14.Ascension

1st Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Maege Mormont

Breaking the siege of Ironrath had been a bloody fight, even though they took the Whitehills by surprise. Having the woodland clans that knew the entire wolfswood was an advantage that Lord Whitehill couldn’t match, but he still had the numbers and bled them hard.

Now, Maege and Lord Galbart Glover rode fast to Jon Snow’s host, leaving the foot behind. Seventy riders were all they could muster, and a third of those were mounted spearmen who had never trained with a lance. They needed to join him before the battle. If Jon Snow could be convinced to wait a sennight longer, three hundred more axemen and huntsmen would join them. A modest warband, but enough to tip the scales of battle.

The wolfswood was strangely quiet; the only things they met were squirrels, scared deer, and the occasional snowshrike, all scattering at the sound of the horsemen. Not a single outrider from House Bolton could be seen or heard, nor any scouts. At night, only the howls of wolves kept them company, keeping them all on edge.

They rode hard, eager to aid Robb’s heir.

Yet their haste was for nought. By the time they emerged from the wolfswood, the battle had already been fought. Before them lay a field red with blood and heaps upon heaps of corpses. The air still smelled of death and cooked flesh.

Maege was relieved, though.

Atop Winterfell’s gatehouse, the grey direwolf of House Stark proudly fluttered in the northern wind.

Galbart drew his horse to a halt, eyes narrowed at the fields of slaughter before them. “It seems the boy won the day without our help.”

“King Robb always said his brother was no lesser in warcraft and swordfighting,” Maege said, shaking her head with amazement.

Their approach had not gone unseen. Riders poured from the Hunter’s Gate to meet them, a hundred strong, bearing the sigils of House Hornwood and House Mazin. They all wore their armour still, stained dark with gore, and rode with spears and swords drawn.

The young warrior at the front bore the reversed colours of House Hornwood—an orange moose on a brown surcoat. A bastard.

“Larence!?” Galbart called, eyes lighting up. “Is that you, my boy?”

The young man reined in his destrier and squinted at them. “Uncle Galbart?” A smile flashed across his face, but his eyes remained guarded, and his hand never left the hilt of his sword. “I thought you were killed at the Red Wedding.”

Maege remembered then. This had to be Larence, the bastard nephew, born to Galbart’s sister and the late Lord Halys Hornwood.

“We had the fortune to avoid it,” Galbart replied, inclining his head at Maege and her daughters. “King Robb sent us away on an important task. We come here to find his brother, Jon Snow.”

The warmth vanished from the bastard’s face. “Two years had passed since the Red Wedding, uncle,” he said, voice laden with suspicion. “Where have you been since? And what do you want with Jon Snow?”

The swords and spears of the riders behind him remained lower, but Maege could see their shoulders tense, and their eyes harden. They were ready to fight. One wrong word, and blood would flow right away.

Maege spoke before the tension mounted further, “We come here with a royal writ, meant for Jon Snow’s eyes and ears alone. And we were gone for so long, because Frey outriders ambushed her near the Neck. We would have perished if not for Lord Reed’s timely aid. Half of us died, and the rest were heavily wounded. It took us over a year to recuperate enough for further travel.”

The silence grew stifling as the Hornwood bastard looked at their faces as if searching for something.

Then Larence nodded once. “I’ll take you to Lord Snow myself, then. But your riders stay here—try anything funny, and I’ll gut you all myself.”

Galbart handed over his sword without protest, smiling widely as if indulging an errant child. Sighing, Maege followed with her mace, axe, and dirk. Her daughters did the same, though Lyra made a face as she parted with her favourite knife.

Maege remembered Jon Snow as a sullen, quiet boy from Winterfell’s harvest feasts, but it seemed the boy had grown into a man who could command ironclad loyalty. It pleased her greatly—it certainly would make things easier.

They rode towards Winterfell then, escorted by the young Hornwood bastard and half of his men—the other half remained to guard the horse they had brought. Maege’s gaze wandered across the battlefield, beyond the heaps of bodies and carpet of chopped up limbs and horses, and settled on swathes of scorched earth peppered with half-burnt corpses.

“What in the seven hells happened here?” Lyra asked, frowning at the sight.

Larence laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Try me!” her daughter bit back immediately, fearlessly rising to the challenge.

Maege shook her head at Lyra’s temper—she had always been too easy to rile up.

