in turn, in supplication, the South had gifted him their most prized jewel. She was not a thing that could be worn on a crown, a broach. He was lucky to even have her on his arm.

Yet the envy he saw on every face around them, the awe for her beauty—it made him want to be the wolf again and howl.

He resisted the pull. She would never know it, but he would not dishonor her by spending this ceremony she so treasured, by joining Ghost to cavort in the woods. He would stay with her.

Always.

Finally, wretchedly, after endless hours—the septon called: “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Her uncle gently unclasped her Tully cloak and took it away. Jon thought that this wedding, the man did not even resent him for the presumption. He pulled off his own cloak and swept it over her shoulders. As he’d expected, she looked even finer in white and gray. In Stark.

His knuckles brushed beneath her chin. She smiled at him, a lick of flame quickly smothered. He felt his own lips tug in answer. How could he not smile when his wife glowed so?

Their vows began. To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, for fairer or fouler. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish. All the things that laid between those places.

He pledged his troth to her.

She returned each one. The stained glass above shattered the sun into a waterfall of beauty. He knew the light should be on their skin, that nothing should be between them and the sky—

But she was brighter than the dawn star, and he could not begrudge this.

The septon’s voice rose. Echoed: "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." He turned to them. “Say the words beneath the Seven and be joined.”

He could only pray they did not get their order wrong. They said their last vows together—his wife had told him it was a signifier, that they were one body and spirit from this day forward.

He looked into her eyes and thought of drowning. It was a death he did not fear.

They spoke: “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.”

And it came as one. “I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days,"

Her voice met him. "I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days."

And two rivers rushed together as one.

The septon called: "Let it be known that King Jon of House Stark, and Lady Sansa of House Tully, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

This vow Jon spoke alone. "With this kiss, I pledge my love." And he leaned in and found her again—the sanctuary to which he would always return.

He could only hope she would feel the same.

Applause echoed. Filled the vaults. But his wife had been strict, and he did not over linger. Did not sink his tongue into her mouth. For as much as he wanted her at all hours, all days, he would never do anything to humiliate her.

That was not the husband he wished to be.

And together, they turned as one to face the crowd.

/~/~/~/

The feast, at least, was a thing he wholly recognized. There was dancing, eating, singing. The Lady Astrid graced the hall with her harp. Karl Whitehill then blessed them with a lively drinking song after. Tables were pounded and then cleared away. The revelers danced.

His wife looked anxiously upon them. Longed. “I do not know these songs.”

“The Lady Barbrey taught me well enough.” And he offered a hand. “Come, you are dancing with the King, who would dare laugh at us?”

She smiled and gave him her palm. “I suppose I could be a fool with you.”

“Now that is a vow—we should call the septon and have him add it to your pointed star.”

“Jon!”

But she rose at his tugging hand and did not chastise him further. She let him twirl her. Hold her. Laugh with her. A reel started and poured into another. She joined the ever-spinning circles; skipped and kicked and picked up the steps, as if she had always danced in the North.

Men gazed upon her and he knew their cravings. At feasts, the King and his wife were meant to mingle—and yet he did not let a single of them touch her. She was beautiful. So impossibly lovely, and every man here was an animal undeserving.

Even him.

He felt as if his chest could no longer contain his heart. It wanted to claw out of his mouth and fly to her; nestle up and remain at her breast for all his days.

He could only pull her back to his chest and pretend it felt the same. Somewhere in that dizzying twist, in the wine and the ale and the blue spark of her eyes, a shout rose up: “The bedding!”

That word, very dimly, meant something to him.

“Ooooh!” He heard his wife gasp, and then quite abruptly her uncle and half her guards were stealing her away.

He barely contained a shout. Moments later, the Manderly and Whitehills were descending upon him. Some of the Northmen joined them, seemingly knowing what was occurring. Others just looked as confused as he felt.

He yanked in Karl Whitehill by the arm. “What in the blazes is going on?”

“The bedding, your Grace!” And the man shoved a cup of wine into his hand. “Off to bed with you and your wife. Onwards!”

Before he could demand any more explanation, a bawdy song drowned him out. Every voice joined in as Jon was nearly carried out of the hall. Ahead, he could barely see his wife’s red hair. Her uncle was on one side of her with Ser Wyck on the other, and all sorts of ladies were tittering around her.

They seemed to be offering…advice?

A breath of ale washed his face, and a petty lord shouted: “You know, yer Grace. If you haven’t already, you should bend your wife over a table and lift her leg as you—”

Jon cracked him across the jaw. The space was too narrow, not enough force to do more than stagger the man. But one of his Hearthguard nearly flung the lord down a staircase. The rest of the crowd cackled.

“No advice for the King!” Cley Cerwyn bellowed. “For he already knows how to fuck his wife!”

Guffaws bounced through the corridors. The crowd began singing of the Bear and the Maiden Fair, and the song seemed to fill the entire castle.

He looked to his wife again, but she was still amongst her kin and perfectly safe. A moment later, their chamber door was found and flung, and then the crowd propelled them through and right into bed. The septons that had been blessing the room had to leap out of the way to avoid collision.

The blankets were grabbed and tucked up to their chins. Nearly thirty bodies had poured into the room to behold their state.

“They are bedded!” Karl Whitehill shouted. “Now men—let us feast and make merry, while our King and his wife do the same!”

A cheer roared. With that, the curtains were drawn. The door shut, and the bawdy song began once more before fading into the distance.

They were alone.

He stayed slumped upon the pillows. “By the gods.”

His wife pushed down the blankets and sat up. Glanced to him. “Jon, are you well?”

“Maybe?” He answered, and felt as if he was shaking wool from his ears. “There are things in this world I do not understand.”

She merely patted his hip before kissing him. “Would you understand more if I took off my dress?”

He perked up. “Why, wife, I think I will be smarter than any maester by morning.”

Chapter Text

He woke to his wife’s hair like a river. It was a kinder one than the one rushing in his dreams. Red, sweet, the long thick waves of it cast across his face.

It was an eager man that went sinking to those waters. He nuzzled in and then kissed the back of her neck. She made a sleepy noise, arms squeezing across where he had wrapped himself around her middle. It kept her securely to his chest; a place where she would always remain.

He never wanted to release her.

He could pretend for a time that such selfishness could be so. This was their second wedding—there would be no valets or maids to fetch them; no lords who would dare call him down to vex.

Twas a shame he could not wed his wife every day.

She murmured sleepily. “Jon?”

He lifted his mouth from her neck and stroked her stomach with his fingers. “Sleep well?”

“Mhhmmmm.” Was her content little hum. It only had him hardening against her backside.

“Sore?” He queried further, hand skimming beneath her navel.

She wiggled then, and this time he knew it deliberate, for she put her arse right against his cock.

He groaned mightily. She giggled: “And why does my husband ask such questions?”

He pulled her tightly to him to stop that infernal wiggling. Pressed this kiss behind her ear before he growled: “I think you know.”

“Husbands—” She murmured. “Are hungry beasts.”

“Starved.” He concurred, hand still skimming down. There was no shift in the way of them; she’d let him help in casting it off last night. As soon as it left her hands, he’d made sure to fling it to the far side of the room.

He wondered how much she’d fuss if he royally decreed all clothing be banned in their bed chambers. Greatly, most like.

Still, it was an enticing notion. His fingers slipped between the crux of her legs; found her wet still from their couplings in the night. He began rubbing. “And is my wife hungry as well?”

He could see her mouth twitching. “Do you think the servants brought breakfast already?”

He bit down upon her shoulder; gave just enough teeth to have her writhing and trying to swat him. “You beast!”

“We agreed all husbands are.” And he let up, kissing the mark ever so sweetly. He soothed it with his tongue. “I was more concerned with hungers of the flesh. I know that my wife, not even once, considered such things before our marriage—”

“I didn’t!” She lied vehemently, even as one particular sweep of his fingers had her arching and sighing; her back curving in such a beautiful arc against his chest.

Some days he wished he’d had more of a lord’s upbringing—knew how to paint so he could capture her beauty. Return to these moments even when he was feeble and gray.

But the Cerwyns had given him no education at King Rickard’s order, and by the time he’d entered the Dustins hands, that lack had forced certain efficiencies into his instruction. There was a reason he had attended all his lessons with Konrad, and not Markas who’d been but a year his elder.

But it was a past long done. What use did bitterness have? He was King, and he was married to the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms. A woman who was now shaking apart in his arms. Gods, the sight of her. Mouthing his name while her breasts were heaving. He cupped a palm over one and thumbed her nipple.

She moaned and reached back blindly; took a fistful of his hair to pull his face over her shoulder. He kissed her willingly. Deeply. In between one panting breath and the next, he slid two fingers inside her. She gasped against his mouth, and he could feel her dripping onto his hand.

His mind was fuzzy; drunk on her smell and the slickness of them together. But the lost thread returned: “What did you imagine in the dark? What did you dream of?”

Her head angled away. “I didn’t…”

He crooked his fingers inside. “Pretend that you did.”

Another breathless gasp; her body pressing so deeply into his. He put the heel of his palm to her clit. These pleasures seemed enough to fight her Southron prudery, for she answered: “Sometimes my companions and I would go to the Trident, and if our Septas did not look too closely…”

He pressed a kiss to her jaw and rutted his excitement to her backside. “Yes?”

Her breast was so soft in his palm. He could feel the racing of her heart; its fluttering tremble as she whispered: “We’d take off all our clothes and swim naked.” And confessed that as if it was some great scandal.

While he sincerely wished his wife hadn’t felt so forbidden from even the thought of her own pleasures, he could not lie and say he was not charmed by her innocence. That she was yet so bashful with his fingers inside her.

He would never let her know how amusing he found it. “How shocking.” He agreed, then ground his palm down.

She squeaked, legs jolting farther apart to welcome him. “Uh-huh. And I…I would…get swept farther down with the current. When I was alone, I imagined some handsome knight came upon me, and found me so beautiful that he…”

“A King.” Jon interrupted. “A King found you, and thought you the loveliest river nymph on this earth.”

She gasped. “Oh! Yes, a dark king come down from the North.”

His cock ached to slide inside her, but these cravings were the best part. “He heard rumors of this lovely nymph, and had to have her for himself. He journeyed a thousand miles to lay his hands upon her.”

“Yes.” She breathed, mouth going slack. Eyes glassy. “I ran, but he wanted me so badly, he chased me down and took me into his arms. He gripped me so tight.”

In answer, he clutched her all the nearer. “And then bore you down onto the bank?”

She scoffed. “He only kissed me!”

“A king would do more than kiss you.” And he withdrew his teasing hand to hitch up her leg. “Ready?”

“It can be done like this?” She asked, breathless in thwarted desire and her endless curiosity.

“I have not even begun to show you all the ways a man can join his wife.”

She craned her head about. Considered him; bit her lip and nodded.

It was permission enough. He slid into her from behind, and it struck all speech from him. There was only this. Her. The sweet and unforgiving grip of his wife. He moved inside, tasting her skin and rutting into her body over and over and over.

He had worked himself up too greatly—he always meant to last longer, and yet every assignation with his wife began and ended with him desperate. Judging by her cries though, she did not mind his hurry.

He found his tongue and the taste of her there. The words: “There are hot springs in our godswood. One day I will ban everyone from its ground, and you will bathe naked in those pools. You will stay there bare and waiting, until your King comes upon you and chases you like the wolf, for that is how much he wants you.”

“Jon!”

He felt her fluttering, felt the heat. Dreamed that chase to come. And together, they plunged into the deep.

/~/~/~/

It seemed the servants had brought food after all. He’d forbidden any disturbance, so they’d set all dishes in the private solar of their lodgings.

When his wife was regrettably dressed—and he had contemplated that royal decree all the harder—they took to the trays and broke fast. He fed her, and his wife kissed his fingertips after every offering. She kissed his palm when dessert was proffered; his mouth when their cup was shared.

Marriage was indeed a union most blessed.

The pads of her fingers were in his beard, rubbing gently and tracing his jaw. He wanted to stay here with her forever.

But as much as he dreamed it, the lords would not give them peace for that long.

“There’s something I wish to show you.”

She raised a brow. “The last time you said such, you took off your breeches and insisted you would die without my touch.”

He sighed loudly. “That I am not doing so at this very moment grieves me.”

“Charming.” She answered, dry, but still took his hand and let him sweep her to another table.

It seemed Lord Whitehill remembered royal travelling requests, for the lord’s finest map had been laid upon the wood. It was an interesting one—threads of many colors in loops upon its surface to outline borders. There were little metal tokens to show the seats of all Northern houses both great and noble.

His wife picked one up: it was the horse head of Ryswell. She considered it thoroughly. “Are we to the brass tacks of it, then?”

Would that he could spend all his days feasting her and taking her to the gardens, never to worry about a fell hand. But such was not the Crown’s fate. “I fear so, my lady.”

She set the horse down, eyes turning east. He pointed to the next token. “House Dustin, forefathers of Konrad whom you’ve already acquainted.”

“He’s an agreeable sort.” But she only looked upon the battle axe and did not move to touch it. It was as if she feared its cut.

But the gaze that rose to him was steel. “You spoke to me of food and gold.”

“I did.”

“Then let us talk of food. What is the quickest way Tully stores can be distributed?”

That this was her first question—his wife was no frivolous creature. He began pointing. “There are small to fair sized ports at Karhold, the mouth of the Weeping Water, Widow’s Watch, and Ramsgate.”

“The Weeping Water feeds into Bolton lands?”

“Indeed.” He agreed. “They will distribute as they see fit by overland when the rivers can take them no further. There is a small port at the Last River.” And he gestured to Umber lands. “But that river is narrow and cuts far north—the Umbers can’t keep it from icing shut. We’ll be lucky if the river’s mouth is even open for ships. We may be better suited sending their share up the Knife to Long Lake.”

“Understood.” She answered simply. “And of the rest of the North?”

And his finger dipped to White Harbor. “Forget Old Castle—the port is landlocked beyond its mouth. It only supplies the immediate lands around it and shuffles goods from larger ships to smaller for lesser ports. It is White Harbor that feeds the North in winter. Once ships unload at the harbor, barges are towed up the White Knife by beasts of burden. These feed Cerwyn, Hornwood, and the interiors of Bolton and Stark. The river ends at Long Lake where the rest is distributed to Mountain Clans and Umber and even Bear Island, if need be.”

There was a curious glint to her eye. “And the Wildlings?”

“They too.” He answered levelly. “Though they are remarkably sufficient now that they are south of the Wall.”

Her gaze slipped across his face. Measured. “A pin in that thought, your Grace.” And there was not a single doubt in her body: “The White Knife is the most important thing in the North.”

“Aye.” He agreed, for she had cut to the heart of it already. “The North has the Neck, but if you were to slit the throat of us—”

“To White Harbor you would put your knife.” And her eyes darted up that watery stream. “What Houses most control the river?”

“Manderly the mouth, and our good friends the Whitehills the fork.”

“Oh?” She asked.

“They have made monstrous wealth moving goods, taking tolls, and having their merchants control what goods of surrounding lands are allowed onto their barges.”

“I noticed Lady Imogen was of a House Lake.”

“A Masterly House.” He agreed. “Vassals to the Longs of Long Lake, who are in turn sworn to the Umbers. They have little lands, but they control administration and tolls on the lake, so their wealth is outsized to the men they can muster. The Starks control a great run of the Knife, but so much of the raw ore and wood come down the mountains to the docks.”

“And there the Longs take their cut.” Her mouth worked. “A most fortuitous marriage for Lord Whitehill? Or for the Lakes and Longs?”

“Perhaps both.” He allowed. “They were married quite before our time. All I know is that since their joining, it has greatly smoothed the way for trade in either direction.”

But her tongue kept cutting the North to its bones. “I see. Do you have a Manderly attending you at Winterfell?”

He wondered if he should parry or accept her butchery. “Ser Wylis the heir, though he trades off with his brother Ser Wendell.”

“Good.” She nodded at that, which gave him an absurd jolt of pride. “The Longs?”

It was a short-lived moment. “Lord Long’s brother Grayson has wintered with us. Would that I had a dozen of him at court.”

Her brow pinched. “Why so?”

“An affable man—charming. One of the few I don’t have to watch lest he spit in a man’s eye.”

She gave a tittering laugh. “A prudent choice, then.”

“Indeed.”

And her attentions went back to the fork. “Have you honored one of the Whitehills with position?”

“No.” And the way she asked it of him, it now felt a grievous oversight.

But she did not chastise him. “I think it prudent that my King extend invitation for advisor and emissary from Lord Whitehill.” It was phrased as a suggestion, some path he could choose to walk or ignore.

And yet her suggestions had the same ring of orders as the Lady Barbrey’s did. With every passing day, his dread for their meeting grew all the greater. He swallowed. “I will take that into account before our departure.”

“That is all I ask.” And then her visage turned into something lighter. Not the Lady Consort waging her war, but his wife kissing his cheek. Pledging: “I do not mean to aggrieve you.”

“You are only helping.” He assured, for that was the truth. Food and gold and babes—he had asked it of her. Who was he to complain of her methods?

And vicious thing that she was, she took that for an opening. “But what of the Ryswells and Dustins? What of their food shipments?”

His head ached at the reminder. “Look here.” And he pointed to the coast opposite of Old Castle. “House Amber’s port. They are small—usually only serving the lands about and the Neck. I fear we will tax their capabilities. What we can send to them, they’ll have to take overland to the Fever River where House Waterman has ships waiting. Those can hug the coasts to Flint’s Finger, or up to the river-ports at Barrowtown and Riders Hall. I will admit it is not the ideal. These ports usually take goods from Lannisport and Oldtown.”

She went still. Answered: “And Seagard.” Then her eyes flew to him. “I confess that my Grandfather is personally vexed by Lord Mallister, but once the Trident King has allowed enough ships to pass…I can write to Grandfather. Have him send shipments through Seagard on the western coast so time might be saved.”

And he reached across the table to grip her hand upon the map. “Can it be done?”

She gazed back with clear eyes. “We can try, and I believe there is a good chance. Lord Mallister is a fair man, and he conducts his business robustly.”

It was a way to ease things that no one had thought of. “Good.” And he squeezed her palm again.

Her mouth curled up. “It would not hurt though, to have a Waterman or Flint at Winterfell to arrange things.”

“I can do you one better.” And he smirked, for this was a tidbit he was most pleased to offer. “One of Robin Flint’s sisters married Lord Waterman. So that lady would, happily, be both for our needs.”

And she appeared most impressed with his knowledge. “My King, what an excellent suggestion. I do believe it is time I start gathering my Ladies in Waiting. Would my royal husband be averse to extending an invitation to the Lady Waterman?”

She was a clever, clever girl. He grinned. “By all means. Speak with Robin Flint—he will tell you of his sister’s nature. He may well shovel her into your arms.”

“And we shall be happy to have her.” And she drew nearer to him. “The food will come, my King, and we must ensure the greatness swiftness of its delivery. Manderly, Whitehill, Flint, Long…our court will be a full one, but it will rise to many challenges.”

And he came around the table to meet her advance; yanked her into his arms and kissed her. Kissed her. Kissed her.

It was only a moment in a room, the barest seed of a plan—

But he was a lone creature beneath this crown no longer.

She gasped against his mouth. “Jon…”

But her just pressed in again, slow and gliding until they were sinking together. She kissed the corner of his lips. Stole a breath: “We spoke not of gold.”

He groaned. “Must we?”

“I believe so, or we shan’t return to politics for the rest of the day.”

It deflated him. “Is that so terrible a thing?”

Her gaze softened; gentle little fingertips coming to push away his hair. “There will be time to rest soon enough—to take that heavy crown off your head.”

He was not wearing that circlet of bronze in his hair, but he knew what she meant. What she offered. He wondered if such a thing was possible. It drew the breath so painfully out of him. “I do not wish to say this next part.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Extremely.”

She just petted his arm and waited.

He clenched his eyes. “It shames me to speak it—but the North is beggared. There is gold and plunder from the war that was lost at the Neck. We will recover it eventually, but Sansa, this must remain between us. Understand?”

She nodded so very seriously. She had been true and loyal so far, his lady wife.

And yet it gripped his throat. “Even when we get that gold out of the swamps…it will not be enough to keep the North solvent.”

Her face fell as he knew it would. There would be no court of glory for her, no fine gifts or silks or feasts to fill the rafters. But instead of lamenting her lot and beleaguered husband, she simply asked: “Does the trade deal my uncle negotiated not help?”

It put him on the back heel. “We will receive Trident gold for our goods the first few years, even when it’s robbery. But it is not enough. I have scoured the records, and I could not find a time the North left winter with such empty coffers. There will be so many things we need for spring, and I do not know how we will afford them. All our crops must fill bellies long before we can even think of selling them.”

She was not rocked by his words; no waves or tumult rising above her head. She merely nodded. “Then we must trade further goods for gold.”

This sigh whistled in his ribs. “I have tried. Gods be good, wife, I truly have. The Westerlands are closed to us, and the Iron Islands are a pile of rocks. We hold nothing that the Vale does not already have. The Reach thinks us too heathen to deal with directly, and the Stormlands barely have more gold to spare than we do. While Dorne has fetched us some coin, the distances do not make that as much as we need to climb from this pit.”

She tucked her arms around his back; let him gnaw on his words and only offered a comforting embrace.

“Before you say it,” He warned. “We have tried across the narrow sea. Lys and Tyrosh are farther than Dorne—and we will always choose the Dornish first, for they are not slavers.”

A feverish light rose in her eyes. She kissed his chin. “My husband is wise and righteous.”

He kissed her on the mouth. Sighed. “Would that I was. Twice we have invited the Sealord of Braavos and merchants of Pentos and Myr, and twice they have only sent emissaries to come and eat our food and speak wind. They traded us a pittance and little else. I do not know what to do. I do not know why we failed.”

She stroked his back then, open palms and soft fingers. The eyes of a doe looked upon him—though she was no helpless creature. “I do not want to insult you by asking obvious questions.”

It stung him to have his failures laid so bare to her, but needs must. “The North must flourish, and for that we need gold. Sometimes we mistake the simple things. I will leave no stone unturned.”

Her fingers notched to his spine. “You feasted them well? Entertained them?”

“In the best way we knew how.”

“You offered them great swath of goods?”

“A plethora.”

She frowned. “And they do not have some vendetta against the North?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” And to the gods he prayed that so. King Rickard had flaunted his southron ambitions, but those aspirations had never extended across the sea, nor cast insult there as far as Jon knew.

She shook her head, brow furrowing and her mind in churn. “I will help you in this. Let us keep on to Winterfell. I will see your court, and if you have those trade deals yet on parchment—I would read them. Perhaps the goods were not what they wished, or there was some insult offered you did not realize.”

His brows climbed quite against his will. “And you would know what would insult a Braavosi? Some Myrish trader from a distant land?”

She scowled at him. “I never fostered, but I spent the last year before this winter living with my Uncle William and my cousins. You would know him by another title: Lord Mooton of Holy Maidenpool. I know many a lord considers trade grubby work beneath their nobility, but not my family. My lord uncle was not meant to teach me such things, and yet so great was his skill and knowledge, that I learned all the same. I will gather all I can and write to him for advice. You are wed to Tully and Mooton now, my dear husband, and we are your kin. We will help you.”

He felt her words then as a bell strike—ringing through his bones. Gently, he returned her embrace, drawing her close until his head rested upon her shoulder. He breathed her.

She was stroking his back again and humming. He wanted to crawl into bed with her; lay his head at her breast and sleep for a century.

But there had been a pin placed ever so delicately. He drew away from her and grasped it. “You asked of the Wildlings.”

“That can wait another day.”

He shook his head. “I would rather see this through. We only have Castle Cerwyn left—then Winterfell. I will not have you arriving blind.”

Her head tilted, unbound hair spilling over her shoulder. She beheld him. “You are a good husband.” And yet her hands twisted. “Why did the Wildlings come south of the Wall?”

Every lord had asked that of him. Demanded. There had been shouts and threats of bloody violence in every direction. Acid rose like a gorge. “What have you heard, precisely?”

“I would not spread gossip—”

“I cannot know what they have filled your head with until you tell me. I will have no misunderstandings. The Wildlings are a sore point, and they may become a bloody one if we step wrongly.”

She mulled that over silently. He waited. She picked her words as carefully as she picked her ribbons every morning. “There was rumor you wanted an army, so you brought them south. An army that was ready for battle the moment your kin were killed.”

The rage bubbled, old and ravaging. Monstrous. He had loved them. He had loved them—

And still the North tried to put their blood on his hands.

He breathed through. It was the only way he had not murdered half the lords of the realm. “I had need of an army, but not to the south.”

“What does that mean?”

He did not blame her for the wariness. “There was a man north of the Wall by the name of Mance Rayder. He was once a brother of the black before he turned his cloak. We did not know it then, but he spent years slowly gathering tribes and clans to himself. He fancied himself a king. It would have amounted to little usually; the Wildlings are a quarrelsome lot.” In the years of his grandfather it would have been no concern below the Wall, only some thorn in the Watch’s side. Yet the horrors rose in him: bled on the breath. “It would have been nothing if not for the Blight.”

She stiffened. “That word—”

The nightmare of it yet wormed through his skull. That it would breach the Wall and fall upon the North, and make this starvation look like summer.

He could not describe its blackness, the sweet stench of its decay. The horror of rising over a mountain and seeing its shadow from horizon to horizon.

“The plants started dying first, then the trees.” He wetted his bloated tongue. “Sicknesses began passing through herds and birds fell from the sky. They said riverbanks shone silver; that they were piled to the knee with dead fish.”

Her palm flew to her breast.

He could not stop. “I do not know what caused it. None of them do. When I went north of the Wall, I saw a deer give birth and the fawn slide out of her dead. The doe did not look to it—she walked ten more paces and then died of nothing.”

And her hands clutched for his. “It has not come south of the Wall—”

“By the gods, no.” And he nearly snarled it. “I ordered the Wildlings to leave every goat and chicken and ram they had. Not a single herb was to come with them, only the furs on their backs and the leathers on their feet. Whatever lays north of the Wall, it stayed there.”

“But what does this have to do with Mance Rayder?”

And his breath felt like a death rattle—like something whispering among the barrows. “The only people the Wildlings hate more than us are each other. But starvation makes for strange bedfellows, does it not?”

She laughed weakly at his jape. Gods, she was no strange bedfellow at all.

But there was no laughter left. “It was no lark, Mance crowning himself. The Nights Watch heard rumors once his horde climbed over forty-thousand.”

She gasped at that. Even armies in the south would happily boast of such a number.

He pressed through. “It only kept rising. The Lady Barbrey dispatched me to the Wall, but it was with Queen Lyarra’s blessing. When we ranged and found Mance’s true numbers…the torches and fires went to land’s end. And that flood had one goal: come south and rape and pillage, and take everything we had to escape the Blight.”

Her hands shook. “You had not the men.”

They hadn’t. “I had a thousand castle swords, less than a thousand motley black brothers, and a hundred leagues of Wall to hold. I sent for as many men as I could, but we could not keep it. Concentrate to Mance’s army, and he would send thousands of climbers to come at us from behind. We needed bodies to hold the Wall. I wrote to grandmother of my plan…and she said yes. She loathed the necessity of letting men who had murdered and raped our people into our lands, but what were we to do? Our armies fought in the south, while our greatest enemy fell from the north.”

He could see the thoughts ricocheting through her head. See her grasping for them. “You found the Great Walrus.”

“Yes.” He agreed. “And the Hornfoot, too. But the most important of them was the Thenn. To his people, he is not a leader but a god. They obey him utterly. He can control his kin, and the Walrus Men and Hornfoots fear him. I promised them food and safety and lands clean of the Blight—if only they could help us hold the Wall.”

“You are here.” She boasted. “The Wall held.”

“It did.” But his pride for that was a rusted thing. “Their climbers were not prepared for men who knew their tricks. We gave our Wildlings castle steel, and one and all, they used it. There came a day when Mance’s army ran out of food, and when they turned on each other, the battle was won.”

He said no further; not of the screaming. Not of the fires going out one by one. He would say no word of the shadows shaped like bodies roasting over the flames at night. That after Mance’s army collapsed, men had begun to eat.

She pressed her thumbs to his knuckles. “You did well. You did so, so well. You made an enemy a friend and defeated one even greater.”

“Yes.” He agreed bitterly. “And the North still hasn’t forgiven me for it. The only reason they tolerate it, is they think that…” It was a burr on his tongue—impossible to let go. Another secret of the Crown right alongside that gold.

“They think…?” She asked quietly.

But they had promised honesty. “That this arrangement is a temporary thing. The Wildlings will stay here only until the Blight ends. Truthfully, most of the Wildlings believe the same.”

“But.” His wife was so very clever.

“It shows no sign of ending. And honestly…I mean to keep them here. Give it one generation, two, and you will have children who only remember living in castles. Having full granaries and high walls and velvets to wear. Who would wish to return to some scraping existence, when they can have blazing hearths and stone towers that stand against the storms?”

Her eyes shined with wonder. “I cannot imagine such a life.” She confessed.

“Neither will they. They are loyal to strength, fierce as they come, and resourceful. Some of that will fade—but they are breathing life back into lands even the Umbers called rocks and frost. The Crown will have allies and new growth where the ground once laid fallow. I have spoken this to no one, but the truth is visible to any willing to see: the Watch is dying. The Hornfoots hold six and ten of the castles on the Wall. One day, I mean for them to hold them all. They will become hereditary seats that sons will fight tooth and nail to protect. We must be shielded from all enemies, and the Watch is no longer capable of that. I will do what must be done.”

She rocked on her feet; a fleeting thing quickly smothered by decorum. “The lords do not know you plan this.”

“No.”

The silence that followed was pendulous. “You mean to see this through.”

“Yes.”

She sighed deeply. “There will be need for wives—and fosterings. Or perhaps husbands. I can’t imagine a lord would give over his daughters easily to such men.”

That pricked him. “Alys Karstark, aunt to my siblings—I arranged her marriage to the Thenn.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “Does Lady Thenn have sway in her lands?”

He huffed. “Her husband does not understand our politics. Sigorn sees to his people, and Alys sees to the smallfolk and the governing.”

“But does he treat her well?” His wife demanded.

And he shrugged helplessly. “They had a babe over the winter, and the letters she sends to Winterfell speak fondly of his devotion. I told him he would treat her kindly—that I was not a king that allowed men to beat their wives. Sigorn called me something I cannot repeat to a lady, then told me if I was not his kin, he would have gutted me for the presumption. We have never had problems on that score.”

“I suppose the man has acquitted himself.” She allowed mulishly.

“Alys will be happy to know her Queen champions her so.” And he kissed his lady’s brow. “She should be at Winterfell waiting for us, you can ask her then.”

“Winterfell.” She breathed, and he felt it in his bones.

It would not be long now—the wolves were going home.

/~/~/~/

Septon Hugor held a dawn service the last morning in Highpoint, for they would see no further sept until Winterfell. When the homily was done it was a crowded place. There was Lord Manderly, one of his sons, and all their many vassals flocking. Ser Kyle Condon was followed by a few retainers, while Ser Donnel Locke stood alone. The Whitehills were there in force. She had brought her entire retinue both knight and servant.

Highpoint’s sept was a fine thing, and great wealth had clearly been poured into its adorning and gathering of relics. But she knew any House in the Trident would be embarrassed at its size.

This was a truth she kept firmly to herself. She had married here—the Last Sept would always be dear in her heart.

A flutter of pale robes came at the edge of her pew, and then Septon Hugor was gesturing for her. She sat alone—no one had yet dared join her. She rose slowly, decorously, and followed the holy man into an antechamber. Her maids trailed at her heels.

A knight was waiting, and Marq Piper smiled brightly upon them all. “Here comes the little Queen!”

“Not yet.” She chastised, while her maids all tittered. She would have to watch them—Ser Marq was a fox in the henhouse when it came to young women of common birth.

Septon Hugor merely patted both their shoulders, then went to confer with Septons Raymont and Chayle who had traveled with him from White Harbor.

Ser Marq offered his arm, and she let him lead her to a lovely bench tucked into the wall. The stained glass above cast the air into rosy glow, and she bid the maids to watch at either end of the hall for eavesdroppers.

The sun was rising at her back. They would be leaving soon for Cerwyn.

“Why all this cloak and dagger, Ser?” She scoffed. “And dragging poor Septon Hugor into it.”

But the knight’s shoulders were as rigid as iron. “Ser Brynden told me how little the North understands a knight’s true vows; that we had to stay apart lest the heathens think we ruined you. The bleeding gall. I would not wish to offend his royal highness further, so here I sneak about like a scoundrel.”

She quickly soothed at his arm. “You know I never doubted you. And I am wed to my King now—it was a misunderstanding and no more. I welcome you into my court, and offer you seat and mead at my hearth.”

His mouth quirked at that—she could tell he was smiling despite trying to cling to his ire. “Is that a Northern saying?”

“It is; I do rather wish to get into the habit.”

“I have no doubt that you’ll manage.” And then, quite easily, he fell to his knee before her.

She hissed. “Marq—”

“My sword is still yours. I am your shield and never considered my vows broken. Whatever assistance you need, you have it for the asking. The honor of House Piper would never suffer otherwise.”

“Yes, yes, just stop kneeling before somebody sees you!”

And up he bounded, that same golden son as always, so careless and terribly valiant.

Once upon a time, not even a few moons ago—when Ser Marq had kneeled to her in Riverrun’s sept she’d felt herself in a song. That golden light, the thousands of colors scattered. Flames flickering and his sword shining. She, a lady of knights and sworn vows. A queen to be.

It exhausted her now.

“You’ll need more swords.” He decreed.

“I will have near to a thousand from the Northmen.” And wasn’t that a dizzying thought?

“Not those.” He interrupted stridently. “I mean the Holy Knights. I’ve been about the Silversmith and Greenhand while we’ve been riding. They’re a good lot. They have a bit of strangeness rubbing off on them up here, but they pray as much as any other man of the Faith.”

She smoothed a thumb at that; touched that golden ring upon her fingers. Edmund had bid her to keep it with a whisper upon her cheek—who knew what tribulations waited at Winterfell?

Though Marq’s words made her think of the witch again, of those swords like lights. The Seven did not believe in soothsaying, or that any man could know the future…but it was said that the gods blessed the truest knights with blades as bright as the sun.

Perhaps if she could convince her husband the witch had only spoken of knights, it would ease him. Take one burden off those shoulders that already carried so much.

“A small contingent would not be out of place.” She decided. “Who are the best among them?”

Ser Marq was a knight for true, but he was also an heir. He eyed her shrewdly. “Best for what, exactly?”

“A top layer for political support, the rest to actually swing a sword.”

“You’ll want the Silversmiths for swinging—most of them are distant noble cousins or common born. They earned their spurs, and not the other way around. For support, you’ll want Wendell Manderly. All the political weight, yet half the girth of his father.”

It would be a welcome boon if they only had to contend with the sons and not the patriarch—Lord Manderly was a slippery merman. “Any others?”

“Give me a little time.” And he snorted aloud. “I’m not sure what they want yet—am I safe to imply I have the Queen’s ear while I dawdle about?”

“You are,” She answered. “Though do not imply that I sent you. Puff yourself up, make them think you may have a chance, but are a little full of yourself and hoping to impress them.”

“You gouge me.”

“I have seen you take worse blows.” And she smoothed her skirts to her thighs. “I will ask Uncle to make his own inquiries; you can compare notes.”

“Joy. Nothing like having the Blackfish breathing down my neck.”

But she wasn’t done with him yet. “Any other suggestions? My husband is likely to wake soon, and he is wroth to be apart.”

But Ser Marq turned at that; mouth pinched down. “Sansa—my lady. Are you well? Is he…?”

“A jape poorly done.” She interrupted, though it was no less true—this was the longest she’d been apart from her husband since they’d wed. “I could not have prayed for better man than Jon Stark, understand?”

But Seq Marq raised defiance. “You could have prayed for a man not heathen.”

“Silence!” And it cracked out of her like a whip. “He is my King. His people and their gods look upon me suspiciously already, do not add to it with your loose tongue!”

Ser Marq immediately raised his hands as if to soothe a horse trying to kick him in the head. He was right to—if she had been a beast, she would have struck him between the eyes.

“I am glad.” He answered. “So many apologies, my lady. You can call upon my sword for anything, that is all I wanted to say. I pray you every fortune and kindness in your marriage. House Tully has only been generous to us; the gods be good that generosity is returned to you sevenfold.”

She shook her head at that, rising from the bench and turning away. She could feel that pendulous sword again, hanging, hanging, hanging above their heads—

“Anything else?” She repeated frostily.

And he bowed his head. “There is some resentment among the Silversmith—the Greenhand are all noble born and handsomely supported. From what I heard, the Smiths live off the Faith and charity, and many of them go south in the summer to make coin at tourney ransom. You would win a great deal support with a little royal patronage.”

“I will keep that in mind, Ser Marq.”

He took the rebuke. “I’ll report to you when we’re next in sept.” Then hesitated. Offered: “That Septon Hugor, he gives fine homily. I will admit it has been more a comfort on this journey than I expected.”

She felt her hands loosening. Her chin dipped the once. “Septon Hugor inspires a great deal.” The man truly did, but her real surprise laid with Ser Marq. For as long as she’d known him, he had loved only his hawks, his swords, and his milkmaids scattered about the Trident.

When he had come visiting to Riverrun, many a sept service had been skipped for other pursuits with his companions. If she had been forced to define him—she would have described his devotion to the Faith as rote.

This was surely a sign; the gods shining through as Septon Hugor had promised. If they could call to Ser Marq, then who else would answer them?

She felt a gladdening of her heart in a path rightly taken. If this journey strengthened Marq’s faith, then one day she would be sending Lord Piper a son reborn into his finest self. Perhaps that was what they could all hope for—faith, growth, and the grandest of journeys ahead.

/~/~/~/

The days of travel were long and short. Snows. Bitter winds. Her bear furs clutched high to her neck. Never had she spent so long on horseback, though her husband was happy to rub her sore backside every evening…among other things.

She could not hate it, for the riding allowed her to revel in the strength of his arms. Admire how firmly his shoulders cradled her head. Complain and be cossetted, and then taken to bed ever so gently.

They rode on surrounded by lords and retainers. It constrained what words could be spoken, but they used their time as wisely as they could. They spoke histories of the North she had not learned. Shared dozens of legends and tales. They even traced the marriages and lineages of the current nobility. When her questions vexed even her husband’s knowledge, they would call upon the lords until one of them had answer.

More than once, Ser Karl Whitehill had provided his expertise. She had been gladdened to see the man ahorse, for it meant her husband had listened to her. Though she had been surprised—not of her husband, of course, for he was good and wise—but surprised that the Whitehills had not asked for wife or daughter to be a lady in waiting. A maid of honor.

Though from what she understood of the North, no one would ask to be her maid either honored or otherwise. It seemed this kingdom did not distinguish between married and unmarried ladies when attending the Queen. It was just another tricky detail to be remembered.

It was no matter, there would be many houses vying to send their daughters to court soon enough. And considering what her husband had told her of the state of their coffers, she would have to be circumspect with the size of her household.

She wished to say she was prepared for Winterfell, for this royal court to come—

But that would be the height of conceit.

That last morning on the road, she donned a gown of palest shade. Beneath the clouds it was gray. But when the sun struck, it gleamed blue. The sleeves were dagged, and within their cut spilled a thousand snowflakes. She had stitched each one. Her husband’s eyes had gone dark at their sight, then darker still at the taking of her hand.

He pushed up her inner sleeve. Kissed the blush of her wrist. “My winter lady.”

She felt no such frosted mantle, for he scorched her. “My King. To Winterfell?”

His mouth lingered until it bared its teeth. “To Winterfell.”

They mounted up. Her husband had promised her a lone mount for the castle itself, but until then—

“I would have us share this; you seeing our home for the first time.”

And she could not argue. So much thought had been given to her husband and their kingdom to come. But little had been spared for the castle that would call her mistress. She had seen the beauty of Riverrun, the wealth of Maidenpool, the godly sprawl of Harrenhal with her very own eyes. So surely…

Their banners were raised. The retinue fanned wide and took to the lower roads.

But not they. She and her husband and his great white wolf, rode to the highest hill. Rode north.

The destrier broke the ridge. It came like a dream, like something out of the clouds. Great and soaring and colossal.

Winterfell.

Her eyes could not choose what to see first. The whites of snowcapped towers. The grays of granite stones. The sun catching a thousand windows and turning them to gold.

Riverrun’s highest peak—it would not have even cleared Winterfell’s first wall. “Gods be good.”

He squeezed her. “They are very good.”

She was hardly listening to his words. “This is ours?”

“Did you think me a King of rubble and stone?” But it seemed no true insult was taken, for his arms wrapped all the tighter as he kissed the side of her jaw. “I cannot give you all I wish yet.” He rumbled. “But I can give you this.”

Ghost gave a great whine, ears swinging forward. Straining.

“Go.” Her husband said, and Ghost went. He was a wolf of paw and snow. Of earth and sinew. Yet right then, she could have sworn that the wolf flew.

Their retinue parted below, horses bucking and shrieking at the passage. The wolf cared not. He was a white comet on white snows, paler and paler, veering wide of the castle and then vanishing into the woods.

It made her insides tremble—she had thought the wolf would stay. “Where has he gone?”

Her husband just chuckled. “He hurries to the woods as I hurry to your bed every night.” And that mouth pressed to her neck so hotly. “He’s gone to see his She-Wolf.”

She gasped in delight. “You have another wolf?”

“I only have Ghost, and he has me. His wolfish wife belongs to herself. She’s a wild thing.”

That stymied her none. “Where did she come from?”

“Beyond the Wall.” And his grip was a snare. “She was the only beast I allowed to pass south. The Blight did not touch her. It was a sign; a blessing upon House Stark.” And then he spoke to her, eyes blazing with all earthly light: “The wolves will come again.”

/~/~/~/

Winterfell rose like a giant of old. Her neck craned to even see the men atop the outer wall. Banners fluttered like the wings of birds, and the gates had been thrown wide. They took the drawbridge seven across. She dared not look to the dizzying drop of the moat—though look she did: it was filled with pikes and snow. A man could be as easily gored as drown beneath those drifts.

There was no protection from any angle, only this great chasm and the sheer-faced walls above. They nearly towered beyond the sky. If anyone thought to knock this bridge from under them—

She shuddered.

The final gatehouse beckoned, each of its ironwood doors as thick as a sword was long. The tales claimed Winterfell had never been successfully sieged in its eight-thousand years, and she believed them.

Even the Bastard of Bolton had only gained entrance by the deceitful hand of friendship.

They passed under the arch. It had been shaped like a weirwood; its branches carved into a canopy above. For a moment, she looked up to them. Sansa did not know who it shocked more when they locked eyes—her, or the guard staring down at her through the murder hole.

Her heart thundered.

Gods above, gods damn her—she could not fear. This was her husband’s castle. Her King’s seat. There was no reason for terror, even for the white flash of eyes in the gloom. The sun laid ahead of her. The sun laid ahead.

She gripped her reins and kept her head aloft, and that was how she and her husband swept into the first bailey. Hundreds of faces waited for them. Watched. Whispers moved like winds. Then, as if one mind, they fell in tide.

Knelt.

It knocked the breath from her.

She felt adrift—a child plunged in too deep a water. No one would see this drowning. Her gaze grasped for her husband, and there he sat so tall upon his mount. Gaze clear, head forward, no fear left alive. This was his place and these his people. What did he have to dread?

As he had at Highpoint, he dismounted first and then came to lift her down. Only when her riding boots were on the ground—and her body gratefully tucked into the shelter of his—did he bid his people to rise.

The wave climbed, and a woman rose at its crest. Hair tied back severely; high collar of her dress guarding from the winds. A mantle of vair sat her shoulders, clasped together by a broach of jet and gleaming rubies.

It had a horsehead’s shape.

“Your Grace.” The Lady Barbrey said, eyes bright as daggers. “Winterfell is yours.”

Chapter Text

She had never had so many eyes upon her; so many faces straining over walls to see. Lord and lady and guard and servant—but she could pay them no mind, for this was her latest test. It would demand every ounce of her: Winterfell would only welcome her once.

And so would her adversaries.

The Lady Barbrey Dustin stood tall, a woman of severity and icy beauty. Neither the lines at her mouth nor the gray in her hair had lessened her in any respect. The woman glided to welcome them as if she was Queen of Winterfell itself.

Perhaps she was—Sansa’s King had not a wife this winter, so what woman had been left to rule his court?

The Lady Barbrey was flanked by a young lord and lady, both dark of hair and pale of eye. They shared the slopes of their noses and the generous curve of their mouths. Both had clasps at their throats; battle axes crowned and edged in gold.

They each offered the clever gaze she had already found in Konrad Dustin’s face.

All the Lady Barbrey’s children, it seemed, were as hale and handsome as their mother.

Her husband left her side grinning, grabbing up the young Lord Dustin and slapping him on the back. Markas Dustin returned the gesture with gusto, then a gruff declaration of: “It’s been too bloody long.”

“Aye?” Her King asked. “Missed me greatly, did you?”

“Bah!” But Markas Dustin was grinning too. “I could have gone another winter without seeing your ruddy face.”

They clasped shoulders, brotherly in their grip, and then her King was turning and kissing the Lady’s Barbrey’s cheek. They murmured together, only a whisper of Jon reaching past them before he turned again. The joy on his face was luminous. “Brella! By the gods—how have you gotten so tall?” And threw his arms wide.

Brella Dustin was of a height with her mother, though it gave an appearance of age where there was only youth. The Lady Brella was even younger than Sansa, and it showed in how she squealed and nearly leapt into the King’s embrace.

The girl wiggled, cloak shimmying with her joy. “I’ve missed you so much! Oh, Jon, why didn’t you visit? We would have feasted you and gone riding in the barrows.”

“Court is terribly demanding.” He grumbled as he squeezed the girl back. They swayed a moment in each other’s arms, lost in their own world.

Sansa’s stomach clenched at the sight.

They separated, but Brella just stared up at him as if he’d hung the very moon. Rushed: “We shall have plenty of time now, Mother says I’m to be your Queen’s lady in waiting. I shan’t be far.”

“Will you?” He asked, and then his gaze slashed over. “Decided already, have we?”

The Lady Barbrey shrugged with perilous serenity. “Brella is of an age, is she not? And weren’t you complaining to me all this winter of her not visiting? She will accompany your wife and show that Houses Ryswell and Dustin remain firmly behind the throne.”

Her husband did not answer this, for his hand was snatched by the Dustin girl. By a plea of: “Please Jon? I shall be the best lady in waiting there has ever been.” And then Brella Dustin looked beyond him and upon Sansa herself. She met that pale gaze and found only eagerness. Curiosity. A trembling of hope.

Her husband’s shoulders dropped; a surrender Sansa already wholly recognized. She had won it from him often enough. It seemed this would be done without her permission—and that couldn’t be abided.

She strode to his side. “We would be delighted to have you, Lady Brella.”

The Lady Barbrey’s mouth pinched at that. Smoothed. “How glad we are to hear you speak for our King.”

Sansa let that rebuke wash over her—there would be no retort worth having. Not yet.

Her husband tensed and then scooped her back upon his arm. “My lord, my ladies, I would like to introduce you to my wife: the Lady Consort Sansa Stark of House Tully. She is a woman of beauty and wit that I am lucky to have.”

There was no outright hostility before her. Markas Dustin took her hand; bowed over it and then kissed her knuckles. “My Lady Consort, a pleasure.”

Lady Brella dipped into a curtsy.

The Lady Barbrey barely put a hand into her skirts to flick them out, before resuming that frigid gaze.

Well, if that was the way of things. So be it.

“It seems the wedding we organized was for naught.” The lady scolded. That surprised Sansa—she had thought the wedding in the wilds had always been the plan.

His gaze narrowed. “Time became more of the essence than we first believed. Tell me, have the ravens arrived from White Harbor?”

Judging by the flicker in the Lady Barbrey’s jaw, they had. The woman drew a missive from her sleeve, merman seal broken. Sansa stared at that torn wax for a disbelieving moment—but her King seemed neither stunned nor concerned by its breach. The woman passed it over. “It has begun. Messengers came ahead of you though; the Lords are beside themselves for missing the wedding. They did not come all this way to be snubbed.”

“We shall handle it.” And he read the letter with haste. “There is food for a dozen feasts with us, and my lady shall need more than Brella to attend her. We will appease them.”

The Lady Barbrey did not look as if she believed it, but still flanked to the King’s other side. Her daughter joined her while Markas Dustin came to Sansa’s shoulder. They stood together as a united front.

She could hear more men dismounting behind her, and prayed that her uncle would be at her side soon.

But until that moment, she stood tall among the King’s family. Kept her chin lifted as her husband proclaimed: “My lords, my ladies! Men of my table and women of my hearth! I thank you for keeping Winterfell in safety while I went to fetch my bride. I have wed the Lady Sansa in our ways; she wore sacrifice before the gods and drank of the iron cup. Upon our wedding, she and her kin sent ravens south. I have just received word—food has docked at White Harbor, and the next shipment has already left Maidenpool!”

The lords and ladies heartened at that, but from the servants and guards—a roar rose up. A deluge of sound that overflowed these bailey walls. Fears sloughing. The earth shaking. Pinched faces becoming flush with hope once more.

It rattled her to her very bones.

Her King kept proclaiming: “Our bellies shall be filled and we will see the end of winter! Now, my kin, tonight we feast to welcome my wife!”

/~/~/~/

The Lords fell upon them like a squall, but her husband delivered her through their grasping.

“Tonight, my lords. You will have every audience then.”

There had been grumbling and pugnacious brows. Her King had ignored them as they passed through a second gatehouse and to the innermost ward of the castle. The Great Keep reached for the clouds above. On the inside of each wall there was neither merlon nor crenel. There were no backwards defenses at all. If any wall were breached, it would receive only butchery from the next layer behind it. To enter the Great Keep, she had to pass through not one, not two, not even three—but four curtain walls.

It was a fortress within a fortress. It mystified her how the Starks had ever been slaughtered within its grasp.

This next introduction was swifter to the servants in the entry hall. A man with a heavy limp came to meet them, followed by a young woman with a horrific scar about her neck. How the woman had lived long enough for such a wound to heal—Sansa could not imagine.

Though now that she looked…the Master of Horse had a chunk missing out of one of his arms. Servants wore old burns, maids scars. One steadholder, frightfully, had an entire eye socket ripped away and replaced by knots of scar tissue.

She did not let her gaze rest on any wound too long. The Lady Catelyn raised no gauche creatures.

Genuflections were given. “Your Grace.” Like a flock of birds taking flight, how they fluttered all at once.

The limping man rose. “My King, many apologies, but there is issue with the Riverwood again.”

Her King did not sigh—and yet she felt his chest shudder. He gestured pointedly. “My lady, this is Vayon Poole, Steward of Winterfell.” A bow quickly greeted her. “His daughter and closest aide, Jeyne.” A curtsy came. “She will take you to the Queen’s chambers and settle you, I fear I have matters to attend. Lady Barbrey?”

The woman nodded, eyes sliding over Sansa in dismissal. “I remain ready to give counsel as always, your Grace.” The woman’s expression did not change, though her voice had the faintest arch. Something smug, perhaps.

When looking for counsel first, her husband had—

She forced that thought to ground. The Dustins and Ryswells had been his closest advisors, why would that change? That did not mean there was no place for her. He had listened to her already, he had.

Sansa did not cherish the notion of leaving her husband with this woman and her dislikes. But she could not be beside him every moment, every hour. There could only be faith in the man Jon Stark had already shown himself to be. He would not be poisoned against her so easily. Become so frigid in his gaze upon her. Surely. Surely…

She would be his Queen, not a broodmare nor a trinket upon his arm. But even in war, there were times to regroup. Take lay of the land. Her Queenship, as much as she wished it, would not be solidified in a single night. “Of course, my King. Shall I ready anything for your return?”

He softened and then bent to kiss her cheek. “No, settle and rest. I will join you to prepare for the feast.”

A lilting voice rose behind them. “Mother, may I go with Lady Sansa?”

The Lady Barbrey turned. “Surely you wish to spend time with—”

“Even Jon’s company isn’t worth quarreling over poaching.” And the Lady Brella’s nose crunched up. “I am her lady in waiting, surely I should be waiting, yes?”

The Lady Barbrey looked ready to blister the poor girl’s ears, but before she could, Sansa’s husband laughed aloud. “The girl speaks true. Brella goes with my lady. Don’t either of you get lost, hmmmm?”

Brella scoffed, slapping at his elbow, then came to Sansa to link their arms as if they were the closest of bosom mates. “Only you, your Grace, have such poor sense of direction. The Lady Sansa and I shall be fine.”

Her husband put a hand over his heart, wounded. But his other hand came into the cloud of Sansa’s skirts, taking her palm and then squeezing it tight. She squeezed back and did not cling when he let go.

He turned from them, the Lady Barbrey already putting a hand to the crook of his arm. Markas Dustin followed; so too did Konrad as he caught up. She could not tell if the two Dustin brothers were embracing or trying to throttle one another upon meeting. Lord Mollen and the steward came after, followed by a half-dozen steadholders.

Her uncle was only a hairsbreadth behind, but instead of joining the march, he came to her. Pressed a hand to the small of her back. She hummed in return to the unspoken question. It had been a reception neither exceptional nor poor.

Jeyne Poole inclined her head shyly. “My ladies, shall we?”

“Of course.” And she gripped Brella Dustin’s arm. “I pray we did not put you out too much with the wedding; I did not realize arrangements were being made in Winterfell.”

Behind them, her uncle snorted. She did not glare at him.

Brella either didn’t notice the noise or didn’t care. “Do not fret, Lady Sansa. Mother was going to be cross no matter what Jon did. Weddings are weddings; I usually get sent to bed before anything interesting happens anyhow.”

And yet. “But the lords who are grieved?”

“When are they not?” The girl huffed, and when indeed? A lord appeased was a lord that did not exist. Brella tittered on: “Did you have to drag poor Jon to the heart tree? He has been evading brides all winter. Markas and I were coming to believe our dear King was frightened of matrimony.”

That sounded utterly ridiculous. White boughs, those black garlands, Jon staring at her as if he was the wolf about to devour. Her cheeks heated. “He was keen, I think.” And even keener in their marriage bed after.

Brella gasped. “I take it back; I am dreadfully cross that I missed the wedding. We never get to see Jon eager for anything, the poor lamb.”

Sansa just laughed, covering a cheek and following the swish of Jeyne Poole’s skirts ahead. They passed through unbarred doors, up staircases, through grand corridors and then into narrower. There were guards at every chokepoint, their heads craning to follow her retinue’s progress.

They were ascending this keep, slowly but surely. Tapestries were hanging on the walls: green forests, pale wolves, plentiful harvests. Dozens of battles that she did not recognize threaded in red and gray. The winter sun illuminated some but left others in shadow. Heavy curtains had been parted from every window, but they were narrow openings—Winterfell was a fortress before it was a home.

She thought this castle could do with a few lighter hangings. Summer blooms, river valleys, some glorious tourneys. A shining knight or two…or perhaps a Skutilsveinr.

Brella had shed her cloak as they ascended to hand to a servant, and her gown beneath was a buttercup yellow. It was of a lower cut than Sansa would expect of a girl of such age. Her eyes lingered at the cuffs. “That is lovely work, did you do it yourself?”

