Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! I decided that because this story hasn't been updated consistently in so long, that a Sansa chapter and then a Jon chapter, which addresses at least some of the events which happened in Season 6, are called for. The plot points in this chapter were always going to happen but I've just moved up the timeline a bit. Enjoy!

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Sansa

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"It's the arrival of the birds," Sansa said quietly. She could feel Jon's piercing gaze upon her as she turned to go back inside. In her mind's eye she could still see the valiant blue banners of House Arryn snapping in the wind, and the man all in black who road at their head.

Sansa stood in the Great Hall at Last Hearth and courteously greeted the delegation from the Vale. Her brother, Jon, stood beside her.

'Half-brother,' she reminded herself. At night she dreamed of his lips upon hers, the darkness and desire in his eyes, and of her hands in his soft, dark curls. In the morning, she would wake wet and aching and ashamed, and she would tell herself stories of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight. But one look at Jon's handsome yet stoic face and she would be reminded of their father, and of Cersei and Jaime Lannister as well.

Jon looked particularly like Ned Stark today, with his dark hair pulled back from his face like their lord father had worn it, and wearing the new fur cloak she had made him in the image of the one their father had worn as Lord of Winterfell.

Or as near as she could remember, anyway.

The day of the Vale delegation's arrival was fine, crisp and cold and sunny, with new fallen snow covering the buildings and grounds of Last Hearth. The Great Hall did not have a fire lit in its large fireplace during the day, in order to save wood, and Sansa's breath misted on the air as Lord Petyr Baelish bent over her hand and kissed the back of her fingers slightly longer than was proper.

Jon had noticed too if the slight tightening of his lips was any indication.

"Lady Stark," Littlefinger said, straightening up and bestowing her with a smile which almost, but did not quite, reach his grey green eyes.

"She is the queen in the North," growled belligerent Mors Umber from off to the right, "her brother's heir." Sansa knew this was less support for her new claim than it was Mors Umbers' mistrust of southerners. He looked for any excuse for insult from the group of shiny knights and lords which currently befouled his Halls.

"My queen," Littlefinger corrected himself, and that somehow sounded even worse.

He had not even once glanced at her brother.

Sansa took a half step back, turning to Jon slightly as she did so. "Lord Baelish, may I present my brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow."

Jon nodded at the Lord Protector of the Vale and the ruler of Harrenhal. "Lord Baelish." Jon's tone was perfectly polite but there was an air of coolness behind it and his eyes were sharp. "My sister tells me that you helped her to escape from King's Landing and the Lannisters. For that, you have my thanks and the gratitude of House Stark." Jon pointedly did not mention that Littlefinger gave Sansa to the Boltons, instead of delivering her safely to Castle Black and her last, known, remaining kin.

Petyr's smile flickered and died. "Forgive me, Lord Snow, but it was my understanding that Lady Sansa is the last of the House, and that you had taken oaths to the Night's Watch."

Sansa stayed silent but she noted the flash of anger on Lord Robett Glover's face and Wylla Manderly opening her mouth before her sister, Wynifred, grabbed her hand.

"My oath to the Night's Watch has been fulfilled," Jon said coldly and calmly, and then he turned decidedly away from Littlefinger. "Lord Royce, I remember you from your last visit with my father at Winterfell." Jon's smile was sudden and full of fond memories. "You trounced both my father and Ser Rodrick thoroughly in the yards. Father claimed he was sore for weeks afterwards."

Bronze Yohn Royce, old now but fierce and large and still vigorous, moved forwards and engulfed Jon's hand in one of his own large ones. He laughed loudly, "Ay, I did at that, Lord Snow, but peace had made your father slower than he should have been. Still, be put up a hard fight and I expected no less." His smile died. "I mourned his death and I am sorry for your loss." He nodded at Sansa. "And for yours as well, my lady."

He nodded at the half dozen knights behind him as well as the two dozen men at arms. "That's why we have come. I trained your father as a boy, and Robert Baratheon as well. Lord Arryn loved them as his own sons. When we heard that Lady Sansa had fled Winterfell and gone north to you…well, the Vale has sat idly by for far too long, while good men have bled and died for the realm."

"Pardon me, Lord Royce," Littlefinger interrupted smoothly, "but we have had a long journey. Surely such important matters as we have to discuss are best left for a gathered council." He turned back to Sansa. "Or however the Queen decides to hear them." He bowed politely again.

Sansa had no choice but to find rooms for them at Last Hearth. But when Littlefinger requested a private audience with her, she smiled gently and told him that her brother and her would hear all the Vale lords and their requests later that day, when the various northern lords at Last Hearth had been gathered as well.

