Chapter Text
Sansa’s rooms at White Harbor are comfortable, but she finds herself restless. So many unknowns, so many chaotic pieces on the board. In fact, she’s pacing back and forth next to a bay window that overlooks the ocean, foam-capped and angry-green when a maid announces that Enda has arrived. Sighing a breath of relief, she smoothes her dress of moss-colored silk and tucks back an errant strand of red.
“Enda!” Sansa strides towards him and takes his hands in hers before he’s five steps through the door. “Thank the gods you’re back. Would you like some refreshment? Tea? Ale? I can have the servants prepare some mulled wine if you’d like or --”
“My Lady!” Enda responds with a pleasantly bemused expression. “Tea will be perfect, thank you.”
After Sansa hurriedly dismisses her servant with the request, she beckons Enda to join her by the window and turns her blue and hungry eyes to him. “Please, Enda, here. Sit. Now tell me; tell me everything!”
She learns of much, and more, though not enough. Enda’s relays the news of the west and south - Euron Greyjoy ravaging of the Reach has been somewhat checked by the returned Tyrell fleet, while King’s Landing has devolved into a mess of Faith Militants and Gold Cloaks - but it is news of the east that Sansa wants.
“And what of Aegon? The one who claims to be Targaryean? Did you find him?”
An unhappy look crosses across Enda’s face at her question, but he answers: “Yes. He continues to gain followers, and has reached near to the Ruby Ford, which is where I was intercepted by his forces - as instructed.”
“And?”
“The guards searched me and found the letters you wrote. I then demanded to be brought to Aegon. They did, but then, I would have been made to answer for their contents anyway.”
“Oh, Enda. I’m sorry that you had to go through that...roughness. It’s just that I couldn’t trust the task to anyone save you!” But Enda hears the undercurrent of excitement and impatience in Sansa’s voice, and wonders if she truly feels sorrow. And that makes him sad, before he forces away the feeling. She’s your lady and you’re sworn to her, not she to you, you fool. Enda swallows.
“It was nothing, my lady. In truth, I think Aegon is doing is best to keep his forces on best behavior to gain favor with the common folk. He seems to mean it. He greeted me with courtesy and apologized for his guards’ behavior.
“And he was very interested in your letters. Or rather, the person who wrote them, if you’ll forgive the implication, my lady.” (She did). “But his advisor, Lord Connington, was more wary. I heard him talking to Aegon - I can’t be sure, but I think I heard the name Arianne mentioned. I’m guessing that’s Arianne Martell - she’s heir to Dorne; the only, as Quentyn hasn’t been seen in moons, and since the attack on Trystane and Myrcella.
“I told them that I was traveling to the Eyrie to see if more men were available to join Lord Hardyng. I said that he demanded more men, despite the many that he had. He was, of course, able to realize what an empty Eyrie mean for his chances in capturing the Vale.
“And I let it slip that you were not...well-treated in the union. That appeared to be of particular interest to Aegon. Lord Aegon.” Enda himself does not look at all pleased at the admission.
“Good. Very good,” Sansa responds, almost feverishly. “Then it is set.”
“What is set, my lady?”
“We must return to the Vale. To attend to Sweetrobin, of course - the Redforts say he has taken a turn for the worse, and may not recover. And if we should meet Lord Aegon on the way…who knows?” Sansa whispers, almost to herself, “who knows?”
“If I may, Sansa - is that wise? It is still unclear what kind of man he is. And why risk going so close to an army still fresh and looking for a fight?”
“Oh Enda,” Sansa says, now light, almost girlish, “there’s a risk in everything. In these days, opening a door is a risk; sitting on one’s chamberpot can be deadly! Besides, you yourself said that his men didn’t harm you. And better them on our side, where we have more control. Twenty thousand, you said he had? Imagine if they went with a purpose to looting the Vale? No,” she continues in a rush, “we must play the hands we’re dealt.”
“As you say. If your ladyship will allow, now that I have reported the events of my travel, may I retire to my chambers? The journey back seems to taken its toll.”
“Of course, of course, dear Enda! I am sorry I kept you so long. Please - get some rest.” Sansa stands up and escorts him to the door, closes it, and moves to stand by the window. A final strip of sunset pushes through the clouds and lights her hair, and then it’s gone.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
After that, it all manages to go wrong. Years, miles, and a thousand tales later, Sansa still can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment that it does; but perhaps that’s because it all went wrong so fast. Or perhaps because no one ever really thinks nightmares will come to life.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Early the next day, Sansa begins to plan her return trip to the Vale, drawing up necessary lists and timelines, but it is hardly mid-morning when one of the mermen guards rat-tat-tats at her door.
“Yes? Come in.”
The man enters, his cloak’s seashell pin glinting dully as he hands her a letter.
“Word from Torrhen’s Square, my Lady. The Maester says the raven that delivered it was sore injured. I’m also to show this to Lords Wylis and Glover after you’ve finished.”