“Most of it.” Brella confessed, nearly shy now. The dags of her sleeves were filled with a sleek black fur, but the girl slipped it aside to show the geometric stitching deeper within. It was not the swirling waves of Trident embroidery, but keeping it so precise was a difficulty all its own.

“The maids helped in spots. It’s my finest dress—Mother said I must look stunning now that I am attending court as a flowered lady for the first time.”

“Oh.” Sansa asked, guileless. “Has it been long?”

“Not since winter started.”

That was nearly five years ago, as the moons turned. A suspicion that had been budding came to bloom. Sansa let it flower. “I understand. My Grandfather sent for silks from Essos before I was presented at the Trident Court. This is a marvelous time for any young lady; I pray you’ll enjoy it.”

Brella flushed deeply. “I hope so.”

And Sansa touched that stitching one last time. “You have a steady hand.” Then baited the hook: “My husband and I are still learning each other, was he as dour a boy as I imagine?”

Brella giggled along. “Worse, but do not think he cannot be right fun in his own way. When I was very small, Konrad lured us out to the barrows. Jon had covered himself in flour and leapt out at us—made us think he was the ghost of some vengeful Dustin king! You should have heard Markas scream. He kicked Jon’s shins black and blue for it.”

Sansa mirrored the giggling. Drew the girl closer. “Did Jon laugh?”

“So hard that he cried.” And the girl smiled then, some secret and gentler thing.

“He does not smile enough.” Sansa mused, and it was true. A thing that grieved her.

“No.” Brella agreed. “But we shall give him reasons to smile now, yes?”

Her mouth thinned. “Of course.”

And they came to heavier doors; the kind that would be torturous to batter down in narrow confines. Iron bands, ironwood, and four men guarding them.

Her uncle made an approving noise.

“The Royal Quarters.” Jeyne Poole announced, hands clutched before her. “There are the chambers for the King and Queen, their shared private solar, then ten more rooms for family along with the grand bath. There is a nursery on one end and servants’ quarters on the other. There are only two entrances into this part of the keep, and they are guarded at all hours.”

“A judicious choice.” Sansa acknowledged.

Jeyne merely nodded, then signaled the guards who knocked out a pattern before murmuring a few words. A slot slid open. Closed. The door was swiftly unbarred from the other side by two more of their number. Her retinue was led into a narrow corridor whose only exit was another heavily barred door. There was even an iron yett halfway that could be shut to stymie invaders.

The guards waited until the door was closed behind them to repeat the process on the next. It was opened, and then they were let into a grander entry. Chandeliers were lit above; candles glittering like a firmament of stars. The detailing on the stonework was remarkable—some of it looked like lace. The tapestries here were the heaviest yet, stitched with crowns and lineages, weirwoods and wolf dens.

The maids bustling about halted. Each woman curtsied swiftly before standing at attention. Her uncle and guards peeled away to examine the space.

“That’s mine!” Brella called at one door, and Sansa swiftly waved the guard away from it.

“Are all your family staying here?” Sansa asked cautiously.

The girl shrugged blithely. “Always.”

The Lady Barbrey would only be a few doors down from them—how joyous.

But oh, were theses doors grand indeed, tall enough for even Ghost to duck through. Two were inlaid with carvings studded with mother of pearl: wolf heads crowned. When her uncle entered the leftwards door to examine the room, a woman’s voice lashed out. Quieted. From that space, a lady surged into the corridor with a steely gaze. There was a sigil stitched at her breast—a red apple with pitchforks crossed behind it. The old woman curtsied. “Lady Consort.”

Jeyne made the introduction. “My Lady Sansa, this is Lady Renfryd Appleby, widow to Lord Appleby. She was once Mistress of the Robes to Queen Lyarra. At the King’s request, she has consented to hold the same position for you.”

A great deal of appointments seemed to be happening without her choice today. She told herself to be grateful for her husband’s foresight and to swallow any resentment. She reached out a palm. “Well met, Lady Appleby.”

The woman gripped her palm with a warm hand, papery but not yet frail. “Lady Renfryd, if it pleases. My son is long married with a Lady Appleby of his own. We shall be coming to know each other quite well in the moons ahead.”

“I do hope so.” She agreed before letting their hands part.

The Lady Renfryd glanced down her nose at Jeyne, then back to Sansa much more courteously. “My Lady Consort, all is set away in your chambers. I have tasked maids to gather the royal gowns in storage to see if you wish to repurpose any of them for yourself. The Lady Barbrey sent word—crowns are being taken from the treasury for the coronation. You need only go to her, and she will guide you through your choice.”

How convenient. Here before her was a woman doing the Lady Barbrey’s bidding, while at her side was the lady’s daughter watching her every word. She could only imagine what spies waited amongst the maids.

Her smile laid as gentle as a sheathed knife. “I look forward to her offered wisdom.”

/~/~/~/

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The Lady Barbrey, though, would ensure that he did. “You are being far too reckless. The Lords are hungry and feel half-damned. They grumble that you’re playing favorites. You preferred Manderly and Cerwyn to see your marriage over Umber and Karstark—”

His head snapped up. “Is she here?”

The Lady Barbrey scowled. His steadholders and steward all tried to fade into the walls as if they were not party to this. The Dustin brothers watched like it was a particularly interesting grappling match.

A bright and seething venom gleamed. “Hardly, your blood mother keeps herself shut up in Karhold as always. But it seems Lord Holden has brought your half-sister along.”

It surged over him. Hands clenching; stomach leaping: “Elissa.”

But the Lady Barbrey swept on. “The Karstarks sit on a treacherous slope. Twice in living memory has their house betrayed the throne. They need alliance, and since your blood mother does not remarry, it seems your half-sister will be offered. The Holdens are no doubt looking to arrange things.”

“That would be…” He had only met his half-sister twice during the war. When a shaking little girl of ten and one had gone to her knees in the snow, begging him to spare—he wrenched away from it. She would be older now, of an age with Brella. Gods, both his sisters so gods bedamned young. “I will not have their banners slighted, but I won’t hurry her into marriage. If we name her lady in waiting to my wife and keep her in Winterfell…”

“Then you decide her troth.” Barbrey agreed happily. “Yes, that is an excellent plan. Lord Holden has begun to think himself a Great lord—he should be disabused of the notion.”

He did not shake his head. “The sword has already swung; we should welcome them back to court gladly. Find out what accolades their banners hunt for.”

It drew a flurry in him; a bird taking flight. Hope. His blood mother had kept his half-siblings behind her skirts and away from any court. He had not even been able to exchange letters with them to know their progress; only dry missives penned by a maester’s hand.

Where would he even start with Elissa? How would he…Sansa would know. His wife was a gentle touch. When it came time for marriages, she would help him find a match that would see Elissa taken care of. Help him sew this tattered kingdom back together through matrimony.

The Lady Barbrey’s nod came swift. “Very good. But do not overly focus on the Karstarks—favor one house over the others, and the rest will grow jealous. You already married a southron daughter.”

He bit his tongue at that. How many times had the Dustin and Ryswells been chosen above all others? What resentments festered among his lords over that?

But discretion was sometimes the better part of valor. “Yet I’ve won food for only the cost of fosterings and my lovely Queen. They will simmer once they see that southron lords have not been put above them. They can even brag of seeing the coronation.”

Konrad snorted and finally joined the grapple. “Would that your aunt crowning you at the Neck been the end of it; coronations are dull. If you truly want to win the lords’ goodwill, you need to revel them. Let them gorge on feast and flesh.”

“Are you sure that’s not just you?” Markas asked.

Konrad jabbed for his brother. “I’m not some fat cosseted lord yet, but more is needed if they are to leave Winterfell happy.”

The Lady Barbrey slipped to where her sons sat in his solar. Touched Konrad’s shoulder. “Think carefully—what do you suggest?”

It was a familiar thing, that brush to the shoulder, that carefully coached question. He had experienced it often enough as the Lady Barbrey had tutored him from boyish yearnings to kinghood.

A dark brow furrowed. “The Lady Sansa…there has been unrest that she is of the Seven, correct?”

Markas snorted. “I think some Lords are ready to gnaw an arm off over it. Three brides from the south in a row? They worry they shall never have a daughter wed the royal line again.”

Konrad chewed that. “I think…you should hold one of the White Moon Rituals—a fertility one. Get your wife to do it to show the lords she honors our ways, then everyone will get to dance in the godswood and be drunk for a night. Fuck for a night. Besides—you want to have babes with your bride? Honor the gods, and they will have her thick with child before the year is out.”

Jon imagined that for a moment: his Lady Sansa rounded with their babe. Breasts heavy. Welcoming him into her body. That they would not just be wedded but inextricably joined.

He rather wished he was acquainting his wife to the Queen’s bed instead of standing in this room. How terribly short-sighted of him.

Barbrey’s face spasmed, but she announced: “Yes, that would be a prudent course, considering how many septons the Tully brought with her.” Jon wanted to object, but did not know what his objection even was. Barbrey bore on: “Konrad, darling, you should look among the ladies for your own bride as well.”

And his brother was a man hunted. “I don’t want—”

But their mother overrode him. “Lady Farrow brought three of her daughters, and the new Lord Ansley yet has a girl unwed. They are Bolton banners; pay court to them tonight. You will need support wherever you can secure it.” And then she turned to Jon. “When will you announce Konrad’s lordship?”

It was near a naked demand, but he answered: “Tomorrow. There is a great deal to hash out; better we do it when all the banners are in one place. Konrad, consider a new sigil for yourself. Never will the flayed man see the winds again.”

His brother nodded. “Understood.”

And the Lady Barbrey eased as if some great burden had been lifted. Until Jon announced it, the lordship was a thing that could be snatched away, and they both knew it. But victory was rapidly approaching. Its taste was no doubt rising on her tongue. He imagined Barbrey would look the same tomorrow as she had at Jon’s coronation a winter ago. Satiated. Rapturous.

All her sons now lords and kings.

Though Konrad still grumbled: “You aren’t making Markas get married.”

“Your brother is secure and can wait for the perfect match, you cannot.” And she swatted his ear. “Markas, my love, I think your brother needs reminding of the finer aspects in lordship.”

And Markas leapt up, barrel-chested and grinning. “Aye, mother.” Then slung an arm around Konrad’s neck. “Come, little brother, I have lessons to teach you.”

“You little—”

But arm around Konrad’s neck squeezed, and Konrad was reduced to wheezing and trying to claw his brother’s face. With that, he was dragged from the room.

Jon took the Lady’s Barbrey’s arm then, her attentions, and led them into an alcove that swallowed every noise. “Tell me plainly, what are the greatest threats now?”

Her sigh was a rattling thing. “The Hornwoods. You had their lukewarm support until you cut their son’s tongue out.”

He didn’t wince, though there was a sinking churn in his gut. “Half cut—the healers said they think he will be able to speak again…if poorly.”

Her gaze stayed glacial. “While I commend you for being unwavering in your threats, you have earned their wrath. It has been my daily duty to keep the poisons Lady Hornwood is whispering at bay. Lord Hornwood rants nightly to any who will hear him.”

“About his son besmirching my wife?”

“About the Seven. About boys being boys. About whatever place he can drive a wedge in. The Lady Lyessa Flint and most of her banners are listening—they have had septons trying to stir holy war upon their borders for hundreds of years. They are uneasy, and anything that emboldens Manderly is their greatest dread. And you marrying the girl has emboldened that gluttonous fish.”

He was exhausted to his very bones. “Any others?”

“Lady Maege came with the Mormonts.”

“Fucking gods.” He snarled. “What else?”

“The Umbers and their banners are devout to our gods and furious at the Wildlings. They listen to Hornwood and seethe. It is a near miracle Lord Thenn did not hear the insult directed to his wife last night by Whoresbane, or you would have come home to bloodshed.”

The Umbers were quarrelsome. During the Westerland War, the Greatjon and his uncles had spent many a night in Lord Bolton’s tent being dined. There had been whispers, even more so than the wild accusations most lords had flung about in the aftermath. The Umbers had known the Wildlings were massing before the war began, though not why. Their house had suffered for thousands of years from cowardly raids inflicting murder and rape. Word had even reached South when Jon had been desperately mounting defense at the Wall.

But the Umbers had not known how that defense ended. Not then, for word travelled slowly in Westeros. Gods above, how they must have feared for their lands in those days. Their kin and daughters left behind.

How Roose’s promises for them to go home must have rung. But when battle had been met at the Neck, when Jon had tangled in the chaos with Lord Bolton—it was the Greatjon who had swung the warhammer to break Roose Bolton’s back.

FOR NED! Had been the thunderous howl, and it had been that thunder that won the Greatjon and his uncles their lives.

He rubbed at his forehead and then pressed his knuckles in. “Their quarters?”

“Opposite sides of the castle.” She sighed. “I have been alternating having one feast in the Great Hall and the other the Lesser, but that has not stopped them from crossing paths—nor with the other Wildlings. Why in the gods’ name did you invite them?”

“The North must stand united.” And he explained no further. If he wished the Freefolk to be lords for true, he had to treat them as such. Give them stake in these matters. “I’ll handle it from here. My Lady Sansa needs to know how—”

But Barbrey interrupted viciously: “Once this thing is done, I will worry about your wife’s instruction, and not a second sooner. This is too delicate a dance for some southron child to arrange it.”

He wondered if a man could bite through his tongue willingly. “She has her talents.”

A thousand thoughts flitted behind those eyes. One found roost on her tongue. “She is more beautiful than I expected.”

“You told Konrad she’d be comely.”

“Her aunt was comely, half the women in this castle are comely. She is beautiful.”

“And?”

Her gaze was steel. “Let her be besotted with you as much as it pleases. Give her gifts and kiss her hand, but do not let her rule you. She is a thing forced upon this kingdom, and you ripped out a Northern son’s tongue over it. You are the King this North chose, and they can unchoose you. Remember that.”

/~/~/~/

The Queen’s chambers were beautiful, but would they have ever been elsewise? Warmer than the heart of summer and painted with strange legends.

Jeyne had pointed to the sweeping edifice above the bed. “Storm’s End.”

“Ah.” And she understood. The pale of these walls had been strewn with frescos for the Queen Corenna; some fragments of home returned.

Beneath them was a magnificent bed; a fourposter curtained in grey velvet. Its canopy was stitched with Northern stars. The mattress was a cloud of goose down and swathed in the finest linens and pillows. Brella had leapt into them and sent feathers flying.

The frame itself was made of dark walnut, the posts carved like summer garlands and the headboard engraved with the image of a mother wolf cavorting with her pups. Sansa rather hoped it was an omen; a blessing upon this bed and what she and her husband would partake in it.

The very thought set her aflame.

There was a massive fireplace with thick furs and feather cushions to lounge on. That had her face burning, too, for she imagined her husband laying her upon them before rucking up her skirts. Setting his mouth towards…

By the gods had she become a libidinous creature. Marriage had turned her wanton. She shifted away from it. There was a writing desk, Myrish rugs, an entire wardrobe through another door, and most beguiling of all—

She stared at the stone hollow carved into the floor. “What is that?”

Lady Renfryd gestured, and one of the Northern maids touched some metal sunk into the wall—and steaming hot water poured out.

Sansa and her maids gasped.

“A bath, my lady.” Renfryd answered. “The North has many hotsprings. When this keep was built, the waters were piped through the walls to keep winter at bay. There is a shared bath for the other royal rooms and bathhouses dotted through Winterfell, but this alone belongs to the Queen.”

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Poppy hissed. Nella looked near to fainting.

The northern maid just kept filling the bath, heedless of their gawking, though she slapped Prue’s hands when the girl tried to slip them to the stream.

“It’s still boiling, you silly chit!”

Lady Renfryd ignored the outburst. “The privy also has a lever to release water and wash waste to the cesspits below. Now, the woman running your bath is Thea, head maid of the Queen’s Chambers. Here—” She gestured to a blonde maid, fair and pale as cream. “Is Erena; she will help you with our Northern ways of cleansing and preparation. This—” A maid of darker blonde, sturdy, with a hook of a scar across one palm. “Is Jo, she will arrange your hair in our fashions.”

Sansa swallowed a bubbling laugh—hysterical. Barbarian, they had called them. Heathen. Primitive. Northern.

She stared at the hot water pouring like magic from the wall. Just who among them was savage now? There were castles in the south that yet shit in a pot and threw it in the yard.

“Thank you for your service.” She answered faintly. The maids just curtsied and carried on. She went to the window and saw an entire forest rising up within these walls. A blood red crown in their number—weirwood. Godswood. There was a shell keep as large as Riverrun beside it. Towers, granaries, guard halls. A dozen of buildings she could not even begin to name.

Her hands were shaking. “How many souls live in Winterfell?”

It was Jeyne that answered. “In the summer, seven-thousand. In the winter, ten. Though with all the retinues gathered for the wedding, we are likely near to eleven.”

Sansa nearly swallowed her tongue. “And there is room for all?”

“All the rooms in the Great Keep, over the Great Hall, and in the Guest Houses are filled. A number of the servants and their families live in the First Keep, but we made room there as well.”

This wasn’t a castle; it was a bleeding city.

“Prudent.” How did they expect her to keep a household that held thousands? How did they expect—

Jeyne hurried. “I will tour you when there is time, Lady Sansa. The King tasked me to assist you in your duties.”

But Brella piped in: “Mother has things in hand, my lady—you needn’t worry. She’s been running the kingdom for ages.”

And Sansa’s teeth went on edge.

“Perhaps a worry for another day.” And the Lady Renfryd swept between them all. “There is a feast tonight, and it is early days yet. The Lady Consort will have time to adjust.”

Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t, but there was no time to decide. A commotion rose once more. Doors being unbarred, maids fluttering: “Your Grace!”

Brella remained on the Queen’s bed sprawled across the pillows. There were maids everywhere. Tumultuous noise.

She wished Ghost were here.

And then her husband stalked in. The wrath of him filled the room—or maybe that was only for her. The way he settled on her skin.

He stepped to Lady Renfryd and kissed that lined hand. “I am gladdened to see you well, Lady Appleby.”

Iron softened; became something fonder. “Always the charmer.”

“Hardly.” But the snarl of tension wouldn’t leave him. “I need time with my lady, take them.”

The woman nodded, gestured sharply, and only left once all the maids had exited ahead of her.

He continued: “Brella, out.”

There was a muffled noise of dissent.

Jon grabbed the ankle swinging off the bed and yanked. Brella shrieked as she and a dozen pillows went bouncing to the floor.

The girl’s skirts were everywhere; her hair askew. “You wretch!”

“Out.”

“I thought marriage would make you nicer, it just made you meaner.”

“And I’m sure your heart is breaking. Go to your brothers, go eat a pile of cakes, just get out.”

Brella huffed. “See if I ever cover for you to mother again!” Then flounced right out of the room and slammed the door.

He reached for Sansa immediately, cupping her face and kissing her swiftly. It was hard enough to steal the breath from her. But she touched his cheek and drew him away. “You’re upset.”

He groaned. “Is it obvious?”

“My King, when you are angry, I expect the entire castle knows it.”

He sighed then: a thing grating from the lungs. Still though, his embrace met her, and he rested a cheek against her own. She sagged into him.

He murmured: “I’ve made a mistake that I do not regret.”

A dubious start. “Tell me.”

“The man I cut the tongue from for insulting you—his name is Daryn Hornwood.”

And a noise of pain escaped her. “Please tell me he’s not—”

“He is.” He answered flatly. “And the only son, if we don’t count Lord Hornwood’s natural get.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“I know, they are furious and fomenting dissent wherever they can find it. I can at least regret the consequences, if not the choice that caused them.”

That brought her little joy, but it was still more than most kings would ever admit.

It was just another problem to stack on top of the rest. “We’ll figure it out.” She didn’t know how—she had never met the Lord and Lady Hornwood to know their nature, their tells, their fissures. But she was his wife, and it was her he was meant to lean on. To seek counsel in these trying matters.

She forced a strength she did not feel. “We will solve it, you’ll see.” Even as her head ached.

This time, it was him the drew away and gazed with brow furrowing. “You’re upset.”

She shook her head. “I’m not—”

“Honesty.” He rumbled, and she bit her lip. Felt something clawing. Would he hear her? Would he understand? Would he see—

“The Lady Barbrey wanted you to marry Brella.”

And he flinched as if she'd struck him. His head shook. “That is no matter.”

It dawned on her: “You knew.”

“Betrothal was offered to me, but I married you. The point is moot.”

“The point is not moot!” She snapped. “You were not expected to marry me until Winterfell, and here she is presenting Brella in a fine new dress, lovely and young and just familiar enough to—”

“She is my sister!”

“That was kept apart from you for years in the hopes her beautiful face would make you forget!”

His eyes flew wide. He swallowed once. Twice. “She…winter travel is…”

“As dangerous as the women who live through it.” And she felt herself becoming smaller before this argument—ugly in her anger. “Tonight there will be lords presenting ladies in waiting to me, while presenting you a mistress in the same breath. Brella is already—”

“Barbrey wouldn’t dishonor her daughter. This was one last gasp before she knew the matter was shut. We cannot be sundered, and she will make her peace with it. Brella is my sister and you are my wife.”

Perhaps for now, if she was not shoved down some castle stair to break her neck with Jon’s next bride waiting behind her.

It made her sick. It made her want to claw out someone’s throat. Bitterness seethed: “The Trident King forced his wife keep some of his mistresses in her household.”

“I am not the Trident King.” And he loomed then, crowding her to the bed. Snarling like the wolf. Hungry.

He leaned in. “You’re jealous.”

She gasped. “That is a mortal sin—”

His mouth bit at her jaw, hot and open. Teeth scraping. “My wife is jealous and only wants me to herself.”

“I…”

“She wants everything. My heart, my cock, my babes—”

And she clawed her fingers through his hair and yanked his mouth to hers. Punished him.

But he enjoyed her lash, kissing her deep and filthy, before shoving her on the bed. He was rucking her skirts as she’d imagined. Tearing off her stockings. His skin was so hot as she dug her fingers into him. Dragged him up, captured him between her arms and legs. He rutted against her smallclothes—against her cunt.

That familiar wetness was returning; that impossible ache to have him inside. Filling her. Keeping him exactly where he was meant to be.

He was her King, but she was the Queen that ruled him.

“Jon.”

“Yes.” He rumbled, and then he was pushing her small clothes aside and fucking her in earnest.

There was nothing gentle in this, not their hands, not their mouths, not in their hips thrusting together. The obscenity of the noise. Grunting, gasping, snarling.

Perhaps marrying her husband had made her a wolf, too.

Their peaks were joined, one crashing after another. Heat flooding. Hearts tumbling.

Sticky and damp; how they curled together at the end. She had not even taken off her dress. Jon was kissing her forehead, her hair. Her own breath pulsed at his neck. She pressed her mouth there softly.

He tugged her closer and began rubbing her back. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She whispered. “I know you are a King. There have been others, I know that. Other offers, other…”

He answered sharply: “They don’t matter now; I made vows to you. And I am not a man who gives those lightly.”

“Many men speak of honor.” She answered, then kissed his neck. “I think you are one of the few who truly live it.”

His arms trembled for the briefest moment. “Thank you.”

She burrowed closer and treasured that naked emotion; treasured his trust in her to show it. They laid there for awhile breathing in time.

He spoke: “Brella has no romantic designs on me, I promise you. I am her brother just as much as Konrad and Markas. That union was a thing solely dreamed up by Lady Barbrey.”

Sansa wasn’t sure she could believe that. The dream that a girl could marry the handsome King she’d grown with and felt safe beside—it was an easy idea to seed. To cling onto.

But her husband knew it now. If Brella Dustin wanted otherwise, Sansa would have to trust him to turn the girl away.

She laughed with tattered mirth. “You may have to apologize, then. I think you might have bruised the girl’s tailbone.”

“We’ve all done worse to each other.” He dismissed; breath warm at her hairline. His mouth warmer. “You should see the scar I have from her embroidery scissors.”

It always felt like a blessing when he kissed her as such. “I am sure there is some tale of how you deserved it.”

“Don’t believe the lies.” But he remained there. Whispered: “Was it only Brella?”

She sighed quietly. “Yes. No. I thought…I thought I was ready for Winterfell. Some part of me believed it would be a place I could rest. An end to the journey.”

He understood. “But it’s only the start of something harder.”

“Yes.”

His fingers curled at her back, blunt nails scuffing so gently at her spine. “I wasn’t much older than you when they put the crown on my head. I wanted it—I thought I knew how to rule. No one is ever ready for a crown. You will make mistakes and enemies, even when you have the best of intentions. Everyone will always want something. You must care for them endlessly, and trust so many times when you have been given no reason to. A kingdom is never ruled with only our friends and kin.”

She had known this, but there was no knowing. The reality was more fraught and terrifying than anything that could be told. The weight, the scale, those grasping hands.

Always outstretched, always clawing for more.

“Sansa…I want my half-sister to be your lady in waiting as well, if you are amenable. I don’t know her yet—but I want to. And Brella, she is the youngest and spoiled for how fiercely she has been guarded. But she is also good, and steadfast, and always gives her hand to those who are hurting. She will be a good companion to you. And one day, I hope a friend as well. I know I can’t ask this of you…"

All that grasping, and yet her grandfather had done the same. How could she blame them? If her mother had tasked her to spy on a queen, she would have done it. Her grandfather had wanted her to marry a king, and she had followed those orders.

North and South and Tully and Dustin—she did not know if there was any real difference.

“I will try.” She promised. “I will ask her to teach me the Northern ways of embroidery, lest you get out of line again.”

Yet his gratitude spilled once more. “Thank you.” And he sealed it with a kiss upon her brow. She just tucked her face into his neck and held him close.

Slowly, that rubbing hand came to halt. “Winterfell is not all dread. Will you follow me?”

She did not want to rise. “Do you give your wife no rest?”

But he kept tugging at her hands, lifting her to her feet once more. “You’ll enjoy this. Come.”

/~/~/~/

And she went.

/~/~/~/

Beyond the Great Keep was a land of wonders, gleaming ochre with the setting sun. She had never seen so much glass in a single place. The glass gardens of Winterfell were as much a marvel as the tales had promised.

There were so many guards, but they melted away at Jon’s stride as he pulled her into that vaulted space. Heat rushed over her, wet and green as it swallowed her.

A frisson bolted down her spine. She was in the Trident again. In summer. After so long, so damn long. After frigid winds and dry hands and an aching heart—she was alive.

Blossoms were spreading and their smell drifted so richly. Among the trees the ripeness of their labors hung like jewels. Her husband plucked down a plum so lustrous and dark.

It sat firm in his palm. Her mouth watered at its sight; she had not had fresh fruit in years.

Her heart fluttered. So did her hands “Can—can I?”

A darkness passed through him. A softness after. “Yes.” And he held it up to her mouth.

She wrapped both hands around his wrist and brought him close. Then, worshipfully, she sank her teeth in. Sweetness ruptured on her tongue, fresh and crisp and more perfect than could be possible.

She moaned. There was a noise in answer. Her eyes flew open to see her husband watching her, eyes dark as pits. She took another bite and let the juices slip down her chin.

He pulled the fruit away, and she strangled the animal urge to drag it back. Gnaw down.

Jon lunged at her. His mouth covered hers, feverish, licking that holy taste from her. It was his turn to moan. “You are so sweet.”

She wasn’t—one bite of the plum was more perfect than she could ever be made. But her husband still kissed her as if she were the only sustenance left on this earth.  

When he lifted the plum to her again, there was no other choice. She bit down deeply and savored.

Chapter Text

That very day of arrival, she sent two letters on the wings of ravens. One went to her uncle William Mooton, thanking him for his swiftness, then flattering him most sweetly for his continued generosity. Maidenpool would be more vital to the North than their own heart in the coming days, and she would not see it fail them.

The other winged to her lady mother. A raven could carry few words, and this one even fewer: she only needed three.

/~/~/~/

He is kind.

/~/~/~/

There were candles flickering in every window of the Great Hall—great chandeliers like crowns of fire. They floated in the night like will o’ the wisps, and who knew what dangers they beckoned her towards. But Jon’s sword arm stayed firm under her palms. Sturdy. His own crown of swords glinting like molten bronze in his hair. It was as if the metal was yet in the Smith’s great furnace, anointing him with the gods’ own light.

He was so terribly formidable, her King of Winter. Her greatest defender. His devotion was not a victory won, but a gift unexpectedly given. She had grown cutting her teeth on tales of Queens: Cersei Lannister in Storm’s End, the Queen of Thorns upon Highgarden, Mae Harroway so splendid in the Trident Court. How they had maneuvered in their husbands’ demesnes fighting for their attentions. Their affections. Any royal boon to be found.

She had spent the journey North girding herself to do the same, but when her husband had looked upon her…his gaze had stayed and never wavered.

There lived a hundred kings in this world beneath a hundred different crowns, and yet there was no man like Jon Stark upon this earth. He was hers, and he would stay hers. Any woman that tried to step between them—Sansa would see her ruined.

She took a steadying breath. Another. Her heart was pounding like a war drum, and it couldn’t be so.  A queen was serene, floating like a river lily over any tribulation. Unbothered. Unchallenged. Powerful in her grace.

She had been blessed sevenfold in her husband, and she would see that blessing returned. When she squeezed his arm, he tucked a hand over hers. Kissed her jaw. “We will win them.”

“Yes.” She agreed, for they could not stumble now.

Behind them, Brella giggled again, clinging to Ser Marq’s arm in rapture. It was not a thing Sansa was proud of, ordering the knight to escort Lady Brella over all objections. But Marq Piper had a certain effect on young ladies. And coming North, it seemed, had not lessened his charms.

Brella was starry-eyed and paying not a whit of attention to her husband, and that would suffice. No matter how Jon had grumbled in their chambers—

“He’s far too old for her!”

“It is an escort to a feast, not a betrothal.” And she’d shot him a gimlet eye. “Be at peace. While Lord Piper sent his son along hoping he would give up his ways, and choose any lady to wed—”

Her husband squawked at that.

She’d rolled her eyes. “Hush yourself—I doubt it will be Brella. She is far too young and not to his tastes.” For Ser Marq had never had time for fluttering young ladies of gentle lineage. It was a great disappointment to many a Riverland heart. Sansa had been lucky—her own vexation with Marq had begun and ended at ten and two when she had yearned keenly, only for him to call her a little one at a tourney, then bid her to return to her mother with a pat on the head.

Nothing could douse an ardent flame quite so quickly as that.

Even if Marq was not the issue, it wouldn’t be borne. The Lady Barbrey would smother her in her sleep for trying. While it would delight Sansa to betroth her every rival and cast them away, even she knew such a match was improbable. Brella was ten and five, and of a Great House above Marq’s own noble lineage. The girl would remain with them for some years no matter how that vexed.

But letting Brella develop a girlish affection for an unobtainable knight…that would do nicely. Why any girl would look to Ser Marq and not her kingly husband bewildered her, but Sansa would take the advantage if it came.

Behind them, Lady Barbery glided on her lord son’s arm, no doubt burning a hole in the back of Sansa’s head. Ser Brynden escorted the Lady Appleby to much laughter and mischievous flirting between them. Poor Alyn Smallwood was left without a lady—Sansa had offered for Jeyne Poole to come with them to the feast, but the girl had swiftly demurred.

Ser Wyck, as always, ghosted on alone. But he was in his finest livery tonight, and she wondered if some Northern maid wouldn’t find him handsome enough to wed. He was common born, but the soon-to-be knight of a Queen, and that meant something very powerful indeed.

She was lingering too much on marriages. It wouldn’t do. Her husband guided her through the frigid courtyard and up the Great Hall’s steps. The doors were flung wide to welcome all, heat and boisterous laughter already spilling out.

Their cloaks were taken by deft hands. The entry was a broad one that quickly narrowed in. They passed beneath the minstrel’s gallery; Northern strings playing some unfamiliar tune. She wondered if her husband would dance with her tonight. Spin her around until she was breathless.

It was not a dream to last. The corridor opened; velvet curtains parted. Voices rose. They stepped into the light of a thousand candles, a hundred torches, a dozen great hearths to the Herald proclaiming: “All hail! His Grace Jon Stark, King in the North and Lord Protector of Winterfell! And his wife, the Lady Consort Sansa Stark of House Tully, Mistress of the Realm!”

A roar greeted them—only in Harrenhal had she ever seen so many faces in a single hall. Seen such soaring vaults. The ceiling above was lost in a haze of smoke, the candles flickering like stars. For as dour as the wilds laid outside, in this room shone a wealth of color and jewels. This was the finery of the North resplendent; proud in its every glory.

And it came upon them like a flood. Congratulations, compliments to her loveliness, questions of when food shipments would arrive. A hundred different veiled requests towards her King of titles and dams and quibbled borders. Any implications towards daughters in low cut dresses who Sansa was assured would serve her loyally—her husband feigned obliviousness.

She gave courtesies with every breath, glares to every heaving bosom, and direct answers only when prompted. She knew when Lords made their appeals it was not her voice they wished to hear. A lady was always to support her lord in deed as well as silence.

Her uncle stayed a step behind, but always gave his strength. Especially when he planted himself between her King and any too flirtatious lady. Would that his defense be the only one needed this night.

When Lord Rodrik Ryswell greeted her with icy courtesy, she returned it with sweetness. Had to: for if she offered insult, she feared her uncle and the lord would come to blows. Each man was glaring at the other as if their gaze could draw flame.

Her husband hurried the introduction: “I present you Lord Rodrick Ryswell of the Rills, and his sons, Roger and Rickard. Rickard is the master-at-arms of Winterfell.”

Rickard Ryswell bowed to her, though it was a shallow thing.

“How lovely.” She said, knowing it was not lovely at all. Would the gods ever deliver her of all these Ryswells?

There was already a schism between their houses though, and Sansa would not see it widened. Not tonight. “I have heard great things of you from my husband, Lord Ryswell, and am gladdened you could join us in our celebration.”

The lord’s brow arched. “To celebrate an alliance made so swiftly is our greatest delight. Where would we be without House Tully and their generosity sweeping in at the final hour?”

And Sansa felt the smile freeze upon her face.

But Roger Ryswell was either a kinder soul, or utterly unaware of the tension, for he grinned at her and asked: “My Lady Consort, please tell us of your travels. Were they well?”

She immediately grasped the change in subject. Of her words, she ensured the praises she sung to the North were more numerous than any hardships she recounted. No man appreciated a lady who complained over much.

Roger listened to her quite intently. It was obvious the handsomeness of his nephews came from the Ryswell side, for he was a man hard to look away from. A creature of good cheer, too, for once talks of her travels were exhausted, he inquired on how she found Winterfell. That happily allowed her to boast of the castle’s glories to any man listening.

And men were always listening, when the King and his wife spoke. But there existed no people that did not love to hear the beauties of their homeland, and Roger Ryswell had allowed her to champion the North this night.

It seemed though that the Lady Barbrey’s tenacity was an inherited trait, for the moment she stopped for breath, Lord Ryswell interrupted: “Ser Brynden, I see you are looking well.”

Her mouth clicked shut, cheeks burning for how swiftly she’d been silenced.

Her uncle’s glare was venomous. “A man endures as he must.”

“Surely.” Lord Ryswell agreed. “And how is your dear brother? He must tire himself, grasping so high and so often.”

And tensions strummed like the drawing of a bow. “His successes buoy him. He’ll spite us and live a thousand years, having a granddaughter for a Queen.”

Lord Ryswell’s smile became rapier thin. “All men have pride in their get. Those that live long enough to honor their fathers, of course. We will bid our watchful gods that the Lady Sansa shows herself hardier than her predecessors.”

And it was copper on the tongue, in the water—how the blood of Tully wrath bloomed. Her uncle had no sword. None were allowed in this hall. If there were daggers here, they were hidden in the smiles around them.

She wondered what would spill now; what old blood would find light.

What further insults would be spoken of her poor Aunt Lysa.

“Lord Ryswell.” And Jon’s voice was the whistle of the arrow. The crashing of a blade. Lord Rodrick’s smile fell away. Her uncle rocked backwards.

Furies stymied.

And her husband stood calamitous; a King entirely crowned. “My wife became the blood of my blood when we shared that iron cup. You know how I answer insults to my kin, my lord, so surely you did not cast affront. For I would rise against it most violently.”

“Certainly not.” And Lord Ryswell buttressed up as if he was a fortress. “We are loyal to your reign, your Grace. You are one of us.”

But her husband only hummed, unimpressed with that offering. The Ryswell brothers shifted restlessly as if preparing for a blow. But their lord father stayed implacable, as if his words and honor were unassailable. As if he was indifferent to this wrath.

Sansa did not dare reach for her uncle to steady his hands. They did not shake for fear, but for the bloodshed they held back.

Her husband sent a glance into the crowd, and another man swiftly came to join them. His voice heralded a shock of cheer. “Lord Rodrik, Roger! Where have you been hiding? My lord brother brought along a choice barrel of ale, and it is no jolly night without you Ryswells raising toast among us.”

The horrible suffocation cleaved open. “That sounds splendid!” Roger hurried. “We would be glad to join your table.” His brother Rickard nodded along quite vigorously at the suggestion.

As if remembering himself, the newcomer turned and bowed: “Grayson Long, at your service.”

Another handsome sort, this Grayson. And a dear ally to have, considering how the Longs of the Lakes controlled the waterways. She extended her hand. “A pleasure.”

Those teeth of his were so sharp when he grinned. “My dearest lady, any man who looked upon you would surely claim his pleasures greater. And mine truly are.” Then he kissed her hand, managing to be both quick and yet terribly flattering in the act.

Her husband—who had looked momentarily relieved at the man’s arrival—went stiff as a board. She extricated her hand and was rather amused when her husband snatched it back to himself. He greeted the man irritably: “Long.”

“Your Grace.” The man hardly seemed perturbed by the sour welcome. “My dear friends, care to join us? We’d be very pleased to treat the Lady Sansa to the finest northern ale.”

Jon snorted. “A welcome offer that we must regretfully decline. Tell your brother I’ll have need of him in three days—the food shipments.”

“Of course,” The man agreed. “We are at your command.” And then Grayson Long managed to draw the Ryswells away and divert utter catastrophe.

She could see now why Jon held the man in such esteem. But her King remained stiff, unmoving in that perilous wake. “Ser Brynden, my lady, apologies.”

“You cannot control every man’s tongue.” But her uncle was still struggling to swallow his wrath.

She touched that straining arm. “The air is clearer outside, uncle.”

“So it is.” His fists flexed. “You shall be well?”

“I am at my husband’s side, well was never in question.”

Jon squeezed her hands at that. Kissed her cheek. So too did her uncle a moment later. “I’ll rejoin you.” And then he vanished into the crowd. The cold of these lands could douse any fire, sober any man. She hoped they would steady him.

Her husband spoke quieter. “Sansa…”

This was hardly the time. “Leave the past with those it buried. It is not ours to hold.”

“If that is your wish.” And then her husband was swearing: “Gods bedamn it.”

“What…?”

“Not you, the Mormonts.” And another family was entering the hall to the Herald’s cry. A man led them, burly and bear-like, a woman perched upon his arm. A dark-haired lass a few years Sansa’s elder followed the couple, taller and broader than any woman Sansa had ever seen. Another lady just as fierce kept step with them. Aging and gray, gnarled, looking as if she’d be willing to fight any man in this hall and succeed.

The couple was dressed in dark greens looking no different than any other noble couple. But the two women behind them were dressed in doublets and breeches. It was utterly scandalous. No lady in the Trident court would have dared…but they were in that south no longer.

She refrained from blurting her shock. “What problems do they cause?”

“They are not a problem.” But then he was shaking his head. “Lady Maege Mormont, she was…” And his voice dropped low. “She was there when my uncle was murdered. Roose and his men thought her dead, and she saw their blades turn. She escaped the army’s camp with Galbert Glover; it was on her testimony that every Bolton lord and three of the Karstarks were hung. She is a woman true…and a woman reviled.”

“By the gods.” She breathed, for no one had thought to tell her. She hadn’t known.

His nostrils flared. “I will have blood on my floors before the night is out, gods damn us.”

That wouldn’t do; they were in enough trouble with the Hornwoods already. Her palm steadied him. “We should greet them. A King’s favor is a frightful thing to cross, is it not?”

Another harsh breath. A clenching of the jaw. “Yes, my lady speaks true. Into the breach, then?”

“So we go.” And so they went, the crowds parting like water before them. Her husband was not wrong—many a dark look fell upon the Mormont contingent. Poisonous. The North was a tangle of marriages and grudges, boons and burdens. She feared she’d never sort them before they swallowed her alive.

Yet the Mormonts looked heartened to see their coming. The man at their head was wind-worn, salt-flecked, pale-bearded and brawny as the bear sigil stitched to his tunic. His wife was dark-haired and graying; had a cupid’s mouth with as many frown lines in its dips as there were laugh lines at her eyes.

The couple stood arm in arm; a comfort bred of time, but not of love. It was the sort of marriage Sansa had seen too often.

Introductions were made by her King. “My Lady Sansa: this is Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island and his wife, the Lady Isolde of House Umber. She is the GreatJon’s second daughter. With them is the Lady Maege Mormont, aunt and honored advisor to Lord Jorah.”

Sansa nodded. “Well met my lord, my ladies.” It would have to be. The Lord and Lady Mormont were strung with nerves. The Lady Maege was gray in every meaning, in face and age and spirit. Heavy with unspoken grief.

Sansa could not even guess its source.

The Lady Isolde smiled then, a sweet yet bitter thing. “As long as you don’t claim to see the resemblance to my father, we are well met indeed.”

That startled a laugh from Sansa—turned that answering smile more sweet than sour. The Lady Isolde drew an arm behind her, pulling forth that black-haired woman dressed like a man. Up close, the lass had a rather lovely face.

Lord Jorah spoke: “My Lady Consort, I present the pride and joy of my House: our daughter and heir, Josmyn Mormont.”

“Lady Josmyn.” Sansa greeted, yet to her surprise, the Lady Josmyn clasped her hand firmly. Sansa had the strangest feeling that if she had asked, the Lady Josmyn would have cheerfully kissed it as many a man had that night.

“Lady Sansa.” And Josmyn eyed her a little harder, perused. The woman turned to their King: “Well done, you. Proper show.”

And Jon was aggrieved. “Do not even begin.”

But the Lady Josmyn grinned wider, patting Sansa’s hand solicitously. “Is that how you greet your saviors and old friends, your Grace?”

“You riding to my side with sixty-two men saved no one.”

Yet Josmyn barked a laugh. “Tell that to the Ansleys!”

There was an ugly murmur in the crowd—that had displeased more than a few souls in hearing.

Lord Jorah cast a glance in that direction and looked a man pained. “Your Grace, if it pleases, we would very much like our Josmyn to stay at court after we depart.” His gaze slid to Sansa then—trailed her sole to crown. For some strange reason, he looked relieved at the sight of her. “Perhaps see if some courtesies rub off, hmmm?”

Lady Josmyn’s mouth dropped open. “If this is about husbands again—”

But the Lady Isolde touched her daughter’s shoulder. Whispered: “Do not worry about such things, my sweet.”

And Sansa could see the shape of things; a lady in need of polish…among other ventures. That the lass was older than Sansa yet unwed, suggested a wealth of issues—but she would withhold further assumption. The truth was always made plain with time.

She glanced to her husband. He raised one shoulder, the barest shrug. “Josmyn Mormont fought faithfully at my side in the North.” Which offered the unspoken: the woman had cleaved to him before he’d been crowned. Before his great victories had been won. Before royal boons or anything had been assured.

Yet with that simple offering, he’d placed the choice into her hands.

Well then. If the Mormonts had been loyal in battle, and given testimony to see justice done and his fledging reign secured— “Lady Josmyn, it would please me greatly if you joined us as my lady in waiting.”

And it was Josmyn’s turned to be the Mormont in pain. The mother’s hand tightened; the father’s fell like a bear paw upon her other shoulder. Sansa thought both must lay equally heavy to a daughter who remained dutiful.

Josmyn’s brow scrunched, mouth working. Sansa remembered that feeling—how quickly her betrothal to the King had been sprung. No way but forward. No way but out.

A smile came most brittle, but Josmyn answered sincerely: “House Mormont would be honored.”

And Sansa smiled back as comfortingly as she could. “We will have a marvelous time, Lady Josmyn, you’ll see.”

The lady did not look so sure, but then Jon was clapping her upon the arm. “Aye, when my wife isn’t keeping you busy, you’ll join us in the yards. Your cousin has already acquainted many a man’s arse with the dirt.”

And tension leeched from those broad shoulders. “Count on it, your Grace. Cousin Dacey has been showing me the ways of her morningstar—I shall triumph over you yet.”

“You can try.” He replied, clear in his delight.

It was like stone chipping away then, that the Lady Maege finally spoke. “My Alysane has done our House proud in your service?”

Her husband nodded at once. “With loyalty, and steadfast as the day is long. Winterfell welcomed her first son in joy.”

The gnarling lessened. Some of that heaviness bled away. The gray remained though—it was not a weight that could be shed. “A fiercer little bear cub there has never been.” And the Lady Maege glowed with a grandmother’s love. “He is a treasure. Thank you, your Grace.”

It was plain now how they looked upon him, these Mormonts. Hers was no King who ruled by sword and fist. He had warred, but it was his peoples’ hearts he held, not their fears.

“Twas the least we could do.” And then he drew Sansa away. “My lord and ladies, if you’ll excuse us. There are many more we must see this night.”

The Mormonts murmured their assurances; gave thanks for even the briefness of their presence.

The moment she and Jon were away, she looked to him. He answered her unspoken question. “Lady Maege’s first daughter is head of the Mormont Hearthguard. Her second daughter, Alysane, married one of our own. She serves in the Great Keep with her husband Erron Steelstark.” And his eyes drifted to some distant point. “You know, if I gathered enough of the shieldmaidens together…”

“What?”

His mouth snapped shut. “Another time.”

And yet the gray of that woman lingered. “Lady Maege…what did she lose?”

His head turned away. Grief crackling under, horrible and raw. “Who.” And her heart sank. His words fell like grave soil: “Her youngest daughter, Lyanna—the girl was a companion to Arya.”

A companion in Winterfell in this court of nightmares. Bolton cruelty, madness boiling, blood pouring so red—and Sansa knew: “Gods, that poor woman.”

“We have all suffered loss.” He said. But after that, he spoke no more of it.

If she had thought Josmyn Mormont to be the only lady she’d gain that night, she was sorely mistaken. In quick succession she was introduced to Lady Agnes Waterman, who had a husband holding one arm, a daughter at her hip, and a few sons left in another castle. Agnes was swiftly bookended by her Flint kin at their approach.

“Well met, Lady Agnes.”

“Well met, Lady Consort.” And the older woman has smiled upon Sansa so warmly.

Father and brother and husband—all were eager to offer up the lady the moment the word court took form. It was hashed out quickly: what allowances would support the lady. Who would guard her. Which of her four children would come with to the royal household. Sansa’s head spun at the pace of the negotiation.

But it was gladly done. Lady Agnes was a woman of three and thirty. Of the old gods. Acquainted of the marriage bed, a survivor of the birthing, and keeper of all the womanly wisdom therein. It was a prudent choice for more than politics or trade, to have a woman not under the Lady Barbrey’s thumb to give counsel.

After Agnes came Master Helman Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square. There were no such a thing as masterly houses in the south, so when he introduced his daughter as the Mistress Eddara Tallhart, Sansa had to swallow her confusion and nod along.

The man clearly held high hopes for his daughter’s prospects despite them being of a house ignoble. So fair and profoundly beautiful was the girl, that Sansa could only agree with him. Eddara’s looks alone would fetch her a hundred offers.

But most notable of the young mistress was not her face. The girl had not cast covetous eyes nor thrust her bosom at Sansa’s husband even once. It almost had Sansa missing the conversation unfolding in front of her—almost. She never ignored such things.

“Your Grace—this is the ninth time this winter we have found Dustin riders in our wood. The harts there belong to the King’s own demesne!”

“I am aware.” Her husband grit out.

But Helman still barged on. “I shudder to think what will happen come spring. Many years they have tried to move their smallfolk onto the best farming lands on Hemlock Lake. We do not ask so much of our King—”

“The borders will be maintained as they always have.” And it was clear her husband wished to hear no more of it.

Master Helman quieted. “As you say.” But his gaze was tumultuous; a thwarted thing not yet heard. Not truly.

But there was a call of Jon’s name, salutations from those she recognized as former Bolton banners by their sigils. Her king looked to her: “My lady—"

Her lashes dipped. “I would stay with the Tallharts a moment longer, if it pleases.”

His expression told her that it very much did not please, but he nodded all the same. “Join me swiftly.”

“Of course.” And she offered her hand when he made to kiss it. At the last moment though, he turned it; catching not her knuckles but the naked plane of her wrist. His beard rasped. His mouth pressed so hot—

It left her trembling. “Off with thee.”

His smirk curled, but off he went to leave her aching. A dastardly creature, her royal husband. How wretched that she adored him.

She turned to the Tallharts with hands clasped and considered them carefully. They considered her in turn.

It was Master Tallhart that broke the impasse. “My son Benfred spoke of your courage with the wolf, my lady.”

“Did he?” She asked, quietly astonished. “Then his words are most generous, for it is hardly courageous to love such a darling wolf.”

Helman snorted at that. Loudly.

Sansa stayed serene; the lily gilded above all. “Tell me, have these border disputes plagued House Tallhart long?”

That drew a fearsome scowl. “Generations, my lady. We control the port that brings supplies directly to Winterfell, and many a fine field and hunting wood. Others have always coveted them.”

Of course they had—presumption was the way of lords. “No wonder, then, that House Stark trusted you to defend them.”

The man straightened noticeably. Eddara went pink at her words.

“Thank you, my lady.” Tallhart answered with feeling.

She just smiled benignly. “Speaking of our Dustin friends—the Lady Brella has been made my lady in waiting. Though I have always believed in a plethora of voices being heard so we might find balance in our households. It is terribly easy to favor only the faces in front of us, is it not?”

A light dawned upon him. “Of course, Lady Consort. Court has been…weighed in one direction more often, as of late.”

“It appears that way, does it not?” She mused. “But now that I am wed to my husband and bring more loyal lords and ladies to our court—I wish only to give him the wisest counsel that I can.”

Eddara looked between them, clearly not understanding the coiling of their words. But Master Tallhart suffered no misapprehension. “Our house would dedicate ourselves to such a noble goal. What support could we offer?”

It so heartened her when men acted as she hoped, and she turned to face the daughter. “Mistress Eddara, I have greatly enjoyed our conversation. With your father’s permission, I would welcome you into my household. And fret not for home—surely your father and brother would visit you often.”

The girl brightened, her beauty manifold. Her beauty breathtaking. “Oh, Lady Consort—I would be gladdened. So glad. Thank you for offering me thi—my family this boon. I promise you I will serve you faithfully. Be truer than any sister, you shall see.”

How very lovely. “I know I will; I hope we become fast friends. Master Tallhart?”

“Nothing would hearten me more.” And he bowed deeply. “We are at your service, my lady. Our voices rise with yours.”

They would. For animosity could cleave loyalty more surely than any vow.

/~/~/~/

The stone dais was a great thing, a single slab of limestone carved by ancient hand. It depicted a tale she did not yet know. Wolves, weirwitches, gods, graves. Death and rebirth. Whatever laid between those places. The trestle tables were set out swiftly with four on either side of the aisle. More than sixty men stood at each. Dishes were brought one after the other—the wealth of her dowry laid bare.

The candlelight made their eyes so strange. Skull-dark. Torch-bright. Piercing. Each rising as she and Jon ascended to their place.

Her throne matched her husband’s own, no higher nor lower. Wolves a’plenty in its shape. When he kissed her cheek, she tilted her face into it. Allowed him to linger at her jaw and did not scold him for his teeth. Let the North look upon her and see her husband’s favor. How he coveted her.

There was no time for modesty in a den of wolves.

A mead poured forth as dark as blood, and he raised their cup.

“To the North!”

And the hall thundered: “TO THE NORTH!”

/~/~/~/

As he had been so grievously threatened, Konrad was given the feasting seat of honor by his wife. As the ale flowed, Jon’s brother and wife had taken to whispering together and snickering. Mortifying childhood tales were no doubt being shared.

He drank deeply. The hall was growing louder. Lords were quaffing ale to great cheering. There had been stomping and war songs, men doing jigs on tables, even maids plucked into laps. Some couples were already dancing in the aisles not waiting for the tables to be cleared.

But sacrifice had been done in the Godswood; the blood brought forth to anoint the dais before their knives found their meat. This time, his wife had not even batted a lash when the blessing had been spattered.

The hall stayed in motion. The Lady Barbrey sat with her father and brothers, offering them no grief. Not yet. Ser Marq’s fair head could be seen among the harbor knights—and good riddance. Brella could pout at her end of the table all she liked; he still wouldn’t invite the man to sit with them.

Brella was a girl still; he’d seen dolls tucked away in her rooms. There would be no matches for her. Not for years, if he had anything to say of it.

The Mormonts sat with their Umber kin; Lady Josmyn under her grandfathers’ arm as he made a slashing motion. It was some old battle of the Greatjon’s no doubt recounted in gory detail. Ser Brynden was singing a vulgar tune with Lord Mollen, an entire bench of men swaying along and sloshing ale over their trenchers. Jon wondered when that particular hatchet had been buried.

Lord Hornwood sat bookended by Lords Shearer and Lightfoot, all gesturing furiously. Some of the heads around them were nodding.

He sucked in a harsh breath.

His wife’s hand came upon his arm, gentling. Her gaze followed his. “He has been at it the whole night. The Lady Hornwood sits with the ladies Farrow and Strudwick. Perhaps she thinks she will find sympathetic ear.”

“She might.” Jon bit out. “I executed the Lady Farrow’s husband and first son, and the Lady Strudwick’s father and brothers. There isn’t a family in Bolton lands I haven’t bloodied.”

Her palm kept stroking him. “The Lady Farrow has daughters yet to wed—”

“And the Hornwoods a disgraced son.” And he threw his napkin forcefully onto the table. “The last thing we need are the Weeping Lands getting ideas again.”

Konrad made a rude noise. “Let the half-tongued fool have them. All of Farrow’s daughters have the eyes of a fish and the personality to match.”

His wife sent Konrad a harsh glance. Jon, despite himself, felt a smirk curl. “You shouldn’t say such things; I’ve grown partial to fish. Sansa, get one of the servants, I need some trout upon my tongue—”

“Hush yourself!” But his wife had gone shockingly pink, and he loved that color most of all. Wanted to clothe her in it. No—have her in nothing else. Only her skin. Eager for him; clawing for his body again and again. His back still stung from it, and never had he burned hotter. Not when his wife was demanding his cock and his heart in the same breath.

She could have them both. Have it all.

Gods, it was a foolish thing for her to be wary of Brella, but he didn’t know how to make her believe it. The warmth of old memories stirred even now. A boy not yet ten and anxious. Hoping. Then, after Markas and Konrad had been given the chance—he’d been allowed to press his cheek to the Lady Barbrey’s stomach. Feel Brella kicking. Had the lady stroking his hair the same as her sons.

The gentleness of it; a feeling like belonging.

There had been no mothers at Castle Cerwyn for him. Not to cheer his clumsy swordplay nor tuck him in at night. No one to kiss his brow when he was sick and shivering.

Not until Barbrey.

He hated that any doubt plagued his wife…but gods, this was not a thing for her to doubt. Though really—were there ways to have her gripping him so jealously without such nonsense being involved?