Lord Baelish blinked in surprise and then gave a gently amused laugh. "Oh, my news is only a report on your cousin, Lord Robert, my queen, nothing to concern the other lords or your," he paused delicately, "half-brother."

So Sansa smiled and led him towards the previous Lady Umber's private solar, which had been given over to her use. "I have missed you, my lord," she told him, once they were alone and this seemed to please him.

He settled himself before the hearth, his black robes neat and elegant. "Not so long ago you were my daughter, a beautiful chaste maiden, and now you are Lard Stark, the queen in the North."

Sansa turned away to give herself time to think; there were several things he could want from her. She sat behind her desk with the small window at her back. "Only several of the lords cried my name," she cautioned him. "I am not my brother, Robb, who was my father's firstborn son and heir. Nor have I proved myself to them." She paused and then asked, "How well do you know the North, my lord?"

Littlefinger smiled mockingly. "Well enough to know that men are the same, no matter where you find them. You need not fear for your claim, my lady. Who should the North rally behind, my love? The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born at Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the south?"

He moved around the table then and pressed his lips to her forehead for long moments. She could feel his lips against her skin as he said, "I only want to see you in your rightful home once more, my lady."

And what will you want when I am, she wondered as he left her.

'A pretty little bird in a cage,' the Hound had called her, a lifetime ago. Sansa had not felt like that since she had escaped from Winterfell with Theon Greyjoy, but she remembered what that felt like now; to see so clearly and to yet never able to break free.

When Ghost wandered in, Sansa ran her hands through his soft fur and went out for a walk. The days were short and the sun was already low behind the mountains, turning the godswood into silent shadows. The snow crunched under her feet and a sudden gust of wind tore her cloak right off. Sansa laughed as Ghost tore off after it. When he came back with it carried gently in his wicked teeth, Sansa laughed again and showered his muzzle with kisses.

He bore this placidly then shook himself and wandered off.

Sansa sat beneath the heart tree, her back almost but not quite touching the bone-white weirwood trunk. She wondered what Littlefinger would do if he knew her brother Bran was alive somewhere beyond the Wall.

Are you watching me little brother? She wanted to ask. But she did not say the words aloud. She and Jon had agreed that the fewer people who knew that Arya and Bran and Rickon were still alive, the better. Ser Davos Seaworth and the Manderlys knew about Rickon and Davos was searching for their littlest brother even now. And Brienne and Podrick Payne knew of Arya. But they had told no one else. A girl could be excused and pushed aside and married off, but a boy was dangerous; a trueborn brother was a threat to Littlefinger's plans for her to rule the North.

Sansa watched the red leaves of the heart tree fall soft as winter snow to the ground around her, turning the pure white snow to a blood red.

She remembered a very old story from the Age of Legends, which Old Nan had once told her and Arya.

At last, she gathered up several of the leaves, called for Ghost, and went back inside just as night fell.

On the morning, Sansa went down to the Great Hall and joined Jon at the high table for breakfast. The day was cold and grey, the hall damp, but the fire in the huge hearth burned merrily and the hall was awash with quiet conversation.

Today, Jon had invited Lord Robett Glover to sit beside them. Sansa knew that Lord Glover was one of the lords most undecided about their cause. He had not acclaimed her queen in the North, and it was Stannis Baratheon who was freeing Deepwood Motte, not House Stark. Northern lords had no love for southron kings, even ones who no longer claimed kingship.

Lord Glover nodded at her respectfully as she settled beside her brother and she smiled warmly at him and wished him a good morning. Jon went still as she sat in the chair next to him, her side brushing his and her skirts skimming his legs. "Good morning, brother," she murmured, and watched as his hand clenched around his tankard of mead. To most, she knew, his face was long, solemn and guarded, a true Stark face, difficult to read, but to her he was transparently obvious. She wondered if she knew him because he was Jon and she was Sansa, or if Littlefinger also saw what she did when she looked at Jon Snow.

"Good morning, little sister," he returned quietly, his keen eyes raking her face for a moment of to ascertain that she was well, before he returned his attention back to Lord Glover's recounting of some dispute between his men and Lady Cerwyn's. Jon listened gravely and offered several suggestions and then the talk turned to pleasanter things, and Lord Glover spoke of his newborn baby daughter and the rebuilding of Deepwood Motte and Stannis Baratheon's recent liberation of Torrhen Square.

Jon did not speak often but he was attentive and insightful, Ghost lay sprawled behind them, and the warm porridge was sprinkled with maple syrup and brown sugar. Sansa's heart felt light and full.

