Sansa

Sansa looked at Winterfell's Great Hall from the dais where the Stark family was dining. Around her the voices and laughter echoed in the cold stone of the castle, and, mixed in the heavy air, one could smell the northern man, the dark beer and the deer roast served on Robb Stark's nameday, heir of Winterfell.

It was Robb's tenth birthday and his mother, Catelyn, flitted around him pricking his cheeks and filling his plate with food. Beside him, his father Eddard Stark chuckled and rested one of his big hands on the shoulders of his eldest son. Robb was still a small boy with a curly copper-colored hair and a black fuzz peeking over his lips, trying (without results) to get off his mother's grip who shamed him in front of his father's allies: the Manderlys, the Reeds, the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts, the Glovers, the Umbers, the Karstark, all the Stark's vassal lords and sworn swords traveled to Winterfell to celebrate the firstborn wolf, even though they were not particularly interested in him at that time. In the chaos of Winterfell's Great Hall, beer vases were raised, stories of the First Men were told, and old disputes were reborn.

All the Stark brothers were sitting in the head table: Robb, first of his name, at his shorts ten years was trying to imitate his father's noble and imposing presence; Sansa, seven-years-old, beauty lady of Winterfell, made in the image and likeness of her mother, Catelyn Stark; Arya, four-years-old lady, the most northerly of her brothers with her hard features and masculine manners, that septa Mordane had tirelessly tried to correct, and, finally, the little Bran, the youngest of the four brothers who looked expectant around him while eating lemon cupcakes. Even the future Stark, growing in Catelyn's womb was there, at the table of the noble family. Then why Jon Snow wasn't sitting there with them?

Sansa had asked that question before already. So had Robb and Arya. Even Bran had asked. Because Jon was like another brother for them. He trained swords with Robb under the watchful eye of Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms; he helped Arya to ride Robb's pony and watched her run around in circles at the castle courtyard; he carried Bran on his shoulders when the little got tired of walking; and he always greeted with a polite nod when he met Sansa at the castle corridors. Instead, Theon, his father's pupil about the same age as Robb and Jon, didn't care about the little Stark brothers and he looked at Sansa with eyes far away from Snow's courtesy.

Sansa knew she shouldn't ask. Every time they did, their mother's jaw twitched in a grimace and her clear eyes turned black.

«Jon is no brother of yours», she said quietly, ditching any discussion.

Robb and Sansa, the eldest brothers, knew they shouldn't tempt their mother's mood, but Arya was more insolent.

«Jon is my brother, as much as Robb and Bran are! I want to sit with Jon at dinner!», once babbled the small princess, when she was three years old.

Robb and Sansa looked at each other frightened at the time that Catelyn's nostrils widened in indignation and her red hair seemed to burn on embers around his face. They were dinning in the Great Hall while Theon and Jon had dinner in the kitchen with the servants. Eddard Stark frowned at his plate, as he always did when the family Stark argued about his bastard.

«Jon will not eat with us», was what he used to said and dinner ended in a suffocating silence.

Once Sansa asked septa Mordane why his father had a son that didn't hold his surname and a mother who was not hers. The septa shook his head sadly at the innocent question.

«Neither the great lords are free from the call of the flesh, lady Sansa. Let's pray so The Crone can guide your lord father through the way of wisdom, and let's pray so The Mother gives lady Catelyn the compassion to forgive her husband», she had said that time and they spent the rest of the afternoon praying in the septum.

Little by little Sansa realized the meaning behind the illegitimacy of Jon Snow and the betrayal that her father had made. She spent whole afternoons praying in the septum, begging The Father to forgive his father's weakness and asking The Mother to bless the marriage with many children, and one after another, the little Starks came: Arya, Bran, Rickon. However, despite Catelyn's high fertility, Jon Snow's presence was still a gray cloud that hung over the towers of Winterfell.

Sansa's mind suddenly came back to the Great Hall. She had been wandering in her memories and hadn't noticed that his father stood up in front of their guests. The silence spread through the room like a blizzard.

«My sworn swords, my lord vassals; I have invited you to our home to celebrate Robb Stark's tenth nameday, heir of Winterfell and future Warden of the North. May the old gods protect the blood of the First Men running through his veins. May he live many years so he can rule with justice and wisdom the lands of The North».