Sansa was still focused on Konrad though, and asking archly: “Were any daughters to your liking tonight?”

The man sniffed. “I thought I’d eaten away from my mother.”

Sansa scowled at that; clutching for Jon’s arm and ignoring Konrad utterly. Good—he didn’t want them becoming too chummy. There were enough alliances forming against him already.

Again they looked to the Hornwoods; to Breakwaters and Hales sworn to Lyessa Flint crowding him. It sat like a stone in Jon’s gut.

“Any ideas?” He asked softly.

Her gaze stayed even. “Not yet. I must know more of them, but…”

“But?”

“I have enough ladies to start taking tea in the midafternoon. It will be an exclusive thing—only allowing attendance by rare invitation. I will see what I can learn of the Hornwoods, then I will invite the Lady Lyessa Flint. If we cannot come to terms with their quarreling, then we must rob them of supporters by any means.”

Hunger clawed within him. He pressed his mouth into her hair, murmured: “You are a frightful adversary.”

She shivered. He wanted: to press his mouth to her neck and then below the pale pearls hanging above her breasts. Push down her dress then shove her onto the table to let the whole North see how well he fucked his wife.

He drew away—she would hate such thoughts. Anything more could wait for their chambers. “Any others you wish to invite?”

She shook herself. “I would ask for some Bolton ladies as well—those who rule in their own right. Lady Rime and…that unmarried one giving you troubles.”

Jon groaned. “Aye, the Lady Morrowind.” And a thorn upon his very reign. Once upon a time, she’d been considered the fairest face in the realm. The greatest marriage prize of a generation. She had eventually wed the Morrowind heir from her suitors. Jon himself had attended the wedding, though in those days, he had stood among Hearthguard and bastards in poor vantage. Where smoke from the fires had stung the eye.

Lord Morrowind had died in battle at the Neck, which was a blessing only to the man himself. His heir had been gutted to pay their atonement to the gods.

But the order of those deaths had made Mereya Morrowind the Lady of Whistling Castle by marriage. She would not be the first woman to inherit such; the Lady Strudwick ruled by right of being her father’s only living child. The Lady Lyla Rime sat regent on behalf of her young son. But Mereya…her husband had not begat on her a single child. And since that day, the Morrowind cousins had not given him a moment’s rest. They’d demanded the lordship, her return to her father’s house, her hand in marriage.

But the Lady Morrowind had kept evading them; showing herself to be ruthless in ways no one had expected. She’d been the marriage prize, not the fox that hunted it.

And yet.

But winter was stretching, and so too were his excuses not to deal with the matter. He grumbled: “Would that she’d married one of those cousins sniffing around her skirts and granted me peace.”

And Konrad’s cup thunked off a serving dish. “What?”

Jon blinked back. “What?”

But Konrad was still gaping. “Lady Mereya is unwed? All she had to do was pick one of those odious Morrowinds!”

“I believe their odiousness may have prevented that.”

Perhaps the lady thought her family ties would bolster her. She was the daughter of the late Lord Ansley, the niece of the current, and cousin to the Lady Strudwick besides. But if she thought she could rule without an heir of Morrowind blood—

Konrad rose so fast he nearly knocked down his chair. “You should announce the dancing.”

“The feast is not yet—”

But Konrad had already elbowed around the table and disappeared into the throng.

Jon sat in a moment of befuddled silence. His wife laughed.

“What?” He asked of her.

She merely smiled before dabbing her mouth. “Oh, nothing. I was merely thinking of the benefits of matrimony.”

/~/~/~/

He was not prepared even knowing it was to come. Lord Thenn and Lady Alys came to them, welcome faces both, yet clinging to Alys’ hand was her niece. Clinging to her hand was Elissa Karstark. It knocked all sense from him.

Gown black, embroidery white, thumb worrying a thread. The girl stared resolutely at the floor.

He knew what he wanted.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He knew what he—

And her eyes rose. Gray to gray. A frisson ripping down his back. Face long, features fine, looking so like Arya that it nearly felled him. He clutched onto Sansa’s arm, and his wife swayed closer. Kissed his cheek as if it was some affectionate whim on her part.

Gave no sign that she was buoying him.

Elissa kept staring upon his face, eyes flickering. Searching. He knew not for what. They called the Karstarks the sun of winter, and surely she was, for Elissa was burning.

Sigorn of the Thenns threw his arms wide. “King Snow, Queen Snow. Welcome!”

“Stark.” And Alys smiled warmly at her husband before, shockingly, turning that expression upon Jon. “And they welcome us, my love, not the other way around.”

Such warmth had never been directed upon his person from her. All he remembered was a girl pale and drawn, snowflakes like a crown in her hair as Jon led her to a marriage she hadn’t asked for. Her missives had been kinder the past few years, but…he hadn’t been sure. If the Lady Alys hated him for what he’d demanded of her, she hid it well.

Sigorn’s brow furrowed. “You come to your kin, wife, you give welcome so they know you embrace them.”

“Hmmmmm.” Alys hummed. “We are not beyond the Wall.”

“Bah!”

But Sansa, miraculously, took no offense at being titled a bastard’s Queen—even if that gave Jon a strange jolt to hear. His wife remained benevolent. “We are happy to be welcomed by our kin no matter where we are, Lord Thenn. Are you—by the gods, Lady Alys, is that a baby?”

And Jon finally managed to wrench his gaze from his sister to the sling over Alys' chest. It was a Freefolk carrier blended into the furs she wore. Alys gave a secretive little grin before peeling it back enough to reveal a tiny face. A little hand stuck out, and Elissa reached over to let the babe grip her finger.

“It’s a boy.” Alys announced warmly. “And I couldn’t bear to leave him behind.”

“A babe always travels with his milkmother.” Sigorn agreed in cheer, looking proud as a rooster among the hens. “Our kind do not leave them.”

“A baby!” And Sansa eagerly rushed to touch the babe’s cheek. Coo: “He’s so darling, and what a handsome face! What’s his name?”  

And Sigorn reared back, spitting words in the old tongue so quickly they sounded as curses. Perhaps they were.

Sansa quailed, fear visible before she managed to clamp down on it, and Jon was ready to rip Sigorn’s head from his neck. But there came Alys: pinching her husband with an unforgiving twist. Sigorn yelped. Alys snapped: “Quiet yourself!” Then turned to Sansa, going from furious to charming in the bat of a lash. “Lady Consort, many apologies. I fear that is a verboten thing. It is not the Freefolk way to name a child before they have seen two years. If wicked spirits hear a babe’s name, or others grow jealous at the presumption—it draws the evil eye. Ill luck.”

“I am sorry.” Sansa hurried. “I did not know, many apologies.”

“No harm was done in the asking.” But then Alys glared to her lord. “Though perhaps there was harm in the foolery of my husband.”  

Sigorn grumbled, arms crossed, though Jon thought the man’s shoulders had a rather defensive hunch. And he did seem to be staying out of the range of his wife’s merciless hands. Alys just hummed, unamused. But when the lady turned to her niece, that hand became merciful. “Elissa, my love. Courtesies.”

“Oh!” Elissa squeaked and spun around. Eyes darting still. Curtsying deep. “Your Grace, Lady Consort, you honor House Karstark with your hospitality.”

His heart wrenched, but he did not reach to raise her out of it. He was not sure she would welcome his touch. “We do not need courtesies between us. We are kin, are we not?”

Elissa did not answer, and Alys smiled sadly. “We are.” But then her expression curdled. “I wanted to bring Elissa over, she has been ever so busy tonight following Lord Holden around. Introductions to the young Lord Farrow, Lord Locke’s son, even that disgraced Daryn Hornwood—he has been quite eager to have her seen. I wasn’t sure we would find the time to visit your Grace, such was the whirlwind.”

And Elissa’s head turned down again, mouth mulish. Frustrated and obstinate. Another galling wrench through his very body—for he would recognize that Stark brood upon anyone.

And a terrible thunder built inside. He knew he was being manipulated; such was Alys’ way. Whether begging, browbeating, or weeping aloud—the Lady Thenn would do anything to see to her family’s safety. But what man could begrudge such devotion?

Though no one would begrudge him this wrath. “I have heard such things. Perhaps Lord Holden should have been more concerned of introducing Elissa to my wife. My lady?” And he looked to Sansa beseechingly.

His wife stayed loyal and true, for she returned instantly: “Lady Elissa, we would be ever so happy to spend more time with you. My King’s virtuous sister would be welcomed with open arms in our court. I wish you my lady in waiting, and would support your needs in my household.”

Elissa’s eyes flew wide. Bright. She was rocking on her toes, whispering frantically to her aunt: “But mother said—”

“Your mother would not begrudge you spending time with your brother. He and his wife will look after you.” And Alys tapped Elissa’s shoulder, turning the girl to them again. Teeth showing, though in nothing that Jon would call a smile. “You should sit in Winterfell proudly—you are the blood of kings.”

Elissa swallowed hard. Trembled.

It left him hesitating. “Do not let us pressure you, it is only an offer. And whatever introductions Lord Holden makes—your marriage is in Karstark hands, not his.”

But the Lady Thenn’s face stayed glacial. “It would be prudent for the King to put that in writing.”

“Of course.” He agreed. “The Lady Elissa does not have to decide tonight. I will write to Lady Karstark and make some things plain to Lord Holden.” And Jon wondered how his blood mother would take this next missive. If it would finally prompt a letter from her that would spill more than a few stilted lines on lords and grains.

“Excellent.” And Alys softened.

Yet the true reward was Elissa and her expression blooming like a valley flower. Hope in her petals. Joy her very crown.

“You are kind, Lady Consort.” The girl offered shyly. “And very beautiful. I would be honored.”

His wife glowed, and Jon felt the same light take root in his chest.

/~/~/~/

The feast grew raucous, and his wife was flagging. Even Jon would admit his eyes had grown heavy. He bid their goodnight to many beseeching that they stay longer, then spirited them from the hall. Let the North celebrate until the wee hours; he and his wife would find their own rejoicing.

Jon eschewed the King’s chambers to follow his wife to her own. Where else would he go? He tried to undress her, but tired hands made a bungle of it, and he had to surrender such joys to the maids. Instead, he sat before the fire, insisting that his wife not flitter behind the screens to undress.

A man should be allowed some luxuries in his own castle.

The rivermaids did their work, taking Sansa down to her small clothes and pretty pink flush. A girl went to gather a new shift, but he ordered them from the room. The maids twittered and gathered their skirts, fleeing in a cloud of giggles.

His gaze did not follow them. How could it? His wife’s breasts were bare.

“Jon.” She called, and he rose. Took her into his arms. Kissing her cheeks, her mouth, her shoulders—she had done well tonight. So very well.

For the first time after a feast, he did not retire exhausted and alone. Did not carry his doubts to his chambers to pick over until the witching hour. Always straining under this weight; always knowing he must wake tomorrow to do the same again and again.

Yet when he followed her into bed stripped of his finery, his arms grew heavy. Sansa murmured softly and then curled into his chest. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Holding her was just as well, and he followed her into the dark.

Chapter Text

Their first morning in Winterfell they did not go to any hall to break their fast. Her husband had grumbled at the suggestion, and that had been that. Food had been brought to her chambers for them to eat in bed. It was a lazy, indolent thing. Indulgent.

Surely the septons would frown upon her if she started every morning as such, but it was a reprieve. There was no King and his Consort here, just a man and his wife.

“I should have this repainted for you.” He murmured, examining the frescoes around. “You are no lady of the storms.”

“And here I thought the lightning bolts were growing on me.”

He laughed at that. Took a bite of honeyed bread then kissed her cheek.

Sansa brushed a few crumbs from his beard. “What is the plan today, my husband?”

He chased her fingers with his mouth; took her wrist and then kissed every fingertip. Sighed. “We gather the Bolton lords and ladies. Announce Konrad, then weather that tumult before we open the greater court. Only the most necessary travel is made in winter; I have little doubt there will be a deluge with all the lords in one place.”

She made a sympathetic noise, for it was the same way in the south. The fields were not the only place that suffered from spring floods. But she found it curious: “Why did you wait so many years to name him?”

“At first I did not know who to choose.” And his eyes fixed on some distant point. “After that, it was the carrot in my hand. This winter has been…unsteady. Better that every noble think their sons had a chance at great lordship. It kept the Bolton banners behaving—it was not so foolish to believe one of them may have ascended.”

“But you chose Konrad.”

“But I chose Konrad.” He agreed. “The lands between the Knife and the Weeping Water are a fertile one. The grains and gold and garrisons they produce…I had to pick a man who wouldn’t use them to stab me in the back.”

It grieved her that he must entertain such fears, but there was never peace. Not beneath the crown. “You already have Dustin and Ryswell in your hand, did they truly need another lordship to bind them to you?”

He glanced to her sharply. “Loyalty is rewarded.”

“So it is.” She answered. “And yet resentment follows.”

This breath was a gust. His brow hardened; turned pugnacious in its shape.

She rolled her hand to sooth a thumb at his palm. “I have heard grumblings, that is all. Lord Ryswell has his lands, his grandsons will hold Dustin and Bolton. And his daughter controls the Queen’s Dower—”

“Which is yours now.”

“I have yet to see it.” And that had him frowning all the harder. She feared the overstep even as she made it. “I would be a poor wife not to warn you of this.”

Yet she could plainly see how little he wished to hear it.

“No one put you up to it?” He pressed, and she wondered who, exactly, he was worried about placing these thoughts in her head.

“I am not blind.” Though she was, it seemed, unheeded. “It is your choice. I truly pray that Bolton lands will be secured. I will bring Lord Manderly firmly under your banner, and Lord Locke having a mother of the Seven may lend him certain sympathies we can use. If we can’t make peace with the Hornwoods, then we sweeten Lady Flint in the east and make friends with Lord Flint in the west. They shall be surrounded on all sides by lands hostile, and we shall have a ruling block unassailable.”

“A kind hope.” He murmured.

She would make it more than that. “What of the Karstarks? Are they reliable?”

He breathed deeply and, mercifully, took her hand into his lap. His thumb skimmed her knuckles. “They have been the very picture of allegiance since the war, but I think that can be credited to my blood mother more than anyone. I do not mistake a lack of revolt for devotion. She shelters her children and works with Lord Holden to ensure stability. I would hope she’s had enough of war. A murdered brother, an exile, a dead husband—let that be her share of grief.”

That confused her. “Exile?”

And his expression twisted. “I had three uncles once. Only one remains to me now. I have never asked the truth, but Benjen Stark swore himself to the Night’s Watch before my birth. It is rumored King Rickard ordered him there; disowned him root and stem. They say Benjen helped my blood mother slip from Winterfell when she did not wish to marry that Durrandon prince.”

The disgrace of his mother’s folly was never-ending. “Do you think it true?”

“King Rickard was vengeful.” He answered flatly, and she supposed that was all the answer they needed.

She shifted away from it; from this turmoil she saw in his face. “We have spent enough of our morning on dreary matters. My uncle will be clattering on about the coronation, will it be soon?”

The harsh set of him unwound. “Two days hence.”

Not much time, then.

“It is already arranged; you must only arrive and I will crown you.” Then he kissed her brow as if anointing her. His mouth then fell upon her cheek, her lips. He pushed their tray of food aside. “Come here.”

“We must ready—”

“My lords await the pleasure of their King, while I await the pleasures of my wife.” And he grinned. “Do you wish to disappoint your husband?”

She gasped: “Never!” For she had vexed him enough already. Surely a good wife would make amends now? Giggle happily in her husband’s arms while seeking his kisses?

He drew her into his lap, hand sliding under the shift she had donned for the servants. Palms rough, palms hot. Cupping a breast with a swipe of his thumb—

Clutching onto each other, they tumbled into the furs.

/~/~/~/

They adorned her in Tully blue and her snow bear mantle. The maids tugged up her already high neckline thrice. As much as she wanted the North to know whose bed their King retired to, even she could not flaunt the evidence of what outrageous things she allowed him.

Her husband was an animal.

The pelt smoothed beneath her hands so softly. She thought of Ghost again and longed. “When will the wolf return?”

Where his valet was dressing him—for Jon had forced the servants to bring half his wardrobe to her rooms—her husband’s expression went distant and then horribly flushed. “Some time yet.”

“Are you sur—”

“Yes.”

She huffed at that. “Perhaps we can go to visit them?”

“The She-Wolf isn’t tame, not like Ghost. I do not think they would welcome it.”

“I would not rush in.”

His brow arched. “Really?”

“Really.” She sniffed. It wasn’t her fault Ghost had run to her for petting…and it wouldn’t be her fault if the She-Wolf did, either. Surely any wolfish wife of Ghost’s, would be just as sweet if Sansa brought treats and scratches. Not that she would inform her husband of such plans.

His gaze narrowed. “I’ll consider it.” For perhaps he had sensed the mutiny. It was the same tone her mother had used when Sansa and her brother had been too demanding. Too ludicrous.

The memory of Bran stung her sharply. By the gods, did she miss him. He would have loved this North. The wolves, the weirwoods, the soaring of Winterfell’s ramparts. He had always wanted to know all things: climb every wall and journey to every land. Be a knight of the people and cast down any scourge that threatened them.

She would have to write him a long letter; the kind that could only go by courier and boat. Tell him of the enchantments of this North.

Those gentle thoughts settled her. Mora came to her, looping a necklace with pink pearls around her neck. They were the rarest jewel in the Trident; only harvested in a single bend of the Red Fork. It had been no small thing when her grandfather had presented them. Though she wondered now if their gift had accompanied his ambitions: the knowledge that Jon Stark remained without a queen.

Mora whispered: “Ser Brynden did not return to the royal quarters last night.”

And Sansa’s mind ground to a halt. “Where is he?”

“We do not know.”

“It is probably…” She tried to wet a painfully dry mouth. “Send a few of our guards to look for him. Discreetly—it may be one of those matters.”

“Ser Brynden can be careless.” The maid tried to reassure.

But Sansa would not believe it, not until she saw her uncle had not been murdered in the night.

/~/~/~/

Court opened in a dim, gray warmth. The servants had kept the fires burning through the night. The only delay was his Hearthguard rousing a few drunken lords to send abed. Thankfully, none of the Bolton lords and ladies joined that pitiful coterie. This morning would be difficult enough without the regrets of ale and a night on the floor to hamper them.

The great feasting table had been cleared away. The dais remained. He wondered how many Stark Kings had moved across it; how many footsteps it had taken to render it as smooth as glass.

If the trueborn had carried the same doubts as the bastards.

But he could not ask them—those bones were long beneath the ground.

The Herald announced them, and Jon guided his wife to her throne. He unclasped her cloak and quickly folded it under before lowering her to the seat. The North scoffed at cushions and creature comforts in this hall; the Winter Throne was no place of ease.

He would give them no reason to find fault in his wife, but…he had long learned the tricks of managing on these stone seats. At least someone would enjoy the fruits of his suffering.

At his cossetting, Sansa offered her delicate courtesies and the same tense smile she’d given all morning. Whatever was wrong, she had refused to say. They had awoken in peace so perhaps she had just remembered some ill thing. But Jon thought it far more likely that one of the maids had whispered tales when he wasn’t looking.

But of what?

He did not wish to coerce his wife into speaking when she did not wish it. Though if this secret kept troubling her…the maids were a different matter. 

His counselors began arriving and her eyes shifted. Searched. An earlier day in their marriage, he would have wondered what she thought. Now he had little doubt.

The Lady Barbrey came escorted by all her children and brothers, luminous in her jubilation. Poor Brella trailed behind looking sour; perhaps she too had fallen afoul of the ale. Lord Ryswell followed his daughter in deep conversation with Konrad, and Jon hoped the man had wisdom to share instead of petty insults.

Gods—what he wouldn’t give for them to find harmony. There had to be some way to make them realize they stood together. His wife would remain at his side, and Dustin and Ryswell support had been unwavering. Once both sides understood they were not enemies…

It was a frustration for another day.

Lord Medger Cerwyn arrived with his son Cley and right-hand, Ser Kyle Condon. Lord Edwell Locke came after—Jon had been feeling more closely to the man, as of late.

After his wife’s suggestions of winning the Flints, Jon had sent a runner with invitation to Lord Leoben. The man and his son arrived in rumpled hurry. It had been an invitation on incredibly short notice, but despite the fatigue, both men looked thrilled to be there.

It was no trifling matter to be brought into the inner circle.

Lord Mollen arrived on their heels, dark bags under the eye but a spring in his step. Jon wondered when he had last seen the lord so cheerful. Never, perhaps?

Eryk Holden, his half-brother’s emissary, came next with little Elissa on his arm. Just before sweeping to the wings, his half-sister fluttered her fingers shyly. Jon smiled back; nodded to her. Sansa briefly shifted her gaze from the doors to smile just as encouragingly.

But then her eyes returned to the entry. Fixed there.

He could not abide this. “Sansa—”

But the very next moment, Ser Brynden came parading in. She went sagging into her seat. Then—with startling violence—her relief turned to fury.

Surely even the gods did not look so wrathful when meting punishments. Her gaze was not upon him, and yet Jon felt a chill. Though if he took her into one of the antechambers, and kissed her until that fury overflowed…?

It was a tantalizing notion.

Her fingers beckoned: the cutting talons of some delicate beast. He wished they called for him instead. For her husband’s mouth and cock, and whatever else he could offer her.

Ser Brynden was finally close enough to see her true expression. The man took a single glance and hurried over. “Niece—”

“Don’t you niece me!” She hissed. “Do you have any idea the worry you caused? Do you think of me at all?”

“Sansa—”

“We are not in Riverrun!”

And then the pair dropped into furious whispers that were impossible to make out. The only thing apparent was that his wife was wrathful, and Jon felt alarmingly lustful over it.

Ser Brynden looked irritated, mulish, then contrite. One after the other. Finally, the man scoffed: “Do as you will!”

His wife snarled but then seemed to remember herself, sitting upright and clasping for Jon’s hand. It was like watching a fish vanish back into the waters; so quickly and opaquely did her defenses rise. “Thank you, Ser Brynden.”

Jon mourned the loss of that heat.

The knight just stalked off into the wings, and Jon pondered if he needed to strike some respect into the man, good-uncle or no.

He gripped his wife’s hand where it laid. Wanted to fall upon her; be ravaged by her. Asked instead: “What is happening?”

“Nothing of import.”

“Try again.” And he almost bit at her jaw to chastise her.

She released a sharp breath, face not so much as twitching at its force. “My uncle did not return to his quarters last night, and the servants could not find him. It seemed he was enjoying sights elsewhere. I perhaps worried over much.”

That cooled his ardor. Did she trust him so little? “I would have set the guards to find him; no kin of yours will come to harm in my castle.”

Yet the look she sent him was inscrutable. “I know that. Truly.” Then she sighed. “Apologies. I did not ask, for my uncle is a man grown and would have abhorred such fuss. It is no matter now—we are all here. Shall we begin?”

He did not know how to argue this, for all she said was true. Yet there was something he was missing; some little wrinkle she was refusing to illuminate.

He’d had her shaking beneath his mouth this morning. Telling him how lovely he was, how all other ladies would shrivel in jealousy of her. He had loved it—loved it. She had never spoken so ardently in their bedplay before. Gods above, never had such praises been heaped upon him by a lady so fine. So high in her station. So happy to be sullied by his hands.

He could be kind and would always be good to her…but he would get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

“Let us.” Then he signaled the Herald to call this court to order.

/~/~/~/

There was nothing for it but to throw the gauntlet—he was not a man who tarried.

“I believe my lords and ladies have already deduced the purpose of this audience.”

There were a few nods. Scowls. The rest were fiercely scrutinizing for whether the next Lord of the Weeping Lands stood among them. Their children crowded in multitudes along with brothers and sisters and cousins. Aunts and uncles. All their petty lords arrayed. The Bolton banners traveled in packs these days, huddled and ready for attack.

Many in the South could claim ignorance that Roose Bolton had intended to murder the Starks in Winterfell. That there had ever been more to his plot than simply going home. But not these houses—most of them had lent Ramsay Snow men. Some had even raised levies that had ambushed his forces down from the Wall. He’d butchered their generals, but Jon knew many of their coconspirators yet stood before him.

But these nobles had marshaled their excuses and plausible ignorance. Given surrenders that had spared their lives.

Lord Hugh Blackbourne stood rigidly. His Sentry wife, once the fifth daughter of an ailing house, wearing opulent jewels to prove her dizzying ascent. The man had been one of the few Bolton loyalists to answer Jon’s desperate missives to the Wall. After the war, Jon had named the distant cousin to the Blackbourne seat and hopefully secured loyalties in the process.

The naming had been an unexpected windfall, truth be told. After the Lady Garnet had drowned herself…

Gods, he did not like to think upon that ill-fated lady. It was a miserable subject. Perilous.

Lord Aden Farrow conferred with his mother and sisters. He’d been one of the great marriage prizes of this conclave. Young, hale, a fine enough face, and most importantly: unwed and willing. Whatever lady that could snag him would have noble lords for sons.

The only man who outshone him in the marriage market was Markas Dustin.

But Aden’s surrender had been a bitter tincture. It had not saved his father nor brother, no matter the terms he’d pled on his knees for. Though Jon could say to the man’s credit, that Lord Aden had not capitulated to steal his brother’s birthright. He had surrendered for his people; that no more would die in the field or be starved from grinding siege.

The Lady Lyla Rime kept her young son beside her. Winter travel would have imperiled the boy, but Jon knew it was a carefully calculated point. Here was her heir; the line that she had secured from the fruit of her body. Jon had slaughtered her good-brother that had led Rime forces against him. When Lyla had claimed ignorance of the treason at Winterfell, that she was naught but her husband’s mindless ornament who would happily surrender and resupply Jon’s army…he’d been forced to believe her.

Lord Brunn Ansley leaned heavily upon his cane, his ruling nieces flanking him. The man had terribly mangled his leg when learning to ride as a boy. He rarely travelled and had never warred, for no man came to battle in a wheelhouse. Brunn was a trickier one than most. He’d actually drummed up a second Ansley faction during the war, robbing his very own nephew of men, supplies, and advisors. He’d preached for peace the whole while.

Perhaps the man’s nephew would have survived longer against Jon…but Brunn Ansley had seen to otherwise. The moment his nephew was dead, Brunn taken control of their remaining lands and surrendered.

Then—fortuitously or not—Brunn’s lord brother and other nephews had been executed at the Neck, and he had become Lord Ansley.

Standing on his right was Lady Jaen Strudwick, his niece and the last surviving child of her house. A pale chin fiercely tilted up at Jon’s perusal. Her loyal husband, the once Wardlaw heir, gently held her arm. The man had given up his inheritance to become his wife’s Lord Strudwick and secure her. It was a marriage that reminded him of the Lady Barbrey and Lord Willam; all knew who truly ruled there.

But the Wardlaw’s had mustered for no one, and the Lady Jaen had been in no real position to give anyone grief—wife to a petty house that she’d been.

On Ansley’s left was his other niece, and one of the banes of Jon’s winter: Mereya Morrowind.

But Mereya, oddly enough, had a secretive smile on her face. Some glow that looked like confidence. It was a marked change. He had seen her through the winter a dozen time to tamp down the constant power struggles surrounding her rule. She had always looked weary; distrustful of whatever he said. Always nursing her bitterness as if this would be the hour he snatched whatever power she’d cobbled together away.

Lady Mereya had not participated in the war. She had supplied Ramsay Snow with men, but claimed it was only at her good-father’s behest. She’d sworn vehemently that she’d been told Roose’s bastard would be helping Queen Lyarra defend Winterfell and keep the peace. It was not an unreasonable claim—Northern armies had been in the south while Jon had drawn every fighter he could to the Wall. Brigands and bandits had been flourishing. Jon wasn’t sure he believed her, but no Morrowind levies had ever risen. The Lady Mereya had quietly surrendered the moment his banners had flown.

On the opposite side of the hall stood Bayard Morrowind, the most outspoken of her dead husband’s kin. The man looked to be burning in a hole in the lady’s back. With him was his Shearer wife, the support she represented from Hornwood lands, and three of their sons. Another rebuke, and a vicious one at that.

This would not be a day done kindly.

But Sansa remained beside him; hand so soft where he held it upon the arm of his throne. Her body was angled to him, a doe-like gaze riveted upon his face. The very picture of a devoted wife for all to see.

His wife was playing her part, and so would he. Nothing less could be done.

“We are here to name the new Lord of the Weeping Lands—Konrad Dustin, step forward.”

And Konrad did, expression severe and Dustin livery dark. A rush of whispering passed through the hall. His wife turned to Flint and Cerwyn. They had not known his plans; he could hear it. They would have to make their peace. Jon watched the faces in front of him and how disappointment flew. It became anger in some, frustration in others.

Though curiously enough, Mereya Morrowind’s expression fell as if she’d taken a blow. Eyes swiveling towards…

And Jon followed her gaze to find his brother’s eyes already fixed on the lady’s face. Konrad rocked to his toes but stepped no further. Mouth thinning. Brow furrowing.

The whisperings grew louder. They could whip themselves into a frenzy if given a chance.

The lords needed to feel heard, but never to the point of hysterics. He reaped the whirlwind. “Konrad Dustin will swear his sword to me in front of the full court, and see the Weeping Lands returned to glory.”

And Lord Ansley surged forward. “Do you rebuke us still?”

“Hardly.” He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. “The North has been splintered long enough; I would see these divisions mended.”

“He knows not our ways!”

Konrad stayed firm at this reproach, unbending. He had learned his mother’s lessons well.

But his lady mother would never leave her children under siege. Barbrey slipped down the dais. “And what ways would those be, Lord Ansley? Tell us plainly. What divides the Weeping Lands so greatly from the North?”

Brunn’s face went decidedly blotchy. “What would a Dustin raised clutching at your skirts know of us?”

“Fealty and honor—they were in every stitch grasped in his hands.” And she brandished them. “He is a man who has never dreamed to raise his sword against the Crown, which is more than I can say for the houses standing before me.”

A hiss of breath from a hundred mouths. Jon’s wife shifting forward—watching.

Lady Jaen answering: “I thought the King spoke of forgiveness.”

“Mending,” The Lady Barbrey murmured. “Is a different thing than forgiving. Perhaps you should see to your own threads, Lady Jaen.”

“Enough.” Jon called, for it was. The Lady Barbrey had shifted the volleys from Konrad—it was something she had done often enough in his reign. Always willing to be on the attack and absorbing any scorn.

Let me be loathed so they may love their King—it is easy enough.

And the pleasures you take from it are entirely incidental.

One should enjoy their calling.

“Speak now.” He ordered. “But know you speak of my brother, the man who fought at my side and never wavered.” Never halted. Never partook of mercy. Konrad had butchered their kin the same as he. They were Bolton banners, surely cruelty was a thing they knew?

That furrowed more than a few brows, but it kept any sharpened tongues behind their teeth. They spoke, and the next hour wiled away at useless posturing. Lord Brunn and Lady Jaen vociferous. The Lady Rime tucking slights between flowery words. The Farrows so endlessly argumentative.

The Blackbourne contingent was pleasantly supportive. Lord Hugh had spent some time with Konrad at the Wall, and the man made sure to offer tales praising his future liege.

None of the Morrowinds spoke. It was no great charity on their part; they did not wish to draw his ire. All knew his favor would decide the future of their house. There was no luxury in caring for the greater lordship.

And the Lady Mereya understood this most of all. There was no Morrowind husband at her side. No adopted child gripping her hand. It seemed the Morrowind cousins had kept solidarity against her, more interested in pressing their own claims than ensuring the elevation of any single son.

Even the petty lords were keeping distance. Watchful.

And Mereya knew it. She was hunched now, hiding behind whatever shelter her uncle and cousin could provide. Eyes flickering across faces, over walls.

Searching for a way out.

At Jon’s side, Konrad was near to rattling.

The argument exhausted itself.

“Things will be well.” And Jon buried it whole. “My lords and ladies will bend the knee today in front of the full court, and then we will see your lands put to rights. There will be no more warring. No more death.”

At that, Barbrey smiled up at him. Dazzling. He returned it—the barest flicker of her warmth repaid, for the rest could come in celebration after.

Yet Lady Rime spoke: “What of food? It has not escaped us that every house has sought to share with us last in hopes of our starvation. White Harbor hoards ships—they are waiving the King’s tariffs so captains will dock there and never come up the coast. Manderly pays them in gold and promises we smaller houses cannot make; Portsmouth’s berths are near to empty!”

“Food shipments are thin everywhere.” He answered swiftly. “We have lowered tariffs at every port, yours included.” Yet Lady Rime scowled fiercely, and Jon could not blame her, for every word she said was true. His spies had counted ships in White Harbor while his steadholders counted tariff gold. Those numbers had not lined up for two years now.

He had been turning so many blind eyes this winter, it was a wonder he could even see.

There would be a reckoning for that missing wealth, but not now. The Manderlys had been sending food when they easily could have hoarded it to extort half the kingdom. In the winter, if given a choice, he would rather a man be more generous about food than gold.

His wife squeezed his hand. Jon looked to her, saw eyes so blue and bright. Nodded.

And his Lady Sansa spoke: “Lord Mooton has already received instruction. Ships will come to Portsmouth with haste. They are well supplied so no stops will be taken. The ships have orders to deliver only to a single port and house, and none shall be made last.”

“But for how long?” Lady Rime demanded. “The winter drags. How can you guarantee those ships when greed dogs the steps of every man aboard?”

Red lashes fluttered. “Any misdirection of goods will be punished severely.”

“For sailors of another kingdom?” The Lady Lyla scoffed. “And what good will your punishments do us if we are already starved at the delay?”

Jon stiffened. “Lady Lyla—”

But Sansa pressed on. “Spring is near to hand. I can guarantee those shipments, for the lower kingdoms will see relief soon, and the fears of all shall lessen. Gold will have less weight with the thaw.”

A susurrus passed through, all heads turning. Knife-bright. Famished.

And he felt his wife stiffening. Saw her swallowing distress as she realized her blunder. He gripped her hand tightly to fortify her, for he could not stop what she had wrought.

Lord Locke called: “Is this true, Lady Consort? Spring is coming?”

Sansa swallowed. “I…yes. I am sure every kingdom has its portents, but the Blackwater has thawed thrice now, and the rains return to Dorne. My grandfather has heard it.”

That sparked more murmurs. Excitement. Lady Lyla allowing: “That is…a kindness, Lady Consort.”

“Yes.” His wife agreed, and he could see her forcing calm. Forcing strength. “Spring is not so far away now.”

“Do you know when?” Lord Cerwyn asked.

Sansa’s brow grew pinched. “I am no maester—”

“How soon?” One of the Morrowinds called. Men began echoing him. When, when, when. A different hysteria. Even the nobles had felt the bite of hunger this winter. But Jon knew what this could damage if his wife was lashed to a promise proven false.

“Soon.” She answered, smile gracious. Smile waning.

But Jon would not leave her twisting in the wind. He kissed her cheek and announced: “My wife brings strong omens with her, but we all know the seasons lie in the hands of the gods. She would not insult them by soothsaying further.”

Her hand spasmed in his.

“Of course.” Lord Locke murmured, head dipping. He was a devout man, and others bent at his acquiescence, for surely he knew rightly.

Others began nodding as well. Jon could see the clamor still simmering, but they had been stymied. Yet word of this would spread across Winterfell by nightfall. King he may be…yet he could not defend her from this.

At the foot of the dais, the Lady Barbrey’s gaze trailed over. Glittered. She offered no rebuke even having seen the blunder.

He did not think that was a kindness.

Sansa was trembling faintly. Whispering on the barest breath: “Jon, I’m sorry.”

He did not shake his head in answer. “Why are you apologizing? It will be you they revile if winter lasts another year.”

/~/~/~/

Politics waited for no man. Before he could even steady things, the dilemma he’d dreaded spilled over the court.

Bayard Morrowind stepped forward. “Your Grace, we seek succor. All winter you have promised us our House would be protected. The Lady Mereya is not of our blood. She has no husband, no child, and no heir to see the future of House Morrowind assured. What say you?”

Yet Lord Brunn Ansley rumbled first: “That you are a grasping little leech, Bayard!”

“Spoken like a usurper—”

It was an unacceptable breach, but Jon did not get a chance to quell it. Konrad stepped forward and snarled: “There will be peace in the King’s court!”

Silence shuttered.

The glare his brother gave could have taken skin from bone. “The King’s mercy was called. Any man who speaks out of turn again, I will see scourged. Understood?”

“Yes.” Brunn answered obstinately.

“Yes.” Bayard agreed far more solicitously. “We follow your will.”

Konrad had technically spoken over the King’s mercy as well, but any chance his brother had to assert his new authority was a boon. Jon waved a hand. “I hear your plea and answer it. Lady Mereya, step forward.”

And she could hide behind her family no longer. Lady Jaen squeezed her cousin's hand. Her uncle looked like a man in the grave. Lady Mereya steeled her every motion. Head high, chin proud. Curtsy deep. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Mereya.” Gods, did he dread this. “You promised me that you would see to House Morrowind’s succession. I did not care what method you used, only that it was done. What have you to offer?”

She was silent a long while. Then, she hardened. “I was married to my husband who became Lord Morrowind by full succession. I inherited by right—”

“No one disagrees it.” He interrupted sharply. “An heir, Lady Mereya, who will it be?”

“If I had more time—”

The Morrowinds rumbled their discontent, though none dared raise their voice above. Jon hated this. Hated. “You have had years, my lady. My lords of Morrowind, do you wish an heir?”

There were four petty lords sworn to this house. Once upon a time, Mereya had one in her pocket, another warming to her, a third that she was working on—

Yet none of them came to her side now. One man spoke for them all: “We wish a secure line, and we have not been given it.”

“So be it.” He answered.

And Brunn Ansley hurried forward to give sloppy genuflections. “Your Grace?”

He could throw the man from his court. But. “Speak.”

Lord Brunn answered it. “House Ansley and Strudwick stand behind our kin. We would not have her robbed of her right. Surely if she was allowed a marriage of more distant connection—”

“Then our next lord would be no Morrowind at all!” A voice shouted from the crowd.

Konrad whipped around—the hunting hound baring teeth. He gestured violently. Guards fell upon whatever cousin had spoken and dragged him scrabbling from the room. That scourging would no doubt be imminent.

Yet the point had been made. Lady Rime had her heir, the Lady Jaen her birthright. The Farrows direct inheritance. The Blackbournes the King’s favor.

Mereya Morrowind had nothing.

“I have been left with little choice.” He murmured, and the lady’s jaw was trembling now. Eyes glassy. Trying to hold it in.

“I have been loyal.” She whispered, and it made his chest ache.

He could keep Mereya in her place and have the Morrowinds causing chaos. An unruly land that he would have to crush beneath his heel. And loyalty won bloody, he knew now, was quick to abandon him the moment his boot came off their neck.

“Your Grace.” Konrad called. “If I may speak? I perhaps offer solution that would please us all.”

Jon had not the faintest idea what his brother was about to say. And yet: “Do so.”

There was no man he trusted more.

Konrad nodded and moved two steps down the dais, closer to the Lady Mereya than he was to throne. Voice ringing: “A land cannot be ruled if the lords have no faith in their liege. The Lady Mereya is the finest of us in intelligence and wit. That she has ruled with such tumult is a credit to her. To lose her ruling wisdom would be a crime against the gods, but House Morrowind needs an heir of the blood, so let our King choose another.”

Lady Mereya swiveled, her gaze burning upon his brother so furiously—

Yet Konrad met it firmly. “I am in need of assistance to rule this land I come to as a stranger. I offer Mereya Morrowind my troth, so that she might become Lady of the Weeping Lands. I could ask for no better.”

And Jon felt like a bell being struck. He was going to skin Konrad alive. “An interesting proposition.”

Mereya hissed then, quietly, fiercely: “You!”

And Konrad merely smiled back benignly. “Me. Have I not made my intentions plain?”

Lady Mereya scoffed.

Yet behind their quarrel, the Lady Jaen’s brows flew up. The Morrowinds were shifting between horror and delight. Brunn Ansley rocked backwards as color returned to him. A man revived. “Yes…an interesting proposition! But your grace, her dower and dowry—”

But Jon’s mind had already flown ahead. “The Lady Mereya has earned her previous dower; it shall go with her no matter what choice she makes. If she chooses to accept Konrad Dustin’s hand, then arrangements may be negotiated.”

Lady Mereya rallied. “How long do I have to choose, your Grace?”

And Jon smiled thinly. “Until the sennight ends, Lady Mereya. Choose wisely.”

/~/~/~/

Court emptied rapidly. Sansa felt its departure rattling in her bones. She was a fool, a gods bedamnned fool.

Only the Dustins and Ryswells remained to argue around her husband.

“She is unfit—” Barbrey hissed. “Fertile, obedient, comely. Do you listen to anything I say?”

Konrad snarled back. “I will not spend the rest of my life married to a mindless simpleton!”

“You cannot guarantee her loyalty.”

“She will be my wife.”

Roger Ryswell interjected. “Barb, really. Give him a little time with the lovely Mereya in his bed, and surely he can sway—”

“You stay out of this!” Barbrey snapped. “The last things my sons need is your foolishness!”

Roger Ryswell threw his hands up and retreated. The war between mother and son raged on.

Konrad could only catch his breath. “Brunn was right, as much as I loathe it. I am not one of them, but she is. The daughter of Ansley, the kin of Strudwick, and if I take her out of the way, the Morrowinds shall love me for it. Jon already has the Blackbournes in his pocket and the Lady Rime thrilled to be a widow.”

“That still leaves the Farrows.” Markas opined absently.

Sansa felt herself wake a little more. Offering: “Perhaps one of those daughters the Lady Farrow is so eager to marry off, may come to my court instead. Ease resentments.”

“See!” Konrad jabbed at his mother. “She is my perfect match; everyone can see it!”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Jon muttered.

Barbrey responded most severely. “And how many years was she married to her husband with nothing to show for it? You would damn your future to choose a barren womb. The Lady Mereya has already made it obvious how difficult she is to set aside.”

“That is not her fault!” Konrad railed. “We all know her husband was too busy leaping between the beds of his Skutilsveinr to bother with hers!”

Sansa blinked hard at that. She had never heard such matters spoken of so openly. In the South, such proclivities were not considered ideal, but largely ignored if a noble kept to their other duties.

Barbrey’s voice kept rising. “Be that as it may—”

Lord Rodrik Ryswell cleared his throat, and all his offspring went silent. Those cragged brows wrinkled. His tongue rolled in his mouth. “Barbrey, my love, you should be proud for when your son shows such good sense in a match.”

The lady puffed up. Konrad lightened.

And Lord Ryswell’s glare pierced. “Boy, you should be ashamed. We are your kin. You will never ambush us like this again. If you wished so badly for the woman, you should have stood as a man to bargain with us, not tried to steal her like some thief in the night.”

Konrad shrunk at that, looking so much younger than his twenty years.

The Lady Barbrey swirled about. Hands clasping. Breath deep. “This may be moot—we saw how the Lady Mereya stormed out.” And her gaze narrowed. “An ungrateful thing. Offered my son’s hand, and she acts thusly?”

Sansa could almost laugh for it. Almost. She met her uncle’s eyes over all the Ryswell heads and raised her brows. He arched his back and shook his head, bewildered just the same.

“She’ll come around.” Konrad answered mulishly.

And Jon stood. “I wish to speak with Konrad alone. Lady Barbrey, please call for the greater court to assemble. It’s time.”

“Of course.” The lady agreed. Her victory was at hand; Sansa had been unable to even slow it.

And Jon seized Konrad by the scruff.

“You—” The squawk did not stop them. Jon dragged his brother from the hall, and Sansa dutifully followed. The antechamber was empty and blocked at either end by Hearthguard. Warmer, but she still pulled her bear furs back to her shoulders.

“Don’t—” Her King hissed. “Ever do that again. I have enough people flinging surprises at me and trying to make my wife predict the winter, without you adding to it!”

She flushed shamefully at the reminder. Gods, how could she make it up to him? Keep her reputation intact if proven a fool? Her only solution so far had been to pray to the gods for deliverance.

“Sorry.” Konrad muttered, though he hardly sounded it. “Last night I truly thought—she was amenable. I spoke of marriage and she looked at me.”

Gods bless his foolish heart. The boy was besotted.

“By the gods.” Yet Jon’s voice kept rising. “Is this why you were such a miserable shit after her wedding? I thought it was because Cley kicked dirt in your face during the revel!”

“That was one time!” Konrad snapped. “And that Morrowind didn’t deserve her; she was wasted on him! The most beautiful woman in the kingdom married to a man who’d rather be swallowing swords? You’d be bitter too if that had been Sansa’s fate!”

“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” Jon growled, but he was stepping back. Rubbing his brow. Walking in circles as if that could bleed this frustration.

Sansa reached for him and tugged them face to face. She rubbed his shoulders, his neck. “All is well.”

His eyes fluttered shut. He groaned: “It will be a disaster if she rejects Konrad and then I have to strip her of her seat. It looks punitive already.”

“We have enough problems.” She agreed, still soothing at the tension in his shoulder. Her eyes shifted to their current ire. “You spoke to Lady Mereya of marriage, but did you tell her of your coming lordship?”

“Of course not!” Konrad snapped. “Jon hadn’t announced it—I wouldn’t undercut him.”

“Hmmmmmm.” She hummed. “So here you are, the second son of a lady who rules the roost. A close confidant of the King, offering marriage when every door has shut upon her. Perhaps she saw a young husband who would be devoted. Then not a day later, she finds out you want her stripped of all she has struggled for. Not a ruling lady in her own right, but a wife once again beneath a powerful thumb. I cannot imagine why she did not fall into your arms in that very instant. It is a mystery we shall never solve.”

She bit her tongue then. That had been cruel.

Konrad collapsed further. “Oh.” But somehow, he rose again. “Surely you can fix this. Ladies listen to each other—you can sing my praises. Tell her I will listen to and respect her. I need help ruling and she will be elevated over every man that once thought to cast her down. And perhaps mention how handsome you find me—”

“My wife doesn’t find you handsome.” Jon spat.

Sansa soothed him with her fingers. “Shush, Konrad is comely enough.”

“No he’s not.” Her husband grumbled.

She ignored it utterly. “Every lady has a mind of her own, but I will see what can be done. And perhaps you should be making amends yourself.”

“Of course.” Konrad answered intensely. “Thank you. You’ll both see—I’ll win her hand, and we’ll pacify them all. This will solve itself.”

Sansa could only pray that so.

/~/~/~/

Court ran long that day. Konrad kneeling first and then his lords in turn. The Lady Mereya had been positively frigid at his feet. The scourging of that outspoken Morrowind cousin came swiftly after. 

Wedding gifts followed, strangely garish after the bloodshed. Sansa smiled for all and gave favor to none. She received war spoils and delicacies. Strange talismans and brocades. All the while, whispers of spring filled every crevice. She could not shake the eyes fixed upon her. Their clamoring.

She knew it was a mistake to commit to anything that could not be guaranteed, but speculating about the spring was a common enough pastime in her homeland. Yet here in the North—

There was no time to catch her breath. She retired early as could be done, taking her uncle’s arm to flee into the night. Her husband watched her go mournfully, nakedly wishing to follow. He couldn’t. Konrad’s lordship had not gone over any kinder in the wider court than it had with the Bolton banners.

The last thing Jon needed was her making things worse. He would stem the tide, and she would stay out of the way.

A Tully guard followed them into the dark of the Great Keep. Torches flickering, feet rasping, servants whispering in distant corners.

Abruptly, the Tully guard at her elbow was Edmund. She clutched for her heart. “Godsdamn it—Edmund! One of these days you’re going to scare the life from me!”

“I would never.” He promised, swiftly kissing her upturned cheek.

But her nerves were truly frayed. “I thought we wouldn’t lay eyes on you for weeks. The size of this castle…”

“The very reason for my presence.” He agreed. “Your mother already sent the first payment of your allowance along, correct?”

“You know this.”

He shrugged. “It would have been rude to show my face and start demanding gold.”

“And yet here we are.” Her uncle muttered.

Edmund gave a simple shrug. “I am but one man. I need funds to begin recruiting and bribing. I doubt I can get the servants to speak much of your husband, but with the right amount of gold and queenly favor, I shall have them gossiping all else within a fortnight.”

She looked to her uncle; he sighed despairingly but nodded. She gathered her tattered self. “I will pass the funds to uncle, and he will arrange disbursement in the usual method.”

“Excellent.” Edmund agreed. “And speaking of—Ser Brynden, I didn’t think you would show such initiative in our venture. I underestimated you.”

Her uncle flushed darkly. “I know not what you speak.”

A click of the tongue answered that. “Getting pillow talk from one of the King’s closest advisors? Utterly inspired. I hope you won’t leave us in suspense of what the venerable Lord Mollen whispered in your ear.”

“Shut your mouth!”

Edmund smirked. “You never said that when we used to—”

“My day.” She interrupted. “Has been difficult enough. Uncle, if you are enjoying your companionship with Lord Mollen, then I will ask no secrets except those that risk our lives. I also request that you find some method with the servants to let us know where you are. My heart cannot take this.”

For once, that thoroughly chastised them both.

“Sansa…” Her uncle exhaled sharply. “I will arrange everything, do not fret. And if I hear anything truly worrisome…family, duty, honor.”

“Of course.” It was the only truth they knew.

Edmund’s shoulders rolled, strides lengthening. A man ghosting through a darkened hall. “The Bolton Bastard came to Winterfell under his father’s banner. Queen Lyarra had sent her remaining Hearthguard to the Wall or to keep peace on the roads. The guards left numbered so few, that when they stood on the ramparts, they could barely hear the nearest man scream. The Bastard was allowed rooms over the Great Hall. That first night, he opened the inner gates to his men and took the royal family when they broke fast. It started with the children’s wolves. He butchered them in the godswood with a thousand arrows. They say the boy prince attacked with only his teeth, and that was when he was slain. That violence then turned on the Queen. It was only threats of her death that made Princess Arya say her marriage vows. Yet the Queen died of her injuries anyhow, and Winterfell broke to madness.”

“What was he thinking?” She asked incredulously. “That he could kill them in plain view and rule? The other lords would have butchered him. It’s folly.”

“Do the Seven not preach that bastards are born base and mad?”

She thought of her husband and cringed at the notion. “That is not true.”

Edmund merely hummed, black-eyed and relentless. “A mad dog, then. Too drunk on his own power. From what I ascertained, all the banners but Strudwick gave him swords. That last house was only ruled by a steward who seemed to have no idea what was happening. The rest were not so innocent.”

“Any others?” She asked.

“Only his father’s banners came to Winterfell.” Edmund answered. “Though you should know one thing. That Lady Appleby who serves you? She left this castle shortly before the Bolton arrival.”

Her neck prickled. Hairs rose on end. “Why?”

“Supposedly, her husband was dying.” And Edmund’s neck rolled. “They even put him in the dirt. Perhaps it was only coincidence that kept her in safety.”

“Perhaps.” She allowed, and yet her mind churned. “Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“Send a missive to the Lady Barbrey—I wish to choose my crown.”

/~/~/~/

It was another solar in another part of Winterfell. Stained glass—blue roses and golden suns. The light breaking so very delicately, and the women wearing its glow like jewels.

She came with Eddara and Brella trailing her, and to no shock, found the Lady Barbrey already attended.

The Dustin matriarch swept out her hand. “Lady Consort—I present Lady Clover Gladstone, Lady Joy Fisher, and of course one who you’ve already met: Lady Renfryd Appleby.”

All the ladies stood in a half-moon where Barbrey lounged, the Lady Clover even pouring her tea. The crowns were arrayed on the table before the Dustin matriarch and shining.

There were so many.

“A pleasure all.” Sansa responded, mouth barely lifting. “This is the Mistress Eddara, and I suppose I do not have to introduce the lady’s own daughter, do I?”

Barbrey’s answering smile came just as thinly. “Certainly not.” And then raised an arm to her daughter, who came to kiss her cheek. That wintry mouth took a warmer bloom. “Have you enjoyed yourself, sweetling?”

“The Lady Consort let me wear some of her pearls—see?” And Brella spread back her dark hair to show the lustrous freshwater pearls trailing from her neck.

Barbrey was less than pleased. “You look lovely in them.”

Brella beamed.

“Lady Clover, my darling.” Barbrey called. “Why don’t you start the sewing circle with the Consort’s ladies, while she makes her choice, hmmm?”

“Of course.” Lady Clover answered, ushering what companions Sansa had girded herself with away. The Lady Joy took the tea with them. Sansa supposed she should have not expected otherwise.

When Barbrey stood, Sansa joined her, letting her eyes drift across the Lady Renfryd and then away. That was no matter now.

“Here.” Barbrey murmured, and then Lady Renfryd lifted a cushion. “This is the oldest of them—you shan’t wear it; it is far too fragile. The Bronze Coronet has been kept for four-thousand years. They say it was given by the Laughing Wolf to his bride, when he killed the Marsh King and took his daughter to wife.”

It was a strange thing, not quite the swords of her husband’s crown—something more ill shaped. Old.

“It is lovely.”

“Oh, no. It’s hideous, miserable thing that it is.” And Barbrey waved for the Lady Renfryd to take it away.

Sansa felt, quite keenly, the shape of her own teeth. “I suppose age is no guarantee of greatness.”

“Perhaps.” And Barbrey’s mouth pinched. An assessing glance. “And newness can be little more than brittle flash. Renfryd—the Lady’s Lace, if you would.”

Another crown proffered as delicate as the flower that named it.

“A lovely one as well.” Sansa gamely pressed on. “And for whom was this made?”

“Melantha Stark née Blackwood, a rather flighty and foolish creature. Frittering gold wherever she could.” The lady answered caustically. “A true southron daughter.”

“How unfortunate.” But Sansa kept her mien light, drifting over any insult. “It is a shame one’s birth cannot account for sense.”

Barbrey hummed lowly. “So it seems.”

And so that crown was set aside as well. Another brought.

“The Suite of Swords.” The lady declared, presenting one that far more resembled the shape upon her husband’s head. “A crown of warring queens who were rulers in their own right. Men trembled at the likes of Queen Morven or Crimson Arrana.”

Gods, what varied insults to be accosted with. “Perhaps ill-suited for my needs, my lady.”

“Oh, indeed—but lovely all the same. You should know the history of your married house.” And Barbrey lovingly traced those swords. “Perhaps the Lady Consort should merely peruse? See what catches her eye.”

“You are too kind.” Then Sansa did as bid, for what else could she do? There were so many crowns and most of them heavy. Iron and bronze. Harsh steel. Gray and gouging. Sometimes there were small diamonds or chips of black stone. Wolves with glittering eyes. Rubies arrayed as weirwood branches. She paused over that last one.

“The Weirqueen.” Lady Barbrey declared. “A king who took a witch to wife.”

“Ah.” And Sansa passed that by as well.

“What riveting assessment.” Barbrey murmured archly. “Though I suppose it’s no matter, our Jon does not look to you for conversation.”

Sansa knew that wasn’t true, knew it, but that hardly stopped the sting. Nor did it halt the snarl beneath her breastbone, and yet she gave a simpleton’s smile. “Oh, my husband enjoys all our talks. I cannot chase him from our bed.”

A sharp glance, a knife sharpening. “A happy marriage is a gift of the gods.”

“So it is.” And Sansa saw a lovelier crown. Smooth and nearly serpentine; one wolf’s head pushed up beneath the other to meet at the brow. Wolves in love, she thought, and she could not help but touching it. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

And Barbrey’s expression shifted strangely. “A storied crown, the Wolf Mates. A piece said to herald love matches and peaceful reigns.”

