Chapter Text
Eddard watched as Sansa and Arya ran about the court yard, laughing and giggling with one another. It was a rare occasion that they got along lately, and he agonised over what to do, wanting his children to get along. In his hand he clutched a small scroll, a letter from his friend Howland Reed.
After a lesson from her Septa, Sansa had been talking much about future marriage, a love-struck look of innocence that only a child could have in this cruel world on her face. He knew he would have to pick a good match, but also wanted it to be a happy one for his daughter.
Betrothal at a young age was not so strange, but Ned wanted it to be to someone he himself could trust to take care of his first born daughter. And then a thought struck him, when ruminating over the list of possible sons for her to marry.
Howland Reed was a good man, loyal both to the Stark house and to him as a friend. He was also there through the worst time of Ned’s life, and kept a secret that could have him killed for knowing. In some ways, Ned was constantly trying to find a way to repay his friend for everything he has done for his family.
When he had heard of the birth of his second child, a son and heir to Greywater Watch, he had sent a congratulations. But come twelve years later after Jojen’s birth, Ned eyed his ten year old daughter thoughtfully and decided.
With the letter in hand, he had planned to summon Sansa to his solar but instead wanted to see how she was without the knowledge of her Lord Father watching. To see those usual manners and poise disappear under the banner of childhood.
Smiling softly down at his two daughters, Ned hoped that this was a good decision.
When Sansa was brought to her father’s solar after playing with Arya, she was expecting a reprimand. Her dress was speckled with mud and hair in disarray as she marched like she was heading towards her execution.
‘Septa Mordane would be ashamed of me.’
The dread continued to well up as she entered after knocking, and stood in front of her father, head bowed.
“Why so sad, child?” Her father rumbled, and she dared to glance up, hands creasing her dress in worry.
“I am in trouble aren’t I?” Sansa asked in a tiny voice, and he just quirked an eyebrow up at that.
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I’m messy!” She blurted out, “And Septa said that it isn’t ladylike to get dirty.”
He leant back in his seat in thought, tapping his lip. “Well, I do not think it’s a problem as long as on formal occasions you comport yourself as a Lady. But when playing with your siblings, I do not mind.”
Shy and hopeful, Sansa asked, “So I’m not in trouble?”
He let out a soft exhale, like he was laughing to himself, “Of course not, Sansa.”
Her worried face broke into a relieved smile, and in return his usually stern expression softened as he beckoned her closer. Eager, she trotted to his side behind the desk and let him pull her up to sit on his lap. It has been a few years since she had been allowed to sit with him like this, but she had no problem happily snuggling into his chest, looking over his desk with a wondered awe.
‘Maybe I can have a desk like this someday!’ She exclaimed in her mind, gazing around the room at a higher height, taking in all the shelves bursting with books and scrolls.
His arms then came around her on either side, and she watched with open curiosity as he unraveled a scroll that sat in front of them. The hand writing was very neat and as she began to lean forward, curious to take a closer look, she stopped herself, hands flying up to cover her eyes.
Her father chuckled softly, louder now that she was closer to hear it, and felt it echo into her chest. “Why do you cover your eyes, little one?”
Behind her hands, Sansa recited dutifully, “It is rude to read someone else’s letters! So I shan’t look.” She was determined to be as polite as possible and stated her intentions firmly.
A rough hand softly rested on one of her arms gently, “Well, in this case, you may.”
With that, her hands slowly crept from her face, twisting around to look at her father to make sure he was being truthful. At his small nod, she whipped back around and leaned in close to read the letter, eager to know what the neat handwriting said.
Finger following the words, she slowly read along, mouth out each word to herself. When she got to the end, she blinked, letting the new information settle in her mind. Frowning, she twisted back around once more.
“I am to be married, Father?” A little stunned by this knowledge, she stared wide eyed up at him.
His hand ran through her messy hair, flattening it down a little as he spoke with a solemn voice, “You are betrothed to a dear friend of mine’s son. Lord Jojen Reed is but two years older than you.”
“‘Reed’?” Frowning back down at the letter, she recalled her lessons and questioned further, “They are the house that lives in the Neck, correct?”