Around midday, horns sounded loud and clear off the mountains and the delegation from Bear Island arrived. They were led by a small, plain-faced girl with a fierce expression under the banner of her house, a black bear in a green wood, and she was accompanied by five dozen men at arms.

"Lady Lyanna Mormont," Jon murmured from beside her as they stood in the snapping wind before Last Hearth's doors to receive her. "Her eldest remaining sister marched south to aid Stannis against the Ironborn."

Sansa knew that the eldest of Lady Maege's daughters, Dacey, had fought beside Robb and been murdered with him at the Twins. Two other daughters, younger than the second, Alysanne, but older than Lyanna, had vanished with their mother somewhere in the Riverlands.

Lady Lyanna, acting head of her House, dropped from her horse and walked halfway up the stairs towards Jon and Sansa before stopping. Her master at arms and her master stood on either side of her, half a step behind. The look she fixed on Jon and Sansa was expectant and stern, but not necessarily unfriendly.

Jon stirred and took a half step forward. "Lady Mormont," he said respectfully, "thank you for coming." There was a pause and Sansa knew Jon had noticed what she did. Lady Lyanna had not offered her men or her loyalty. She was still undecided on that point. "May we offer you a room at Last Hearth, my lady?" Jon asked.

Lyanna Mormont took another step up the wide, stone stairs, and looked from Jon to Sansa and back again. "It is my understanding that House Stark has called its banners and plans to retake Winterfell from the Boltons." Although young and small, her strident voice cut clear through the northern wind. Several lords had joined together at the bottom of the stairs to welcome Lady Mormont and to watch the proceedings, but more were now appearing, as were various men at arms and smallfolk.

Sansa saw Jon glance around the rapidly growing crowd. "You are correct, my lady," he answered Lady Lyanna.

"It is my understanding, however, that you are a Snow and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. And Lady Sansa is a Lannister. Or a Bolton. The reports I have received were unclear on this matter."

Lady Wylla Manderly shifted in annoyance from off to Sansa's right. "She is a Stark, and the queen!" she shouted down at Lady Mormont, who looked unimpressed.

"I am a Stark," Sansa said calmly. "I will always be a Stark. And my brother is Ned Stark's son."

Lady Mormont watched her a moment and then look at Jon and continued. "My mother and three of my sisters died fighting for your brother, Robb. My only remaining sister, Alysanne, honored your request and went to aid Stannis Baratheon against the Ironborn. Hundreds of my people have died since this war began. Tell me, why should I risk one more Mormont life for yet another war, to retake a castle that neither of you are entitled to."

There was a ripple among the assembled men and women as Lyanna Mormont's shout echoed around the yard. Mors Umber growled loudly and shouted "traitors", but Jon's sharp look silenced him. Sansa was watching Littlefinger's face. He was making careful note, she saw, of those who looked uncertain or sullen or unusually interested among the crowd. Bronze Yohn Royce, standing off to one side with several Knights of the Vale and Ser Harrold Hardyng, watched Littlefinger as well, but his looked was most certainly not friendly. She had noticed tension between Lord Royce and Lord Baelish when she had been at the Eyrie and he had once told Sansa that he had loved her father well.

Now he stepped forward, looking belligerent. "These bloody Boltons broke every law of gods and men at the Twins; just as the Freys did! They slew your brothers and sisters, your cousins and your friends when they decided to claim Winterfell and when they stole the North!"

The Manderlys, the Umbers and the Mountain clans cheered, the Glovers and Cerwyns abstained and the Wildlings shouted at everyone around them indiscriminately.

The Lockes, the Tallharts and the Flints stood off to one side with the leaderless Hornwood contingent. There was a dead-eyed stare to almost all of the last group, and they did not look as though they cared to hear Jon's answer or not. Sansa watched Littlefinger make note of them as well.

Lady Mormont waited calmly, her eyes fixed on Jon. At last, at a lull in the noise, Jon stepped forward and down a step, raising a hand commandingly for silence.

"Lord Royce is correct," Jon Snow said, his dark hair blowing the breeze and his cloak, like Ned Stark's own, billowing behind him as well. "The Boltons betrayed us all, murdered our kin, and allied with our enemies to murder my brother, seize his lands, and terrorize his people."

There was a rumble, angry and deep, among the northmen.

"But I promise you," Jon continued, "that the true enemy is not Roose Bolton. The true enemy comes with the winter storms and to face it we must be united. To face it, we need Winterfell."

The rumble that followed now was different, tingled with fear and even disbelief.

"Then the rumors are true," Lyanna Mormont demanded. "The Others had returned."