“Dragons,” the Hornwood said, grinning. “Dragons happened.”

“Dragons are long dead,” scoffed Jorelle, her younger daughter. “It’s been nearly two hundred years since they perished. The House of the Dragon, which had once mastered them, is gone, too. Next, you’ll be saying snarks and grumkins and giants fought for Jon Snow.”

The men chuckled, and Larence laughed aloud. “I know nothing of snarks and grumkins, but the giants are real enough.” He pointed to their left. About thirty yards away lay an enormous corpse, easily twice as tall and thick as any man and far hairier, and all ridden with arrows and spears. “That one was felled by a spear to his eye. Two more survive the battle—you can see them for yourself soon enough.”

“How?” Lyra whispered, numbly staring at the fallen giant.

“Lord Snow called the wildlings to his banner,” was the even reply. Maege searched for a trace of hatred, of disgruntlement on Larence’s face, but he did not seem bothered by the presence of savages. The surrounding riders were not disgruntled either. “Nearly three thousand answered, with three giants among them.”

“So he truly let the wildlings through the Wall?” Maege asked warily.

“Aye. Said they were fleeing something.” Larence’s confident grin faltered. “White Walkers, they called them, bringers of cold and death. But Lord Snow only allowed the wildlings who swore vows, gave hostages, and paid tribute to pass. The unruly, stubborn brutes were left to rot beyond the Wall.”

Maege frowned. Every answer they received raised more and more questions in her mind. For Jon Snow to be Lord Commander, her brother must have perished. And to get the wildlings to swear anything and to follow a ‘kneeler’ was no small feat. Giants, too…

“What happened to my brother Jeor?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “How did Jon Snow leave his post as a Lord Commander?”

“I don’t know,” Larence said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Truth be told, I care not. I came here to kill Boltons and follow the last son of Winterfell.”

As if unwilling to speak further, he spurred his destrier ahead.

“Your nephew has grown bold to the point of impudence,” Maege observed, voice dry.

“That he has,” Galbart said, looking torn between pride and irritation.

They followed in silence, and soon, they passed through the double gatehouse and the lowered drawbridge. A few mountain clansmen came forth to take their mounts.

They continued on foot inside. The first thing Maege saw was a giant, nearly thirteen feet tall, the hairy behemoth carefully eyeing their group with a pair of beady black eyes. Beside him, a hefty, bloodstained maul taller than an Umber rested on the curtain wall. Her daughters squirmed with unease while Lord Glover kept a cooler head.

Jon Snow was waiting for them in the middle of the courtyard, clad in dark plate without the helmet, a black greatsword resting on his shoulder. Battle-hardened and dangerous, Maege realised. A direwolf, larger than Grey Wind, towered by his right side, blood and mud caking its snowy coat. A red-haired maiden who could only be Sansa Stark stood to his left, her face expressionless.

She looked like her mother writ younger, and for a moment, Maege saw Lord Eddard Stark and his wife again, meeting guests who had arrived for yet another harvest feast.

But Lord Stark and his wife were long dead, and this was no harvest feast. Jon Snow’s face was harsher, somehow colder than his father’s. His eyes were dark purple instead of steely grey, and there was a power in them that made Maege feel small.

“MOTHER!” A fast blur crashed right into her before anyone could speak. A pair of small hands hugged her waist with desperation, and Maege immediately recognised her youngest daughter, Lyanna, once barely reaching her waist and now almost a woman grown, and clutched her fiercely. By the gods, it had been over four years now…

Her chest swelled with pride. Lyanna’s presence here needed no explanation. Maege and Galbart had been late for the battle, but her daughter had answered the Starks’ call, even if Bear Island had a handful of battle-ready warriors left.

“We’ll speak later, Lya,” Maege said, fondly ruffling her youngest’s hair. “Now go to your sisters.”

Her youngest reluctantly let her go and moved to Lyra and Jorelle.

The tension had bled out of the courtyard, and Maege felt grateful for her daughter’s stunt. Yet Jon Snow was unreadable, his long face an icy mask that reminded Maege all too much of Eddard Stark.

“Lady Mormont, Lord Glover,” he spoke, voice steely. “You claim you’re here for me.”

“We carry the last orders of King Robb of House Stark, King in the North,” Galbart said.

Carefully, the Lady of Bear Isle unveiled the decree from the leather wrap and cleared her throat.