He smiled in approval at her knowledge, her heart swelling with pride at her memory, and confirmed, “Howland Reed is Lord of Greywater Watch, and they are the North’s first defence against the South.”
Cocking her head to the side, she asked with childish curiosity, “Why would we need to be defended?”
His gentle eyes seemed to grow sad and serious, replying lowly, “War happens, my child. It is unfortunate, but that is how the world is.”
Looking down at her fingers, wringing them out of nervousness. She didn’t know what he was trying to say, but it sounded very serious, so she nodded with an equally serious expression. “I understand, Father.”
He then got the topic back to where it should be, asking gently, “What do you think of the betrothal?”
Pursing her little lips in thought, she wondered, “Is he a nice boy?” Before perking up, hands clasped in delight, “Oh! Is he a gallant knight like in the songs?” Her mind began to drift off to the songs that she knew, but her father brought her quite quickly out of that fantasy.
He chuckled, “I do not know about being a knight, as he is just a boy, but I trust Lord Reed to raise a good son, so yes. I do believe he is a nice boy.”
A part of her pouted at him not being a knight, but pushed that aside, focusing on him confirming her first question. Sansa wanted to marry a boy who would be nice to her and not tease her like Theon sometimes did. Mind settling on a decision, she resolutely said, “Then I must learn everything about my future husband, if that is all you know, yes?”
Her father smiled in approval.
“Do you plan to send him letters?”
Perking up, not having even thought of letters, she exclaimed, “Yes! That is a wonderful idea! I was going to read all about House Reed and ask Maester Luwin, but sending a letter would be much more fun!”
She wiggled out of his arms and hopped down to the floor, intent of racing off to the rookery when her father’s voice stopped her. “Sansa.”
Though impatient to go write a letter, she could not ignore the call of her father, and turned around to face him. Her feet unsubtly shifted in place, ready to take off as soon as possible.“Yes Father?”
But as he opened his mouth to speak, he stopped and just closed it. There was an amused smile crossing his features and then made a motion to her dress. “Best get changed. We do not want your Septa getting upset.”
With a loud gasp, she looked down at her dress, remembering how messy it was, and gave her father a grateful smile. “Of course, Father!” She chirped before once more dashing out of his solar.
After changing from her muddy blue dress to a cleaner grey one, she finally let herself stop and breath. ‘I’m betrothed!’ She thought with joy. Hurrying over to her small desk, she grabbed a quill and some parchment, and began to write. Her mind was filled with daydreams already of being married and living in a castle.
To Lord Jojen Reed, Heir of Greywater Watch,
I am excited to learn of our betrothal, and confess that I do not have much knowledge of your home besides what is taught by out Maester. I know that you are the southern most Northern house, and that you guard my Father’s lands. But I would like to know all there is to know of your home, from your perspective. Lessons only teach you so much, and the land must very different to how it is father up North.
I eagerly await your reply,
Lady Sansa of House Stark.
After setting the quill back down, she looked at her letter with trepidation, hoping that it wasn’t badly written. Sansa had only just started to learn how to write a formal letter in her lessons, and wanted this to be perfect. Letting the ink dry, she then rolled it up and sealed it with her house seal. It wasn’t the lordship one like her father’s but it would be enough to tell her betrothed that it’s from her family.
Cheeks aching from the smile that had not left her face since the news, she ran all the way to the Rookery, and asked Maester Luwin for a raven to the Neck. “It is to my betrothed, Lord Jojen Reed!”
She whispered in excitement, hands cupping her mouth and the man rose an eyebrow in surprise. “You are sending him a letter, my lady?”
Nodding fervently, Sansa rhetorically asked, “It would be good for us to know one another, right? And I must learn all there is to know about his land!”
He smiled, one of approval, and her heart swelled with how much approval she had gotten today. “Very good, my lady. If you are so eager to learn, I do have some books and scrolls on House Reed, as well as the Crannogmen and their history.”
Her eyes lit up, and gleefully cried, “Oh, that would be wonderful Maester Luwin!”
After he gave her an indulgent smile he set to work on tying the letter to a raven, and with her arms and head resting on the large window, Sansa watched as the bird became a black dot in the distance.