“Could I—"

And Lady Renfryd cleared her throat forcefully. All heads in the room snapped around.

Sansa froze. “Lady Renfryd?”

“Perhaps,” The woman responded icily. “The North is not ready to see Queen Lyarra’s crown upon another brow.”

And her stomach dropped somewhere below her feet. To the dungeons, perhaps. Another misstep so bitter on the tongue.

The Lady Barbrey shook her head as if it had grieved her. “Yes, I suppose the Consort made a poor choice—no matter.”

No matter indeed, letting Sansa walk into that.

Somewhere to their right, the Lady Joy and Eddara rose. Drifted over. Brella was yet fussing over stitches under the Lady Clover’s careful hand.

Sansa looked about desperately, wondering what blunder her choices would bring next. And there among the steel and iron was a singular blue glitter. Sapphires in the shapes of flowers. A crown silvery and strong, and so unlike the harshness of the others.

Sansa gestured. “And what of that one?”

And Barbrey’s mouth curled in pure delight. “The Harbinger—otherwise know as the Crown of Spring.”

Gods bedamn it. “Oh?”

But it was Eddara that answered: “Yes, Lady Consort. The harbingers are the first flower after winter. They bloom beneath the weirwoods first. They are gifts of the gods, and truly beautiful—we can pick them together one day.”

“A fine way to spend an afternoon.” Sansa agreed distractedly, raising her eyes to meet Barbrey’s own. The ferocious challenge waiting there.

The rumors of her proclamation had filled the castle. Perhaps the Lady Barbrey wished Sansa to damn herself twice. Double down and hang herself on the rope that she’d unspooled.

She could not take those words back. Her grandfather had kept faith, her mother, her uncles—they had sent food North. Arranged her marriage. Believed.

And could Sansa not do the same?

“I’ve spoken of spring, haven’t I?” And she met the challenge. “Then let it be my crown.”

Chapter Text

The blue glitter of her crown winked between her husband’s fingers. The broadness of his hands. It stirred something in her.

“Are you certain? Once I crown you…”

“I know.” She answered. “I am sure of this.” For what else could she be? If she switched crowns now, the Lady Barbrey wouldn’t even have to whisper. No, it’d be left to the ladies Gladstone and Fisher to expound on her southron cowardice.

And if winter lasted too long, and Tully stores ran low—she’d be damned anyhow. This was her family’s gamble, and it would be hers, too.

Her husband exhaled sharply and set the crown back to the table. “You’re only throwing tinder on the fire. Why?”

She ignored it. “You are the King; you can order me otherwise.”

He scoffed louder and then gripped her hips. Pulled them achingly near. “Would that you would listen.”

Her breath ghosted on his mouth. “I am an obedient wife.”

“You are a Queen.” He murmured, lips so close. “You obey none.”

And she looked away, for she could bear this omission no longer. “Our marriage is one of spring, Jon. It has to be. My grandfather’s stores are not bottomless.”

His jaw wrenched. It forced her eyes to darkening of him. “How long?”

“It is debatable—”

“How long, Sansa.” He snarled.

“Ten moons, perhaps a turning.”

His hands clenched on her body. Then, ferociously, he kissed her. Let it give way to the sharp press of his teeth.

“Jon—”

He pulled away. “We’ve made our bed, and now we must lie in it.”

/~/~/~/

Swords were bared, and she walked alone. Her most intricate gown, her finest pearls, her hair plain for what would soon adorn her.

This blessing that was a curse.

Her husband waited upon the Great Hall’s dais with a Goði. Where the witches were painted black, this priest was green. Blood of the blood—an ancient creature. A stone cragged and worn by wind. She had never seen a man so impossibly ancient and yet wide as a tree trunk.

Her skirts gathered to her hands; a ripple of scales as she sank to her knees. The Goði spoke in the oldest tongue then laid a cool hand upon her brow. He smelled of rain, of green and growing things.

She took a shuddering breath.

The Goði called out with a voice like thunder. His hand came away from her. A glittering black dagger was handed to him; a wooden cage brought forth. With a fearless hand, he drew a serpent out of it. White of the body; flecks like rubies down its back.

It had been captured from the weirwood just this morning.

A shudder passed through her. She knew what was preached of the Lord of the Seven Hells, of the Great Deceiver. He who spoke with a serpent’s tongue—

But she’d heeded her husband’s voice, too. The serpent was the first shape of his gods. The thing that birthed and ate itself.

That which was immortal. Renewed. Infinite.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Dark to pale. White to red. The Goði slit it throat to tail, and blood poured forth into his hands. The snake writhed and writhed and died.

She could feel her teeth and the way her breath whistled over them. A wet, red thumb smoothed to her brow. Down the bridge of her nose. Her lips. Beneath her eyes. It rose back to her forehead to draw that infinite circle.

The old tongue again. Quieter—a storm passing beyond the valley’s edge.

A palm upon her hair one last time. The hall humming. A blessing laid as soft as rain falling in the river’s flow. The Goði stepped back and her husband forward, that blue glitter within his hands again. Jon’s mouth did not move; only his eyes could speak for him now.

The crown settled over her hair. The heel of Jon’s palm lingered at her brow, his gaze so hungry—

And Sansa Stark rose with the thunder.

“THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

/~/~/~/

Her reprieve was brief.

The Queen’s Sept was small, not even a third of Winterfell’s faithful could fit within its walls. And there were not many of her brethren in this castle to begin with. Her guards, her uncle, Manderly’s lords and their wives. A knight or two from each. Mother Malla. An heir, a spare, and no more.

She knelt swiftly and prayed under Septon Hugor’s guiding hands. She did not think of the thousand burning eyes within that hall, how many of them had wished to see her fail. The swords rising. The fires catching over them as blood—

She did not think.

This second coronation was quiet. Septon Hugor read from the book of the Mother, she who was Queen over the Heavens. His voice was as gentle as any father singing a lullaby. The familiar words washed over as a balm.

A prayer followed for her Queenship, that she be blessed with wisdom. Piety. Prosperity of spirit and womb and kingdom.

Every voice behind her rose to echo it.

A hymn grew. The sept was small, but it had been built well. The song seemed to fill every space until it reverberated; a cloister of heavenly grace and gods light breaking through these seven windows.

But she could not weep here.

The young Septon Chayle brought the Seven Oils in ampullas of crystal. She was no knight. After her birth anointing, she should never have felt this holy touch again. Yet queenship elevated her; made her rarified amongst women.

The song slipped away. She lifted her palms in supplication, and it was Septon Hugor’s thumb that found their cusp. These oils were as warm as the blood had been.

His benediction rang clear: “To the Seven almighty and everlasting, we beseech thee of thy fruitful goodness. Pour the spirit of thy grace and blessing upon your servant, Queen Sansa. That by the burden of our hands she is this day crowned Queen so she may, by thy sanctification, continue as thy chosen vessel.”

Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Hail, holy Queen, mother of mercy, our sweetness, our hope. To thee do we cry for peace. To thee do we send our sighs of mourning. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine works of grace and justice upon us. Oh clement, oh loving, Queen of confessors. Queen of maidens. Queen of sinners, pray for us.”

And carefully, in that infinite circle upon her brow, his thumb drew the seven-pointed star.

“Receive thy Crown of glory, honor, and joy. By Gods grace may this Queen avoid all disease of heresy, and by thy abundant power, may she compel barbarous hearts and bring them to the knowledge of thy Truth.”

His fingers left her. Words echoing. The windows were glowing, the very air. The Gods upon her so perfect in their infinite being.

“The glory of the Gods, which passeth all understanding, take in your hearts and minds and go amongst you. May their Light remain with you always.”

The congregation echoed: “And also with you.”

And softly, only for her ears, Septon Hugor whispered. “This is the day of jubilation, your Grace. The day of our first victory. All our brothers and sisters rejoice in your crowning. Take strength, for we are with you. The grace of the Gods go upon you.”

/~/~/~/

It passed swiftly after that. The quiet applause, her guards kneeling before her. Swearing themselves to her and no other. It had been an agreed upon thing between her husband and uncle. These men would hold her word above all others, even the King’s.

Her Jon was a gracious man; few husbands would be so understanding.

Ser Wyck, as always, came first. Her voice slipped low between them. “Are you sure of this thing, Ser? You can never go home.”

His mouth was turned down, always so dreadfully serious, and yet his eyes were embers. “It was your father who filled an empty belly with bread, and a hand with a sword. I told him I would repay him for his generosity, and yet he always answered: what can you give me? I have married the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms and am her devoted subject. I have two joyful children, and all treasures that earthly wealth can provide. What can you give?”

She had said she would not weep, sworn it—

And yet Ser Wyck led down that crooked path. “Then one day he said, Wyck, I ask for your debt. I give you a piece of my heart gone from my body, for I cannot follow where ambition sends her. And surely I would die if harm came to my daughter.”

The tears spilled hot. Stuck to the blood, smeared.

“All of us.” He finished, savage as any killing blow. “Young or old, this very day or decades after—we will die at your side. We are Ser Myles’ men, and I give you my sword.”

And what else could she do but accept it?

Every oath after came just as ardent, and did nothing for her tears. These men who had left all else behind to follow her. For love of her father, for love of her. It could shatter a heart clean.

Her uncle came to her side and squeezed her. She leaned on him more heavily than she should. With certain hurry, the other lords and ladies departed the sept. Lord Wyman Manderly remained in their wake.

The tears fled just as quickly; a fog burned off at morning.

“Presumptuous.” Her uncle muttered.

“Quite.” She agreed. “And yet I owe my subjects audience. Linger—but give him the illusion of privacy.”

Ser Brynden grumbled, but more from habit than any true force. He went to Septon Hugor and drew the man into conversation. Ser Wyck directed a discreet perimeter at the walls. She smiled thinly and came down from the altar.

“Your Grace.” Lord Manderly answered, fervid in his admiration. “What pleasure it is to call you such titles at last.” Then offered his hand.

She accepted it and let him kiss her knuckles, benevolent as any queen must be. “Yes, my lord, it has been a long journey to this moment.”

“I can only hope I offered you succor along the way.” His words were ingratiating, yet they left an oily sheen. “We only wish for your triumph and the glory of the North.”

“Of course.” Yet for the first time, she did not smile sweetly. Did not smile at all. “Lord Manderly, are you my friend or no?”

He blinked rapidly. The rest of his expression did not change, nor that flattering tone. “By our shared gods, I am as always your devoted confidant—”

“And yet I find myself asking what you want. Could I truly call you friend, when you talk round and round and never share what you seek? A heart must assume the worst.”

“The prosperity of the North is surely—”

“The King’s demesne.” She answered crisply. “And I’ve have had enough of veiled words. Do not join the likes of Ryswell, Lord Manderly, for even queens who pray for mercy may find it running thin.”

And for the first time, in mirror, he considered her. Let that boisterous smile slide from his face. Age crossed over like a shadow. “I cannot imagine your family’s pride for having raised you.”

“Flattery.” She answered. “Is a powerful currency, and yet in the halls of our gods, it will buy you nothing.”

His gaze flickered over and away; found the stained glass and the light it scattered. “We are bare before the gods.”

“Before them lies no shadow, no place for falsehood.” And her gaze followed that aching glow. “Time runs short, my lord. You and I both know that I was allowed this break in protocol by my husband, and many will resent this time with our gods. Speak in haste, or do not speak at all.”

The only sound, for a while, was the drip of wax to the floor. A hiss of incense. Their breathing between them.

“Resentment…our Queen cuts to the heart of it. We have our gods, and the rest have theirs. Never has a Manderly been worthy of marrying a Stark, and nearly all houses follow that example. We wed among our banners and even to the Vale or the Rivers. I have had noble lords, bloody noble lords, scoff to wed my granddaughters!”

She did not allow her brows to rise, though the shock nearly sent them flying. A man as rich in wealth and armies as Lord Manderly, so snubbed by his lessers?

“That must be galling.” She assessed.

He snorted both loud and vulgar. “Her Grace has the right of it.”

She knew this was a truth…and yet a truth carefully picked. Not Wyman’s only ambition, not even the dearest nor the darkest—just the one he thought most palatable.

Yet it was a place to start. “You seek marriages?”

“As a steppingstone for us both.” And his gaze swung to her like lamps in the night. “We have been here a thousand years, and yet the right hand is cut from the left. House Manderly was not afforded a place at court for generations until King Rickard looked south. King Ned, rest his soul, had little interest in us. King Jon at least has taken my sons for advisors. Yet we are nearly separate from all others—our own festivals, our own tourneys.”

“Our own gods.” She murmured.

“Indeed.” And they stared again upon those windows and the Seven wreathed in triumph. “We would all be served by a more blended court. My dear Wynafryd has already wed; a second son of Goldglass who will support her heirship when the time comes. It is my willful Wylla I see to now.”

“Ahhh.” And Sansa knew this shape.

“She can be your closest sister in the Faith, your Grace. A solace in these turbulent times. My Wylla will be devoted to your cause. I will fund her in your household and send personal guard; you need not fear the expense.”

Her gaze cut to him, and perhaps too quickly. Her husband had viciously hidden the poor state of Stark coffers, and yet—

She smiled benignly. “A blessing.” And yet it lingered sharply. “A Great House for your Wylla, then?”

“No less.” He agreed.

She mentally ticked off names. “Robin Flint, Cley Cerwyn, Roger Ryswell, Markas Dustin, Cregan Locke.”

“Perhaps not that last one.” He rejoined. “I believe Lord Locke feels too harassed by us, of late. He would not be amenable to match his heir.”

“Marriages can make for lasting peace.”

“I admire your hopeful nature, my Queen.” A gentle disagreement if she’d ever heard one.

She pressed through. “Jojen Reed?”

His mouth turned pinched. “The Neck keeps to itself even more intensely than we are forced to, and their ways…if you at all found coming North strange, the Crannogmen would be stranger. A hundred-fold.”

“Oh.” How unfortunate. “Eddard Karstark?”

“Perhaps too young; my Wylla is of an age with your gracious self. And I notice you did not offer us Daryn Hornwood.”

“A turbulent man.” And yet she watched him from the corner of her eye. Murmured: “And inroads have been made there already, haven’t they? Donella Hornwood was once Donella Manderly. Some kin to you. And by her, so is he.”

“They are indeed.” He answered, surrendering no further. Pleading no clemency. No signaling that his piteous cry that the North had snubbed his devout kin wasn’t wholly accurate. Yet he had shined it up anyhow—played to their shared faith, her snubbings already—so that her heart would bleed for him.

How odious. “Perhaps his gentle lordship could tamp down certain sentiments, if he wishes queenly favor.”

“You will find Manderly women stubborn, your Grace.” Yet his jaw set. “I will see what can be done. Though I caution you now, my words can only buy reprieve, not forgiveness.”

“That will suffice.” Then clasped her hands before her; anointed palm to anointed palm. “Send for Lady Wylla, my lord, and I will welcome her into my house.”

/~/~/~/

They feasted the day away and into the night. Blood sacrifice upon the floors and then her pale slippers. Talebearers lording over the hall. Bards following. Singers, minstrels. Duels that were more dance than war; too many flourishes as the blades sang together.

It grew rowdier with the hours. Any time her husband was not at her side, her guards clung like burrs. Each ruling noble came to the great table to pay genuflection. To fill her cup. Despite her best efforts, she was drunk before the sun was fallen.

Konrad came clutching for her hand. “I cannot get her alone!”

“What?”

He was near piteous. “She refuses my invitations. She has already left the feast—how am I to make my case, if she will not even look to me?”

Right, the Lady Mereya. That pesky proposal. “I suppose she and I could have…tea.”

He was bright-eyed, sloppy-mouthed. He kissed her hands immediately. “Yes, tea, will you do it? I am a man adrift—"

But Brella came in a rustle of skirts. “You’ve hogged the Queen quite enough! Sansa, your Grace? Come dance with us?”

“Ooohh!” She leapt up; shook off Konrad’s hands to take Brella’s instead. Dancing was a far more charming endeavor.

“And do you think,” Brella whispered as they rushed from Konrad’s shouts. “That Ser Marq would like to dance as well?"

Perhaps, perhaps not, but Sansa never found out. The partnered dancing became great circles, one within the other as hand clung to hand. Spinning and spinning and spinning. Her ladies kept trading off to hold her right hand as they frolicked, even the quiet little Elissa. But Josmyn Mormont always clasped her left; kept Sansa upright no matter the tumult as more bodies joined.

She thought of wool drawn upon the spinner’s wheel. Turning. Weaving. The infinite circle that it made…

“A halt, your Grace.”

“But Lady Josmyn!” She trilled. “Surely we could dance the night away?”

Yet the lady drew her from the revel. “While I would like nothing more than to dance to dawn with a beautiful lady—your husband wishes you. Come.”

She blinked dimly and thought how well the woman looked in her fine doublet; the tourmalines at her throat. Such a strange blend some of these Northwomen made. Then those words sank in. “Does he?” She asked breathlessly.

Josmyn laughed. “I doubt there is a day he does not pine for you.” Then tugged Sansa onwards. She followed. They were at the great table again, and when she saw Jon waiting there, she surged ahead to kiss him squarely. He laughed, and she thought it the most delightful sound on earth.

He cupped her jaw. “What have I done to earn this, hmmmm?”

She merely beamed at him and considered how terribly kissable he looked. Perhaps, if she came closer, he would try to…

“I believe it’s more her cup than you, your Grace.” Josmyn offered cheerily.

And her husband scowled. “Do not disparage my wife.”

“It is not disparaging to say she drank half her weight. And truth be told, I think if she stays upright the rest of the night, even my lord grandfather will be impressed.”

Jon kept scowling then tugged at her hands. “Come, I have a treat for you.”

“Is it another pelt?”

“No, lovely.” But something in his mouth went softer.

“Ghost?”

His scowl became more pronounced. “No.”

“Then surely—”

“Come.”

“You’re welcome!” Josmyn shouted at his back.

They clambered to their seats. Her husband’s cup was full when he took a pull before offering the same to her. The ale, she thought, was positively delicious. Why had she ever puckered at its taste? The hall was quieting, the circles breaking. A hush fell over as her husband leaned to say: “The Blackbird is here. Listen.”

And a woman was brought before the royal table, in her arms was the strangest instrument Sansa had ever seen. It had a wooden body longer than any lyre. So many strings and dozens of pegs sticking from its long neck.

It was strange and beautiful, as so many things in the North seemed to be.

The woman was thin, long of face, blonde hair both unbound and limp. Never would anyone dare come so unkept before the Trident Court—but the woman drew her bow across the strings, and Sansa thought no further.

It was sorrow. Old gods, old tongues, old grief. A mourning song. For the first time, Sansa wished she understood this language. Could speak it as anyone else.

Blackbird, they called her, and yet her voice rose sweeter than any bird. One song became another. Sansa felt her eyes sting as its swell carried her beyond the hall. Beyond this moment. Beyond the cutting weight of this crown.

There was no more raucousness, just the listening. Hundreds of faces turned up in rapture.

When the Blackbird finished, applause thundered. Sansa grasped blindly for her husband’s arm. “Jon—you must order her a bed and send her with silver. Give her the finest plate we have. This woman is never to leave our halls hungry.”

He stroked her arm. “Never.” But then he was close to her again, mouth against her jaw. “I have one more gift. My lords have kept me from you too long, let us not tarry.”

“Oh?” She shivered.

In answer, he pulled her from her seat.

/~/~/~/

Lady Barbrey’s eyes followed them from the hall, burning so bright—

Sansa only lifted her crowned head in answer.

/~/~/~/

The night was smearing, spinning. Circle upon circle.

Jon went to his knees in her bedchamber, rucking her skirts. She gasped. Surely she was drunk, for just the sight of her husband in such a manner had her hot and wet and trembling.

He handed her a fistful of her own gown, and she eagerly clutched it to her belly. His hands swiftly smoothed up her legs, her thighs. His breath pulsed against the skin above her stockings.

Her head clattered off the bedpost. She reached for her crown, intending to unpin its weight.

“Keep it on.” He growled, and then his mouth fell upon her smallclothes, licking her through the silk—

/~/~/~/

She kept it on.

/~/~/~/

Every day in Winterfell was near to bursting. Too few hours, too many faces. So many lords wishing to speak to her, that she barely left the keep. The rest of the castle remained a mystery. Each morning she only had a few minutes with Jeyne Poole before some missive tripped the day to chaos.

At least more ships were arriving in far flung ports; that bought them breathing room.

This morn was little different. Rising at dawn, crawling on top of Jon, kissing him. Feeling him move so powerfully within her body. Then, mere moments after rolling apart, the servants rushed in. The Lady Renfyrd efficiently directed them all.

Sansa had cautioned her rivermaids to watch that lady’s every move. So far, the only detail of note was that Lady Renfryd took tea with Lady Barbrey daily, and what crime was that?

“Another storm.” Lady Appleby murmured, and Sansa looked to the white winds. Their howl.

Jon tried to reassure. “It will pass. There are snows even in the summer, and Winterfell endures them all.”

Yet it did little to ease her. Spring was coming. Surely, surely—

Some strange meeting was called an hour later among the menfolk for purposes they would not share. Not even her husband—as grave as he stood before kissing her brow—would explain. She called for tea service. Her ladies. Ignored the snows pelting against the diamond-shaped panes.

She would have her answers later.

Elissa Karstark, who had been put right outside the royal quarters, arrived first. Elston and the head guard for the day, announced her swiftly. A curtsy dipped. “Your Grace.”

Sansa felt herself soften. “Lady Elissa, come. I am sorry we are only meeting now.”

The girl’s cheeks went ruddy in the same way as Jon’s. “You have been so busy, your Grace. Do not trouble yourself.”

“You are very sweet.” And gestured to a cushioned bench.

The girl sat, mouth twitching, not knowing whether to smile or frown. It was…clumsy. At Elissa’s age, if Sansa had been allowed to sit with the Trident Queen, she would have been expected to charm. To cajole. To appeal to the Royal House in whatever manner she saw fit.

And she would have been capable of it.

“Is anyone else arriving?” Elissa asked, nervous. Hopeful.

“The others have farther to come—and the Lady Brella yet sups with her mother.” This girl had been ill-prepared. Sansa knew the answer, and yet she asked: “Have you been to Winterfell before?”

“Oh—no. Never. Mother said one day we would come to see Uncle Ned and…” Those gray eyes dropped to her lap. “But with winter and the war, we never did.”

“The seasons make a mince of us.” She agreed. “This is a breathtaking castle, though. I’m glad you can explore it now.”

“Yes!” And that gaze flew up. “Did you know—that eastern wall with those dark stones? Those are repairs from a failed siege three-thousand years past when the Red Kings tried to take Winterfell. Crimson Arrana threw them back.”

“I haven’t heard this story yet. Please, go on.”

And enthusiastically, Elissa did. Rambling about Boltons and skin cloaks and Red Kings, and the Crimson Queen that had slain them. It was a shiver inducing tale, but the girl seemed happy enough in sharing. And history—even the bloodiest parts—were vital to learn.

“Eddie will be jealous.” The girl confessed. “He wished to come and see Jon—I mean, his Grace the King—” She held her breath. When Sansa did not chastise her, she hurried: “But mother wouldn’t let him.”

Sansa was unsure how to address that. Jon did not truly speak of his mother. He spoke of her in relation to Elissa and Eddard, to Lord Holden, to the politics of Karhold, but not of her. Even Sansa knew there was an absence there, strange and gaping in its shape. But it was not her place to meddle with Lyanna Stark.

Other words would have to suffice. “I’m sure you will miss him, but you may write, and perhaps one day he shall visit Winterfell.”

Yet Elissa shrugged, slouching into her chair. Sansa nearly winced for imagining her septa’s teaching rod smacking her for doing the same. The Lady Elissa, it was clear, had been raised by an incredibly lenient hand.

She tried again. “We older sisters love our brother fiercely, don’t we? My Bran, I think he is only a little older than your Eddard. There is not a day I do not miss him. We used to find secret places to hide in Riverrun where I would read him books ferreted from the maester. He did not wish me to leave—but sometimes we must go from our families to serve them.”

Teeth like pearls; a bite of the lip. Confession: “It was always Eddard and I. I used to sneak him to my rooms as a babe and chase the maids when they tried to take him. We’d go riding and racing—but I always made sure he had one of the gentle ponies. Then we’d go down to the littlest stream to fish with papa…we used to. Before.”

A stinging blow, for she knew now how Torrhen Karstark’s head had rolled. “Family is a precious thing.”

The girl merely nodded; gaze flat as slate. Sinking. A moment later, the door swept wide.

Josmyn Mormont burst into the room, chattering, hand gesticulating some rousing tale. A gregarious lady she was, fierce and upright and always jovial. And like many a day, she had a fine lady on her arm. This time, the victim was Eddara, looking both windswept and incredibly confused for how she had gotten here.

Josmyn tended to have that effect.

Elston, with a great deal of grumbling, gave their delayed announcement: “Lady Josmyn Mormont, and Mistress Eddara Tallhart.”

Josmyn ignored it. “Your Grace.” Then drew an arm across her front, pulling her cloak into a regal bow.

Eddara squeaked and quickly dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace!”

“Enough of that.” Sansa called, letting the smile bleed into her voice. “Come sit. Did you find the Lady Agnes?”

Josmyn deposited Eddara onto the same bench as Elissa, then pulled her chair along Sansa’s. “Right behind us.” And so it was, for a moment later, Agnes Waterman arrived in a swish of skirts and proper announcement to pay genuflection.

“Come.” Sansa repeated, and the Lady Agnes joined, graceful and so at ease as she settled. Here was a lady rooted in her powers; a woman who had ruled and given her husband sons. Sansa felt so terribly young sitting next to her.  

She hadn’t earned such confidences yet—though at least there was the pageantry of her role. Sansa flicked a hand, and Prue and Nella darted in to lay dishes of confectionary. Fresh fruits powdered by pale sugars. Teas brought across the sea from Yi Ti. Honeyed milk gathered just this morning and chilled in pails out in the snow. All the ladies oohed and ahhed, gave thanks, moaned in delight at the taste of ripened fruit.

Sansa eyed the apricot in her hand; wondered if she shouldn’t order some of this bounty to her chambers to eat in front of her husband. A flush crawled down her neck. She smothered the thought. Gods above, to be so libidinous at a daylight hour—

Her throat cleared. “Thank you for joining me, my ladies.”

A susurrus of sweet murmurs answered her. Hopeful smiles. Each buoyed her. “I wish for all of us to know each other, for we shall be together for many moons. But today, in truth, I summoned you all for assistance.”

Josmyn leaned boldly across the table. “Do tell.”

And that made her bold, too. “I have invited the Lady Mereya to take tea with us. I suppose I do not need to explain why?”

Elissa looked puzzled. The other women less so. Lady Agnes picked up her cup; blew away a delicate curl of steam. “Does the Queen wish a marriage arranged? Or scuppered?”

“A critical question.” And she considered her words, the seeds of trust; the fertile fields each needed to thrive. “And one I hope to answer. Are any of you of close acquaintance with the Lady Mereya?”

Eddara shook her head. Josmyn merely rested a lax ankle upon her knee. “I have seen her at royal festivals when we were girls, though we were never formally introduced. Ansley and Morrowind—both think so highly of themselves. Her father cossetted her rather fiercely. She was not a lady to take to the archery yard or spears or her lessers. She prefers her furs pale, and her laces fine.”

“Is regalia so great a sin?” Sansa asked, knowing what was truly being spoken.

Josmyn’s mouth split wide—neither a dagger nor a grin. “Having seen many a fine sight in only furs and tatting, I cannot complain of them.”

And Lady Agnes’ expression became a moue of distaste. “Ignoring such vulgarities, your Grace, the Lady Josmyn is right in one thing. The father did favor the girl—it was said when he could not pick between her suitors, the Lady Mereya was given final choice. And she chose Alton Morrowind.”

How terribly interesting. “And she understood her choice?”

The Lady Agnes did nothing so uncouth as shrug. “Alton was older than her by some years—his predilections were well known. And with Ansley and Morrowind sharing borders, there were few secrets remaining. He was perhaps…indiscreet after marriage, but there was never any public schism. No word of the Lady Mereya weeping into her pillows, shall we say.”

Elissa piped in hopefully: “Lady Mereya likes the ambling horses mother raises. They are not so dear as a Ryswell mount—I remember Alton sending gold for the best palfreys to be gifted to his wife at Whistling Castle.”

A love of horseflesh—well, at least Konrad and the lady would have a place to start. Treasures the newest lord could gift her easily.

Though of greater significance was the truth beneath: there had been some companionship between the Morrowinds. Foreknowledge, too. Mereya was likely not desperate to run into a man’s arms for carnal attentions, for it seemed the deprivations she’d chosen were deliberate. Though companionship…perhaps the Lady Mereya missed that.

To live without a husband struck Sansa as impossibly lonely. “Thank you, Elissa.” It could only be pushed through. “I worry most for the lady’s nature. Is she a woman to hold grudges? Strike when a back is turned? I would hate to give her such position if she means only to cause my King grief.”

Josmyn and Agnes shared a long, terrible glance. Pendulous.

“The Queen.” Josmyn answered.

“It was madness.” Yet Agnes shook her head. “How could any of them have known?”

“What is it?” Sansa asked. Eddara’s eyes flickered between them; Elissa hunched down in her seat.

And Josmyn stared back, no charming smile. No spark of mischief. Just the hellish roll of winter tides. “Mereya Morrowind gave men to the Bolton Bastard.”

The tea in her stomach soured. Sansa had already known this truth, and yet…

Agnes’ gaze lingered in the dark of her cup. “Queen Lyarra was ardently admired, loved. What happened at Winterfell could not have been their plan—none of them would have raised a sword to take the Queen’s life. None.”

“And yet her blood stains the godswood to shame us.” And that snarl became a storm in Josmyn’s teeth. “The gods damn Lady Mereya and every one of them!”

Gently, Sansa reached out and touched a jostling knee. Josmyn stiffened: “Apologies, your Grace.”

Sansa shook her head. “I blame you not. What happened to the Starks is a terrible grief to bear.”

Elissa looked near to crying into her tea. There was a trembling of hands around every cup; swift sips to cover quaking mouths. A settling.

Eddara raised a tremulous point. “My father—it is he who organizes the tax farmers for House Stark. I can only say that the Lady Mereya is timely, and has not shirked what she owes the King. I wish I could offer more, your Grace.”

“No apologies—that is an essential insight.” And she considered this longer. Asked the Mormont heir: “Would you find it too arduous to share cup with Lady Morrowind?”

“I will endure.” Josmyn assured. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, your Grace.”

Yet her thoughts kept winding. “And if I wished to know whether Lady Mereya’s predilections mirror her husband’s in some manner?”

Josmyn’s brows jumped. So did Lady Agnes’. Eddara and Elissa seemed entirely lost.

But Josmyn understood. “For her Grace the Queen, I would make any sacrifice.” Then plunked down her cup. “Shall I ask her to dance as well?”

“We are not such blunt instruments, Lady Josmyn.”

And they weren’t. When the Lady Mereya arrived half past the hour, Sansa and the Lady Agnes were pitted against Elissa and Eddara playing on a board called Hnefatafl. It was a popular Northern game of wits and luck, and Sansa wished to stop being a stranger to this place.

Though with everyone offering advice, and Josmyn heckling, that was easier said than done.

The door creaked. Elston again: “The Lady Mereya Morrowind.”

And a gentle voice inquired. “Am I interrupting?” They turned, and there the lady of the hour stood. Myrish lace at the bust and throat, white as snow. A widow’s cut and rather low for it. Gold inlaid with amber dangling from her wrists. The lady’s expression was placid, a vague and impersonal sort of warmth.

The Lady Morrowind could reject Konrad’s overtures all she liked, but the Queen’s invitation? It was a snare no woman could escape.

Sansa beamed. “Oh! My Lady Mereya, please, join us. There are some rather fine teas I brought from Maidenpool. Gifts of my uncle—they came from the most distant provinces of Yi Ti.”

“I’ll fetch the—oh, what was it called?” Josmyn chimed, rising for a pot and batting away the maids’ fretful hands. “The white one, your Grace.”

“Ah.” She could already taste it. “The Baihao Yinzhen, though in common, it’s called Silver Needle. Perhaps why I’ve grown so partial to it.”

Mereya tucked her fingers into her sleeves, gaze hunting. “Is our Queen favorable to embroidery?”

“Indeed, my needle laid every stitch I currently shoulder.”

And the Lady Mereya’s gaze trailed her more carefully. The waves at Sansa’s wrists, the trouts dancing up her arms. Pride was a sin, though another prayer upon the morrow would make up for it.

Josmyn returned, offering an arm to lower Lady Mereya to her seat. For all Josmyn’s parents had insinuated the lady needed polish, she surely did not need it in this. Truth be told, Sansa thought she should be taking notes herself.

A cup was poured, and Mereya’s eyes fluttered shut to sip it. As those at the board played their game, Josmyn wove one far cleverer. Charm effortless, knees close, body turned. The reticence of the Lady Mereya turned to laughter in the brightest moment.

Even if that laughter came at Sansa’s expense.

“I do not see why dice might be a part of this game!” She insisted. “It is nonsensical—it completely ruins the strategy!”

Josmyn tipped closer to Mereya. “Do not dally, my lady, lay your odds quickly for how soon the Queen banishes such a wretched board from the kingdom.”

The lady’s laugh came half amused, half shocked. It eased her shoulders.

Sansa raised her voice ever so tartly. “Be careful I don’t banish you from the Kingdom, Lady Josmyn.”

“You could.” And Josmyn’s mouth began to twitch. “There are many who would agree with you. Not a day ago, the Lady Agnes called me uncouth and flagrant.”

“You are that and worse.” Lady Agnes returned without a bat of the lash.

“See?” Josmyn returned in delight. “The order writes itself!”

Even Sansa was chuckling now. The younger girls, too. All but Lady Agnes who tisked: “Pay that miscreant no mind, your Grace. The game is not an easy one to master—and that is its purpose. The gods do not guarantee a smooth path.”

“Still.” She murmured.

And Mereya rose to that bait. “Hnefatafl is the truest game of wits in the North, my Queen. No plan survives the vagaries of luck nor men. The real test is in how a lord moves when all his schemes are thrown to shambles. A turn in the weather, a rot in the granaries.” Her gaze flittered from the board. “A turncloak in your midst.”

How pertinent. “Well,” Sansa allowed. “When you phrase it as such, this is a clever game indeed. Though you all must forgive me if I wish to play cyvasse after. I must be allowed to feel I’ve brought some of my wits along.”

“Your mind remains as sharp as ever, your Grace.” Eddara chirped most assuringly.

Elissa, as she had been painstakingly instructed, remained silent. A sweet enough girl—but Sansa had yet to see a bone of duplicity in her body. Sansa had known she would be expected to teach her younger ladies many things, but with Elissa, it seemed she’d be starting from the ground up.

They continued the game, chattering of no consequence until the Lady Agnes made the winning play. It allowed Sansa to keep some dignity—and to catch Josmyn’s eye in the commotion.

Without a word, Josmyn eyes flicked to Mereya. Returned. Deliberately, she shook her head.

Well then.

Sansa rose. “Lady Mereya, as you’ve not yet had a chance to partake, would you care to join me for a game of cyvasse?”

The lady was at ease now, yet not ever fooled. But a queen’s request could not be shirked. “If it pleases, your Grace.” That smile was closed-lipped and sheathed as any knife. It would do.

The maids were already setting the board and bringing little plates of teacakes. Yet when she and the Lady Mereya made to sit—the door opened.

Elston, now clearly aggrieved, shouted: “Lady Barbrey Dustin, and her daughter, the Lady Brella!”

And Sansa felt her stomach clench. Mother and daughter swayed in, arms linked, smiling ever so secretively. At her side, Lady Mereya went stiff then shot Sansa the most withering glance. Gods damn them, for surely this would look like an ambush on her part—

Whatever warmth they’d kindled leeched from Mereya’s face. The lady was cold again. The winds outside kept howling.

“Apologies for being late, your Grace.” And Brella bobbed a happy curtsy.

Before Sansa could even answer it, Barbrey patted her daughter’s hand. “No fault of yours, my darling. You know how loathe I am to part with you.” And then those pale eyes met Sansa’s. A knife to the whetstone. “And that invitation came so late. Why—you’d think the Queen did not mean us to arrive until this very moment.”

Mereya hardened off entirely. Sansa could have spat blood.

“Oh, never that!” Brella gasped. “Surely the maid was only late in delivering it.”

Very late indeed, for that was exactly as Sansa had ordered her. All her rivermaids were loyal to the hilt.

Barbrey’s head tilted lazily—lustrous coils of hair bronzing in the candle’s light. “What was her name—oh, one of those southron girls of yours, your Grace. She is in need of rebuke. To be so tardy in the Queen’s service is quite the embarrassment.”

“Mayhaps.” Sansa allowed, smile tight enough to cut off her tongue. “Let us not worry about such trifling things.” There was no polite way of sending Barbrey from the room. Elston had already shut the door, and the Dustin matriarch gave no signs of leaving. No, those merciless eyes trailed to the teas, the cakes, their many games. A patrician nose wrinkled ever so faintly. Smoothed.

Yet Sansa knew every lady in the room had already seen that disdain.

“What an entertaining spread, your Grace. I’m sure your young ladies have enjoyed such fripperies.”

As if to make a punctuation of it, Brella was moving to the table, clapping over the cakes and plucking them by the handful. Childish gestures—and the insult of them landed squarely. The girl turned: “Mother, shall I have the maids pour you tea?”

Warmth then; pleased. “Yes, my love.”

Brella snapped her fingers, and the maids moved at once.

Sansa could feel herself losing the room, and she refused it. “I would hope all have enjoyed themselves, Lady Barbrey. I did not realize your day was so unencumbered, lest I would have extended invitation to you as well.”

That censure did not send the lady scurrying from the room. It did not even lift her brow. Mereya had moved away entirely, closer to the wall than any woman here. Lady Barbrey slipped forward easily to fill that gap. “As you’ll come to learn, your Grace, when a folkmoot is held among the men, there is little to be done but bide our time.”

“So it seems.” She answered grudgingly.

“Perhaps they discuss some matters of war-making or justice.” And that cold mouth curled. “Or maybe they discuss the fertility rituals to come. The King and Queen have so many responsibilities as the locus of our gods and ways.”

“The—” What stayed perilously suspended on her tongue. She had been told all manner of fanciful and horrifying tales before coming North. Most had proven false. Some true, but only in the most convoluted sense.

That the North danced naked and fornicated beneath their holy trees for all to see—surely that was another tale. Surely.

The Lady Barbrey was trying to trip her up, and certainly her mind had stumbled. Sansa kept her spine straight, her hands gentle. “We will find out soon enough, I suppose.”

“Indeed.” And that gaze was slipping again. Ice upon the meltwater—Sansa was not holding the other woman’s attention, and Barbrey was brazen in showing it.

“Ahh.” The lady murmured. “Lyanna’s daughter.”

And Elissa froze half from her seat.

“Come here,” Barbrey ordered. “Let us have a look at you.”

Elissa, for the first time, appeared truly panicked. She looked to Sansa beseechingly, trying to shuffle around the table as slowly as she could without moving backwards.

Sansa would not abide it. “I am sure, Lady Elissa, that the Lady Barbrey can see you well enough from where you stand.”

Elissa halted.

Barbrey only hummed. Spoke on a half murmur, though surely the whole room could hear her saying: “The mother certainly with those looks, though there’s something of Karstark around the mouth. You should be careful of Stark women, your Grace. They can be impetuous and see no further than their own noses.”

Ruddy cheeks again; gray eyes lancing to the floor. Hands clenching. Knuckles clawing.

It burned through Sansa furiously. “If the King heard you speak of his kin as such—”

“The King already agrees with me.” Barbrey scoffed. “Or did you think him unaware of his own birth?”

Sickness: black as a barrel of tar. No answer in her throat or witty rejoinder. Jon didn’t speak of his mother to her. Though it seemed with the Lady Barbrey, that he had—

That vicious gaze waited for no one. “Lady Mereya, leaving already?”

All eyes turned. The Morrowind widow seemingly had drifted closer to the door.

“Hardly.” Mereya snapped, drawing herself to her not inconsiderable height.

Barbrey eyes were grey. Blue. Bright as the autumn sky. “Excellent. I would hate to see you turn your back on a Dustin twice—that is a perilous habit to form.”

The knife of Mereya’s jaw worked. “I’ve turned my back to no one.”

Autumn still; that which heralded winter. “What an interesting interpretation of your tantrums.”

And finally a line crossed. “Lady Barbrey, I expect a civil tongue in my court.”

“Of course.” The lady agreed, sanguine. “I would hate for there to be any misunderstandings.”

Sansa could have spat every word—but the Lady Barbrey would have loved such a breach. Calm came over her, nothing sweet, nothing gentle. Less a settling; more a flood. “The Lady Mereya and I were about to play a game of cyvasse, if you wished to join the hnefatafl table.”

“Hmmmmm.” Barbrey pondered, then called out: “Does the Lady Mereya know how to play?”

“Some.” The woman answered severely. “Though perhaps the Lady Barbrey would wish a turn. She has, after all, joined us last.”

There was murmuring. Sansa was not sure who she wished to skewer more.

“Last to gate, first to hearth.” Brella piped up, cakes piled high and scooting a chair as close to the cyvasse board as she could. Front row seat.

There was nothing for it. Sansa lowered herself and so did the Lady Barbrey. Grace of gesture, lush of skirt. There was a half-hearted rearranging of pieces at the hnefatafl table, but no game even attempted to start.

All eyes were watching. This was the competition favored of her land, and she sent her light horse first. Lady Barbrey matched them with a flood of rabble.

“Aggressive.” The woman opined.

“The faint of heart do not win wars, Lady Barbrey.”

“And neither do the foolhardy.”

Spearman answered horse. Crossbows felled rabble. Dragons circled the board in crowns of fire. How glad she was that Westeros had never seen their like.

What few hopes she had that Lady Barbrey would be inexperienced—they were swiftly dashed. When the first trebuchet took one of her own dragons, Sansa was forced into a defensive crouch.

“Do not spend powerful pieces early, you know not what waits you.” It almost sounded like a tutor’s lecture, but Sansa doubted it was half so kind.

Ivory moved against onyx. Jade and lapis lazuli blurred. Rivers were won, valleys lost. Men died by the scores upon mountains.

She slew Barbrey’s elephants in a rout, then watched her other dragons plunge from the sky. Her cavalry was thin, Barbrey’s were thinner. Fortresses were laid to ruin. They had both been cut from reinforcement.

Somewhere outside this false war, snow fell heavier. The blood in her temples beat a ragged drum.

The hour dimmed.

The board had been halved, then halved again. Salted and burned. They stared across no man’s land at one other, blue to blue. Boiling.

“Who’s winning?” She heard Elissa whisper.

Lady Agnes answered. “Neither.”

A terrible truth. There could be victory in another few hours, but only after both their armies were ground to bone meal. By the pinch of Barbrey’s mouth, she knew it, too.

Sansa pressed the tip of a finger to a piece. The crown of it pressed sharp. “We can bleed each other all night, my lady.” Then withdrew. “But I do not wish to kill a king today. Shall we adjourn?”

One last sweep assessing the board. Little chance for easy victory beckoned.

“Let’s.” Barbrey answered coolly. “Long live the King.”

/~/~/~/

“Supper is near. Lady Mereya, I wish your company to my quarters.”

“Of course.” The lady answered, no sullenness spoken, but the implication of it garish.

Sansa paid it no heed, gathering Elston and her other swords, then sweeping back to the royal wing. The men fell to respectful distance; Lady Mereya kept her pace.

This task had become loathsome. “Apologies, my lady. I did not expect the Lady Barbrey’s company to fall upon us.”

Of the Lady Mereya—there existed winter winds that blew warmer. “And I am to believe that?”

She’d grown tired of this dueling. Her blades were dulled. “I wish I was as you believed me, Lady Mereya. Truly. A woman so skilled that I have won the Lady Barbrey to my side in a sennight. Already she dances to my tune and shares my plots. Certainly, I must be a savant by your reckoning.”

Silence in answer. Slippers rasping. A harsh breath from a gentle mouth. “I grow increasingly uncertain what her Grace wishes of me. I have already suffered the crown’s lash this moon, am I to be humiliated further?”

“Humiliation.” She answered. “Is what you allow of it. I am quite aware, my lady, how few choices us women are given in life. You made your marriage, paid your prices, and yet another man is hounding at your heels.”

“You wish me to turn him aside?”

Sansa stopped. It forced them all to a stumbling halt. Mereya looked her in the face—there was anger there, surely, yet a shadow was spilling at the seams. Sticky resentment. Blatant fear.

“No.” She answered crisply. “I wish for you to marry him.”

Those pale brows flared. A mouth parted and then wrenched shut. “I fail to see why. Having the Lady Barbrey for a goodmother is a sufferance you are welcome to keep. And that boy—I am not some bleeding trinket he can paw into his clutches on a whim.”

Mereya was staring upon her now. Deeply. Utterly.

It would suffice. “I will acknowledge that he made a muck of it. Men are careless, and that is inescapable. No one ever truly questions their right to anything. What we must claw and scrape for, is given to them on bended knee. But of Konrad Dustin—I can at least say his carelessness was out of excitement. Not cruelty, nor contempt. So enflamed was he by the idea of being your husband, that he rushed to ensure it no matter whose toes he trod upon.”

Mereya kicked a slippered foot; moonstones winking in the dark. “And I am to forgive him for the pain he caused?”

“Before justice, mercy. Before revenge, forgiveness.” She sighed for it. “But that is an easy thing to preach. Take him to the lash, if it pleases you. I will not stop it. Though that would require you to speak to him—did you not watch the Lady Barbrey and I conduct our battles?”

“I did.” The lady professed; throat tight. Gaze sharp.

“And yet I have my doubts. If I had cut myself from any possible avenue in battle—I would have lost. Yet right now, all I see is a woman cutting off her own nose to spite her face.”

Mereya swallowed harshly. Those eyes gleamed as bright as torches for how they wished to burn her.

This lady was not the first and certainly would not be the last. Let her foes come and seethe. “He wants you, very badly. Not just what charms a man finds in a woman—but of your heart. To please you. I believe his spirit turned to you the day of your wedding, and it has not turned away since.”

Their breath moved with the billow of the winds, the shadows from these torches. Mereya saying: “I could make a marriage to a Morrowind. Peace.”

“Then do so.”

Her mouth pulled taut. “I could call my banners.”

“My husband would see you and your kin fed to the wolves, before war finds his kingdom again. So surely you did not make that threat.”

The face of the moon wavering. Clouds crossing. Skin like opals; words dripping sparks. “You could help me.” She whispered. “I could serve you if your husband’s favor turned towards me. Against Lady Barbrey—against any of them.”

“I do not doubt it.” But this was such an aching thing. “Yet I cannot disobey my husband’s will. You were born of a noble house, my lady, so perhaps you do not understand the depths before you now. There is more power for you in this life through Konrad Dustin’s heart as his Great Lady, than you will ever grasp as the Widow Morrowind. And that you are here now, not tucked safe in your dower away from worries or humiliation—well. That tells me what you most covet, Lady Mereya, and it is not pride, nor House Morrowind, nor any shred of peace.”

She slipped the moorings of this place. The lady did not follow; did not stir as the guards parted around her. The dark was gathering. The night grew long. She had so far to go before she would find its end in her husband’s arms.

A thought occurred. “Lady Mereya.”

And that proud head rose.

“I was to mention how handsome I found Konrad—he thought it very important. Men so young, they only wish their lady loves to admire them.”

The moonlight did not wax nor wane, but Mereya Morrowind spoke of fire: “Perhaps it was not your ambush this day, but you are a viper all the same, your Grace.”

A rush of laces, the wings of birds. A curtsy dipping deeply down to the floor.

The hallway was long and the candles flickering. Sansa clasped her hands as she turned away. Prayers blind, steps even.

The crown was not on her head, and yet she felt it still. Heavy. Heavy. Heavier.

That crushing circle—a perfect shape.

Infinite.

Chapter Text

Her husband did not leave the godswood until the moon ascended its heavenly stair. Neither did his lords, nor the host of men alongside them. She did not learn that detail, though, until the servants whispered it at the dawning hour.

In the shade of the night, she only woke to her husband pulling at the furs. His jostling. After that wretched tea, she’d propped herself in their bed to wait for him; thoughts circling like hunting dogs. To shout, to rail, to demand something—

But exhaustion had felled her, and her head sank with its fever. “Jon.”

He was a dim smear of firelight. A clatter of leathers coming off; a dip of a crown falling to the Myrish rugs below. He smoothed a hand up her cheek, her hair. His mouth pressed to her brow. “Go back to sleep.”

It was all tangled inside. Marriages and Mereya, Barbrey and Elissa, wars and rituals—

“Waited.” She mumbled. “Need to talk.”

“Another night.” He whispered, and though her husband did not beg—it was a plea all the same. She reached for him, tugging off his last tunic, feeling the cold of his nose pressing to her neck. Breath hot. Hands frigid.

“Come here.” She murmured, and his breath stuttered. He drew around her all the tighter, beard rasping at her throat. With clumsy hands, she pulled the furs over his back. Tucked them so tightly together.

And just like that, tangled even further, they slept.

/~/~/~/

By morning, her husband was back in the godswood.

/~/~/~/

But with all the menfolk occupied, there was finally time for Jeyne Poole to open one of those ledgers she always lugged about. Sansa selected one that covered the larders, pantries, and butteries. It was a solid two inches thick, and only for the Great Keep. There were, it seemed, multiple kitchens dotted across Winterfell. Two on opposite sides of castle to serve two different Guard Halls. Another in the old shell keep for the servants there. A dozen small ones scattered through the guesthouses; a handful more abutted to the outer walls to feed the men on watch.

Winterfell remained, as always, outrageous in its scale.

This ledger didn’t even include the silver being paid in wages. Pantlers, bakers, waferers, sauciers, larderers, cooks, butchers, carvers, milkmaids, butlers, scullions—no wonder that every time she turned a corner, she seemed to meet a new steadholder clutching parchment and his tattered nerves together.

It was a miracle her husband kept sanity without a wife to lean on. Though if Barbrey had filled that void—no more. There would come a time Sansa would hold Jon Stark’s castle in his stead. Its stocks, its defenses, its very people. It would be her gods given duty to do as all Stark queens had done before her.

So the very gods forbid she let Barbrey Dustin pretend herself the lady of this castle a moment longer. If she acted unsure of her place here, so would every soul within these walls. Winterfell was Sansa’s by holy union, and it was time the North was reminded.

Sansa cracked the ledger and flipped to the very back page. “Jeyne, please fetch one of the steadholders, would you? Then come here; I would appreciate your insights.”

The girl curtsied. “Of course, your Grace.” Then went outside the solar to whisper instructions to a guard. The girl returned with haste, bending at the waist to point: “If you look here, your Grace, this is the current stock for the kitchens. The hashes are for bushels, circles are for hogshead barrels, and sides of meat are denoted by these cross marks.”

“I see.” And she did, so the problem became immediately obvious.

They were running low, again. Sansa only had to flip backwards to see numbers rising and falling as each new shipment arrived. Over the years, the margin of food that Winterfell had before next replenishment came, grew thinner and thinner.

Her throat dried. “Jeyne, please sit beside me, you must be terribly uncomfortable standing.”

The girl snapped upright. “Your Grace, the presumption to sit besides your revered self—”

She touched Jeyne’s hand with gentleness. The girl’s mouth dropped open. Sansa smiled with what warmth she had. “I will decide what is found presumptuous in my own castle.” Then gestured. “Please sit, we have so many years ahead of us, and you cannot spend all of them standing at my back.”

Looking as if she had been asked to lie on a pile of swords, Jeyne gathered her skirts and sat. Even Sansa would have found such a ramrod posture painful to maintain, but the girl had done as bidden. She would not criticize the result.

She continued: “As the men are occupied, perhaps we should cut down on feasts for a few days. I think stews with fewer side dishes may be sensible, hmmmm?”

Jeyne’s expression flickered. Curious eyes; a thinning mouth. “Of course, your Grace, but perhaps…” The silence stretched.

Sansa kept firm. “Jeyne, I did not ask your opinions not to hear them. Do not worry over insult; I understand that there are certain distasteful practicalities we cannot avoid.”

“Yes, my Queen.” And still Jeyne braced. “That would be extremely prudent in stretching our stores, but I fear many of the ladies you are treating will be insulted by such limited fare.”

Insightful. “Order the kitchen to make stews; fish based. Speak among my guards for a recipe if you must. You shall spread around that these are dishes of my homeland; no one would dare deprive the Queen of a taste of home.”

“As you say.”

“So I do.” She affirmed. “Is there enough fish to manage?”

“Yes.” Jeyne agreed at once. “It remains of the few fresh meats we still receive. We have skilled men called ice fishers. In lakes of enough depth, fish yet swim beneath the ice. Our men walk upon those frozen waters, hack open holes, then draw from the depths. It is Hemlock Lake that keeps Winterfell supplied in the bitter season.”

“How marvelous.” Sansa decided, for it truly was. The Trident was either far too shallow or far too dangerous for such attempts. “I will have to thank Master Tallhart again for his services.”

Jeyne nodded, but before the girl could illuminate further, there came a knock at the door. Sansa bid entry. A steadholder came in. Bowed. “My Queen.”

She shifted. “Thank you for your haste. Please tell us: how long do you think my husband will be occupied in the godswood?”

Dark brows rose, gaze growing a little sharper. Rigid. “Your Grace, when The Thing is called, the sun must fall thrice before the King even thinks of closing it. If arguments prove especially fierce, it will take even longer.”

She nodded as if she had known that. “A pity. I shall miss my husband terribly, but such are his duties to the North.”

The steadholder clasped his hands behind his back. Dipped his head. “As her Grace recognizes, such are the ancient ways.” But his expression remained inscrutable. Of these men, she wondered how many the Lady Barbrey had already sunk her claws into.

She merely hummed, acknowledging his point. That this Folkmoot kept her husband from her side was dreadful, but this was just another burden of Queenhood. While she wished for peace, even she knew in the decades ahead—if they were blessed with so many together—that her husband would likely march to war.

Never could she show weakness in his absences.

Priority shifted again. “Jeyne, perhaps a tour of Winterfell this morning. We have hours yet ‘til dinner, and longer still for supper. Will you guide me?”

“Happily, your Grace.” And happier still did Jeyne leap out of her chair. “This way.”

/~/~/~/

Briefly that day, they toured Winterfell. Its transience was not in the hours they spent walking and speaking, but in the breadth of the fortress itself. The castle was so large, so intricate, it would take moons of wandering before she could pretend to know its inner workings, let alone its secrets.  

The library, the bell tower, the rookery and the Maester’s turret below—twas a shame Maester Luwin was busy elsewhere when they passed through. Before they left the Great Keep, she made special stop at the kennels so she could distribute treats and pat fluffy heads. She noted that the kennelmaster, Farlen, was missing nearly half his arm. It did not seem to lessen his surly cheer when she praised his hounds.

It did not lessen her relief that these dogs had yet to be eaten.

