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Assistant: Title: Weirwood Daughter
        Author: ctrl_issue ctrl_issue 
        Chapter: 15/21 
        Summary: When the Long Night comes, Sansa doesn't survive the crypts. Instead of dying, she gets thrown back in time to just after her pet direwolf, Lady, was killed. She now has the option to fix things, armed with the foreknowledge of everything that had happened to her and her family and the realm since she was a maiden. Every House and every Lord is going to become their own Cyvasse piece upon her board as she readies Westeros for the coming Long Night. Let them play the Game of Thrones, she's playing a different game - and she means to win.-=0=-This is going to be a Jonsa story, but a lot of the other pairings are going to be up in the air for a bit.
        Contents: Chapter 15
    

    


      
        
          Confession Time: I envision Sarella as a young Tessa Thompson. Don’t at me. I have a huge girl-crush on her. I thought about Lupita Nyong’o, but I always circled back to Tessa or Zoe Saldana.
      
  

  
  
    
    
  -= Riverrun =-
 
  Sansa was ten and three for a second time the first time she met her Uncle Edmure. She left the capital beside her father, with Prince Oberyn, Lady Obara, Lady Tyene, and Lady Sarella. Departing King’s Landing had brought her immeasurable relief - as now she was out of the pit of vipers and liars. However, the further North they travelled, the more an unease settled in her stomach. It took her days to realize that she was afraid. She was afraid of Winterfell. She was afraid of seeing her mother and Robb and Rickon and all the others. Her dreams became overrun with ghosts from her previous life, all men and women she knew were still very much alive. 
 
  If, in fact, she was alive. If this was life. If this was not some fantastical dream as she lay dying in the crypts or some benevolent afterlife. Unsure of which reality she preferred, Sansa breathed deeply and settled into thinking of this as her true life. The one she was going to succeed in. The one they were all going to win in. 
 
  It would be a stark contrast to how it was, wherein the keep was a ruin full of ghosts and she was finally able to live - now it would be Winterfell full of life and 
  
    her 
  
  full of ghosts and memories of ruin. This would itself be a test, as she had spent years mourning her mother, yet now she would see her once again. 
 
  It was different, coming back into her younger body, beside the Emissary of the Old Gods. Seeing her father just as he had been all those years ago. This would be her, standing as herself, in her own body seeing her mother as if resurrected from the past. It was one thing to hear that everyone was still alive - it would be an entirely different thing to see them again, untouched by war and suffering.
 
  When she had broken free of all of her pursuers in her previous life, when she had decided to take charge and be the Lady of Winterfell, it was the first time she allowed herself to truly grieve openly. She was allowed to be more than angry at the world she found herself in, but to truly drape herself in the vestiges of mourning. For Rickon. For Robb. For Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. For her Mother and Father and everyone else they had lost. She had even grieved for Bran and Arya, until their return. Now, everyone was alive once again and she wore the colors of her House as well as the House she would be starting with Jon: white, gray, black, and red. 
 
  She had written Jon three letters already, each one with a drawing of a white direwolf with black dragonwings drawn upon the parchment. In the first, she she wrote, ‘
  
    We should take Queensgate and rename it Dragonsnest: for a former Queen who thought to assist the Night’s Watch; for the most powerful piece in Cyvasse and how we could be the instrumental in the defense of our people; and for the many children I plan to give you. The first son we will name Torrhen, but our second should be named Aemon like the Dragonknight. I remember how that was the role you used to claim in your swordplay against Robb when you were children.
  
  ’ Jon had yet to write back before she wrote her second letter, asking if he would humor her in how she ran their home - she knew the glass gardens were going to be complete soon, and she had ideas for several different plants that she was going to request planted. He responded positively to both of her letters, though his words were shy when it came to children. She sent him a third letter, several pages long, full of poetry and promises too intimate to think of over much. But the more she thought about her future with him, the lighter her heart felt.   
 
  The king’s second marriage was a lovely affair, though there were so many flowers and feasts it was hard to imagine that autumn was so soon to descend upon them. Time was slipping away! It had already been a full year since the death of the former queen and mummer’s stag. She had warned them that the days of summer were growing fewer and fewer, and that they would need to start storing for winter. 
 
  There would be little food grown under this winter’s sleet - merely blood spilt upon it. 
 
  Sansa forced herself to think of happier thoughts. Such as how Lady Margaery’s dress, now Queen Margaery, had been a masterwork of style and craft. Truly, it was an inspiring piece of art. The shining gold thread and vibrant black and greens of their shared Houses blended beautifully together. The beadwork alone had surely taken a team to complete. Sansa had admired it the entire duration of the festivities - it was far lovelier than the dress she had worn as a child hostage, though the Lannisters and Crown had more than enough to pay for a proper dress; it was far lovelier than the dress she had worn beneath the Heart Tree when she married a monster.
 
  However, Sansa had not let her own needle be idle over the past moons. She set her talents to practice in the hopes of crafting something truly exquisite for her first real wedding, the only one that would matter. She would marry Jon beneath a Heart Tree beside their people and family, and she could only hope to be as radiant as the joy inside her felt. But it required practice!
 
  After her wildfire dress, she set herself to crafting another masterwork in the prospect of a gift. No other hand but hers touched it. She had spent moons in an effort to create and embroider a dress for a former friend. The dress was done in blue and red and gold, in a design that she remembered was both flattering and functional. Something Brienne would appreciate. Her beadwork included moonstones and garnets. 
 
  She remembered the single dress she had created for Brienne before, but there had been no time for embroidery or flourishes upon it. Still, there had been style and care put into it, a determination to allow her companion to feel beautiful. It was a sorry statement that, while Brienne would always feel a bit awkward after a lifetime of being made to feel less-than due to her appearance, she had admitted that the attire Sansa created for her was some of the finer works she had ever worn as it was meant for someone of her size and shape. 
 