“By the decree of Robb of House Stark, First of His Name, King of the North. Sansa Stark and any children of her womb are hereby removed from the succession of Winterfell.” The red-haired maiden grew as pale as a ghost. “From this day until his last day, Jon Snow is legitimised as Jon Stark, a Prince of Winterfell with all the rights that this would entail, and is released from his vows to the Night’s Watch. Jon Stark will be my heir should I fail to sire a living child. Witnessed and signed by:

King Robb Stark, Lord Edmure Tully, Ser Raynald Westerling, Lord Jason Mallister, Lord Jon Umber, Lady Maege Mormont, and Lord Galbart Glover.”

Sansa Stark

Her heart thundered like a war drum.

Of course, Robb would have struck her from the line of succession. It made sense to block Tyrion Lannister and his children from laying claim to Winterfell through her. Sansa would have done much the same if she were in his boots. But it had come far too late—she had already been twice used as a pawn, and the North itself had long fallen into Bolton’s hands even before her farce of a marriage with Ramsay. Still, it stung to have those words spoken for all to hear.

It pained her almost as much as the knowledge that nobody had come for her in King’s Landing, leaving her to the cruel jaws of the lions.

“All hail Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, King in the North!” Maege Mormont’s voice rang out, echoing through the yard.

The Lady of Bear Island bent the knee, her daughters quickly following suit. Galbart Glover was next, and then Larence Snow, the chieftains, and every man in the yard. Even the wildlings kneeled, but she couldn’t say if it were out of loyalty or merely respect.

Sansa Stark gathered her skirts and bent her knee in one smooth motion.

It felt right, even if the cold stone flagstone below bit through her riding gown. She felt no reluctance, no envy, no anger at her bastard brother. If she had to choose a king to follow, it would be Jon. Today, she had seen the battle, and she was beginning to believe. He had done everything he had said he would. He had not lied once. She believed, then, beyond any reason, that even if the sky fell, her brother would figure out a way to prop it back up.

One decree had not made Jon king, she knew, even if it had never arrived, the Northmen would have crowned him all the same. But it had been the last straw, legitimising his ride right away.

There could be no other outcome. With dragons at his beck and call, the Boltons were vanquished for good, the traitorous lords smashed on the field, with no one left in the North willing to bow to the Iron Throne or the Lannisters.

Then, she stole a glance at her brother. He looked like a statue, his face betraying no emotion. But Sansa somehow knew he was surprised.

“Rise,” Jon said, voice cool. A sliver of exasperation passed through his purple eyes, but it disappeared so swiftly that Sansa might as well have imagined it. “I acknowledge King Robb’s decree. I henceforth name my sister, Princess Sansa Stark, as heir to Winterfell after any children I may father. Her previous marriages are null and void, just as any other union forced at sword point.”

Sansa’s vision blurred, and she feared she just might weep out in the open for all to see. Somehow, she held in her tears.

The next few hours passed in a blur as Winterfell churned with activity. Sansa managed to get her paltry possessions to her mother’s chambers. Fat Walda had lived there… or at least until Ramsay had fed her to his dogs. Sansa burned everything the Frey bride had left behind, even the drapes and the sheets and the carpets, stripping the room bare.

It felt… cleansing to watch the heap of garments and effects burn, even if she knew replacing everything would be a headache.

Once finished, she took the bundle she had prepared and went to find her brother.

Jon was not in the Great Keep, could not be found in the Great Hall, the armoury or any of the training yards. An hour later, a tired Sansa found him in a clearing inside the godswood, together with his three drakes.

He was pulling arrows from their wings and scales, whispering soft words that kept them obedient and calm. The young dragons had not escaped the battle unscathed, even in the sky. The Bolton marksmen had let loose many arrows before breaking, though Sansa failed to see it from the hill.

The slender Stormstrider, the size of a destrier, was now the smallest of the three. The ruby-scaled drake was only half an idea bigger but with a shorter tail and a triangular head.

Jon was working on the dark behemoth, his scales shimmering like sapphire under the autumn sun. of ink and sapphire. Winter was a fitting name for such a dragon. He was a fierce thing, all muscled underneath the jutting spikes on his spine, with a bony tail the shape of a morning star. Bigger than his two clutchmates combined, Winter was beautiful the way a thorny rose was, especially when rumbling purrs echoed from his throat as Jon plucked out barbed shafts from between the scales across his belly.