They exited towards the Hunters Gate and to the left of the Old Ward. That place had once been all of Winterfell a millennia ago, before more and more had been added to the castle. Now it sat hidden in the shadow of the Great Keep. They turned from it. Granaries passed, bathhouses, a great ale hall. There were dozens of small structures cluttered together; the shelters of the freemen and their many guilds. Masons, weavers, cobblers. Tailors, seamstresses, clothiers. Wheelwrights and locksmiths. Candlemakers, blacksmiths, carpenters, ropemakers. Apothecaries and herbalists. Healers trained by maesters past, who had struck out on their own.

The tanner and his boys, she was assured, were kept far outside the castle walls.

They examined many a firewood storage and passed a half-dozen stables. There was even a merchant’s square by the southern gate where traders could hock their wares. It was marvelous, raucous, and frantic as a hive. Even the disruption of the Queen passing through could not lessen its noise.

They travelled to the top of the second curtain wall to look upon the Winter Town far below. Above the protection of the fortress, the winds felt like sawing blades against the teeth.

They descended, circled farther, and hours later returned to the Old Ward. The guards above raised a gate and opened the yetts. They stepped through. Within stood the glass gardens abutted to the back of the Great Keep. The old shell keep was off-center with the First Guard’s Hall beside it. They passed through to the lichyard, so flat and cluttered beneath the godswood’s walls.

The ground there was slippery with new ice. The tombs looked as broken teeth; stained and jutting to the sky. Jeyne hurried: “So many apologies, your Grace, with the Folkmoot coming so swiftly—certain duties have fell to the wayside.”

“No matter.” Sansa demurred, then gestured for her largest guard to take her arm. Gavin immediately came to her side to help her across her ice.

Jeyne took a single step and nearly slipped. Sansa cleared her throat. “Ser Wyck, if you’d take the lead with Jeyne.”

Without a word, her knight drew forward and offered his shield arm. Jeyne looked decidedly pink in the cheeks before taking it.

They continued their tour slowly; breath shimmering white on the winter’s air. Sansa asked in a cloud of frost: “Who is buried here?”

Jeyne answered: “The most loyal servants of House Stark.”

Even Sansa knew that was too morbid to comment on, never mind how strange it was that Winterfell buried its dead in crypt and ground. That they did not return their dead to the rivers or the fire…it was not her place to judge. A great tower rose to their right, and she let herself follow its colossal lines.

“The Broken Tower.” Jeyne offered without prompting.

She made a questioning noise. “It does not look broken.”

“No—” The girl agreed, clutching to Ser Wyck’s arm. “Over a hundred years ago, a great lightning strike nearly burned it to the earth. But King Edwyle saw the repairs started, while his son, King Rickard—our own King’s grandfather—saw them finished. It remains the tallest tower in Winterfell.”

“How remarkable.”

Yet the godswood loomed ahead to draw her gaze; every branch naked and whispering to the winds. Her husband was in there keeping court without her. Yet right then, she did not think of the crown, nor power, nor this terrible game they played. She yearned instead; for that promise he’d made of the hot springs and his desires for her in them. How he’d chase her.

Pray that all men thought the winds guilty for her reddened cheeks. “Jeyne, my dear, were you born in Winterfell?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Did you spend much time in the godswood?”

“So very much. The servants’ children—we loved to play in there when the royal family needed it not, and our chores were done. Brigands and Skulls. Come into my Castle. Lords and Ladies.” Her cheer dipped. “The wood was a favorite of Princess Arya and Prince Rickon, sometimes they would play with us.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.” She whispered. “It was an honor; Princess Arya always reminded us of our places.”

An ugly way of phrasing it. “You are loyal to Winterfell.”

“Always.” Jeyne agreed, but her gaze remained in the godswood, Ser Wyck her only guide. “We made the mistake of playing Lords and Ladies with her the once. Noble blooded my father may be—” Yet the girl let the words slip away.

No, Sansa supposed, Jeyne Poole was no lady in this North. There was little to be done of it.

She could only move with the tide. “I would like to hear more of your stories.” She confided. “One day my children will grow in these halls, and I wish them to love Winterfell as you do.”

The girl’s face took flame. “I would not presume, your Grace.”

Sansa smiled so very secretly. “Now what have I said of presuming?”

At that, Jeyne laughed aloud. Raised all spirits. It was so bright a sound, even Ser Wyck’s dour mouth curved up at it.

/~/~/~/

When she redonned her crown, Sansa chose the ladies to honor at the high table for dinner. Agnes Waterman and Josmyn Mormont to hold the flanks; the Lady Lyessa Flint to sit Sansa’s left. Lord Manderly had given her what he could of silence from his Hornwood kin, so flattery must start if she wished to woo the Lady Flint from other overtures.

Following was the Lady Myna, formerly of house Bittergroves, and devoted wife of Lord Edwell Locke. Sansa had been told that in the lady’s youth, the woman had almost given up her titles to pursue the path of the weirwitch.

Lord Locke, the stories said, had fallen so madly in love with his wife’s godly devotion, that he had ridden personally to give suit at their gates. In turn, the girl had tumbled head over heels for him, choosing wholeheartedly to become his lady wife instead of a witch of the wood.

From so many years of sept-given homily, Sansa knew that true piety was the holiest state of womankind. A man of the Faith should venerate a woman of devoted spirit. It should be the first thing he looked to: not to the lady’s face, nor hair, nor any earthly visage.

Many a lord in the South had cursed when a daughter or sister wed herself to the gods, and not his worldly machinations. Virgins to the Maiden to care for the afflicted. Widows to the Mother to steward Her many houses of shelter. Graying matriarchs leaving their high station, to become the Crone’s lamp bearers.

It was lovely to think such a respect for piety—even when their gods were so very different—extended North as well.

With Lady Myna Locke came her childhood companion from Umber lands, the once Berena Birch who had become Lady Berena Long. Sansa had not been properly able to reward the lady’s goodbrother Grayson—he of the handsome face and quickest wit—for his assistance in dousing the quarrel with Lord Ryswell. This would have to be her first attempt.

She considered briefly inviting the Lady Mereya, but knew the woman would not appreciate being singled out further. They had stung each other quite enough already.

In her stead invitation went to Lady Alys Thenn. Sansa’s King wished the Wildlings to become more joined with the North to strengthen House Stark, and if that was his plan, she would do her best to aid him. The Lady Alys, at least, was a friendlier face than most.

A less friendly face was Renfryd Appleby, but Sansa still did not know the measure of the woman. What moved her; how to bring her into the fold or send her firmly away. Until then, let the Lady Barbrey ruminate that one of her lackies received greater favor than her.

In that same vein, invitation went to Lady Gysella Cerwyn once of House Marsh. The Cerwyns were, Sansa’s husband had told her, mostly loyal to his cause. They were proud of what years he had spent in their care—though she understood that was to somewhat exaggerated effect. It had been plain to notice how the Lady Gysella looked to Barbrey Dustin jealously; always ready to quarrel on the thinnest provocation. It seemed Gysella was bitter that it was not she who was Kingsmother. Kingmaker.

The Lady Cerwyn lashed out in pure spite, and though a worrying trait, if her placement at the Stark table served to tweak Lady Barbrey too—well.

Sansa was not a creature sinless. Never could be, for today she shared trencher with Elissa Karstark. The highest honor given of all, and as great a thumbing of a nose as she could manage. With the invitations sent, and the hall filling with wives and daughters waiting for their menfolk to break moot, Elissa came to the table with her head down. Mouth crumbled.

Sansa took the girl's hand. “My husband shall delight in you supping at his table.” She had not asked him, but she knew he would agree.

Elissa’s eyes darted. “Truly?” The question carried on a tremulous breath.

Her heart railed for the injustice of it. Barbrey’s malice, this timid girl, her husband who had been denied his kin for the vengeance of a petty king. Rickard Stark had never been her liege, so Sansa could say with all poison, the man should have been trampled for his failings.  

Family, duty, honor—and any sister of her husband was as good as hers. “It was he who asked that I take you as my lady in waiting. My sister, he called you, and only will I make his dearest wishes so.”

A dark head rose. “He said that?”

“Yes,” And she squeezed that clenched hand. “Truly, so chin up. You are the daughter of a Princess and the granddaughter of a Queen. It should take more than the Lady Barbrey to shake a Karstark from her rightful place, hmmm?”

That strengthened a once bowed back. Raised a Stark head. And with that victory, Sansa called for the meal, not even deigning to glance where Dustin supped.

Stews were brought in hollowed heels of bread. Their trencher set with butter roasted parsnips, a berry tart for each lady, and thin slices of a sharp white cheese. It seemed Jeyne had interrogated one of her guards for recipe after all. Ser Wyck, if she had to guess. He was the only man among her guard to have eaten at her father’s table, and seen how she had salivated over a good pike stew.

She took up her spoon and gathered a hearty dollop, knowing that every eye was upon her as she sipped. Her eyes fluttered shut. The spices were not quite the same, and thinner besides—but for a moment, she was back in the great hall of Riverrun. Torches crackling. Voices warm in their susurrus. Bran tearing off a hunk of bread to eat his stew. Mother and father holding hands beneath the table. Her grandmother watching with annoyance as grandfather gesticulated to some lord while eating with his other hand—

But when her eyes came open, it was Winterfell stretching vast before her. Her throat clicked once. Swallowed. She made an approving noise. Seemingly careless, she spoke to Elissa, knowing most of the hall could hear her when she said: “As lovely as anything in Riverrun. My compliments to the cooks.”

Murmurs rose. A number of sour looks were swiftly tucked away. As a collective, the women of the hall dug in. Some were perhaps overexaggerated in their praises of the meal. Sansa minded it not. She’d rather the North rush to mimic her, than scorn her for a fool.

“Your Grace, what a fabulous dinner.” And it had already begun.

Sansa turned to her left, looking to where Lyessa Flint and Gysella Cerwyn shared a trencher. She smiled to the Lady Cerwyn first. “Thank you, it is a true delight that I can share something of my lands after you’ve welcomed me to yours so graciously."

Lady Gysella smiled wide, nodding rapidly. Lady Lyessa hardly looked so impressed. “The Riverlands do love their fish.”

“Yes.” Sansa answered, agreeable, though that had hardly been an agreeable thing to say. She decided to push. “In the spring, I hope to invite the Seven Singers and one of my old dancing instructors to court. I have had such a lovely time learning Northern dances, that I know some ladies will delight to learn the Southron. Perhaps you would join us, Lady Lyessa? I have seen you much in the reels at these feasts.”

“The benefits of widowhood.” Lyessa answered dryly. “It is easy to gallivant with the children abed, and no husband to entertain.”

An insult? Sansa thought of how she had danced with her ladies away from her husband, giggling and spinning. Thought of her still flat belly and the babe it did not hold. “I am most sorry for your loss.”

“Southron wars exact their prices.” The lady returned archly.

Sansa took another sip of stew. Settled. “So they do.” And felt her jaw threatening to clench. At least the Trident Kingdom had never turned tail to flee from the likes of King Tywin—

She kept smiling.

Lady Gysella came to the rescue. “Your Grace, myself and my Jonelle would love to learn these dances. And surely as you said, the joys of spring will soon be upon us.”

From what Sansa knew, Lady Jonelle Cerwyn was past thirty years and any dynastic marriage. She knew there were many marriages whose purpose had nothing to do with babes, but that had to sting the Cerwyns fiercely. Sansa dimly remembered seeing the woman on her first eve here; the unfortunate circumstance of her looks when compared to her kin. If Lady Gysella sought to salvage that, by having her daughter become a lady in waiting…

Every noble who extended the hand of friendship, always wanted something in return.

“Yes.” Sansa answered. “It will be a swift and gentle season to come.”

She thought she heard a snort, but could not say from which mouth it came.

“There will be dancing soon enough.” And that voice drew Sansa firmly to her right; looking over both Elissa and Alys who were conferring, and upon a newer face.

It was the lovely visage of the Lady Myna Locke. It seemed Lord Edwell had not had to choose between piety and earthly looks when it came to his bride. Myna gave her a most enigmatic smile. “My husband says a White Moon ritual has been discussed at the Moot, and the lords are aflutter. He and I are looking forward to it—another babe is always a blessing.”

“Ah.” She answered slowly. “I have heard as much.” From Lady Barbrey no less. So it had been true, not just some idle gossip to jostle her sensibilities.

Lady Berena Long cut in: “It will be good—babes for each of us from strongest seed. My Forley becomes so wild at these things. We haven’t had a proper one for him to throw me on my back in ages. Corenna turned her nose up at it, and with Queen Lyarra widowed and beyond her childbearing years…”

Lady Myna snorted. “Do you remember how Lady Barbrey tried to volunteer herself last turning?”

“The bleeding gall.” Lady Berena agreed.

Lady Gysella made an approving noise at that. Josmyn choked off a laugh at the very end of the table.

“Widows and crones leading a fertility ritual—t’would damn us all to empty cribs.” The Lady Myna groused. “Our Queen is young and spritely, and the King is never absent from her chambers. The gods will see their power and return it hundredfold. Ground and fruit and womb will fecund; their virility witnessed.”

What did that mean? It was as if they’d already determined she’d take part in this. Strip herself and join with their barbarism—

But she was but a wife beholden to her husband’s hand, no matter how heavy it fell. Her eyes burned. Her throat cleared: “The gods are good.”

“The gods are good.” The table echoed; even little Elissa so fierce in the proclamation.

Not a single woman at this table shared her faith, very few did in this hall. The Queen’s Sept in Winterfell was small and feeble.

Her objections small, and feeble.

She took another spoonful and did not let it tremble. From the door, a handful of men dispersed among the trestle tables. One marched to the King’s dais before her. It was Gared Gladstone again. She had not spoken to him since that tent by the White Knife; her first introduction to the lords while on her husband’s arm. Though they had not been wed then, just smitten.

How long ago that seemed.

Gared beamed. “Your Grace.”

He was a handsome enough sort; would do well enough to draw a few girlish sighs. But he was younger than her husband and not so finely shaped. Could not be even half so fierce, nor terrifying. Certainly could not draw the lord’s silence with but a snarl. Gods, what that wolfish mouth could draw out of her…

She batted it down. Her husband did not deserve such fervor, if he was freely offering her about to do the Gods knew what.  

“Gared,” She answered, sweet, but not too sweet. “What has drawn you from the Folkmoot? Surely it cannot be finished.”

“Hardly, but the men bicker endlessly, and some of us wished for a meal inside among so many fair faces.”

Alys Thenn scoffed outright. “Mind yourself at a table of married ladies, little Gared.”

He scowled. “Surely the Lady Elissa remains unwed?”

Elissa tittered at that. Lady Alys looked not half so impressed. “The King fiercely guards all that is his, little lordling. Remember that.”

“I do not remember you being that much older than me, Lady Alys. Has being married to that wildling turned you to a dusty crone?”

Faintly, Sansa understood that Gared and Alys had been at least somewhat acquainted before this, judging by how quickly the repartee flew. But in the Queen’s court—she cleared her throat primly.

Gared flushed. Bowed. “Apologies, your Grace.”

“And for our gracious Lady Thenn?” She asked tartly.

This bow came more grudgingly. “To you as well, my lady.”

“Hmmmmm.” Alys hummed, then turned her nose up, as high-handed and graceful as any Great Lady of this hall.

Gared plowed on. “I’d hoped a song, your Grace.”

Was the daft boy asking her to sing? “I fear we shan’t have entertainment until supper.”

“Oh—no, my Queen. I mean to sing one that I’ve authored for you. If you’ve heard of the Good Squire Clem, or the Barrow Shade…” He cleared his throat. “Those are mine as well.”

“Oh.” No one had ever written a song about her. She felt herself flushing in spite of herself. “I suppose…”

“Excellent!” He agreed. “I’ve sent my man for a lute—ah, here he is. Good man.” And took the instrument from his manservant to give it a strum.

Heads turned. His mother, the Lady Clover Gladstone who was sitting at Barbrey’s side—swiveled and then looked as if the sense had been struck from her. Dark eyes flew wide, horror naked.

The Lady Barbrey turned so sour, it was a wonder she didn’t pucker. Sansa was suddenly quite happy to let this go on. If the heir of one of Barbrey’s greatest supporters, wished to admire his new Queen—

Let him.

At the warming notes of his lute, a number of young ladies tittered. A few hurried from the back of the hall to benches near the front. Well, it seemed Gared received more than a few girlish sighs. His mother must be fighting them off with a stick.

Sansa let herself settle indolently; made certain her repose was grace itself. “Does this song have a name, if I may ask?”

Gared’s cheeks were red. His smile crooked. “The Lady and the Wolf, your Grace.” And then, with no prompting, he launched into song. The women cheered and clapped to the cheerful beat. It was a rousing tune that brought blood to her cheeks. It was about her and Ghost. About the wolf running for his lady, and how sure the North was he would gobble her up, only for them to embrace. She had not ridden off on Ghost’s back afterwards like some shieldmaiden of the North—but she did not begrudge that embellishment. Though she certainly could have done without the implications of what other treats a wolf might like to eat with a lady.

It was a funny song though; upbeat and clever. And as she was a connoisseur of these things, Sansa had little doubt this song would be ringing in every hall by summer.

She pressed a hand to her cheek; felt its curl from the smile she couldn’t halt. Sometimes, Queenhood was not all burden. It could have these moments, these joys.

The last note faded away into the rafters. Applause thundered, and Gared bowed to a hall adoring. Sansa willingly added her hands to the tumult. The boy turned and bowed to her as well, eyes shining.

“Wonderful, Gared, thank you so much. Be careful you do not become the entertainment at our every feast.” She threatened on a laugh.

“I would be honored.” He hurried. “I—”

But a rush of servants were bringing further dessert. The meal was shifting from trencher to mingling, and young ladies flocked around Gared to compliment him. Farther on, she could see the Lady Clover Gladstone flying from her seat. Sansa thought the boy would be lucky not to be yanked from the hall by his ear.

Elissa looked rather twitterpated.

Sansa wondered: “Would you like to go join the other young ladies?”

“If I can, your Grace?” The girl asked hopefully.

Sansa gave a nod. Elissa flew from her seat as quickly as the Lady Clover.

It was only then that Lady Alys spoke. “Be mindful, your Grace.”

“It would do Elissa well to be around other girls her age, and no one can get to true mischief with so many mothers about.”

But Alys’ gaze stayed fixed. “I did not speak of my niece.”

A humming silence. A knife unsheathed. “Certain harmless things have their uses.”

A parry. “A man who was once without even a name to pride himself, is capable of jealousies you could not imagine.”

“If it is a crime to be in the same room as an ardent admirer, my offences pale in comparison to my husband’s.” And she set her cup down. “I understand you spent only a moon or two in his camp before he married you off—I did not realize how well you came to know him.”

A backslide. “Not that well.”

“I would certainly hope.”

And Sansa turned then. Let the fires stoke. She felt a Queen. A wolf; an open maw of flame and teeth. “Perhaps you should watch Elissa more closely if you worry so much, Lady Alys. She needs your guidance far more than I.”

A chair scraped harshly as Alys stood. Myna and Berena hardly noticed, chattering and turned towards one another as they were. Josmyn was already off and no doubt flirting her way through the thicket. Lady Alys followed in that wake.

The chair to her left pulled back quietly. Settled with a whisper of skirts. “My Queen.”

Sansa cast an eye. Gave a lift of a chalice. “Lady Appleby.”

“I fear I overheard.”

A gauche admission. “Such is the risk when speaking at the table.”

“It is indeed.”

A pregnant pause. No knives drawn.

She ceded ground. “What is it you wish to speak?”

Renfryd set a hand to the table, skin thin. Veins blue. “That boy—you handled him better than not. There is a certain currency in womanhood, and greater still in the crown. You let him peacock about in court with no one the worse for it. It was better than him being stymied, and trying to approach you in a setting more susceptible to misunderstandings with your husband.”

“If the Lady Alys is to be believed, misunderstanding won’t be avoided.” If it came bitterly, she could not help it.

Lady Renfryd just stared upon her with a heavy eye. “Stark men have their flaws and virtues.”

Her anger was a many headed creature; gnawing at every bone. “Perhaps.” Though if anyone would know of it—it would be this woman who had lived with three Stark Kings.

The lady rapped the table with knuckles bulbous. “There is a great deal that can be misunderstood in a castle this large. A King and Queen who take no lovers, still have so many people in their marriage. Grasping, lying, worming…it is a difficult thing to bear gracefully.”

Sansa shifted her body then; gave the lady her full attention.

The woman took it. “Queen Lyarra had admirers from Neck to Wall. It could not be stopped, and even Rickard knew it by the end. The moment she took off her widow’s whites, men nearly trampled each other rushing to court. There are married lords in this very castle who ran to announce their devotions. To be her lover, her new husband, her bloody footstool. They would have started wars for it.”

It swung like an axe. Executioner; pendulum. “I’m listening.”

“Power and danger go hand in hand. In that marriage—they stand alone. If my dear Lyarra had lived…the court would not convulse around her as it does now.”

Around her and Jon. Around the White Wolf and his foreign Queen.

“But.” She noted.

“But.” Renfryd spat. “There were men who professed their love, who were hung by their guts for what they did to her.”

A shiver, a shadow, a churn of grave soil. Death a cold and rattling thing.

And Lady Renfryd rose in its chill. “Power and danger are the same coin, your Grace. Step carefully.”

/~/~/~/

That night, her anger kept her roused. Her maids the fire roaring. Hands twisting, knuckles brittle. She sent them away.

When her husband roiled in, it was to a beast waiting. Her voice cracked the whip. “So, what has been decided?”

And he was the coming storm. “What decision? That Gared Gladstone shall be our new court minstrel? That you shall sigh prettily over his every song? Why are you still awake? Do you wait for him to sing beneath your—"

“Gared Gladstone is a useful fool and no more.” And her hands clawed together. “We have things to discuss. Join me.”

His gaze was the wolf's. “Not when my dear wife has so clearly set a trap.”

“Why?” She asked coyly. “Do I have reason to be wrathful with you?”

“I am not the one being serenaded in front of the court.” He circled her, stalking. “Tell me what has you in a strop, dearest.”

“A strop?” She hissed.

“The ever-giving mercy of my wife’s gentle disposition.”

Surely he would drive her up the bleeding wall.

Venom rose. “Is it true then? Am I to parade about naked beneath the heart tree in front of everyone? Do your godly rituals and debase myself for—”

His expression fractured. “What? What are you talking about?”

“The fertility ritual!” She shrieked. “The one everyone has so eagerly already cast me in, without ever asking!”

“Gods damn it—I haven’t decided yet!” And he threw up his hands to cover his face. Claw at it. “Sansa.”

“No.”

His hands fell. “Sansa.” He came closer; took her elbows.

She wiggled away.

His expression turned gutted. “Lovely…please.”

Her anger was hot, but so was the ache in his voice. He waited. She offered only one hand; let him grip it tightly between his fingers.

He asked slowly: “You do not have rituals in the South?”

“No.” She answered. Then: “Not as such, just—things in the sept. The Seven Oils, the Smoke of the Smith, the blessings of Crusade.”

“What do you do when you wish a babe?”

“Men pray to the Father, and women to the Mother. And if the gods are good, a babe will come.” Except…not always. When her mother had so struggled to fall with child, her grandfather had called strange physicians and healers from across the sea. Priests of red. Gods of green. Whatever creed and promise gold could buy.

And eventually, Bran had come of it.

“Alright.” He said softly. “It’s alright. You never have to do anything you do not want. I made you a promise on our wedding night, didn’t I? Only good between us.”

Her eyes were tearing up. “Only good.” She croaked. “You promised.”

He tugged at her hand so gently. She took one step, two, then was back in his arms.

He gathered her up, breath warm at her temple. “I had not decided in having it. Markas brought up the suggestion again, and the lords got away with themselves. But if Konrad actually pulls off this gambit with Lady Morrowind—let his marriage entertain them.”

“Oh.” She whispered.

“It was a small matter.” He assured. “The Lords had many things on their minds, and this Thing was called on half a farce.”

She pulled back a little. He did not seem to like it, but let her go anyhow.

“What do you mean?”

“Folkmoots are from the age before holdfast and castle; when we lived as the Freefolk do. Brutal men and roaming tribes, when monsters walked the earth. All free men would come to the Moot to decide things. The womenfolk waited. Lord Hornsby called the damned thing over a dispute with the Widow Wells. That self-aggrandizing shit—the old Lord Wells had two sisters, one married Lord Hornsby, and the other Lord Leoben Flint. It’s too long a story to tell now, but Wells’ only surviving daughter is the Widow Wells who only had daughters herself. And Hornsby wants his second son to marry one of her girls to inherit.”

“…and because women are not allowed at Moot…”

“Yes.” He agreed. “It’s a runaround.”

Lord Hornsby was one of the Dustin Lords, and the man to call the Thing. Markas Dustin had suggested the ritual, while Barbrey whispered poisons in her ear and whipped her to a froth—

A runaround in every way. She’d been a fool.

“Why did you allow it?” Her husband was no shrinking violet.

His greedy hands were tugging her back. She followed them; pressed her ear over his heart. That made it easy to hear his grumbling: “Tradition. The Folkmoot is the oldest in the North.”

“But…”

A sucking breath. A gusting sigh. Her head rising and falling with each

He finished. “When you have a kingdom as old as this, there are enough traditions to strangle a man. A trueborn comes into the world a Stark to his bones, and he can pick and choose as he pleases. A bastard, though…”

Gods. Gods.

The court would not convulse as it does—

Around the bastard and his foreign wife.

She wiped at one of her cheeks and raised her head. He was pale and bruised beneath the eyes. Mouth bitten so very flat; braced against her in some manner that she misliked.

Her husband should never doubt her.

Her fingertips found his cheek. “What does the fertility ritual entail?”

That startled him. “Sansa, you don’t have to—”

“Please tell me.”

“I—” And at this, the terrible ice of him cracked. Instead, he looked sheepish. “I don’t actually know?”

“What?” She asked dumbly.

“It’s one of the feminine mysteries—the sacred truths. And I wasn’t married before you, was I? There were revels and dancing around the edges of the godswood when I was a child. Treats and sips of wine at the fire. But the married men went to one place in the wood, and the married women to the heart tree. There was a lot of singing and fire, and I heard shouting in the trees. The couples came back together with markings on them—like our wedding.”

She blinked hard. Blinked again. “They did not fornicate beneath the heart tree?”

It was his turn to blink. “Who told you that?”

She flushed. “No one.”

His gimlet eye belied that doubt. “Everyone goes back to the castle after. Well—” His brow scrunched. “We did get herded away from the godswood rather quickly when Lord Willam and Lady Barbrey came out. I think some couples might have been…too eager? There was definitely the sound of, ahh—”

“Fornicating in the godswood.”

“You say that like we haven’t fornicated in the godswood.”

She gave him a shove. He refused to release her. Even budge.

“No one could see us in the tent!” She hissed.

He shrugged and dropped a kiss to her forehead. She scowled mightily. “So must I strip naked for them, or musn’t I?”

“My wife will wear her shift and cloak.” He snapped. “And any man like Gared Gladstone, who thinks he can look upon her—”

“Nothing will be improved by bloodshed.”

“You’d be surprised.” He grumbled. Rather worryingly so.

“Gared means nothing to me. Send him from your court, if it pleases.” She considered it. “And that’s it? For the ritual?”

His face told her he very much would like to keep arguing the point of Gared, but for once, her husband chose sense over jealousy. “It never lasted more than an hour or two, and they stopped having ceremonies when Brella was born, so I don’t really…”

“Remember.”

He scowled at that. She broke away from him. He scowled at that too.

“I need to take counsel. With the Septon, with Mother Malla—with…others.”

His good sense was short lived. “With Gared?”

“Say his name one more time, and I shall come over there and bite you!”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” And his mouth was twitching. “Sansa.”

“Don’t you smile at me.”

“I’ll smile as I please, when my wife threatens to punish me.”

“I did not say that.” Her mouth was twitching now, too.

He covered his lips yet could not cover his smile. “What happens after you receive your counsels?”

The humor slipped away. “Hopefully you will have answer before the Folkmoot's end. We must honor the ways of your people where we can.”

His smile faded just the same, and it brought forth something quieter. Miserable. “Marrying me has only brought you difficulty, hasn’t it?”

“You warned me.” She answered. “What wearing this crown would mean. I knew.”

A weary hand scraped over his face. He was not King here, only her husband. “Not enough.” He answered softly. “Not nearly.”

Perhaps, and perhaps not. She tucked her hands close to her stomach. “I need you to speak to Lady Barbrey.”

And his back went stiff. “Why?”

“Yesterday at tea—I can only guess at what she has said to you of Princess Lyanna. But I will not countenance her hurling such insults at Elissa. Your sister is as innocent of that turmoil as you are; I won’t have it.”

And his face turned dangerously dark. “She said what to Elissa?” And Sansa repeated it, word for word. His eyes were black as pitch. As thunder. “I will handle it. When the Moot is done and Konrad is married, and all these damnable lords are gone from my halls, we shall sup as a family. And if the Lady Barbrey wishes to speak venom, she may do it to my face.”

“Very good.” She murmured.

His fists flexed. Spasmed. “…she knows, knows how much…”

“Knows what?”

His face twisted—indistinguishable between rage and grief. “What they said of me, she knows how much it hurt. That she would…” He chewed off the words. Gnawed them as broken glass. Swallowed the pain of them.

Perhaps this was the moment. The opening. “She said further. Coming in as if she was lady of Winterfell, insulting the Lady Mereya, telling me of that ritual—”

And he shifted. “Perhaps she was warning you.”

That struck her like a slap. “I do not accuse the Lady Barbrey of kindness.”

Yet he was unmovable. “The lady accosted me to our chambers last night complaining of you snubbing Brella. The rest, it seems, was unmentioned."

She did not like this shove to the backfoot. “I did not snub Brella.”

His brows rose. “So you did not separate her from the other ladies and invite her late?”

“I didn’t—it was not a snub. I was doing as your brother bid with the Lady Mereya, I did not wish to strain Brella’s loyalties between myself and her mother.” That had been the only reason. It was easier that way. Simple.

“So you say.” But his gaze stayed black.

“They are my ladies.” She snapped. “It is my choice who attends me!”

“It is.” He agreed. “In which case, so are the consequences for how you treat them, if I am to have no opinion. When I was called a worthless bastard in Barrow halls, I watched the Lady Barbrey eviscerate men to gristle. You got off lightly with Brella.”

“And did Elissa get off lightly?”

His mouth cut both ways. “I’ll handle it.”

This had not been the chance. She had moved too quickly, too recklessly. To strike at such a deep bond in blind haste—

Her eyes were burning again. “I shall go abed. Thank you for clarifying.”

“Fine.” He snapped, and yanked off his doublet and dropped it to her floor. She gaped at him. He marched to her bed, shed his trousers, then climbed into it.

“You, you—”

“I have been kept from your side long enough.” He growled. “Goodnight, wife.” Then shut his eyes.

Her wrath was bubbling. Frothing. He would not get away that easily. They were trying to keep him from her, all of them. Drive a wedge to make her hysterical and brittle.

She would not be so easy to fool again. In perfect anger, she shed her night robes and climbed atop him. His eyes flew wide. Wordless, he gripped her hips as she clawed into his shoulders. Then, like the storm opening, their mouths surged together.

They became the thunder.

Chapter Text

Dawn came like his nails being peeled from their beds. His wife’s wrath still scored upon his back, his chest, his shoulders. The ache of driving into her hot in his thighs. Every time he closed his eyes or tasted the hollow of his cheek—she was there. Above him, taking him. Breasts painted by fire. Hair crowned in flame. The roll of her like the tide breaking shore.

Wrath. Fire. Flood. The memory of her.

Did his wife even know how she haunted him?

Yet the fires were gone now; the dawn risen thin. She had turned away from him in slumber. Perhaps a gesture deserved. He had known there would be difficulties in having the North accept her, to give her a true home in his lands, and yet…

He had underestimated the miseries.

He kissed her hair then, softly enough not to rouse. He would have her sleep longer. She carried half the court on those shoulders. He was not a man to mistake the feminine half as the one less lethal; the Lady Barbrey had raised him better.

His throat struggled with the reminder.

As ordered, his valets waited in the King’s chambers. In silence, in patience, for no man dare disturb his wife. They dressed him quickly and quietly. Strapped steel to his hip. The godswood lived by different rules than the hall. This, at least, was a violence he knew.

All the while, he wondered if there was way of easing his wife’s path. Her bruised heart. Surely…

No revelation came.

In the corridor, a rumpled figure waited. The servants had not been kind in waking her.

“Lady Barbrey.”

She dipped once. “My King.” And offered no further.

“Walk with me.”

She did. The servants were already afoot; lighting fires in the godswood and stoking the kitchens high. His breakfast would be handed to him in hollowed bread. Dinner and supper would likely be the same. One more full day—then he could call this farce to an end with the morn.

He began: “I am well aware of the position my blood mother put me in, we are agreed on that. But I will hear no more of you speaking against Elissa.”

Barbrey answered. “She is a hairsbreadth from being a princess, her brother a heartbeat from being King.”

“I had never thought your cruelty would come to lash to me.” He snapped. “Yet here we are.”

And Barbrey flinched. “Jon—”

“Your Grace.” He snarled. “You know how it hurt me—how I was treated. The whispers that followed me wherever I went. To know that you have turned to do the same to her has shamed me. That I had to hear it from my own wife’s mouth—”

“If she wishes to tattle—”

He gripped her arm with bruising force. Yanked Barbrey around. Her eyes flew wide as he wrenched her to her toes. Gaze torn open, all the better to see him.

“There will be—” He hissed. “Dignity in this court. For Elissa and my wife, and if I hear any differently, I will banish you to your dower. Are we understood?”

Her eyes traveled his face slowly. Sharply. The skinning knife. “Crystalline, your Grace. Your half-siblings—”

“My brother and sister.”

“Yes.” She misliked that. “Trueborn, noble, and not so young now. The girl is marriageable, and the boy not far behind. What I do, I do to protect you. Let them fly too high, and the North will remember what they may yet be.”

“I denied them those titles; I took your counsel.” And oh, how the Karstark banners had seethed that his brother would be heir with no princehood to follow.

“And for good reason.” She hissed. “If their reputation eclipses yours, our fall will be swift. I have worked long and hard to take you from Lyanna’s shadow. To make the North see the man you are, and not the follies she damned you with. If my gauche behavior sees your reign secured, then name me the villain. I will happily hang their mother as a millstone around their necks.”

“Yes,” He answered dryly. “For surely my greatest advisor insulting a princess reflects well upon me.”

Barbrey scoffed. “She wears that title no longer, so do not play ignorant. It is a delicate game; your legitimacy and theirs flows from the same poisoned cup. The only reason that crown was placed upon your head, is because we put you above them. Do you think that was easy? Trueborns with royalty and a great lord for sires, and you on the other side of the sheets like a mongrel? A King may feign innocence at the mudslinging beneath him, but you and I both know.”

He did. He did. Disgrace and anger, and both so tangled. It had been a near thing at the Neck, a battle at one end with his ragtag army on the other. The Karstark foot had joined him after being mustered by the Lady Lyanna, yet they had been this close to swearing upon Eddard. Barbrey had sent scores of ravens from Winterfell to campaign for him while salvaging the grief-maddened from the dead. In the field, Lord Ryswell and his sons had politicked furiously, offering promises Jon had neither gold nor crown yet to make.

He had weighed leaving the Karstarks behind. Weighed them against might of the army his uncle had marshaled south. It had been his blood mother’s letters to tip the scale. Even now her wondered at their content; what words had kept the Karstark banners silent when Corenna lifted his uncle’s crown.

So many hands—two of them Stark and most of them Ryswell—had stopped a second civil war from blooming in the corpse of the first.

He choked on it. “I know.”

And then Barbrey was gentle; the arm once in his grip twining around his own. A hush. Memory: that heavy snowfall as a boy. Her gently lifting her cloak to fall over him. How he’d clung to her side—how she’d allowed him to stay there.

The briefest brush as soft as snowflakes; her fingertips so warm upon his cheek.

Yet all these years later, she daren’t touch higher than his arm. Merely stared up at him, blue and grey and flayed wide. “Jon, remember where you are. Who you’ve become.”

It dragged out of him. “Yes.”

A moment stretching. Her breath evening to draw him down. “I never mean to hurt you. Though gods know we trample each other often enough. I will not speak to the girl’s face if that so troubles you, but I must say what is needed elsewhere.”

He scoffed. “And you think she will not hear those whispers?”

“They will not kill her.” Barbrey snapped. “While a succession crisis very well might. We knew the sort of man you were, which is why we never suggested otherwise when you chose to spare them. But you are older now, and so are they, and the kingdom has not stabilized. The marriage you made—”

His mouth wrenched open.

She clutched his arm. “Peace, my love. Both our opinions have already beaten each other to death. If you will not think of yourself, nor us, think of your wife and the children you want from her. A legitimized father, a foreign mother—think of them. When the time comes, do you want them safe with a crown on their head, or dead and exiled before their uncle’s armies?”

Fear whispered down his back, cold as the crypt. Crawled through his aching bones to rattle them. His little princesses so red of hair—what would happen the day he could not protect them? And a boy…a boy who would have all that he hadn’t. That none would call bastard nor toss away with ease.

But only if his son was prince of a kingdom secure. Robb had been half-southron. Rickon and Arya, too.

How easily, he knew, the trueborn could tumble.

Her brow took heavy furrow. “Torrha Karstark wed to the Greatjon, and it is her daughters who married Jorah Mormont and Theo Wull. It will not take much to tip the scales above us. The Karstarks are disgraced now, but the North forgets so easily when it benefits them.”

His breath rolled low. Shuddering. “Elissa…she’s sweet, why would she…?”

“Jon.” And sadness answered him, thick as fog on barrow ground. “They do not have to want anything to be thrust upon the throne.”

Godsfuck. How quickly the ground had swelled beneath him during the war. How quickly a bastard of nothing had become something with a slash of the sword.

She was holding his hands now; everything cradled so carefully between them. The shadow of her stretched with the dawn. “I will do what must be done, and you will treat the girl well enough to smother offense. Marry her off to a middling lord that benefits you. And be mindful of your brother—his lords watch for any weakness.”

Jon despaired of it. “He’s a boy.”

“So were you.”

Wooden swords and hand-me-down toys—and he could be that child no longer. Her hands slipped from his.

She withdrew. “What are your plots?”

“Lord Shearer.” He answered gradually. “My wife has gotten Manderly to silence the Hornwoods for a time. Shearer’s youngest sister is married to Bayard Morrowind. If Konrad manages what he means to, then the Morrowind lordship will be ripe for the taking. If Shearer wishes his nephews to be noble lords, wealthier and more powerful than he could dream of being…”

“Then he shall sever himself from his liege lord’s quarrels.” Yet her brow furrowed. A woman so aggrieved to announce: “Tell your wife to leave Lady Lyessa be.”

His wits scattered. “What?”

Her mouth took the bitterest tilt. “I cannot say your Tully’s efforts are aimed wrongly—but the North shall not be won with thin stews and tea cakes. Lyessa Flint will not bend to a queen heralding the threat of the Seven. If we wish to win her firmly back to your camp, I will be the one to manage it.”

It took a moment to understand what she was saying, to feel the heartening upswell rising in his chest. Too long had they been at cross purpose; this was how it was meant to be. Their steps in unison. One effort willingly building on top of another. “The Crown would most appreciate the Lady Barbrey’s efforts.”

Her mouth curled. “Would they, now?”

“Hmmmm.” Yet he considered further. “You are no friend of the Flints of the Finger. Will their cousins scorn you?”

“Old grudges.” She demurred. “And utterly irrelevant. The Flints are separated from each other by more than miles. Do not fret for me.”

“You’d wish me to fret a little.”

That was all it took. Her smile bloomed, the sun’s face upon the morning glory. The years and grievances crumbled away. For a moment, she was that Great Lady again—young and lethal, and tucking him beneath her wing.

/~/~/~/

Sansa woke without her husband, fingertips stinging. Heart aching. Memory a flame’s shadow beneath the eyelid. She’d meant to kiss those marks away; embrace him in the aftermath. Yet she’d rolled away to let their sweat cool, and sleep had stolen the rest.

A cup of tea was put into her hand. His skin had been hotter. Her anger, too. When he had reached a hand for a breast, she had pinned it; her other palm flying to the base of his neck. The bellow of his breath then. The thunder of her heart. His body laid beneath her so open and arching up—gods. She’d been inches from wrapping her fingers around his throat and squeezing.

Though in the end, it had been her gasping. Begging. Babbling how much she loved his cock as he met her thrust for thrust. It was a slippery fever, knowing the sinner he made of her.

In the end, there was no defeat. No victory. A love match, her mother had said, was never a war. To win battles against a husband meant a wife had already lost. She kept that bitter knowledge to her breast as the maids dressed her. As Ser Wyck and the guards joined her to the sept.

The shadow of that arch; seven pillars of light stretching to meet her. What little absolution remained in this place.

Men and women were already in attendance to fill the pews. Murmurs rose at her coming, some gazes turning in surprise. She had missed too many services, of late. Court had gripped her so ferociously.

Another sin to add to the tally.

Ser Marq rose with Alyn Smallwood stumbling to follow. The knight lifted a hand, and it took a breath—a swift gathering of strength—for her to gently meet it. She had noticed how abrupt her husband was in his courtesies. She had thought it some unfortunate Northern coarseness.

She knew differently now: it was the Crown. There were so few hours in the day, so many calamities to head-off, that every moment wasted in fluttering—

Galling.

Yet there was purpose in all things, all niceties. She knew that better than most. So with the very nails she had clawed at her husband with, she clung to her courtesies. Let this lordling kiss her knuckles.

“Your Grace.”

“My dear Ser Marq, would you sit with me in prayer?” She dipped her chin. “You as well, Alyn. I am so sorry—it seems I have been neglecting you both.”

“Hardly.” Marq argued, yet gave her a significant look. He had noticed it too. She had tasked him with certain errands, only to disregard him. That wouldn’t do. Such carelessness was what lost allies, and she had so few of those already.

A single loss could not be afforded.

But Alyn hardly noticed. “Gladly, your Grace.” Then gave an uncertain smile. “Is there anything we can assist you in?”

She smiled in return. “Only to my seat.”

Septon Chayle slipped from the antechamber as they settled, lighting the candles upon the Father’s high altar. The sept quieted. Septon Hugor followed to begin the first prayer. The first hymn. The first reading. The homily, when it came, spoke of remembering the eternal spirit. To be unencumbered by worldly squabbles when it was the gods who ruled eternal. It was the penitent man who entered the heavens, never the powerful.

She wondered if this was directed at her, or if some other lord had offended Septon Hugor in her absence.

When the service was done, she made her niceties among Manderly’s banners. Showered favor upon Ser Karl Whitehill, for the White Knife’s lifeblood would be secured at all costs. Her serenity remained untouched while one of her guards whispered in Septon Hugor’s ear. The man listened carefully, then nodded to her over the crowd.

A kindness. “Ser Marq, if you’d escort me to the Chapel of the Mother. There are certain prayers I wish to give.”

“Of course.” He allowed, then deftly helped extricate her from the clamor.

It was only in the antechamber that she spoke. “Have you chosen from among the knights?”

“I have.” He answered. “The Blackfish didn’t even call me twitheaded fool for my suggestions. I’ve talked most of the Greenhand into supporting themselves from their kin. But for the Silversmiths, we shall need gold. And soonly—it is not a short journey to Winterfell. If we send them away now, it will be difficult to get them back.”

“Certainly.” She agreed, though gods above was her first allowance running thin. Edmund’s bribes, the Mother’s donation, her own household and the ladies she supported—

There was no time to linger. “I would appreciate your handling this. A hall can be prepared for the Silversmiths in the First Ward, while the Greenhand stay in the Great Keep as honored guest.”

He halted. “What? If these men are not to guard your castle—”

“My husband has his Hearthguard, and I my Rivermen. He will not suffer others bearing naked steel in his halls. And truly, I mean these knights to demonstrate their vows. Ride the lands and protect the weak. Put their best foot forward under the Queen’s name.”

Yet Marq scowled fiercely, displeased by this task.

She did not sigh. “We come in peace upon this land. To the North, the Faith is near a stranger. We will show them your gallantry so they might love us.”

That did not appeal. “And yet.”

Gods deliver her from prideful men. “Perhaps you can see to Alyn earning his spurs, if you are in so of need of duty.”

His face went sour as a freshly bitten lemon. Gods, did she miss such fruit. She wondered if her husband’s gardens held such trees.

She let that dream slip by. “You will have your gold and swords, Marq. There are deeper matters at play here.”

His pale head rose at that. Gaze sharpening. The lordling now, and not the vainglorious fool. “Your Grace?”

“I do not have control of my dower.” She whispered. “If I must send men to wrest it, I need to know them trustworthy. That they can protect my fields and collect my taxes. The Greenhand already give fealty to their kin, so these Silversmiths must be sussed and trained. The gods only know how many Skutilsveinr will cleave to the Lady Barbrey to rob me of strength. I mean these men to become my knights, and I will not share their allegiance with White Harbor.”

“The Queen’s Men.” He murmured, fervency rising. “That would be…yes. Incomes of their own are a powerful stake. A man’s vows are gracious—”

“But gold does not need grace.” It was a Riverland proverb, one as true as not. Happy was the marriage where wealth and duty could meet as one.

They reached the chapel door. A seven-pointed star was carved to it, studded in peridots as green as the Mother’s glory.

This sept was small, but heavy gold had clearly come from coffers to build it. King Eddard, it seemed, had been generous with his wife. Yet only holy men and woman-born could pass beyond this threshold. Marq bid her salute and took leave. Her Rivermen crowded to guard the entrance.

Sansa stepped through. The chapel was empty but for the Mothers of Mercy puttering about. At her entrance, they all dropped their tasks to curtsy. Mother Malla rose from that clutter. “Your Grace, we are honored. Mothers, gather your things and depart to the Winter Town for duty. Our Queen shall have her peace.”

A murmur of genuflections rippled. This chapel was the smallest she had seen yet, little more than a spare room. Two windows, one statute of the Mother, and a low altar crowned in winter flowers. There were only three benches on either end of the aisle, and a single altar rail to pray before Her.

Swiftly, Sansa sank to her knees, clasping her hands upon the rail and settling to the cushion below. Mother Malla joined her. They spoke the Litany of the Mother together. Sansa offered her prayers alone. That she be guided to truth and righteous choice. That her husband would be pleased by her; that she could comfort him in his hardships. That soon enough in marriage bed, she would fall heavy with their babe.

That the North could no longer scorn her—for she would give their King a son.

She heard Septon Hugor before she saw him. Smelt the incense that he lit, myrrh so thick upon the air. His footsteps around the altar. His touch soft upon her head.

His whispering: “Mother above, lift this weary spirit and fill her with your love and verdancy, so that she may be restored in courage. Pour your heavenly nourishment into her soul so she may find the path your light lays before her. The grace of the Gods be with you.”

“And also with you.” And her eyes swept open. “Septon Hugor, I am in need of counsel.”

He smiled warmly. “Then I can say you have come to the right place.”

“There is talk of a fertility ritual, and the lords have already cast myself and my King as its head. I do not know these practices, and I fear the sin that I might make.” She did not imagine what the houses of the Trident would say of her, what her devout family could think of such choices.

“Ahhhh.” And his smile slipped. Mother Malla took a ragged breath.

His hands clasped among his raiments. “That is…a conundrum before us, your Grace.”

She would not falter. “You said yourself that when they Northman pray, it is the Seven who hear them. If I do their rituals and pray to the Mother—is that not the same?”

“Perhaps.” He allowed, then came down on a single knee to bring them level. The dust that would get upon his robes of white…yet he did not seem to care. “I will admit to her Grace, I do not know these rituals. It is a secret kept among the women of this North.”

“But?” She asked plaintively.

Septon Hugor sighed and looked to Mother Malla. The woman cleared her throat: “Blood sacrifice, I have heard. Dancing too. There is always a great deal of wine and mead taken to the godswood. The women go to one place, and the men another. I have heard…it is no sin for women to see one another in their natural state—the indignity of the birthing bed ensures that already.”

Septon Hugor nodded. “Yes, it is only a question of decorum. As long as her Grace conducts herself and her King with godly dignity, it is holy and good. The Gods sent you to us for a reason.”

“I had thought…” Sansa did not know how to confess this. “Perhaps you would warn me away.”

The Mother and Septon shared a perilous glance.

“To wear the Northern Crown…” Mother Malla’s prayerful hands clenched tight. “Does not mean a Queen wears the North’s respect.”

A terrible chill. “Queen Corenna.”

“Indeed.” Septon Hugor said. “I do not think that which is the God’s will, can be a mortal sin. But Corenna did not rule here, not truly. The North cast her aside the moment her husband was slain. It was Queen Lyarra the Splendid the North looked to in its tribulations, before they looked to Jon Snow when all seemed lost.”

She saw her husband in her mind’s eye, then. As real as if he stood before her. The shadow beyond his shoulder; the lady mother who ruled in all but name.

The bile it brought up her throat. A son Sansa bore was as much safety as a danger. Many would consider her superfluous once an heir had left her body. When the food was here, and the winter done—

How swiftly a queen could be tossed.

“My King will live long.” She declared with vigor. “But I must become a Queen who can rule regent for my children. If all else fails—I cannot be as Corenna, I cannot.”

She would not give her children to Barbrey Dustin as her husband had once been abandoned. Be forsook nor slain in her own halls. She would rain holy war before surrendering; swords of light and blood and death.

And Septon Hugor painted the seven-pointed star upon the air. “Let not evils be so. Long live the King.”

“Long live the King.” They echoed.

His hands fell. “Have her Grace perform their rituals. Upon the morn, she may come to the sept where we shall cleanse her in the ways of the Seven. She may invite the court’s ladies to witness the Mother’s blessing, for surely any prayer doubled for babe is a gift. What seems a trial now will become a boon to our Queen’s reign.”

She bowed beneath the rising light. Prayed his words true.

And Mother Malla gave offering: “If the Queen keeps married ladies in her confidences, perhaps she should ensure they join her in the wood. A heart is strengthened by loyal companions.”

It was no assurance.

“Thank you truly.” Yet it soothed her all the same. “May the grace of the Gods be upon us.”

/~/~/~/

The Moot dragged on. They supped again with whitefish stew. Green beans and blackberry cakes. A thick stout poured from oaken barrel. She had given Josmyn leave to choose their activity after the meal and so, inexplicably, did Sansa find herself sitting above an archery yard.

Her Rivermen guarded gallery and stair, while her husband’s Hearthguard scattered about. They all sat beyond the Great Keep’s walls in an outer ward. She watched her castle so distantly; steel gleaming upon guards who circled on their watch.

A bow twanged below. An arrow struck; muffled by the hay-packed target. It was rather unsightly how the North always built those in the shape of men.

The blow had been a bullseye. It joined another eleven arrows tightly ringed in mummer chest.

“Very good.” And Josmyn rose from her haunches. “Have you been practicing, cousin?”

Little Elissa lowered her bow, beaming. “Yes! Mother says that across the sea, men from horse can shoot a man dead at a hundred paces. She taught herself over the winter, then taught me the same. It is so very easy now when not riding!”

Josmyn shook her head in bewilderment—a feeling Sansa shared. “Gods be good. If the wildlings come to reave, you’ll drive them off single-handed.” Then turned. “Shuffle up, ladies, the Lady Elissa has raised the banner!”

Brella, who had been clutching her own bow, looked ill at the pronouncement. Sansa thought the girl had been rather confident when they’d first taken arms. Now, the lady seemed wholly unsure.

Brella stepped to the line and sighted her bow. Her first arrow sunk low.

Josmyn barked: “Don’t shoot him in the ankles, girl—up!”

Brella squeaked, and the next shot sailed clear over the head. Some of the Hearthguard laughed.

Josmyn slapped a hand to her forehead. Brella’s shoulders hunched as she took a third arrow from her quiver. Drew back.

Josmyn called out: “Easy now; loosen your shoulders. Take a breath. Know where you’re aiming and then follow through.”

Brella did. Her next arrow sank to the stomach, and the girl bounced.

“Better.” Josmyn pronounced, then set herself behind the girl, picking at Brella’s elbow before knocking her feet into line.

Sansa let her attentions drift. “Lady Agnes, is it common for Northern ladies to learn the bow?”

“It is, and it only grows more common closer to the Wall. The wildlings do not care upon whom they rain their violence.” It was an ugly truth, yet one the woman delivered blithely, bending down to tug at the cap of fur upon her daughter’s head. Where the babe sat on the floor playing with wooden horses, she shot her mother a gummy smile. Agnes returned it. “We in the west were once dedicated ferociously when the Hoare’s reaved and slaved our shores. The man must war while the woman defends. That is the way of things.”

And the lady smoothed back a troublesome curl. “The spear is taught as well, but some go farther in raising their daughters.” And her gaze flittered upwards with distaste. “I doubt there exists a weapon your Lady Josmyn could not kill a man with.”

The notion was a sharp one, piercing as the lance. “In the South, it is not a lady’s place to kill except in terrible circumstance. How does it reflect on Lady Josmyn that she has warred?’”

“It is a powerful omen; when a woman holds death in one fist and life in the other.”

Stranger and stranger, this sprawling North. Sansa wondered if she’d ever fit inside it. If her edges were too smooth or too sharp. “I am glad you are here with me; did you not wish to join our illustrious archers below?”

The lady scoffed. “Leave defense to the maidens—they need some place to spend their vigor, before a husband sees to them.”

Sansa only hummed as if that was not absurdity. As if she was not a lady who had never taken up a dagger.

It was strange, watching arrows fly from maiden hands. The girls had shifted again; Eddara not as accurate as Elissa, but sinking resolutely to the target all the same. Other women kept entering the yard. Berena Long with spear heading up a contingent. Ladies from Manderly lands—women she had seen this very morning so piously in sept—arriving with bows on their backs and bracers upon their arms.

She could no longer hear Josmyn for how many voices clamored below.

Then came the Lady Lyessa with her companions, Lady Joy Fisher whispering in her ear. Sansa’s mood curdled further.

The Lady Barbrey was scheming.

From the tumult, a few women heavy with babe joined them up in the gallery. The grandmothers too; wizened of joint and gimlet of eye. They darned and clucked and compared their grandchildren, many of whom walked in a host of young ladies carrying knives. A day ago, those girls had fluttered around Gared Gladstone. Today, they ringed about to watch daggers dance through the air.

Northern respect, it seemed, existed in realms she could not enter. Bonds she could not partake.

Her sweat felt clammy upon her brow. “Lady Agnes, for this fertility ritual spoken of…I know perhaps I ask too much, but would you accompany me when it comes?”

The lady’s jaw worked. “I suppose another babe would be a boon.”

“If you do not wish it…?”

Yet Agnes shook her head. “My husband will wish it. You honor me and honor House Waterman in asking. I will be at your side.”

“Thank you.” Though she did not know if that was right—if she should not apologize instead. Something had been darkened, then. The hare beneath the hawk’s shadow. Turning, seeing…

Her mind was shaken away.

A horn sounded. Rumbling. A murder of crows burst into the sky beyond the Great Keep. They rose in a great, monstrous cloud, and Sansa asked: “What is that?”

Agnes rose. “I do not know.”

Sansa let her eyes slip to Ser Wyck—he had seen it too. His hand laid upon hilt, an inch of steel already exposed to frigid air. The Hearthguard stirred from their posts. The ladies kept chattering, tumbling in their many jests. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps…

Another horn sounded. Louder. Closer.