  No matter what lifetime, she felt so thankful for Brienne’s dedication. Sansa found she still remembered some of Brienne’s measurements, though she admitted that the crown jewel of the Sapphire Isles would more than likely need a great deal of tailoring to make the dress fit perfectly. 
 
  Nevertheless, she had labored over the dress even as she mentally and emotionally let go of a friendship that was now merely a memory of a dream. She put all of her admiration and love into her craft, embroidering little lions with crowns of sun rays and lionesses with moon-glinted tiaras and claws. When she was finished with it, she had wrapped it up and sent it off to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock directly, with a note addressed to Lady Brienne, the Oathkeeper. She had signed it as merely, ‘
  
    Your Eternal Friend, Sansa Stark, Daughter of Winterfell
  
  ’. 
 
  Sending that dress off had been… hard. Harder than she expected. She was letting go of a part of her former life, and it hurt to know that the woman she remembered, the statuesque figure that guarded her back and remained true to her through many trials, was a stranger to her now. As likely to betray her in the future as to be her loyal companion - no oaths to bind them this time. Only the knowledge that Brienne would always, always be as steadfast as the mountains themselves. As honorable as a knight from a song - and wasn’t that just… something? It wasn’t as if she could explain to others why she spent the entire evening melancholy, or cried herself to sleep that night. 
 
  But every goodbye is an opportunity for a new hello. 
 
  She had also taken her supplies and made several versatile items for Obara, enough that she could blend in at court or on the road.  Sansa ensured that her sworn-shield could move unencumbered, but was still quite fetching to the eye. There was nothing too overly ostentatious, but there was a difference between the plain clothes of a swordswoman and the attire befitting someone who stood amongst the nobles at court. When Sarella finally arrived, the oldest of the Sand Snakes was dressed in unexpected finery of light tans and warm orange, all embroidered with the spear and sun.
 
  Then Sansa started crafting several fine dresses for Sarella, trying to plan the perfect introduction of the Southern student to the heir of Riverrun. The Prince’s scholarly daughter had his wide smile and knowing eyes, though her skin tone was richer and darker than his. Sarella would read stories of history and politics as Sansa sat in her audience, enjoying the fervor and enthusiasm Sarella spoke with. The Southern archer had two chains from where she had been masquerading as a man trying to become a Maester, so Sansa made sure to include two linked chains in every new dress or jacket she created. 
 
  Sansa’s grandfather was not meant to last the year, but she thought he would appreciate Sarella’s intellect and perspective. He was conniving, and Sansa appreciated that Sarella could be as well. After all, she lasted for some time in disguise in Old Town, and that was no easy task. 
 
  Though Sarella came to join Sansa’s entourage with plenty of clothes befitting her father’s House, Sansa went out of her way to include a few more dresses that were suited to the Riverlands styles and colors for Sarella. She enjoyed the opportunity to use vibrant reds, shimmering turquoise, shell-beads, some fishbone patterns, a few delicately embroidered waves, and laced fish to decorate with. Each piece was a new work of art and an expression of love for her Mother’s family. Added to the fact that she was sewing the fabric so tightly that it would only be torn apart by a blade, and she knew her pieces were works worthy of pride. Sarella laughed during every fitting, delighted at Sansa’s work. 
 
  Oh, Sansa was well aware that House Martell was humoring her. They knew her skills, and thought they knew her gifts, but she knew they held some doubt to the range of her influence. However. In the home of her Mother’s people? 
 
  Well.
 
  She would not be leaving until her uncle was wedded and bedded and the Riverlands were secure. Her uncle was a good man with a gentle heart - he needed a woman who could think on her feet and strike like a thunderclap. 
 
  Which was how Sansa found herself entering the gates of Riverrun astride a gray mare, allowing all of their fellow travellers and all the resident smallfolk to see her heading back North. She, herself, wore a red dress decorated with black weirwood leaves, white direwolves, and blue-gray Tully fish beaded around the collar. Her hair was braided and wrapped around the crown of her head. She had the option to ride within the wheelhouse with Tyene and Sarella, but Sansa knew she wanted people to see her as more than a gentle maiden. 
 
  Beside her, Obara rode with a straight back and a firm grip upon the reins. Her eyes were constantly scanning the people they passed, assessing possible dangers, even though they were surrounded by both of their father’s men. Obara was also wearing a fine leather vest, sewn by Sansa’s own hand, though Prince Oberyn had teased both of them about how he was now the least best dressed among their lovely bouquet of flowers as even Lord Stark was wearing fancy trimmings crafted by his weirwood daughter! 
 
  Arriving within the courtyard of Riverrun, Sansa was unsurprised to find her mother and the Blackfish waiting for them beside Uncle Edmure and Sweetrobin. However, there are others there as well: Lord Tyrion and Ser Lancel Lannister.  Not to mention some of her uncle’s bannermen, including Clegane and his family. 
 
  It felt so odd, riding into the scene, being enveloped by so many familiar but strange faces. 
 
  Fortunately for her, this meeting would begin with her father greeting everyone. As Warden of the North, his title and status surpassed her notoriety. Then she would be greeted, then the Martells. As she was helped from her horse, horrifying her mother in her behavior, Sansa allowed the years of war and strife to settle over her. 
 
  She wanted to run to her mother, embrace her tightly, and sooth away all the worries and fears that she had held in her heart from years ago. But time… time had locked some of those impulses away, so much so that now all she could do was gently nod to her family as she waited for pleasantries to be handled. This was not the return of Arya or Bran or meeting Jon at the Wall. There was no war spanning years, no betrayal and deceit spanning kingdoms between them. Just a girl looking upon a mother she had already mourned for years. A ghost of doubt and revenant of anger given form. Sansa remembered standing in her mother’s former role, standing strong in the face of angry Lords, invasion, and betrayal. She allowed all her scars to rise to the surface of her mind, letting the horrors she had experienced and witnessed show in her eyes. Let the spilt blood bleed through because she did not know her mother’s current role.
 
