Chapter Text
The two mighty beasts flew ahead, Sansa felt the coarse wind that their wings left behind as they soared into the air, making their presence known. If the large company from the south wasn’t enough to boast power, the dragons were complete in signifying ultimate strength.
The day had turned out to be cold, as all the other days had been, but Sansa sensed that it was slightly milder than before. She wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, perhaps her body had adjusted too well as she knew that with every day that arrived and passed, more snow would come to thicken the landscape and icicles would appear on the beams surrounding the bailey, there was no escaping it. Sansa’s hands, although covered with her thick, leather gloves, felt the effects of winter more so than other parts of her body as she placed them on the stone ledge, overseeing the arrival of Jon and his men.
A few Stark guards followed Sansa as she took the steps down to stand with the others in the bailey, she wondered if they were able to hear her thumping heartbeat. It was something she couldn’t ignore, the anticipation of the company’s arrival had been a constant thought, and the number of ravens that had been sent since Jon’s leave hadn’t been enough to soothe her worry for him. Of course, there was no need to receive a raven in that moment despite Sansa’s anxiousness, as she could see Jon with her own eyes sat on his steed, with the Queen next to him.
The Queen’s flash of white hair had stood out from the northerner’s that surrounded her, as well as of her own armies, yet seemed to blend in with the snow, the colours almost matched for likeness. The darker skinned men clearly weren’t close of kin to the Queen, she seemed to be the only light-haired head for miles, apart from Sansa’s sworn shield Brienne. But Sansa liked Brienne.
The arriving party in the bailey came into view as Sansa made haste in joining her family, and she wondered if she was thinking too harshly on someone she hadn’t met before, yet she was starkly reminded that out of everything that had happened when Jon had been away, he had ultimately bent the knee to her. Jon was no longer king of the North, and with a title that meant so much to the northerner’s, to people that Jon adored and who adored him back in the same vein, she couldn’t imagine what kind of ruler, what kind of person the Queen was to have so much influence over a man who was so loved by his people. Sansa had anticipated that the Stark bannermen were waiting for that moment, to try and see what Jon had seen, yet it would’ve come with its own problems. Jon was only one man to be convinced to bend the knee, the Queen then had to satisfy everyone else. Sansa was interested to see how her plan would play out, to see how much of a person she was to change her brother in such a momentous way.
Sansa took her place next to her brother Bran, then smiled to herself when she saw that Arya hadn’t managed to make an appearance. Of course, it was like her to be scarce with such an important arrival, and a part of Sansa wished that she had the courage to disappear for a few hours as well. Either to find a perch at the top of Winterfell to look upon, or a place with the common folk to act as if she was just one of them, a person of no importance. She could’ve looked at the convey with awe and have her anonymity.
However, that wasn’t meant to be, so Sansa did her duty and stood still, watching the open gates like a hawk, and the white head of hair that she had spotted from the battlements soon appeared alongside her brother. She watched as they rode together, acting like they were equals, but she felt that wasn’t truly the case. Both of them had dour looks on their faces, probably from the exhaustion of the long journey, but when Jon flicked his eyes over to Sansa, his expression lightened to one of relief. When Jon laid his eyes on his sister, he knew he was home.
Jon dismounted his horse without assistance, and Sansa felt her palms start itching when he paced over to them. Jon headed for Bran first, Sansa looked down at her feet to avert her eyes from the reunion, knowing that it was a moment to be just between the two of them. Sansa didn’t look around to take in all the other people that had arrived in the bailey, she didn’t want to let her eyes pass over the Queen by accident.
‘Look at you.’ Sansa heard Jon say. ‘You’re a man.’
‘Almost.’ Bran quipped back, still in the deadpan lilt of his voice that had become so normal for Sansa to hear. It was then that Sansa lifted her eyes, taking in the expression of realisation on Jon’s face, their brother had changed over their many years apart. Jon’s features weren’t intense, but they were slightly melancholy. Jon looked to Sansa, and it was her turn for an embrace with Jon, one that she welcomed so warmly. After having gone years without seeing all of her siblings, Sansa felt that she treasured them more than ever. However, as Sansa brought Jon in close, she couldn’t help but look to the Queen over his shoulder, standing in her white fur with a regal countenance, clearly making a statement to all around her.
Sansa let her eyes fall from the Queen as Jon stepped back from their embrace.