And all was silent save for the relentless moaning of the winter wind "Yes," Jon admitted. "Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost." Sansa stirred and would have spoken but Lyanna Mormont spoke first.

"You survived," she said. "And people in the North say that you slew a White Walker in single combat." There was pride in her voice, pride in the eyes of the men and women looking on, as though the North considered Jon Snow theirs, and his victories theirs as well.

Lady Mormont continued. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years," the Lady of Bear Island decided. "We will not break faith today."

After dinner that night, Sansa excused herself citing tiredness. She left Littlefinger to his plots and Jon to the lords as she retreated once more to the godswood. The sanctuary to the old gods at Last Hearth was on the lee side of the mountains, protected by the fortress itself, the shallow dip in the earth where it had grown up, and very tall, stone walls. The ever-present northern wind was only a whisper here, rustling gently through the red leaves of the heart tree, the snow was deep and soft, and the stars shown brilliant and clear down upon her.

Sansa, feeling rebellious and unladylike, pretending for a moment that she was Arya, lay back in the soft fall of snow and stared up at the stars. She had learned some of their names from Maester Luwin but she had forgotten most of the stories that went with them.

After some time had passed, she heard the soft pad of Ghost, with Jon following soon after.

He paused for half a heartbeat when he saw her lying still in the snow, but he didn't say anything and after a moment he lay down next to her under the heart tree. His arm and leg brushed hers gently.

Ghost prowled around the base of the weirwood tree for a while before coming to lie on her other side. He was warm and rumbled gently when she patted him. She smiled.

"Do you think that that group of stars looks like a flower?" she asked Jon.

He squinted and then followed her finger with his eyes. After a moment, he said, "I think it looks like a sword," and Sansa giggled.

She remembered what Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, said about men and their swords and laughed harder.

When she turned her head to look at Jon, he was watching her with a strange look on his face; part bemused, part fond, part happy that he had made her laugh, and part…something else.

Sansa's breath caught. Jon was quite pale and beautiful in the moonlight, his hair dark and soft against the snow, and his dark eyes shining. His lips were slightly parted and his breath froze in the winter air. Sansa reached out a hand and traced the scar where the eagle had raked him and watched his eyes fall shut, before he wrenched himself away from her traveling fingers.

She froze, hurt despite herself, but he closed his eyes again, as though in pain, and them opened them and took her hand in his own. Gently, he kissed her fingers. His lips were warm but Sansa shivered all the same. Then he turned away from her to look back up at the stars, face still as stone but his fingers remaining entwined with hers.

"That one looks like a crown," Sansa said at last, her voice hardly shaking at all. "A crown fit for a dragon queen," she continued, warming to the idea and telling him a long tale of betrayals and heartbreaks before the queen was sent to the heavens as a reward for her virtue and bravery.

Then Jon told her some of the stories the Wildlings had for the stars, which he had learned from Ygritte, the wildling girl he had loved. She found herself disheartened to be jealous of a girl who had been dead for several years now. She wondered how many times Jon had kissed this girl, with hair as red as hers. Eventually, Jon told her of Bael the Bard, the Wildling king who lived his own songs, and the blue winter roses he had left after he stole away Lord Stark's only daughter.

"Like Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," she murmured, sleepily, remembering the Tourney at Harrenhal and how Littlefinger told her that Rhaegar laid a crown of blue winter roses in her aunt's lap. She felt Jon leave her side and sleepily protested, but he gathered her up in his arms and at that point Sansa fell asleep.

In the days that followed, Sansa hardly saw Jon for they were both kept extremely busy. As the lords settled in at Last Hearth and the Umbers complained more and more about their upkeep, Sansa kept her ears open for the talk among them.

'King Crow,' they called her brother, and 'Lord Snow' and 'Commander' and 'Ned Stark's boy.' And even, 'the White Wolf' for the great, hulking shape of Ghost, who followed Jon everywhere when he wasn't following her.

'Winterfell's daughter,' they called her and 'the wolf girl.' Mya Stone, one of the Vale contingent who had come with Lady Myranda Royce, jokingly called her 'the winter queen.'

Littlefinger called her brother 'the motherless bastard' out of his hearing and 'Snow' to his face. Sometimes he put a 'Lord' in front of it but Sansa could hear the mockery in it. She, however, was always 'my lady' and 'my queen' and 'lady stark' to him.

Sansa began referring all questions on arms, armaments and battle plans to her brother. "Speak to Lord Snow," she would tell them. She knew little of war and even less on how to lead warriors and she was not foolish enough to pretend that she did, was what she told Littlefinger when he questioned the wisdom of this move.

"I will counsel you," he said. "Together we will take back your home."

