On Stranger Tides
By: Ophiras

we must learn to free ourselves from the hope that the sea will ever rest
and learn to sail in high waters
-Aristotle Onassis

It was quiet, a rare occurrence lately. The room was steeped in shadows; only the thin threads of moonlight seeping through the slats of her windows gave form and shape for her eyes to play with as her thoughts wandered. It had been a particularly long day, as they so often were after the war—or rather wars and yet still Sansa lay awake, eyes turned towards the ceiling as she made a list of the things that had been done and still needed doing.

Repairs and improvements were well under way and would be for some time yet, even three years after the last of the skirmishes. Tower's still needed mending, roofs needed redoing and walls repairing. When the Others had been marching south, when at last she had finally woken, gathered her courage and left the vale to retake the north—the first sight of her childhood home had left her staggered, it seemed an impossible task but none the less she had committed herself to the task, chipping away at it bit by bit.

Sansa had scavenged what she could of the burnt and blackened stone work, though it grieved her to see them just as it had to view rooms that had once held such life empty and bare. 'but needs must come before sentiment.' Something Sansa had learned in her own time, much to her sorrow and benefit.

Crumbling timbers that had lasted ages and doors that held a plethora of scratches and dents from before her time and during it were removed and replaced, taking their stories with them.

'That brute Ramsey…" Sansa thought, not for the last time as her nails dug into her bed furs.

Thanks to his attentions, half the first keep had been collapsed when she arrived with forces from the Vale and those who had joined her force as she swept through the Riverlands. The great keep had been hobbled together with clumsy, untrained hands and the tower library was a steaming mess of decayed, moldering books. She had wanted to rebuild the home of her youth exactly as she held it in her heart, but there were things that could not be repaired—or replaced.

The Library Tower was razed, and instead a much stouter building was erected, becoming a hot bathing area—turning a disaster into something of use had become a form of art for her in those long days. 'The new library foundation will be finished soon if the weather holds.' The new structure would adjoin the maester's turret along with a bridge, connecting the rookery and bell tower once more.

From dawn until dusk the courtyard rang with the sounds of masons, carpenters and blacksmiths hard at work with their trade while she went through the ledgers and stipends, accounting for each precious coin and grain at her household's disposal, not even one could be wasted. 'And then there is seeing to the small-folk and the lords and ladies alike. Not to mention the wildlings.' It was no small task, seeking harmony between the three, and yet she found enjoyment in it.

None had thought the wildlings could, or would settle easily- and indeed there had been incidents with a select few, but generally they were of an accord. Some chose to keep to themselves out by The Gift, others had chosen to integrate throughout the northern holds. Though they claimed not to kneel, they followed the laws as well as anyone, and the north gained a valuable asset in able and willing hands.

Yet as she laid there, Sansa's worries expanded far from her own holdings; nine kingdoms with a sea of bad blood between them did not easily come together when the majority of them were scrambling for power over the other.

In the first months that the Others and their wraiths breached the wall, every claimant to the Iron Throne, every reagent and their banners quickly came to the same conclusion the Night's Watch and the wildlings had; unite or die.

For a time, they set aside their differences coming to a fragile truce, but truly it was a temporary stay of open aggression against one another. They were no closer to a lasting peace then they were when Joffrey, Robb and the two would be stag Kings had reigned.

'Daenerys may sit where the iron throne was, but it's no secret that Aegon begrudges her for it.' There was a discourse between the two, and Sansa was sure Arianne Martell was doing her best to drive the wedge even further. Little and few of old noble houses held love for the Dragon Queen for she was fanatical, changing whatever she desired without considering the long term consequences.

'But poor Jon.' Her half-brother turned cousin, torn between the family he had and the family he could have had. He tried his best to soothe the tensions between the wolves and dragons but his love of the Stark's brought no pleasure to his aunt who saw it as another slight, bitterness a thorn she could not pull free.