Dragonblood splattered across the ground, sizzling and twisting as if alive. Even the pulled-out arrow-tips looked half-melted.

Sansa’s gaze strayed to Jon’s arm—her favour, if soaked red with blood, was still tied to his elbow.

Heat traitorously crept up her neck, and her heart started racing again. She felt a bit foolish for giving her favour to Jon; what if he took it the wrong way?

‘But would that truly be the wrong way?’ a tiny voice that sounded like Cersei Lannister whispered in her head. ‘You gave him your favour because you are in love with your brother.’

Sansa bristled inwardly. ‘I do not like my brother like that!’

‘Then what is that favour doing over there, tied to his elbow?’ the voice pressed mercilessly.

‘That’s… just for luck. There’s nothing wrong with a brother defending his sister’s honour.’

‘Don’t try to deceive yourself; it’s unbecoming. If it were just for luck, why would you swoon at the sight of your brother so easily? Why would you feel such great joy seeing your favour on his arm?’

Sansa deflated. Was she really in love with her brother? Did she get this… vile inclination from Cersei during her unpleasant stay in King’s Landing? No, her love for her brother was not vile!

‘It is normal for a sister to be fond of her brother,’ Sansa declared in her mind.

‘What a delicious fondness for a brother you avoided before. Come now, doesn’t your heart flutter when you think of him? You like Jon, and not in the way a sister should like her brother.’

‘Maybe I do,’ she grudgingly admitted. ‘But it’s not that simple!’

‘But surely you deserve some happiness after all that has happened to you. You should take it!’

“Sansa.” Jon’s voice startled her. He was looking at her with those purple eyes of his that made her insides melt. “Is my presence required for something?”

“Your Grace.” Sansa curtsied after taking a few shuddering breaths to calm her erratic heartbeat before remembering why she was here in the first place. “I have a gift for you.”

Jon’s face turned cool as he regarded her. “Princess, I shall be very wroth with you if you do not call me by my name. I am still your brother, and there is no need to stand on courtesy with me in private.”

“Brother,” Sansa conceded, her heart skipping a beat. The word tasted bitter on her tongue, while the voice in her head was laughing.

Jon accepted her gift and carefully unwrapped it.

Within the bundle lay a cloak of black linen. Sansa had sewn it herself, stitch by stitch in the candlelight, her fingers pricked raw more than once. The fabric was the finest she could find on the march, most bartered from the mountain clansmen. Upon the back, she had embroidered a white direwolf head in pale thread, courtesy of Ghost. Smaller direwolf heads, these ones in grey, adorned the collar.

“You made this?” There was wonder in his voice as he inspected her gift.

“Yes.” Sansa smiled proudly. After two moons of toiling on the march, she had finally completed it the previous night; sewing had been the only thing that had distracted her thoughts from the upcoming battle and the worry over her brother’s fate.

Jon took the cloak into his hands and turned it over, running his fingers along the white direwolf stitched upon the black. “Your skills with the needle are exceptional,” he said, throwing the cloak over his shoulders and tying it together.

It was not the empty platitudes Sansa had often heard in King’s Landing, but a genuine compliment that made her face heat up.

At that moment, a stout man with a stained apron lumbered into the clearing, carrying a platter overfilled with steaming food.

“Your shepherd’s pie and the bacon and eggs, Your Grace,” the servant said, cautiously eyeing the now-sleeping dragons.

Jon took the wooden platter and inhaled the scent, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face.

“Good—just as I wanted, Beryl.” The praise made the round cook puff up his chest, making him look like a frog. “Bring another serving for my sister.”

Beryl nodded and ran off toward the kitchen as Sansa shook her head.

“Jon, you need not—”

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked pointedly. Her belly groaned in agreement; Sansa closed her mouth, and Jon chortled. “I thought so, too. Now, you will sit down and eat. Your king commands you.”

The last words were spoken with faux seriousness, and an involuntary giggle slipped from her lips.

Soon enough, the cook returned with another plate, his proud gait reminding Sansa of a… fat peacock.

She gingerly sat on a twisting root, placing the platter in her lap and started eating. It was quite good, if a bit greasy. Though that might have been her hunger speaking—she had scarcely eaten a thing since yesterday.