"But they do not know you, my lord," Sansa had returned calmly. "They know my brother."

His mouth had thinned at take and his eyes had grown dangerous, but courtesy was a lady's armor and Sansa was nothing if not polite. And she remembered how Bronze Yohn Royce had mistrusted Littlefinger in the Vale, and that he had trained her father in arms when he was boy. Jon looked so much like father sometimes.

Lord Royce was a loud, blustering man but Sansa watched at dinner, when she had place him next to her brother at table. Although Lord Royce dominated all the other lords save for the two Umbers, when Jon spoke quietly Lord Royce stopped to listen. Sansa was sure that Littlefinger saw it too.

"Who should the North rally around?" he demanded of her one day, as she poured of ledgers of provisions for their march towards Winterfell. The fire was crackling and Ghost was warm at her feet, but Littlefinger's presence brought a chill into the room.

"House Stark," Sansa had responded at once.

"You are the future of House Stark, my love," he said then, "You are the trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born at Winterfell." She had not responded to that, and Littlefinger had left the room slightly more pleased than when he had entered it.

The next morning, Ser Harold Hardyng presented a request for her hand in marriage before an assembly of lords. They had gathered to discuss the march south and west to Winterfell. A storm was due to hit soon, but Jon thought there would be a lull in the weather after it had passed.

The Wulls and Norreys were pushing to march regardless of any storm and Lord Manderly wanted to know if he should sail his newly built fleet of ships up the White Fork and attack the Dreadfort by river. Sansa found Ser Harry's proposal a nuisance and ill-timed. Jon, standing over the maps spread on the round table, grew still before he looked up at the Vale knight. He frowned and opened his mouth, eyes cold, but Sansa forestalled him.

"I am honored by your request, my lord, but I can offer my betrothed nothing until Winterfell is once again ours." She let mischief enter her voice. "And perhaps my lord forgets that I am already married? Although my beloved husband, Ramsay, is now dead, my marriage to him was only accepted because by House Bolton considered my first marriage, to Tyrion Lannister, to be void. Surely, though, a devout southron lord, who loves the Seven, as I am sure you do, Ser Harry, would want to get my first marriage officially annulled by the High Septon? Any betrothal would not be valid in the Vale until such a step is taken."

Sansa knew that the current High Septon came from among the movement calling themselves Sparrows. He was devout, some even said fanatic, and all but certain to deny a request for an annulment. Littlefinger would be unable to bribe him, and with the re-armed Faith Militant surrounding him, this High Sparrow could not be threatened either.

And Sansa's words were proper and all a lady would say. "Courtesy is a lady's armor,' her mother had told her, and she was right. Sansa let regret cross her face. "When House Stark rules from Winterfell once more, we will see what can be done, my lord, for a union between the Arryns and the Starks." Her smile was sweet and Ser Harry seemed satisfied. Littlefinger's smile did not slip but there was a dangerous light in his grey-green eyes she did not like.

After a long silence, Jon continued, very deliberately, with recounting their current strength and supplies. "We will wait a fortnight, for any stragglers, and then we head south. We don't have much time before the snows make the march impossible, and the less time we give Roose Bolton to prepare, the better."

Bronze Yohn Royce, standing next to Jon, nodded decidedly. "Very good. We'll head back to White Harbor on the morrow and take ship for the Neck. The Vale host is ready to move out as soon as we arrive. Will this Lord Howland Reed and his bogmen allow us to pass?"

Lady Myranda Royce, Lord Yohn's second cousin, whose father held the Gates of the Moon, chuckled. "We have heard that even Roose Bolton travels with a body double when passing through the neck, for fear of these bogmen."

Jon frowned. "You will bear our message, signed with the seal of House Stark. Lord Reed was my father's closest friend and the crannogmen have always been true and valiant allies."

Lord Royce nodded, satisfied. "As you say, Lord Snow."

Sansa clapped her hands. "We must have a feast tonight, before you depart Lord Royce, and you, Lord Baelish." She turned to the Umbers. "Is there enough time to prepare one, my lords?" Mors and Hothar turned to their womenfolk, who conferred briefly before nodding. "A small one," a gnarled old woman said.

"We will make it so, my queen," Lord Hothar promised.

Lady Myranda and Mya Stone came up to help Sansa dress as the day darkened into night. Sansa liked both women, whom she had known from her time in the Vale. Lady Myranda was cheerful, buxom, and shrewd, with a liking for the men and for a lively hall. Mya Stone, one of the old king's natural daughters, was lithe and strong, with a mop of boyish black curls, and brilliant blue eyes. She was usually in charge of the mules who made the steep ascent and descent in the Mountains of the Moon, but Lady Myranda had obviously requested her presence for the ride north. Sansa could see the strong resemblance to her half-brother, Gendry, who was off with Stannis near Torrhen square.

