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What If

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Sansa frowned as her older sister’s betrothed, the boy king as Grandmother calls him, smugly escorted the Stark girl to the altar. The girl’s face was unreadable but from her seat, she can see the puffiness of her eyes due to crying.


Sansa felt sorry for her, the girl was sweet and friendly and since Grandmother announced that the girl was to marry her oldest brother Willas, Sansa felt very excited. She wanted the Stark girl to be his new good sister, though Leonette, Garlan’s wife, was a nice woman she was older than her and the Stark girl was of her age so she could have a companion in Highgarden now that Margaery was going to be Queen. But the plan failed as some “craven bastard”, Grandmother said, told the Lannisters of their plan to marry her to Willas.


Her scowl deepened as the Lannister King, for he doesn’t look like a Baratheon and there are rumors swirling that the King was a bastard born of incest between the Queen and her brother, removed the stool that Lord Tyrion was supposed to use to cloak the Stark girl with the Lannister gold and crimson.


I can’t believe Grandmother and Father want Margaery to marry that boy, she said to herself and a part of her felt thankful that she wasn’t the one to marry the King. She knew that Margaery can handle the boy, her sister already has him wrapped around her little finger making it easier for Margaery to manipulate him. Besides, Loras is now a member of the Kingsguard and Sansa knows that he will do his best to protect their sister from harm's way. 


As she watched Lord Tyrion and Lady Lyarra made their vows in front of the Septon, she sighed. Let Grandmother and Margaery play their games, I will still continue my friendship with Lady Lyarrra, I won't leave her alone in this den of lions. She thought and smiled as Lyarra Stark’s sad blue eyes met hers.


Chapter Text



"The King has accepted the betrothal between House Lannister and House Targaryen."


Sansa looked up from her plate and watched her Father in surprisethere was a hint of a triumphant smile on his face and in his cold emerald eyes, a rare thing to see after her Mother died birthing her youngest brother, Tyrion.


Sansa knew that her Father for years had been trying to broker an engagement between her older sister, Cersei and Prince Rhaegar, the King had repeatedly ignored it but now it seems like their Father has finally succeeded.


She then stared at Cersei who was seated beside Jaime. Her sister was beaming from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with glee while Jaime, on the other hand has an unreadable expression on his face and his hands were clutching his utensils tightly.


Though Sansa didn't really like her sister, she still felt happy and a little jealous because Cersei not only gets to become a Princess but she'll also become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day.


Prince Rhaegar was a kind man and Sansa likes him, she remembers when she was young that the Prince would often sing to her while playing his harp whenever she visits the capitol when her Lady Mother was still alive. Now it has been years since she last saw the Prince.


"When we'll we be married?" Cersei then asked, her lips still curled into a smile.


"You won't be marrying anyone Cersei, not yet."


Their Father answered and Cersei's smile faltered while Jaime raised his brow in question.


"But you said a betrothal between House Lannister and House Targaryen."


Lord Tywin nodded, "Yes, a betrothal between the two houses, the King agreed to have a Lannister Queen for his son, the Prince Rhaegar, but it is not you, Cersei."


Sansa's heart pounded as her Father's eyes slowly went to her direction, no, he does not mean that-


Her Father gave her a warm smile, like those he gives her mother when she was still alive.


"Father?" She asked in confusion.


She nervously glanced at her siblings sitting across the dining table; Cersei's eyes were now filled with tears, eyeing her with contempt while Jaime was trying his best to comfort their sister.


"The wedding will take place five moons from now and the Queen wishes for you to visit the capitol as soon as possible after you finish eating, you will pack your things and we will leave tomorrow morning, do you understand?" Her Father asked her sternly.


Sansa gaped and nodded absently. She was going to be Queen.


Chapter Text




"Mama! Mama! Look!"


Sansa smiled as her three-year-old nephew-no-"son", pointed at the seashells lying on the sand. Aaron (the false name they've given Aegon) was laughing as he ran and picked up the small shells and presented them to her and his Father.


"Pretty shells." Her son commented and both she and her husband laughed.


"Yes, pretty like Mama." Her husband said and Sansa felt her heart pounding quickly against her chest.


Aaron let out a sound of approval and ran back to his nursemaid.


She doesn't know how or why but things have changed since the night of their wedding.


Everything started out as a plan to protect Aegon, Elia's son from the Usurper and keep his identity unknown. So she claimed Aegon as her bastard son. 


But she didn't expect both her brothers to be furious and demand the identity of the child's Father, and in panic, she inadvertently named  Ashara's brother, Arthur as Aegon's sire.


So now here they are and not only that she was protecting Elia's son but also Rhaegar's other son with Lyanna Stark.


She knew that she was supposed to hate the boy, his dead mother was the cause of war and the reason why both Elia and Rhaenys are gone but she can't bring herself to loathe him. Jon, the babe in her arms, is innocent of his mother and father's mistakes and though both Oberyn and Doran are angry with her decision to keep him, she doesn't mind. The babe was now her and Arthur's son, not Rhaegar's nor not Lyanna's.


"You look troubled, are you fine?" Arthur then asked.


Sansa hurriedly shook the thoughts from her mind and smiled, "No husband, I'm fine."


"Are you sure? Just tell me if you are not well and I'll get the maester to check you and our babe." He said as his hand rested on the soft swell of her belly.


She blushed at his words and felt her heart swelling with love, who would have imagined that a kingsguard and a legendary knight like Arthur Dayne has a soft loving side?


She just nodded in response and reached out to cup his face, "I am fine." She repeated again.


He smiled and pressed a soft kiss on her lips. "I love you..." He whispered, his blue-violet eyes staring intently at her with adoration.


"And I love you too..." She whispered back. 


Chapter Text



Sansa hides her smirk as the old maester announces that the Queen and her babe are dead. No one will suspect that it was poison for their Queen was a frail girl whose body was not made for birthing babes.


And if anyone finds out, she knows that no one will accuse her, poor little Sansa Snow, of murdering their Queen, for she was a gentle, soft- spoken and kind bastard girl, the opposite of her rowdy and crazy twin brother, Ramsay.


She owes it to her brother, the poison was Ramsay’s idea and the two of them already used it without problems with Domeric, and though people has suspicions that it was Ramsay who killed Dom, no one seems to have the courage to voice it aloud. It secured Ramsay’s place as their Father’s heir.


And now, it will secure hers as Queen.


She knows that her Father thinks highly of her and wants her to become the next Lady of Winterfell (now the Queen in the North due to war) even if she was baseborn. And he brought her to Riverrun, in hopes that she can catch the eyes of King Robb.


King Robb was a nice man; kind, honorable and just. He was also handsome and strong. He has a good mind in politics and is a great war commander but Father thinks that the King is still a green boy.


She fails at her first attempt to seduce him. He was courteous around her and spurned her advances when she comes to him and Sansa thinks that it is because of her baseborn status. No high lord or King would want to marry or pay attention to a girl like her and she hated being a bastard because of it. But she didn’t stop; Robb Stark was hers, only hers.


When he brings back a girl from Crag, Sansa’s heart breaks and Father scolds her for not doing her best. But Ramsay, her twin, comforted her and told her that they will find a way and promised her that he’ll eliminate the Westerling girl for her to become Queen.


And that evening, when the King was drowned with grief, Sansa comes to him and consoles him for his wife and child’s death. She lets him take her maidenhead and when she fell asleep beside him, Sansa smiles in triumph, King Robb will probably ask her to marry him knowing that he’ll be afraid of angering her Father, Roose Bolton commands half of the Northern army, without him the Starks are lost.


Chapter Text


"Grey Wedding"


One.. two.. three...

Sansa silently counted the number of guards her Father brought in the godswood.

Only ten, she thought, perfect.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she watched Ramsay wed Lord Stark's remaining daughter. Lyarra Stark have grown so much since she last saw her, the girl was still eleven, readying herself for her journey south.

It was still peaceful then, there was no wars or betrayal and the North were still a part of the Seven Kingdoms, still united and strong. But now it is torn, their rightful leaders murdered thanks to the contribution of her Father.

She was embarrassed to face Lyarra, they were once friends, no, Lyarra Stark was once her sister. The Starks were her family as she spent most of her life here, fostered in Winterfell. She never considered Roose Bolton as her Father the moment he turned a blind eye to her brother's murder.

Now it disgusted her that her Father legitimized her brother's murderer and even named him his heir. It angered her, her Father always thought that she was weak and soft but tonight she will prove him otherwise, tonight she will prove to him that she was a Bolton.

The ceremony ended quickly and she slowly made her way to Ramsay. She'll need to congratulate her bastard brother and wish him a happy wedding.

But as she moved towards him, she caught the sight of Lady Maege Mormont and  Lord Galbart Glover moving silently in the shadows. She gave them a nod, a signal that their plan was already in motion.

"Ramsay." She greeted her brother.

"Sister." He said in his malicious voice that always made her shiver.


She smiled and hugged him.

The thought of embracing the monster sickened her but this is needed to be done. And as quick as a flash, she pulled the dagger hidden behind her back and plunged it deep into his chest, to be over it swiftly.

"The North Remembers." She whispered grimly and thrust the dagger on his chest once more.

"For Domeric." She added and pushed him away from her.

Ramsay fell down, gasping, his eyes wide and startled and a pool of blood surrounded his body.

It started then, the horns around her sounded and the small retinue of crannogmen, Mormont and Glover soldiers emerged from the shadows and killed her Father's guards and Sansa moved and pulled Lyarra Stark aside.

"I'm sorry. For your brother and mother." She whispered to the trembling girl and handed her over to Lyra Mormont.

She went back to the heart tree and saw her Father being restrained by Lord Glover. His eyes were fixed on her and they were full of anger.

"You. You are no daughter of mine." He spat.

"And you were never my Father."


Chapter Text


"The Moon Door"



Sansa tapped her fingers on the armrest of the great weirwood throne, her ice blue eyes focused on the brass doors in front of her.

She took a deep breath as it opened and in came the Knights of the Vale, with them, were two disheveled figures their hands shackled.

They stopped in front of the moon door and Sansa stands, the low murmuring of the lords and ladies inside the Great Hall of the Eyrie silences as she steps forward.

She spots her Great Uncle Brynden standing beside one of the columns in the hall, his Tully blue eyes that were the same shade as hers were distant and sad.

He had tried to beg her not to do this but she knows she must. Mother or not, the thin woman before her, murdered her Father, killed their Lord and she must be punished as well as her associate, the mastermind of it all. And the only penalty suited for their crime was death as what the Lords and Lady Declarants decided.

"My lords and ladies, we are gathered here today to witness the execution of Lady Lysa Tully Arryn and Lord Petyr Baelish, the two were found guilty of poisoning our former liege lord, my Father, Lord Jon Arryn." She kept the steel in her voice and tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat.

Though her Mother had neglected her ever since she was born, she still loved her as much as she loves her Father. She knew this was wrong and it was kin slaying but the Lord Declarants justified that it was not and  that they were only giving justice for her Father's death.

"Lady Lysa, Lord Baelish, do you have any final words?" She asked, her voice trembling a little.

Her Mother lifted her chin and looked at her defiantly, there was no love in those Tully blue eyes that stared at her, only hatred and contempt.

"I never loved you or your Father." Her mother answered and Sansa felt that her heart was crushed.

There was a noise of outrage coming from the crowd but she quickly silenced them.

Was it really that hard to love her Father? She thought as she continued to stare at her Mother. Jon Arryn may have been an old man but he never once missed an opportunity to show her Mother that he loves her. He was kind, honorable and he gave her Mother everything that she wanted but it seems like it wasn't enough. Sansa knows why.

The very reason was beside her mother. Petyr Baelish, she eyed him with disgust and anger.

He didn't speak, he only smirked like he found her an amusing view to watch. His stare caused her to shiver but she quickly turned away and ordered one of the guards to open the moon door.


The angry howl of the wind echoed throughout the room as the infamous door opened. From her place, she can see the dark rocks that were a thousand feet below. These rocks will be her Mother's final place. The rocks that will kill the very person who brought her to this world. 


She bit her lip enough to drew blood, there was no turning back. 


She paused and her gaze turned to the two knights restraining her Mother and Baelish. 



"Make them fly." She whispered almost inaudibly and she closed her eyes as she heard her Mother screamed. 


Chapter Text

Even if seventeen years has passed she can still remember her.

There was no night during those past years that she didn't see her face or hear her voice in her dreams.

She can still recall how beautiful she was; olive skinned, round faced with those soft dark brown tresses that she remembers grasping when she was but a babe and her eyes, the kindest and most expressive set of eyes she'd ever seen in her life.

Her voice was as gentle as her touch. Sansa can still remember the tones of the songs she sang for her and her baby brother to lull them to sleep.

She missed her, there was no day that she does not think of her and how she saved her from death by sacrificing herself. And there was no day that she does not wish that she could turn back time and rescue her.


She may have called Catelyn Stark, "Mother" but she knows deep down that no one could ever replace Elia Martell in her heart.


Chapter Text

It was wrong, completely wrong.


What would her Mother and Father say if they learned that she let a man dishonor her before she was even wed?


And this man, he was no ordinary man. He was his sister's betrothed.


Brandon Stark was a picture of fierceness and masculinity. Wild wolf, they call him. He was handsome, with his dark brown curls and steel grey eyes.


He arrived, a couple of weeks ago, to meet her sister Catelyn and court her, yet here they are, confined inside his bed chambers, naked as their name days and their limbs tangled.


She knew the moment their eyes met that he was the one for her. This man was the only person who made her heart race with his gaze. And his jokes and words were the only things that could make her blush. Things that she hadn't experience with the heirs of her Father's bannermen vying for her hand.


"I love you." She confessed, breaking the silence between them.