Sansa’s throat feels somewhat dry as she unrolls the parchment.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“To Lady Hardyng Stark - I write on behalf of Lord Hardyng. He went scouting north with a hundred men five days ago. He returned this morning - he and five others. They were raving about dead men. Lord Hardyng himself suffered a grievous wound to his leg. He insists we ride south as soon as he is recovered enough to ride. Under other circumstances, I would believe it is the fever that speaks, but we hear things in the woods, and I am not sure. We aim to reach Moat Cailin by the sennight.
By my hand,
Ser Donnel Waynwood
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sansa returns the note to the waiting soldier, her hand trembling; he doesn’t notice that it shakes from rage.
“Thank you, Ser. Please tell Lord Wylis I would like to meet with him as soon as he is free.”
After the door closes, Sansa stands and begins paces back and forth, unable to concentrate. How dare they? How DARE they? After all she’s done - and they’re so close and --- abruptly, she pulls her cloak from its hook, wraps it around herself, and flings open the door. “Leona!”
“Yes, milady?”
“Watch after Merlin, please. I am going to the godswood to pray.”
“Yes, milady.”
Sansa’s boots clang as the strides down the stairs and all-but-runs through various clusters of the various servants and low level courtiers. The piercingly cold air that greets her as she exits blows her back a step or two, but only when she is within the arms of the godswood that her pace finally slows, heart still wildly beating within its cage of bones.
“What am I to do? What? Where are we to go? How?” Her questions hang in the air like damp, and in the silence Sansa moves to sit at the base of a slender heart tree, its ivory trunk partially split from its older and hoarier parent.
Sansa stares at the scene around her, smells seasalt air mingled with ancient roots and rocks, feels the wet of the snow seep into her boots, the faint rustle of Lyanna’s feathers. She sits, and stares, and feels her mind grow heavy, her eyes tired. She leans against the tree, almost caressing the cold hard bark as one arm wraps around its waist.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
She hears him. Bran. Bran! Sansa is running through the Godswood, following the whispering trees, but whatever she’s looking for is moving faster than she; always just out of sight. She turns a corner, and suddenly, she’s in a castle. She can smell ashes in the cold night air, but at the same time, she feels calmer here. Safer. In the distance she can see a huge fire burning, and what looks like a man riding a monstrous bird of ice. She walks to the window to get a closer look and screams (again): ghost men on ghost horses ride in the woods, bearing a dead army. One of the riders looks up and sees her; smiles an ice-blue smile and beckons her with an elegant ice-blue finger.
Then he melts away and it’s Bran, sitting in a seat made of weirwood. He looks at Sansa, sadly.
“They are come, Sister.”
“Bran! Brother, my sweet brother. I have missed you so much! Oh, Bran - I have longed for you, for our family, so long --” Sansa moves to embrace him, but can find no path for her arms amid the white roots.
Bran does not reach for her, and says: “the Others, Sister. From beyond the Wall. They are come.” Sansa stares, uncomprehending.
“We are scattered, Sister. Beyond the edge of the world and across the sea. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And Little Brother has returned.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sansa wakes to a black sky and bone deep cold. Still, as the minutes tick by, she sits still. It is only at Enda’s voice, gently calling her name, that rouses.
“Here - I am here, Enda! I am coming.” Sansa gets up, stiff and slowly. The glimmer of snow and pale bark light her way to him, a solid shape against the dark. “Is it late? Is Merlyn safe?”
“Yes, my lady. And it is past midnight. Lord Wylis was worried for you.”
“But not you Enda. I imagine you were glad to be rid of your burden for a while.” Enda halts, and she corrects, “Apologies, Enda. That was wrong of me. I am just a foolish woman, tired and afraid.”
They pass the distance to the castle courtyard in silence.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
At this hour, a different kind of silence pervades; one of sleeping men and women, of banked fires, and waiting, waiting.
Sansa too waits, for the sun to rise, for an answer to announce itself, for her to awake and find this all a ridiculous, terrible dream. The meeting with Wylis Manderly was not a friendly one. He was angry at her delay; she at his decision to pull back their forces in light of the morning’s news. He accused her of putting Winterfell above men’s lives, and she could not deny it. Because it would mean the unraveling of so many plans, the end of contingencies; a blank map. And Petyr, the master re-planner, had not replied to her in months. Her longing for him was like an extra limb, a taste almost on the tongue.
What was she to do?
Sansa dreams again of ice and fire, of Bran looking at her and naming her kinslayer; it hits the ground with a thud and her eyes open, to darkness. Heart still pounding, she pulls aside the bed covers and lights a candle with shaky hands. Lifting it up, she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the little boy next to her, face smooth in sleep. Love for him grips her heart and squeezes painfully. Her boy, her Merlyn, and sometimes she feels, her last tether to anything pure.
Moving with care, she moves to a corner of the room and sets the candle down. She places a wooden pallet on her knees and unrolls a thin skein of parchment. Dipping her quill judiciously into ink:
“Petyr,
The last word I received from you spoke of Dorne. Are you there still? I write, and I am truly afraid. They say they are coming, Petyr: nightmares come to life, like the world grew tired of our violence and fashioned them to finish us. Fire seems to stop them, but oh gods Petyr. (here Sansa’s hand quivers and an ink bulb plops onto her page)
Merlyn - he must be kept safe. Please come.