The matriarchs quieted. A ripple of silence spread through the yard. That made it easy to hear the echo of hooves. Sansa rose then. Strained. Upon the Great Keep’s walls, she could see men running.

The crows circled further, cried higher. A fell wind as black as plague—

And a rider crashed into the yard. Ladies screamed and scattered at the furious lather of his horse. He reared around, Hearthguard flame bright upon his breast, yet his eyes were brighter. His howl louder: “TO THE QUEEN! THE QUEEN! WOLF’S DEN!”

An eruption of steel and the Hearthguard sprinting. Her heart thundering, the crows screaming—

And Ser Wyck seized her. “GAVIN!” And threw her into a burly set of arms. Her feet left the ground, stomach tumbling. Gavin dragged her into his breastplate and yanked his cloak over her, blinding her to all but a silver of light.

A chin heavy. Naked sky.

“SWORDS! SWORDS!” Wyck thundered, and then her Rivermen were collapsing in a rippling sphere of steel around her.

The Waterman babe screamed. Lady Agnes fell upon her child. The Hearthguard thundered up the stairs.

Swords bared to swords bared to swords. Lungs were bellowing. Eyes gleaming. The guard on the horse reared around again. Women were shouting and running, spears rattling in their hands. The rider pointed into the gallery.

He pointed straight at Ser Wyck. “YOU. GET THE QUEEN TO THE KEEP! THE GATES ARE CLOSING!” Then kept howling: “BRELLA DUSTIN! ELISSA KARSTARK! WOLF’S DEN!”

A northern burr spoke from a sword’s length away. “This way.”

And her men began running. Her head clanked off Gavin’s breastplate. Her heart hammered off her ribs. She had no air to scream. There were so many men around her, their armor became a storm of sound. They flew beneath one wall. Two.

Gavin’s cloak flapped back, and she saw the colossal gate of the inner ward blotting out the sun. They hurled under it. Ironwood groaned as it swung. Steel was rattling overhead—yetts falling. The gates sealed behind them with a thunderous clap.

The yard passed in flashes. Scrabbling breaths. The sun again. Shadow; so many men atop the walls. The Great Keep’s entrance came so much smaller, yet when they were inside, it took twelve men to force it shut.

“THE ROYAL QUARTERS!” A man rumbled. “WOLF’S DEN!”

She could hear doors slamming everywhere. Bars falling. Servants scurrying and weeping.

Her body would shake to dust; her ribs would pierce her heart. The smallest door yet, and Gavin so tall that he had to duck.

“SHUT THE DOORS.” Wyck bellowed.

Yet someone else shouted back: “WAIT! WAIT!” And Gavin twisted around for her to see Brella and Elissa being carried inside. Each girl was small and shaking; hands clinging the guard who had carried them in this mad dash.

Brella was weeping. Elissa took hiccupping breaths.

“CLOSE!” And the last thunder sounded. The doors had barred shut.

Gavin put her down, steel still bristling all around, and Sansa saw the Stark tapestry she did every morning. The one right outside her door. Where her husband’s name was stitched in silver; where hers had come to join him in bronze.

She spun about, trying to steady. Trying to stop.

Her blood scalded. “Where is Jon?” It came out tiny: a hiccup of noise.

No one was listening. The men were still shouting, running into rooms and running back out. The maids and servants were being forced down the corridor at sword point.

She understood none of it. “Don’t hurt them!”

“We shan’t.” Ser Wyck answered, but still shouted: “Lock them in!”

There was a scattering of squeals and shouts, but the servants were forced into their chambers and barred-in from the outside. Even her rivermaids.

Her fear convulsed and became as fury. “Where is the King?”

“Godswood, most like.” And Ser Wyck was no longer shouting. He wasn’t even out of breath. “Wolf’s Den was called—violence has befallen the court. The Queen is to be protected at all costs.” And his gaze drifted. “The King’s sisters too, it seems.”

At that, Brella hurried over. “What about mother—Lady Dustin? Surely Jon wouldn’t let her be hurt.”

“Apologies, my lady, I do not know.” And his sword hung lank at his side. “I am sure Dustin guards will protect her.”

Yet Elissa came hurrying too. “Lady Alys Thenn, my aunt and her babe, surely—”

“I do not know.” He repeated. “Please, if the ladies could sit and recover themselves, we shall know soon.”

“It came from the godswood.” Sansa knew; that blackened spiral arcing through the sky. “I saw the crows as they rose up.”

His gaze sank. “We shall see, your Grace.”

Yet she gathered her tattered nerves—held them together by nails and teeth. “You will send a runner, Ser Wyck. I must know what has happened and the state of the King.”

His mouth flattened, a stubborn slope, yet he bowed his head. “As the Queen orders.”

She did. The message was passed through a door, then another, then out of her hearing. She was surrounded by a strange scrum of men, and knew only half of them. It sent her nape prickling. Some of them had sheathed their swords.

Some hadn’t.

She offered her hands. “Lady Brella, Lady Elissa, come. Let us rest in my chambers; this has been an awful scare. Ser Wyck will set the guard as he sees fit.”

He understood. “At once.”

The Rivermen covered her chamber door. Three followed her into the room, only to halt at the sound of quiet sobs. Sansa searched, not finding its source—not until she saw dark head of hair. A body rocking and wedged in the space beneath her writing desk. Her guards leapt in front of her, daggers bared.

And at that, Jeyne Poole looked up and screamed.

Shouts rose behind her—her men alarmed and thundering to violence.

“Stop. Stop—” Louder and louder, arms whisking her aside as their blades rushed towards— “HALT IN THE NAME OF YOUR QUEEN!”

It was only her shouting, she thought, that halted her men in shock. Jeyne’s frantic sobs were loud in that absence. Her gasping cries of: ‘”I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I tried. Please your Grace, I tried—”

To her shock, Brella scurried under arms. Dodged protective hands. The girl crouched before Jeyne, broke her grip from where it was knotted, and held those shaking hands. “Shhhhhhh it is alright. All is safe, all is well.”

A quieting. Sansa clearing her throat. “Leave Jeyne be. Make your checks, then post guard. I need no further of you.”

“My Queen.” Ser Wyck interrupted, sounding a man standing atop a hot iron and trying to hide the pain. “It is by the King’s and Blackfish’s order, that we allow no one near you until the King speaks otherwise. Jeyne Poole is not…”

Brella kept quietly shushing. Jeyne was still whispering: “I’m sorry.”

And Sansa glared her displeasures upon him. “I am sure Jeyne will not offer me combat. But if that is your fear, go sit with her.”

He swallowed once. “…as her Grace says.” Then flicked a gesture. The guards leapt to check the wardrobes and under the bed. Once done, they secured themselves in the royal solar. She was guarded from every direction, now.

Elissa’s hand was still trembling in hers.

Ser Wyck shooed Brella away, then crouched where Jeyne had huddled. With a low groan, he sat flat to the floor. It was an undignified position; his long legs bracketing the desk. If he cared for such things, he didn’t show it.

Then, most gently, he whispered to the girl. With painful hesitancy, Jeyne’s hand poked out again. Ser Wyck shucked off his gloves and took it. He kept murmuring the whole while.

Brella strained, clearly wishing to join them. Sansa firmly took both girls and guided them to the fire. Shadows danced before the grate; sparks tumbled. She thought of blood, of steel, of a splendid queen murdered in this very castle. Poor Jeyne—the girl needed no more gawking. Gods, she must have been a girl when the Bolton dogs came to do their ghastly work.

Sansa settled them and found a pitcher of heavily watered wine—the kind she favored when awake enough to welcome her husband to bed. She poured five cups, passed two to the girls, then carefully set two more above Ser Wyck’s head.

With no further task and blazing with fury, she sank among the cushions and seethed. Who had dared violence? To make her ladies weep and scare the daylights from them all?

It gnawed her. “Drink.”

The girls drank. Jeyne’s sobs quieted at last. In the silence, Sansa felt as if her head was ringing—as if she was a bell that had been struck. She echoed with calamity.

“What do you think happened?” Elissa whispered.

Brella’s hands stayed clasped as if she feared to drop her cup. “Surely it was the godswood as the Queen said. All the men are there, and there are so many quarrels in the kingdom.” Her breath shuddered. “My brothers…I hope nothing has befallen them.”

Elissa nodded most seriously. Sansa felt a creature utterly ancient, watching these girls in their gossip. They continued, making up fanciful tales of duels or grumpkins, or of her husband beating back a dozen assassins singled-handed. It soured her stomach. Curdled the wine.

She refilled once more and found that Jeyne had uncoiled; was quietly drinking while Ser Wyck did the same. The man’s gaze never left the girl, even when Sansa set another cup upon the desk.

Time smeared, measured in sips and empty vessels. The girls had curled together on a single cushion to doze. The soft roses of their mouths were stained by wine.

A clamor rose distantly. Footsteps. Elston putting his head around the door. “Ser Wyck, your Grace—begging all pardon, but Lady Barbrey Dustin is demanding entrance.”

“The lady.” Ser Wyck enunciated sharply. “Was not listed to us.”

Elston shrugged, and the turmoil only grew. The girls stirred at its sound.

She could forbid this; the Lady Barbrey had no power here. She could torment the woman, deny her, keep Brella under lock and key. Yet she thought of that same girl; her voice breaking over tender pleas.

Sansa Tully would not become as her enemies. “Accompany her in, Elston. I am sure you could best the lady in grappling if the need arises.”

“I could at that.” He agreed, then vanished to the corridor. A minute later, she heard scuffling.

“The dagger, Lady Dustin.”

A familiar tone: “I have given it, you wretch.”

“The one in your skirts, if it pleases. Don’t think I won’t stick my hands up there.”

“You scurrilous, lowborn, slavering curs—"

“So we are.”

“A pox upon you!” And a rustling of skirts. Leather slapping into an open palm. “I should have you hung from the walls.”

“The lady may certainly try.”

The door opened, and in vair cloak and furious mien, Lady Barbey stormed the chambers. Elston followed in preparation for grappling.

Brella woke fully and gasped: “Mother!” Then scrambled from the cushions to fling into her mother’s arms. “Are you well? Are Jon and Konrad and Markas—”

Lady Barbrey merely kissed the top of her head. “Shhhh, shhhhhhh. All is well, my sweet.”

A stab of jealousy nearly gutted Sansa. Why couldn’t it be her mother coming through that door? Why couldn’t she be the one allowed to weep and shake in maternal arms?

A sound of kicking heels broke her from jealousy. Nails scrabbling, then Ser Wyck grunting as if struck. Sansa rose to draw all attention. Elissa, low to the ground as any snake, crawled to the cushion directly behind her skirts.

Blessed were the meek.

“Lady Barbrey.” Sansa announced, as one would a plague or catastrophe come to their door.

The woman looked upon her, gaze so cool and teeth so sharp. “Her Grace.”

Ignorance was the flaw she least wished to admit. Yet desperation forced her hand; this was no time for games. “Do you bring word?”

An inscrutable lift of the brow. Gaze moving and nothing given. The lady kissed her daughter’s hair then drew them apart. “Blood has been shed, but no word of death. The godswood remains in turmoil. Some say the wildlings turned on the King at last, others that Lannister assassins have come from the south. Another dozen are claiming Bolton insurrection. The castle is in chaos—too many remember the last tribulation in that wood, and nerves have shattered.”

Dead wolves. Dead queens.

Sansa breathed steadily. Elissa and Brella made quiet noises. Ser Wyck was yet sitting on the floor behind her.

She made the prudent choice: “Lady Barbrey, perhaps we shall retire to the solar to await the King.”

A thin mouth. Nothing revealed. “A worthy suggestion, I will send the servants for food and drink.”

The Lady Barbrey would not bid the servants of these quarters again. But Sansa spoke nothing and gestured them on. Jeyne was so far beneath the desk now, not even the narrowest gaze would catch her. Sansa was glad for it—Jeyne Poole had suffered enough.

This castle had suffered enough.

The ladies conducted themselves to the solar with dignity, and Ser Wyck pointedly stared at the floor until they passed.

/~/~/~/

It was dark when her husband’s chamber opened. When he rolled in like a storm half-spent. Fury bleeding; ravaged and tempestuous. A smear of blood dried and so awful upon his cheek.

It had come from his own wounds.

Sansa gasped, flying to his side quicker than a bird. The other ladies rose. They would see all she did—and she cared not.

The moment she was in reach, her husband snatched her into his arms. As if they were waves crashing. As if they were inevitable in their collision. A flurry of heat and then him kissing upon her cheeks, her mouth. Breath spilling: “Tell me you are alright.”

“I am well.” And she kissed him again. “But you are hurt.”

“A single cut.” Yet when his cheek worked, the clotting cracked. Blood beaded so red. “It is nothing.”

“Nothing!” She railed, and with a terrible sigh, he lowered her. But genteel was her husband, for he let her take a handkerchief and dab at him. He did not even try to kiss her hands more than twice.

Finally, when her fretting was done and the healers called for, he looked past her. “My lady?”

And Barbrey was somewhere between aggrieved and drained. “Tell us what has transpired, it is near the hour of the wolf.”

He made an exhausted noise. “Apologies, it took hours to settle the lords, and the servants are in fits. Guards have been found weeping, and maids have locked themselves in rooms we are still trying to open. It will likely take the dawn to usher the castle to peace.” And he scrubbed a palm across his eyes. “Brella, are you well?”

She bobbed a nod. “Most certainly.”

His gaze slid to Elissa. Wavered. “Lady Elissa?”

“Most well.” She echoed, fidgeting and then reaching for Brella’s hand. To Sansa’s surprise, Brella reached back. Their fingers curled tightly together.

That drew a smile from her husband’s turbulent mouth. Had him bleeding again. She clicked her tongue and dabbed once more, hating every drop that came.

Yet such was his joy that he let her fuss further. Unable to help herself, she pressed another kiss to bearded cheek. He turned instead to catch her mouth.

It was a siege upon them both to pull apart. He groaned: “Please sit, all of you.” And then moved to the table to settle her. His hand gripped her shoulder once while she sank; seemed to map her in a careful slide from neck to arm. He kissed her temple before seating himself.

The other ladies slipped into their chairs.

His expression flickered. A crest of fatigue; an edge of pain. “The Freefolk were offering scouting reports, but it seems old wounds remain open. Mors Umber interrupted and cast egregious insult upon Lady Thenn. And Lord Thenn answered it.”

Elissa gasped and clutched for her heart.

He did not falter. “I am a’feared to say that Mors Umber nearly lost his other eye. His brother Whoresbane joined the fray, and then their Umber kin followed. The Freefolk saw no reason not to answer, and so sword brandished to sword. When the rest of the lords saw excuse to avenge grudges among them…I am thankful to say no one else was stabbed, but half the men have left the godswood bloody.”

Yet it was Barbrey now sucking in a breath. “They shed blood at Moot. The King’s blood.”

He grimaced. “I am aware.”

“Aware? You should have never invited these animals to court—”

Yet Elissa’s hands slammed the table. So startling was the sound, they all froze. The girl shouted: “Sigorn is not an animal! Their babe is not an animal.”

A flutter of lashes, an empty mouth; so shocked was the Lady Barbrey. Jon blinked slowly and then stared upon his sister as if meeting her again. He marshaled himself. “They are not animals, Elissa is correct in this.”

Yet those gray eyes turned to tears. Begged him. “You cannot execute him, please. You cannot—not again.”

“No one will be executed.”

“You said that before!”

And her husband looked as if he’d been slapped. Elissa quailed, what fight that had burned immediately snuffing out.

There was pain in him, now. Tension wavering at his jaw. Her husband’s quiet hopes—dashed so ugly. Beneath the table, she put a hand upon his thigh.

He covered it with a roughened palm.

“No one will die from this.” He repeated, final as a closing door. “Elissa, Brella, please go abed. The night grows long.”

“But…” Elissa’s whisper came fragile.

“It will be well.” Yet Sansa could see him shuttering. “Go to your aunt, I am certain she needs you.”

Barbrey stayed silent, yet her eyes were chips of ice for how coldly they burned. Elissa took one look at that gaze and cowered. Both girls rose, one fleeing faster than the other.

“The nerve on that child.” And Barbrey chewed it like glass. “Torrhen Karstark was never to be spared; she was a fool to think otherwise.”

“She was a child.” And he covered his face, knuckles sawing beneath the skin.

The lady merely tucked her hair aside. “Then let us speak of calamity. No one wanted them here, and then your wildling bore blade first. I do not need to be near to know how the Umbers must froth. They shall call upon their kin of bear and clan and hold, and most shall be joyous to answer millennia of rapine. Royal blood was shed.”

“I know.” Yet when his hands fell, he looked an animal. “The scouting reports were of the Blight. It has not stopped. The forests flake as ash, and animals rot while they yet walk. Men have gone to madness so black beyond the Wall, that I will not speak of it. I will not repay our wildling’s fealty by banishing them to starve, so perhaps you might offer solution, for we are stuck with them!”

Silence crackled ugly. Rolled heavy as any shroud.

Sansa’s fear clung to her ribs. The memory of all the things her King had spoken to her…how he’d meant his wildlings to become true lords.

It was a snowfall, then, how softly Barbrey spoke: “Can we blame Mors Umber? Truly?”

And it struck a mortal blow. Her husband’s eyes clenched shut at it. Something was slipping by her again, and Sansa hated it. “What is this Umber quarrel?”

She waited for the insult, for the smug look of superior knowledge. Yet when Barbrey looked to her, there was no scorn. Only misery as gray as death. “Long before you were born, Mors Umber had a daughter. On a spring day when she rode from Umber holdfast, her party was overtaken by wildling raiders. Half the bodies were never recovered, and those women whose pieces were found—they were raped until they were torn open.”

Horror black. Agony bloody. The worst fate a woman could fear—and it was a dread even she and Barbrey shared.

Her chest shuddered. “Gods above.”

“It was no holy work.” Yet the Lady Barbrey offered no further.

Her husband’s eyes came open, gaze as black as soot. “I cannot change that. The Thenns once lived so far from the Wall, they had no living memory of it. No reason to raid—not that the Umbers are willing to hear it. I cannot blame them for their pain, but sometimes we make peace with what we hate. You should be glad, my lady. That alliance of Umber you fear? This will stymie it. Our wildlings will not be House Stark’s enemy, but our shield.”

The lady’s breath hissed. Shock bright, affront naked. “How long have you been planning this?”

He shrugged; the secret spilled. Sansa tightened her hand upon his leg in warning.

Yet the Lady Barbrey drank deeply of her cup. Faltered upon its rim. “You do not wish my help at all, do you? Your secrets, your plots—you keep them to yourself.”

His answer was pendulous. “How else would I be? I am my mother’s son.”

Sansa felt that chill again. Watched Barbrey swirl her wine, aching and hardly assuaged. “There must be blood for blood from your wildling, it cannot be avoided. I may drum up some momentum on Mors insulting Alys as your kin, but that will only soften the blow.”

“Would that I could cut Umber tongues and be done with it.”

Sansa shot her husband a narrow glare. “As we have had such little luck with that, perhaps you should refrain.”

Barbrey snorted into her cup.

“I cannot maim the Thenn.” And Jon ignored them utterly. “He is a god to his people; they still think their lands were a tithe given in supplication. If I send him back to them maimed, he shall lose control of them, or I shall lose control of him.”

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth—it was the oldest law of men. It left Sansa trembling.

Barbrey’s gaze flowed over her; found her wanting and turned aside. “The bleeding does not have to kill him, but if you draw only a few drops upon the weirwood, the Greatjon will slip through your fingers.”

“Punishment.” Sansa said, and they both turned to her. She wetted her stinging mouth. “When I or my brother had done a crime of enough amusement, my grandfather’s penalties would be false. Go feed all the kennel dogs, read me a book, write your mother a poem. He was the same with his lords. He gave what seemed like terrible punishment in the eyes of the aggrieved party, but to his favorites, it was barely a trifle.”

“A punishment that is not punishment.” Yet he was rubbing at his eyes again. “One I must come up with by sunrise. Justice must be settled before the Thing ends, and no one will wait for it.”

She wondered if the Lady Barbrey felt smug now, knowing what her ploy had caused. It was a bitter indignity; an accusation she could not lob. Only seethe over.

Yet she could deliver another blow. “After my husband gives justice, he may announce the White Moon ritual. The King and Queen shall partake in his people’s ways.”

His head snapped up. “Sansa…”

But beyond him, Barbrey was the hard frost—cold and brittle. “Will you now?”

Her chin rose. “It is an honor.”

Their gazes stayed locked, the air crackling against wound and tooth. Jon took her hand. Kissed it. Knuckle and palm, then pressed his forehead to it. “I need sleep.”

And her heart wrenched firmly back into place. Sansa cast a dismissive glance. “My Lady Barbrey, the hour grows late. Leave us.”

And there it was—some gleam of hate. Yet the lady rose to touch his shoulder. “Sleep well, dearest.” Then departed without a backwards glance. Sansa loathed it.

But she could not loathe him. “Come, my darling, let us go abed.”

His mouth curled. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear that?”

“I could not guess.”

He kissed her knuckles. “The moment I left your bed.”

She made a breathy sound; made him kiss her mouth and not her hands. She curled her fingers through his hair—tugged him. “Come.”

The grin he gave was positively salacious. But when they got to her chambers and shooed the guards, he undressed slowly. Hissed at every movement. She saw bruises appearing on his shoulders, covering the marks she’d left on him in the dark.

Her heart broke in twain. She was a wife cruel. “Jon.”

His head came out of his doublet. “What?”

But she was already behind him to help tug up the next layer. Whispering: “Last night…I did not mean to pull away from you. I meant for this.” Then she feathered her mouth upon his back. Whispering touches, gentle presses.

He took a quelling breath. Another. “Sansa.” And a shiver rippled down his skin.

She kissed his shoulder blades, the firm swell where neck met shoulder, then circled around and pressed her mouth above his collarbones. Pressed herself to where her hand had pinned him to the bed.

She kissed beneath his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids. It was only when she kissed his mouth, that he drew his hands beneath her jaw. Halted them.

Gray as smoke, as granite. Always unyielding. “What can I do to cheer you?”

Only the heroes of songs and her King, could be this achingly sweet. And here she was: the cruelest girl. “I should be asking you—I have been a derelict wife.”

“When?” He asked incredulously. “It was I who dragged you to this madness. Please Sansa, whatever I can give you, ask it.”

She needed nothing. Only his comfort, his laughter. His joy in her.

“I don’t…”

“Anything.” He repeated.

And a thought wiggled; a want buried. She unearthed it carefully. “Anything at all?”

His gaze narrowed in faintest suspicion. He nodded anyhow.

She smiled. “I want to see the wolves.”

And her husband groaned. “Gods damn me.”

“You promised anything.”

He groaned again, then gripped her firmly. Tugged them together until they were twined as one. “If my wife wishes it, it shall be so. Let us go to the wolves.”

Chapter Text

He woke to one of the maids rapping gently against a poster of the bed. It was a slurry—adrenaline and exhaustion. Muddied and scorching. He surged upright to a weak spill of firelight, a pale hand parting gray velvets.

“Your Grace.” The maid whispered. “Dawn is coming. Vayon Poole sent messenger, they have only just gotten the castle to order. He fears both breakfast and the Folkmoot shall be delayed some hours.”

He cleared his throat. Shook loose the gravel. “Then wait another hour before running my wife a bath. Leave us.”

“Yes, your Grace.” A swift curtsy. The hangings whispering shut.

Cloistered again, gray and quiet as some cloudy day. Fire crackling. Curls of woodsmoke. The silver threads of Northern stars shimmering overhead. His wife laid quietly beside him, her hair like a bloom of red asters over the furs.

He ached for her. Quietly, ravenously, he slipped her to his lap. Bent down. Mapped the line of her brow with his mouth.

She hummed quietly, a languid hand curling into his hair. Kissed him sleepily; rose in his arms until she was cradled to his shoulder. She was safe, the guards had done their duty. At Moot he had been certain the violence had been spontaneous. Frayed nerves and old grudges erupting to the fore. No greater purpose, no larger trap.

But Winterfell had learned its lessons bloody. The horns had sounded. The riders had flown. No violence would reach the Queen—never again.

And here she was, no jewels upon her brow. No gold upon her fingers. Only bare and soft within his arms. Every moment felt impossibly stolen. Some days, these flickerings were all he had with her. It was untenable—this fucking Moot. Old men crackling with rust trying to reign in clannish ways when castles stood tall. When heiresses ruled in their own right. When ravens flew and roads laid wide, and ships docked daily with news from far flung ports.

They were not as the Wildlings were, hadn’t been for millennia. He had to honor his people’s ways.

But he could make it ruinous.

Her mouth slowed. Pressed to his chin. “You are thinking.”

“Too loud?”

“Hmmmmm.” Her hum vibrated. “What heavy thoughts rest upon that brow?”

He sighed. “How I will discourage any man from calling Moot again.” Pressed another kiss to her temple. “What justice I still must mete.”

“Have you no solution?”

“Not yet.” But his mind was already beginning to circle; the wolf gnawing its own tail. “We have some time. It seems Winterfell is only now put to rights. It would please me if you joined the Lady Barbrey in softening opinions among our nobles.”

She breathed quietly. “…if we must. I shall order the kitchens to make a feast to lighten moods, then send for Lady Alys and Elissa and Brella. We will make a united front—all the King’s ladies standing as one.”

He knew that was no easy thing. No trifling gift. He cupped a hand beneath her jaw. “Thank you.”

“You warned me that you were a demanding King.” Yet her eyes were dark. Glittering. “Kiss me.”

“Aye.” And a pleasant shudder rippled through. “With a demanding Queen, my terrible ways are chastened.”

Her nails curled into his neck. He sank into her; bestowed the kiss that she’d demanded. Slow and sliding. Deep.

She was rising again. He eagerly helped sling her leg over his hip. Rocked up into her.

She gasped. “Like this?”

“Yes.” He breathed. “Like this.”

A sliding of skin. His hand skating down; finding her slickness and then rousing her to greater heights. When at last he could seat himself inside her—he groaned into her neck. Praised the gods. She was shuddering, sighing, then rising up on her knees while he guided her.

Chest to chest, mouth to mouth, slow and punishing.

He prayed for her pleasures. For the babes she wished. For peace above all else—

For that was the only way he would keep them all alive.

/~/~/~/

His wife, the moment she was bound in her stays, forbade him from the hall. “They will hound you and try to divine what is to come. You must be above it. Inscrutable. I may show some favor to the Lady Alys, but not you.”

“Oh?” He asked from bed, not in disagreement, but certainly amused. “What else?”

Her maids fluttered about like birds, tying here, tucking there. She raised a brow. “Mors Umber and his brother shall sup in their rooms, as shall Lord Thenn. If there are to be more quarrels—let them be in your wood and not our halls.”

“As my Queen wills.” He leaned up, bid her near then kissed a hip through her silks. “Thank you.”

She took a shuddering breath; smoothed a hand through his hair. “What for?”

“Your aptitude—and for the fact you have given me my first few hours to myself in moons.”

She flushed. “I always seek to please my husband.”

He grinned slowly. “If you truly seek to please me—”

She swatted him. “Begone with you.”

“I am displeased already.”

“Ha!”

He affected a manner most grieved. “A cruel, demanding wife, that’s what I’ve been given.”

Her lips tugged. “And you shall be grateful for it.”

“Always.”

She slipped another few steps. Cast him a look that had him wanting to order the maids out and fling her to the bed again. She watched him; seemed to cherish what she thwarted. “Good. If it is agreeable, I would open a few barrels of mulberry gin. Enough for all to have two cups and be in jolly mood. I know gold and stores are dear right now. But this, I think, is dearer.”

It was as if she’d thrown a pebble into forest pool. Ripples spread through his mind: flickers of light, shadows of thought. The solution came so simply. So perfect. He leapt from their bed and kissed her.

The maids tittered and scattered. She gasped: “I did not know you loved mulberry so.”

“You are brilliant.” And he covered her mouth again. “Truly, utterly.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. They swayed together; the maids all politely gazing upon the walls.

She whispered against his mouth. “It is my King who is brilliant, for I know he has figured something out. What do you need of me?”

Everything. “Send Alys to my solar when you are done with her, and we shall see this debacle ended.”

/~/~/~/

It was a terrible absurdity, when she and the Lady Barbrey nodded to one another then sat at the front of the hall to share trencher. She would not mistake this for peace, for any mending of relations.

Yet interests, as all things did, occasionally aligned.

She signaled the feast to begin and watched the loss unfurl. Everything she had saved the last few days in curtailed meals—gone in an instant. Heavy tureens of stews and roasted suckling pigs. Baked vegetables, fragrant rolls, slabs of cheese. Stuffed pheasants and pigeon pies. Her dowry was, at least, resplendent to the last crumb.

Fresh fruit came next in delicate slivers. When the gin was rolled out, it was met with a roar.

“Clever.” The Lady Barbrey said. “They shall be drunk by noon.”

“Not so drunk.” She disagreed. “Too deep into the cups would only do us harm. This will be enough to loosen tongues and moods—no more.”

“Hmmmm.” Yet the Lady Barbrey watched their chalice fill. Under every eye in the hall, Sansa and the lady smiled grimly to one another. Toasted. “To the North!” The lady called.

“To dear friends!” Sansa answered. She drank deeply, then passed the cup to Barbrey. The hall drank to them both with a lusty cheer. The gin was heady this early in the morn.

Not all faces were bright with praise, certainly the Umbers were looking sourly into their cups. But it was a start. Lady Barbrey dabbed at her mouth then set to their pheasant. “It is the Lady Torrha Umber our Queen should turn her sights to. She is matriarch of the far North. Umber, Karstark, Wull, Mormont: all are tied to her. If you buy her peace, the Greatjon will fall in line.”

And unerringly did Sansa turn her eye; pierced through the cousins and banners walled around. A smaller woman than her Umber husband, more gray than red in her hair. Yet Torrha Umber was clear of eye and high of head. Not hunched by the years. Her dress was rich of cloth, but the adornment itself was subtle. No jewels glittering. Only iron and bronze; circlets and rings. The oldest hallmarks of this North.

“I see.” And she took back their cup then a quelling sip. “And the Lady Barbrey thinks to task me with this?”

“Your Mormont shieldmaiden and Alys Thenn—surely you have some hold on them by now?” An arch lift. A saw of the knife. “They will be potent in softening the Lady Torrha, if her Grace possess any delicacy.”

It was an insult skewered quickly as this pheasant. She waited for Lady Barbrey to lift the fork; took the royal split with her teeth. “And you, my Lady Dustin? How will you occupy yourself while I do the lion’s share?”

Barbrey raised her own bit of meat and chewed delicately. “Seeing to the Bolton lords with my son, of course, then to the Glovers and petty lords to ensure the Stark side of things. If you manage to find time to waste, ensure Manderly moves as you bid.”

The lady had noticed that alliance, then.

“And of the Lady Lyessa—”

“I shall worry of Lady Flint.”

Sansa scowled at that. The Lady Barbrey ignored her. “Beets?”

“Thank you.” She took another offered bite; did not let her mouth pinch shut around it.

“I see confections are coming forth. Perhaps her Grace should gift them to the Umbers, with Lady Alys sitting so pointedly at this table.”

She did not grind her teeth, merely looked upon the lifted platters then gestured them on. The Umbers did not appear wholly enthused by the delivery, yet Sansa received some nods. Assessing glances. A few resentful forkfuls lifted to the mouth.

It seemed not even the Umbers were ready to spurn royal favor. Not openly.

Across the hall, Lord Ansley rose. When he stepped before Konrad, Sansa knew both she and the Lady Barbrey were watching sharply. The man spoke, inaudible in the tumult, and whatever he said—Konrad remained unruffled. Merely put out his hand.

A missive was placed into his palm. Lord Ansley clasped Konrad’s shoulder as he would trusted kin, and not his own liege lord.

Barbrey hissed an outraged breath.

Konrad swiftly unfurled the parchment. A grin swept wide then lifted across the hall. The figure he smiled upon had sat herself to face him. To watch his every move. The Lady Mereya Morrowind pretended to ignore his eyes—yet at the last moment, she betrayed herself. Golden lashes. A searching dart over his face.

His grin widened. Barbrey’s knuckles whitened upon the silverware.

Sansa took an apricot tart and nibbled it. “How wonderful, it seems relations have warmed.”

“How coincidental.” Barbrey answered flatly, then gnawed upon her next bite.

Sansa did not deign the gesture a glance. “What was it you said? It is perilous to turn a back on a Dustin. So too, I think, upon a Queen’s favor.”

“Mayhaps.” Barbrey answered rigidly. And so did a galling meal continue. Dishes and confections sent this way and that. Veiled insults traded between morsels. When it was time to rise and mingle, she was grateful for the reprieve.

So too, she thought, was Lady Barbrey.

It was a simple thing to gesture Josmyn and Alys to her. The women came, eyeing one another with familiarity. It cast a shadow on them both.

Josmyn breached the dark. “Well met, cousin.”

Alys flicked her skirts. Did not dip her chin. “Indeed.”

But Josmyn kept staring upon her, gaze flickering. To Alys’ hands, her jaw, the dip where her neck was swallowed by pale furs. Alys was a strange mix this morn: wildling pelts and resplendent skirts sewn with Karstark suns. A statement if Sansa had ever seen one.

“If you are looking for bruises.” Alys bit out. “You will find none. Do you read none of the letters I send your mother?”

Josmyn prickled. “The barbarian could have been watching your hand—”

“Sigorn can’t read!” She snapped. “He thinks our maester is some kind of charlatan, and suggested we eat the ravens the King gifted us. If my husband had been writing my letters, you would have gotten squiggles hoping for more of those wooly goats so he can continue breeding an army of them!”

Josmyn’s mouth opened. Snapped shut.

Sansa gently interceded. “My Lady Josmyn, the King would not marry his kin to any man who would be cruel.”

“Cruelty? Surely you jest, for I have seen Wildling butchery firsthand. And to call it anything but merciless—"

And Alys snapped. “The Freefolk are not one and the same! Thenn, Walrus, Hornfoot—does that mean nothing to you? If I came and called you Flint, then blamed you for crimes before you birth, would you not take offense?”

“That is not the same.” Josmyn hissed. “What sort of peace are you asking of us? The blood that stains our shores is millennia deep, and you demand we turn blind to it!”

“You speak as if this North has not made alliance after bloody uprising before. The Boltons wore Stark skin for cloaks, for gods’ sakes, and even they made their peace of it!” Alys snarled. “You swore to me you would always ride to my aide, Jos. No matter where our fathers sent us—even if were leagues apart. You promised.”

And Josmyn sagged. “We were girls, then.”

And Alys’ voice warbled behind her teeth. “Do you forsake me?”

Callused hands ringed in bands of bronze. A stud of tourmaline upon a thumb. Those palms cresting swiftly to rub a weary face. “You are, quite singularly, the most vicious woman I’ve ever met. Perhaps I should worry for your husband instead.”

It sounded a denunciation to Sansa, yet Alys glowed. Whispered: “You promised your shield. I do not need violence, just your help. He is my husband…he gave me a son.”

“Does he love you?” Josmyn asked, aching to the bone.

“Much better than I expected any man to.”

Mormont fingers cracked apart. “Better than some snotty lordling?”

Alys went scarlet at that. Pinched her mouth and glared. “Shush!”

Some undercurrent, but not enough knowledge for Sansa to divine it.

Josmyn only laughed. Shook her head. Rose in strength again. “Gods damn you, Alys. Alright. Let’s keep your barbarian alive.”

Quite against her own will, Sansa snorted at that. Both women’s faces swung to her. Brows raised. She flushed hotly. “Barbarian—that is what they call my husband in the South.”

Both women looked bewildered.

“He’s a Stark.” Alys blurted, mystified by the pronouncement.

And Sansa felt a twist of mirth none would understand. “It is all a matter of perspective, I suppose.”  Then smoothed her expression again. “I wish for us to gain Lady Torrha’s favor before Moot. Lady Josmyn—would your mother be amenable to Lady Alys’ plight? The more support we receive, the better all will be served. The North needs peace now more than ever.”

Yet Josmyn looked pained. “Father’s only goal in this trek was to see me married to some second son, and for us Mormonts to escape without bloodshed. This—” She gestured violently. “Is bloodshed.”

Alys’ mouth wrenched open. Sansa spoke over them both. “Is your mother so shackled by your father’s wishes?”

Josmyn grumbled indistinctly.

She pressed. “What complaint would he have, if his wife spoke to her honored mother? Surely the Ladies Isolde and Torrha are not at odds.”

“Not for the last decade, at least.” Josmyn admitted. Questions bubbled at that distinction—but Sansa suppressed them. Some other day. Some other time.

She gave marching orders. “My Lady Alys, please fetch Elissa while Lady Josmyn and I seek her mother. We shall converge on the Lady Torrha.”

“Of course.” And Alys dipped a quick curtsy. Whatever enmity they might have built after that unpleasantness with Gared Gladstone—how quickly it was shed. Anything for a husband beloved; she and Alys were the same in that.

The Lady Thenn slipped to follow where Elissa had gone to their Karstark cousins. Josmyn clicked her tongue: “Not there—you’ll pass right behind the Hornwoods.”

Alys swiftly changed direction. Sansa lifted her gaze. Josmyn was shrewd in many ways; Sansa did not even have to voice the question.

The Mormont spoke: “Before the King sundered it, Alys was betrothed to Daryn Hornwood.”

And Sansa nearly swallowed her tongue.

She looked upon the Hornwoods again. Their hunching: that Lord Shearer was no longer at their side. Her husband’s ploy was bearing fruit, and yet she took little joy in it. Bitter backs and clenched hands. A mother and father bolstering around their son. Daryn Hornwood only looked upon his trencher so sickly. His mother’s hand was soft upon his back. His father seemed ready to leap to their defense at any moment.

Gods. To know his once lady would come Winterfell, a new babe and supposed barbarian husband in tow...all while he rode beside the King who had torn that life away. A King who had been traveling to meet his own new bride.

What Daryn Hornwood had said of her was unchivalrous, cruel and unworthy of both their stations. It had been potentially ruinous.

Yet Sansa felt a whispering of sympathy all the same. Father above—that poor tongue-gouged fool.  

But she could not unmake his words, nor her husband’s answer to them. She could only turn away. “Come, my Lady Josmyn, we have work to see to.”

/~/~/~/

For a blissful hour, he stared out a window and thought of nothing. Heard nothing. Let himself drift above the Wolfswood until he found Ghost and his She-Wolf loping through the hills. A chill wind. Driving instinct. Hunger so pure—

Alys arrived to his solar strident, eyes blazing. She dropped a handkerchief upon his desk.

Jon woke.

It took a few moments to seep back to the confines of his own skin. The handkerchief was heavy; four fish sewn into one lacy corner. He delighted in it. The red fish was for his wife’s father, the silver for her mother, the two smaller ones stitched for their children. He untied it and found happiness only grew: there were blackberry wafers tucked within.

Gods, no dessert had ever tasted so succulent. None barring the sweetness that lay between his wife’s legs, of course. Nothing would compare to that.

Alys cleared her throat.

He entertained thought of his Queen’s legs a moment longer; how they would look splayed upon her throne while he knelt to feast. He pushed it aside. “How fares the court?”

“The Queen and Lady Barbrey are cutting a swathe.” And Alys eased. “Thank you, I had feared that...”

“I did not give you this task to abandon you to it.”

She shrugged tiredly and sat before him; shadows smudged beneath the eye. “The Umbers scarcely remember that I am their kin. If had not been for the Lady Isolde and Josmyn, and my reminders that the North has seen only a handful of raids since my husband began protecting their borders—I do not think aunt Torrha would have been moved.”

Despite her resentment, the announcement encouraged him. He remembered the harshness of the Lady Torrha keenly. She had sent no men to the Wall and only spit venom in her missives. Her levies had not joined his army until the civil war had been half-won. He’d always wondered if Torrha had other plans at the behest of her husband, or from Arnolf Karstark and their grandnephew who might be King.

Perhaps they all had plotted together.

But he let that dagger fall. “Were your reminders enough to sway her?”

She snorted. “Hardly. Your wife promised that the Smalljon’s eldest son would become your squire, and that the next food shipment would be doubled so they might feel more secure with the Crown.”

He dug a thumb into his brow; reminded himself it was a price quite low. If anything, his wife had been shrewd. “And Lady Torrha shall quell her husband?”

“She as good as gave her word; it is more than we got from her during the war.”

And Alys remembered that bitterness, too. How uneasily she had waited in his camp. How all of her kin had ignored her pleading letters, until Josmyn Mormont came with her own ragtag force. Jon knew it had been against the Lady Mormont’s wishes that her daughter had ridden out.

The gods had strung them all on fraying threads. Lady Isolde on Bear Island, Lady Orinna up in the mountains, Lady Torrha intractable within Last Hearth’s walls…

The war had been decided on a knife’s edge. Eddard Karstark had been but an army from being crowned. Jon had been a mistake away from moldering in a pile of corpses.

Bastards, once they reached above their station—they won or they died. There was no middle ground.

He carried that weight. “We’ll survive this.”

But Alys had drifted from him. “You promised we would stay this side of the Wall. My husband, his people…they still hunger for their holy valley. For homecoming.”

He shook his head. “The Blight will deny them. We have time, Alys. You and your son will stay in the North.”

Her mouth quirked; a strangeness passing. “My son could be a God the other side of the Wall.”

“You’d loathe it there.”

“I would.” She agreed absently. “But the way my husband speaks of it…sometimes I dream I am a different woman. A spearwife who would be happy with him there.”

He had no answer to that. They both knew the nomadic way was a harsh one, and neither of them hungered for it. His campaigning and his armies—that had been more than enough. Rather he stay here by his hearths, where his wife would shed all her furs. Let him hold her. Sink into her.

“—Queen spoke of solution?”

And he dragged himself back again. “Yes.”

Then, quite simply, he told Alys of his revelation.

The blaze of her wrath was almighty. “No, no—you ask too much of us! It was Crowsfood who instigated it! Sigorn did not—”

He quelled her as one would a frothing mount. “Alys—Alys, shush. For the love of the gods, are you even listening to me? The Umbers will feel avenged, and once they have looked away, I will give it back.”

The fires slowly banked. Licked and curled and waited to raze. “You will? Do you swear it? We have so little.”

“I so swear.”

And she swept that ravaging beneath her lashes. “Gods—I am balanced on a web of promises.”

He knew it; knew how fragile such position felt. The Crown was a crueler weight than most. He had never understood as a child how its power was nebulous. Promises. Oath. Belief—all twined. “This will be resolved once scrutiny leaves us. Just remind your husband to act surprised. The last thing I need is him scoffing.”

“He’ll do it,” She pronounced ominously. “Or the lash he suffers will be one he dislikes.”

That was more than he had ever wished to know of their bedchambers. He cleared his throat. Nearly choked on it. “Good. Wonderful. Go and speak with him. I will be starting the Moot before the sun descends.”

“Of course.” And she rose with grace; her armor restored.

Yet he felt the paltriest of hopes. “Alys…has your cousin Orinna answered your letters?”

She stared back bleakly. “No more, I think, than The Wull has answered yours.”

/~/~/~/

The criers fanned out. The Folkmoot called. Men streamed to the godswood driven by curiosity and bloodlust. Jon despised it, but any freeman was allowed this audience. The Thing was not the royal court where the King could choose who filled his galleries.

The crowd was large and growing larger. He wondered if it would reach the walls.

He would not suffer another day of it.

Sigorn came accompanied by royal Hearthguard and Lords Mollen and Appleby. Glover and Tallhart trailed a step behind, but no less staunchly. It was comforting to know his own lands suffered no dissent, no matter the madman they thought him at times.

The Umbers came lastly, Mors’ face red and weeping around the edges of a poultice. Jon would have to send Maester Luwin thanks—he had thought it impossible to mend that flesh together.

Mors and his kin glared upon Sigorn. Sigorn returned it with wrath. The Great Walrus and the Hornfoot ringed closer, a miracle on its own. It was rare that wildlings could be united in anything.

But that would be the last task. Jon rose up from the weirwood roots, and the Herald cried: “Godsrinn Sjá!”

And the gods did see—he felt their bloody gaze lancing through his back. He wondered, some nights, if he had used up all their favor. That his wife was a treasure so precious they exacted the price of her even now.

Only time would tell. “I speak now of the matter that started this Folkmoot—Lord Hornsby, step forward.”

The man did, yet no longer looked so confident. Only sent Markas Dustin agitated glances.

Hornsby was right to fear. “That this is a message I must give over and over has tried my temper. No lady of this North shall be forced into marriage. The next lord who comes to me seeking to circumvent the rights of a House over its daughters, shall be taken to this wood and whipped until he bleeds. If a man cannot offer his troth in a manner that a lady finds pleasing, he does not deserve her hand. I will not repeat this warning.”

And Lord Hornsby’s fists clenched. Murmurs spread, but none dared loudly.

Jon snarled over them. “Lord Hornsby, the Widow Wells shall determine her daughters’ fates. If I hear any word of your coercion again, the whipping shall not stop at blood.”

The man swallowed harshly. Opened his mouth—then wisely wrenched it shut.

Jon thundered. “Furthermore, when the spring comes, and I call the service of my banners for the tilling—Lord Hornsby shall bear it. Entirely.”

A terrible hush. Rumbling. Men inching away as if further distance would save them from this wrath. Lord Hornsby looked a man struck; his own house and it’s promised crippling a slowly growing horror upon his face. To supply all the King’s service at once—he would have no men to turn and till his own fields. Only the women and children.

Hornsby glanced desperately to Markas; a man drowning and hoping for any rope to be thrown. “My lord promised—"

Markas sent his banner a withering glance. Lord Hornsby’s mouth snapped shut again.

And Jon knew, at last, at whose behest this Moot had been called. His stomach curdled with it.

He forced through. “This is my first Moot, and yet I have found it ineffective and quarrelsome. What have we achieved these last days, my lords? What peace and prosperity have we brought the North? I find nothing but bickering and bloodshed, and insults to the ruling ladies sworn as my banners. Do they not pay the same taxes? Raise the same levies? Do they not deserve the respect of the Crown?”

“Your Grace…” Jon could not identify the speaker in the crowd.

He overrode them. “From this day forth, it is my decree whenever a Folkmoot is called, a Ladies Court shall be held of equal length within Stark halls. Only women shall attend it, and they shall have their King and Queen’s ear for whatever petitions they offer.”

And the air, all at once, seemed to suck out of the godswood. Then it came: a storm of shouts. Jon weathered it, watching as his lords frothed and floundered, then nearly shouted themselves hoarse. If no cantankerous old lord died clutching his heart this day, it would be a marvel.

“This is an outrage—”

“Unspeakable—”

“An insult to our ancient ways—”

Jon answered that: “The Moot remains unchanged. Call it if you wish, but if my lords are so insulted by a lady having voice, then they question the laws of inheritance. And if they question that…well. If the lady’s right shall not be protected, then neither shall the lord’s.”

Forley Long cried out: “The gods fashioned man and woman divided and deliberate!”

Their most devout nodded along with him. Murmured openly amongst themselves.

“Indeed.” Jon answered. “And I am sure the Lady Long shall advocate for her husband splendidly.”

Grayson drew his brother back; whispered quickly in his ear. Lord Long frowned but said no further. Jon was thankful for the reprieve.

Lord Manderly came stricken. “But how are we to govern? Those of us who have no wives to send? Surely we cannot rely on the girls!”

“You shall fare the same as the ladies who had no husbands. You shall find aunt or sister or daughter to send, and then await on her kindness as she awaited on yours.”

If Manderly had been wearing pearls, Jon was certain he would be clutching them. Lord Ryswell opened his mouth then seem to think better of it. Markas and Konrad looked nothing more than amused. They would have the Lady Barbrey to advocate for them, what did they have to fear?

Lord Locke seemed displeased, and Lord Umber nonplussed. The Flints of the Finger were ruffled. Lord Holden, on behalf of Elissa, looked as if he’d been force fed rotten cod. Elissa would have to learn the ways of court someday, if only to keep herself out of trouble. This would only be to the better.

Jojen Reed, who had not spoken at Moot, did not seem to care. The Great Walrus was nodding. So too was Lord Thenn. The Hornfoot only seemed bewildered.

Jon finished it. “If my lords wish their voice to be equally heard, they shall do it in the King’s court. It has always been a choice whether the Folkmoot assembles—perhaps next time, the men of this North shall consider their choices more wisely.”

A low seething. A release of breath and disgruntlement. None truly pleased—which pleased him fine. And so the wheel kept turning. “Lord Thenn, Mors Umber, come before your King.”

The men did, though eyeing one another for an opening. Any chance to slit a throat.

 “You both shall let blood to the heart tree as penance. The blades.”

One of the steadholders came forward then opened a box to offer ceremonial knives. One man took out a handle of bone, the other a shard of iron. Each stepped wide to the weirwood. It seemed Alys had instructed her husband carefully, for Sigorn rolled up his sleeve the same as Mors and opened a swift cut across his arm.

Both men squeezed their fists. Blood dripped and then streamed into the roots.

Jon waited one beat. Two. Counted further with the thud of his heart. “Enough.”

The men released their fists. A healer hurried forward to each; smeared a clotting cream then bound up their arms. Sleeves were turned back down. The men returned before him.

Jon looked upon Mors Umber first. “For your daughter and all our kin we have lost unjustly, we truly grieve. It should not have been this way.”

Mors’ single eye was alight. Sheened. “They butchered her. Her mother did not have enough to bury. Our little girl still rots in our woods where we cannot find her—” His breath hitched wetly. Was swallowed with his pain.

It had been decades. The girl was likely no more than dust. But the agony, Jon knew, would always be carried.

“I know.” He answered softly. “But I promise you, it was not Thenns who did that deed.” Then raised his voice. “The Thenn, Hornfoots, and Walrus Men patrol the Wall and frigid sea. It is they who now stop the raids and butcher our enemies. What man here can say they have seen more than a handful wildings this winter? We now only lose a pig or goat, and not villages whole. And we have the Freefolk to thank for that.”

More grumbling. No voiced dissent. The Hornfoots had once harassed the Karstarks; the Walrus Men Bear Island. They knew all the methods and secret paths. What straggling men managed to crawl over the Wall and past the Hornfoot castles—they did not reach far.

There was no love lost between Wildlings.

“Mors Umber.” Jon said. “When the full court is reconvened, you shall apologize to Lady Thenn. If I feel you are at all insincere, I will make you do it again on your knees. Are we understood?”

The larger man dipped his shaggy head. “Yes, your Grace.” And perhaps even looked shamed for it.

“Return to your kin.”

The man did so. Jon turned again. “Lord Thenn, for the crime of causing bloodshed at Moot, I will exact my price in gold. Half your coffers shall be levied to the Crown—immediately.”

And the lords gasped as one. Some swayed on their feet, horror wild that he would exact such a toll.

“Half.” Lord Flint whispered. The Greatjon looked dazed as if he had escaped a mortal blow. The Thenn gamely worked his face into a rictus. It was not an expression that could be called a grimace, but it seemed pained enough.

Sigorn winked. Jon did not sigh. “Is your punishment understood, Lord Thenn?”

The man answered most gravely. “If King Snow wills it, it shall be done.”

“Good. Return to your place.”

Sigorn did, managing to look miserable and half-wounded. Jon thought it a touch overblown, but all the lords were so occupied with their private horror, that they hardly noticed him.

The Thenns had never had much gold. There had been no mining north of the Wall, just stolen trinkets here and there. Shiny bits plucked from some river. Mathoms and bobbles that were prized little. It had been Alys to collect the taxes, for the Thenn had neither concept nor care for it. The Wildlings bartered for what they needed. A man could not eat gold nor turn it into a sword.

Jon could have taken it all, and only Alys’ wailing would have made Sigorn bat a lash.

Punishment that was not punishment—his wife had spoken true. “Before my lords depart Winterfell, we shall have a White Moon Ritual for the fruitfulness of the North. We shall revel and know our gods favor!”

A great upswell. Howls and savage faces. Mead and blood and fucking—what did the North love more?

“I shall consider this Thing closed. What say my lords?”

“ALL IN FAVOR?” The Herald bellowed.

And there was a rush of voices. “AYE!”

/~/~/~/

The wood emptied, and Jon was not surprised when Lord Ryswell and Markas came to him. That Rodrik Ryswell was in a strop. “This ladies court, gods be goods, what a preposterous thing. And that you did not advise us—”

“As you two did not advise me of your plot to call Moot?” He rejoined, dagger-swift.

Lord Ryswell spasmed; a twitch of the cheek and no more. Markas merely hummed.

“What was it for?” Jon wondered, pondering the times they had raised their voices. Borders and taxes and meted judgement…those had not been it, for they had won no advantage. And then he knew: “The ritual?”

I do not accuse the Lady Barbrey of kindness—

Gods be fucking good.

Markas’ shoulder rolled, easy in the dismissal. Lord Ryswell did not bat a lash. “A well and good thing. Did you not see how they cheered you? The lords shall enjoy themselves in our holiest ways—"

“And so will the Queen.” He spat. “Tell me, my lord, did you mean to sabotage her?”

Lord Ryswell waved a hand. “If she scorns our practices, who are we to be blamed?”

“Enough.” And he frothed with it. “We shall speak of this later, Lord Ryswell. Leave us.”

The old lord roiled with it, incensed by the dismissal. In the end though, he bowed his head. “As the King says.” Then departed.

Markas remained where he stood so placidly. Jon had expected this of Lord Ryswell—the man was no kin of his. No matter how Jon had wished as a boy to stand with Konrad and Markas, and receive the old man’s praises—it was not to be.

Barbrey had raised him, and Lord Ryswell had ignored it. It had not been until civil war that the man’s face had turned. That he’d acknowledged Jon as anything other than an unwanted shadow.

He had expected nothing of Lord Ryswell, but Markas…

“Why?”

“Why anything?” His brother answered, hands clasped securely behind his back. “It had to be done.”

“You had no right—”

“I had every right.” And the cheer slipped from his face to leave a naked blade behind. “You were not here to listen to the lords seethe while you stopped at every castle to fuck your bride. Father raised me to protect our people. I serve them best as a powerful lord in favor of a powerful King. When you waver, we all tremble. Konrad gave you a boon of a solution, and you lollygagged worrying for her Southron feelings. You made her Queen in the North—and so be it. I accept your choice. But so long as it is within my power, I will not see her be as useless as Corenna.”

Hate and resentment bloomed. Made an ugly tangle within his breast. “You.” He snarled. “Do not get to make my wife do anything. If this had backfired—”

“Your lovely wife agreed, didn’t she?” And his mouth curled up. “She really has a certain mettle to her. And despite mother’s wishes, her mind seems quick. We may mold a worthy Queen of her ye—”

The tangle snapped. He surged forwards, seizing Markas by the throat. Swift hands clamped around his wrist and bore down with bruising force.

He felt the wolf. An animal. “Disloyalty—”

“Loyalty—” Markas hissed. “Was you staying a bastard, and Konrad a second son, and all of us in House Dustin united. But mother was more ambitious than any of us. She raised us high. The crown was your choice, not mine.”

Slowly, achingly, did his hand release. Markas fell back on his heels. Serene again—a lord-born to his soles. “Gods, the temper on you. One day you’ll gut someone and throw the realm to chaos.”

“Do not make divination.”

“A fact is not soothsaying.” Yet he offered no more of it. “If this is the thanks I get for offering you a gift, consider this your last.” Yet slowly, his mouth softened. “Fucking gods, Jon. We may be at cross purposes in politics, but try to remember who it is that’s always helped you. Your strength is ours, and ours is yours.”