She should be guilty by now, this man was Catelyn's intended and he should be spending time with her sister not her. Yet Brandon Stark wasn't interested with the eldest Tully girl. His eyes were always fixed on her, following her around and glaring at anyone who would dare talk to her.


"I know." He whispered and kissed fully on her lips.


Her eyes stung and her chest ached. Somehow, she felt that she would never see him again, that he’ll never come back.


"Do you really have to go?"


It was probably the nth time that she asked him that question yet every time the words escape her lips; she can’t stop herself from sobbing.


"I need to save my sister." He answered grimly, his once mirthful eyes unsmiling.  


Two days ago, a raven came from Winterfell bearing the news that Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Brandon and the small retinue of Stark men he brought from Winterfell are now preparing to go to the Capitol to save his sister and demand the Prince to pay for his actions.


“Promise me you’ll come back to me.” She said again, her voice trembling.


Brandon sighed, his fingers gently wiping the tears from her eyes.


“I will.”


Weeks after he left for the capitol, the news of Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark’s death arrived at Riverrun, and it was the youngest Tully who wept more than her sister, surprising everyone around her.



Chapter Text

Visenya, Visenya Targaryen.


The name, her real name, sounded foreign to her ears and her tongue refused to roll the syllables correctly. Her life was a lie; everything and everyone she believed in were all lies.


 For the past seventeen years of her life, she was led to believe that she was Sansa Stark, second child to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. People often commented on how she took after her Mother, in beauty and bearing. But they were all wrong, for she wasn’t Catelyn Stark’s daughter. The real Sansa Stark was long dead, she was born with a fragile heart and weak body and she didn’t last long, she passed hours after her birth.


Howland Reed told her of how Catelyn grieved, how she refused to talk to anyone even her husband and that she neglected her duties as the Lady of Winterfell and as a Mother to Robb. It was until one day, she came out of the nursery holding Visenya in her arms that she recovered. Since then, her Mother had insisted on calling her Sansa and everyone kept it as a secret, that the Lady Stark had taken their Lord’s bastard daughter as her own, as a replacement to her lost child.


She refused to believe Howland at first, she thought it unbelievable and crazy. She was a Stark, everyone says she looked like her Mother, her eyes were Tully blues not dark indigos and her hair, and it was the color of cooper not reddish brown.


Even Jon, her twin brother as Howland claims, wasn’t convinced with Howland’s words. It was only when the Dragon Queen came and set her and Jon aflame with dragon fire that she finally accepted the truth. Both of them survived and went out unscathed and unburnt.


She felt guilty for being horrible to her twin brother but Jon dismissed her apology saying that they were only children, oblivious to reality.


Now people commented on how she took after her real Father, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. They spoke of how the two of them are alike, that while Jon inherited his prowess in battle, Sansa was the one to have his Valyrian features and his deep affinity to poetry and songs. But life was not a song, it was a truth both Rhaegar and Sansa suffered and learned.



Chapter Text

Sansa Tyrell 

“Why does it have to be Joffrey Baratheon? Why can’t I just marry Robb Stark?” Sansa asked after listening to the arguments of her parents and grandmother.

The three of them stopped talking and turned their eyes on her, she bit her lip in process and she can see her grandmother raising her eyebrow. It was the first time she spoke her concern after years of letting her Father and Grandmother manipulate her life, her Father was the one who pushed her to marry Renly and now that she’s finally widowed they are looking for another potential husband, another King.

And they want her to marry Joffrey Baratheon! The boy king whom she heard was as cruel and mad as the last Targaryen King. Her Mother had voiced her thoughts about this after they heard some reports that the boy enjoys hurting his betrothed, Margaery Stark, whenever her brother’s army wins against the Lannisters but her Father was adamant with his plan.

She swallowed hard and stared at her hands, she had never done this before, what if they won’t listen to her?

“I… well, you have heard Renly. Joffrey is not a Baratheon but a bastard to Cersei and Jaime Lannister, he had no claim on the Iron Throne, while Robb, he is a trueborn Stark, a King crowned by his people and he seems to be winning this war.” She said in so much haste that she doubt if they heard her well.

There was a long silence in the room after her speech and she was nervous that they won’t consider her words; she really doesn’t want to marry Joffrey. She hasn’t meet Robb Stark yet and she had no idea what he is like but from what they have gathered, he was a good leader and his subjects loved and respected him.

Finally her grandmother spoke, “She has a point. Robb Stark will make a better husband than the Lannister boy. Perhaps he’ll also be a fine King.”

“But he’s already betrothed to a Frey! And you know how Starks and Tullys are, they take their oaths seriously!” Her Father disagreed.

Olenna Tyrell snorted, “Oaths can be broken and the Freys can be easily dealt with, do you really want to marry your daughter to that bastard?”

“No but…”

“Then we must prepare to meet the Starks.” Her Grandmother cut him off. “But before that, we need to get them a gift, something that could ensure their agreement to this alliance.”

“What kind of gift is that, Grandmother?” She asked curiously.

Olenna Tyrell stared at her with a knowing smile on her lips, “We need to get Margaery Stark out of the capitol.”

Margaery Stark (Set during the Riot in Kingslanding)

She was about to turn towards the alley to find a hiding place when an arm suddenly snaked around her waist and a large hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. Fear crept in her chest and she tried to struggle free, what if this person was one of those men chasing her?

She can feel the blood rushing in her ears and her heart beating heavily as the person dragged her away. She thought of the possible things she can do to escape, perhaps she should bite him in the hand or maybe step on his foot.

"Hush Lady Margaery, I'm not here to hurt you, I'm here to help."

As soon as she heard that voice all her thoughts and fears went away. She stop moving and the hand that covered her mouth dropped. She quickly turned to see the face of Ser Loras Tyrell who still looked so handsome despite his shabby clothing. It was already a long time ago when she first meet him at the Tourney of the Hand, when her Father was still alive and she remembered him giving her a rose and complimenting her beauty at the event, and up until now she can still remember what he looked like.

"Ser Loras?" She whispered in surprised, her brows furrowed as she stared at him.

The knight hushed her again, "It's a long story but I'll try to explain once we get out of here."

There were a lot of questions that she wants to ask him but now the idea of getting out of King's Landing and be free of Joffrey were the only things that mattered in her mind.

"But where are you taking me?" She asked as she trailed behind him.

"I'm taking you to Riverrun." Ser Loras answered. "To your brother and Mother."

Tears filled Margaery's eyes. Home, she was finally going home. 


Chapter Text


"They are losing." Sansa said as her eyes focused on the bloodbath just a few hundred meters away from her. "I need to help them." She then added as she turned to the old knight who was called Davos.

His eyes were unsure and desperate when he stared at her. "I'm afraid I can't let you Princess, Jon had made it clear that you are not allowed to use your powers."

She rolled her eyes in frustration and ice grew from the reins of her horse. She can't complain though, it would be just normal that they won't trust her, she was a white walker after all, well, half-white walker for her Mother was a wildling who died giving birth to her, but she was still the Night's King's daughter and part of her Father's plans were to eradicate humans from the face of the Earth.

But Sansa had always been different, despite having the blood of the Others and being the daughter of the Night's King himself, Sansa was a human at heart. Perhaps it was because she's a half breed that she can feel human emotions like compassion, love and pity, things that her Father and their kind cannot understand. And though she loved her Father with all her heart, she was ready to set aside familial relations to do the right thing, to save humanity from death and extinction even if it meant that she would face him.

And how can these humans fight the real threat if they were busy quarreling themselves?

This battle could have been done in seconds if Jon Snow would let her freeze his enemies to death but no, he didn't want her to help and felt that the right thing to do was to face them in the battlefield. Plus, he also doesn't trust her and she was still angry at that, was saving his Uncle from being turned into one of the Others and bringing him to the Wall alongside Bran and the Reed girl not enough to prove that she wants to help?

And then there was his sister, Lyarra who seem to be more agitated than usual and Sansa noticed that Jon Snow's younger sister always glances southwards as if waiting for something to arrive.

Looking back to the gore in front of her, she sighed, Snow's army of wildlings and soldiers were now trapped between a wall made of dead bodies and Bolton's men whose spears were pointed at them. There was no escape and even with the help of Wun Wun the giant, there was no chance of victory.

Finally done with it, she kicked her horse forward and ignored the calls of Ser Davos and Lady Lyarra urging her to come back.

She let go of the reins and lifted her arms, she gritted her teeth in concentration as she let the energy flow through her veins and her eyes locked on the lifeless bodies of people she will reanimate.

"You can all thank me later." She muttered under her breath and the ground started to shake surprising both sides and all their eyes widened at the sight of the dead coming back.


Chapter Text

Jon Snow, despite his sullen face and brooding nature, was still as handsome as his brother, King Robb. He was also nice, kind and perhaps a little awkward but Sansa knows that he will make a fine husband for her.

Of how her Father managed to convince the King in the North to get his brother out of the Night's Watch and promise him to her, she doesn't know. She was even surprised when instead of pledging to Stannis, the Lord of Tarth took all his men, his fleet and Sansa to Riverrun and bend the knee to Robb Stark.

Perhaps it was because of her sister that their Father chose Robb over Stannis. Father had always trusted Brienne's decision and tries to support her if he can. When Brienne decided to join Renly's cause, renounced her inheritance on the seat of Evanfall and joined the Rainbow Guard, her Father didn't complain nor made a move to stop his heir, he just let her go.

Now, the burden of being the next Evenstar and Lady of Tarth went to Sansa. She doesn't want her Father's seat however, her only desire she was to be married to a knight and be a lady of a small keep not the whole Sapphire Island itself but she can't reject it. Her Father was already heartbroken with Brienne's decision (their Father doesn't favor Brienne over her but she's got a feeling that he would have preferred it if it was her warrior sister who would inherit Tarth) and she doesn't want to further sadden him by refusing.

So when her Father told her that she would marry King Robb's natural born brother to preserve their name and help her rule Tarth, she doesn't object. She trusts her Father and she knows that he only want what's best for her.


Chapter Text


“You must be brave child. If I die, if Edmure and his son dies, you will be the Lady of Riverrun. You must promise me that you’ll take it back. Do you understand Sansa?”


Her Father’s last words was what entered her mind the moment she stepped inside the halls of her home. Her eyes roamed around, scanning the area, searching for a particular man; a big one with graying strands of his red hair and mirth playing in his Tully blue eyes, the same shade as hers, as Arya’s.


The said man didn’t welcome her, though, instead what she saw was blood and gore, dead bodies and mutilated parts of fallen soldiers, a result of the battle that happened earlier when she and her sister, together with the Knights of the Vale and Northmen fought to reclaim her ancestral home.


She turned around and ran towards the dungeons, wishing, praying that she would find him there, that the reports were wrong, her Father isn’t dead, he’ll be there, chained inside a cell, waiting for her to come. She’ll release him then, and she would see his proud and loving smile again, the one he used to wear whenever her arrow hits its mark or when Arya defeats him during their trainings.


But no, the Blackfish wasn’t there waiting for her, only Edmure, her stupid cousin Edmure, the one who surrendered Riverrun, ordered the guards to open the gates and caused her Father’s death.


He looked filthy, unshaven and nothing like the man, she and Arya used to hug and tease when they were young. He seemed shocked to see her standing there, if she noticed the look of regret in his eyes as he stared at her, she ignored it, instead she gazed at him in fury, she would never forgive him. She wished that the Freys or Jaime Lannister should have slaughtered him after they have taken Riverrun, he doesn’t deserve to live not after what he has done.


She wanted to scream at him, blame him for everything but she chose not to. If the Lords of the Riverlands that remained loyal to the Tullys would still accept him as their liege, she would set him free, but for now, she’ll cleanse this castle from Frey stink, she and Arya will rebuild it and prepare it for more wars to come.


And wherever her Father was now, she hoped that he was proud.



Chapter Text

A Rose that Thrives in Winter 



She hates it; the wary looks on their faces, eyes accusing, judging, untrusting and full of contempt, silently screaming her aunt’s name wherever she went. She tries to ignore it as much as she can, she masks her face with a courteous smile to hide the pain and makes her way through the Northern crowd.

She doesn’t need to hear whispers for she already knew what they think of her. She blames it on her uncanny resemblance to her aunt, perhaps if she didn’t look like a younger version of Lynesse Hightower, blonde hair and all, the North would trust her and people won’t think that she and her aunt are the same.

Hiding inside her room won’t help, she was betrothed to the King’s newly legitimized bastard brother and her absence in occasions will be taken as slight so she decides that if she wants to prove them wrong, she’ll need to impress them, she needs them to see that she wasn’t just another materialistic southern girl invading their land.

And to do that she needs to adapt to the Northern ways so she starts with her clothes, she trades her beautiful silk and satin dresses to the simple ones made of cotton and wool. The next one she changed was her hairstyle, she started learning how to arrange her hair in uncomplicated braids unlike those she would wear in the South. She learns their songs, their traditions, their beliefs, she tries to befriend Lady Stark, the healers and soldiers and sometimes even her betrothed’s wolf, Ghost.

Jon, her betrothed, quickly noticed the changes and Sansa didn’t bother to hide the blush that formed on her cheeks when he told her that she looked beautiful in a Northern dress. And she thinks that it’s only the start, she still has a long way to go before she can convince everyone that she isn’t her aunt, but she knows she will thrive after all roses don’t only grow strong in the South.


Chapter Text




“You can’t be serious, Lysa!” Catelyn Stark exclaimed in horror after hearing her younger sister’s words.

Of all the ways she imagined her sister would react to the news, this was not what she expected. She thought of possible fits, angry words, blames, and perhaps things becoming violent. Yet, none of those happened and Lysa’s voice and facial expressions were shockingly… calm, like they were only discussing the weather and not the gravity of Sansa's, Lysa's only daughter and Catelyn's niece, situation.