  And yet, she remained the person she had been forced into being - the political warrior and game player. Her hair and dress were in perfect order, and no emotion save the ones she wanted showed across her features. As her Uncle Edmure introduced himself to their party, Sansa scanned the rest of the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Faces of friends and enemies alike. Finally, when she was introduced, she came forward and curtsied appropriately before handing her hand to her uncle with a small smile. 
 
  “Welcome to your Mother’s homeland, niece,” Edmure said as he bent down to kiss her hand. “You are the very image of her in her youth.”
 
  “Thank you for your generous hospitality, Uncle,” Sansa replied, but his nervous attention was already gone. She knew behind her, the members of House Martell were disembarking from the wheelhouse. Including Sarella. 
 
  Tyene had woven tight braids into her half-sister’s hair that morning and Sansa had assisted in dressing. The other two had been aghast at her playing handmaiden, but it was not the worst role Sansa had ever taken on. They were there to make an impression, and Sansa had a clear idea of what she meant to do. 
 
  “You will be introduced to her shortly, My Lord,” Sansa warned him playfully. “Please do try to keep your wits about you.”
 
  “She’s beautiful,” he whispered in response, his eyes never leaving the Dornish girl. He hadn’t known what to expect when word reached him and his father that Sansa had become a prophet, but he knew the fame she had been acquiring could not be easy for a maiden of her few years. Even still, the songs that were being sung about her were fantastically horrifying, making for great entertainment. But to know that she was plotting for him…. His father had sent word to Catelyn only to receive a crisp, ‘
  
    Trust her. She is trying to protect you.
  
  ’ Well. He could hardly say no to a little more protection. Riverrun now hosted the Hound and his family because of her words. And his prospective bride was… so different than anyone he had ever seen before, just…. Beautiful. 
 
  “Did you get my letters? About brushing up on the local histories? And practicing your archery?” Sansa asked just as softly. 
 
  “Aye,” Edmure replied, finally looking at the maiden in front of him. “I’m a decent shot, but will be winning no competitions. But the histories - those I know.” 
 
  “Excellent, because she will ask many questions,” Sansa said with a small laugh and a dip of her head. “Now, let me go so that you can be introduced to others and I can embrace my mother?”
 
  “Oh! Of course!” Edmure spluttered, a dark flush stealing over his features. He kissed her hand again, quickly, and then released her just as quickly so that the procession could move along. 
 
  No betrothal agreements had been written, no marriage contracts signed. But Sansa was going to cut off threats to her family’s Houses and allies, and that meant alliances. And sometimes that meant tying two Houses together. So tightly no knife would cut through it, so fiercely strong that no Maester would be able to unlink them. For years, Riverrun had been guided by Hoster Tully, a man who had a clear vision of where the currents of fate would take his family. Alas, his son would not be as deft at navigating courtly politics or even the animosity of his own bannermen. He would be losing his father shortly, and would need someone who would be able to support him in all the ways that mattered and who would be able to bring valuable allies with her.
 
  She had written to Arya, though she thought her letter might find its way to Prince Doran or Princess Arianne. She wrote of her match making in King’s Landing, and the success she had seen so far.  The many couples that had found success in their match, but more importantly they had found happiness. She also wrote of their father’s match-making for her, and how excited she was regarding her future, though she did not say that she was going to marry Jon. There was no telling if the truth had reached that far South, yet. Plus, she knew Arya would have little interest in any of the overall matchmaking happening, but entertaining her wasn’t the point.
 
  Sansa kept her smile in place as she came upon Uncle Brynden next. Her father and mother were swept up in a tight embrace that was sure to last for the rest of the evening if other matters did not need tending to.
 
  “Thank you for alerting us to Hoster’s health,” Brynden said, his eyes as clear and as shrewd as ever as he looked at this young slip of a maiden in front of him. “D@mn fool would have never said anything, and then what. Would have died without us knowing? I would have been fine, but your Mother… She would have been distraught. Her suffering would have been…. Unimaginable.”
 
  “I wish I could offer more than sympathy in this situation. No one wants the Stranger to visit their loved ones. Mourning is a bleak affair. Unfortunately, I know all too well that the Stranger comes for all of us at some point,” Sansa informed him. She did not tell him that she knew how far her mother would go in war, and how far she would go to seek vengeance for crimes against her family. She looked at him with all the years she had yet to live in her eyes. “In as such, I must confess, I am well aware of the amount of suffering my Mother can endure. Dare I say, Uncle, I know full well what a great many people are capable of when it comes to suffering; whether it is enduring, inflicting, or avoiding.”
 
  Brynden Tully had the grace to nod his head in acquiescence. “Aye, I know your story, and I apologize for-”
 
  “Peace,” Sansa interjected, placing her hand gently upon his heart. “The waters are rough now, and a great deal of the turbulence will only intensify over the coming weeks. But have faith. This is only minor flooding. Riverrun, and our family, live on in the children yet to come. This storm will not break us.”
 
  He smirked at her. “Using water metaphors, hmm?”
 
  “Trying to speak the language of fishes, though I hear that you do have a weirwood in residence. I should like to pray to it, if you would be so kind as to show me the way. Mother does not remember one being here, and I would prefer the gods be tender with me and mine,” she said gently. She would be flowering any day now, and had thought to bury the bl@@dy sheets beneath its grim face. There was no reason in it, and it felt silly, ridiculous even, but she couldn’t stop herself from the inclination that… if she gave her blood freely again in prayer, that it would offer further protection to her family. She had put her blood upon the roots of a weirwood grove when she lay dying… perhaps the Old Gods would accept the gift of her moonblood with the same pleasure. If nothing else, it had to be better than trying to burn soiled sheets for a second-first time. “We could all do with a bit more tenderness in our lives.” 
 
  The Blackfish nodded his head and ushered her to her next introduction. However, next in line was Sweetrobin, who looked upon her with his large, soulful eyes. 
 