‘Where’s Arya?’ Jon’s voice was gruff and dry from the arduous journey.
Sansa replied, quick as a heartbeat, ‘Lurking somewhere.’
Her eyes went back to looking passed Jon, and he followed her obvious gaze to see where she was looking to. Jon nodded to the Queen, and she began walking the space between them. Sansa kept her eyes soft but surveying.
‘Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.’ Jon announced, he gestured with his arm to the Queen, and with the next breath said, ‘My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.’
‘Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The north is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.’
The particular smile that the Queen matched with her first spoken words rubbed Sansa the wrong way. She was trying to fight that feeling, they had never met before, but the dimples that appeared when Daenerys smiled weren’t sweet enough to fool Sansa, a quick thought had her wondering if they were part of the reason as to why Jon bent the knee. Sansa looked over Daenerys’ form fleetingly.
‘Winterfell is yours, your Grace.’
Sansa could remember her father uttering those words to a king bygone through time. She daren’t think back on what kind of girl she used to be, solely caring about the royal arrival for one purpose, a particular Prince that Sansa tried to banish from her mind forever. Even as she stood there, Lady of Winterfell, a decree bestowed upon her with both reluctance and honour, she felt smaller than her title. No matter what she had experienced in her years, even standing taller than the Queen herself, Sansa knew her place. The way the Queen tilted her head made it clear to Sansa that it was a quip she hadn’t been expecting, but the moment wasn’t to last.
‘We don’t have time for all this, the Night King has your dragon, he’s one of them now. The Wall has fallen and the Dead march south.’
Sansa saw how the Queen’s face fell, to be reminded of how one of her beloved dragons was being used by the Dead for their own purpose, and that was a great concern for all of them, not just for Daenerys. If anything, that just increased the fear that gripped them all, their days truly seemed to be numbered.
‘I think we should have a meeting.’ Jon said, and Daenerys nodded sharply, looking behind to the men she had previously been standing with. There were two men that Sansa didn’t recognise, they seemed compliant in approaching the Queen with just a glance sent their way, and the third man was compliant as well, but he was someone Sansa did recognise. Her first husband, Tyrion Lannister, looking much older than Sansa remembered, was dressed in black, and had an even darker look on his features.
There wasn’t time for a happy reunion between them both, not that Sansa could’ve thought of a reason for any of them to be more than mildly content at that moment, so she only shared a quick glance of recognition with Tyrion. He, in turn, nodded his head her way, but for everyone standing in the small group, it felt that there was so much more to say.
Lord Royce began ordering the various Lords to disperse from the bailey, a meeting was to be held in the Great Hall, but as she was the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa stood to watch as everyone made their way inside, often nodding her head as greeting to those that passed her. To her right, the gates were filled again with more people and more horses making their way into the bailey. Sansa watched idly for a moment but felt her heart leap to her throat when a man, a man bigger than any other, entered through the gates of Winterfell, through the gates of her home.
The Hound, the King’s loyal dog, but the first thought that had entered Sansa’s mind was just Sandor. In all the time that Sansa had known him in King’s Landing, those terrible years, he seemed much cleaner as he moved through the bailey, looking so much healthier, he rode his horse with a straight back and expressionless features. He had wholly changed when Sansa remembered back to the last night she had seen him.
Sandor had wanted to take her away from the Lion’s den, to take her to the very place they were standing in then, but she had refused him, somehow convinced that she was safer with the Lannister’s than she was with Joffrey’s sworn shield. He had drunkenly reeled off that everyone alive and worth knowing was a killer, it was another one of his harsh lessons, and it had been spoken quickly whilst a battle was a ablaze just outside of her bedroom.
‘No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.’
They were the last words he had ever spoken to her, so many moons ago, yet they seemed so fresh in her mind, like she could hear him speaking them in that moment. But, as Sansa looked over the space between them, Sandor’s lips were shut, it wasn’t his voice she had been hearing. Sansa remembered his lips to that day, the way they had felt against her own. His burned skin was tight, and he had tasted like strong wine, but Sansa couldn’t hate him for it. Sandor had been one of the rarer kind in King’s Landing, someone she looked back on with better memories.
Sansa doubted that Sandor would’ve remembered that time like she did, she supposed for the most of it, he had been inebriated with Dornish wine and mostly blinded by anger. Although she tried to see it, watching Sandor’s expression as his steed came to a halt, not his usual destrier Stranger, there didn’t seem to be any anger set in his features then.