It confused her how her sister could remain tranquil, when Catelyn, on the other hand, would have beheaded Jon Snow on the spot with her husband’s ancestral blade, Ice, if not for her children's intercession, after she discovered that the bastard got Sansa pregnant. Ned, after seventeen years, finally had the decency to send Jon Snow away, and if her own blood wasn’t the one involved, Catelyn would have been delighted that the bastard finally got evicted from Winterfell.

That was also the first time she had seen Ned very angry. Her usually cool-tempered husband had been furious when he heard the truth (Catelyn could still recall how his voice echoed throughout the halls of the keep) and he hadn’t only been disappointed with his bastard but also saddened by Sansa’s careless actions. The girl had been their responsibility after she was sent to Winterfell as ward four years ago and both husband and wife were hoping to match her with their son, Robb.

“I am.” Was Lysa’s only answer.

“Do you even hear what you are saying?” Catelyn asked, horrified. “You want your daughter to marry that boy? He is a bastard, Lysa!” She cried out.  

"A highborn bastard." Lysa corrected her. “I am well aware of what he is, but it doesn’t change my decision.” Lysa raised her chin as she responded and it reminded Catelyn of Sansa when she outright told her the feelings she had for Jon Snow. “Sansa will marry him.”

"No," Catelyn stated firmly. "I will not have my niece marry my husband's dishonor! Think of your daughter, Lysa! If getting rid of the babe is what you’re worried about, we could have her married to Robb, and we won’t only be saving her reputation but the babe as well.”

That was the only solution she and Ned can come up with. There was no way she would let her only niece wed Jon Snow (she and Ned shared the same sentiment, for the first time), and knowing full well what happened to her sister, bringing up the subject of tansy wouldn’t be a very good idea.

"Fuck honor and reputation!" Lysa yelled angrily as she slammed her fists on the table, startling Catelyn. "I am Sansa's mother and I know what's best for her! And if you think that she would have acted on her own accord, then you are wrong, I already know about Jon and their relationship, in fact, I even gave them my blessing.”

"Lysa-" She started, but her sister interrupted her.

“Listen, Cat,” Lysa said softly, this time, “Sansa is my daughter, the only child I have and will ever have. I may not care for her Father, but I love my daughter so much.” Lysa sighed. “And I know how you feel about your husband’s bastard. I know that you are afraid of his future and the possibility that he or his children will challenge your son and grandchildren’s claims, but he doesn’t care about Winterfell or the North, Cat, he only wants my daughter and he is ready to give anything just to be with her.”

“And think of this, if he marries Sansa, he will be her consort and he’ll take up the name Arryn, not Stark, his children, my grandchildren, will be the heirs to the Eyrie and Vale and not the North.” Her sister explained. “I only want Sansa to be happy, Cat. What kind of Mother will be I if I rob my daughter the happiness she deserves to have?”

Lysa’s words surprised Catelyn however, she could see the point in it. It’s true what her sister said, with Sansa’s position as the heir to the Vale, she would need to wed someone with lower birth for the Arryn name to continue and despite Jon Snow’s bastardy, Catelyn perceived that the Lords of the Vale won’t go against it for the love they have for Ned.

She may hate Jon Snow for being so much like Eddard Stark, resemblance, and disposition, yet Catelyn couldn’t deny that he was the kind of man she wished her only niece, to have as a husband.

(She hasn’t told anyone, not even Ned, that she could sometimes see her and Ned’s younger self in Sansa and Jon, she wondered if her husband also noticed)

Lysa was right, Catelyn loved Sansa like a daughter, the child she dreamed she had, and the Lady of Winterfell also wanted her niece to be happy. Yet, she was so blinded by the hatred she had for Jon and his unknown mother that she failed to realize that he was the only one who fulfill Sansa’s needs.

“I’ll talk to Ned about it.” She breathed.

Lysa’s face lightened and suddenly, Catelyn was trapped in her sister’s embrace.

“Thank you, Cat.” She whispered. “I know you’ll understand,” Lysa said as she pulled away.

After Lysa left, Catelyn let out a deep breath. It was hard, and this wasn’t what she expected, but the sake of Lysa and her niece, she will have to accept it. She was about to go and see her husband when the door of her solar suddenly burst open and Ned came barging in.

“Ned? What’s wrong?” She asked in worry.

“Cat, there’s something I wish to confess.”

“What?” Now she was perplexed.

Her husband took a very deep breath before he continued, “Cat, Jon is not my son…”

Oh, gods, she thought as she clutched her heavy head, now what?


Chapter Text


"Fathers, Bastards, Secrets, and Broken Promises"




“She was meant to be my Queen.” Robert murmured forlornly as he laid the feather on Lyanna’s open palm.

There were unshed tears in his friend’s eyes and Ned wished he could comfort him, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to heal, Robert’s broken heart, and besides it was better this way, better that Robert continued to believe that Lyanna died in captivity, not birthing Rhaegar’s child.

“Nonetheless, it’s still possible for that marriage to happen,” Robert said as he faced him. “You have a son, I have a daughter. Let’s join our houses together.”

At first, Ned misheard it, he thought that Robert meant to marry his heir to Arya,but as the words repeated in his mind, he realized that it was the other way around, his son to Robert’s daughter. And it shocked him, Robert’s daughter was no older than ten years, too young to be betrothed and seven years younger than Ned’s firstborn, Robb.

“You must be japing, Robert!” Ned exclaimed. “The Princess Myrcella is only eight years!”

Robert eyed him in surprise before bursting into laughter, “I didn’t mean Myrcella, silly!” Robert laughed. “Remember, Sansa? My daughter from a Riverlander wench that I brought to Storm’s End?”


Ned nodded. Of course, how can he forget?

The girl’s mother was one of Catelyn’s ladies in Riverrun, a distant Tully relative, that Robert bedded the same night with Ned and Catelyn’s wedding. She died during childbirth, just a few days after Catelyn delivered Robb, his wife pitied the bastard and raised her alongside their son. When the war was won, Robert took the bastard (an act that surprised Ned), brought her to Storm’s End and gave her a Northern name as gratitude to Catelyn’s kindness. He never heard of her since then, he just knew that the girl had the auburn hair of her dead Mother and stormy blue eyes of the Baratheon’s.

“Well, she’s recently flowered. She’s a sweet girl, you know? Renly’s fond of her. Deserves better than what she currently has.” Robert explained. “I wish to legitimize her so she can have a more advantageous marriage, but I can’t risk offending the Lannisters. That’s why I’ve decided to marry her, to your Jon!”

Promise me, Ned. Promise me. Lyanna’s dying wish repeated in his mind.


No, no, no, no.

“What!?!” Ned sputtered. “No, Robert… Jon is…”

“A good lad, Ned! A fine boy! And a handsome one! I’m sure Sansa will like him and it’ll only be a waste if he’ll just end up in the Night’s Watch. He’s already a little old, but I could still take him as a squire, once he is Knighted, he and Sansa could marry and perhaps I’ll give them some lands in the Stormlands or maybe the Queenscrown.”


Thoughts raced in Ned’s mind, Robert’s offer was too good. He does want Jon to have a good life and not doom him in the Night’s Watch, but he worried for Jon’s safety. Jon may not look like a Targaryen, yet one wrong move and the secret, Ned promised that he will take to his grave might come out and harm Jon and his family. He couldn’t risk it.

But before he can speak, a large hand clamped on his shoulders and Robert’s blue eyes locked on his grey ones.

“No more buts, Ned.” His friend said in his Kingly voice, one he knew that won’t accept any rejection. “My daughter is already on her way here to meet your son, and I expect a betrothal contract to be signed in a fortnight.”

With that, Robert walked away, leaving Ned frozen in front of Lyanna’s statue. His friend has always been adamant to get what he wants and Ned knew that there was nothing he could do to change Robert’s mind.

The Lord of Winterfell closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry, Lyanna.”



Chapter Text



The night he received the word of his younger brothers’ deaths, he had been tempted to sleep with Jeyne Westerling.

For once, after the North had placed a crown on his head and the world upon his shoulders, he wanted to be himself, again. To be Robb, little lord Robb, the headstrong heir to Winterfell, not Robb, the Young Wolf, the King in the North.

He ached to be comforted by a woman’s touch, to lose himself and pretend that he was just messing around, like he and Theon did in the past, bedding a brothel girl unbeknownst to his Mother and Father.

But, he reminded himself, it was Theon who betrayed him, who killed his brothers and burned Winterfell; Jeyne, though a daughter of the enemy’s bannermen was still a lady and he was already promised to another, to sleep with her would not only cause dishonor but a rift with the Freys. And the last thing he needed in this war was another enemy.

So he did what he must, he honored his promise with Lord Frey and married one of his daughters, Sansa, a surprisingly beautiful girl from the Late Lord’s brood.

And now as he ascended the steps in the Sept of Baelor, to punish those who wronged the Starks and the North and brought Westeros to chaos, he spared a quick glance at his now pregnant wife. She looked every inch the Queen she was; with the small bronze crown, identical to his own, resting on her hair and the simple yet elegant gown of Stark gray and white. Their match wasn’t made out of love or duty; it was a necessity, his need to win the war, which tied their lives forever. He doesn’t know if it’s possible for them to fall in love with each other, yet seeing the small but dazzling smile on her face made him realize that he made the right choice. Jeyne Westerling wasn’t a woman worth losing a kingdom for.




Chapter Text

Sansa had lost count on how many times she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her least favorite Uncle (she never really liked all of them, even her own Father), now (or rather for now) turned husband, was once again preaching about how he would conquer the Seven Kingdoms, and the Dragon Queen, with his ships and big fat cock


The scene was rather pathetic and unsettling, and if it weren't for the fact that she loved her home and her sister (Theon too despite his stupidity) too much, she wouldn't have agreed to this plan. 


At first, she found it sloppy, thinking that Euron would be wise enough to realize the folly. Seriously, who would believe that Asha, along with Theon and the crew of the Black Wind, died in a shipwreck before the Kingsmoot? And she was very surprised, and thankful, that he bought the news quickly. 


His demand to marry her, "to protect their legacy and preserve their blood" as he claimed, was rather unexpected. She was supposed to be the one to suggest the idea, as planned, but she was glad to have skipped the torment. 


Like her sister, Sansa was no maiden. She already had a fair share of sexual experiences, having had lovers, men and women alike, from Essos to Sothoryos, so she had no qualms of bedding her Uncle yet the idea was still rather unpalatable


It was only for the time being, however, as only a day ago, she received a missive from her sister that the negotiations with the Dragon Queen were doing well. 


Patience, that's all she needed to have for now, as it wouldn't be long before the Iron Islands welcome a big change, a new era. The age of the Salt Queens. 

Chapter Text

Betrothal II


It hurts.

Even if Rhaegar had explained, thoroughly, why he needed to do it. It still hurts her to see him placing the wreath of winter roses on Lyanna Stark’s lap.

Her hands trembled and she bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, to stop the sob threatening to escape from the back of her throat.

The pitying glances of the people present in the tourney, her Father’s glare and her sister’s gloating face only made the matters worse, making her want to grab her children and disappear in thin air.

But it’s only for the prophecy (and for her own sake), a voice from her mind reminded. When Rhaegar first told her of the old prophecy he found in the depths of the vast library in their home, Dragonstone, she had thought that the man she married was crazy.

It was only when she and their eldest son, Damon, a boy of only two, started having nightmares of creatures with soulless blue eyes, Westeros covered in ice and thousands of walking corpses that she hesitantly believed him.

She could give him another child, his third heir and the last head of the dragon that the old scroll required, but due to her frailness and the difficulties she faced in her pregnancies, Rhaegar wouldn’t want to risk her life. It was him who suggested that they use another woman to give him what he needed, she didn’t agree at first, not wanting to share him with another and was irked with the idea that someone might contest her children’s claims for the throne. But Rhaegar reassured her, he told her he loved her so much that he didn’t want to place her in danger and the wolf maid was only a tool for their safety and success in the coming war.

However, seeing the familiar sparkle in his eyes when he named the Northern girl his Queen of Love and Beauty caused her to fear and made her want to doubt him. Those had been the same light that his purple depths had in the first months of their marriage.

Letting out a fake smile, she hoped that her husband was true to his promise, Lyanna Stark won’t take her place in his heart. 


Chapter Text


She can't remember how long she'd been here. She can't recall her own name, her real one, nor did she remember ever having a family. She has had many identities that she had forgotten about her own. She had done every mission given to her and dedicated her own life to serving the House of Black and White, that was all that matters. 


But when that girl from Westeros came, she started to doubt herself. She envied that girl, what was her name again? She wanted to experience what that girl had once. A family, a life. 



She knows she can easily escape, yet, she won't. Perhaps she'll do it someday, or perhaps never. 

Chapter Text

Sansa Tarly, Randall Tarly's eldest daughter, and Sam's younger sister was so unlike the girl Sam had fondly talked about in his stories. Reddish brown hair, sharp blue eyes and pale pink lips curled in a rather permanent frown, it was very obvious in her expression that she was none too pleased to be dragged there. With her Father and brother dead, burned along with the other Lannister soldiers and Tarly men to what Westeros now called the Second Field of Fire, Jon understood that bending the knee to Daenerys will be the last thing on her mind. 

A fighter, she has a great mind in battle just like Father. Of all of us, she took after Father the most and though he might not admit it, Father favors her more than Dickon.

He remembered Sam once said. 

What happened in the Rose Road was wrong, very, very wrong. He had not expected that the Tarly patriarch and his son will be one of the casualties and he didn't know they sided with the Lannisters, betraying their liege, either. Randall and Sam may not have that strong of a relationship as Father and son, still, Randall Tarly was his friend's Father. Oh! He regretted even encouraging Daenerys. 

"Jon Snow, right? The King in the North." Sansa hissed, spite and venom heavy in her words.  Jon nodded absently, too lost, too divided. 