“I’ve never seen you eat with such relish,” she noted as Jon seemed to savour every bite from his plate. While Castle Black’s food was drab, it wasn’t that terrible. At least it seemed like her brother had stopped eating enough to feed a dozen men and now only satisfied himself with a double serving.

“Try spending two moons on plain roasted horse meat,” Jon muttered after swallowing a mouthful of bacon, though Sansa suspected there was another reason. “This is bloody better than I remember. I ought to promote Beryl to my personal cook.”

“His old heart might burst from joy if you do.”

“A pity,” Jon said, chuckling. “It would be a grievous loss with such skills in the kitchen—”

The next half an hour was spent in light-hearted chatter, idle words moving from one inane topic to another. Sansa’s unease melted as they spoke as a brother and sister, bereft of any woes. It seemed that behind the grim and sullen demeanour, Jon hid an easy-going charm and plenty of wit that had her laughing. It felt surreal, as if there had not been a cruel battle earlier, even the dragons were all asleep, sprawled across the clearing like scaly kittens.

Yet, as with all good things, this also ended. Once the last bite of eggs disappeared, Jon stood up, ready to leave.

“Will you walk with me?” Jon asked, his tone turning serious. “I mean to see Hother Umber and Barbrey Dustin in the dungeons.”

And just like that, her brother was gone, and the king had taken his place.

Sansa rose at once. “It would be my pleasure.”

They left the godswood, following the small pathway to the main courtyard.

“What now, brother?” she voiced the question that had weighed on her mind since Winterfell had been reclaimed.

“I’ve sent out all the ravens, summoning all the Northern lords to come and swear fealty to Winterfell,” Jon replied, running a hand through his dark locks. “I have given them forty days to arrive, pardoning all their previous offences, real or imagined. Those who fail to come will be dealt with. Then, I mean to send a small host to take control of the Dreadfort. The castellan there should surrender easily enough, but if he doesn’t…”

She blinked in surprise. It had not been more than four hours since Jon was crowned, and he had already made plans and put them in motion. They were good plans, too, as far as Sansa could tell. An old, forgotten feeling stirred in her chest—pride. Pride of House Stark, and pride of her family and their good name.

Her shoulders felt lighter then. Jon knew what he was doing.

Then, he turned to her, face solemn. “Did you know King’s Landing is no more?”

Sansa froze. Behind her, Brienne gasped.

“What?”

“Wildfire,” he said. “It might be false, for all I have is a letter from Cersei Lannister from Deep Den claiming that the city had all been burned clean by green fire, and that even the land itself grew noxious in its wake. She pins the wildfire on one Aegon Targaryen and summons the Bolton banners to come down south and fight for Tommen in the same breath.”

Sansa reeled. Half a million souls… gone. Was it true? But could she doubt it, after all she had seen?

It made sense in an odd sort of way. Cersei would never leave King’s Landing unless forced to. And if she summoned help from Bolton and the North, Tommen’s position had to be in dire straits.

Sansa stole a glance at her brother. He looked unruffled, completely calm at the news, as if a whole city disappearing into the flames was a normal thing. Sansa believed it, then.

“Aegon,” she echoed, voice hoarse. “Which Aegon Targaryen? Elia’s dead son?”

“The very same, according to his claim,” Jon sneered. “He has the Golden Company and the Stormlands behind him, writing Bolton with promises and assurances of honours, titles, and wealth should they join him. He ought to join the Flayed Man in the Seven Hells if he wishes to get the Boltons so badly.”

The bloodthirsty jest got a chuckle out of her throat, and Sansa finally managed to gather her wits. “He’s rather bold,” she noted. “The Golden Company has what? Twelve thousand swords? The Stormlands are spent, too. Highgarden and Casterly Rock could easily call upon five times the number.”

“Not anymore. Margaery and Mace Tyrell perished in the green flames, and so did over thirty thousand soldiers from the Reach. The Dornish have raised their banners to back Aegon, and Willas Tyrell might not back a young Tommen Baratheon without his sister for a queen.”

Sansa felt a sliver of dark, vindictive joy. House Tyrell had been humbled—they had played the Great Game and lost terribly. She had thought Margaery a friend once, a girl who wanted to make her a sister in both name and blood. But it had been just another ploy to get Winterfell, and once Sansa had been wed to the Imp, the golden rose of Highgarden had not spared her a second glance.

Gods forgive her, she was gladdened, even though it was wrong to celebrate the demise of half a million innocent souls.