'One wrong move from anyone and like a vat of wildfire the flames will consume us all.' was an apt discription as far as she was concerned; It was so terrible of a weight it kept Sansa up night after night.

Her ears caught scuffling from the heavy oaken door, shattering her train of thought. New it may have been but it was no quieter than the oldest in the keep. There in the gloom, large yellow and piercing green eyes cut a path through the dark, settling down at the bottom of the bed, their large heads resting at her feet.

Once she never would have believed that gangly limbed Arya could move so quietly, the dip of her weight, even and steady as she settled against her left side. Rickon was louder, heavier as he dropped like a stone to her right, arms thrown around her middle.

"You think so loudly, we could hear you through wood and stone." Arya grumbled.

"Someone has to do the thinking." The teasing lilt of her voice was interloped by a long suffered yawn.

"Andsomeone can do their thinking in the morn." Arya huffed, her cold toes skimming Sansa's legs in rebuke.

Rickon, never one for subtlety gave away the feeble ruse, yawning as he spoke. "We were just lonely."

"Says you!" But Arya nestled closer all the same

Though they had lost much, time and circumstances robbing them of their years together, death leaving holes where loved ones once stood. The Starks that did remain were bound tightly, each one leaning on the strength of the other. Moments like this were a balm, soothing her wayward thoughts and driving back the meddlesome worries for another time.

A lull settled over them, Rickon already having dozed off not long after he had dropped into the bed like a stone, the sound of his deep breaths, the rise and full of his back beneath her arm like the purr of a kitten. In time, Sansa too began to drift, the fingers that had stroked over Arya's calloused hand stilled as the longed for oblivion began to wash over her. Time was lost then, holding no meaning.

She dreamt of the Godswood, the fog that rose from the steaming springs curling around her feet and slinking about the trunks of the great trees, the blood red leaves of the heart tree bright in the murk. There, admist the leaves lurked a conspiracy of ravens, nested in the boughs, silent watchful companions of the somber faced tree.

It was murmur in her dreams, found among those red leaves; A voice she seldom heard but often longed for whispered there. "Bran." Sansa smiled; for even if they could only meet in dreams she was glad, but her joy was short lived, for his voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of the sea that rose from around them.

Such was the clamor that she strained to hear him.

"...They came from beyond the Land of Always Winter. Sansa, you must go to them." Though his mastery grew with every year it was a great strain for him to interact with her so directly, but Sansa's dreams were the most open of them all now where once she had been as remote as the Eyrie itself.

He felt the fear that rippled through the fabric of her dreams that he wove with great effort.

"Are they a danger?" her voice faltered, the possibilities his words brought with him a lance of terror to her heart. As far as they knew the Others had been extinguished when the three dragons flew with riders once more…but if they still lingered, lurking in the snow where men still feared to tread, plans would have to be made for she would not wait for them to mount another attack, they could not afford to wait.

The water that had ever filled the pools of the godswood began to rise, filling the woods until it seemed like the sea, cold and tugging at the cloth of her night dress as the crows that perched in the bows of the tree mimicked the cries of seagulls.

"…I do not know for I cannot see where they came from." But he had seen them coming from a scraggly tree clinging to life on a Cliffside by the sea, deep in the depths of the land that winter always reigned. Far off and nearly blocked out by the falling snow he had seen them through a haze, a ship tossed about in the bleak, cold sea. it was like nothing he had ever seen before and so he had followed it on a whim from tree to tree, and raven to hawk and everything in between until at last they came to shore.

They were no ordinary Sailors, for not only had they come on a strange ship, even the words they spoke were different. As far off as he was, he had not been able to hear them well, but through they spoke in familiar tones, the words seemed jumbled together, and so now he reached into Sansa's dreams as he had done before and would many times more, for there was no fog in her head, not anymore. "They're something…different; seek for them on Bear Island."

He could not hold the tenuous threads anymore, control slipping through his grasp the more she worried.

The questions she had would go unanswered by him, the conspiracy took wing, blotting out her vision in waves of black.