"You were Sam's friend and you let our Father and brother burn!"

Jon took her accusations without refute, when he had the right to do so. He had no idea they were there and this war shouldn't even be their focus. The real enemy was in the North. But he held his head in shame. He had no idea when he will ever see Sam or if he will have the guts to even face him but Jon was currently standing in front of his sister. 

"Sam spoke highly of you when he returned to Horn Hill. He said you were the most honorable man he ever met but you never were, were you?" She said, tears streaming down her blue eyes. Hastily, she wiped them away before looking him straight in the eyes. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

Jon Snow's heart sank.


Chapter Text


A month after the tourney, Rhaegar left for a trip to the Wall, claiming that he wants to visit his Great-Uncle Aemon and promising that he'll be back in a sennight. He brought with him two of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell. Sansa let him leave but there was such great unease that settled in her heart when he said his goodbyes. 


She knew Winterfell was one of the stops before the Wall and she feared that he might see Lyanna Stark again and fall in love with her. They never talked about what happened in the tourney, she never brought it up their conversations, waiting and praying that he'll mention it, that he'll apologize and say that it was all a facade. Yet he didn't. 


So now as she watched the sun set a fortnight after his alleged visit, Sansa was certain she had finally lost her husband to the Wolf Maid. 




Her Father always told her that with dark wings, come dark words so she was no longer surprised when one night, Maester Pycelle told the Small Council that Lord Rickard Stark claims that his daughter had been kidnapped by none other than her husband. 


She took the news as the faithful wife she is, with a soft, fake smile and then carefully murmured that perhaps Lord Stark was mistaken. And that his child might have run away or eloped with some low-born peasant seeing that she had wild and unpredictable blood. It was a lie, and everyone in the small council knew that. 


The Mad King in his usual self, sputtering nonsense but was obviously enraged at his son's actions. Queen Rhaella had been spared the news to prevent any stress in her delicate condition. Her children, oh, they've been asking when their Lord Father will return. 


And her Father, he still wore that stoic expression of his but Sansa knows that he was angry, furious at her husband for slighting her and their house. She knew right now he was planning for the worst case and that includes securing her and her son the Throne. 


Sansa felt betrayed. He promised her and he broke it. Perhaps she shouldn't have allowed him to pursue the wolf bitch and she deeply regrets it. If he really wanted that child, she would have done her best to provide it, since it was her only use to this little game. He chose Lyanna though and there was nothing she can do if he was really 'in love' with her. 


That night when she laid Daemon to his bed, she vowed that Lyanna Stark and her future child won't usurp them in their home and Daemon will still be King of Westeros. 

Chapter Text

Ever since she was young, Sansa already knew that she wasn't a pure Targaryen. She heard it in the dark halls of the kitchens and the holdfast; bastard, bastard, she would hear the handmaidens and kitchen wenches whisper when they think she was not around. She could feel it in her Mother, Queen Rhaella's, detached affection. And she could see it in her appearance.

Red hair instead of silver-gold, blue instead of indigo or amethysts.

There was no ounce of Targaryen in her looks and sometimes she wonders if she really has dragon blood running in her veins. Perhaps, the man she called Father, in his madness, became desperate to finally have a daughter that he had his Kingsguard snatch her from her true family's home. Yet, her kindly handmaiden had assured her that she was indeed a part of this insanity and her mother was the King's last mistress. The one he had tortured along with her family, when he suspected her of poisoning Sansa's brother, Jaehaerys.

Sansa was only four summers when it happened, too young to understand but she can remember her true Mother's kindly face, and how she sang to her before she slept. They say that the King also wanted to kill Sansa, who had lucky enough to be conceived and born in the first place (the King, when he was still in his right mind, would often supply his mistresses moon tea to avoid bastards), but it was Lord Varys who had convinced the King not to kill his bastard daughter. It was him who suggested he set her aside, a reserve, in case the Queen will fail to give the King a daughter and the Prince a wife sooner.

Perhaps it was true, as when Sansa was flowered, the King immediately brokered a betrothal between her and her brother Rhaegar and immediately sent her to Dragonstone to accompany him.

Sansa didn't see much of her brother when she was young. Rhaegar was already 11 years when she was born and he mostly spent his time in Dragonstone. On some occasions, they would see each other, when Rhaegar would return to the capitol for her, the King or the Queen's namesdays. Though their past relations were not that strong, Sansa thinks she didn't mind being betrothed or married to Rhaegar. Her older brother was perhaps the most handsome man (if not next to Ser Arthur) in the Seven Kingdoms.

He was always kind to her and he even made her a song on her thirteenth nameday! How romantic was that?

He was still distant to her, however, there were times that he would avoid her and sometimes would only exchange a few words, but Sansa was determined to make her brother love her. If they were to become husband and wife they would need to love and trust one another, and she vowed that they will not become another Aerys and Rhaella. 


Chapter Text




The floor cracks with each step she takes, the train of her tattered gown glides as she crosses the large room, her destination set on the mirror found beside the large icy entrance of her abode. Behind her, the creature known as the Night’s King kneels, it’s eyes trained on the ground, refusing to look up at its mistress without her permission. He was undeserving of her gaze, so he waits for her to speak. 




His mistress, instead looks at the mirror, her gateway to the world beyond the walls that separates them from the warm, living flesh and beating hearts if the Westerosi people. Conjured by the same magic that kept the both of them alive, the mirror shakes, producing an image of a man. A man, the creature knows so well. It was the man who defeated one of the Night King’s own by an ordinary blade, but regardless of his victory, the man was nothing sort special. The Night’s King could crush and revive him as a mindless wight in an effortless feat. 





Involuntarily, he hisses through gritted teeth. Why was his mistress so interested with this man? He wants to ask, but it wasn’t his own place to question his maker, despite how curious he may be. He doesn’t want to, he wasn’t allowed to. His own free will had been lost a long time ago, when? He can no longer recall, all he knows is that he is her to serve her, and serve her he will. 





The tale-tell sound of ice breaking resumes then stops almost immediately as it starts. The creature found himself staring at the darkened nails of his mistress’ pale blue and bare feet. Regardless of his own nature, he can still feel her coldness seep into his body as she places her hand on his face, urging him to look up.



He does, and his soulless eyes meet with hers, icy blue like his, of a deeper shade, even more frightening. Sometimes, when she lets him look, he feels as though he can recall their first meeting, the first time he saw her eerie eyes, where he felt like she was sucking his soul through her gaze, slowly robbing him of his humanity and turning him like her. 





“My love,” she coos, her blood red lips producing a cloud of cold air. “My knight.”





“Rise,” she commands as she removes her hand from him. He follows, eyes now focused on her shoulders, which were hidden behind the curtain of her red and white hair. 



“You have acquired a dragon, I see.” He grunts in acknowledgment. “Good. Good,” she hums. 




“With its power and your blessing, the Wall will fall down.” He speaks. “Soon, your revenge shall be served, my mistress.”





At this she smiles, her lips crooked deviously as she hums in approval. The air seems to have changed again, darker than before. If he was still a human as he was before, goosebumps would have risen from his flesh and his body would shiver at the ominous air that surrounds him, but he was now a creature of ice, and the cold and darkness fuel him. 





“Oh my servant, soon it shall be, but now, I bid you one more task,” his mistress speaks again, “Bring me this man, Jon Snow. Azor Ahai. Bring him to me alive. It is the time we meet again.” She says as her fingers trail the dark hollow on her chest, where a human’s heart was supposed to be found, resting beneath the torn embroidery of a grey wolf.




Chapter Text



Rhaegar, her husband, was dead.



Images of him dying on the banks of the Trident, the rubies of his chest plate scattered and bathed with his own blood, whilst Robert stood before him hunted her.



She would dream of it sometimes and his death would replay in her mind a couple of times. In some of those dreams, she could even hear him saying his last words. The name of the woman he loved. Lyanna Stark. Once he would utter the she-wolf’s name, Sansa would wake up, gasping, her eyes full of tears and heart on the verge of breaking all over again. She loved him still and would love him forever, but the weight of what he has done had broken her heart and burdened the whole realm. She wouldn’t be able to forgive him for being so reckless, for putting her and their children in jeopardy.



It was rather ironic that in the end, she was still the one to provide him the three heads he had wanted so much. Joanna Targaryen, her youngest child, had been born a just a week before her Father’s death. Her pregnancy had been a secret and even the Mad King didn’t know about it. Her Father was in the right mind to send her and the children back to Casterly Rock while he handles the things in King’s Landing. He, the whole Lannister household and her bodyguards, Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn were the only ones who knew about the secret. Both Dornish men stayed by her side because of her good sister Elia, who was married to Jaime. She had been a welcoming host, and her children, Meriah and Tybolt, instantly became playmates to her twins, Damon and Alyssane. Jaime had also been a supportive brother. Sansa had been glad that her Father decided to marry him to Elia. Her oldest brother had changed a lot since he was separated with Cersei, who was married to Elia’s brother, Oberyn. Sansa also noted that Elia, and was overjoyed, befriended Tyrion. Her little brother was deeply saddened by her departure from the Rock and it also doesn’t help that their Father had restricted Tyrion from visiting King’s Landing.



In the months she lived in the Rock with her family, away from the madness and suffocating grip of King’s Landing, Sansa felt happy regardless of the fact that her husband had run away with another woman. She felt like herself again and even experienced little problems with her pregnancy.



That is until the news of Rhaegar’s death finally arrived in the Western lands.



Rhaegar had forsaken her and her children, broke his promise to him, but he had been her husband and she loved him still. She grieved as a wife who had lost her husband would, however, at the same time, she needed to be strong for her children.





Three moons after Rhaegar’s death, King Aerys Targaryen, the third of his name, died, whilst giving sentences to those who had spearheaded the rebellion, delaying their own deaths. Maester Pycelle had concluded that the King’s heart had given out during the bout of his madness. Yet Sansa believed otherwise. She knew deep down that her Father had something to do with it to further secure her son’s throne and she had no complaints. Robert Baratheon will pay his due just as Rhaegar paid his own, but for now, Sansa will prepare. For a new era will come to the Seven Kingdoms. A new King will take his crown, and a Queen Regent will rule in his stead. For now.



Chapter Text



Heavy Lies the Crown




If there was one thing right Sansa Baratheon's Father ever did in all her life, it was to foster Sansa in Highgarden, under the "good" and "kind" hands of the Tyrells. It was a surprising decision really, after all, that has happened in the past and thanks to all Lady Olenna's teachings and witty remarks, she had come into conclusion that her Father or Lord Arryn's, rather, a decision to keep the Tyrells in line. They were loyal Targaryen supporters ever since the day Aegon Targaryen named them the Lord Paramount of the South. While she likes them (she idolizes the good old Queen of Thorns, she was also good friends with Tyrell brood and their cousins and with the Lord and Lady Tyrell), they were an ambitious bunch. They "had" been Targaryen loyalists, yes, but they also want to be recognized, to have an in-depth grasp of power and sending her there only fueled the rumors that she may be betrothed to Willas Tyrell. She likes Willas, he was a good man and an enjoyable companion and she adored and loved him so much, but only as a younger sister would to her brother. Sansa thinks that she was destined for something more, more than being just the Lady of Highgarden and the Reach.

This destiny of hers, however, came in an unexpected way. In the form of her two Uncles, Stannis and Renly, Lord Eddard Stark and Ser Barristan who had surprised her one day. She, Margaery and the Tyrell ladies had just arrived from hawking when she was called into Lord Mace's solar. It hadn't been a surprise at first since any news that came from King's Landing was always discussed privately with Lord Mace. Yet, as she paced through the bright gold and rose-filled halls of Highgarden, a great unease settled deep down her. Something was wrong and she can't decipher what. It got worse when she saw the familiar Baratheon guards, ones who definitely were not apart of her retinue. Her heart was beating hard as they acknowledged her. Did her Father finally order her return to King's Landing?

She wasn't ready yet, she never really liked her home. It was only filled with bad memories; of her Mother and Father's frequent disputes, her Father usual state of drunkenness and his love for whoring, her Mother often treating her with cold regard in favor of her golden head and green-eyed younger siblings. Even Uncle Jaime had never been that welcoming to her. It was always just her, her Septa and sometimes Ser Barristan and Ser Arys. They had become the mother and father figures for her, and when she arrived in Highgarden, it was Lord Mace and Lady Alerie who filled the gaps her parents failed to fulfill. And it was Margaery, Loras, Willas and Garlan who became the siblings she had always wanted, not stupid Joffrey with his cruel antics, not Myrcella, who had been a younger, more beautiful version of their Mother and certainly not baby Tommen, whom she wasn't able to spend much time with. Home for her was never King's Landing, home was Highgarden. Yet, she never truly belonged here either.

"Her Grace, the Princess Sansa is here to see you, milord." The young page, who stood before the door along with the Baratheon and Tyrell guard, announced. When the large ornate door opened, the copper-haired and blue-eyed princess entered with great reluctance and fear, expecting to find her Father or some of the Kingsguard. Instead, what welcomed her were her two Uncles, Lord Stark, and Ser Barristan Selmy. All wore grim expressions on their faces and it wasn't a good sign. There was a long and awkward silence as she doesn't really know what to say. This wasn't the "coming home" party she envisioned to see. Where was her Father? It hurts to think that even on the day she was about to return to King's Landing, her Father wouldn't even spare his time to come see her. When was the last time they even saw each other? Almost a year ago? That was the Tourney of the Hand. He hadn't even thought of bringing her to Winterfell. The Royal Household had already returned to King's Landing when she learned that Jon Arryn died and Ned Stark had taken his place.

"Ah your grace, please, have a seat." It was Lord Tyrell who broke the tension, offering her a seat. She nodded, still a bit dumbfounded.