In the meantime, Sansa dutifully went about her lessons, trying to focus though her mind constantly wandered off to the letter she sent. She hoped he would reply. On top of her usual studies, she happily received the books and scrolls from the Maester, and would spend nights by the candlelight, reading all about the history of the Marsh Kings, and the legends of how the Children of the Forest turned the Neck into swampy marsh lands.
A part of her scrunched her face at how messy it must be, dirtying their clothes, but the figured that maybe it was like snow. And how she was so used to the cold and wet element, learning to deal with it like any Northerner, they must do the same with mud.
During embroidery, she began to teach herself how to sew the Reed Sigil, and was a little relieved that the house colours, a dull, mossy green and black at least matched her hair. She found the lizard-lion to be an interesting creature and a fun challenge to sew. Sansa wondered if the marshy-men have use of a handkerchief, before deciding against making it.
‘I need to learn more about them before making anything for Jojen.’
The more she dove into the books, the more she found their way of life fascinating and creative. They did not have castles or stone structures, to her brief disappointment. Instead they had villages made out of thatch and woven reeds, sitting upon wooden floating islands. And because of that, they moved around the swamps, never staying in one set location. Even the Lord’s home was also non-stationary!
In fact, because they move around, there were no trained ravens that could locate them. When Sansa learnt this she had sprinted off to find Maester Luwin, desperate to know of how to reach her betrothed and what had happened to her letter. She was practically besides herself with tears building in her eyes when she found him.
He, thankfully, eased her worries. There was a specific outpost, just on the edge of the swamps, where ravens take their letters. From there, Crannogmen would collect them and deliver the letters to their recipient. She breathed a sigh of relief, wiping away her tears.
About three weeks after she sent her letter, she got a reply. They were eating breakfast, her family gathered together and discussing the day’s plans, when Maester Luwin came in to deliver her letter.
When she saw him entering the room, scroll in hand, Sansa jumped up from her seat. Uncaring of the way the cutlery rattled, barely hearing her mother’s protests of her unladylike behaviour, she ran over to the older man.
“Is it for me?” She was practically jumping in place when, after the Maester got her father’s approval, she was handed the paper. Body vibrating in excitement, she broke the seal, and unrolled the scroll with fumbling hands.
Standing in the middle of the room, ignoring the stares from her family, she read over the letter.
To Lady Sansa of House Stark,
I will admit I was surprised to receive your letter, having not expected such a quick response after our Fathers decision. I’m happy to know that you are interested in my home, as it’s very different from most places in Westeros...
From there Jojen went on to explain what she had already learnt in her books, but in more personal detail, coming from a first hand account. And besides the landscape, he talked about lifestyle, for example, the food they ate. She managed to hold back the urge to pull a face at learning they ate frogs and snakes.
And he seemed to have expected that response, as he wrote that agriculture was limited to small areas of stable land that existed in the swamps, and you had to learn the survive off what was given by the land naturally. She couldn’t fault him and his people for doing so, knowing that some of the meals up North could also turn up visitor’s noses too.
Sansa was determined to keep an open mind for her future marriage, wanting to make the best of it, and secretly found the thought of moving houses and the creatures of the swamps to be an exciting adventure to look forward to.
In her room, in a tiny lock box, she kept all the letters that slowly accumulated over time. At one point she had asked about how they dealt with mud, if it was like how they dealt with snow: Using animal skins to keep out the cold.
He had replied with saying that they did use the animal skin of those that they hunted, but for the majority of the time, they had learnt to just get used to a small layer of mud on their clothes.
That seemed to be the main problem that Sansa had with moving there, that all her pretty dresses would not work well in the elements. She didn’t want to ruin such pretty colours with mud. Lamenting that to Jeyne, the girl nodded in sympathy, and suggested making a new wardrobe for when she moves there.
“But it won’t be for many years, so don’t worry Sansa! You can still wear many pretty dresses for awhile.”
Sansa had laughed and agreed. She had realised that with all this studying, she was acting like her departure was any day, instead of when she was sixteen.
But with that knowledge that she would have to get used to being covered in mud, determination filled her as she stared out at the raining sky. It hadn’t snowed recently, so instead of slush, the ground would be covered with mud and murky puddles.
