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You are like me, you will die too, but not today:
you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine:
if I say to you “To you I say,”
you have not been set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost radio, may never be an oil painting or Old Master’s charcoal sketch:
you are a concordance of person, number, voice, and place, strawberries spread through your name as if it were budding shrubs,
how you remind me of some spring, the waters as cool and clear
(late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind),
which is where you occur in grassy moonlight:
and you are a lily, an aster, white trillium or viburnum, by all rights mine, white star in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving from its earthwards journeys, here where there is no snow
(I dreamed the snow was you, when there was snow),
you are my right, have come to be my night
(your body takes on the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep becomes you):
and you fall from the sky with several flowers, words spill from your mouth in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet
(trees and seas have flown away, I call it loving you):
home is nowhere,
therefore you,
a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all, and free of any eden we can name
You, Therefore , Reginald Shepherd
The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.
Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.
Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-
"Do the gods bore you?"
Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannerman's young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face.
You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.
Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question.
Do the gods bore you?
She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, she's sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.
Sansa hums before she speaks. "How could they not? They never say anything back."
"Mayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough."
Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, "You should address me as ‘my lady'"
Your brows pull together in confusion. "But you are not my lady." squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. "You are not a lady at all really, just a girl."
She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.
Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North.
Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely.
You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.
"May I kneel with you?"
She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side.
Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch.
It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.
Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.
"Are you from Dorne?" She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there.
You simply smile, "Sometimes."
"Sometimes?" She repeats incredulously.
"Aye."
Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first.
"What do you pray for?" You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.
She shrugs. "I pray for what every lady prays for." At your encouraging look, she continues. "To marry the prince and give him many healthy sons."
Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.
After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.
"What do you pray for?" She asks.
You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell.
The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting.
"Nothing." You say, "I do not follow the Seven."
Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.
***
She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself.
Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.
Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a steward's daughter.
Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansa's dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.
The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence.
You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page.
"Do you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?" You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying.
Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.
A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils.
You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. "You should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one."
The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully.
Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about.
"Whatever are you reading?"
"Tis about Old Valyria." You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen.
Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. "I came to find you for a purpose."
"Oh, how flattering it is to be sought out."
She pinches your leg. "Quiet you." Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. "I wished to speak to you about Robb."
"What about him?"
"He is besotted with you."
"He is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats."
Sansa gasps and pinches you again. "Do not be crude!"
You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful.
Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often.
Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, "As I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him."
You tsk. "And why should I deny the next Warden of the North?"
"You are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you."
"That only makes me want to marry him, Sansa."
She huffs. "Out of spite and stubbornness?"
You shrug and smile at her easily. "There is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish." Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.
"Hush, I meant no offense." You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansa's face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one.
"Besides, Robb is not mine."
Her curiosity peaks. "Oh, and who's is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain." While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyne's affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent.
You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it.
"He will be the strangers."
You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.
***
The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dreams being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress.
She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened.
So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again.
In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated.
With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. "That is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?"
Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears.
"The prince will be here very soon."
"Yes." You respond as if that means nothing.
She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. "That is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared." Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.
You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. "No need to be upset." You say. "Even if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age."
"That is not what upsets me!"
"Then tell me what does."
Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. "What if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?" She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.
You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face.
Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.
"Sansa." Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. "If the prince does not like you then he is a fool."
"But how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!" She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.
"I’ll kiss you."
Sansa's breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.
"What?"
You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. "You are not hard of hearing, dearest."
Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.
She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince.
She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. "Alright, kiss me then."
"Are you certain?"
"I said kiss me, did I not?"
It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. It's nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung yours.
So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands.
A moment of quiet, then-
"That was hardly a kiss!" Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling.
You laugh and laugh until tears run stream down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.
***
You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept.
Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable.
"What are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance." She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.
"Red fennel flowers."
"Whyever would those be your favorite?"
"It is what they signify."
"And what do they signify?"
Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.
"Victory." You whisper.
Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.
***
When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.
And a moon later, in the hours after her father’s head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.
***
Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.
But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.
She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.
“What is it, sweet girl?”
Sansa shakes her head, “I did not mean to stare, it's just..”
“You remind me of an old friend, is all.”
“Oh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.”
She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.
Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.
She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.
Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.
Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.
***
Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a ‘little pet’ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.
She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you. In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.
He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.
***
Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.
The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.
While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.
She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.
Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.
***
The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.
Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansa’s and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.
Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.
Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryen’s boots make temporary marks in the snow.
His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, “I have a gift for you.”
Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. It’s like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.
There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.
She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her. She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.
A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.
“Lady Stark.” She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.
It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.
Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. “Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,” She faces her again, smiling tenderly. “As are you.”
Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.
Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.
“Winterfell is yours, your grace.”
Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.
Jon’s hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. “Let us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-”
Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.
Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.
You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange. She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.
You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together. It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.
“Yes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.” The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.
You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.
***
The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.
It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle. Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.
You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.
The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.
“You took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.” You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood. The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.
There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.
“Yes.” She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. “Why are you here?”