Never show your fear or hesitation. Your enemies or even the others will think that you are weak. Always show them that you are certain of your thoughts and actions, and you are confident about yourself. Remember, you are a princess. You are above all of us."

Lady Olenna's advise echoed in her mind and it was then that Sansa gained composure. She had shed the reluctant expression on her face in favor of a cooler and a braver mask.

"My Lords and Ser," she started, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" She then flashed a sweet smile.

The three lords regarded each other first before her Uncle Renly spoke.

"My dear niece, your presence had been missed, I wish we could still do some catching up, but there is something you need to know." He said, sounding serious as ever.

"Your grace," it was Lord Stark who spoke next, "your Father is dead."

Sansa blinked, once, twice, thrice, trying to understand what Lord Stark had said.

Dead. Her Father was dead.

The words filled her mind, and suddenly, the unease that her heart had carried had broke. The mask fell and she could feel the tears falling from her eyes.

"W-what?" She stuttered.

"The King is dead," Stannis repeated, his cold eyes boring on to hers. Her Uncle Stannis had always been distant, more serious and less approachable than her Uncle Renly was. He and Sansa never interacted a lot when she was still in King's Landing, but she was a child then and he was never really known to be a child-person especially with his tragic history with children. She thought that he would be less caring when delivering the news, but there was concern hidden beneath the same blue eyes with hers. She could see it, she could feel it.

"H-how? W-when?"

"A hunting accident. He was killed by a boar. " Ser Barristan said solemnly. "A sennight ago."

Her face contorted, a sennight ago? Why has she only heard the news now? Why didn't her Mother care to write for her? Lord Arryn's death had been one thing, but her Father. By gods, it wasn't fair! It was her every right to know that her father had died. She never even had the chance to say goodbye.

"A sennight ago," she repeated with disbelief, "he died a sennight ago and no one cared to inform me?" She asked, eyeing the men before her. Nothing changed in Stannis' expression, but Lord Mace, Uncle Renly, Lord Stark and Ser Barristan all wore the same look on their faces. Pity. Nervousness. But she knew there was something else. Something they are keeping from her. There was something eerie about the four men barging into Highgarden to bring the news of her Father's death. Sending a Kingsguard, like Ser Barristan, or Renly would have sufficed. Lord Stark and Uncle Stannis were both members of the small council, with her Father's passing, shouldn't they be in King's Landing, preparing for Joffrey's coronation?

There was the silence again. Why weren't they answering her? The news already hurt so why were they still keeping things in quiet? Couldn't they be more straightforward of their intentions? 

"What is it?" She asked. "Just tell me why you are all here? Please!" She begged, her watery eyes searching those of the men in front of her. 

Ser Barristan came forward, a satchel in one hand and a scroll on the other. He gave it to her. She slowly opened the satchel first, and she gasped as it revealed her Father's crown. She placed it on her lap gingerly and with shaking hands, she opened the scroll. 


In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Paramount of the North, serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the realm upon my death to rule in my stead until my rightful heir has come to age. 

Robert Baratheon

It said and below the hastily written decree was her Father's sign. Her fingers skimmed over it gently, as tears threatened to spill from her eyes again. Robert was never the best father in Westeros yet Sansa loved her with all her heart. However, she couldn't grasp why the crown and her Father's last decree was given to her. 

"I... I don't understand." She whispered, brows furrowing. "Joffrey is..."

"Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen aren't Robert's children. They are bastards born of incest by Cersei Lannister and her brother, Jaime. We also have strong evidence to believe that your Mother has something to do with your Father's death." Lord Stark interrupted, "Your grace, you are your Father's rightful heir and the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." 

The crown and the scroll both scattered on the ground as Sansa Baratheon blacked out.



Chapter Text


They were brought in the House of Black and White almost at the same time.


She had been a girl no older than eight, wide-blue eyes and flaming red hair, whimpering and scared, and he had been a boy of eleven, scrawny and tall with that unruly dark hair of his. She was a bastard of a Magister from Pentos while he had been an orphan, a peasant. Without nothing to live for nor to lose, they complied with their new master.


They were drawn to each other, two children who both had nothing tied to their names.


They lived together, slept together, ate together and trained together. In all her life, he was the only closest relations she ever had. Her Mother, a nameless woman she'll never know, had long died when she was a babe while her Father, a rich and fat bastard, had refused to acknowledge her and abandoned her. She had been alone until they found her and took her with them, and then she met him.


Their memories continuously fade every time they changed their faces.  


Once, he had promised to be with her always, to love and protect her and maybe escape the new prison they lived in, they planned and planned. But time passed, and the longer they stayed and trained, the less and less they remembered; of their pasts, presents, dreams, identities, and names.


Perhaps in another life, she'll remember his name again.


And how his lips tasted against hers, how his body fits hers perfectly, how deep the sound of his moan was and how he would call her name in the throes of passion. Perhaps in another life, she'll come to love him and he'll feel the same way. They'll have a child of their own, a house, a family they always wanted and craved. Perhaps in that life, they'll be free of restraints and have a name of their own and find the true meaning of happiness.


But he was a long forgotten past and her future and present only belongs to the Many-Faced God. 



Chapter Text



The parchment laid in front of her, a mere few inches away, giving her a glimpse of the dark words it brought. Her dark eyes bore on it, lips curled in a frown as she focused specifically on the tell-tale seal that had graced the missive. 




A spider. 



Knowing very well who sent the said message, she had no intentions reading it at first, but the bird had left her a cryptic advice. Read it, she can still remember, said by a seemingly innocent looking child turned weapon by one of the powerful men in Westeros. The Master of Whispers they call him. Spider. Eunuch. Varys. 



For months, she had enjoyed the solidarity and tranquility of her summer home, away from the news and rumors of the realms outside of her own but it seems that she had isolated herself too much. 



"The Prince and his heir are gone. So are the Sands. It is time for the last true blood of House Martell to return to her home and take her rightful seat as the Princess of Dorne."



The first tears fell when she processed the first words. She had to bite down the sobs that threatened to wrack her body. 



Doran and Trystane were gone. 



Her husband and her firstborn. Her son. Though she no longer held the same love and affections she once had for her estranged husband, the opposite could be said for their son. She had loved Trystane so much, as any mother would, from the moment she learned that she was pregnant and until now. it had taken everything from Mellario to entrust her son to his Father and the deadly games of Westeros. She had regretted her decision a year after she returned to Norvos. Yet, with all the assurances from her former guard, Areo, and her good-brother, Oberyn, she believed that Trystane would be safe and he could live to take his Father's seat and rule Dorne. Oh, but she was so mistaken! 



But grief turned into anger. 



How dare he? How dare that Eunuch to ask her to bring her daughter back to the wretched, murderous place? 



Sansa, her beautiful daughter, a splitting image of her good-sister, Elia, was the only connection she had left with Doran and Trystane. She won't give her up. She won't see her daughter be swallowed and murdered by the same game that cost her former husband and son. Birthrights and names be damned. Sansa will stay here, within her reach, where Mellario could see her alive and well. 



The scent of burning paper wafted in the air as Mellario exited the solar, a sweet yet, forlorn smile forming on her lips as she called for her beloved daughter. 


Chapter Text


Of all her Stark cousins, Princess Sansa Baratheon liked Jon Snow the best.


He was always kind, chivalrous and respectful to her and perhaps to every woman in Winterfell. He also gives her his share of lemon cakes and always indulges her whenever she wants to play knights and maidens, something Robb always abhorred to do. Sansa wonders why her Mother and Lady Catelyn detested the poor boy. She can understand Lady Catelyn's feelings but Sansa could never comprehend as to why Queen Serena hated Jon when they shared the same blood.


She also does not understand why her Mother hated going back to Winterfell but she does know that it's probably because Father always insists on visiting her Aunt Lyanna's grave whenever they would visit. Aunt Lyanna was her Father's former betrothed who died in the war which happened years ago, the same war that put her Father in the throne that once belonged to the Targaryens, making him the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa believes that her Father loves her Aunt Lyanna but since she was gone and duty demands that he put an heir to the throne, he married her Mother instead. 


It was a loveless match. Sansa and her siblings were the first-hand witnesses of the unhappy marriage. The Red Keep always echoed their ugly fights and it was always Lord Arryn who would shield the princes and princesses from their parents' arguments. And while she was happy to be sent away, Sansa was sad that she can't be with her siblings as Lord Arryn and her Father had sent them to different houses to appease the other nobles. An action, which no one's surprise, her Mother was also angry about. Sansa worries about her sometimes and thinks that she must be extremely lonely in King's Landing without her children. Sansa loves her so much but she is afraid of the spiteful woman her Mother has become. 


Looking back again to her Aunt's portrait, which she has been studying for a while now, she surmised that her Mother's hate must have come from the fact that Jon Snow resembles Lyanna Stark more than he does with Ned. 


Chapter Text


"Do you like her, Father?"


If not for the gentle tug on his sleeve, Jorah would have missed his daughter's question. The knight glanced down at the young girl, frowning as he is reminded again of how she looks so alike her Mother as she grows older. Despite her red hair and blue eyes, which she had inherited from Jorah's side of the family, Sansa Mormont was an exact replica of her Hightower mother. The resemblance was so uncanny that Jorah can't sometimes bear to look at her, unwilling to be reminded of the pain he had undergone after Lynesse left him and Sansa, who was only two summers back then, for another man who can sate the luxuries she craved. Jorah wanted to hate his daughter at first, loathed that she evoked memories of his failures in life, especially from his marriage to Lynesse. But no matter how much he desired to do so, he can't bring himself to detest the only good thing that came out of his failings. 


Jorah considered the question first, his mind formulating a possible response. Sansa was too young and too innocent to understand his purpose here so he can't exactly confess the truth to her, lest it will jeopardize his plan and his only chance of getting a royal pardon that will bring them back to Westeros. 


"I don't know, child," he answered, his eyes darting towards the nervous Targaryen girl sitting beside Drogo. He wanted to pity her, he can't imagine Sansa being put in the same situation, but he can't also harbor such feelings for this princess. As much as he hated to put up with this farce, he had no choice. Think of Bear Island. Think of your daughter. "It is far too early to tell. But the Magister tells me that she is a gentle soul. Mayhaps she could become a good Khaleesi to our Khal." 


Satisfied with his words, Sansa nodded and brought her attention back to the merriment, the blood and gore, of Daenerys' and Drogo's wedding. A heavy sense of guilt clouded his emotions as he watched his daughter enjoying the brutal display of Drogo's men fighting for a woman. These things weren't supposed to be what a lady of Sansa's birth be watching. At her age, she should have been learning poetry and doing things that ladies in Westeros do. But then again, Jorah remembered that they were Mormonts and Mormont women are brought up differently compared to other houses in the Seven Kingdoms and even in the North. They were fearless and brave. Just like his beloved daughter, his heir. 


Observing the newlywed Targaryen princess again, Jorah hopes this mission would be fruitful. 







Chapter Text



She found him in the nursery, standing grimly before the cradle of their children, twins just like her and him. Like Cersei and Jaime Lannister.


It was truly ironic, their Father had wanted them to replicate the three powerful Targaryens that forged the Seven Kingdoms together but instead, what became of his children was another Dance of Dragons.



The Greys against the Reds.



The Starks against the Lannisters. 



The only difference this time is that they weren't facing their own blood, but a pure Lannister spawn.



A pretender and a bastard.




She approached him, taking careful steps as to not wake their sleeping children. 



"I wish things were different," Jon whispered his voice heavy with emotions that reflected her own. People always said that they think and felt alike. Perhaps it was due to their connection as twins which has strengthened now that they are husband and wife. 



"It will be different," she stated firmly, reaching for his hand to reassure him. She knows that he was thinking about the same thoughts that had plagued her mind ever since Ser Barristan and Daenerys arrived in Dragonstone, both wounded and feverish from escaping King's Landing, bringing the grave news that they had always wanted to avoid. 



No, they won't be another Rhaenyra and Daemon. Nor will their children suffer and die in this war. Everything will end in fire and blood, but not theirs. It will be of Joffrey, the bastard claiming the throne that rightfully belongs to them, of Cersei and the rest of the Lannisters. 



"We will win this war."



In centuries, Westeros had only seen the fire but now they will bring with them the wrath of ice. 



And if the gods will favor them, another Jaeherys and Alysanne will rule the Seven Kingdoms again. 



Chapter Text



The moment his brother ordered them out of the room, she already knew what she had to do. King’s Landing will no longer be safe for all of them when Robert dies. Her brother’s impending doom had just confirmed the suspicions she had harbored for a long time, one she had adamantly refused to believe because of the love she bore for both Myrcella and Tommen. Waiting for her good-sister to leave, she moved fluidly towards the only person who can relieve her from her predicament.


“Might I invite you for a walk, Lord Varys?” She whispered, glancing at Renly pacing frantically and Pycelle who was nervously fidgeting his maester’s chains. The two were distracted enough not to notice her talking to Varys, but the conversation she wanted to relay to the eunuch wasn't meant for others. “Somewhere far from prying eyes and ears.”


“But my lady,” the eunuch hesitated, his eyes lingering on the doors of her brother’s royal chambers. He may look like he cared but she could see through his façade, through all their façade. She can only count the number of people who truly concerned about her brother’s coming end, Ned for one, Ser Barristan and Renly perhaps. However, the other member of Robert’s small council has little care for their King, after all, a monarch’s death only meant a rise of another to take his place. It won’t be Joffrey though.


“Now,” she hissed, lacking the energy to mask her stress and annoyance. Varys reluctantly agreed and offered his arm and Sansa had practically dragged him out there, her eyes wandering from side to side, watching for spies. She knows most of them by now, who they serve, and their favored places to stay in. They filled every nook and corner of King’s Landing, but Sansa knew of a place they don’t go in. “The godswood, quick.”