But were they truly innocent?

Sansa still remembered their cheers as her own father lost his head. They all screamed with jubilation with Joffrey’s name upon their lips then. Perhaps, there had never been anything good in that den of vipers called King’s Landing, despite the false veneer of glamour and glory.

The wildfire had done what everyone else had failed—purging the rot. If only Cersei had burned, too.

Still, Sansa couldn’t help but feel sad; death was an ugly thing.

They finally arrived in the dungeons.

“Stay outside, Brienne of Tarth,” Jon ordered. “No harm shall befall my sister.”

Jon casually plucked an unlit torch from the wall and flicked its crown with his finger. A purple spark bloomed, and the torch blazed alive. She blinked, and the fire was now yellowish, as was proper. Had her eyes been playing tricks on her? How could a torch be lit with a tap of a finger?

Sansa just shook her head.

They entered a dark cell after passing a small oak door guarded by two Knott clansmen.

In the corner, a gaunt old man was chained to the wall.

“I can see you have questions for me, lad,” the prisoner rasped, rising on his elbow. “Ask and be done with it.”

This had to be Hother Umber. Half a head taller than most men, a hard, hoary face, a long white beard, and tired eyes.

“Why hand my brother to the Boltons?” Jon asked directly.

“I reckon that would be the thing you wanted to know.” The man’s head slumped back on his straw-covered cot, looking a decade older. “My nephew, Lord Jon Umber, is a hostage for House Umber’s good behaviour in the Twins. My brother joined Stannis, so I joined Bolton to preserve Greatjon’s life, but the bloody Leech Lord had somehow found we had the Rickon.”

A peal of weak laughter rolled from Hother Umber’s chapped mouth. “Most swords House Umber could muster perished with your brother Robb at the Twins, and the rest died near Winterfell with Stannis and Bolton. I didn’t want Last Hearth to burn. Damned if I had, damned if I hadn’t.”

“Your trial will be in six days,” Jon broke the silence after a minute.

The old man just nodded mutely, as if he had not expected otherwise.

Sansa hated the Hother Umber for handing over Rickon, but she could understand. Gods forgive her, she could understand his desire to preserve his family, even if he could never forgive it. After Roose defeated Stannis, the Leech Lord could have easily subdued the rest of the North, given enough time.

Sansa loathed it all, for understanding did not bring her peace. War was too ugly, too heartbreaking.

A minute down the twisting hallway, they entered another cell. Inside was Barbrey Dustin, with more grey streaks in her hair than Sansa remembered. She wasn’t chained like Hother, yet her mocking expression was the same as during Sansa’s wedding with Ramsay.

“I expected one of you to come along,” Barbrey spoke, her carefree tone rankling Sansa. “Are you here to force yourself on me, bastard? I know your lot, all too eager and lusty for the things you couldn’t have. Ramsay was no different, always undressing me with his filthy bastard eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Jon gave her a cool glance, waving his hand as if chasing away a fly. “If I wanted to fuck someone that badly, it would not be a bitter old crone like you.”

Sansa stifled a chuckle.

Barbrey’s face twisted into a scowl. “Then why are you here, bastard?”

“Why did you side with Roose Bolton and his bastard?” Jon asked flatly.

“Look at you, Starks. All high and mighty, thinking you’re better than the rest of us, no matter what. Even a lowly bastard like you struts around like he owns the place. Why, he asks.” She laughed mockingly. “Because I hate your House.”

The sheer spite and vitriol made Sansa recoil. “What has our family done to ignite such hatred in your heart?”

The old widow looked at her with amusement as if she were a lackwit telling a jape.

“Did you know I was your uncle Brandon’s lover once?” For the first time, Barbrey looked regretful. “I see the surprise on your faces. Brandon was a gifted rider, fostered with Lord Dustin in Barrowton, and often rode to the Rills. My father happily welcomed his future liege lord in his halls and even encouraged me to seduce your uncle in hopes of becoming Lady Stark, not that he needed to.”

A forlorn smile bloomed on the widow’s face. “I willingly gave Brandon my virtue and love, and we enjoyed each other’s company for a long time. It was all going so well until your grandfather made his southern ambitions known. Despite his reluctance, Catelyn Tully was to wed Brandon, all because of the grey rat’s whispers!”

“A poor excuse for treason,” Sansa hissed out.