Yours, always.”
As it dries, Sansa stares down at the words. Some abstract part of her admires the elegant curve of the letters she has written, the gentle arches and the undulating curves.
Sansa has understood death in so many forms: scarred, graceful, monstrous, peaceful; yet they say this death walked in life, that this death resembled her loved (if not be-love-ed) Harry.
She glances again at the paper, at its implicit confession of plans ruined. What a beautiful world it was meant to be that never was. So, with a soft but ragged sigh, she touches a corner of the paper to the flames. It eagerly eats all her lovely words. And so, of course, Petyr never comes.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“Enda?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you forgive me for what I am asking you to do?”
A pause, then movement; she feels arms gently wrap around her and Sansa lets herself fold against the body behind her.
“I am yours. Until the end of days.”
Sansa shivers. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Bran telling me that Rickon is alive and near, that I must find him and bring him back to Winterfell. That the Others are real.
“If they come, Merlyn must be kept safe. You have the letters I gave you...but if the Vale is uncertain, take him across the sea.” Sansa swallows the thickness in her throat; he does not deserve silly tears. “You are...good. And still I use you. I am sorry.”
“Please sleep. I know tomorrow aims to come too soon, and I want to pretend it won’t.”
“You’re right, Enda. Good night.”
“Enda?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“You’re a good man.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
In the pale hours that now count as daylight, Sansa visits the small Godswood. Merlyn is with her this time, so bundled that his already uneven footsteps are more like crooked tufts in the snow. Enda follows behind, and Lyanna the hawk settles onto one of its branches.
Sansa bends down before the weirwood tree, glad at the wetness that soaks her knees.
“Bran. Little brother. I know you are not little anymore...and perhaps we are not kin anymore either. It is of no matter - for me. I was lost long ago. But --”
She motions to Enda to bring Merlyn forward.
“No matter how much or how little damned I am, Merlyn is a babe. And a Stark. A Stark, do you hear me, Bran? Do you hear me, brother?” Sansa feels the strain in her voice at these words. She breathes deeply.
“Merlyn, sweetling, come to me.”
“Yes, Mama.” He waddles the few steps over.
“Merlyn, dearest, Mama needs to go away for a little while - but only a little while. And before I go, I need you to do something for Mama.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Sansa feels the lump of desperation rising in her throat. She forces it down.
“Enda and I know how special you are, Merlyn. And we want the world to know it too.” She slides a knife from her sleeve. “But sometimes to be special hurts a little. Can you be brave, my son?”
“Of course, Mama! Just like Papa.”
This time, Sansa can’t suppress the desperation; an anguished note escapes.
“Oh, my brave boy. Mama loves you so much.” She pulls the gloves off of her hands, and takes Merlyn’s little one in hers, pushing his fur-lined sleeve over his wrist. Willing herself not to shake, she slides the knife along his palm until the blood wells up. True to his word, Merlyn whimpers a little but stays still.
“I need you to take your hand now and place it right here, right by that face carved in the tree.”
He does as he is told, and Sansa helps him hold the flat of his hand against the tree until, when he draws away, spots of blood dot the weirwood face.
She looks at the carved red lines, fists clenched. “Do you see, Bran? Do you feel? Merlyn is a child of the winter. No matter if he is a bird, he is a wolf as well. And no matter what I am now, Stark blood still runs in his veins. He is still a Stark.
“Wherever you are, Bran, please listen. And whatever justice or honor I have forfeit, give to him. Give him your protection. Please...Bran...brother. I do not ask for myself. I ask for him, in the dream that spring might come again.”
They wait, the three of them, staring at the unmoving tree, until Enda breaks the silence.
“My lady - we have to go. The ship leaves in an hour.”
Sansa sighs wearily. “Yes. I know.” She rises to her feet, placing her hand on the weirwood for assistance. In that moment, though the day is ice-cold, she feels a rush of warmth on her ungloved hand. It reminds her of the hot springs at Winterfell, the smell of flowers in the glass gardens, the sun after a summer snow. All her brothers and sisters, captured in happiness: Arya in a snowball fight with Bran, Jon and Robb sparring each other with wooden swords, little Rickon happily grabbing fistfulls of Shaggydog. In Lyanna, she can feel the fierce joy of prey flushed from the heather, the freedom of circling the sky in the cold wind. Then the tree rustles, shaking Lyanna loose but shedding a leaf that flutters to fall at Merlyn’s side, who grabs it happily (as a child would). Sansa knees feel like water and she almost cries (in gratefulness or with relief, she can’t tell). She places her forehead to the carved one. “Thank you, Bran,” she whispers, and turns away.
“You’ve been given a very special gift, Merlyn, a gift from mama’s family. Always keep it close to you. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mama,” as he carefully tucks the five-pointed leaf into the leather pouch at his waist. He keeps it safe.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The salt winds blow coarse on her face, but it makes her feel alive despite the hollow ache in her heart, she is grateful for that. Lyanna flies high overhead, keening a hungry cry, and a wolf howls in echo. Rickon, little brother, is close. She knows that now. And when they find each other, she will take them home.