  “Hello, cousin,” Sansa said sweetly to him, brushing his hair from his face in the same way she remembered her Aunt Lysa doing. 
 
  For whatever reason, that seemed to cause something within the boy to break into pieces, as he suddenly launched himself at her like an arrow from a bow, and he just clung to her as he cried into her torso. 
 
  Oh, this was going to be a torturously long visit. 

  
  

  -=0=- 

  
  

  Ned Clung to his wife, foregoing all sense of propriety in his elation. 
 
  “You resigned as Hand?” Catelyn asked as he kissed her neck, right there in front of everyone.
 
  “Aye,” he laughed as he leaned back. It made his head spin, how relieved he was to be rid of all the politics and backstabbing of the South when he knew war was upon the horizon. He felt almost glad that he had the excuse to be done with King’s Landing, that the Night King and his forces were such that it required him to return to his home and his responsibilities. “In fact half of Robert’s Small Council is new within the past year. It has been amazing. Dondarrion is now Hand of the King, and may the Gods take pity on that poor man. He’s going to go mad before winter gets here trying to keep Robert out of trouble. Do you realize Robert has sworn to me, sworn on his Mother’s name, that he’s going to get into fighting shape and head North when Winter arrives? He wants to fight the dead as well.”
 
  “Do you think he’ll do it?” 
 
  “No, I don’t,” Ned said with a shake of his head as he finally released her. He couldn’t wait to finally sleep beside her again, have her softly in his arms and against his body. To warm her beneath the furs with his touch, with his mouth, and with his love. To wake up beside her, with her hair all around her and their bodies loose from sleep. To eat beside her and share their food and drink, the small intimacies they were allowed to perform in civil society. He loathed that there were still other formalities he had to perform before they could retire for the night. Gazing upon her beauty, he found he had underestimated how much he had missed her in the many moons they had been apart. “We’re old men at this point, and he is not the man he was at the Trident all those years ago. He wouldn’t survive along the Wall.” 
 
  He stepped back to allow the return of decency between them, and her eyes automatically fell onto Sansa. He knew his daughter had been transformed, had borne witness to it and had lived with it for moons upon moons. But this was the first time his lovely wife was witness to the change that had occurred. 
 
  And there was no mistaking that something had happened to Sansa. The stillness in her stance. The measure of her pace. The way she carried herself, with her head held high and her eyes always tracking every movement around them. There was something about her gaze that was all predator, and oftentimes Ned had noticed her smile had a sharpness to it that chilled even the former Kingsguard.  
 
  At the same time, she was amiable with her poor cousin, and Ned was forced to remember how sweet Lady had been. For a mythical creature more known for its bite and hunting practices, the pup had been the gentlest of creatures. 
 
  Looking at his beautiful daughter, Ned knew he stood next to a different kind of mythical creature. A different kind of wolf. She would be someone their family would speak of for ages to come.  No deaths could be pinned to her, but Ned was sure his daughter had gone hunting through the haunted halls of the Red Keep. Too many strange things happened in her shadow, too many suspicious men came to grisly ends while in her orbit. It didn’t take a Maester to figure out that she was their doom - but every man who died revealed plots within plots within plots. 
 
  His brother Brandon had been wild, and his sister had been ferocious in her hunt for justice and parity. Benjen found his peace in the untamed wilds beyond the Wall. Ned had felt a bit like an outsider, like his blood wasn’t wild enough to compete with his siblings, thus his father had sent him away to be fostered. Yet, here he was, Lord of Winterfell, with a small pack of his own. Of his children, he could see the wolf in all of them in different ways, but Sansa’s was the quieter one. Her wolf’s blood was as thin as his own.
 
  That lack did not make them any less of a threat.
 
  Renly had gone back to Storm’s End, ostensibly to handle the affairs as Warden of the Stormlands, but Ned knew it was really because he was growing increasingly upset by the bl@@dy swath of conspirators that she uncovered before the Master of Laws even realized the danger of them. Ned also knew his daughter had part in replacing Renly upon the Small Council with a man from the Vale, probably using sweet words spoken to the Tyrells who then whispered them to the Baratheons. Renly would return to King’s Landing soon enough, but he did not need a space upon the Small Council to support his brother. For that, at least, Ned was relieved. Robert needed all the allies and support at court he could get.
 
  Next to him, Ned could feel Cat stiffen as Sansa caught sight of them. Their daughter smiled sweetly, but the smile was merely a movement of her lips, nothing more. She wore her courtly mask as she hid all of her emotions away behind a bland smile and a too-knowing gaze. It was one of Ned’s least favorite things about his daughter’s transformation - how she muted who she had been in favor of the creature she had become.
 
  “Mother, it is good to see you well,” Sansa said as she curtsied properly -if not a little stiffer than usual- in front of her mother, rather than giving her a welcoming hug. Her blue eyes were wetter than normal, but no tears were going to spill in that crowded courtyard. “It makes my heart light to know that you will be able to spend time with your family in peace before tragedy strikes, so all that needs to be said can be shared.”
 
  “Look at you,” Catelyn murmured, her eyes drinking in the sight of the girl before her. “You’ve… grown… so much.”
 
  Sansa seemed to take pity on her mother as she opened her arms for a hug. For a moment it was as if Sansa was the mother and Catelyn the daughter, their roles reversed due to how off centered Catelyn obviously felt. They quickly embraced, and Ned watched a thousand upon a thousand different emotions break upon Sansa’s unblemished face, like waves upon the beach. He felt helpless as he gently placed his hands upon both of their backs, a benediction and an offer of succor. 
 
  Ned breathed deeply as averted his gaze, looking out to watch over their reunion. When he found the Lannisters watching them, he narrowed his eyes at them. He understood that Sansa was cultivating all sorts of alliances, but he doubted the use of oathbreakers or those who would break guest rites. Then again, war made for interesting bedfellows. Time would tell the worthiness of any alliance between their Houses. 
 
  Time would tell the worthiness of his own House.