Yet venom burned behind his teeth. “Was it you who meant to undermine my wife, or the Lady Barbrey?”

And those eyes were blue. Ice flecked. Iron true. “I had confidence your wife would make the right decision. And remember, brother, I am no more mother’s puppet than you are.”

His wanted to snarl. Wanted to gnaw off an arm.

And Markas receded. “Your wife will see the good in this, when the North loves her better.”

Laughter struggled then strangled within his chest. “You know so little of marriage.”

The man only snorted. “Then I wish to stay ignorant, if the disasters you and Konrad court are the crux. A comely girl—that is my wish. One who will love me and have no ambitions but the children she gives us.”

“Good luck in that.” Jon wanted to spit blood. Crack knuckles. Shatter teeth.

Yet Markas was uncaring. “Of Lord Hornsby, let mine and my banners share the load. It serves none of us to see a house paupered in the spring.”

The sheer audacity. “You really ask a boon of me?”

Markas shrugged with fearless ease. “The good of the realm does not care for our feelings. You made your point—the men are so a’feared of your wrath, none will call Moot again. So let poor Hornsby limp away.”

A whispering through the wood. More Hearthguard fanning. Tully steel agleam. His wife came like the dawn; resplendent in her furs and her hair a crown of flame.

She was all that would keep him warm. “Do what you wish.”

“Brilliant.” And Markas turned away. Took the Queen’s hand and bowed over it. “Your Grace, you shine splendidly.”

“A kindness, Lord Markas.” And Sansa smiled most winsomely. “I have need of my husband.”

“Then he is yours.” Markas kissed her hand again, then turned to the lady beside her. With a start, Jon realized Brella was along. Markas pecked his sister’s hand as well. The girl tittered then shoved at his arm.

“I bid such fine ladies ado. Your Grace.” Markas threw a wink. “Lady Brella.” Then vanished back whence he came.

His wife stepped to him, then picked up pace when she got a look at him. “Are you well?”

He forced a breath. “I will live.” Then took her hand and kissed whatever blemish Markas had left away.

It did not assure her. “The Moot was a success? From what the men have been saying leaving the wood—"

“It was.” Gods, he owed her so much. Kisses to her hands on bended knee. But Brella was still here, curious and serene as her brother. Fucking gods—the ways of the trueborn.

“Let us walk.” And so they did. As Jon suspected, the moment they passed a hot spring, Brella scampered to it and began overturning rocks.

“Well.” He muttered. “She hasn’t outgrown that, then.”

“Outgrown what?”

But he didn’t wish to speak of Brella. “Childish fancies, it’s no matter to us. Sansa…”

“Loud thoughts.” She murmured, tucking herself even more firmly to his side. “What has troubled you in my absence?”

“Your absence.”

Her laughter came as bright as bells. Yet it was not the truth, and he cupped a hand over hers. “You are owed my apologies, so I must say this: I am sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.”

Her nose crinkled. “Whatever for?”

The word pricked over his tongue. He swallowed their pain. “The Moot…I know Markas truly called it. What hand the Lady Barbrey had in it—at the very least, he did not move without her blessing. You spoke, yet I did not listen.”

And her lashes fluttered as she dragged them to a halt. They stood there with his heart uncomfortably heavy, her gaze unseeing upon the ground. He waited for the pendulum: the swing or the blow.

Her forehead tucked to his shoulder. “Thank you for…for admitting such. Men have trouble confessing when they are wrong.”

The weight on his heart lifted. “It was no pleasant thing, but I shall survive.” Then pressed a kiss to her hair. Let loose an aching breath against it.

She clung near. “The Lady Barbrey cares for your reign greatly, but she and I are not allies. I am just another Tully come to steal the crown.”

“You are not that.” And he gazed upon her, willed her to understand it.

Her eyes rose. A glossy sheen. “Thank you, yet…”

“Yet?” He would hear her this time. He had promised her honesty once—but that was not enough.

A tremulous sound. “It galls me, but the Ryswells did not have the wrong idea. You told me the North was unsteady, yet I did not grasp what you meant. We must solidify your rule by any means. So please, do not ever endanger yourself for my comfort. I can’t promise I will be capable of all the North asks of me…but I shall try.”

It was a blow he had not been prepared for. A failing only now revealed. “I’m meant to protect you.”

She shook her head. “Not from this. But if it eases you…consider it selfishness. If you are hurt, what defenses do I or our babes have left?”

That shadow rolled over. Legitimized. Foreign. A sourness vulgar. “That is not selfishness—I promise I’ll protect you. Listen to you.”

Her eyes shined up at him as bright as stars. Yet he delivered the fatal blow. “But of our babes…I need you to be careful with Elissa. The Lady Barbrey will not speak ill to her, but if we wish to avoid a succession crisis, certain ugliness is needed.”

Her admiration left her. A light snuffed. “Jon, please. That is cruel.”

It drove a knife through him. “It is necessary. I will not see her scorned nor cast to penury, only—”

“Dismissed and belittled as the Lady Barbrey demands!"

He clenched her hands. Her eyes rose again, and he was pleading: “Do not think this is something I want. I will listen to you if you listen to me. We only have each other in this, and I need you at my side.”

“I am always at your side.” Her fingers were warm inside his wrist, yet her face was turned away. Disappointed.

He swallowed gravel. “Any lord who wishes me dead has an easy solution. If we…if I die, promise me you’ll take our children to your grandfather’s house.”

Her head snapped up. “Jon—"

“I want them crowned, but if there is no chance—I’d rather you live. Promise me.”

She wavered beneath him, a candle’s flame in the wind. Then, slowly—his wife turned to steel. “I shall promise no such thing. Our babes will be princes, and if the light is taken from my heart, I shall go no farther than White Harbor. My children will not be forsaken from their birthright, for their father is a King.”

A lump caught high in his throat. Burned. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “You are more than a bastard deserves.”

“Do not speak ill of my husband.” She chastised. “For even when I am cross with him, I shall not hear a word raised against him.”

“A lucky man.” Yet he had heard no acquiescence to any of his pleas. A demanding Queen indeed.

He could leave those for another day.

Disruption then. Brella giggling and hurrying through the snow. His wife pulling away.

He groaned aloud. “No.”

Yet Brella skidded before them. Presented her muddied palms to giddily announce: “Look at him, isn’t he the most handsome darling you’ve ever seen?”

The toad in her hands was a mottled brown, and assuredly the most wretched creature upon this earth. His wife shuddered. “A fine animal, Lady Brella. Wherever did you find him?”

So strange and bright, this trilling creature. “Burrowed in the mud around the springs, his name is Lord Toadstool.”  

Good gods—it was pockets full of frogspawn all over again. The maids screaming when they found salamanders in her wardrobe. Little Brella having three different frogs leap out of her shawl at a feast. The Lady Barbrey was going to throw a thrice damned fit—

And Jon began to smile. “Why don’t you take Lord Toadstool back to the castle?”

Brella gasped. “Really? Mother never lets me—” Then cut herself off, huddling Lord Toadstool all the closer. Their newest noble croaked. Jon wondered if such noise could be heard through castle walls. He knew precisely how the Royal Quarters were arranged. Brella was the opposite end from he and his wife, but to her mother and eldest brother…

“I am the King.” He announced grandly. “And you may keep whatever pets in your rooms that you like.”

“You are the kindest!” Brella squealed, then rushed to kiss his cheek. “Forget if I have ever spoken otherwise—I must show him to Elissa!”

“You do that.” Jon agreed, knowing full well that she was no longer listening. She flitted away like some forest sprite; no doubt off to cause the same sort of mischief.

Sansa glanced to him then. Searching. “Do you wish to vex the Lady Barbrey?”

“I think the lady could use a little distraction.” Then watched his wife’s mouth curl. He had pleased her, and it was a sight he preferred. “Now, never mind Brella and her toads. Do I not owe my Queen some wolves?”

She gasped. “You most certainly do!”

/~/~/~/

He slipped the warg the moment they left the gates. Hooves sounded at his back, but he was already miles ahead. Snow dusting. The grit of stone. Sun heavy and seeping low.

It was a place he knew; a glen that existed in both dream and waking.

Ghost shaking alert. Come soon?

Yes. Another notion; cluttering the She-Wolf near.

Mate stay. Ghost agreed, then put his head across her back to drift to his slumber.

They rode steadily. The sun trailing. It was a warmer day than most, though his wife’s cheeks still pinked with the winds. She only grinned at him; did not make him feel a failure. Though he was managing that well enough on his own.

They slowed to meet the trees, and their men followed in silence. Sansa had assured him, quite vociferously, that her uncle needn’t come along on such a little trek. Only a few guards and the quickest mounts, and so she had forced him to the stables with haste.

When they reached half a mile downwind, he waved the guards to rest. His wife left her horse and came to his. He took her lifted palms and set her in front of him, arms wrapping around her slim waist.

Then, quite cheerfully, he buried his face into her neck.

“Jon!”

In answer, he merely kissed her pulse then kicked the horse to trot. The shadows lengthened. The forest laid deep. But with the guards out of sight, she snuggled closer. Let his hands drift to her thighs.

“Stay very quiet.” He whispered. “And do everything that I tell you.”

She nodded hurriedly. Craned around to kiss him. He welcomed it, then buried his face to her neck again. For as much as he’d like to ruck up her skirts…he’d made a promise.

A strumming; this knowing as familiar as his own hands. The wolf’s eyes open. White. Gray. Shadows whispering. Rising up and nudging the She-Wolf to corral her. She snarled and snapped—did not like such bullying.

Stay.

Ghost did not like the snapping either, and seized the back of her neck with his teeth. It took everything that was the man not to sink his own teeth into a bare and hairless neck. Bear her under him, drive into her—

A kiss soft. Teeth sharp. Whimperings of a wife.

A mount-beast breaking through the trees. A man stepping down and helping his wife into the snows. The lady gasping, scent lovely. Soft hands clutching to an arm.

“Jon, she’s beautiful.”

Awake again. Red eyes. Gray eyes.

Ghost erupting: SANSA-SWEET. And charging up the hill.

To what should have been no surprise of his, Sansa darted out of his arms, hiked up her skirts, then ran full speed to the beast. He despaired: “Sansa!”

Wolf and woman tumbled together. Laughter whipped warm over the snows. Ghost rolled onto his back, Sansa appearing in a burst of fur to sit upon his chest. She began scratching him. “Who’s a good and wonderful boy? Who did I miss so much? Ghostie! Yes I did!”

He felt a phantom of nails across his own chest. Did not groan.

The She-Wolf, where she’d been pinned in the snows, rose with an offended huff. Jon watched the beast warily. The wolf had never warmed to him; Ghost had stopped her from snapping at his face more than once. Yet right now, she neither ran nor crouched.

Those yellow eyes only watched.

Sansa scritch, Sansa pat, Sansa scritch pat scritch—

Be quiet.

SANSA SOFT. LICK.

Ghost licked his wife from neck to scalp. She giggled outrageously as half her braids were knocked askew, and Jon knew he would never have control of the wolf again.

A delectable smell; Ghost’s nose burrowing to her skirts.

“Oooh! Naughty boy—trying to sneak treats!”

“What do you have?” He called. It was salty, savory, his mouth left watering…

From her skirts, Sansa pulled out a bundle. The man was flummoxed. The wolf was thrilled. She untucked a large piece of jerky. Dangled it. “Be good, my handsome boy. Say aahhh.”

Jon forcibly had to keep his jaw shut.

A wolfish mouth lolled open, skull thunking off the ground. Sansa happily dropped the jerky into that gaping maw.

Ghost swallowed it in a single bite; Jon wasn’t sure they had even tasted it. That great tail began thumping again.

GIVE TREAT.

Sansa tossed another piece of jerky. Ghost gobbled it up.

Jon wanted jerky. He was the King, why didn’t he get jerky?

Eventually, oblivious to his grumbling, his wife climbed down from the wolf. She began rubbing his great furry belly while peeking over it. Even from here, Jon could see her fascination as she looked upon the She-Wolf. Gray and silver and white, some spots as dark as sable. A beautiful star-burst upon her broad chest.

“Is that your wife?” She cooed sweetly. “Surely she is. You are Lord of the Wolfswood, and she your lady wife. And what a handsome pair you make.”

Ghost’s head thrashed happily. He craned around comically to the She-Wolf.

Sansa pat? His tongue lolled. Sansa pat good good good. Try pat?

The She-Wolf only snorted.

“Could I pet her?” His wife asked lowly.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Her mouth turned down, but she kept petting. Leaned in to hug the wolf’s belly then bury her face in it.

More treat?

No.

Yet to his chagrin, his wife gave that rotten beggar a few more. Then, quite hopefully, she tossed the rest to the She-Wolf. The beast only watched the meat fall into the snow. Sniffed the air but moved no closer.

“Oh.” Sansa whispered, and her disappointment was clear.

It couldn’t be borne. Carefully, he went to her side to pull her to a crouch. Made them small and unthreatening. He and Ghost twined together, then went to nudge the jerky to the She-Wolf with their snout.

Eventually, hesitantly—she took a single lick then gobbled it up.

Sansa squealed. Made to clap her hands then remembered herself. She clutched them into her skirts instead. “This is wondrous, thank you so much.”

He merely kissed her cheek, and was pleased when her eyes shined up at him once more.

That was the moment the wood shifted. Shiver-shake-snap. Man and wolf jolted. Sansa was forced behind him, Ghost surged in front—

A heavier shadow. A low rumble. Upwind of them, then that familiar smell. The wolf rose out of its crouch with tail swishing. The man kept a hand on the pommel of his blade.

“What is it?” She whispered.

He could see it more massive than any beast. A creature of the gods. Sinew and smoke rolling across the earth, and its eyes were golden. It towered overhead.

And he breathed: “Grey Wind.”

Ghost’s littermate halted, watching them with unblinking eyes.

A jolt of wolfish joy reached out. Brother!

It was a feeling the man did not share.

Ghost nosed nearer. See Sansa-sweet? Sansa pats for Grey Wind?

Yet Grey Wind stayed motionless, hunched and silent in his watch.

Her hands dug in. “You have three wolves?”

“I do not, that’s—” He swallowed roughly. “I haven’t seen him with my own eyes in moons. That is Grey Wind, he was Prince Robb’s wolf…once.”

“Gods.” She whispered, and their grief was shared.

“When Robb died—they could not control the wolf. I think he understood that Robb had been murdered, and tried to eat half the lords. When they trapped him, they demanded King Eddard kill him for their safety.”

“Surely not…” Her horror was naked.

He could not assuage it. “The King agreed.” And Jon knew, in that choice—he would always hate his uncle.

“Then how is he here?”

A bitter tale. “I believe some of Robb’s companions released the wolf and drove it off. Grey Wind appeared a year into winter. I think he remembers Winterfell and returned, but without Robb…”

A sad murmur of breath. Her brow crinkling. Her heart laid so plainly to him.

He struggled to head her off. “It’s better that the lords not know. That he stay in these woods. Grey Wind, he’s gone…strange.”

“Of course.” She answered fiercely. “His heart must be broken. And to think men would try to butcher him after, no wonder he is—”

Yet her rising shrill was agitating the wolves. He shushed her. “I know. We need to leave; the sun falls.” Yet that was not the truth. While Ghost could corral either the She-Wolf or Grey Wind—he could not manage them both. Jon did not hurry nor turn his back, yet all the same, his wife was taken to their horse in haste.

They mounted. She twisted around, trying to watch them all until the very last moment. “Will they be lonely?”

“They are a pack, they have each other.”

Yet his eyes turned as well; found the gray of that last ghost sinking to the trees. Robb’s wolf had come to him stunted and half feral, circling Winterfell for years on end. Seeking and never finding. Always looking for the boy he’d lost.

The searching shroud of a murdered Stark—and Jon felt a chill cross his nape.

Chapter Text

She eyed her stitches most carefully. Was the snout too long? Too short? It would not do to capture her darlings in anything less than their finest form.

“Your Grace.” Eddara gasped over the embroidery. “That is marvelous, whatever shall you use it for?”

Sansa let the cloth settle to her lap and watched the women of the sewing circle lean in and gasp.

“A new dress, most like.” Gray and white and stitched in silver and snow. The colors of a Winter Queen. “The King’s wolf and his lady wife look marvelous, do they not?”

Her companion’s hand fluttered above the threading. The ladies around all murmured their agreements. Their compliments, too.

“I have only ever seen them from a distance.” Eddara confessed. “But so obvious is their beauty even from the ramparts, your Grace. They are the gods' blessing upon the Crown.”

“Quite.” Lady Cerwyn added.

“Most assuredly.” Lady Agnes agreed.

“Truly.” Sansa finished, for they were. She would remind the whole court of it while wearing them across her breast. It would not hurt for the North to begin associating their god’s favored creatures with their new Queen, and not just the Tully trout which had so little meaning here. Though perhaps she could sneak a few trout into the shoulders—that was no sin.

Yet such mercenary aims were best left unsaid, and she took up her needle again. “But I fear it shall be a fortnight before this dress is done, and we are like to see Ghost sooner than that. My King says the wolf shall be returning to the castle soon.”

From her mother’s side, Jonelle Cerwyn let out a breathy sound. “Does it not frighten you, your Grace? They say the King lets the wolf sleep in his own rooms!”

Brella Dustin laughed at that, disbelieving. Sansa found she rather shared that mirth. “Afraid of my sweet Ghost?” And did her damndest not to let out an unladylike cackle. “I would sooner fear the gentle lamb. I shall enjoy his companionship and brush the burrs from his coat. I swear, that silly wolf does nothing but run through the brambles.”

“Oh, most assuredly.” Brella agreed. “One time Ghost returned to Barrow Hall more brown than white! Mother made his Grace pick the burrs off the wolf, for no such ragamuffin would be allowed in her halls. Poor Jon was out in the yard past dark.”

Sansa felt a flicker of annoyance, yet let such familiarity pass. Brella Dustin had grown beside her husband when he had only been Jon Snow. It would not do for a queen to show herself resentful of such matters.

“But the beast has such great fangs!” Jonelle rejoined.

Brella tittered. “Only the better to steal ham from the table, I assure you. He does not eat men.” The girl paused. “Much.”

A number of ladies shuddered at that. Sansa did not rap the girl across the knuckles, only let out the sting of her voice: “Let us not speak of such ghastly things, Lady Brella. This is a gentle circle.”

If she heard the admonishment, Brella hardly showed it. Only returned to the hoop in her lap.

Elissa Karstark leaned over. “What are you making?”

“Oh.” Brella answered cheerfully. “A surcoat for my dear Lord Toadstool, of course. I would not wish him to grow cold in Winterfell.” From her feet in his basket of dampened moss, Lord Toadstool croaked.

“Ah.” Muttered Elissa. Sat backwards in bafflement.  

Brella merely reached down to pat the toad on the head, ignoring the perplexed looks nearly every lady sent her. Yet even a mottled lord in their midst did not stop their work. In the wider hall, other sewing circles labored beside them. Old maids instructing little ladies in their earliest stitches. Grandmothers gossiping and kissing pricked fingers when a tearful grandchild ran over. Young wives sewing tunics for their lords and husbands. Josmyn with a circle of unwed ladies giggling and batting their lashes.

It seemed even in the North, no woman could escape the needle. Not that Sansa ever wanted such. It was a comforting constant. The threading, the sewing, the embroidering, the mending. It was one place she would never feel lost.

Perhaps after she worked a bit longer on Ghost and his She-Wolf, she would embroider a few more of her husband’s garments. He would surely look handsome with coldsnaps twining at his wrists or oak leaves at his throat. Strength, endurance, longevity—all things she wished for her King. And if that meant he could glance down during his days, and catch sight of blue flowerings and think of her…

That would stay between a wife and her husband.

Her cheeks felt terribly pink though as she cleared her throat. “Lady Lyessa, how goes the banner?”

The woman had accepted invitation to this circle freely, yet Lady Flint gave a razor smile. “Very well, your Grace.” And lifted her palms to reveal terrible blue eyes and waves coming alive under her hands.

It was magnificent work. “That is no scroll stitch.” Sansa observed.

“Hardly.” The lady agreed. “A heavy chain stitch is best to outline the waves. It has a certain backbone to it that I find other stitches…lack.”

A barb there, and Sansa knew they were no longer speaking of mere embroidery. “Flexibility is a must, I think. And as a woman once of the Riverlands, I find the waters can flow in so many ways now that I have come to the North.”

Yet that mouth stayed pitiless. “The old ways are best.” The lady answered firmly, needle never pausing in its work. “I have had many try to impose themselves on House Flint, but all have failed. And once a thread frays and snaps—the winter can be so unforgiving.”

“Strong our steel, strong our stitch.” Elissa murmured, head not even rising to the true repartee.

The Lady Lyessa nodded at the adage. “Indeed.”

In her stomach, Sansa felt a sour bloom take root.

“Oh.” And Brella looked up from her cloth. “My Lady Lyessa, mother rides to the Wintertown this afternoon to announce the Ladies Court to the smallfolk. She will see if mothers or maids have complaints they wish her to bring to the King. And there shall be a Widow’s Conclave in the Winter Hall there ‘til dusk—mulled wine and wisdom sought.”

Sansa hadn’t even thought of the smallfolk in relation to the Ladies Court, and burned for the shame of it. The duties of a Queen neglected and usurped again—

“Yes.” The Lady Lyessa murmured, greater wheels already turning in those eyes. “Older wisdom must guide the young and the meek. Tell your lady mother to expect my company.”

“Of course.” A dark head bobbed. “She will have a fine mount ready for you.”

And Sansa reconsidered rapping those childish knuckles again.

In the end though, she stayed her hand. Took a breath. Ignored Lady Agnes’ knowing if sympathetic eye. That the Cerwyn ladies stayed silent with gazes volleying. That all the younger girls had not even noticed the daggers being thrown.

Sansa reviled it.

A page came hurrying into the hall. Not one of her husband’s—she knew all those boys’ faces now, if not their names. Ser Wyck intercepted the boy. Gave a quick pat over his arms then guided him by the shoulder.

The boy was nearly quivering. He looked upon Sansa as any child would a mythical creature. “Yer—” He cleared his throat with a squeak. “Your Grace, a message from the Lady Morrowind.” And a small scroll was offered from a shaking hand. He had a red sigil on his chest. Some Ansley petty bannerman, if she wasn’t wrong.

It seemed the Lady Morrowind no longer trusted even her own banners’ children to carry her messages. No, the woman only gave faith to her father’s house.

Sansa offered the boy an encouraging smile. “Thank you, you have done well. Please, go help yourself to some of the pastries.”

He bobbed his head eagerly, then dropped a scrunched bit of parchment into her hand before beelining to the ginger cakes. The boy scarfed three of them in a single go. Ser Wyck snorted.

Sansa unfurled the parchment. Read. Considered quietly.

The Lady’s Court began the day after next. If she rejected this missive, there would be little time left. It galled her to be summoned in any manner, but her King wanted this done. And if Konrad Dustin owed her the mother of all favors afterwards—

Well. Let Lady Barbrey have the Winter Town, Sansa would seek the greater prize.

She put her embroidery to her basket and rose. “Mistress Eddara, join me. Ladies, please continue in your works. We shall return to you for dinner.”

Many ladies called their goodbyes or begged her to stay. Sansa graciously declined them as she swept on, knowing Poppy would carry her basket while Eddara and her Rivermen would be at her heels. They were in the Lesser Hall that morn, and it took little distance to ascend the stairs back into the upper keep. A flock of servants followed.

No queen ever walked alone.

“Your Grace?” Eddara queried, skirts in her fists as she hurried to keep pace.

Sansa answered primly: “It seems we are chaperoning an unmarried lord and lady today, Eddara. I will trust your discretion in this matter.”

The girl seemed scandalized it could be otherwise. “Of course!”

“Then come along.”

And so the servants led them to another solar she had not yet seen—how many were in this sprawling castle? Four? Ten? Two dozen?

When one guard opened the door, Konrad Dustin’s face swung up to beam at them. Faltered. There was a table before him, two chairs chivvied together, though one was closer to the fire with a great soft fur thrown over the seat. Refreshments had been arranged artfully. Carefully.

His smile finished its decline. “Your Grace?”

Sansa waited for the door to be shut before answering. “Lord Konrad, your chaperones have arrived.”

“My what now?”

She blithely pressed on. “Chaperone; the person or persons one has along to ensure no unwed lady is besmirched or manhandled. Surely this is not a foreign concept to you.”

“I wouldn’t—besmirch?” And his mouth wrenched open. “The Queen could spare a simple maid or Hearthguard to chaperone us!”

“So you do understand.” She sniffed. “It was at the Lady Mereya’s request, and I must ensure restraint in my halls. It is a Queen’s duty.”

His mouth flapped open.

She raised her brow. “I could have brought along Lord Konrad’s sister. She would have enjoyed herself, I think, watching her brother try to court. Perhaps she would have even introduced Lady Mereya to the esteemed Lord Toadstool.”

And that straightened him right out. “The Queen remains, as always, merciful.” Then swept a bow before kissing her hand. “And I beg her many pardons for my beastly behavior.”

“As you most rightly should. My husband has told me pinching is a suitable punishment otherwise.”

He barked a laugh. “You were supposed to rub off on him!”

“It seems there has been an equal marital exchange.” And the humor let her thaw. “You have my pardon, and my wish for your luck in this endeavor.”

“I may very well need it.” He grumbled, then clasped Eddara’s hand as well. Squinted at her a little. Recognition came. “Mistress Eddara, a kindness of you to join us.”

“I am more than happy to!” The girl enthused, and gripped Konrad’s retreating hand with both her own. “I think it is wonderful, what you are doing. Declaring your heart like that in front of the court? How you have kept true to the Lady Mereya through the years is admirable.”

And Konrad blinked a little more. His shoulders slacked. “I…thank you very much, Eddara. I don’t know why we haven’t spent more time together, you are singular.”

She waved a hand. Went rosy in the cheek. “No, no, I understand. Great lords and lowly masterly houses?” Her laughter came brittle. Yet the girl sounded sincere enough when she continued: “I was grateful for any invitation to Barrow Hall. To dance before those grand hearths to the minstrels was a gift. Chin up now, my lord. A heart true is a heart victorious.”

“You know just how to buck a man up.” And he clapped both her hands heartily. Released them. Looked entirely too puffed up as he announced: “If I may prepare seats for my honored chaperones?”

It was a near thing, yet Sansa decided on clemency. “By the window. The sunlight will help us as we work on our embroidery—you shall hardly notice us.”

“Excellent.” He agreed, and so they were settled snugly, maids handing off their baskets before tucking them against the chill with sleek furs. Konrad went back to the table; adjusted the chalices one last time. Tucked the winter blooms in a vase just so.

Eddara sighed wistfully at the motion. Confided: “It is commendable, is it not? How bravely he sought her hand.”

And some distant realization began to niggle. Sansa eyed her companion. “You speak most ardently of his troth.”

“It is a kindness to dream.” Eddara answered quietly. “But we cannot all be as Konrad Dustin—be ascended to wild heights and courage. Be worthy of those we long for.”

Sansa touched a pale hand and nearly startled the girl. She soothed a thumb; held that gaze. “If there is some lordling you wish me to make an introduction to…?”

That blonde head shook. “No—no, your Grace. Do not trouble yourself. There are petty lords in this kingdom who would hesitate at my hand. And those that stand above them…” She trailed off miserably.

“A Queen’s blessing is an influential thing.” She answered resolutely.

Yet Eddara wilted. “There are some things beyond even your miracles, my Queen.” Then tried to smile through. “Thank you. You are far kinder than any of us could have hoped for.”

Yet it came crooked. Sansa held in a gentle sigh and patted that hand. “If you wish to rest the worries of your heart, my door is open.”

“I understand.” Yet the girl only picked up an embroidery hoop. Threaded a golden strand and offered no further.

Sansa let it settle. Silently, she wondered. Was it some Dustin bannerman the girl pined for? A noble lord of the Cerwyns? Some other distant lordling she had spied in Winterfell?

It made Sansa ache not being able to offer her companion further, but trust was a thing slowly built. At least she knew why Eddara Tallhart had not fluttered her lashes at the King. A heart fixed elsewhere could rarely be moved.

But every girl pined in tender youth. Sansa knew how keenly it stung to not have one’s affections returned, but ladies did not always get to follow their hearts. The same, she thought, likely went for mistresses too. Few would ever be so lucky as Sansa herself had been. Those were girlish ponderings though, and she set them aside. It was the Queen who looked up when the door opened.

When Mereya Morrowind stepped through.

Lace white, sleeves dark, glittering like some frost swathed jewel. So cold in her beauty.

Though oh, how Konrad burned for her. “My lady.”

“Lord Dustin.” She murmured, though her curtsy scarcely dipped. “Or is that your brother?”

A fluttering of muscle through his back. An offering of open hand. “For now, the Dustin of Dreadfort. I would wait for a wife to ponder further.”

Mereya only hummed noncommittally; gave her hand in seeming carelessness to let him kiss it. “A Dustin of Dread—such an ominous moniker.”

“Or a useful one.” And he lingered over her skin. Mouth soft. The Lady Mereya’s lashes fluttered, the barest beat of a moth’s wings. She mastered herself with impressive force.

When he rose, he found the Lady Mereya as ice again. Inscrutable. It was a skill, Sansa knew, to appear so unmoved.

But that would not stop a son of Barbrey Dustin. “Please, my lady. Sit.”

The woman’s hands clasped like a shield before her. “I shall stand, I have lazed about enough today.”

Not quite a wince, nor any annoyance to be seen. But this table, so carefully prepared for his lady—it stayed empty.

He nodded. “Of course, whatever you wish.”

“Words.” She answered. “Wind. If I have whatever I wished, I would not be standing here.”

“Yet unfortunately, here you are.”

“Here I am.” And she did not sound pleased to say it. “You have the Queen to thank for this audience. Though I suspect after this, you shall thank her little.”

His head tilted. “Why? Do you think me an ungrateful creature?”

“A disappointed one, perhaps.”

And he took that for the blade drawn. “So have you decided to retire to your dower after all?”

“I did not say that.” She volleyed.

At Sansa’s side, Eddara’s eyes had grown wide. Her jaw dropped. Sansa felt rather sorry; having romantic notions dashed was always a hardship. She tapped her finger to Eddara’s cheek and pushed the girl’s face back to their embroidery. The pair of them would hear every word. The least they could do was be demure enough not to flaunt it.

The voices across the room kept rising.

“I had to assume as much.” He snapped. “For if my hand is spurned, I am not sure what other path is left to you.”

“That is my burden to bear.”

“As your liege lord, it is mine. Especially if you threaten to roil my lands to war.”

She spat venom: “If my lord truly wished my affections, he would support me.”

“I wish your hand.” He answered flatly. “It is your affections I have patience for.”

Silence bloomed. A flicker of her hand to touch the moonstones at her throat. His right hand fisting; blood and bone straining against itself.

“Do not think difficulties will put me off. You know who raised me.” He promised, gaze like the lance.

“I can think of nothing but.” And her hand slid from her throat. “Do you know how many ladies of the North wish to emulate your mother? A woman who rules, who has power in her own right, and you seek to take that from me?”

“I seek to give you exactly that!” He snapped. “What do you think a marriage to me would entail? That I would toss you in a cupboard the moment I have my get?”

“Men are capricious.”

“Men are desperate.” And he took a heaving breath to step backwards. They were a body apart, yet the distance between them was a chasm.

He spoke quietly. “Would a true marriage be so terrible? My lady is once wed, I more than know. If you chose him because you wanted a man’s absence, only say so. I will ask no further of you.”

She stiffened. “If you mean to slander me—”

“I mean not to hurt you.” He answered. “I will sting your pride and drag you to me, but if there will only be fear between us, I will rescind my offer. Stand on your own—but know the King will do as he wills with House Morrowind.”

“Do not play high-minded with your boyish whims.” And her eyes were daggers. “If I was ill-used or frigid, your hungers would abate, is that it?”

“Do not—” He snarled. “Put words in my mouth, or I’ll show you about hunger.”

Her throat was working. Her thoughts grasping: “And if I’d already had a son of my body? Would your attentions have been so ardent then?”

“I would have rejoiced, for then we could have raised him together, and not given those bloody Morrowinds a single scrap!”

A whisper of breath; her mouth falling open. Her breast heaving. Daggers searching and searching and not finding their chance.

The Lady Mereya, Sansa thought, had underestimated Konrad Dustin to her detriment.

“Now, if that is all.” And he smoothed himself once more. “I will not speak to you of affections, though you have mine. I will not speak of ardor, as we are not yet there. I will say this: I know you will be a difficult woman in all ways to me, but you will be easy to love. The Ladies Court starts the day from next. My betrothed, if I had one, would represent the Dustins of Dreadfort there. You so admire my mother’s marriage, hmmm?” And he leaned dangerously close. “Noble ladies bear boys and settle petty squabbles. Great Ladies birth kingdoms and crown kings, remember that.”

A sundering. The Lady Mereya shaking; pink and furious. Struck and reeling, for she had not been prepared for the battle she faced.

Yet she looked to the table and touched that fur swathed chair. Mastered herself. “I think my lord should pour some wine; I find myself parched.”

“Of course.” And he beckoned her to sit. “I’ll pour the red—I know my lady’s tastes.”

/~/~/~/

The light of the sept was pale and dimming. Yet it did not falter her gaze, nor hide the knights who mingled below.

Her uncle was at her elbow in the gallery. They stood behind a painted and lacquered screen. Seven Gods. Seven Faces. The slit that ran at eye-level was easy to gaze down through. Ser Marq was down there in the multitude trading japes. Slapping backs. Gripping arms.

Her uncle was not half so boisterous. “They will suffice for now.”

“Are you unimpressed?” She wondered.

“Wary.” He rebuked. “Every man in this North has an agenda, but I think we’ve got a grip on most of those below.”

“Every man, hmmm?” She asked coyly. “Even your dear Lord Mollen?”

Her uncle only scowled at that. Sansa gave him the dignity of not laughing to his face. “Tell me of them.”

And so he did. “Ser Wendell Manderly will head the Greenhands. He’s the second son of Manderly, and they can spare him for our uses, as long as it brings them closer to the Crown.”

A taste of acid. “Naturally.”

He only snorted. “At his side is his younger cousin, Ser Barnaby Fairchilde. A third son of Lord Fairchilde whose aunt in turn was married to our Lord Manderly.”

She had seen no Lady Manderly in her time about the North. “What happened to her?”

“Died at sea—some journey to Braavos that went awry.”

An unfortunate tale, it seemed. She dipped away from it. “And of this Ser Barnaby?”

“Well educated. Unwed. Devout. He made pilgrimage to the Starry Sept before turning thirty.”

“Has he crusaded?”

Her uncle shook his head darkly. “No. It seems men have slipped away here and there, but previous Stark Kings…they have never given permission for their knights to go to Andalos.”

That was a troubling notion. To be a true knight of the Faith meant to take sacrament, the holy oils, protect the weak, and answer the call to crusade. To be denied that—

It boded ill.

She shied away. “Do the Greenhand forbid marriage as the Silversmith do?”

“They do not.” Her uncle muttered. “Fairchilde’s lord father will leave him with us for the same reasons we’re stuck with the Piper boy.”

She tisked. “Don’t be so cruel of Ser Marq, he may find a bride yet.”

“Oh yes.” Ser Brynden answered, dry as dust. “Surely there’s worthy marriage material somewhere among the maids, if his father is feeling open minded—”

“Hush.” She did not want to speak of Marq’s escapades, it reflected poorly on them all. “Who else?”

“Ser Donnel Locke. He’s something of a neutral party among the orders, as he belongs to none of them. He seems keen enough on what you are proposing—but remember. It’s at his lord brother’s behest and coin that’s he’s here. Lord Locke has had his invitations to court…”

“But he has never been called as a full advisor.” And so the lord would seek to install a Locke in Winterfell by other means. It served her, though. She wished to draw Lord Locke close. They could show to all the court that houses of split faith could live in harmony. Be strengthened by one another and not sundered by petty squabbles. “I will welcome Ser Donnel happily, must we make place for a wife as well?”

“That one’s also unwed.”

“Then there shall be many ladies in this castle joyous.” And that was true. Ser Donnel was very fine to look upon, but her eyes found a more interesting figure. “Ser Karl Whitehill? He is already installed here.”

“A man devout.” Her uncle answered with verve. “When he heard you would be sending knights farther north than they have ever been, to keep their vows of protection—he was one of the first to come to us. He will even supply gold towards your Hall for the Silversmiths.”

She breathed deeply. Freely. “That is most welcome news.” Her allowances were already stretched to breaking.

His mouth tipped up; a smug curl. “I can be quite persuasive. This old trout still has a few tricks.”

How amusing. “Of course, you are a slippery one in any stream.”

Her uncle looked fortified at that, then did his best to feign he was anything but. Brynden Tully liked to pretend he was beyond needing any praise—but she knew him better. Loved him better.

He cleared his throat; began pointing in quicker succession to the men cluttered away from noble heads. “Ser Harker Bromley there, in the center. A clever sort and a good head on his shoulders. His family is the vassal of some petty vassal, with a bit of noble blood from House Cove. But it’s so thin it barely merits mention. The Silversmiths look to him. What respect he has, he’s earned.”

One always needed good men to lead, and it seemed her uncle had found her a fine one. “He’ll conduct the Silversmiths here in Winterfell?”

“Indeed.” Her uncle confirmed. “But look to the older man at his shoulder: that’s Jasper Snow.”

And her brows winged up.

Her uncle saw it. “That one’s earned his respect twofold. I mean for you to have the sharpest blades in the North, and Ser Jasper holds one of them.”

Coming from her uncle, that was a high compliment indeed. Yet it gave her long pause. “If I were to pit Ser Wyck against him?”

Her uncle’s gaze swung down. Assessed her. “Wyck.” He answered gravely. “But by a very thin margin.”

A sharp blade indeed. Jasper Snow was dark of hair, fierce of gait, and quite the beast of a man. She thought he looked as tall as Gavin, which was to say he towered. It was an honest pondering if the man could hold a great sword with a single hand.

Her uncle continued: “Jasper Snow is the bastard son of the late Lord Goldglass. If the Silversmiths are not looking to Bromley, then they’re looking to Snow. Keep both in your hand, and you’ll have them by the throat.”

A violent notion, yet one she considered carefully. Ser Jasper was noble-blooded and baseborn as her husband had once been. She knew what her grandfather would say to have a bastard knight of a lowly order near the women of his house.

But her grandfather was not here. She would suffer no insult to a Snow in her castle. Not as long as her husband ruled, and she still breathed.

Ser Brynden was watching her carefully for any disapproval. She gave none, only the appraisal: “That makes him a half-brother to Wynafryd Manderly by marriage.” How very interesting. “Do you think the Manderly’s have some hold on Ser Jasper?”

That clearly had not occurred to him. His brow furrowed deeply. “I have not…no. I’ve never seen them speak a word to one another.”

“Keep an eye on them.” She ordered softly. “I do not begrudge the Manderly their kin, but I will have no surprises. I want to know to whom their loyalty is lashed. All of them.”

“It will be you one day.” He uncle promised.

“Perhaps.” She allowed. “Come.”

Men kept murmuring. The smell of incense lingered. She sent a prayer to the Mother and then the Warrior above: that all below were the truest sons of the Faith. Brave, pious, steadfast.

She gathered her hopes. “Do you have further names that I must learn?”

“Ones you can memorize later.” He dismissed. “Young blades it will be Manderly and Bromley’s job to manage. Do not trouble yourself.”

She did not, merely put a hand to his arm. “Then let us go say hello to my newest knights.”

/~/~/~/

These days, Jon treasured his evenings, for he would get to sit before a blazing hearth to watch his wife unfurl. Soft hands tucking jewels into boxes of white oak. Gentle breaths when she was finally unlaced. Hair in waves from the Northern braids or Southron plaits she had been freed from. A luminous face cleansed in lavender scented water before she came to him.

He cherished her in every fashion. Bejeweled and crowned. In Stark or Tully. As plain as any maid.

Though even plain, his wife was the furthest thing from. She sat across his lap and kissed him languorously. Had him rubbing at a hip then cupping a breast. She sighed so very sweetly

And yet he could not follow it. He pulled his mouth from hers regretfully. “There is something we must speak of before I let you take me abed.”

“Let me.” She laughed, and he could not deny her mockery. She could have her way with him in any which manner she pleased. He let her do nothing—he was her willing servant.

“Yes.” He groaned, knowing he must say it. If he let her be ambushed at court—she would not forgive him. “When the Ladies Court comes, I must warn you, Barbrey will be speaking for the Queen’s Dower.”

And that wiped the laughter from her face.

He held in a wince. “Sansa…”

“Do not Sansa me.” Quick as bird, she was off his lap. Left his arms aching and grasping after her. She did not let him catch her. “Is the crown on Barbrey’s head? Is she Queen now?”

“You know that is not true. Darling—”

Her pitch was rising. “The whole court shall see her stand in my stead to shame me. That I am but an ornament sitting at your side!”

“You are not that!” And he could not stop his own rise. “You shall be heard more than anyone, but we have not even been married half a turning. When have you had time to hear your vassals’ pleas?”

“Food, gold, what is there to know?” She answered, sharp as a sword.

He sighed a gust. “Fine.” Then forced himself back to his chair. Arranged himself. “So be it, your Grace. Tell me, what is the state of your Skutilsveinr’s stores?”

She tossed her hair. “Low as they are everywhere else, I shall care for them.”

“Indeed.” And he settled back. “What of the Queen’s Golden Wood—has the poaching gotten worse?”

She hesitated. Answered: “Surely it has.”

He only hummed. “But who do your Skulls accuse of such crimes? Or have they already leveled the accusation? Will the Queen give her pardon, or will she answer their cries for justice?”

He had to give his wife credit—she did not waver. “It will have to be heard man by man. Some needs are greater than others.”

“Fine then, then let us speak of the Erling matter. It has dragged on three years now, and none of the parties grow more patient for her Grace’s judgement.”

“The what?” She asked. “Surely my King could elucidate—”

He bore right on. “A dozen families are involved, where am I to begin when the reprisals only escalate? And we have not spoken of witches, nor their demand of the western wood. Nor the ill omens that vex the Queen’s holdings along the Knife. Will you allow watermills to be built at the price of fisheries? Lessen taxes for Hiegland and Littledale after what they suffered? Will you—”

“Enough.” She snapped. “You have made your point.” And did not sound pleased in the slightest.

Jon had pleased his wife so little, as of late. He wanted to put his face into his hands. Wanted to take her into his arms until she forgave him. Instead, he remained. “I do not mean to sting you.”

The drew a laugh from her, quick and brittle. Turned her from him.

He could not bear it. “Sansa, I do not want you to be left floundering in front of the court, is that so great a crime?”

“No.” Yet the breath she took was thready and exhaled on a tremble. “The minute these lords are gone from our castle, I expect the ledgers for my holdings. That any Skutilsveinr I wish to invite to court will come.”

His own breath shuddered. “Alright.”

“And if I find any of them displeasing, I can dispossess them of their holdings forthwith.”

A brief hesitation. “That is your right.”

“But.” It was a perilous word.

He sighed aloud. “Some of them have served House Stark for generations. Will you at least listen to my counsel before you make such decisions?”

Her hands wrung before her. Stilled. “If I must.”

“That is all I ask.” He had once been told marriage was a union of compromises, but he could never have believed they would be this bitter. Gods above—he wanted her closer. Did not want such animosity between them. “You know, my uncle used to say everything before the word but is horse shit.”

A wet sound: part warble, part humor.

He did not know if it was forgiveness. “Would you look at me?”

And she turned. Eyes bright, sheened. It twisted his heart around. He rose then and went to her. This time, she did not retreat.

She did not welcome him, either.

He spoke. “The Queen’s Dower is scattered all over the North. There will surely be conflicts tomorrow from many directions. Please—the longer we can wait for anyone to take ire at you is to our benefit. Let Barbrey carry the cudgel, and you can be the voice of mercy.” And could find no more to say.

For the first time since their joining, he did not know what to do with his hands. With her. He only stood before his wife and waited.

Her bare foot rasped across the rug. She looked to the windows and then the moonlight there. “I will take you abed.” She said. “But if you try to kiss me, you will sleep on the floor.”

He took her waiting hand. “That I am not banished to my chambers is a blessing.”

She only let out a sniff. It was not as haughty as she usually managed. Yet in the end, her hand still tightened on his. Quietly, as promised, she led him to her furs to let him lay beside her.

And gently, he held her.

/~/~/~/

The first morning of the Ladies Court, her husband woke her with a hand between her thighs. She was allowed a breath, a sigh, before he was covering her. Weight. Heat. Full and flourishing.

He moved in haste, perhaps hoping she would not remember their cross words. It was an impossible task: they lingered on.

Yet in the light of day, some hurts had become as bruises. A thing easier to ignore. She kissed him first and tasted his surprised hum. His joy seeped through; the hand smoothing at her forehead. The palm hitching up her leg. His body driving her higher, higher—

He swallowed her release whole.

They parted in a slide of sweat, baths already running and their servants hurrying them on. Her husband was ready first—he did not have to be tucked into underskirts nor have more than have a brush put through his hair. He seemed to enjoy watching her being laced, though, so she did not chastise him for his licentious stares.

Lady Renfryd was clucking over the ruckus. Jon’s newest squire, Alf Umber who was all of ten and three, hurried in with Jon’s sword only for her husband’s bark to chase him right back out. Neither page nor squire were allowed to her rooms—her husband was too jealous for that, even when she was fully dressed.

She kissed her husband though, right upon the cheek. Accepted his nuzzling before he began grumbling over lordling boys.

And so it was, arm in arm, they left their chambers to a blazing row.

“I can take him where I wish, Jon said so!” Brella nearly shrieked. Lord Toadstool, in new surcoat and clutched to her bosom, bleating a distressed cry.

Yet the Lady Barbrey overrode them. “I do not care if the gods themselves gave you the beast. You will put away your childish whims, and not embarrass yourself or House Dustin further by carting that wart infestation around!”

“You do not get to tell me—”

“Brella Dustin.” Lady Barbrey snarled, and even Sansa and her kingly husband flinched. Any sensible soul would—motherly wrath was a thing to be feared.

Brella quailed but did not release her pet. If anything, she seemed moments from stuffing him down her dress and fleeing.

Before any of them could intercede—or further heated words could be exchanged—a door cracked open. Markas Dustin’s tousled head came out. “Mother, if you were unaware, some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Do not grow indolent.” The lady snapped. “Your sister is shaming House Dustin with her behavior, and you are abed!”

But Markas was hardly stymied. Only turned his eye to Lord Toadstool in distaste. “It is not indolence when you were kept up half the night by infernal croaking.”

Brella stomped her foot. “It is not Lord Toadstool’s fault that you sleep delicately!”

“Delicately—” He dragged a hand over his face. Took a heaving breath. “It is by my order you take that bloody thing with you. Now, if you will both excuse me, the only thing House Dustin needs is sleep.” Then slammed the door behind him.

Brella perked right up. The Lady Barbrey looked moments from conniption.

Sansa could not recall a moment when she had ever felt a glee more spiteful. She would need to pray ardently at the sept, but that would be a later affair.

A grimace crossed the lady’s face. “I should have that frog tossed in the springs.”

“He is a toad, and you shan’t!” Brella rallied.

“Indeed.” Her husband interceded, and so the Lady Barbrey finally realized their presence. Puckered sourly with her own distastes.

Sansa smiled ever so sweetly.

And her husband sighed. “Brella keeps the toad. Do not test me—if Lord Toadstool goes missing, I shall offer gold to the first man to bring me a toad from the Basilisk Isles. I hear they are blue and grow larger than a man’s head.”

“Ooohh!” Brella gasped in delight.

Barbrey’s antipathy only increased. So too did the whipcrack of her voice. “Brella, finish readying yourself.”

The girl took the reprieve and fled. The Lady Barbrey drew closer to them. Hissed between her teeth: “You do her ill to encourage these childish whims.”

“Yes.” Jon agreed flatly. “A crime for any child to partake.”

“She is a woman flowered and ready for marriage—”

“I will not be giving her away that quickly.” He hissed in return, jaw sharpening beneath the skin.

A frost leeched through. “That is not your choice.”

Yet his snarl answered it. “Let Markas try to make a match without my blessing. Go on.”

Barbrey was hardly frightened. “The ladies of the kingdom will think her daft, is that what you want? To damage her marriage chances before they even arrive?”

“If memory serves, Lady Seward keeps a half-dozen cats in her chambers, and the Lady Holt has a favored horse she allows to eat in the hall. Their husbands tolerate them well enough. Brella is the sister of a King—she will not lack for suitors.”

That sharp mouth became the thinnest edge. A knife waiting. Neither king nor lady, Sansa thought, were arguing what they truly wished. Yet ultimately, her husband turned aside. “If that is all, we will see you in court, Lady Barbrey.”

“You shall.” The lady promised, and so they did. The hall was filled with skirts and jewels and resplendent furs. Sharp eyes and deceptive tongues. Watchful eyes above them all. The Lady Barbrey was buoyed as soon as she entered. On this day, she would represent houses Ryswell, Dustin, the Weeping Lands, and most hateful of all—the Queen’s Dower.

Three dozen ladies flocked to her side in moments. More soon followed to turn it to the most impressive retinue in the hall. The ladies Fisher, Gladstone, and Blackbourne stood as her seconds, with ledgers and rolls of parchment ready to help manage the load.

Even the Lady Torrha Umber and all her kin by blood and marriage, could not match that scope.

Lady Josmyn stood with her mother for Mormont. Elissa for Karstark with her banner’s ladies all around. Donella Hornwood represented her married lands most icily. Of the Flints, Lady Lyessa had come for Widow’s Watch while Lady Eris stood for the Finger. Lord Manderly had acquiesced to his gooddaughter Lady Leona to champion his interests. Lord Locke had, seemingly without thought, given his trust to his wife Lady Myna. Lady Gysella looked fit to burst standing beside her daughter and all the Cerwyn cousins.

A woman Sansa did not know stood for the Reeds. So too did a pair of unfamiliar women, ferocious in their furs and paints on either side of Lady Alys Thenn. The duo eyed every other woman in the hall with blatant suspicion.

Sansa leaned to the arm of her throne. Spoke softly: “Who is that?”

And her King’s eyes flickered to follow. “Meera Reed, daughter to Lord Reed.”

So it was. “And those two with Alys?”

“The elder of them is the Hornfoot’s wife, the second…” His gaze narrowed. “I don’t know who that is.”

The woman, whomever she was, had an unlined face. More than twenty but less than thirty. Pale of skin, dark of hair, and strikingly beautiful against the gray of the hall. Her limbs were strong and well formed. A woman who could give the likes of even the Lady Josmyn a fair fight.

Most tellingly, though, were the thick furs and rows of great teeth looped around her neck. Sansa had seen such adornment before. “She must be one of the Walrus Men. I am becoming rather too familiar with tusks, of late.”

He patted her hand. “You’ll survive it.”

Sansa merely scoffed. Her husband offered what he probably thought was a very charming grin before throwing a gesture.

The Herald cried: “THE ROYAL COURT IS OPEN!”

And Jon Stark rose above the din. “My ladies of the North, thank you for coming before my Queen and I so swiftly. Every woman will have her turn in the coming days, so I trust that my ladies shall only tender sensible petitions upon the Crown.”

A low murmur. Flutters of laughter. An agreeing hum.

Her husband had a certain way about him that ladies of the court admired. Sansa told herself she was not jealous for the attentions women lavished on him for it. She was proud of him and nothing further.

She would be telling herself that many, many times in the days to come.

Still though—she took his hand upon the arm of his throne. Watched that handsome mouth tug upwards. Felt a squeeze in return.

“The Stark holdings first.” He decreed ruefully. “My Lady Barbrey?”

And all thoughts of softness fled her. Her fingers tightened like a snare. Jon bore it without even a grimace.

The Lady Barbrey stepped forward coolly, strength in the set of her shoulders. A dark dip of lashes. A curl to the mouth. “Your Grace, we must speak of the riverport at Littledale first. Many of the Skutilsveinr worry on how the food will be distributed, and what part they may play in its safe delivery.”

“Of course.” Her husband said, and so it began.

Below the throne, Sansa’s only lady in waiting for the day was Brella with Lord Toadstool firmly ensconced in her lap. The girl chivvied near. Whispered: “Shall I take notes for you, your Grace? Mother has had me do it for her many times—I am most excellent at it.”

Sansa considered carefully. It would be interesting to compare the notes Brella compiled to what was actually said, and see what opinions were formed. What was included. What was conspicuously left out. And it would not hurt to have a more knowledgeable pair of northern ears listening, even if Sansa was not sure how far she could trust them.

She nodded once, and Brella hastily gathered parchment and scribe board before setting Lord Toadstool gently on the cushion beside her.

A quill began scratching, and so Sansa listened. If her husband wished the more knowledgeable Lady Barbrey to represent queenly lands—so be it. She would turn it to a boon. Lady Barbrey would one day regret all she shared here; the competence and knowledge she sought to flaunt.

Talk of food and port turned to granary and seeds. Discussion of seeds led to wood cutting, which led to the forests of the Queen and the Golden Wood her husband had tried to flummox her with.

And so the first accusations of the day volleyed. “The poaching is untenable.” And the Lady Barbrey’s was strident. “There shall not be a single stag in the wood by winter’s end, if this goes on. If House Strudwick is not stopped—”

“Are we not allowed to defend ourselves?” Lady Strudwick cried out. “She denounces us without an ounce of proof!”

“What proof do I need?” Barbrey asked most pleasantly. “The Longs to the North have their fish, and the Hornwoods to the south have kept their stores remarkably intact. It is the Strudwicks who hold the Weeping’s borders to the Stark Dower, and it is to there the Skutilsveinr have seen poachers make their escape.”

The Lady Jaen was trembling, though Sansa surely thought it was with rage. The Lady of Strudwick fumed. “Men claiming things they have only seen in the dark. And even if that is so, who can say they were not vassals of other lands passing through ours?”

“Do not speak out of turn.” Barbrey reprimanded.  

“I will speak to defend my people—”

The King shifted, then. No doubt preparing to interrupt this breech.

Yet a throat cleared, a delicate sound. Lady Jaen Strudwick silenced herself. The Lady Barbrey’s expression strung tight.

It was Mereya Morrowind who slipped from the crowd, a headdress of a thousand tiny pearls gleaming upon a head of gold. She wore a dress of yellow slashed with Ansley black and red. Her head was high, her steps graceful, her smile a gentleness none of them had yet seen.

It was a lady in her finest form, and Mereya Morrowind spoke to the silence. “My King, if I may raise my voice in this gracious court?”

Barbrey’s gaze lanced to him; Sansa could see how the lady burned that Mereya be silenced.

Her husband ignored it. Inclined his head. “If you have words for the matter at hand, do so.”

“Indeed.” The Lady Mereya answered lightly. “There is a tangle here, and it cannot be settled with the Lady Barbrey so conflicted. We are blessed to have her wisdom in this body, but to represent the Rills, the Barrows, the Queen’s Dower, and the Weeping lands all at once—it puts her at a cross purpose against many interests. I now offer myself to the court to solve this dilemma.”

“How so?” The King asked, as if only curious. As if this was not a tipping point the very realm could break on.

And Sansa saw the dread of Barbrey unfurl; both the knowing and the sickness that it caused.