She smiled as the two women came in and asked Myranda for any news. Lady Myranda always knew what the lords and smallfolk were saying.

Mya was silent and gruff, and went over to inspect Sansa's chosen dress. Sansa could not get the story of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight out of her head, and she had made careful plans for tonight, which included the careful selection of her attire.

"Your dress is very beautiful. And all in white with a silvery grey around the hem and neck," Mya observed with some surprise. White was an impractical color in the north, and almost never worn even in the south.

Lady Myranda broke off a story of Jon elegantly beating Harry Hardyng in a sparring match to come and look as well. Then she appraised Sansa from head to foot. "This will look very striking with your auburn hair," she opined. "A beautiful, regal northern maiden with the coloring of a weirwood tree.:

"My red hair is from my Tully mother," Sansa said. Petyr had once told her that Lady Myranda was much cleverer than she appeared.

Mya Stone grinned. "You'll have all those men eating right out of your hands."

Sansa laughed. "I certainly hope not, or I will not get to eat a single bite myself." The three women took a deep breath of the delicious smells which were wafting up from the kitchens. Sansa turned to the mirror to run a comb through her long, auburn locks. "And tonight there will be dancing," she said, decidedly.

Jon knocked on her door and entered as they were finishing. Lady Myranda curtseyed to him and Mya offered a respectful "my lord" with a faint blush, as they moved around him and departed. Lady Myranda winked suggestively but Sansa was fairly sure Jon failed to notice. She knew that Lady Myranda found her brother handsome.

'Half-brother,' she reminded herself.

Jon looked a bit ill at ease. She smiled at him and spun around, her unbound hair and pale skirls swirling around her. "How do I look?" she asked him.

He looked even more uncomfortable. "You look…very nice," he mumbled, just as Robb would have done. She stopped spinning.

"Can I…can I help you with anything, brother?" she said politely. Her face was calm.

Jon took a step forward and his keen, dark eyes were suddenly intent on her face. "I had something made for you." He held her present, wrapped in canvas, behind his back. "We can have another made after we take back Winterfell, but for now this should do."

And then he unwrapped a crown. Sansa's breath caught. It was plain but delicate, with interwoven strands of bronze and iron, and with blue-tinted metal flowers interspersed evenly around it's edges.

The blue winter roses of Winterfell.

Sansa ran a gentle finger around the elegant strands of metal. "This one is perfect," she breathed. Simple and strong. Like the North. "Thank you…Jon," and she bent her head as he gently placed the crown upon her hair. His gaze racked her over, once, and then he took her arm and they went down to the Great Hall together.

Jon had worn black, as she had requested, with a white direwolf emblazoned upon his tunic, which she had embroidered there. As they entered, the hall grew quiet and Sansa knew the picture they made; her lord brother with his dark hair, pale features and dark ensemble, and she with the crown upon her head, her long red hair and the white and grey dress which swirled around her feet.

'This is a story,' she told herself. 'The will see us like this and remember.' There was a murmur of greeting among the northern lords and wildlings and bows from the Vale ones, and then they all settled n the benches and the feast began.

Sansa had sat Jon to her right and Lord Baelish, as Lord Protector of the Vale, to her left. Jon turned to speak with Lady Waynwood, on his own right, and Sansa made a face as she put her glass of wine down. "What is it, my lady?" Petyr Baelish asked solicitously, his eyes flicking from the glass to her face. "Is the wine not to your liking? We can have a more accommodating vintage brought out for you, I'm sure."

Sansa shook her head but handed him the glass. "I'm not sure, Lord Baelish. It might just be me. My taste of food and drink has not been the same for some time; everything has tasted rather funny to me."

Littlefinger's face flashed with an alarm so brief that Sansa would not have caught it if she had not been watching carefully. He took the cup from her fingers and sipped, frowning. "A decent Arbor red," he pronounced after a moment, looking back at her inscrutably.

"Take a larger sip," Sansa urgerd. "Is it not exceedingly sour?"

Littlefinger paused. "You have a taster here, yes?"

Sansa nodded. He drank. "I find nothing wrong with it," he decided and she saw his eyes flicker down to her stomach and then back up to her face.

Jon had overheard and moved to take the glass. "Let me taste it," he said, but Sansa stood up and gently pulled the cup with her. "Never mind," she sighed. "I want to see that everything is going smoothly in the kitchens anyway. I'll get myself something different while I am there." She could feel both men watching her worriedly as she walked away.