Sandor dismounted his horse, taking the leather reins into his own hands before passing them over to a stable hand, a boy less than half the size of him, and one who knew what it meant approaching the Hound. The boy approached slowly, wary of the man he was to attend, but Sandor didn’t sneer or bark at him, nothing was said as he brought the leather reins into the boy’s smaller grip.
‘Sansa, will you join us?’ Jon’s voice echoed through Sansa’s mind, and only a few moments after did she realise that she hadn’t imagined those words. She turned to see her brother waiting for her to respond, and luckily for her, not taking the initiative to follow her eye line like before.
‘Yes, of course, brother.’ Sansa said. However, she waited a beat after her brother paced forward to join the Queen in walking to the Great Hall, and she dared a look over to Sandor once more.
Sansa was startled once again, as her quick look back had caught her unaware. He was staring at her, people moved around his large body to get where they needed to go, and he was stock still amongst the flow of the crowd. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to go over to him, although Sansa felt her body begin to move that way. His brown eyes lay heavy with something Sansa couldn’t quite understand, like they had both seen ghosts from their pasts, ones they were perhaps convinced in not ever seeing again.
‘My Lady, the Lord’s await your arrival.’ Sansa’s sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, announced behind her, and Sansa realised she had been caught. Despite this, Sansa knew that without question, Brienne would keep what she might’ve seen to herself, as it had only been a look with another person, nothing more than that.
Sansa turned and gave a small smile to her sworn shield, but a quick study of Brienne’s expression and she knew that there was more to be said. Yet, out in the open bailey, with may northern Lord’s awaiting the Lady of Winterfell, the timing wasn’t right, and Sansa didn’t know if Brienne would be the right person with the soft ear to hear all that she felt when she looked upon Sandor Clegane.
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To Sansa’s surprise, Sandor didn’t stand in on the meeting. She was sure that he wasn’t considered of correct rank amongst the people he arrived with, nor did the northern Lords who attended the meeting and had stationed themselves at Winterfell before the company arrived that day. However, in Sansa’s mind, she felt that Sandor deserved to have a say in the proceedings against the White Walker’s, as he had been the one to join her brother beyond the Wall. It was another thought that plagued Sansa’s mind, thinking that Sandor had seen and fought against the Dead, and how that must’ve tormented his mind. It would never have been seen on his countenance; Sandor wasn’t likely to give anything away if it meant he seemed a weaker man, but Sansa couldn’t deny her curiosity.
The meeting was one that left more questions unanswered opposed to achieving answers, especially with the subject of the dragons. Targaryen dragons weren’t a weapon that eased Sansa’s conscious, and with the Queen so flippant about their eating habits, a matter so close to Sansa’s mind, it left her warier than before.
‘Whatever they want.’
As if the Queen could quash all political and moral arguments with an unjustified response. No matter how angry it made Sansa, she couldn’t be the person in the room that lost control, but it took all her might not to. The issue of food supply was something Sansa had been overseeing since she began her role as Lady of Winterfell. With winter approaching, food had become a valuable resource, and she felt that within time, when snow swept across the landscape and forbade anyone in seeing more than ten paces in front of their own eyes, it would become more valuable than any polished gem or golden coin.
Sansa could remember just what effect food, or the lack thereof, had on people. The Bread Riots, the stuffy streets of King’s Landing, the power of the people when faced with starvation, that’s what the common folk were forced to reckon with when left with no other option. Not one to relegating herself to having the worst of everything, Sansa felt she had experienced a terrible side of hunger and crazed minds that day. Those men, stinking, dirty, hungry men, who didn’t want food in a quick flash of warped judgement, but her.
The Lord’s residing in the Great Hall were dispersing, and like Sansa had done when out in the bailey, she watched them part. No one would question a Lady in her own house watching her bannermen leave her company, and that led Sansa to recollect how the Bread Riots ended.
He had been there. Either he had heard her screams, or he had followed the violently lustful men, but he had been there, and he saved her. Like a sack of potatoes, Sandor had thrown Sansa over his shoulder like she weighed nothing to him, but his action in saving her clearly showed the opposite, he did care. She had been his little bird, and she felt forlorn in thinking that she would’ve given anything to hear him utter those words to her, his words for her, again.