The northerners roared and raised their fists in approval while Robb smiled widely with rosy cheeks.

His mother had also stood up to dedicate a few words to his son and a low murmur rose around the room. Even after ten years wearing the Stark's robe, "Lady Tully" was still resisted by the northerners. The Starks married women from their lands, it was said, wolves of winter like the Umbers, the Karstark, the Mormonts; they didn't rummage under the southern ladies' skirts who had not seen a winter like theirs. So still nobody knew what Rickard Stark meant promising Lyanna and Brandon's hand with such southern families. That stubborn decision probably made things ending like they ended: with Lyanna and Brandon dead, and the Targaryens wiped from this world.

«My precious son Robb, your father and I wanted to give you a present worthy of a man, on your tenth nameday», she said. «Mikken, you may enter»

Mikken, Winterfell's blacksmith, entered the Great Hall taking the reins of a beautiful horse. It was grey, like the Stark's direwolf. Mikken stroked her nose and the horse responded meekly.

«We've trained her for you», he said. «We named her "Frost"».

The northerners roared again in approval as Sansa and her mother applauded politely. Sansa would never forget the beaming smile of Robb when he stroked his horse for the first time, while, at the back of Winterfell's hall, Jon glared at the noble family and clenched his teeth.

When dinner was over, septa Mordane accompanied the maids to their rooms. Sansa was tired and she diligently accompanied the old woman, but Arya insisted on staying because she wanted to hear the stories and songs of the northern men. They could only convince her when Lord Eddard interjected saying that that was no longer a place for a lady as Arya. Sansa saw the dirty hair of her sister and her clothes stained with food, and chuckled when their father called her sister a "lady".

«Such a beautiful evening for our young Robb! May The Seven keep him in their Glory», said the septa. Sansa walked deep in thought while Arya went ahead, playing to not step on the cracks in the floor.

«Do you think that now that Robb has a new horse, they'd give me his pony to me?», asked the smallest, excited. Sansa had expected no less from her sister.

«Of course that Lord Eddard is not giving Robb's pony to you. You're still too young to have your own Pony. Surely they will give it to Bran», said the septa.

«But I'm older than Bran!»

«But Bran is a man and he will be a future knight of the House Stark», pointed the septa, satisfied with her own argument. Arya stopped jumping and frowned, as she always did every time she was told she couldn't do something knightly like her brothers.

«I will be a knight of the House Stark as well and my father will be proud of me», she exclaimed. A little headache had begun to emerge from Sansa's temple. She was not really in the mood for another of her sister's tantrums.

«Our father is content with you being a maiden. Can you behave like the girl our father thinks you are for once in your life? », Sansa blurted. Arya was about to pounce on her sister when the septa intervened.

«Enough! This discussion is not worthy of two Stark ladies!» Arya glared at her sister and if it not were for the septa, she would have thrust at Sansa, pulling her hair. «Sansa, here's your room, go and sleep soon», she ordered. «I'll take Arya to her room». They left Sansa in front of the heavy wooden door that led to her room while the two women walked away, arguing hotly. Soon their voices faded and the stone corridor plunged in silence.

Sansa hit the wall with a fist. Arya was so gross, so rude, so disastrous, yet she remained Lord Eddard's favorite daughter. No matter how Sansa strove to be the lady they expected from a noble lord's daughter, none of her lady abilities (sewing, singing, dancing) mattered to her father, who looked lovingly at her little daughter riding Robb's pony with her four years old. She had heard from Old Nan that Arya resembled Lyanna Stark, her father's dead sister. But Sansa had also heard that Lyanna was beautiful, like her. So, why his father bore Arya's terrible mood? Why didn't he recognize in Sansa the ideal daughter she was?

Sansa heard a crack in the hallway and her hearth thudded. She had forgotten that the castle was full of northerners men who wouldn't mind she was the eldest daughter of the castilian lord, if they found her wandering around the castle. Nervously, she tried to open the door, but it didn't budge as it always did. She struggled with the door and then tried to push it with her shoulders. Desperately, she started ramming the door, which suddenly gave way and Sansa fell headlong inside her room.

Someone knelt beside her.