When Sansa returned, the feast was well underway and the food had been laid out. There was roasted goose and venison, mushrooms stuffed with sage and garlic, pork baked with apples and raisins and candied plums. There were carrots bathed in butter and dark, leafy kale with a crunch to it, asparagus in an egg, lemon and pepper sauce, cold broccoli soup, roasted beef with gravy and soft carrots, fire roasted potatoes, and cod and pollack baked with herbs.

It was a feast fit for a queen. The men and women in the hall ate and laughed, argued and boasted. Sansa smiled at their merriment, spoke quietly with Lord Baelish and Jon, and waited.

Seven courses there were, in honor of the Vale lords, but each consisted of only one or two dishes as this was the North and not King's Landing. Winter was coming. The musicians, brought from White Harbor, ate with them, for Sansa had requested music only after the feast.

As the dishes were being cleared away, Sansa rose and moved around the high table to stand before it and slightly above her lords. There was a lull in the conversation as the gathering watched her. Towards the end of the feast, Jon had gone to sit with some of the wildling leaders, and was currently at the back of the hall next to Tormund Giantsbane. She met his eyes and then she motioned for Mya.

The bastard-born girl came forward with Longclaw in her hands, unsheathed and shining in the torchlight, the white wolf's head clear upon the pommel. Sansa took the sword and placed it, point down, before her. The hall was silent and she had every eye.

'This is a story,' she told herself again, 'and a queen in a story must have knights.' She feared her words would not be grand enough, that she would look foolish and young. "Words are wind," she remembered hearing, but she shad the sword as well. Ghost wandered in then, padding on silent feet until he came to her and settled beside her. She wondered if Jon had called to him.

"Tomorrow," she said in a clear, carrying voice, "we begin the quest to reclaim Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark, the Kings of Winter. And make no mistake, my lords and ladies, winter is coming. Once we have the North, the true war begins." She held out a hand for Jon to join her. "And who better to lead us through the darkness than my brother, Jon Sow, a prince of House Stark, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and a Knight of the Wall."

Jon reached her. "Kneel, brother." Jon's surprised eyes flew to hers but he did so, head bowed. Then she saw a small smile flit across his lips as he realized what she was doing. When she had still been a little girl, imperious and in love with songs and tales, she had made Robb and Jon, and even Theon occasionally, play this game with her; She was Queen Naerys and they were her dragonknights, sworn to defend her honor before all the realm. As they grew older, Robb and Theon had refused to play the game, saying it was for girls and babies. But Jon had always played with her. Until the day she had learned what 'bastard' meant and she had not asked him any longer.

Sansa held the sword out over his head. "Although freed of your oaths to the Wall by your death, I name you Lord Commander in the North and in all Westeros, leader of those who face the Winter and what waits beyond the Wall, and a Knight of House Stark!" She dubbed him gently on each shoulder. "Rise, Lord Commander Snow," and as Jon did so, thunderous approval filled the hall.

"Lord Commander!" they shouted, and "White Wolf" and "the Black Knight." And Sansa knew that they loved her brother and she had been right; the North might crown her queen and Robbs's heir, but it was Jon they would follow.

Sansa waved towards the musicians and they took their places and began a rousing rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." Everyone laughed and tables were pushed back as the dancing began. Sansa handed Jon his sword back as he moved up the steps to stand beside her. Mya Stone brought him the sheath and smiled at him. Her eyes were bright and beautiful. Sansa suddenly heated the girl. Jon had always been closer to tomboyish Arya than to her, and his Wildling lover had been an archer and a spearwife. Perhaps Jon liked Mya Stone in her boiled leather with her short, boyish hair and her tough demeanor.

Jon was watching her, not Mya, with faint amusement on his face, his grey eyes lighter than she could remember them being in a while. She forced a smile onto her lips. She could see Lord Baelish and Ser Harry making towards her.

Jon placed his sword on the table and held out a hand to her. He did not bow like a southerner would, or kiss her hand, or recited flowery words. He looked her straight in the eye and said, "I know I have no skill in this, but would you like to dance, Sansa?"

Sansa placed her hand in his.

The musicians, seeing her descended, broke off a bawdy northern ballad and struck up a slower, sweeter song that Sansa knew was from the Reach. "My fair rose," it was called.

Jon grimaced, no doubt expecting imminent embarrassment, but he pulled her close. Sansa remembered the last time she had seen him dance; at Winterfell when the Karstarks had looked to betroth Alys to Robb. Robb had been gallant, she recalled, and Jon had been sullen, hiding in a corner even when little Alys Karstark asked him to dance with her. Sansa giggled at the memory and Jon rolled his eyes at her.