“Oh, but there’s more. I was to be passed off to your father instead, but Rickard Stark decided I was not good enough for the lesser son either. When I was finally married off to Willam Dustin, he rode off to war with your father and never returned. The very same war started by your whorish aunt Lyanna—”

Crack!

Barbrey and Sansa twisted around, only to see Jon’s fist sunken into the granite wall, surrounded by spiderweb cracks. Her brother’s face was colder than the Wall, but his eyes burned with fury as he withdrew his hand, completely unharmed, revealing a fist-shaped print.

“Your Grace?” The guards rushed in to see what was happening, hands on their swords.

Her brother exhaled slowly, and the rage on his face melted away as quickly as it had come.

“Just a simple accident,” he said blandly. “Beron, Daryn, fret not and return to your posts.” The guardsmen perked up being called by name, bowed deeply, and returned to their posts outside.

Jon’s cold ice settled on Barbrey Dustin again, and the widow shivered. “You’re oddly familiar with the working of whores.”

Barbrey reddened. “Bastard—”

“If you want to die cleanly, you should mind your tongue, traitor. Some fools think they are not afraid of death. But there’s dying, and dying.” Jon’s voice was soft, quiet, and intimate, as if whispering to a lover, but Sansa could tell he wasn’t jesting. Barbrey’s face had turned as pale as chalk. “Make no mistake, your days are numbered, but I shall not grant you the release of a swift death. Your end can be as slow and painful as I can make it. And in the end, I will gut you and hang you with your innards on the branches of the Heart Tree so even the gods can bear witness to the end of traitors like you.”

The silence felt so heavy that Sansa struggled to breathe, but then her brother’s face turned cheery and warm in a way that made her skin crawl. “But please, do continue your tale. I must hear what happened next.”

Barbrey Dustin was shaking like a leaf, her previous bravado gone. Defiance and vitriol had faded, giving way to fear.

“When… ah… when your father returned North, he only brought his sister’s bones and you.” Her trembling hand motioned towards Jon. “My husband fought and bled and died for him, yet your father never even deigned to bring back his bones, not even his armour. I only received Willem’s horse, the red stallion I had gifted him before he went to war. House Stark took everything from me. My virtue, my love, my dreams and even my Lord Husband.”

Sansa frowned. It was a heavy insult, but half of it was in Barbrey’s head.

Still, there was truth to it that she could not deny. Everyone knew Eddard Stark had carried Dawn back to Starfall, even though the Daynes had taken part in Aunt Lyanna’s kidnapping. If her father had left the bones of the loyal retainers who died for him down in Dorne, it would have been only because he could not return all of them home. Sansa was no stranger to facing two options you misliked.

Doubtlessly, things were far more complicated than the widow portrayed, if she was even speaking the truth.

Back in the days of summer, when everything seemed to be like a song, Sansa would have believed every word the angry woman uttered. But now…

“You’re just jealous my mother got everything you ever wanted, aren’t you?” Sansa realised. “You could have remarried… but decided not to. You gave your maidenhead to Brandon Stark. There’s more to making an alliance than opening your legs for an heir or a lord.”

“What did Catelyn Tully have that I did not?” Barbrey’s voice thickened with disdain. “Big teats? Your cow of a mother was a meek, Southron thing—”

“She had dignity and self-respect,” Jon cut in. “I hold no love for Catelyn Stark, but she had more dignity than you in her pinky alone. And over half of the swords in the Riverlands behind her, the final straw that broke the dragon’s back.”

The cell grew silent then as the Dustin widow looked at her brother as if seeing him for the first time. She blinked as if Jon were an interesting puzzle to solve. Even Sansa was surprised—she had never heard her brother speak of Catelyn Stark. A bastard brother was an insult and a stain on her mother’s name, and she knew there was no love lost between Catelyn Stark and Jon.

But Jon seemed not to care anymore. No, that was not it, Sansa realised. This was a show of unity, a lesson their father had imparted and her brother had taken to heart. When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Her brother spoke on behalf of Catelyn Stark because she was Eddard’s wife, regardless of his personal feelings.

“I see now. It all makes sense.” Barbrey cackled. “Eddard Stark had us all fooled with his precious honour. Who would gainsay an honest man? But I know better, for he was a liar like everyone else. You’re Lyanna’s pup from the Silver Prince, aren’t you? Purple eyes and dragons!”

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat while the widow erupted in hysterical laughter.