  
  

  -=0=- 

  
  

  House Lannister had been greatly subdued in the capital these past few months, but the men of the House had been very busy. Very busy. When Lady Sansa had sent over her letters as well as a trunk full of expertly crafted vests and tabards, all adoringly crafted with cats of all sizes and status, Tyrion had been quick to seize his prize. His stomach had been besieged with fear and hope warring in a tumultuous cacophony of illness until he was able to read the name of the woman she suggested. That she included details such as the strife that was soon to strike upon House Frey was also of note. 
 
  He remembered the first time he heard a mummer sing of her bespelling the king into sobriety, and how she quelled a massacre by channelling her Gods. Such music was not permitted within Casterly Rock itself, but the outlying taverns and inns had no problem spreading such songs. To defame Jaime was near impossible in the Westerlands - however, the songs were more a warning of what was possible than anything. Some nights, especially the thunderously stormy ones he weathered while on the road, he was haunted by her voice echoing around inside his head. In his nightmares, she appeared as dancing green flames, twirling around him and chasing him into the glowing red maw of one of the dragon skulls hidden in the caverns beneath the Red Keep. 
 
  And yet. And. Yet.
 
  He had waffled for all of an hour before reading Jaime’s letter as well, breaking the wax seal with trembling hands. He’d been amused by the respect and care she wrote both letters with, but after looking at all the various pieces she had crafted for Tommen, even taking the time to create a few things for gentle Myrcella, Tyrion had to take a mental step back and re-evaluate. 
 
  It was easy to misjudge a person based on their appearance - he knew that all too well. It was also easy to misjudge them based on their family connections, their wealth, and their status. If one looked upon Lady Sansa, the first thing that anyone would notice was her vibrant hair and her eyes - eyes that were as blue and as cold as the Wall itself, he knew. He barely remembered the girl he met in Winterfell all those moons ago, a girl who was sweet and well mannered, who longed for a storybook life with a sweet prince and a loving family. She wanted to be as Southern as she appeared. Alas, Cersei never did see a chance to break something or someone she didn’t take. 
 
  Oh, he wished he could have been there to witness little Sansa’s transformation in person. He’d heard tell of how she changed seemingly in an instant, changed from a loving daughter to a cold Other in the time it took for her direwolf to bleed out. No one knew what to do with the change or how to respond to it, and their inability to adapt was their undoing. 
 
  Was almost his House’s undoing. 
 
  Unlike others in his family, he was very aware that it was only Lady Sansa’s benevolence, or her pity - he was unsure - that allowed them to keep all that they had. Between his idiot brother admitting to breaking Guest Rites in open court, to the attempts at usurping the throne, and more…. Yet, his father now had a Valyrian steel sword to pass down to Jaime. Myrcella had yet to take off the dragonfly necklace Lady Sansa had gifted her. 
 
  They also knew of the cascade of deaths that followed the departure of House Lannister from the capital, all of their former informants and allies finding new and inventive ways to perish. When the rumors came of men that had been loyal to them or to Baelish finding interesting ways to die - painful and gruesome - it became all too obvious that to move against House Stark was to challenge the Envoy of the Stranger. Blood in the water, really, as more and more plots were discovered. More letters and diaries with incriminating evidence of conspiracies against the crown and their supporting Houses. It wasn’t just their people, though. There were other spies, corrupt officials, and political privateers that also found their way to the Stranger’s embrace.  
 
  And the Stranger walked with blue eyes these days. Just ask any crow, they all spoke of the dead walking beyond the Wall. More specifically, ask any hunter of the nature of ravens working with wolves.
 
  But the letters… They were interesting. 
 
  When he arrived at Casterly, he took everything immediately to his father, including the clothes. The girl he and Jaime had met at Winterfell would never have been able to craft the items on display, not with any real skill. Oh, there were some that were very obviously done by her handmaiden, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable. Even the mighty Tywin had taken note of her stitching. Tommen and Myrcella had been delighted by the gifts - Tommen had yet to take off the tabard bearing Ser Pounce and Myrcella was quite fond of several wide belts adorned with lionesses and butterflies. 
 
  The letters made just as much of an impact. Tywin had refused to allow Jaime to dance attendance to Lady Brienne, but that just made his big brother flee the keep with his two b@st@rds and sail over to meet with the beastly girl himself. 
 
  Tywin had seethed for an entire three days before he sent ravens to Freys to arrange for a marriage pact. That their noble House was in such ill-favor right at that moment meant very little to old Walder, and that he was selling his daughter to Tyrion meant even less. Tywin had made sure to 
  
    not 
  
  tell the craven old man that his House was set to crumble without him, a tactical decision to ensure peace between them. Tyrion followed his father’s footsteps. 
 
  Tyrion had been worried that Roslin would be… unimpressive, but she was surprisingly pretty for a Frey. A timid little thing, but Lady Sansa had been right in many regards: Roslin was obedient, shy, and promising. Tyrion had married her there at the Twins and bedded her that night. She allowed his advances while he tried to encourage her as his letter had instructed. When she discovered that he had sought her out because of Lady Sansa’s recommendation, Roslin had been confused but curious. And he knew her curiosity could be used to his advantage. 
 
  By the time Tyrion arrived back at Casterly Rock, Jaime had forced their father’s hand into arranging a marriage between the Rock and Tarth. 
 
  So much had happened between then and now. So many life changing moments. And in his pocket rested a raven scroll he had received two days ago, as another life changing moment happened while he was out making arrangements for his new wine trading business. Myrcella had written to him, ‘
  
    Your son was born in the dead of night. He looks nothing like you, save for your shared eyes. Grandfather is pleased.
  
  ’ 
 
  He had a son! 
 