Lacing her boots tightly, and tying hair back equally tightly in a braid, she marched out into the cold rain, and began to run about in the mud with intent. At eleven, it is now completely unbecoming of a girl of such status to be acting like this, but after she got used to the squelching sensation of wet feet in boots, it became fun.
Laughter was coming out of her freely and without any regard to decorum as she stomped in puddles and splashed them about. Twirling from puddle to puddle, head tossed up to the pouring sky, she felt an unbridled joy.
Her breaths were pants, seeing it come out cloudy in the cold air, and spent a few minutes of breathing into the cold weather, marvelling at the way her breath looked in the downpour.
“Sansa Stark! What in the name of the Seven do you think you are doing!?”
Her mother’s angered voice had Sansa whipping around, wet hair clinging to her pale skin, and felt dread pool low in her stomach at the furious expression on her mother’s face.
Lip wobbling, the joy from before quickly fizzled out as she walked with resignation to her, and bowed her head in shame. Her mother continued her reprimand, hand held tight over Sansa’s small wrist as she was dragged to get washed, body beginning to tremble from both the cold and from her mother’s anger.
Water and mud trailed behind Sansa, and the girl felt regret, knowing that the servants would have to clean it all up. Her mother’s ranting became white noise as she was stripped and practically dumped into a hot bath. Curling her knees up to her chest, she felt warm tears slowly slide down her cheeks.
Finally winding down from her tirade, her mother tsked, “Sansa, why are you crying? You know this was unbecoming behaviour.”
But she just silently turned away from the older woman, feeling shame in her tears, and not wanting her mother to see them. There was a sigh of disappointment from behind her, but Sansa continued to keep her head ducked away as her mother began to wash her hair.
It felt unfair how much trouble she got into for doing something that was important! It was important for Sansa to adapt to her future husband’s home. That was what she was taught, so why didn’t her mother understand that? Didn’t she have to do the same when she came North?
And further more, she wasn’t even that dirty in comparison to some of the messes Arya and Bran had gotten into. Why was she the one so severely told off?
All these questions and thoughts stewed in her mind, but Sansa bit her lip to keep herself quiet. She doesn’t feel like her mother would understand her reasonings. But maybe her father would.
So, mumbled into her knees, she said, “I want to talk to father.”
That had her mother pausing in the midst of cleaning Sansa’s hair. “If you think your father will let you off lightly for making such a mess-“
Her head whipped around to glare angrily through her tears, and yelled, “I want to talk to him, mother!”
Blue eyes blinked in shock, and even Sansa was surprised by the way she had raised her voice, having never done that to her mother before. But it seemed that it, and the stubborn set of her jaw, had convinced her mother, as she set down the brush and left Sansa curled up in the warm water.
Sansa set to finishing up her bath herself, drying quickly and pulling on a thick nightgown and robe, wanting to keep warm. Then, sitting in front of the fire place, watching the flames dance, she waited for her father. Her hair dripped little puddles of water behind her, cheeks slowly warming in the fire’s heat.
He came not too soon after, quietly stepping into the room, door closing with a soft clank of metal. He moved near silently towards Sansa, until he too was sitting in front of the fireplace next to her, and she felt herself gravitating towards his large, comforting form.
Leaning against him, her father shuffled around a bit until his arm was holding her close to his side. They continued to sit in silence, before Sansa finally spoke.
“Jojen said that they grow used to their clothes and skin being covered in mud. So I wanted to become used to it for when I move there.” It came out as a whisper and she braced herself for him to scold her, tell how foolish she was behaving.
Instead he hummed thoughtfully, “I see. Why did you not tell your mother this?”
Shrugging sluggishly, Sansa muttered with bitterness, “Because she wouldn’t think it was ladylike.”
“Sansa...” He trailed off, sighing, and that set her off, feeling resentful at how no one seemed to understand!
“I always have to be ladylike, but how come Arya doesn’t have to? Why am I always the one that has to fetch Arya for Septa, when that isn’t my job! And then she tells me off when I can’t convince Arya to come, and it’s so frustrating because then so many people are upset with me and I hate it! I hate that I can’t play in the mud and have fun, because it isn’t ladylike! It’s not fair!” It was with a loud yell, her panting from her rant that had her breaking down.