«My Lady, are you all right?».

From the ground, Sansa looked up, expecting the worst, but she only met Jon Snow offering her a hand.

Sansa had never looked Jon so closely and she was surprised to see how much he resembled his father: the abundant black hair, the black fuzz on the lips, the square jaw. She was even more surprised to notice that he had been crying. Jon had bulging eyes and dry water drew a furrow on his cheeks. The bastard realized that his sister was watching him and pulled his face. Sansa rose without his help.

«Thanks, but I'm fine», she said. «Snow».

Sansa woke from her sleep feeling a sticky wetness between her legs. She had the moon blood. The agonizing wait had finally finished. Sansa was relieved she was not pregnant of Ramsay Bolton.

She rose hurriedly from her bed and pulled out the sheets stained with blood. She went to the boudoir where every night she left a bucket with water and wiped the dried blood on her legs with a damp cloth. She looked herself in the mirror of her parents' room, which now occupied Sansa, and couldn't help but remember her dream.

No, that was not a dream. She had seen a memory. A memory of many years ago when the ghosts that today she carried in her back were still alive: her father, her mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Sir Rodrik Casell, Mekken, the Old Nan, all of them... She felt so stupid for fighting with her sister and doubting of his father's love. She felt so guilty for not having treated Jon like a brother, especially now that they were the only Starks remaining.

She looked herself in the mirror and a stranger looked back at her. Her breasts had grown and her hips had widened. She was no longer the girl who one day went to King's Landing, and every day she looked more like her mother. And so Petyr Baelish had told her.

She looked where she had thrown the dirty sheets. She hadn't had the blood of the moon since two months ago and she had been expecting the worst, with the fear like a rope in her throat, as she always felt while she was named Sansa Bolton. She still had scars and bruises all over her body, the print of Ramsay's perversions.

She hadn't told to Brienne or to Jon anything about Ramsay's cruelty, even though she knew they could guess. On the contrary, Lord Baelish always knew, of course he always knew, though he tried to turn a blind eye when Sansa confronted him. Sansa told Little Finger to stay away from her and never look for her again, but she was precisely the one who desperately went at his search (running on her horse, expecting that the gallop would make her abort) at the prospect of losing Winterfell. Again.

She continued wiping the dried blood and wrapped her pelvis with the cloths that she reserved for that time of the month. She dressed herself in a simple robe and covered her shoulders with the heavy bearskin Lyanna Mormont had given her. The wind shook the windows of the room. Winter was growing wild.

She went down to the Great Hall, hoping that there was something else than salt horsemeat for breakfast. It was a month since The Battle of The Bastards and during that time they had been dedicated to rebuild the ruined castle and obtaining all the supplies that was possible, in order to cope with the long winter that was approaching. They had salted the flesh of the dead horses in battle and sacrificed Ramsay's dogs to increase the size of the pantry. They had also fermented everything they found and the few sacks of grain left were kept under lock and key. If that Winter was going to be as longs as the masters predicted, none of their squalid efforts would be enough, thought Sansa.

Despite the dark foreboding that Winter exuded, Sansa felt happy, as happy as a maid who hadn't had a home in four years could be, a maid who had been dragged to two forced marriage with the enemies of her house, so happy as she felt the last time his father hugged her. Winterfell wasn't the castle that she recalled: it had been sacked, violated, burned and destroyed, and the ones who now lived in there were not the familiar faces from her childhood. Yet, it was home. The home she had longed for all those years, with the grey direwolf banner waving at the highest tower, as it always should had been.

Sansa thought of Jon Snow's white direwolf, Ghost, and of his stepbrother, who was now his only family. She also remembered the day the wildlings and the northern lords proclaimed Jon as the King in the North, as they had done before with their older brother, Robb Stark. And so she remembered the sour look that Lord Baelish gave her from the bottom of the Great Hall, as if he was remembering her who was the true heir of Winterfell's throne. She tried to wriggle out of those thoughts, but a new rope tightened Sansa's throat.

Those days the Great Hall was normally empty, except for Jon or Sansa. The scarce servitude of Winterfell used to be at the kitchen, in the royal courtyard or at the armories. So she was surprised to see a large entourage of the Valley of Arryn deployed around the room and Jon Snow sitting in front of Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, and Robin's Arryn adviser.