  When he’d received the scroll, Tyrion had excused himself for the evening and bought the most expensive bottle of brandy he could find. Then spent the night crying in his room. He had a true-born son! Yet all he could do was cry. He wept for his son, because he was not disfigured in any way that mattered! He wept for himself because his son was not born a disappointment. And his own father was pleased - pleased because Tyrion did something right. He knew that Tywin was not pleased 
  
    with 
  
  him, but pleased 
  
    because 
  
  of him. He wept for all that could have been and all that was and all that would never be. 
 
  He wept for the unborn children he could have created with Tysha.
 
  That was then, though. This was now. He was already imagining the gifts he was going to lavish Roslin with upon his return. 
 
  However, when he heard that House Stark was going to be returning North, and that King Robert had appointed Lord Dondarrion as his new Hand, Tyrion knew he just had to come and meet with her once again. Especially as he had heard the truth of who her b@st@rd-brother was, that she was now betrothed to her former brother-now-cousin, and they were both going to be banished to the Wall for some fantastical future war. He had thought, long ago, that it was strange her insistence that the North needed the Wall under their domain. Now? Now he felt a bit vindicated… and cowed. Because if the dead were truly returning, then the lovely girl who haunted many a man’s dreams was surely facing her own death. Knowingly. Willingly. 
 
  Gaining an audience was tricky, all things considered. The first night was a welcoming feast fit for a king, and Tyrion would know. There were mummers and dancing and cups overflowing with mead. Food was plentiful, as was the laughter and stories. However, late in the evening, when a rosy cheeked Sansa stepped away from the High Table to go amongst the mummers to borrow a harp, all joking had stopped. 
 
  Whereas before he had been haunted by her voice, and the threat it conveyed from the Crone and Stranger, that night she sang with all the love and joy of the Maiden and Mother. She sang ballads known to many, but when she sang the song Last of the Giants, there was nary a dry eye in the room. 
 
  “Where did you learn such a sad song?” Lady Catelyn had asked, her voice thick with tears. 
 
  Lady Sansa had bowed her head, her nimble fingers still plucking at the strings of the borrowed harp, and replied, “The Free Folk North of the Wall. They sing of beauty and tragedy, of joy and horror. Much like us, they keep their histories alive in song.”
 
  “Do you know more of their music?” Lord Edmure had asked. 
 
  She smiled and began playing several different songs, some as sweet as cake and some full of trickery and deception. Tyrion knew there would be no approaching her that night. So, a slight problem. Minor, really. 
 
  But there was never a problem that gold couldn’t solve. In this case, it was enough Arbor Gold wine to drown the entire Riverlands. He offered it as a gift to Lord Edmure and all others attending, but kept his own drinking to a minimum. He also forbade Lancel from drinking - he needed the boy to keep his wits about him. The last thing they needed was another Lannister f@ck-up on everyone’s mind. So closely was he watching her that he failed to notice the blonde Sand Snake sneaking up behind him. 
 
  “Lady Sansa has asked that you meet with her tomorrow morning, Lord Tyrion. Tonight is about family, and it would do no justice for you to not enjoy the gift you have brought to share,” Tyene said to the small man. “Though, I am curious as to the reason for her expecting you to request a meeting.”
 
  “I wanted to thank her for her recommendations,” Tyrion said quickly, thinking of sharing something that would not be given a second thought. “I am now a Father, and wanted to share with her the happy news.”
 
  “And I want to ask her about joining the Night’s Watch,” Lancel interjected. “I have come to ask Lady Sansa her thoughts on this, and if she agrees then I shall petition Lord Eddard. I hear they need fighters along the Wall, and I have all the skill of my cousin and twice his speed.”
 
  Tyene and Tyrion blinked at Lancel, both surprised by his request. 
 
  “I… will… pass along your messages,” Tyene said slowly as she backed cautiously away from them. 
 
  Once she was gone, Tyrion all but dragged Lancel out of the Great Hall and into a quiet area to glare at him. “You are here with me as my guard! What the f@ck do you mean you wish to join the Watch? Have you spoken to your Father about this? Have you spoken to 
  
    my 
  
  Father about this?”
 
  “I am a man grown,” Lancel shot back, his green eyes narrowed in anger. “I’ve my sword and my spurs. I need no one’s 
  
    permission 
  
  to do as I please. And I am tired of playing nursemaid to you and whipping boy for Ser Jaime. I’ve made mistakes, the same as everyone in our blighted House, but I am tired of suffering the anger of others that should be dealt to you and yours.”  
 
  “So you are going to the 
  
    Wall
  
  ? The edge of the f@ck@ng World? To freeze to death?” Tyrion snarled, displeased with being wrongfooted and uninformed of Lancel’s desires. “Or to hide?”
 
  “They are gathering fighters,” Lancel seethed. “And that is all I am these days, that is all I will ever be.”
 
  With that, Lancel spun around and walked off with his frustratingly long legs. Tyrion cursed to the point of breathlessness. This… this was not what he set out to do. He wanted to know the truth of the future. He wanted to know the warnings she gave regarding dragons. He wanted to know how to better guard his family against threats. And he wanted to know why she lied to him regarding Jon Snow and her future involvement. 
 
  The quest for truth was never ending.
 
  F@ck it, he was going to see if he could drown in his chalice tonight. 
 
  The next morning found him with the worst headache he had ever experienced, and he had experienced many. However, he also found Lady Sansa already waiting for him in the Great Hall, a small repast in front of her. 
 
  His, it seemed. 
 
  “Lord Tyrion, welcome to this fine mid-morning,” She smiled serenely to him. “I am pleased to see that your cups have not done you too much damage.” 
 
  “Wine makes everything more palatable, whether it is chicken or bad news,” Tyrion said carefully as he sat at the table. “But good morning to you as well, Lady Sansa. I had hoped to be able to speak with you at some point upon this visit.”
 
  “Aye,” Sansa nodded. “Though I hear congratulations are in order. A Father now it seems.”
 
  “Aye,” Tyrion said as his chest puffed out proudly. “Roslin has been a gift that continues to surprise me. I thank you for your suggestion.”
 