She was sobbing hard into her knees, heaving breaths wracking her slight frame. Her cries echoed around the silent room, as he father’s arm just held her closer, allowing Sansa to seek comfort in his embrace.
The weight of a kiss pressed to the top of her damp hair, and he spoke lowly with sorrow, “I’m sorry that you’ve had such pressure put on you, Sansa. You are right, it is unfair for us to demand such behaviour from you.”
Sansa sniffled and whispered, “I know Arya is your favourite, cause she is so easy to love. She doesn’t have to do much to gain your love like me.”
He was aghast, “Sansa, how could you say that?”
Looking up, teary eyed, she argued, “But it’s true! She can come to you muddy with handpicked flowers, and you would give her a pat on the head. But I have to perfect my embroidery. I have to keep neat and polite, and even then I barely get any recognition! If I came to you muddy and with flowers, I would get told off!” And she burst once more into tears, hiding her face in her small hands.
“Oh Sansa.” He murmured with guilt and fully pulled her onto his lap, holding her tightly.
Over her silent cries, he tried to explain himself. “Arya reminds me of my sister, your Aunt Lyanna, that I lost. I guess, I’m lenient with her because I was the same with Lyanna. I never meant to make you feel inadequate nor unloved. You are so loved, Sansa. Please never doubt that. I know that the expectations put on you are much, but-“
“But it’s what is expected of me.” She completed for him with resolute unhappiness, voice muffled in his shoulder. Her skinny arms are wrapped around his neck, hand clenching the collar of his thick tunic.
“Yes, unfortunately.” He had sighed. But Sansa felt comfort with what he had said. She doesn’t understand what the loss of a sister felt like, but it must hurt him so. Biting her lip, she apologised, “I’m sorry for getting mad and getting muddy.” And she pulled back to look up at him so he knew her sincerity.
Hi large hand came up an cupped her wet cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. His grey eyes shone as he firmly spoke, “I’m proud of you, Sansa.” Wide eyed, she jerked her head back, stunned by his words. He gave her a sad look at such a violent reaction. “I’m sorry for never saying that to you, Sansa. But I truly am. I’m proud for how quickly you’ve decided to learn about Jojen and his home, and how readily you accept their way of life, even when it’s so different from ours. I’m proud that you are reacting so maturely to your betrothal. I know that some ladies would argue against it, but I am proud of you. I am proud to know that you will grow up to be an intelligent and compassionate young lady, and that you will do our family proud. I love you, Sansa.”
And he finished that speech was a firm kiss to her temple, and Sansa melted with the relieved knowledge that she was loved by her family, having sometimes doubted it.
After that night, Sansa noticed a subtle shifted with her parents. She had always followed after her mother in her free times, learning how to run a keep. But with the still lingering tension between the two, even after Sansa apologised for her yelling and behaviour, she decided to follow her father instead.
In between her lessons, she would duck into his solar and sit quietly by the fireplace on a stool, sewing or reading. And in doing so, over months, Sansa began to learn a little of running a keep from the Lord’s point of view. There were the dealings with criminals and taxes, though numbers still frustrated Sansa, she silently listened into his conversations with Maester Luwin and Steward Poole.
Sometimes, when he was dealing with the monthly petitions from the smallfolk, she would sit in the hall with him, behind his large chair where no one saw her, still knitting or writing a letter to Jojen, but keeping an ear to his ruling.
It made her think about the Kings of Winter, and a part of her fantasised about being a winter princess, twirling through snow storms. One day, around a year after she started to follow him around, she asked her father, whilst alone in his solar, why he can’t be a Winter King.
“Because we swore allegiance a featly to the Iron Throne when the Targaryens conquered Westeros.”
That answer didn’t feel good enough for her, and pushed further, “Yes, but father, there are no more Targaryens. So why can’t we go back to being our own kingdom? I’ve heard that our way is so different from the South, so why can’t we rule our own land independently?”
He set his quill down and leant forward, a dark serious look in his eyes, “Be careful what you say, Sansa. That could be taken as treason.”
She swallowed dryly, but forged on, steel melting into her spine. “But father, why did you continue with the Iron Throne after Roberts Rebellion? Don’t Westeros not like being made into one kingdom? What about the other Houses in the South?”