"I'm glad you take joy in my humiliation, my queen, but I fear I will not make a splendid first impression as your Lord Commander should I fall on my face."

"Alys Karstark remembered you fondly and you refused to dance with her," Sansa returned, and subtly guided him through the steps. He relaxed after a bit and even attempted to twirl her, which ended in disaster but made her laugh again.

Many people were watching them, but Sansa liked that, and she liked that they were smiling. When the song ended, the musicians struck up a fast reel from the Riverlands and Jon swung Sansa around until she was pink-cheeked and breathless. When he returned her to her seat, her heart was pounding and she felt as light as a bird.

He vanished soon afterwards, probably hoping to avoid any more dancing, and Sansa refused all other offers as well. After a time, she stood up and excused herself to Lord Baelish, saying that fresh air would do her well. He was looking a bit glassy-eyed and merely nodded.

She wandered outside, Ghost following her, and found herself once more heading towards the godswood. The snow crunched under foot and her breath frosted in the air. Shivering a bit, and mourning her lack of foresight to bring her cloak, she stood beneath the weirwood and waited.

She was rewarded for her patience when Littlefinger followed her.

"It is hard to get you alone, my lady," he told her. He was breathing hard and even sweating, she noticed.

"Are you well, Lord Baelish?" she inquired, but he appeared not to hear her.

"If you are not with your bastard half-brother than you are with his wolf." He gave the direwolf a disgusted look and Ghost bared his teeth in response. Sansa rested a calming hand on the wolf's head.

"Did you come here to say something in particular, Lord Baelish, or just to insult what little family I have left?" Her voice was like ice.

Littlefinger pulled his high collar, held by a silver mockingbird, distractedly away from his throat. He was still breathing heavily. He took a step closer to her, but Ghost made to move forwards and he thought better of it and retreated. "Tell me, Lady Stark," he demanded, and his voice was now as cold as her own, "what game you're playing at."

"Game, Lord Baelish?" Sansa inquired. "That's more your area than mine."

He studied her narrowly. "I offer you your home and you tell me that it belongs to your bastard brother as well. I offer you a suitable marriage and alliance with the Vale and you turn down a chance for Harrold Hardyng to lead your army and instead name your bastard brother as Lord Commander. I tell you of the dangers of keeping that bastard so close to you, and you give him more authority, send him before the lords, and ignore my advice in favor of his own at every turn."

Now he did take a step forward and seized her chin, forcing her face to his. Ghost only did not rip out his throat because Sansa had a death grip around his neck. He kissed her viciously on the lips and she could smell the sweet, decaying scent on his breath.

She pulled away from him. "You are not well, Lord Baelish."

He laughed bitterly as he stumbled back from her. "Oh, I am well my lady, and I see clearly, for the first time." He bestowed a disgusted look upon her now. "You are in love with him." He said it again, as if not quite believing it. "You are in love with your own brother. Your bastard brother."

"Half-brother," Sansa murmured, but did not think he heard.

"You are in love with that…spitting image of Ned Stark." He laughed hollowly now and then began to cough. He continued to cough, great, wracking coughs, until he was bent over double in the snow, which was now speckled red with blood.

"Are you sure you are well, my lord?" Sansa asked again, sweetly.

And he looked up at her, his eyes widening in realization for the first time.

"Yes," she agreed "You are dying. You have been for some time. I thought it appropriate to kill you in a way the old gods would approve of, since you did your best to destroy my family." She played with one of the red, red leaves that had drifted down from the weirwood tree. She wondered if Bran was watching; if he would see his sister become a murderer. She pushed the thought aside and focused again on Littlefinger. "Did you think," she continued, "for one instant, that I would let you harm the last family that I have?" She was unmoved as he tried to get words out and clawed at his throat in panic. "Any day now you would have arranged an 'accident' for my brother, as you did for my Aunt Lysa, and as you planned for my cousin, Robin Arryn. But you cannot have my brother. You cannot have Jon." She stepped over him and walked away.

After a few steps, she turned back. "You played the game, Littlefinger," she told the man who had once been her mother's childhood friend. "And you lost."

And then she left him there, to die in the cold and the snow, underneath the bone white face of the old gods of the North.

&.…&….&….&…&….&

This chapter was incredibly difficult to write and I'm still not satisfied with it. Did you like Littlefinger's end? I'm just waiting for something similar to happen on the show. Sansa will deal with him swiftly, I am sure. Next chapter will be Jon and his attempts to turn this ragtag bunch of fighters into an army as they march south. Lyanna Mormont will feature prominently, as will a scene between her and Tormund.