Once they reached the silence of the godswood, Sansa released the breath she was holding just as she moved away from Varys’ person. The realization of what she was about to do hit her in full force that she needed to lean on one of the trees that surrounded the sacred place for support. Oh Robert, give me strength.


“Ah, the northerners and their strange gods,” the eunuch commented, scanning the area curiously, “I must confess, this is my first time setting foot in this place after King Aerys’ death.”


“And pray tell, what were you doing here during Aerys’ reign?” Sansa asked sardonically, “I never took you for a religious person, my lord of Whisperers.”


The eunuch gave her a knowing look, “Why, business, my lady. Contrary to popular belief, the Red Keep is not that dangerous. There are still places here that offer you safety and solace. Good places to discuss plans and schemes too, if you follow.” He tittered, seemingly sensing what she has in mind. “But enough of this idle chatter, Lady Sansa, I don’t believe that this is your purpose of bringing me here.”


Lips forming a small smile, Sansa replied, “You truly are a keen observer, my lord.” Then, when a solemn voice she added, “But tell me, who do you truly serve, Lord Varys?” She queried, studying the man’s reaction, but the eunuch’s face remained serene and unperturbed, making it difficult for her to read him. When Sansa Baratheon decided that she wants to play the game, she decided that the first step in her journey was to learn as to where the allegiances of the members of her brother’s small council lie, believing that it would be a vital tool in the future. She wasn’t wrong.  


However, before she had picked Varys, she had thought of approaching Littlefinger but quickly decided against the idea. Only a fool would trust Littlefinger. The man was ambitious as he was dangerous, his allegiances were only for himself, but Sansa was certain that he would immediately sell her to Cersei once he finds that it would give him a better profit. Lord Stark was wrong for trusting him, but Ned will no longer need him, Sansa will make sure of that.


Sharing her plans with Renly was never an option, she knows that the fool was planning to crown himself King, obviously cajoled by his Tyrell lover. That would be against Sansa’s plans and would evidently increase the problem tenfold.


Pycelle was also out of the question, the old man was a Lannister supporter through and through. Besides what would the old man offer apart from weird concoctions and poisons he was brewing?


So, despite the air of mystery and enigma that is Varys the eunuch, she chose him. She already pondered the risks of trusting him, as far as she knows this man has no true allegiances to everyone making him every bit as dangerous as Littlefinger, but Sansa has no other options.


“The realm, my lady,” Varys replied gravely, “someone must.”


“Then for the good of the realm, you must help me, my lord,” she responded despondently. “I fear that tonight’s events may lead to unpleasant consequences in the future.” Bringing her hand to her chest, she tried to calm the thunderous beating of her heart. She could feel the onslaught of guilt overriding her senses at the thought that she will need to leave her dying brother, her beloved Robert to the lions in his last moments in life.


I’m sorry, Robert. I’m sorry I kept you in the dark. I didn’t have the strength to tell you the truth about Cersei’s children. But I will make things right and I will come back for you.


Taking a deep breath, she met Varys’ dark eyes with her blue orbs will power she can muster. She was exhausted, mentally and emotionally but she can’t let herself rest while they were still in Cersei’s grasps. I must be strong like my brother.


“Help me ship the Starks and Renly out of King’s Landing and the realm will forever be in your debt.”


“And where do you plan to go, my lady?”


 For a moment, the youngest Baratheon sibling hesitated. It would be better to keep the eunuch in the dark but then again, by asking for his help, she had placed the lives of people she cared for in his hands. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to tell him the truth, mayhaps he can assist her better knowing where she plans to go. She sighed.


“Dragonstone. To Stannis, the rightful heir to Robert's throne.”


Chapter Text


The night had been so peaceful and quiet, so serene that Sansa thinks that the thunderous beating of her own heart might giveaway the secrecy of her plans. Failure was not an option to the heir of the Last Hearth, she didn't want all those efforts she had spent to only be wasted. Besides heavy punishment would await her and those who had agreed to lend a hand. 


(death  if they were found out) 


The goal was simple yet proved to be dangerous and difficult to fulfill; spirit Rickon Stark from the Last Hearth to Bear Island, to the Mormonts, the only house in the North that remained true to their loyalty to the Starks. However, this wouldn't have been the case if her Father wasn't blindsided by his grief at the loss of her grandfather and their former liege. Being Smalljon's only heir and now almost of age, Sansa had the luxury of knowing the goings and plannings of her Father. She loved him unconditionally, yes, but the despair left by Greatjon's death had changed her Father. 


His open communication and pledging of allegiance to the Boltons, the treacherous snakes that lead to her grandfather's demise, had left Sansa perplexed and angered. How can he? At first, she had thought that he was also doing his own scheming and he plans to support Rickon as the rightful heir to Winterfell and the North. But when Sansa learned that he would do otherwise and instead was planning to give Rickon to the Boltons, she felt the rage that she never had before. 


No, young as she may be, Sansa Umber wasn't going to let her Father send an innocent child to his own death nor will she ever bow down to the Boltons.


(she knows no King than the King in the North whose name is Stark)


Without second thoughts, she quickly put things in motion. She searched for a way to communicate with Lyanna Mormont, the only person who can relieve her with her predicament and the one who can keep Rickon safe even for a while. The idea of sending Rickon to House Glover had come into mind before but she doubts how long it will take before Lord Glover to also sway under the hands of the Flayed Men. She also considered bringing Rickon to the Wall to be reunited with his bastard brother, now Lord Commander, Jon Snow (Rickon might like the idea of reuniting with his kin after all the years separation) yet Sansa believed that it would be the most obvious choice and her Father and Roose Bolton will immediately figure it out. Perhaps then she would have hastened the Stark heir's impending doom had she chosen to do that.


So she settled with Lyanna and Bear Island. Sansa wasn't disappointed with the Lady's hasty response and willingness to shoulder the burden that Sansa had carried. It was further lessened with the assistance of the Stark loyalists in the Umber household, ones that Sansa trusted and knew too well. 


It would have been an entertaining spectacle to watch, her and Lyanna. Two young heirs, not to mention girls, trying their best to set out a great conspiracy, saving the last male Stark, and outsmarting the older and male lords that came before them. As she stepped into the perils of the night, her mind wanders.


(if her Grandfather would be proud, 


Or if the long departed Starks would have thanked her for risking her life for the sake of their son,


Or if her name would ever be remembered in the songs,


of damsels saving little lordlings in distress.) 



In the end, she wonders if her Father would ever forgive her.  


Chapter Text


"I'm not my brother."


He whispered all while leaving butterfly kisses on the expanse of her naked body. His hands were like hot brands, ready to leave their marks on her feverish skin. The evidence of the burning desire and lust on his eyes had shaken her down to her core, and she yielded herself to him, opening her body to his touch like a flower ready to bloom. By now, all the care and logic she had were thrown out of the window. 


Reckless, stupid, Arianne would have chided, regarding her with disappointed eyes. The mission that her Father had given her with utmost trust had completely lost to her mind, just as she had lost herself to this Dragon King. Daeron was supposed to be Arianne's betrothed, her future good-brother. Their Father had wanted him to honor the betrothal that the late Princess Visenya had drawn between their houses and sent Sansa to bring the news to him now that Oberyn was gone. Sansa had failed, but can they truly blame her? When it was difficult not to fall for this dashing young dragon king, noble and chivalrous, kind and ever welcoming to the younger, oft-overlooked Princess of Dorne. 


Sansa had always been contented with being the second choice, the shadow in her sister's wake. Yet when she met, she found that she no longer wants to be sidelined. Yes, she was promised the ruling seat of House Martell when her sister marries Daeron and become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but it would never be enough. Nothing will ever be enough now. This lust, affection, whatever it was between her and the Father of Dragons had ruined her, chased away the naive and giving exterior that she had always worn. It made her a woman.


"I will protect you." 


"I will cherish you."


Daeron, Daeron, his name felt like a prayer, a response to his sweet murmurs and promises, pouring out of her swollen lips as she finally gave in to the white-hot pleasure that engulfed her body. Like dragon fire, she thought fondly. There was a tiny amount of regret and uncertainty, taking root in the depths of her heart, feeding her mind with fear and apprehension of what tomorrow will bring. 


"I will love you."


Yet, only one look at her Targaryen lover's, now husband's, eyes filled with reassurance and love, and Sansa believes all will be alright. 

Chapter Text

Sansa’s heart almost leaped out of her chest the moment Ros returned or was returned by the same red cloaks that took her several days ago. Hastily, she ran towards her friend, the person who stood as guardian to her and Jeyne in this dreadful place. Tears welled up her eyes the moment she saw the damage done to the only sincere creature that cared for them here, Ros mirrored her expression but spoke nothing instead she buried her face on Sansa’s chest. It was only until the guards left them that the redheaded whore from Winterfell broke into ugly sobs, so loud that it unsettled the entirety of Littlefinger’s whore house.



Despite the constant knocks at the door and orders from clients to shut the noise down, Sansa didn’t mind them all, she just let Ros pour everything out because she does not know exactly what she could say to ease her friend. It has always been the other way around them and not like this and Sansa had let fear take over her as soon as she saw what these monsters have done to her poor Ros. And she hated it, loathed the feeling of how useless she had become in the cage they have set her in. She longed for the life that she had once, the life that seems to have receded in the depths of her mind, a long forgotten but sweet memory that was more of a dream now rather than a reality.



Oh, how she wished to return to that past, to live without fear and only freedom. To feel the cold summer snows of the North once more, breath the fresh air unsoiled by the mingled scent of piss and garbage that littered the capitol, to have those lengthy embroidery lessons with the Stark girls and her younger sister, Jeyne, and to be cloaked under the safety that Winterfell and Lord Stark had provided. She longed for the time that she was innocent and naïve to all the horrors of the world that she had faced in this cruel city.



But her memory seemed to have blurred as each day passes. Each fragment cracks each time Littlefinger touches her and uses her body as a man would do with his mind. Her sanity loses its balance whenever he calls her Cat, his Cat, for he thinks that she resembled her former liege’s wife (the thought disgusts her, scares her, she wishes for nothing but to kill herself whenever he forces himself on her). Even the only reminder of home, Jeyne her sister, was snatched away from her.



Monsters, all of them were. Littlefinger, Joffrey, Cersei. They have stolen her childhood and happiness. They have stolen her family, her life, her future and now, they added more sins to their long-filled list. They have broken the tether to her sanity, precious Ros, who has done nothing but all of Littlefinger’s biddings and bent to the will of those fortunate enough to be born of power and money.



It was then that anger festered in the heart of Sansa Poole and revenge became her sweetest dream yet.


Chapter Text

“They are arguing again, aren't they?” Seven-year-old Sansa asked, strumming the strings of her harp absently. This hour was supposedly her harp lessons with her favorite brother, Kano, but her mind was bothered by the obvious tension reverberating from her parents that she noticed during breakfast. 


She always hated when they fight. They would always try their best to hide it from the youngest member of the family but Sansa, being a perceptive girl as she was, had taken notes of the signs. For it was rather obvious, even if there were no ugly exchanges or shouting, as Fëanor and Nerdanel would try their best to ignore each other, which meant that both would attempt to busy themselves with their “little projects” and pretend that the other does not exist.


Her Father would always be in the forge, staying there until past Sansa’s bedtime and Mother would lock herself in her own workshop, sculpting beautiful statues or pieces that she would either sold or keep in her personal collection. It would take a while before they made up, both being proud to admit mistakes and to apologize to one another. However, this fight is different, Sansa can feel it and it settled a great unease upon her young heart.


“It’s nothing you should worry yourself about, tithen pen,” Kano answered and ruffled her red tresses fondly. “They’ll be talking to each other again in no time, trust me.”


“Okay,” she mumbled and brushed off the feeling of disappointment with her brother’s lack of response. Kano was her most beloved brother, yes, but sometimes she hates when he still treats her as though she was still a baby like all of the members of her family did. It was true that she was still young, but she was going to be eight in a month, she believes that she this gives her entitlement to learn some things and truths.


Yet, she chose not to press on, Kano will never tell her anything even if she pushed him, he was that patient and protective of her. Instead, She decided to try her luck with Turko or Nelyo later, hoping that they will be a better help than Kano. Moryo she would not dare approach, he was one of her sweetest brothers but he scares her sometimes, Curvo would be impossible because he was often with their Father at the forge, and the twins are perhaps the most useless of all. They were the “other babies” of the family beside her and they are probably oblivious to the things in their surroundings as they were always wrapped up with their little stunts and mischief to which little Sansa was the unfortunate target or victim (they were mostly harmless though and in their defense, those pranks were only meant to show their affection to their baby sister).


“How about we go out today, hmm?” Kano offered, taking the harp from her and placing away. “Perhaps some lemon cakes will ease your mind, Lhaerwen?”


At the mention of lemon cakes, Sansa let out a squeal of excitement, all troubles now forgotten, and launched herself unto her brother’s open arms. Kano laughed as he caught her and peppered kisses on her face despite her shrieks of dismay. In the end, they ended up baking lemon cakes, to which they shared with everyone but Sansa of course had the most of them, much to Kano's amusement, and spent the rest of the day singing some Westerosi songs that their Father taught them.


Kano may have not helped her today but he will always be Sansa's favorite brother.  



Chapter Text


"I thought you hate Starks, even the bastard ones," she whispers against his ear, lips forming into a faux pout when he stopped his ministrations on her naked flesh. 



She thought the statement will douse the fire within her lover's blood but instead, she was meet with dark hooded eyes, dangerous and brimming with unsated lust. 


Then he laughs, the deep and throaty sound echoing inside the chambers that had been hers since childhood, as though she had just made the funniest jape he had ever heard in his entire life. Perhaps she truly had. 