“Sansa.” It was a rumbled command, as she snapped her mouth closed, letting him speak. “I can’t not speak for the Southern lords, but the North is content with the ruling powers.”
Staring into those dark eyes, Sansa opened her mouth again, “Are they really, father?” She argued softly.
A heft sigh left his nose as he leant back in his seat, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Sansa, we cannot afford to break away from the Seven Kingdoms. We need the trade with the South for food.”
Having prepared for him to ask that, she leapt forward, “We can make more glass gardens!” Sansa insisted, “Have them in every castle! Make our own food!”
“Why are you so adamant to discuss this, Sansa?” He asked her softly, and Sansa straightened up, fists balling by her side. There was tiredness in the corner of his eyes, but an almost thoughtful, calculating gaze behind the subtle anger at her treason.
“Because there are no more dragons, father.” Sansa stated solemnly, “We knelt because of the dragons. But they aren’t here anymore.”
He sent her away after that, and Sansa felt frustration curdling in her gut, wondering why he doesn’t understand. Though that last look he casted her way had her hoping that he would take her suggestions. So deep in her mind, she doesn’t notice when she bumped into Theon and Robb.
Stumbling a little, she managed to right herself and scowled up at the tall boys in irritation. Robb smiled, but apologised. However Theon just teased her.
“You looked very much in thought, Sansa. Some frog-eater on your mind?” Robb shoved his elbow into the older boy’s rib, but even he looked a little amused.
Puffing her cheeks in annoyance, she snidely replied, “At least I have someone willing to marry me, unlike you, squid.”
Theon opened his mouth to retort, facing turning a little red, but Robb stepped in, and Sansa watched with satisfaction as her brother chided the other boy. She spun on her heel, wanting to get away from such immaturity, but Theon called after her, “At least I don’t have a muddy dick like your future husband does!”
Robb groaned in disgust, and though Sansa didn’t fully understand what Theon had said, she knew it was an insult and whirled back around, stalking towards the boy who seemed to shrink a little under her advancing form.
Sitting on a chair in the Maester’s office, Sansa nursed bruised knuckles and watched with dark gratification as Maester Luwin dabbed salve none-to-gentle on the growing bruise on Theon’s cheek. Robb stood in the corner, hiding his smiles as Sansa pouted, listening to the dressing down by the elder man.
She knew it was wrong to punch Theon, but if men could fight those that insult their wives, why can’t she hit someone who insulted her betrothed? ‘Society is stupid.’ She grumbled to herself.
When she was nearly thirteen, her father announced to the family that many of the Northern lords would be coming to feast in Winterfell to celebrate the official betrothal of Sansa and Jojen. Said girl was beaming with excitement, ready to meet her betrothed face to face. No matter what Arya sometimes teased about Jojen being ugly and frog like, Sansa ignored her, knowing that the small sketch sent to her by Jojen was done in his likeness.
They had swapped portraits when she was eleven, curious at what he looked like. He ended up having a talented artist from his people draw him, and in return she did the same. The image showed defined jawline and cheek bones, narrowed in a way that made his eyes like doe eyes, all sketched out with dark charcoal. She thought he was very handsome.
Over the years, Sansa continued to sit in her father’s solar, though she slowly shifted back to following her mother around at times too, equally spending time under their teachings. And as she sat on the stool by the fire place, what had become Her place, she gazed thoughtfully at her father.
She had noticed since her talk with him that he was running numbers a lot with his Steward and the Maester. At one point she managed to peek at what looked like granary stores, and wondered if he took some of her words into account.
Being reliant on other Kingdoms could cause a monumental problem for the North if they decided to cut off supplies and trade. Being able to be self-sufficient would be beneficial for their land. As she sewed her feast dress, Sansa thought that maybe something big was coming, as if she could sense it brewing in her bones.
Along with immersing herself in the Crannogmen culture, she also noticed herself shift from worshiping in her mother’s small Sept to sitting beneath the trees in the Godswood. Looking up at the red leaves above her, so similar to her hair, she pondered if The Neck had a Godswood too.