The two men stood up when Sansa entered the room. Royce made a sweeping bow.

«My lady», he waved. Sansa was still surprised of his visit. Travel and visits had been reduced with the arrival of winter, even in the delicate political situation that Westeros was living.

«My lord. We didn't expect to receive you», she said politely. She noticed that black bread and wine was served at the table. «I beg you to forgive our frugal welcome, but Winter is here and the North is not a fertile land at this time. However, you can be sure that Winterfell will always share their bread and salt with our friends. Why have our lord visited us? ».

Yohn Royce glanced at Jon, but he did not look up at his sister.

«In time's honor, my lady, I will be brief. I have come to seek your hand, which was promised to my lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, when his mother, Lysa Arryn -may the gods keep her in their glory- was alive».

His words were like a blizzard that hit Sansa. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She sought Jon's eyes calling for help, but he was still looking down.

«My lord is fourteen already: an excellent age to marry and have children. I have come to negotiate the wedding day, now that my lady Sansa has widowed Ramsay Bolton, she has no problem to get married, right?»

The lump in her throat would not let her speak. It was like the rope that Ramsay had placed around her neck when they got married. No. Not again. Jon still didn't look at her sister and Royce sensed Sansa's hesitation.

«Well, I think I'll let the brothers discuss alone in private. We will be waiting in the guests' room».

The old man left the Great Hall with his entourage of banners claiming the Arryns and the Royces. The deaf footsteps of the soldiers echoed in the stone walls of Winterfell. When the last guest was left and the heavy door was closed, Jon sputtered hastily:

«It's the best we can do, Sansa. We cannot reject the offer from the Lords of the Valley who came to our aid in the battle for Winterfell. We shouldn't forget they are probably the only army standing in the north. We need them. Winter is coming... »

«Jon! How can you do this to me!», Sansa cried, and her voice echoed in the great Hall. Jon frowned, avoiding her eyes. «I'm not some currency for your political interests! I will not marry Robin Arryn!», she shivered at the thought of sharing a bed with his cousin, who until recently drank milk from his mother's breasts.

«Sansa, this marriage had been arranged already... I'm just ratifying it».

«You cannot ratify anything, Jon. I've been dragged to two forced marriages already. I've been Sansa Lannister, I've been Sansa Bolton. I WILL NOT BE SANSA ARRYN! The only name that I will hold henceforth will be Stark, the only robe I will wear in my back would be the grey direwolf». Wind was insistently pounding the doors of the hall and snow seeped through the cracks.

«Sansa, you do not understand our position».

«You are the one who does not understand his position, SNOW!» Jon's eyes suddenly looked at her. Black as the night. Cold as the winter. Penetrating as the dragonglass. And Sansa remembered the sour look that Lord Baelish had given her during the proclamation of Jon. «Don't forget who the true heir of Winterfell's throne is. I do not forget that».

She fled through the doors leading to the kitchen, running aimlessly, hoping not to meet Royce or anyone in his entourage. Tears flooded her eyes and the lump in his throat wouldn't let her breath. She shouldn't have said that to Jon. She shouldn't have. But she couldn't help thinking that Lord Baelish was right. She was a Stark, the true heir of The North, a northern wolf, though for a long time she refused to believe it and wanted to be a southern lady... and she had already learned what the future holds for the southern ladies. She couldn't bear the idea of marrying for a third time, to leave home again, now, that she had just returned to Winterfell.

She didn't know how she appeared at the Godswood. Tears blurred her sight, but she could still see the evergreen leaves of the weirwoods bobbing in the wind. It wasn't cold at the Godswood. Even during the winter, the forest's hot spring was still there, its vapor rising in the small clearing, warming Sansa's cold heart.

Sansa fell at the face drawn in the old weirdwood and began to pray.

«Olds Gods, I know that I've always been devoted to the Faith of the Seven, but today I need your help because The Seven do not know about the northern affairs. If you have ever heard my father's prays, please, listen to me too. Do not give me away, please; I do not want to leave Winterfell... »

When she looked up, she saw the eyes of the weirdwood staring back at her. Eyes like hers. Blue eyes. Eyes like the Tullys had.