  “Of course,” Sansa nodded as she pushed the plate of food and a pitcher of ale towards him. “Now, let us speak of what troubles you. The day is young, but time slips by so quickly. You would not bring me idle problems you could solve easily, so let us have as much time to ponder as possible.” 
 
  For whatever reason, Tyrion felt his shoulders tense. “Once upon a time, I asked if you were asking for the Night’s Watch and the Wall to fall under your Father’s domain because it was the only way your b@st@rd brother could gain his own castle. You, quite enthusiastically, lashed out at me. I am here to ask, was it because I was right? I was right that you did it to gain him a castle, only I was wrong to call him your bastard brother and not your future betrothed?”
 
  Sansa had the gall to smile benignly at him. “Lord Tyrion… Have you called for your blacksmiths to craft your armor yet?”
 
  He blinked at her. “I am not a warrior. That is Jaime’s purview.”
 
  “You will fight for your House, whether it is in Court or on the battlefield. I know this very well,” Sansa replied. “You will fight for a Master or Mistress, as long as it gives you an advantage, as you believe you can out maneuver any would-be dictator once they are no longer of use to you.”
 
  Tyrion could only shrug and nod his agreement as he began to eat. “I am my Father’s son, whether he wishes it or not.”
 
  “As I am my Father’s daughter,” Sansa agreed. “I know the ugliness of war and what it is like to die, Lord Tyrion. I know what it is like to look into the eyes of a horde of wights as they overrun my people. To see my body added to the Night King’s army. I have seen your body added as well. That is why I wanted the Night’s Watch under our management. They were a dying order, and the Wall under-defended, but with a little love and a little help, they are beginning to flourish once again. Their numbers are increasing, their castles are being remade, and the Wall is being secured. The problem with so many people in power is that they are only concerned with the 
  
    now 
  
  that they fail to look ahead, to try and see the bigger picture. Would you like some ugly truth?”
 
  “I’m sure you are going to tell me, whether I like it or not,” Tyrion tried to jest, silently horrified as he imagined his own death and how he might have been added to the army of the dead.
 
  “Have you played many games of Cyvasse, my Lord? Because you of all others should plainly see my moves. I am building up our defenses and placing my pieces upon the board. Every piece within my reach is valuable, and it is true that I am building up my betrothed to be a black dragon against the icy Night King,” Sansa explained to him. “Just as I have built up Ser Jaime to be a trebuchet against a different dragon, able to rally cavalry and rabble, and able to launch far more offenses against the danger that may or may not come our way. One from the east.”
 
  “The Beggar King and his sister?” Tyrion asked, bemused. The odds of Viserys gaining enough gold to even charter a ship was laughable.
 
  “He’s dead by now,” Sansa informed him. “And she has gained enough power to begin her conquest of tribes and cities. It would do you well to keep your eyes and ears open, sir. Because she is Aegon reborn, built to subdue and destroy. Where her dragons’ shadows fall, there will be no growth. Only fire and ash. And there will be 
  
    a great deal
  
   of fire.” 
 
  “And you expect Jaime to fight her?”
 
  “He has already slain one dragon, and dragon fire cannot penetrate the Rock,” Sansa explained. “But this is if she even makes it to our shore. I have already removed several pieces from her support. Even now, Lord Stannis is finishing up the removal of Dragonstone and his Red Priestess is holding court for him at Eastwatch. We’re adding Dornish scorpions to many fine keeps along the coast, primarily under the guise of fighting the Ironborn. There will be no port for her, no holding. Should Daenerys find a foothold here, she will want to eradicate your House. She blames Ser Jaime and your Father for her Father’s death, and does not see the madness that resides in her lineage as a negative. She will come stating that she wants to ‘break the wheel’ and by that she will mean she wants to destroy the major Houses so that she will have no possible insurgency.”
 
  “Nevermind that the smallfolk have been known to rebel all on their own, just look at the history of the Dance,” Tyrion muttered, his headache dulled by the ale and the slow tumble of thoughts spinning through it. Her words of the future were a dire warning indeed, but they were also… also a way to win back their former glory. And he would need to look into those scorpions! 
 
  “She believes she will win the smallfolk,” Sansa warned. “And she believes conquest is rulership. So, be careful in the future. Be mindful. Be aware. Prepare for a long winter. Prepare for a siege. You have about eight years.”
 
  “But this is all in case your plays against her have failed.” Tyrion mused.
 
  “The threat of her? Aye. In any event, your House will rise in prominence once more. It may not be soon enough for your taste, but it will happen,” Sansa informed him. “So go in peace knowing that while your pride may be injured for now, nothing will ever dull the golden shine within you and your kin.” 

  
  

  -= Beyond the Wall =-

  
  

  “You a’ight?” Benjen asked, looking at the dark stain of a blush across Jon’s features as he re-read one of the letters Sansa had sent him. His thick Northern burr was prominent due to exhaustion and the early hour. 
 
  “Aye,” Jon nodded as he drank in the words once again. Every morning, he reread the letters she had sent to him. Around them, the camp was coming alive and packing up once again to further their march South. Carefully, he refolded the parchment and tucked it securely into his coat. He had little fear of anyone trying to steal his letter, but he preferred to keep her words close to him. 
 
  He had returned once already to Castle Black with several thousand Free Folk to disperse among the Houses of the North. This would be the second time. The first time had mostly very old, very young, and a contingent of spearwives. This time there were another few thousand families. All were rough people, but they were also just men and women who loved to sing and jest much like the Houses did below the Wall. 
 
  Back at Mance’s encampment, Jon had even made a new friend - Tormund Giantsbane. He remembered Sansa writing about him, that he would be a good friend. That he was a capable fighter and would be true to Jon if he was true to the Free Folk. Tormund had jested that Sansa had seemed to be the only Kneeler with any sense, to which Jon and his party could only nod. 
 
  How does one explain a maiden with vision gifted to her of horrors untold? Of monsters and death and wars everlasting? Of giants dying at their walls and men being crushed by their greed?
 