She woke, limbs tangled and heart pounding, arms striking out much to the displeasure of her bed-fellows.

"Seven hells!" Arya shrieked having caught a wayward hand to the face.

Rickon who had escaped unscathed snickered. "Not so quick after all!" his mirth garnered a scowl that promised swift retribution-a thought that soon quieted his laughter, his eyes drifting away to study the eldest of them. "You don't look well." His hands already as worn by work as any man's even at the young age of ten turned Sansa's face this way and that.

"That's really not something you should say to a lady first thing in the morning. You ought to remember that in the future." While diffusion and distraction were easy tools in her arsenal against most, she lacked the conviction needed to apply them to those closest to her.

"What did you dream of?" The unconventional girl, who preferred to cut them down rather than to dance around pretenses—even those designed for her own comfort questioned. She saw the way Sansa's eyes lingered at the windows, far away and full of too much thought, too much worry. 'When I said she could think in the morning I didn't mean at first light!'

Sansa paused at the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, between Nymeria and Shaggydog who saw fit to press their cold noses to the flesh of her calf and ankle. The words she spoke would hold much weight. "Of Bran, of something new..." She said at last, dropping her other foot to the floor.

"What do you mean by new? A new what? " Arya huffed. 'Do things always have to be so mysterious?'

It was terribly early. 'Much too early for such a weighty conversation…' Sansa thought wishing she could slip back to bed, she hated the thought of waking up one of the maids to help her dress. "I suppose I should have said someone, rather than something…"

"Someone? What you mean to say is Strangers! I hope they're the good sort of strangers, because the last…Visitors Bran gave us a warning about were awful." Rickon scowled. "Very unwelcome guests if I do say so myself." The growling of Shaggydog punctuated just what he thought about the aforementioned guests.

"Are you talking about the Lizards with wings or the Other ones?" Arya pondered, ignoring the reproachful look Sansa gave her. 'It's not my fault that woman is insufferable.' Thinking everything was owed to her by virtue of who she was, even Jon. 'Jon who was ours, was mine before anyone even knew who he was.'

"Both." Rickon grumbled.

"You should both be more…appreciative." Although it was becoming increasingly hard as the years turned. 'If one cannot say something pleasant it is far better to say nothing.' She thought, washing her face and hands at the basin, the cold water driving away the shadows of sleep.

"Oh, I am very appreciative. The Mother of Dragons, helped save us from certain doom—wonderful. Now if only she didn't have a stick up her arse." A very big stick that bore the names; self-important, entitled, short sighted, and covetous as far as Arya was concerned.

"Rickon, perhaps you ought to let these two out for a while?" Sansa gestured to the two massive forms of fur and sinew that were no longer content to lounge upon the floor and listen to the chatter of their charges. Shaggydog was nosing about her open armoire while Nymeria contemplated the delicate bottles and bits that lined her vanity.

"He just thinks you ought to pick the grey one." Yet he hustled out of bed all the same.

"It's sage." Sansa corrected, planting a kiss on his cheek as he swept by. "More green then grey."

No matter what she said it still looked grey to him but he liked the way she'd sewn wispy white cloth to the collar and bodice in the shape of little white flowers. "If you say so." He grinned, lingering for a while longer beneath her touch, nose bumping her cheek.

Sansa recalled that there was a time when he seemed half mad in his wildness, a small thing full of anger and wants he knew not how to put into words.

The difficulties of Sweetrobin had in fact served well to prepare her for those of Rickon's. 'All trials serve their purpose in the end.' She thought, patting his wayward curls before he raced from the room, wolves loping behind him. He was still tempestuous, having moods and fits of anger that could shake even the most stalwart of men, distrustful of nearly everyone, protective of himself and more so of what remained of his family. 'But a good boy…now If only he would take more of an interest in learning how to navigate murky political waters.'

Turning hopeful eyes towards Arya, she opened her mouth. "Help me dress?"