"Oh but my dear, you are an exception," he purrs, cradling her face so tenderly. His initial mirth was gone, chased away by desire and affection, only for her, hastening the beating of her heart. 


And Sansa moans as his treacherous lips nip a sensitive part of her neck, biting hard but not enough to draw blood, one muscled arm tends to her breast, and the other trailing downwards and downwards until it found her opening. 


The bastard of Winterfell and Starfall could only groan as his fingers pump inside her wet cavern, in an alternating pace that turned her into a quivering mess, begging and praying for more. 


Oh, gods, Oberyn, please, she chants and the Prince obliges, moving faster and faster until Sansa lets out a silent scream when she finally sees the stars. She had lost count of how many times he had made her cum but she still craves his touch, and she opens herself once more and lets him fill her with his poison, with his love. 


She was treading into precarious waters, in danger of being drowned with no chance of rescue, her maternal family warned but Sansa does not care. 


For when Oberyn holds her and engulfs her body with his warmth, Sansa believes she was finally home. 

Chapter Text


Tormund’s sister was pretty, Lyarra notes as she watches Sansa interact with the remaining elders of the wildlings that have come to help them reclaim Winterfell. The wildling girl, who was only a few moons older than her, was the exact opposite of her rowdy brother. Whereas Tormund was very loud and boisterous, Sansa was quiet and restrained. She was a very dainty thing and has mannerisms that could almost pass as a kneeler as the wildling would call the dwellers South of the Wall.


Although, looks and manners can be very deceiving, a painful lesson that Lyarra learned from Cersei and Joffrey. Sansa may blush prettily and deny Tormund’s talk about how both of them slew the giant (hence the name Giantsbane) but Lyarra knows from the tales she had gathered that this dainty girl, who blushes easily, from the Free Folk was a vicious warrior, one skilled with knives and arrows. Lyarra admires her and wishes to befriend Sansa if she had a chance.


However, Lyarra also notes that she was not the only one who admires Sansa Giantsbane and thinks that she is very pretty. With a knowing smirk, she turns to her newly crowned brother, Jon, who was caught in a conversation with Ser Davos but it seems that his attention was somewhere else. When the knight finally excuses himself, she leans towards him and in a very hushed voice she whispers, 


“You like her.”


And Jon, transparent as he always was, sputters his wine in surprise, his cheeks dusted with a faint red. Oh, Jon, you have so much to learn, Lyarra thinks.


“What did you say?” he responds in between coughs, feigning ignorance to her matter of fact statement.


“You, she says slowly nudging his shoulder with a finger in a playful manner, “like” she follows, then points her finger towards Sansa, “her.”


The look of shock on her brother’s face was so remarkable that Lyarra was almost reduced to a laughing fit. She had missed this, she realized, missed the innocent banter with her siblings when they were still children and a part of her was once again filled with regret for not spending more time with Jon in the past.


“Of course not!” Jon all but yells, his cheeks now in a deeper shade of red, “S-she’s a friend!”


Lyarra silently thank the gods that the sound was drowned by the loud chatter of the great hall because she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from teasing Jon mercilessly.


“Have no fear, my king. Your secret is safe with me,” she giggles and sends him a playful wink and Jon visibly relaxes. 


Then the Lady of Winterfell sinks back to her seat, taking in everything around her; the freedom, the laughter, the mixed cheers of the Free Folk and Northerners, and Jon’s secret (and obviously pining) glances thrown towards Sansa. (And if she watches long enough, she would have caught Sansa’s longing stares directed to Jon when he wasn’t looking)


Tomorrow, they will all be thrust back to the reality of their impending doom, but Lyarra Stark thinks that it may not be too late to play a little matchmaker.


Chapter Text


The heir to Storm’s End has not been to many castles in his short young life but the moment he stepped into the high halls of the Eyrie, Robert Baratheon has already made up his mind and decided that no castle in Westeros could ever be as majestic as the seat of House Arryn. As high as honor, he mouthed silently, taking in his new environment with wandering eyes.


Beside him, his newfound friend and fellow ward Ed-Ned carried the same slacked-jawed expression of astonishment as he did. Gone was the uncertain and anxiety-laden Northern boy that he first met at the Bloody Gate, now, Ned reverberated with excitement, sending a small smile on his direction and the young lord returned the gesture.


Robert can also feel the exhilaration spreading to his nerves. The journey towards the Eyrie may have not been forgiving but the people of the Vale were warm and welcoming so far. However, he can feel the melancholy in the air despite the smiles and kind courtesies they have received. The people of the Vale were still grieving. It has only been a year since the passing of their lady, Lord Arryn’s second wife. Robert’s parents had sent their condolences at the time and would have visited the Vale if his mother had not taken ill. A wave of sadness overcame his emotions. Robert had missed his family back in Storm’s End, even his brother Stannis but the nine-year-old boy put on a brave face as he continued walking towards the very heart of the castle, the high halls, which housed the legendary Moon Door. Would Lord Arryn open it for them?


When they finally arrived at their destination, Robert was surprised to see the Lord Arryn seating on one of the stone benches that surrounded the object of his curiosity. On his lap was a little girl, about the age of six or five, burrowing her face against the Lord’s chest. This must be his daughter, he thought. Lord Arryn has yet to sense their approach as he seemed to be busy with comforting the child.


“Kissed by fire,” he heard Ned whispering in a hushed voice that only Robert can hear. Confused by what his friend meant, he raised his brow and Ned shrugged as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Her hair, it’s red, like weirwood leaves.”


Robert nodded. He has never seen a weirwood tree in person because they no longer grow south of the neck, however, he did see a picture of it in one of the books in Baratheon library. He wracked up his memories, trying to cajole the images of the strange trees that the northerner’s worship, alas he couldn’t come up with anything.


“Ah, these must be my new wards,” Lord Arryn said, finally noticing them, he stood up, carrying the small child in his arms and walked closer towards Robert and Ned. The Lord of Eyrie was already an old man, older than his or Ned’s parents, yet he still projected a very imposing and strong figure.


“Lord Arryn,” both he and Ned greeted in unison, bowing a bit to show their respect and Lord Jon tilted his head in return.


“Look, my little bird,” Lord Arryn whispered to the bundle that huddled even closer to his chest, “we have guests.” The girl whimpered in protest.


“What’s wrong with her?” Ned prompted worriedly. Robert can feel his concern. He only knew the boy for a few days, but Robert can understand his feelings. Ned had a younger sister back at home, so it was easy for him to empathize. He, on the other hand, had no dealings with young girls because he has no sister. He felt awkward, standing there not knowing what to say.


Lord Arryn let out a sad sigh, “She just misses her Mother. She had been wary of other people and strangers ever since.”  At the mention of her mother, the girl sniffled.


“What’s her name?” Ned asked again, suddenly sounding too old for his age.


 The Lord of the Vale said nothing in response. Instead, he whispered to his daughter. Robert didn't hear what Lord Arryn was saying although he did make out the word "lemon cake" from the movements of his lips and the little girl was starting to relax. 


"Sansa," came a tiny and muffled response. 


"Sansa," Ned repeated, "That's a northern name and a pretty one too." He added, smiling bashfully as he scratched the back of his head. He wasn't good at this, Robert thought, yet he envied Ned's effort.


Ned lost his mother too, he recalled forlornly, and somehow in his young mind, he understood what Ned was trying to do. A pang of longing went straight to his heart and he realized that he missed his Mother and between the three of them, he was the luckiest to still have one. He can't imagine how he would feel if he'd lose her. He shivered at the idea. 


Sansa giggled, catching his attention. A look of surprise found its way to Lord Jon's face, it was as though he never heard his own daughter giggle before, then it morphed into a happy and grateful smile directed to them.  


"Well, Lady Sansa, my name is Ned and this is Robert but I think you can just call him Rob. We want to be your friends."


Curiously, Sansa turned from her Father's chest and took a glance at them. The entirety of her face was covered by the curls of her red hair, but Robert was able to see most of her appearance. Despite the puffy eyes and red nose, Sansa reminded him of one of the delicate china dolls from the collection of toys his mother kept at Storm's End. There was a little resemblance between her and Lord Arryn except for their eyes. 


They were the color of the sky, clear and calm in contrast to his stormy ones. 


Pretty, he thought unbiddenly as a soft, shy smile graced her lips. 




Someone was tapping lightly on his face and calling his name. Is it morning already? Yet he couldn’t feel the warmth of the morning sun at his face and the noise from the servants outside. No, not yet. Robert groaned, shifting in his bed. He was still tired and sore from yesterday’s training so whoever was waking him should have a good reason. The hushed repetition of his name continued, and he opted to cover his face with a pillow instead, completely ignoring whoever it was that bothered his sleep.  


His action was answered with an indignant huff followed by an amused chuckle which obviously came from Ned.


“Leave him, Sans.” Ned’s voice was sleep-laden, hinting that he may have been awakened not a while ago, perhaps minutes or seconds before Robert, revealing the culprit to the disturbance of their rest.


“But!!!” Sansa complained, her usual gentle voice raising a pitch higher, “You promised!”


Knowing that this will never end until he roused, Robert slowly sat up and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his blurry eyes. From the window, he could see the clear night sky. The moon was full tonight and its light illuminated his chambers making it easier for him to see where the racket was coming from. His gaze settled on his best friends standing on the side of his bed. 


Ever since the day they arrived in the Eyrie, Sansa had started opening herself to strangers and people again. Lord Arryn had been overjoyed at the changes that had come to his daughter after their timely arrival that he had thrown a feast, not only to welcome them in the Vale but to thank them for somehow easing Sansa’s emotional recovery. And with no companions and playmates available, Sansa became a permanent fixture to their daily activities and soon the three became inseparable.


The troublesome trio they were called as their antics and shenanigans became known to the Vale. Always, it was Sansa who masterminded all the stunts and escapades (she was Lord Arryn’s daughter so she can pretty much get away with anything), Robert who would gladly tag along to anything she planned, and Ned, the voice of reason and the reluctant member of the gang. The poor victims of their pranks were Sansa’s septa, Lord Arryn’s steward, the Master-at-Arms (when he was being too strict as Sansa would put it) and of course, Sansa’s poor old Father (who had always feigned anger but in truth does not mind letting his daughter do whatever she wants as long as it makes her happy).


Robert thinks that everyone was at fault that the little lady was very spoiled. But who can blame them? Sansa only must show them her stupid puppy eyes and infamous pout then they are already willing to do any of her biddings. Robert feared for the poor soul that may marry her someday.  


“Robert!” She exclaimed in a shrill voice, quickly latching on his arm. The now thirteen-year-old Baratheon heir cringe as Sansa’s voice dulled his hearing. On the other side of the room, Ned snickered, relieved that Sansa finally had another person to bother.


“Yes, my lady?” He asked, indulging her. Sansa giggled. Despite her wild streak and preference of swords over dolls (as she does not want to be left out by her two oldest friends), Sansa Arryn was a romantic, who loves stories and gallantry above all. And between the only two male friends and companions she has, Robert was always the one who wanted to please her.


“If I recall correctly, you and Ned promised to take me to the highest tower to watch the stars. Maester Colemon said that the weather tonight is great for stargazing.” She chattered excitedly, “And oh! We might see the tip of the Giant’s Lance!”


“We can still do it tomorrow,” Ned’s groggy voice filled the air and the two friends glanced at their Northern friend comfortably cocooned in his blanket and half-asleep. 


“But the weather may be bad tomorrow!” Sansa whined. “We only have this one chance.”


“Why are you so adamant to see the lance anyways?” He asked. There was always a reason for her trips, an explanation for their urgency.


“Well, Father said that the tip of the Giant’s Lance can only be visible once every year and whoever will see it will have his wish granted.”


“That sounds like a pretty bad superstition to me,” Ned supplied, stifling a yawn. “You can still see it tomorrow, trust me. If you really want to do it now, you have Robert. Goodnight.”


Before he can even react, Sansa already has armed herself with his pillow and threw it on Ned’s direction. The poor Stark was hit square in the face and grunted in pain. Pleased by her work, she turned towards him, her big puppy doe eyes ready.


“Robert, please.” She said, in her sweet you-must-do-what-I-asked-voice. Robert sighed in defeat.




The huge smile of triumph on Sansa’s face was so infectious that the young lord found himself mirroring her. She was just charming and irresistible.


“Thank you, Robert!” She squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck. 


What happened next was something Robert had never expected. He thought he imagined it first but there was no denying the feeling of Sansa’s lips against his cheeks. She never had kissed him or Ned on the cheek before!


Dumbfounded by her action, Robert watched her retreating form, leaving him frozen on spot. The silence that engulfed the room was quickly chased away by the erratic beating of his heart.



Chapter Text


"It's a bad idea, you know," Sansa told her twin sister as she secured the lacing of the older Mormont girl's armor, "you could stay with me in the crypts.



Lyanna rolled her eyes then swivels to face her. "I could, but I want to fight for the North. Every warrior is valuable."




"But you could die!" Sansa yelled in protest and she bit her lips to prevent herself from crying. She does not want to imagine it. 




Ever since the death of their Mother in the Red Wedding, the two had been even more inseparable, making a vow to each to each other than not even death could tear them apart. They were a team, every single decision made for House Mormont were carefully thought and agreed upon by both of them. However, this is the first one they have ever argued on, Lyanna joining the fight against the Night King and the White Walkers. Sansa does not want her to go, they were ladies, not warriors, but Lyanna has already made up her mind. No amount of convincing from Sansa could ever sway it. 




"I might," Lyanna answered, looking more pensive than her age, "this is why I trust the future of the House to you now, little sister. If I am to fall into battle, you will be the official and only head of House Mormont now." 




"No," Sansa said indignantly. She refused to accept her sister's answer. Lyanna can't die. She promised her. She promised Sansa that she won't leave her. "I will never forgive you if you die."