Studying up on the legends of the Marsh King and the Children of the Forest, she felt herself more eager and enthralled by the stories told by Old Nan than ever before. She eagerly requested the Hammer of Waters, wanting to hear that story over and over again. To the point that even Bran was getting tired of it.
The tree branches shifted in a cool winter breeze, and Sansa clutched the feast dress to her chest. It was in the Stark grey colour. With long sleeves, closing tightly around her wrists and fur lined. High collared and falling just before her ankles, she thought it was a very mature dress, dissimilar to the brighter colours she wore more often. But besides the grey, along the hem was direwolves and lizard lions, embroidered in a soft fern green. Subtle, but enough to show her allegiance to both her family and her future husband’s.
She sent a silent pray up to the Old Gods, ‘Let this marriage be happy. Please.’
The wind blew stronger briefly, enough that some red leaves twirled down around her head. Staring at the fallen nature, she gathered them up and felt an idea occur in her mind for the feast.
Sansa watched on the battlements with her younger siblings as the Northern lords slowly filtered into Winterfell, Robb having to be with their father as they greeted each lord. It wasn’t all of them though, more to come in the next couple of days, but it was still exciting to see this many people in her home.
Her and Arya were making it a competition to see how many of the banners for each house they could name correctly. Sansa was quite impressed with how far her sister’s studies had come along, for she only stumbled once or twice.
Their relationship had improved a little over the years. It seemed that their father had talked to Arya about her behaviour, and had also discussed with Septa Mordane about not sending Sansa to find Arya when it was her job, not his daughter’s.
At first Arya was mutinous about being forced to sit and embroider with Sansa and some of the other girls, but Sansa figured out a truce. Sansa would sit one on one with Arya and slowly coach her through each type of stitch, and would regale her younger sister with how important it was being able to make clothes. Not just to look pretty, but because of how important it was to make good and durable clothes, especially in such a harsh environment.
And wanting to dive in deeper, Sansa found some interesting tales of women on battle fields, sewing up the wounded. Arya quite liked that.
In return for those lessons, Arya managed to cajole Sansa into learning how to use a bow. When she had turned down the lessons, Arya slyly said that being able to hunt and forage for your food was what all the Crannogmen, including their women, did. So Sansa conceded begrudgingly to Arya’s true statement, and allowed herself to be tugged to the archery range.
It wasn’t so bad. Her arms and shoulders ached, building up muscle slowly that wasn’t really there before hand. And the callouses wasn’t unusual, already having some from sewing. But there was a certain kind of self-pride in working long hours to hit a target, and listening to Arya cheer in approval.
That was also something new between the two. They shifted from name calling, to slowly offering praises. Sansa finally noticed the way Arya would stare at her in envy whenever she was praised for her ladylike skills, and thought maybe she wasn’t the only one jealous of the other. With that in mind, Sansa began to compliment Arya whenever she did something correctly, like her dance form, or a well-done embroidered leaf.
She even found herself sheepishly going to Arya, asking for help in numbers, as her sister was practically a genius with them.
And in return, Arya began to do the same. From begrudging compliments on her harp playing, to loud, boisterous cheers when her arrow met the bullseye for the first time.
She was content and pleased with how their relationship had changed for the better, glad that they could be real sisters with one another.
During the three years her and Jojen were sending letters, his elder sister, Meera, had only sent one. It was long and held an underlining threat about treating her brother well. In it, it described from her perspective of what Jojen was like. ‘Solemn, many have said he was like an old man in the body of a child. But That does not mean he can not be arrogant and annoying like most brothers are.’
But solemn was the right word to describe her betrothed, as Sansa stood across from him and his father. She was tall for her age, still growing too in fact. But he was tall as well, just reaching over her height.
Dirty blonde, slightly curling hair, and bright green eyes, Sansa found that the artist depicted him well, and all she needed was colour to add to his features.
With a welcoming smile, she curtsied when her father introduced her, and noticed how Jojen only ever so slightly quirked his lips before bowing in return. His sister, who was back in Greywater Watch, was correct in his demeanour. He was awfully quiet, gazing around Winterfell with studious interest as they walked through the halls.
That had her asking him, “Would you like me to give you a tour?”
His bright green eyes locked onto her’s and he gave a nod in return. “I would like that.”