"Fine." It is good, to feel that she can be of use even in the mundane acts of Sansa' days. Rarely the sums would fall to her, or seeing to some matter that had already been reviewed would be given to her to settle, but for the most part Arya was free to spend her days as she pleased.

There were days she wished to do more, when the shadows were dark at Sansa' eyes, her painted, practiced smile too brittle to deceive. 'But I don't have the patience.' Nor did she want the guilt that would surely come when she inevitably mucked up. 'Better to do what I'm good at.' Which was being unnoticed until it was too late.

No, being in the open did not suit her at all.

With minimal hassle she helped Sansa prepare for the day, fingers snugly tying the corset and then the back of the dress shut. Arya held out her hand, fingers wiggling. "I might as well finish the rest. Give the brush here...but don't expect anything fancy." It would end up as a mess of knots if she dared to try.

The silver brush slid through Sansa' hair with an ease she envied, nary a tangle to be found, the color filling her with intense longing as it often did for the mother they lost. Where her own hair ended just below her shoulders, Sansa' traveled in waves of copper and red down her back to the swell of her hips.

Just as soon as she started, she was done, having pulled the top halves into two simple twining braids and left the rest free. Simple and easy, something even Arya could do.

"Thank you. You did well." Sansa said, standing from the settee and motioning for her to sit. "I'll take care of you now."

The words held meaning beyond just hair, but in all things. No matter what happened, no matter who or what came, Sansa would keep them safe by any means necessary. Beneath the pretty clothes and delicate smiles, beneath the well thought out words and pleasantries she was cloaked steel, a she-wolf in lamb's wool.

Her fingers combed through Arya's hair first, tugging gently at the knots and smoothing out the snarls before taking the brush to the smaller ones, fingers lingering here or there as they worked, drawing out the quiet time they shared. Humming as she worked, weaving the hair to be lovely but simple and sturdy, mindful of Arya's nature.

When she was done, she perused the knick-knacks that littered the vanity for a moment, pulling the dropper from a small crystal vial, fragrant with some sweet flower Sansa anointed Arya's wrists and then her own.

In their youth the thought of sharing anything with reckless Arya would have been unthinkable- and brushing her hair a gauntlet of patience for the both of them. She wished, not for the first time that she had been wiser in her youth, that they both had been a little kinder. 'I have wished a great many things and only lived to see one or two come true.' And she was glad to be blessed by even that number.

"I have a letter to write...I will try to join you both at the table." Although there was no telling what concerns would crop up between now and then.

If someone were to ask either Rickon or Arya if they begrudged or envied Sansa in her unofficial role, the answer would be a resounding no. 'Irregular meals, constant complaints and troubles, rushing from here to there, the ploys and plots and scrabbling for power and leverage…when did things become so…messy?' and Arya knew a thing or two about messes.

A pair of suede, fur lined slippers were the last to be added before Sansa swept from the room, her skirts brushing by the maid that was just arriving. Calm and collected to the world around her, a troubled mind toiled over the pending letter and the ripples that would soon spring forth.

When she at last sat at the desk in what had been her father's solar, she waited for some time, the blank, butter yellow parchment staring up at her, eager for words.

Gratitude to the Mormont's was first paid in ink, for they had ever served her family—had served her loyally and vocally despite those who whispered and itched at the thought of a woman attending to matters traditionally reserved for a man. Their support past and present was an invaluable asset.

She asked genuinely- not out of courtesy of the wellbeing of the household and province, before at last coming to a simple question about receiving any recent visitors before signing her name in the coiling way she had spent long hours perfecting as a girl.

Sealed and addresses, Sansa watched the well natured maester Jon had sent them attach it to a raven who with the ruffle of his wings, and the gleaming of his eyes disappeared from her sight in the early hours of the morning, cleaving through the great stretch of land that separated her from answers to her pressing concerns.

Whether it was hours or days, she would feel no relief until a response was in her hands and plans and contingencies could be planned.

'Waiting is the worst business.' Sansa thought in misery, listening to Sam extoll about the newest antics of his wife and children.

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