You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. “I wished to see you,” you tell her, words slow like falling snow.
You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket. You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansa’s dying grip.
She parts her lips, and says, “How flattering it is to be sought out.” Instead of voicing her grief with you.
A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.
“Fuck, I had forgotten what a rude child I’d been.” You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice. Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.
Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. “Yes, well, I can see little has changed.”
Again, you laugh. “Too much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.” Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.
Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.
Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.
“I missed you.” You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.
She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.
“I missed you too.”
***
There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.
Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.
You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.
“You have been rather quiet.” You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you. The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.
“The dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?” She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.
The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. “When would words matter, if not now?”
Sansa huffs through her nose, “Foolish words could be your last.”
“That is for all of time.” You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. “Death has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.”
A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.
Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.”
Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.
“Oh dearest, I do not.” You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. “You do not need to follow something to know it is real.”
“And how do you know it is real?” The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.
She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.
You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.
The wet clings to her thumb.
“Do you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?” Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.
Her hand does not leave your face. “I..” She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.
“Yes. I- I believe I do.” The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.
“Is that what you are? Do you see all, know all?” She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know. But you were only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.
You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. “Goodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.” Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek. You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. “I am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.
Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that. Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,
Jon and his true parentage, Arya’s whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.
But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd, mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.
“That must be confusing.” Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.
“T’was, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.” You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansa’s eyes like you are searching in her soul. “Although, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.”
She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. “And what is that?”
“You.”
Sansa blinks, “Pardon?”
You sigh, “Oh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.” Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. “There was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.”
Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.
“How..”
You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.
“I have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know naught what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew naught else.”
And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.
She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss. She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.
It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.
A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.
Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryen’s lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.
Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.
Jon squawks, “Dany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.
Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, “Please find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.” She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.
Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.
The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. “Come along, Jon. Leave them be.”
He begrudgingly follows after her.
“She will be a good queen.”
Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her. Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.
“Go to your queen.” She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.
Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.
Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.
***
They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.
She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister.
Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. T’is an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.
“Are you not pleased to see me, Sansa?” Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong.
“Of course, I am. Do not be foolish.”
Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.” It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow.
“No.” She whispers, “No, I was not looking for you.” The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.
Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. “Well done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Arya’s voice cuts through.
“I saw her, she is alive.” The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown. It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.
“She is well?”
Arya scoffs, “I believe I said ‘alive’. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.” She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. “I know you have always been quite vain bu-”
“You do not.” Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more.
“You do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.” It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Arya’s mummer's mask of indifference slips. Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes.
She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “You are right, I…I do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.” She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.
“As I said, mayhaps you never knew me.” Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.
“It has always been her, always.” She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words.
Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. “Then go to her, Sansa.” She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. “Go find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.”
She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. “She’s a lovely knight, Sans. I’m happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.”
The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep.
Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined.
She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.
***
The door of Sansa’s bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart.
She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound.
“Have you not bathed?” Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics.
She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.
“Whatever are you doing?” Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises.
“Do you have any other wounds?”
“Nah.” You scoff “Those ice fuckers only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.”
There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while the Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair.
As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.
She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.
Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. “War is not over, is it?” She asks, not ceasing her ministrations.
You do not look away from her, “No.”
You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere. Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.
She does not.
“Will you go to Kingslanding?” She breaks through the silence, “Will you follow Daenerys?”
You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.
She wants you.
With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. “I…I wish things were simple, though they never are.”
Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansa’s.
“What would I be?” You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. “What- What shall I be if I stay?”
“Mine.” Sansa says, “You shall be mine.” And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea.
You taste of blood and peach and home.
The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of your leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair.
Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make.
“I love you.” You whisper into her.
She gasps, “Yes, yes, I love you as well.” And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.
“I covet you.” The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.
Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. “So many words, too many words.” She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, “So many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.”
“Sansa-” You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.
“Show me.” She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs.
The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress.
“Show me,” She whispers, “Show me how you covet me. I want to feel it.” You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head. Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.
Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty.
You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress.
The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted.
***
You stay.
***
The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.
Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots.
He does not glance away from the face in the wood. “Do you think there was another way?” He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father.
“Do you think I could have saved her?” He says again.
Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandei’s demise.
She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.
“She was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.” You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort.
“No.” She decides. “You cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.”
Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way.
“When did you become so wise?”
She laughs, “Mayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.”
They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine.
She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment.
For that is the life of a woman.
Jon stands, smile never ceasing. “I am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation, you grace.” Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives.
Sansa hums, “She will be pleased I am here with you.” She gently knocks her shoulder into his. “She loves you, you know.”
Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. “She is my oldest friend.” Is all he says in return.
“Well then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.” She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness.
“Ah yes.” He chuckles. “The men of castle black will learn respect lest she eat them for sup.”
Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jon’s steps come to a halt.
“Well, won't you look at that.” He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing. A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.
“Red fennel flowers.”
Sansa blinks, startled. “Pardon?”
“Red fennel flowers.” He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring.
“Those signify-”
“Victory.” Sansa whispers.
She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.
When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.
You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.
The End