The older girl sighed and wrapped Sansa in a crushing embrace. "You will be strong, Sansa. You will be." 




And those were the very words that echoed inside Sansa's mind as she watched the fire burn her sister and their cousin's dead body in the funeral pyre. They were dead now, but House Mormont stands still. 


Chapter Text


“Why did you do it?”


There was a hint of suspicion in Robb Stark’s tone but Sansa had already seen it coming. She knew that they will doubt her words, hence she had brought the parchments that held Walder Frey’s secret deal with Tywin. Despite all his claims of cunning and intellect, the late Lord Frey was truly not the cleverest of all Westerosi lords.


This was proven by the fact that he had left these “secret” missives lying about in his solar, probably thinking that none of his “dumb” children would ever think of checking them. But he had been so wrong. Sansa, the most overlooked of all the Frey brood, found it by accident, when she, to her displeasure, was chosen to deliver her Lord Father’s food. Due to the numerous inhabitants of the Crossing, the Late Lord and his eldest sons decided that it would be wise if the female members, oft deemed unimportant and disposable, take over some of the tasks of the servants to cut some costs.


None of her female siblings and nieces complained and gladly taken part of the chores so long as they don’t need to face the head of the family. All of them may never share the same mother or grandmother but all shared the same sentiment. Every single one of them hated Walder Frey, for different reasons, although no one dared admit it. That was why the duty to bring his meals was abhorred by the Frey ladies, for nothing was as worse as to be under his scrutiny and criticism. While Sansa never received the normal tongue lashing from her most revered Father, she fell into the most unfortunate luck of seeing him grope his new wife as the two dined together. Sansa would have vomited on the spot if it weren’t only for the Lannister missives haphazardly lying on the floor, already forgotten by the Frey patriarch. It was then that Sansa saw an opportunity, a path for freedom.


The redheaded girl stared at the King in the North's face pensively, wondering there was any sign of Whent in his features, before letting out a sigh.


“You are my kin,” Sansa responded with a sad smile, “I don’t want your blood on my hands.”


Chapter Text

Sansa picked the child up into her arms and held the whimpering child close. She had met Gilly, who was now going even further south with Sansa’s little nephew. This child left in his place. Her sister called him Monster as his milk name.


Sansa had seen true monsters before. Monsters with eyes as blue as her own and skin as pale as death. This child was none of this. This child was warm with brown eyes and tufts of brown hair. He was small and sweet and smelled like what Sansa supposed spring smelled like.


Sansa had loved and lost her lover a year ago to a raid and lost the child who had come from their brief coupling to stillness and cold. Even so, her body produced milk. Milk for the little baby she held in her arms.


Val had told her she should not since the babe was not her own and not of their family, but she did when her sister was sleeping. She would sneak to Princess Shireen’s rooms to rock and sing and feed the little baby. The princess even taught Sansa kneeler letters. The girl was sweet and kind too. Sansa was glad she had not died from the illness that marred her face. They were scars that showed she had fought a battle and won. What person did not carry scars? Seen or unseen.


Sansa put the baby to his little cot and pressed soft kisses to his puffy face. He pressed his lips out and mimicked her. She smiled at him and snuck out of the room.


Gilly would name him once she came back. But for now, Sansa would think of the baby as Little Jon for the man who had brought them past the Wall and protected them from the king of the kneelers.


Chapter Text

written by: FromTheBoundlessSea


Sandor’s older sister was like a bird. She was above the rest of them, flying circles around them, gracing them with her laughs and smiles and songs. She was better than the dogs on their sigil.


Sansa had always been kind to Sandor specifically, choosing to stay away from their older brother, Gregor. She would touch his scars and whisper softly of beasts who protected fair maidens from dark, evil princes. She would whisper these things at night when the keep was asleep and her lips were split as though struck.


“Like a knight?” he had asked her.


She smiled. “Like a knight,” Sansa agreed. “A true knight who seeks no glory or fame for the good deeds they do.”


“I’m going to be a knight,” Sandor told her proudly. “I will protect the weak and the innocent!”


“You will, my little hound,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You will.”


And then she sang.

His sister was to be married.


A riverlord had met her at a tournament and was said to have fallen in love with her on the spot. She had blushed and giggled as the servants twittered about it all. Sansa had even spoken to their father about possibly letting Sandor come with her to the Riverlands so he might foster there and squire.


They would be free of Gregor.


The morning after the announcement, his sister did not come down from her rooms. Their father sent a servant to check and soon after, a blood-curdling scream echoed across the keep. Sandor rushed to his sister’s room, his father close on his heels, Gregor still sitting at the table eating. They climbed up the steps to Sansa. The servant was on her knees sick and sobbing.


Sansa was shivering in her bed, blood soaking her shift between her legs, her throat bruised, eyes black, and lips bleeding.


Their father turned to call for a maester while Sandor rushed to his sister’s side, taking her pale hand in his. “Sansa!”


“Hound,” she could barely say. “Run…”


“Sansa! Who did this to you?!”


“Run… my little hound,” she breathed. “Run.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks, making tracks in the smeared blood. “It’s… not safe…”


“Sansa! Tell me!” Tears began to spill from his eyes. But he already knew. He knew.


“Shhh…” she breathed softly. “It… okay…”


“I’m sorry,” Sandor sobbed. “I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry.”


His sister was still by the time the maester came.

Gregor was knighted by Prince Rhaegar a week later.

It was her voice that reminded him of Sansa.


His sister had a soft, gentle voice which sounded like birds singing. He had always loved the sound of her voice, always ready to soothe him after dreams of fire. He could still remember her voice after all the years that had passed by.


But it wasn’t the softness of Lyarra Stark’s voice that made Sandor think of his sister. It was the way she would plead with the Mad boy king, as Sansa had for his sake. It was the way she smiled pleasantly to others, despite the split lip. How she held her head high like a true queen wrapped in Sandor’s cloak. Sansa had been the same. Always smiling and being the lady she had been raised to be.


The Stark girl reminded him of Sansa. The sister he hadn’t been able to protect.


“Come with me,” he begged her as the Blackwater burned with wildfire. “I’ll take you to your family. I’ll keep you safe.”


She looked at him with large grey eyes that looked almost blue like Sansa’s. “P-Promise?”


“On the honor of my sister,” he said. “I promise.”



Chapter Text

“Are we all going to die now, Mama?” Sansa’s innocent question broke the silence of her Mother’s chambers. Outside, the screams of the men and the sound of steel clashing were getting closer and closer to where they are. 


Sansa does not want to hear more of those terrible sounds nor does she want to continue hiding in this room. All she wanted was to see her oldest siblings, Maron and Rodrik, and feel the gentle caress of the sea beneath the soles of her feet. She missed her Papa too but Papa was always busy planning and talking with his men. 


“We’re not gonna die, stupid,” her twin brother interjected before their Mother could speak, “Father’s gonna win, right Asha?” 


From her seat situated beside the closed window, Asha made a small noise that resembled a grunt and didn’t as much turn to face them. Her lack of response, however, didn’t deter Theon’s enthusiasm. 


“Now, now, Theon, it isn’t polite to cut into someone’s conversation,” their Mother chided but there was no anger in her voice and her lips were curled into a soft smile. Sansa's favorite smile.


“Your father and your brothers’ will win and they will come back to us alive,” Alannys Greyjoy said as she cupped her twin children’s faces before placing a kiss on their foreheads. 


Her mother's words were somehow enough to ease the fear in the young girl's heart and fill it with hope. 


Perhaps tomorrow, the war will be over and she might see her brothers again.


Perhaps, she could finally ask them to teach her how to use a bow. 

Chapter Text

As much as Sansa Royce enjoyed the warmth that the hearth had offered, her eyes continuously trained outside, watching as the men of the Night’s Watch, together with Lord Eddard and her Father’s retinue, prepared for their journey beyond the walls. 


She had wanted to join them too, and her Father would have relented if not for the strong objection of both Lord Stark and Lord Commander Mormont. Her trip to the walls alone was frowned upon by many Northerners and even the members of the Night’s Watch. For one thing, she was still a child, not yet reaching her tenth name day, and she was a girl. And it has been years, if not decades since a woman has ever set foot in Castle Black. If she can remember correctly, it was Queen Alyssanne, but she wasn’t entirely certain, and she was embarrassed to ask Maester Aemon because he might think that she was not taking her history lessons seriously. 


The said Maester had kindly taken Sansa under his wing whilst her Father and Lord Stark ventured further North, to meet a man called Craster. To entertain her, the Maester had let the little Royce girl borrow books from the small library in the castle. There were no songbooks or stories about the knights and ladies, but Sansa was content to read the written reports from the former rangers that journeyed to the vast frozen lands outside the safety of the gates of Castle Black. 


She found them boring at first. However, by the time she reached as far back as the narratives from the 960th Lord Commander, she felt that she now had much more knowledge of what lies beyond and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself wandering around the Haunted Forest and the Fist of the First Men. 



“Papa?” Sansa tugged on her Father’s hand as they walked towards the stables. Today was the day they were going to leave and while she was eager to finally return home, she was loathe to leave her brother as well as Maester Aemon behind. 


“Yes, my little sparrow?” 


“Do you think the White Walkers will return one day?” She asked, remembering the dream she had a few days ago. During their last nights of stay here, she had started dreaming of the strangest things such as three-eyed birds and ice creatures walking towards the South. Those dreams scared her so she confided with her brother, Waymar, and the older man tried to comfort her by saying that those were just products of her imagination. 


Yohn Royce let out a booming chuckle and ruffled her daughter’s hair, which earned him an indignant huff. 


“I think you have been spending a lot of time with Maester Aemon,” Her Father laughed as he helped her sit atop the horse he will share with her. “It’s time to return you to the South.” 




“They’re only stories, my love,” Lord Royce said, cutting her off gently. “And even if they are real, Papa’s here to protect you.”


Chapter Text

Since the Lannister spawn had left, Sansa had noticed the decline in her beloved cousin’s mood and health. She had hoped, prayed that he would return to normalcy once the bastard was no longer around. But she was wrong, Trystane’s despondent state further waned when the news of her death reached Dorne. 


It should have been a cause for celebration, it should have been her victory. She had thought that once Myrcella Baratheon was removed, she could sneak her way back in Trystane’s heart again. And she hated her Mother and Tyene for it, they had been too eager, too careless to send their regards to the Lannisters that they failed to establish a foolproof plan. Sansa would have waited, she would have schemed. She wouldn’t have reduced herself to killing young girls, this was not her Father’s way. 


Yes, Myrcella was a Lannister and she may have Sansa’s rival for Trystane’s love, but she didn’t deserve to die. The only thing that eased the mind of the redhead Sand Snake was the manner of the bastard’s death. It had been quick and merciful, and was opposed to what Tyene would have preferred. 


Letting out a sigh, Sansa pulled her attention back towards the book she was reading. The events of the past few days were making it hard to concentrate. 


“There is no use pining for your prince, little sister,” Nymeria admonished lightly, upon hearing her sister, while she casually lounged on the small divan of the small room they were confined in. 


The manner of the Princess’ death was a giveaway to who the culprits were, and despite her lack of involvement in her family’s haphazard measures, Sansa being a Sand Snake was inadvertently included in the blame. Thus, she was here, imprisoned against her will and she can't understand the absence of concern in her older sister. Sooner or later, Cersei Lannister would demand their heads and Doran would be powerless to protect them. 


The younger girl refused to comment on her sister’s jab and stayed silent. She was in no mood for Nymeria’s teasing and she tried to sway her mind from going to Trystane. There was no use thinking about him now, not when her chances of having the Prince to herself was jeopardized by her own sisters. 


However, her silence didn’t dissuade Nymeria. 


“There are other men out there, Sansa,” she said, in an almost affectionate tone which caused Sansa to snort. For her, there was only Trystane. “Besides, he wouldn’t be around for too long.” 


“What the fuck does that supposed to mean?” The younger girl snarled. She tried not to mind the implications of her sister’s words, but she can feel the cold and fear seeping its way inside her heart. 


Nymeria flashed her a knowing smile. 


“You’ll see.” 


Chapter Text

Jon glanced at Davos’ daughter.


She was a healer that traveled with King Stannis’ army. Although she was young, she had a slightly haunted look in her eyes, but Jon supposed he had the same look. Most of her brothers were dead. The girl was quiet and tended to the army settled in Castle Black. She even looked after the brothers or the people of Moletown.  


Jon wished there were many reasons as to why he noticed her. Ghost seemed to like her, licking away her tears whenever she cried at the loss of a patient. Her hair was as fire kissed as Ygritte’s. She held herself with a sort of grace that a daughter of a smuggler turned knight should not have. She sang sweet songs to Gilly’s son when he would not settle. She looked Northern wrapped up in the furs she had sewn into a cloak. But he noticed her because her blue eyes were so big that he might drown in them.


She was like a willow or a weirwood tree, all long and lithe.


Jon had spoken to her many times and had at first thought her to be naïve in the ways of the world, despite the amount she had lost. But, over time, he found that she simply had hope. She had hope for the future. Dreams of a spring yet to come.


“I must live on,” she had told him. “For what did my brother’s die for if I do not live?”


Jon thought of this. Of his father. Of Robb. Of Bran and Rickon. Of his sisters, wherever they might be. Even if Lady Catelyn. Would they wish for him to live as he was? Would he wish for them to carry on their House until the girls return?


When Stannis offered to legitimize him, to give him Winterfell, Val as a wife, Jon told him no.


Jon wished he could say it was for every reason.


Because Winterfell belonged to his sister Lyarra.


Because he could not burn down the Godswood.


Because he could not believe in a god that burned people.


Because he did not love Val and he doubted she loved him or would love Winterfell.




Jon declined Stannis’ offer because his heart belonged to a smuggler’s daughter. And perhaps a bastard would be good enough for her.