Fifteen thousand men were ready to march to Barrowton. Commoners stood outside the gates, waiting to cheer brave men when they passed.
Winterfell had taken the loss of Arya Stark as its own daughter’s. Chatter in snowy streets was somber, and then rageful. After Jon had declared war, Wyman Manderly and Cley Cerwyn met the pair in person, on their behalf swearing vengeance. With Sansa readying to depart to the Vale, Jon had named Lyanna Mormont Wardeness of the North, and the young girl could not have looked more honored.
Men enlisted themselves for the battle with smiles on their faces. Sansa could tell Jon thought it wrong to recruit them, nevertheless he did so. He gave them his thanks in a manner befitting his title, yet swollen eyes betrayed what he felt.
Sansa, on the other hand, felt calmness envelope her being, even if immediately outside of it was chaos. War was always to be upon them… and better now, before the Walkers were upon the Wall, and better here, on soil the northmen knew. No alliance between Starks, Lannisters, Greyjoys and Targaryens was one that was going to last. There was too much blood spilled for such truces.
Tyrion Lannister was not a bad man, a voice in her argued. Sansa shoved it away, remembering Joffrey and Cersei Lannister. The Lannisters do not seem like bad men until it’s too late. That’s what makes them so clever. She felt grateful that she was, at the very least, wise enough to keep to herself at King’s Landing, when wedded to the dwarf. The less Daenerys Targaryen knew about them, the better.
It was understandable for commonfolk to believe Arya’s death but harder, she supposed, for Winterfell’s bannermen. Brienne’s squire Podrick Payne had recently confided in Sansa about the northern lords and their distrust of the raven bearing the news, but the lords had not brought their doubts to their king. As far as it looked, they were eager for an excuse to drive away a Targaryen conqueror from their lands, and Arya’s supposed demise gave them enough reason.
Arya could not have died in Pyke… not when she had disappeared years before, the time their father was killed. Westeros was too cruel for women left alone. Sansa did not want to put her speculations on what really happened to Arya to voice, let alone in front of Jon. She did not think Jon would believe her, but if he did, he may also decide against war. Sansa did not want that. Anyone who lies about my sister’s death is not to be trusted.
She entered Jon’s chambers before they were to part. His back was to her, but Ghost saw her enter. The direwolf bounded towards her, to which Jon turned. His eyes were solemn.
“Littlefinger says he is ready to leave,” he told her, as Sansa scratched Ghost’s ears. “Promise me you’ll be careful around that man.”
“I will,” Sansa said. The pair had not discussed Sansa’s decision to seek shelter in the Vale since she had made it. Part of Sansa suspected Jon was considering the same decision, but the words had stuck in his throat. “Brienne is coming with me,” she reminded him, “not to mention a thousand northmen. I feel safe, even if you may not.”
“They do not seem enough,” Jon said simply. Sansa saw him weigh up options in his mind, wondering what he was thinking about. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said. “I have my lords, and I have Ser Davos. I want you to take Ghost.”
“Jon!”
“I know I am walking towards danger, but I don’t know if you are,” he said firmly. “This man sold you to Roose, even though he says it was in good faith. But… I also know Father believed we find true friends on the battlefield, and he did help us against the Bastard of Bolton for you.” He paused, contemplating his words. “I do not know what kind of man Lord Petyr Baelish is, but direwolves have a better sense of danger than men do.”
Sansa tried to change his mind, but Jon would remain adamant. His stubbornness was beginning to vex her. “Why cannot Ghost stay at Winterfell?” she lashed out finally. “The people need something to unite behind, be it a direwolf. How can you think Lyanna is enough to unify the kingdom?”
Jon paused. He turned his back. At first Sansa thought it was in anger, but he was actually looking for something. When he finally found it, a bit of parchment, he moved towards Sansa, gesturing her to keep their voices low. “Lyanna stood for House Stark when it needed her the most,” he said softly. “I know she is not enough, but the people will rally behind her… long enough for there to be a Stark in Winterfell again.”
“But it is not certain for us to return before-”
“Not us, Sansa,” he said, eyes now glistening. “I was sent a raven from Dolorous Edd, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. No one else is to know.” He handed Sansa the parchment in silence.
The parchment was moist, yellowed and frayed, with words hard to read. Below was also a shabby sketch of the face of a boy. Sansa’s eyes widened as she recognized it. Remember Arya, a voice inside told her. “How can we know for sure that’s… him?” she whispered.
Mutely, Jon pointed to a line at the bottom.
“I did not look away. Father would have known if I had.”
*
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