  Of course, Sansa hadn’t written anything 
  
    special 
  
  about the Wildling, not the way she wrote about him. He had been so nervous when writing that first letter. He’d sent it just before returning to beyond the Wall, and it 
  
    haunted 
  
  him. He had so many questions for her. What did their futures hold? What avenues should they travel so that their family and people were safe? Did she merely want him because he was a true prince or for some other reason? 
 
  He had returned to Castle Black to find not just one, but 
  
    two 
  
  letters waiting for him. The second had been about practical matters: ideas of what to plant in their glass garden, thoughts on how to arrange for medicines and a request for a specific journeyman smith from King’s Landing. She had even designed a sigil for their House by mixing his white direwolf and black dragonwings and placing twelve red weirwood leaves around it on a gray background on each letter. But the first letter… ‘
  
    Drangonsnest… for the many children I plan to give you.
  
  ’ Jon felt immolated at that moment, as he 
  
    BURNED 
  
  with want. He’d stood there with her letter in his hands, trembling in excitement and fear. And the names… 
 
  He remembered the dreams and visions Jojen and Bran had. Remembered a king that resembled Uncle Ned holding a babe, a babe that was to be named Torrhen. He’d wondered if it had been merely a memory of the ancient past, the birth of the last King of Winter… but what if it was about his own future son? And the dreams of Sansa beneath a weirwood, surrounded by pups? What if it was really about all the children she was promising him? 
 
  “Dangerous, taking on the guise of a dragon when you’ve no fireproofing,” Jaremy had warned him. 
 
  Benjen had agreed, but added, “It would be nice to have something… family oriented about the castles along the Wall, especially as they will now belong to Lords and Ladies. It won’t be just nightmares and ghosts.”
 
  “The North already has a Wolf’s Den, and it’s a prison,” Jon agreed. “And I do like the idea of keeping some honor to Queen Alysanne there. But Cyvasse? She mentions it, but what is that?”
 
  No one knew.
 
  But, oh, that third letter… He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling his heart pound in his chest. ‘
  
    I want you to know that you are a treasure, a song that men and women have dreamed of for ages, and I cannot wait to grow old with you. You will be so handsome with your beard and top-knot that I will have to revert to biting others to fend them off, but the aspect I admire most about you is your kindness. You are braver than words can describe, I have seen you stand courageous in the face of defeat and death only to stand victorious. You have seen injustice done to yourself and others yet found ways to fight against it. Through all of the hardships, you have remained kind. Do you know how rare that is? How beautiful that makes you? I know Father raised you to be a good man: honorable, loyal, driven, and protective. I don’t know if he realized just how well you would excel in every way. While you might not be his son in truth, you are in deed. I cannot wait to share a name and House with you. You are going to make a fine Lord, a leader that many men will be happy to have guide them into battle - and into peace.’
  
 
  There was more, so much more, but Jon liked that part the most. It made him shiver in a good way reading her words, even as it made him a bit dizzy with the pride of her expectations. 
 
  “He’s reading his letters again, I see,” Jaremy sighed as he settled beside them. 
 
  “Aye,” Benjen agreed affectionately. “He’s all twisted up about them.”
 
  Jaremy sniffed loudly. “Wonder when he’s going to share such lovely prose with us again, let us know why he gets as shy as a maiden about them.”
 
  “I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, I hate you both,” Jon retorted. He had shared the first two letters with them and they had taken far too much pleasure in teasing him about her words to him. He had kept the third one for himself and was glad he did. He couldn’t bear it if they had mocked him for her words of encouragement. “You are… the absolute worst people to be around.”
 
  The two other men laughed in delight. 
 
  “Just… the absolute worst!” Jon repeated. 
 
  Ghost sat up and stretched, ready to start the day even as Nymeria was already dancing around their firepit, ready to go hunting. 
 
  “A few more moons and we’ll be at Castle Black again, and then another after that, we should be returning to Winterfell,” Benjen said as he finished off his breakfast. “Barring any attacks or storms, of course.”
 
  “Aye,” the other two agreed. 
 
  “I wonder how the construction is going,” Jon mused.
 
  “Looking forward to your little love-nest?” Jaremy snickered. 
 
  “Aye,” Jon nodded. “It won’t be Winterfell, but it will be home.”
 
  “The builders should have the rough lodgings done by now and the proper start to the earthworks and piping that’ll begin to be laid into the stonework. It won’t be Winterfell, but it’ll share the same concept. We will just have to create our own hot springs water for the pipes. Robb explained the system will be using something similar to the glass gardens. There will be insulation between the castle and the Wall to keep it from melting, but our homes will be far warmer than any time in history. However, the engineering involved in the piping system is already a nightmare to construct,” Benjen sighed. “It’s even worse to repair.”
 
  “That’s only if the castle holds through the coming war, Uncle,” Jon said. 
 
  “It will,” Jaremy said, his thoughts clearly distant by the distraction evident in his voice. He was looking out over the encampment. “Your castle will hold through the war and then some, young Lord Snow.” 
 
  “That’s a lot of faith in him,” Benjen smiled.
 
  “Well, one, I’ve seen him fight. Two, I’ve yet to see a battle or war with this much time or foreknowledge allotted to it. It gives us an advantage we sorely need, and any advantage can be pivoted to a victory.” Jaremy shrugged. His eyes narrowed as two Free Folk began arguing again. “F@ck, what the f@ck are they doing? I just pulled them apart!”
 
  Jon breathed deeply, letting that assurance settle into his blood even as Jaremy sighed and stood up. The old ranger began muttering to himself as he went to break up a fight. They still had leagues to travel that day. But it was good that he wasn’t the only one who was anticipating the future. He pressed his hand to his coat pocket, reassuring himself that his letters were there, and smiled to himself. 
 
  Robb might be getting Winterfell, and he might be getting the Wall, but of the two of them… he thought his future might hold more promise at that moment.'
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