She saw a pink flushing in Mereya. Hearty in joy and life as the lady declared: “A sennight ago, his Grace asked me to make a choice. I have made it.” And her voice rang clear. “I accept Konrad Dustin’s troth and will become his true betrothed. As my lord has granted, I will represent his will in court. Let it be known from this day forward that I stand for the Dustins of Dreadfort.”

A rush of wind. Of voices. Of gasps and clapping, and Ansley and Strudwick flocking to her side. All the other Weeping houses arrayed around Barbrey—they turned. Stared upon their Great Lady to come with gleaming eyes. Even the Morrowind cousins let up a cheer. This was their victory too: the Morrowind lordship was now fit for the taking.

On the bench below, Brella clapped. Across the hall, Barbrey Dustin’s hands clenched.

Upon the royal dais, Jon Stark slowly began to smile. He raised Sansa’s hand. Kissed it. Spoke loud enough for all to hear: “My Queen, shall we welcome our goodsister to be?”

“Most happily.” And Sansa called across the court. “Lady Mereya.” And their gazes met. Blue to blue. Nods dipping. Pearls shining.

And Sansa smiled. “The floor is yours.”

Chapter Text

The realignment, when it came, was an unforgiving thing. Houses of the Weeping Lands flurrying while houses of Barrow and Rill shuffled in their place. The Lady Barbrey stayed frigid while the newest Lady-Dustin-to-be—Mereya Morrowind in all her laces and pearls—nearly glowed in the morn’s early light.

Jaen Strudwick stepped to her cousin’s side with surety; made their alliance clear with nary a word.

It was, Sansa thought, an agreeable landscape.

And so it began. “Lady Barbrey.” Mereya declared. “What further proof do you have of House Strudwick and this poaching?”

“Testimonies.” The lady bit out, as teeth would through tender flesh. “From Skutilsveinr landed by Queen Lyarra herself. We have men of no higher dignity in this court.”

“We do not.” Mereya agreed. “Yet criminals in a Lady’s land, do not make them her criminals. Who knows from where these villains came? Can the Queen’s Skulls name any vassal by blood and tie? Bring before us a single man who wears House Strudwick’s colors?”

A roll of the fingers; knuckles sharpening and then smoothing. No further. “It is a pattern of behavior. The Lady Morrowind herself acknowledges poachers come from Strudwick territory.”

“I admit no such thing, and as my goodmother-to-be has said.” Mereya bared equal teeth. “It is House Strudwick that borders the Queen’s Golden Wood. From where else could they step? By wing? By water? From the clouds above?”

A susurrus of laughter. Glares from the ladies around Barbrey. Flutters of jeweled hands from about Mereya.

Battle lines drawn.

“From keep.” Barbrey answered without hesitation. “From ken.”

Yet Mereya would not bow to it. “I will not allow my vassals to be besmirched on such a spurious claim.” Then lifted her eyes to the throne. A gaze as innocent as the lamb. A mouth as sly as mortal sin. “Are these not the Queen’s lands we speak of? Is it not her injury we seek to rectify? Your Grace, I beseech thee, do not punish your subjects for crimes beyond their knowledge.”

Beside Sansa, her husband shifted most uneasily, but before he could raise his voice—Sansa spoke. “As you say, they are my domain. Lady Jaen, speak before this court and to your gods: what do you know of this poaching that has plagued my lands?”

The Lady Jaen took three steps forward. Chin lifted. Voice unwavering. “Only, your Grace, that poaching plagues every tract in this North. The people are starving, and they fear the gnaw in their children’s bellies more than any punishment we could mete. House Strudwick took no part in the Bolton madness, and for that foresight, we sacrificed neither man nor grain. We have no need to poach from our gracious Queen, I promise you.”

Flattery surely; some truths both stretched and not. Sansa was not sure she believed it in full. “Thank you for your honesty.” But it served her to pretend it so.

The Lady Mereya smiled upon the throne. So too did the Lady Jaen. Barbrey became a creature of tooth and stone; expression so fixed it surely hid a wealth of fury.

Her kingly husband did not interrupt. And good—Sansa knew it pained him to be in the middle of this boiling pot, but for once, let Barbrey suffer his hesitancy.

Though around that very lady stood a host of women who did not hide their wrath nor fear. Sansa would not have it; those women were hers. The shepherds of her married dower.

She would care for them as she would this kingdom. “Lady Jaen, the Golden Wood feeds many, and I will not steward it to a barren ground. I would ask you lend men to patrol our border, as I shall provide Knights of the Silversmith to do the same. The ships continue ever on from Maidenpool.” Then smiled beneath her harbinger crown. “Spring is coming. We shall halt all further transgression until the wood is golden again.”

The Lady Jaen did not look wholly enthused, yet her curtsy was generous. “Of course, your Grace. I shall send my Skutilsveinr at once. You may always count on the shield of House Strudwick.”

“A welcome blessing.” Then gave a dismissal of her hand. Turned the eye. “Let us continue. Tell me the ails of my Dower, Lady Barbrey, so we might see them cured.”

Pale eyes rose then, surely as the frost. Lady and Queen watched one another with iron restraint. Wrath forged. Knives waiting.

Naked steel. “The Queen has much to learn.”

And Sansa raised her blade. “Then I am your willing pupil.”

/~/~/~/

Dinner was served deep in the afternoon, for the Ladies Court had been productive enough to warrant such delay. The menfolk flooded in with the platters. News was shared from wives to husbands, or from daughters to fathers, with an audible buzz.

Never had the castle felt more like a hive than this.

Her husband picked at their meal, cutting their meat to barest sliver. She did not dignify such obstinate silence.

It forced his voice. “Did you listen to a word I said last night?”

Her gaze stayed distant; serene over the hall. “Was I not the voice of mercy?”

“Wife.”

“I must be merciful.” She mused aloud. “For by ink and word, you promised me my Dower. And I have not castigated you once for its delay in coming.”

“No,” He snapped. “Only breached our unity in front of the court. Do you think me fool enough not to recognize what contempt sounds like in your voice?”

And that wrenched all placidity from her. “Contempt? Do not speak as if I have not received Lady Barbrey’s contempt from the very moment I arrived. Our subjects asked for my judgements, and I gave them. Or would you have me surrender that to her as well?”

“I am not saying that.” He snarled.

“Then what are you saying?” And at last she gave him her fury. “I will not be treated as if I overstepped by doing my duty.”

“You second guessed her every step and overruled her openly. Six times, Sansa. I counted.”

“How glad I am you are learned in arithmetic.” Then turned a smile sharp enough to cut upon the hall. They would see nothing of this turmoil, nothing—

Her husband gripped her knee. “Must I quarrel with you as well?”

She dug her hand over his. Nails. Claws. “I am your Queen. I have given too much already, ask her to be the one who concedes.”

“Only for these few days, you promised me—”

“I did not promise to shirk my duty!”

The feasting tables were breaking their shape; little knots of women forming. Politics spreading as quickly as fire. More diplomatic affairs were settled in the din of a feast than any open court.

She rose to it.

“Sansa—”

Yet despite his ire, when she stepped away, her King did not grab for her. Did not force her back as she had seen many a husband do. Instead, he rose as well. Cursed beneath his breath before snatching her arm upon his.

They were barely a few paces into the crowd when Lady Mereya approached them, Konrad escorting her with prideful pomp. At their heels trailed the Lady Farrow, her lord son, and all her daughters. Mereya curtsied at once then swiftly jabbed Konrad when he offered none of the same.

He scoffed. “My lady, you would think I had never met my own brother!”

“My Lord.” She hissed between her teeth.

He barely gave them a nod before pressing an adamant kiss to her jaw. Well, at least one soul was enjoying the gentle promises of matrimony.

Though perhaps it was more than he. The kiss lingered, and the Lady Mereya did not seem wholly displeased by its length. She only seemed to remember to make introductions once he withdrew. “Your Graces, Lord Aden Farrow. His mother, the Lady Elyse Farrow, and his sisters: Alannys, Dolyse, and Mylenda.”

Her husband was a wonder at swallowing wrath, for when he said: “Well met, my ladies.” Sansa almost believed him, even with the tension crackling beneath her palm.

At that, Alannys Farrow gave a breathy laugh. “Most well, your Grace. It is an honor to make your introduction.” Then batted her lashes quite forcefully. Sansa almost asked if the woman had caught dust in her eye.

The second girl, Dolyse, only stared upon her slippers in nervous silence. The youngest Farrow girl squeaked upon catching her husband’s gaze, then nearly hid behind her sister.

Jon ignored them to offer a sterner greeting. “Lord Aden.”

The man matched it. “King Stark.”

And then the pair seemed to measure the space between them. Their striking distance. There was no love lost, here. Only bitter wounds.

Aden Farrow was of an age to her husband. Fair as his mother and sisters, though carrying the same grief as every noble from the Weeping Lands. There was not a man who had not lost kin to the civil war.

To her husband’s armies and his merciless blade.

Thankfully, the Lady Mereya ushered them through. “My Queen, we have spoken much of your wishes for a lady in waiting from our esteemed lands. Lady Farrow assures me one of her daughters will be up to the task.”

She and Mereya had spoken of no such thing. Though by Konrad’s smitten gaze—gods strike him. He had surely told his betrothed of queenly musings. For a woman like Mereya, what gift was sweeter than a political boon?

Though considering the service Mereya had done her this day, Sansa would not begrudge this forfeit. “Indeed. I wish for the North to be well represented in my household, and the Weeping Lands simply cannot spare the Lady Mereya to attend me.”

“I would do so in a heartbeat.” The lady promised.

A gentle lie. “You are always a welcome voice.”

And that seemed to be the signal, for Lady Farrow vigorously pushed her eldest daughter forward. “My Alannys plays the vielle, can teach any northern song, and does not need the steward’s help to keep the household ledgers. And as we know her Grace values, my Alannys has the finest stitch in the land.”

That struck her husband wrongly. “There is no finer stitch than my wife’s.”

He spoke it with such force, that it stymied Lady Farrow. Made Lady Alannys pucker at them both. Perhaps Konrad had been right: this Farrow girl did look a fish. It was a terribly unkind thought…yet it smoothed away some ugliness in her. Made her rise to press a kiss to bearded cheek. That softened her King too, for he looked upon her then. No anger. No heat.

Only affection.

Lady Farrow cleared her throat none too delicately. “It is known that the Queen’s skill is incomparable.” Then gamely pressed on. “My daughter is also a fine dancer and archer, and she always takes extraordinary care of the lord of her house. My Alannys would serve the Crown most excellently, your Grace.”

Yet that was directed quite pointedly upon the King. For serving well, Sansa had her doubts. If Alannys heaved her bosom any further, the woman was likely to put out her husband’s eye.

Quite mutinously, Jon kept their gaze instead. Did not spare a glance for bosom, nor archery, nor the finest dancers to be found. He only gave a snarl. “Lady Mereya.”

And that roused Konrad from his fervent staring; sent an edge of panic flaring in his lady’s eye. In the center of it all, Lady Farrow pretended she had not just dreadfully overstepped.

Yet Aden Farrow knew it. “Mother!”

Gods above, there was already enough ugliness between their houses. Blood upon the very ground. Sansa wouldn’t add to it. “Lady Farrow, I must confess, I would prefer Dolyse’s company.”

The girl in question jolted. The smile tumbled off Alannys’ face. Lady Farrow’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened. “Dolyse? She is not so polished as our Alannys, surely she cannot serve you half as well."

Dolyse turned ruddy at that. Looked like some poor village dog kicked by its master.

It only encouraged Sansa further. “We should not waste polish on the already glittering jewel, lest someone be blinded, Lady Farrow.”

And it was that rebuke that finally put the lady to the back heel. Aden Farrow cut the snare. “If it is Dolyse the Queen wants, then Dolyse the Queen shall have.”

“Aden!” His mother protested, but the young lord ignored it, only taking his sister by the arm to draw her aside.

Lady Mereya gave no attempt at fanfare, only chivvied Lady Farrow and Alannys from the audience with Konrad’s hurried help.

Dolyse swayed as Aden tugged her close. Spoke to her softly: “Doily, lovey, the Queen has picked you.”

“But surely…?”

“You’ll do well.” He promised. “I will leave coin for a dressmaker and send for your bells, alright? You are a Farrow—you deserve to be here as much as anyone.”

That stiffened the girl’s spine; had her dashing her fingers beneath her eyes to promise: “I will.”

“I know.” And he pressed a swift kiss to her brow before turning them around. “We are honored, your Grace. Thank you for this privilege.”

It was thanks enough, for it was a crisis solved. “I will send messenger in a sennight for Dolyse to join my household. Until then, spend time with your family, Lord Aden.”

“Of course.” And Aden bowed. “There is always so little time to be had.” He would know, and so did the last Farrows retreat to leave them be.

“Thank the gods.” Jon muttered. “We were at risk of those fine stitches spilling her from that dress.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

But at that waspish reply, he only bit at her jaw. Pressed a kiss behind her ear.

It made her ache. “Jon…”

He lingered. “I have made my displeasure known. You understand the instability we face. If we show any wedge that our enemies can push…” Another breath. Dustin, Ryswell, Tully—all allied. No matter how she loathed it. “I know you will make the wisest choices.”

And suddenly, she did not feel half so righteous. Half so aflame. When it came to House Strudwick, even if the Lady Barbrey had been right, it had benefitted Sansa to feign otherwise. And when it came to matters she had even less knowledge of…

She grumbled. “Go tend to your lords before we begin again. I shall be prudent.”

“You always are.” Another kiss. Her husband grudgingly turning to the next noble already vying for his attention.

Sansa turned as well and managed another twenty steps. This time, it was Lady Agnes that approached, though with half a dozen dark-haired women and a boy at her back.

The introductions were made swiftly. “My Queen, may I present my mother, Lady Eris Flint. My sister, Lady Hertha Flint. My cousin, Lady Willa Wells with two of her daughters, Lysara and Berra. And my second born: Mandon Waterman.”

“A pleasure to meet your family at last.” Sansa answered with practiced grace. All these ladies met her gaze with warm smiles, though young Mandon stayed stiff, reaching for his mother’s hand only for her to gently push his arm back to his side.

The boy seemed not much older than ten. The Wells girls were of an age with Brella. Hertha Flint was older than Sansa by a handful of years—and unwed besides. A daughter of a Great House was never unpledged by mistake.

Lady Agnes pressed. “We have come to ask your favor, your Grace.”

“My Lady Agnes, you are my dear companion, we do not need such formality.” Yet she eyed them each with care. “What is it that you wish?”

And Agnes gestured to her cousin, the Lady Willa Wells who had beset by the Folkmoot as much as Sansa herself had been. This lady’s hair was the darkest of all, nearly ink against her skin. Worry lines at brow and eye. A downwards slope to a slim mouth.

The woman curtsied graciously; white skirts spread wide. Widow’s whites, a Northwoman had once told her. In the South, they wore black to mourn, but looking out these windows at bitter winds and bitter snows—

Sansa was not surprised the North considered death as white.

“My Queen.” And Willa’s voice was melodious. “When it is House Wells’ turn to speak, I hope to announce my heiress’s betrothal. We would be most assuaged to know we have the Queen’s blessing beforehand. That no man or woman will be allowed to object to our choice.”

It seemed the Wells were being proactive in stymying further incursions, and a betrothal with royal blessing would silence all else. Still though—the betrothed girl in question did not look happy at this announcement. If anything, Lysara Wells looked miserable. The lady hid it as best she could behind stiff spine and clenched jaw. Though her cheeks were splotchy. Her lip trembling.

The poor girl. Freshly flowered, and her fate already decided for her. No flirtations or favors to be found with handsome lordlings. Only destiny cast in stone.

Sansa asked: “And who will you betroth your daughter to?”

Lady Wells gestured to the boy. “Her cousin, Mandon Waterman.”

How pleasant for them; a second noble son with his own noble lordship to follow. House Flint spreading its blood while also tying Wells kinship from cousin back to cousin. It was a very practical match. A shoring of defenses.

Mandon Waterman looked half petrified, though he was sending his cousin fascinated glances. Awe, Sansa thought, though with utter trepidation behind it. No wonder Lysara Wells seemed so frustrated. She was betrothed to a child she had likely known all her life. It was not the thing tales of romance were usually made of.

Yet Sansa nodded. “If you believe it will serve the North and your houses, I have no objections.”

Agnes and Eris and Willa—their mouths tipped upwards. Made the same shape. Their thanks were murmured with equal graciousness.

And so it was decided. “You have I and my husband’s blessing in this match.”

Lysara blurted. “May I go now, mother?”

Lady Well’s gaze flew sharply. “Lysara—”

“I have done as you asked.” The girl demanded, jaw shaking beneath teary eyes.

And Willa’s gaze slipped shut. Eris Flint quickly spoke over: “Hertha, my love, I believe I do spy Markas Dustin across the hall. Why don’t you take your cousins over?”

At that, Hertha Flint huffed. Though her palm was already soothing at Lysara’s back when she announced: “If that is my mother’s wish.”

“It is.” Lady Flint decreed, and so the younger Flint ushered her cousins away.

Lady Wells stared after her daughter with pensive gaze. Murmured: “He is a gentle boy who will not raise his hand nor keep falsehood. She will appreciate that, one day.”

Lady Flint gripped her niece’s shoulder. Lady Agnes drew near; a whisper of touch along a stilled hand. Lady Wells still wore her widow’s whites years on, yet such words led Sansa to believe that some husbands were not so sorely missed.

It was not her place to pry.

Across the hall, Markas Dustin greeted the ladies approaching. Had the Wells girls giggling; flushed now with girlish delight. Markas and Hertha barely shared a nod. Disinterested, as if old acquaintances welcoming an undesired nuisance.

Eris Flint scowled after them.

“Mother.” Agnes chastised.

Lady Flint only steeled. “Your sister does not even try.”

“I do not think she considers herself and Lord Dustin suited.”

“Suited has very little to do with it, when the finest bachelor in the kingdom is involved. If she thinks this will impress the Lady Barbrey—”

Agnes only bit her lip. Shook her head once and offered no further. Lady Flint seemed to remember herself then, for she quickly dipped her head to Sansa. So too did the Lady Wells.

“Your Grace.” They announced.

Sansa allowed the dismissal. “My ladies, thank you for your trust.” Then it was only Agnes who remained. The Lady Waterman came to Sansa’s side to keep watch upon the knot of ladies around Markas. More than the Wells sisters and Hertha had joined them. Fluttering lashes, covetous hands, further heaving bosoms hoping to catch a lordly eye.

“My dear Agnes.” Sansa asked. “What is the common age for marriage in the North?”

“For girls, they come to court at flowering, are usually betrothed by ten and eight, and married by twenty.”

“And how old is your sister?”

“Four and twenty.”

Sansa only hummed.

Agnes filled that silence. “Ryswell, Dustin, Flint of Finger—quarrels were as numerous as rain. It served many a Stark King to have us at each other’s throats instead of conspiring against the crown. And so it circled for generations.”

“What birthed such quarrel beyond your borders?”

Agnes sighed. “Between Ryswell and Dustin, a number of slanders. But of Flint, it is our port, my Queen. Dustin and Ryswell depend on us to unload the great seafaring ships that their river docks cannot handle. They consider our tolls greedy, and there is always accusation in the winter in shipments being split.”

“I have little doubt.” Though Sansa considered further. “Then Barbrey Ryswell became Barbrey Dustin.”

“Indeed,” Lady Agnes agreed. “And so all quarrels ceased betwixt them as they united against us. Once upon a time, my father would not have suffered a Flint married to the Rills or Barrows.”

“Yet.” Sansa knew.

“And yet.” Agnes acknowledged. “Your King came to crown, and did so Dustin and Ryswell became the most powerful houses in the realm. A match now would only be prudent, but both Lord Dustin and his mother string us along. They show interest in our Hertha only to ignore her a moon later. My parents keep her from any flirtations, for they know it would insult Lady Barbrey for my sister to be seen considering any man but her precious son.”

This knowing grew. “You wish something of me.”

A careful folding of beseeching hands. “I know I ask much of my Queen with our acquaintance so new. But she is my sister. If you could either turn the Dustin’s towards her, or convince my family that the possibility is firmly lost…”

It would serve Sansa little to see the Flints lost to the Dustin camp. There was only one avenue to be sought. “I will see what can be done.”

Agnes breathed her relief. “House Waterman and Flint will be in your debt, I promise you.”

“I will remember that.”

/~/~/~/

In the crowds, Jon found the Lady Barbrey. Or perhaps the lady found him. She spoke swiftly to Joy Fisher then waved the rest of her retinue aside. They stepped together into the cloister of an undercroft; one made empty by the feast in the hall.

Barbrey wasted little time. “Where is your brother?”

“Which one?” He asked, exhausted at the outset. If it was not his wife giving him grief—

“The one who has betrothed himself with nary a word.”

Jon groaned. “I think his words were given before the court when he proposed.”

At that, Barbrey only scoffed.

Would it ever cease? This acrimony? “It is a good match, your lord father said it. Konrad solved half a dozen of our problems in a single blow.”

“What he’s solved he’s multiplied. He invites a viper into his bed, and here I thought only Brella would give me that worry.”

He snorted. Brella very well would have bundled a dozen serpents into her sheets, if given the chance. Barbrey cupped a weary hand over her brow. “That woman only married Alton Morrowind because he was an imbecile. She will eat Konrad alive.”

“And he’ll enjoy it.”

That hand dropped. “You could at least feign concern. Mereya Morrowind will only serve herself. Not you, not your wife, and certainly not my son. The way she leads him around—”

“Konrad can fend for himself. Did you not raise him?”

“He has too much of his father in him.”

Jon very pointedly gave that no answer. Barbrey had reared him, but he’d had no place in her marriage to Willam Dustin. And fool be the man who though to offer an opinion on any matrimony but his own.

Though truly, despite any criticisms Barbrey had made of her husband’s utter complacency in ambition—it had not stopped her from giving him sly smiles across the hall. From being thoroughly riled by his jibes only to appear mussed from their chambers an hour on.

Jon knew that despite any sharpness, Barbrey had adored her late husband.

Yet he surrendered this argument anyhow. This was Konrad’s match; let it be his burden. “My lady, a word.”

Her brow arched. “So now you have something to say?”

“Yes.” And the knives turned. “I have had this argument with my wife, and now I must have it with you. What is it that you preached? That we daren’t show dissension in our ranks, lest we invite the dagger? And here I find you antagonizing my wife in front of the court as if she were an ignorant child.”

“Isn’t she?” Barbrey pondered. “The girl is not yet twenty, and sticking her hands into circumstances she has little understanding of—”

“Enough.” And he surged forward. Eye to eye. Snarling: “You will hold your tongue and give my wife the respect she is due. For one bloody moon, the both of you will pretend you are on the same side!”

Her eyes gleamed brighter. “Which side? The one that forgives thieves in your court?”

“Our proof was thin at best.” He snapped. “Which both of us knew. And do not act as though the Spring Mercy is not coming—many a King has found clemency for hunger, when the greenery at last crawls through.”

Barbrey only sniffed at that; venom rolling behind her teeth.

It couldn’t be suffered. “You will advise her as you do me with all your faculties, and if what you say is sensible, my wife will listen.”

“Promises.” The lady murmured.

And that was when the door swung open. When Konrad so blithely announced: “Interrupting, am I?”

“Do not stand there gawking.” His mother scolded.

Konrad only approached, stroll indolent. Grin wide. “It is not every day I get see our precious King earning your wrath, mother. Let a man marvel.”

Jon scoffed at that. Barbrey’s mouth only thinned. “Show your King regard.”

It was Konrad’s turn to scoff. “First my betrothed, and now you? It’s as if you both forget Jon and I scuffed our knees and threw mud in each other’s faces long before he crowned himself.”

“Be careful.” Jon answered. “Else I might find it in myself to throw mud again.”

“And wouldn’t I look a vision?” Konrad agreed, his own self-satisfaction practically overflowing.

Jon didn’t think he had ever seen his brother in such jolly mood. Wondered: “Was I this unbearable after Sansa?”

“Worse.” Konrad volleyed.

And so the Lady Barbrey was pleased with neither of them. “Proud of yourself, are you?”

“I managed to talk the Lady Mereya into marriage instead of striking me where I stand. And trust me—she more than considered it. I think my pride is rightfully placed when I have caught my quarry.”

“As if anyone will consider that difficult.” The lady hissed. “All the realm will know exactly why she married you, and they will whisper it behind your back.”

Konrad merely shrugged. “My lands are handsome as myself. If wooing her requires them both, then so be it.”

“Those lands were your own cousin’s, and not a pretty bauble!”

That had them both wincing; Konrad’s cheer taking a blow. His smile crumbled. “You know I do not disrespect them. Disrespect him. The Lady Mereya will—”

“Stop.” Barbrey said, and he stopped. Watched her with uncertainty as she rubbed at weary eyes. Her shoulders stayed straight, though Jon saw the faintest shudder—a grief they all still carried.

She gathered herself. “You will be the Dustin of Dreadfort and kin of Bolton. You must be unshakeable. Feared. That is what they answer to—what they know. Not a boy chasing after a lady’s skirts.”

Konrad’s cheeks took darker flush. His jaw a line of obstinance. “She will respect me.”

“She already leads you around by the nose.” The lady snarled.

And the sound was mirrored—their mouths the same shape. “Do you have so little faith in me?”

“It is no longer a question of faith, considering what I have seen. That is a lady you have begged and grasped for. Who turned her back on you in court! You picked a woman with questionable womb, who another man has already been inside of—”

“The same choice that my father made!”

A shout that staggered. Barbrey turning white as chalk: astonished at the blow.

Jon took a shocked breath and stepped backwards. Another as he tried to escape. Rumors had always circled of Barbrey Ryswell and Brandon Stark, each unkinder than the last. The one time Jon had witnessed them spoken aloud at Barrow Hall, Willam Dustin had dragged a man to the yard and beaten him bloody.

Barbrey had stood above the violence. Smooth as glass. Cold as ice. Remote and untouchable as the peak of a mountain

She was not untouchable now. A fracture in the eye, the mouth—so shocked at her own pain. Konrad stood teetered between them, wrath ugly and horror unfurling.

She dragged a breath through her teeth. Another.

Konrad’s mouth opened yet had nothing to say.

The Lady Barbrey was not so thwarted. “So be it. You’ve made your bed, lie in it.” Then turned on heel to leave with all the squall of a storm.

And it reverberated, this thunder. Konrad’s fists clenching. His shoulders up around his ears.

Jon saying: “She’ll make you pay for that.”

Konrad only nodded. Gazed on. Asked in a reedy voice: “Would father have disapproved as well?”

“No.” And Jon knew this. “He would have thought the parallels comical, then promised he’d talk your mother around. Right after striking you for ever speaking of his wife so crassly, of course.”

“Of course.” This laugh Konrad released was wet. Shivering. He scrubbed his palms against his eyes. “I asked him once, you know? When we were boys…about the rumors. Why he married mother.”

Jon felt his entire body turn. He’d never heard this. Never dreamed of asking.

A steadying breath. “Father said: Prince Brandon was my friend, and I loved your mother first and I will love her last, and that is all you or anybody else in this bloody realm need know. Now stop dawdling and return to your lessons.”

Jon barked a laugh; humorless.

Konrad’s mouth curled and then flattened. “I wish he were here.”

Jon wished the same. He had not been Willam Dustin’s son and never would be. But the pride he carried himself with, the fairness of his hand, the sureness of his every choice—he had learned it all from Lord Dustin.

The world would be an easier place if Willam was still in it.

Konrad’s hand rested against his mouth. Covered it. “And Domeric?”

But that world could never be so.

It had been years since either of them had spoken that name; that grief. That the Bolton madness had started within its own walls. “It would have comforted him to know you stepped in his place. That you found a lady who would defend his people to the hilt.”

His brother only nodded along. Eyes bright, throat working.

It still hurt to even think. Of all the men in all the realms—Domeric had been one of the few who were truly good. How different the war would have been, if Domeric had gone to Winterfell instead of that Bolton Bastard.

Jon would have never been King. His cousins would have lived. Surely…

Except in a world where Domeric was, perhaps he would have been in the South instead, and the Bastard’s ugly work would have carved House Stark regardless. Would Domeric have raised his hand to his father? Warned the Queen? Would he have stopped the conspiracy in the South?

Or would Jon have ordered Domeric Bolton to be strung up by his guts as well?

Gods, that old excitement. The summer swelter. The lather of that familiar red horse coming to the yard. The banners of flayed men snapping, then Domeric leaping from his mount to greet his aunt. Barbrey having to rock up onto her toes to even reach those broad shoulders.

How Domeric, even as a man grown, had gamboled with them in the grass. Taught them swords and put them on ponies. Gone racing with them among the Barrows. The man had always listened so carefully to every scrambling story Markas and Konrad and even Jon himself had to share.

He’d been a man kind to even bastards. In Jon’s earliest memory, Domeric had brought intricate puzzle boxes for his cousins. Ones that would form Dustin axes when complete and open to reveal a trifle. Brella had not yet been born, and Konrad and Markas had scrambled to work them under their parents’ indulgent eye. Jon had sat watching and empty handed; his own wants an ugly lump in his throat.

Yet Domeric had noticed. Had called for a servant to go and fetch. Another puzzle box had been brought to the table, old and worn and red and pink.

The first my father made me. Then Domeric offered it. Always need to cultivate a clever mind with clever tricks, hmmm? Give it a try.

And so Jon had. While Domeric had shared wine and politics with his aunt and uncle, Jon had put the flayed man together. The box had popped open to reveal an old toy soldier secreted inside. There’d been a Bolton crest carved into its chest.

Keep it. Domeric had murmured, and so Jon had clutched his prize. Even now, it rested in some dusty chest among Stark surcoats made for a child. Lyarra’s stitches sitting next to that Bolton banner—

How red Roose Bolton’s guts had hung in those trees. Flayed man. Arms wide. Crucifixion.

Ryswell vengeance in blood. Stark vengeance in bone. Grunts and groans and begging, yet it was not they who rung in his ears. It was the gutted sound Barbrey had made when news of Domeric reached them. It was Markas and Konrad’s cries and little Brella’s wailing.

It was his own quiet sniffles, telling himself a man-at-arms should not cry, no matter how small he’d felt.

Illness. No suffering. Gone to the gods. Words in parchment that lied and lied.

Murder, Barbrey had wept.

MURDER, she’d howled to their gods.

And Jon had been their sword, their vengeance. The gods’ hand upon the earth. Gorged on blood and flesh and this endless wheel of suffering.

Memories whittled down; left him in an undercroft along with their ghosts.

He breathed them away. Drew close to his brother to grip his shoulders. Clapped them hard. “The Lady Mereya was an excellent choice that all your family would take pride in, and now you must leave her to her work. She’s done splendidly so far.”

Konrad nodded and dragged himself together. His jaw stopped shaking. “And then?”

“Go to your grandfather and have him negotiate the details of betrothal. He will talk your mother around.”

“Right…of course.” And Konrad cleared his throat. Rocked on heel. “Grandfather will be shrewd.”

“And not give your wife everything including the family jewels.”

“As you did?”

Jon dearly wished he had. “Marriage.” He announced grandly. “Is a union of compromises.”

At that, Konrad only groaned.

/~/~/~/

In the following days, the court carried on, and Jon was hardly surprised when it proved more fruitful than the Folkmoot could have dreamed of being. So rarely, he knew, were ladies allowed a voice.

They were not squandering their chance.

Markets, quarrels, taxes, even a dozen accusations of immorality. Lesser ladies were not cowering from their lieges. Each petition was hashed, argued, then judgements were laid. None were fully pleased, but at least Jon could say they had been heard.

Barbrey was a wall of stone. Impenetrable. Administering and arguing, and absolutely lambasting anyone who dared bandy falsehoods. Whatever hurt she still carried from that day in the undercroft—she did not show it.

His Queen, on the other hand, was every courtly grace. Giving smiles and sweet words, and soothing hurts wherever they sprang up. Warmer and warmer eyes, Jon thought, were turning in her direction.

The Lady Mereya was least of power, yet she made herself keenly felt. The woman had a silver tongue and iron will, and she never hesitated to use either to rise to her vassals’ defense. And since that argument between the Dustins—she had been clinging to Konrad. Jon was certain his brother wouldn’t air familial grievances, betrothal or no. But clearly the Lady Mereya had gleaned something, for now she was giving him swift kisses at every meal and allowing him to take her on evening strolls. She was marking her territory, and Konrad was eagerly ceding ground.

Mother and son were not speaking while Konrad stayed among his Ryswell uncles. Brella, the smartest of them, was ignoring the breach to cosset Lord Toadstool or gossip with Elissa. Markas could only give helpless shrugs that did little to ease Jon’s worries. Barbrey could nurse a grudge the way a farmer nursed his fields—she could wait for it to bloom.

Though in the end, each women held their dignity. Acted in a manner that put them beyond reproach. If the three of them were still managing to insult each other in open court, they were doing it in a manner that escaped his knowledge.

And bastards were more than versed in underhanded slights.

A young girl slipped into the hall. The pages were girls for as long as this Court lasted, and this one scampered to Lady Mereya’s side to tuck a bit of parchment to her palm. The Lady read it. Smiled. “Your Grace?”

Jon dipped a nod. “Yes, my lady?”

The court quieted, and Lady Mereya shot a sly glance upon the Lady Barbrey. Beamed to the throne. “It is announced by my lord uncle—the betrothal is settled. I and my lord shall wed as soon as we reach the Dreadfort.”

“Oh?” And then Lady Barbrey stepped forward, head as high as any crown. “The Dreadfort has fallen half to disuse. Surely it will not shine as splendidly as my gooddaughter-to-be wishes.”

Mereya’s expression flickered; the briefest scowl. “I shall bring it back to glory.”

“That shall take an age.” Barbrey sniffed. “And your lord is the brother of a King.” Then the lady tipped her head towards him. Smiled so very gently. “Your Grace, the preparations for your scuttled marriage at Winterfell have only begun to be dismantled. I beg for your blessing upon my son—let him marry at Winterfell in your stead.”

Murmurs rose; a susurrus of excitement.

Jon felt his wife grip his hand when he asked: “Lady Mereya, does this please you?”

The woman looked half faint. Half bewildered. Nearly stuttered: “Your Grace—Lady Barbrey, that is the highest honor you could put upon us.” And did not know how to go on.

Barbrey only nodded benevolently. “Shall you not be my daughter, Lady Mereya?”

Something was afoot. Mereya’s hands fluttering. Sansa biting her lip and gripping his hand. Barbrey serene as any woman could be.

The silence was stretching. And Jon knew: “Konrad Dustin welcomed me at his family’s hearth and shared his plate from the very first night. We are brothers in the blood that we have spilled.” They could not wait. “We support your request, Lady Barbrey, and welcome Lady Mereya to our family with the highest respects that we can give.”

“Excellent.” And Barbrey dipped a curtsy. “I shall command Winterfell and the servants to see it done.”

A whisper of silk then. A curling of his own dread. Sansa clearing her throat ever so delicately to say: “Lady Barbrey, do not trouble yourself. Winterfell is my demesne, and I can prepare it for our dear brother and sister.”

Those Ryswell eyes narrowed. “That is the Queen’s prerogative.”

The tension kept rising within him. A flickering of unease as he murmured: “Sansa…”

Yet his wife ignored him. “It surely is, Lady Barbrey. May you enjoy these days to come as only the mother of the groom and worry no further.”

Barbrey’s gaze lanced. “I happily surrender all my faculties to the Queen.” Then she curtseyed to the Crown. Turned away so swiftly—yet Jon saw it. Pale eyes gleaming, red mouth curved.

And Jon felt the trap snap shut around his wife.

/~/~/~/

When they cleared the hall to allow the night’s feast to be arranged, her husband’s tense deposition turned wrathful. He gripped her hand. Kissed it. “Sansa, I shall handle this. I will call Lady Barbrey back to help arrange things.”

Her innards churned. “Arrange what?”

“The wedding.”

It had been too easy. She knew it had been too easy. Let her have the victory in the hall, only for Barbrey to go to her husband to complain, and wrench it all back. “No.” She would not allow it. “Winterfell is mine; I am perfectly capable of arranging a single ceremony within its walls.”

“Sansa, a wedding here is a complicated task—”

“Do you think me incompetent?”

“No!” It tore out of him. “But you have walked right into her trap. She is vexed with Konrad, and I do not mistake her gestures for any love she holds for Mereya. She means to make you stumble by letting you have this.”

“Letting me?” Her pitch rose. “My duties are a trap now? How very convenient. You will simply have to save me from them by surrendering them all to Barbrey. Well—at least you acknowledge the lady is capable of falsehood. That is progress, if nothing else.”

A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “I am well aware of what the lady is capable, which is why I am telling you this. I am not stealing anything from you—"

“To give to the Lady Barbrey what is mine is theft, and I will not allow it.”

“I am not asking you to—”

“Good, for it is denied!”

He snarled then. She returned it gladly.

Let them be wolves. “Pray tell, husband, why is the lady so vexed with our dear Konrad?”

That only hardened him further. “That is between the Dustins, not you and I.”

“Hmmmm.” It was the humming of steel. “Honesty, you promised, wasn’t it?

That gouged him. “I do not ask you for Tully secrets.”

“It is not my lady mother hounding your every step!”

He could not argue that. Could only hunch. Hiss: “Leave it.”

“Fine.” Let the Dustins eat each other alive—it was no loss. “I do not know what sort of trap you think this is. But if it ends up being one, rest easy, for I shall handle without your help as I have every other she has set for me.”

Flinching. Blood drawn. His, hers, for to be married was to cleave to him: hearth and home and wound. For better and for worse, the septon had made her vow. So let them share it all.

He turned aside. “If that is your wish, I shall grant it. Consider my help rescinded. I have business in my solar—I will see my Queen at the feast.”

“You shall.” She agreed, then gathered her skirts to march back to her chambers alone.

Chapter Text

The dawn came bleak, the light a cold knife sawing through the horizon. Her husband did not wake her with kisses. A sly hand. The heat of his mouth. Only a single palm that slid from her as she broke away.

He had followed her to bed stubbornly, but here it seemed his obstinacy ended: he did not reach for her again.

She did not seek his gaze, fury still a blackened lump in her throat. She did not know what bile would rise with it. Silence was always a prudent choice for wives, she’d been told, so let them have stillness—she would raise her voice elsewhere.

A readying followed. The cool palms of maids, heavy brocades, pins studded with sapphires and then the weight of a crown.

“Your Grace.” Poppy murmured. “They are prepared for you in the east solar.”

She touched the back of a roughened hand. “Thank you.”

The dark of Poppy’s eyes flicked over Sansa’s shoulder, considering. A squeeze came to her palm. “Always.”

Missives had been sent the night previous, and as Poppy promised, all their recipients waited. Sansa entered to Vayon Poole winged by servants and hurrying to rise.

“Your Grace.” And the Steward smiled upon her. “May I present Eon Hayward, steadholder of the godswood. Next to him is Ana, our head maid of the inner ward. At her side is her sister Myn, who heads up the Old.”

A man of fifty stepped forward, long of beard and piercing of eye as he dropped into a bow. He was a wild looking creature beneath his tunic of Stark colors, and the crossed key and quill brooch that all steadholders wore.

The head maids were over forty, lines of laughter at the eye and their hands callused. Both their dresses were white and stitched in gray. There was a softness to their bellies and thighs that spoke of many children between them.

Sansa clasped her unmarred palms together. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Vayon shook his head. “That is our duty to the Crown, your Grace. And here are Tessa, Elly, and Lorra—” Another three women dressed in white, all curtseying. “They are the head maids for the western, southern, and eastern wards respectively. Let it be said that while the steadholders keep the ledgers, and the steward the castle, I am well aware of what keeps Winterfell running.”

“As you should, your stewardship.” Myn answered most tartly.

The steward glowered upon her. Several other maids, dressed in gray and with no introduction given, giggled at the presumption.

“And may all in this castle learn to keep their tongue.” He gestured sharply to his side. “Lastly, as our Queen has already been introduced…”

But Sansa was already smiling. “Jeyne.”

The girl perked up. Head lifting, cheeks pink. “Your Grace, you honor us.”

“As you honor me.” And Sansa gestured to the table. “Come, let us speak of Lord Konrad’s wedding. The Ladies Court shall begin soon, and I would see things in motion before I am occupied.”

A number of glances exchanged at that, sharp in their slanting. The head maids and steward and steadholder all seated themselves. The lesser maids stayed ringed at the walls.

Something there, unspoken. She would just have to suss it. “Tell me of the previous arrangements for the royal wedding, how useful will they be to us?”

Vayon lifted rolls of parchment to smooth upon the table. “The decorations for the castle and godswood have not yet been dismantled, though new winter flowers need be gathered to finish the arrangements. The servants will require the Queen’s direction in their choices.”

“Oh?” She asked.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. Slackened. “The Lady Barbrey has rescinded all previous guidance. Though truthfully, what decoration was fit for a royal wedding would not be prudent for our Lord Dustin and his lady anyhow.”

Quite true. Let Barbrey play at queenhood all she liked, no son of hers would receive the honors of king.

Before Sansa could give voice to thought, Jeyne piped in. “All flowers and plants have meanings, your Grace. What is there and what is absent can imply many things. Care must be taken in what honors and blessings you wish to lay upon Lord and Lady Dustin.”

There was a language of flowers and romance in the South; it was not an unfamiliar thing. Though Sansa suspected a great deal of her knowledge would not translate here. To a land where the gods were said to be in the waters, the earth. Every green and growing shoot.

“Of course.” She could only acknowledge it. “I would appreciate Jeyne to assist me in my selections.”

Some tension within Vayon loosened. “My daughter would be happy to serve, my Queen. As for the rest of the assignments, we could rely on what Lady Barbrey first ordered.”

“No.” She wouldn’t allow it. “I will determine all servant duties forthwith.”

A susurrus of movement. The barest whispers from the maids along the walls. Vayon hardly batting a lash. “As the Queen decrees, though establishing new assignments shall take time.”

An easy remedy. “You shall sup with me for dinner, Vayon, and I shall make my evening available for this once court is done.”

“Her Grace is prudent.” Though there was a certain practiced flatness to his expression that she couldn’t quite divine. “Then I suppose the Queen would prefer the Order of Entry be left to her as well?”

Those words meant nothing to her. “Pray tell?”

This time, it was Steadholder Hayward that spoke. “The Godswood of Winterfell is large, but only so much, your Grace. The Order of Entry determines which lords and ladies enter first for the ceremony. Those allowed closest to the heart tree are beneath the Crown’s favor. The gods’ blessing.”

How illuminating. She remembered all those figures among the bonfires at her wedding. Shivers. Shadows. Ashes. Heat. This was a seating arrangement, though in a slightly different shape. And if there was one thing Sansa Tully knew how to do— “I will lay those choices.” And even lovelier: the honors Barbrey had thought to dispense would be Sansa’s to give instead. Her allies elevated. Her position strengthened.

“Anything else I need know?”

Vayon flicked to another sheaf of parchment. “Lady Mereya has sent request that the White Moon Ritual be delayed. She wishes to…” He cleared his throat rather awkwardly.

Steadholder Hayward rolled his eyes skyward. Declared: “Make full use of any gods’ blessed fecundity once she is wed.”

“Ah.” Sansa answered. Truthfully, anything to delay that particular engagement— “Send a page to tell the Lady Mereya we honor her request.”

A slash of a quill. “Of course.” And Vayon cleared his throat more firmly. “There are the other rituals to arrange. I know the Ryswells shall be handling some sacrament of their own, but with Lord Konrad taking nuptials in Winterfell, there is the matter of the crypts to sort.”

Sansa felt her eyes narrow; a question perched upon her tongue. Jeyne must have been watching her face most carefully, for the girl hurried to say. “It is done at sunset the day before the wedding: the Ceremony of Swords. He must journey deep into the crypts to retrieve a sword laid for him—it would be the Crown’s prerogative to choose which blade. He will pray there for the night before our ancestors for wisdom and vigor.”

Eon Hayward nodded along. “He shall slip into the shade death a boy and emerge into the dawn a man. The gods shall move with him.”

A shiver rippled over her scalp. “A great benediction for the Dustins.”

“Indeed.” Vayon agreed. “We are all descendant of the Winter Kings; to be allowed to seek their strength is not a favor carelessly bestowed.”

Quietly, Sansa realized this ritual was not one her husband had been allowed to partake, marrying her in the wilds as he had. That troubled her. “When was the last time this ritual took place?”

Vayon considered it. “The last wedding in Winterfell was Prince Eddard and his Princess Corenna, before that…” He looked to Eon.

Eon’s gaze flicked upward. Searched the stones for memory. “Likely Lord Medger and his Lady Gysella.”

“Yes.” Vayon agreed, then offered to her: “Lord Medger fostered at Winterfell with our King Rickard when his Grace was but a prince himself. It was a high honor bestowed upon House Cerwyn.”

That answered a question she hadn’t even realized lingered. Why her husband had been sent, scandalous bastard that he was, to live so close to Winterfell. King Rickard had trusted Lord Medger. Though that begged the question…why then had he given Jon Snow to the Lady Barbrey?

Myn spoke. “And what of the Bride’s Cleansing? Tricky bit of business getting all those men arranging things out of the wood, without those scallywags trying to peek at the bride.”

“I’m sure the Queen can bid the Hearthguard to be thorough.” Vayon lobbed. “And of course, it is up her Grace if she wishes to join the bride and her maternal family in the springs for the Cleansing.”

Sansa thought of that hot bath sent to her by her husband before their vows. On that night, she’d only thought it a tender gesture, but now…

It did not bear lingering. “I shall make that decision at a later hour. What is the most pressing issue that faces us?”

“Food.” Vayon sighed. The maids and steadholder all shared that sound. A thinning of mouths; a tightening of hands.

It could damn them. “Tell me truly.”

“With their Graces marrying outside of Winterfell, the King ordered we take the food meant for their wedding feasts to make a number of smaller celebrations to please the lords. But now that we are holding another wedding, the nobles and their retinues shall stay in Winterfell longer. Eat more. Drink more. Perhaps we should…”

Eon scoffed. “We must beg the Goði for portents and live with the gods’ choosing. Would you see Winterfell cursed further, Poole?”

“Easy for you to say.” Myn spat. “It is not the steadholders put on half-rations if the lords overstay themselves.”

Ana gripped her sister by the arm. “But if we hurry too greatly, a half-made wedding will shame Winterfell.”

“Better that than starving.” Her sister snapped.

Eon only glared vehemently upon them all, and Sansa was at a loss again. She did not wish to concede ignorance. Surely out of all these maids, Barbrey had a dozen spies in the room.

And yet. And yet. “What portents?”

And Eon turned. Beseeched her: a dark and wild thing. “It is said the Queen is devout to her own gods. Surely she understands we cannot move without holy blessing.”

Her confusion only grew. “What will the Goði tell us?”

“The moon ever cycles.” Eon answered. “Only the gods know when this wedding should take place. The Queen must offer sacrifice to the Goði, and he shall auger.”

The servants shifted around. Booted feet rasped against stone. Jeyne tucked her chin low while Vayon’s fingers rattled among the parchment.

Sansa’s thoughts were spinning wall to wall to wall. Move too quickly, and the wedding would be a poorly cobbled insult. Move too slowly, and their stores would be stripped. Put sacrifice to the Goði, and they would lose control of the timing. Keep the choice for her own, and surely she would offend the devout.

A throbbing built between her temples

A trap, her husband had said, and like a blind fool—

“My King chose the day we would wed.”

Vayon’s gaze turned pitying. “Whatever the King wished for his own wedding would be holy; he is chosen of the gods.”

She had not listened, and here it was: the hook wrenched bloody beneath her lip. If Barbrey expected her to come begging for help, that would be a cold day in every hell. She was daughter to the Lady Catelyn; surely she could manage a single wedding.

Surely. Surely— “Thank you all for your support. I hope I will have it in the days to come.” Then swept upwards. “I must see to the court. I will consider all you have brought before me. Vayon, Jeyne, please join me when dinner is served.”

Those around her all hurried to rise. The ring of maids was already curtsying. “Your Grace.” They murmured, sibilant. The sound of a river rushing ever higher.

And Sansa could only smile and move with the current.

/~/~/~/

The court began as it always did. Her husband calling a lady forward to give her word, and the arguments spiraling from there. They moved from the favored to disfavored. From great catastrophes to petty squabbles. Such was the shape of things.

Yet halfway through a particularly troubled argument over pastures, Myn slipped into the hall. Circled wide. Came to the dais to whisper in Sansa’s ear: “Your Grace, your counsel is needed. The alewives squabble over whose barrel shall quench the wedding table.”

Sansa answered beneath the breath. “How can that be an issue so tumultuous?”

Myn’s voice only sharpened. “The Royal Brewer died in the madness. The ale, the wheat, the barley—that is a matter of the hearth. The woman.”

And she understood. “The Queen.”

“Winterfell’s hearth has guttered long.” Myn agreed lowly. “Though we can use the alewife the Lady Barbrey installed from Barrow Hall, if her Grace wishes no further clamor. It has been done before.”

It was only the hundreds of eyes upon her that stopped her from scoffing outright. That sank steel into her voice. “Lord Konrad may be a Dustin, but if he weds in my castle, he shall drink of Winterfell’s cup.”

“Indeed.” And Myn spoke swiftly. “The Royal Brewer had a daughter. She passed to her child the craft. Many a lord visited Winterfell once just to taste the royal cups, but that was years ago.”

How unfortunate. “Name this daughter for the wedding. Tell her if she does well, she shall earn her mother’s title.” Let it be known that even a Tully Queen could see northern traditions restored.

A darker splinter. “As her Grace wishes.” Then with simple curtsy, the maid departed.

Yet that was not the end of the procession. After Myn came Lorra, then Tessa, then Ana, then Tessa again. Whispered words. Beseeching eyes. Problem after problem stacking upon a crowned head. Some could be solved swiftly; some could not be solved at all.

It was after Jeyne came harried and whispering to Sansa’s ear, that Barbrey spoke aloud. “Your Grace?”

Sansa ripped her eyes from ledger pages and found the entire hall staring upon them. A stillness rippling. She raised her voice solicitously. “Yes, my Lady Barbrey?”

“We ask your guidance for the court.” And that mouth flickered so sly. “Unless her Grace wishes for the petitioner to repeat herself. Again.”

Sansa felt a nauseous churn. Before she could open her mouth to rejoin—or send a truly scathing retort—her husband snapped: “The court shall repeat itself until it is hoarse, if the Crown so wishes it. Does the lady object?”

But Barbrey’s smile stayed sanguine. “Never. My Lady Hale, please speak again so the Queen might hear you. It is difficult to be understood in such commotion.”

The churn kept rising. Thundering. A snarl of foam and flood wanted to consume. Blind the eyes and gag the tongue, and pour down that lily-white throat until that miserable woman could choke—

She did not feel herself. Sansa took one breath. Another.

Move with the currents, do not linger, do not drown.

She lifted a hand and smiled gently. Smiled over a snarl that wanted to erupt. Sansa listened to every word Lady Hale had to utter, then gave her counsel graciously. She even waited for the next lady to be announced and the resulting tumult, to take Jeyne by the wrist.

The poor girl looked a mouse afraid of the stable cat. “Your Grace, I am sorry that I have caused you such troubles—”

She interrupted firmly. “If we find ourselves apologizing for the Lady Barbrey, then we shall be the ones left hoarse. I need you to corral the maids. Bring their requests to myself at meals, and do not allow them into the hall. It is becoming a distraction.”

A hesitation in hand and eye, yet Jeyne bit her cheek and nodded. “Of course, your Grace. I shall see it done.”

“Thank you much.”

“My Queen is gracious.” And Jeyne gave the deepest curtsy yet before slipping the hall.

“Sansa?” Her husband was entreating her.

She refused it. “The next petitioner?”

He sighed aloud, but the tumult on the floor had quieted, and with that silence came the Lady Jaen Strudwick. There was an odd tension to the air now. A gust of whisper and breath as the lady announced: “My Grace the King, on behalf of my cousin, I bring to you Mereya Morrowind’s petition of Prima Nocta.”

And Sansa felt herself snap upright. Watched her husband jolt away with what she hoped was discomfort when he answered: “Step forward.”

The lady did. Shoulders even, gaze fierce. “Blood and Bone. Hearth and Table. King of Kings—the Stark has shielded us for millennia. All that is ours belongs to him.” There was something of song to it; as much rite as petition given.

And her husband answered it. “Daughter of my Banners, beseech us.”

The lady nodded. “My cousin is fine and fair and the jewel of her father’s house. She is a lady once wedded and already bedded. But first right, as always, belongs to our liege. She happily offers her marriage bed to the King, if he so wishes to partake.”

A strange ringing through the hall. The sourness of bile. Sansa’s heart thudding against the roof of her mouth until she bit down, felt it pulp and gush like rotten fruit. “Wish it?” Ruffles of damask. Gasping. Eyes swinging to her in a multitude too great to count. Sansa felt half outside her body. She felt out of control. “My husband would wish no such thing, and yet you speak this vulgarity in our court?”

“Your Grace,” The Lady Strudwick tried. “I mean no insult to thy merciful self—"

“And yet insult is taken. Step away, Lady Strudwick. And quickly.”

A terrible surge. “Do you spit on our ways?” And there came the Lady Torrha Umber, ferocious and towering in all her furs. “Prima Nocta is of the oldest laws of this land; it descends from the very Age of Heroes. It is the right of kings.”

Sansa felt her husband clamp down on her hand, yet he could not clamp down on her voice. “It is a darker practice from a darker age, and a stain upon us all.”

Jon hissed a breath. The entire court exhaled.

And that ferocity became as fury. “Do not speak of things far more ancient than your young and insipid gods, Tully.”

Sansa took the blow. Felt her own rage crackle between her teeth.

But there came a new voice ringing. A clarion call. “Our gods are eternal. They are the very Light upon the world.” It was Leona Manderly rising, a seven-pointed star a’glitter at her throat. “They are the beginning and the end. Their voices have always been so, it is not our blame that you refuse to hear them.”

“I would sooner gouge out my ears.” The Lady Torrha hurled.

And Leona’s mouth curled. “Is that what you do when your husband takes every milkmaid on her marriage bed? How deaf you must be.”

A red flush. Black hate. The Lady Torrha so wrathful in her body, that she could hardly speak to say: “It is a blessing to receive such strong seed—”

“Certainly, those girls must feel blessed to have that ale-soaked boar thrusting upon them.”

Fury choked the Lady Umber fully. Looked as though it would like to fill her hands to choke the Lady Leona, too.

Another spoke. “You insult a line and blood as old as the Wall itself.” And there came the Lady Lyessa so resolute and merciless. “When you are but a shepherd married to southron merchants yourself. How arrogant you’ve grown.”

A flush took the Lady Leona. Her banners flocked towards her; glared upon the Lady Lyessa as sharply as a ring of crows.

The lady did not flinch

Voices began rising from every corner. Spilling aloud. Sansa had dreamed of flood, and here she’d brought it: breaking across this very hall. Woman turned on woman. Cousin upon cousin. Arguments and cutting slights falling from every mouth. Anger rang in all their voices as the chaos circled towards—

“ENOUGH!” And Jon Stark was the thunder. He was the gods hammer upon the earth.

All fell to silence. Flushed faces turned back to the throne. Shawls were askew, teeth bared. Sansa felt an animal herself. Felt a snare tightening.