The North Remembers (M)

[moffnat]

Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him again.
In the Vale is where our story begins. Soft, sweet-smelling Sansa has been thrown
into an evolution that has rebuilt her from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Coming into
her own politically, she is the perfect candidate for Lord Manderly's righteous plan.
Everything is set in motion.
The North will never forget.

...but He shows me only Snow.
Offered mercy by the Night's Watch and those who believed his betrayal, Lord Commander
Jon Snow has only one option left--to avenge the brother he loved dearly, and the sister
he believes to have perished. His purpose lies in the Eyrie, his driving force,
and he will protect her without fail when the time for war rises once more.
He will draw a sword of vengeance from the fire.
The wolves will come again.

 

[Lord Snow]

The wind howled like the wolves that called this land their home. The land was scarred, torn asunder by the strife it had endured. Little was left but ash and sorrow. But from amidst this ash, an ember has arisen.

Wyman Manderly, shedding the cloak of deceit that had fooled the Boltons and the Lannisters, has decided to back the cause of Sansa Stark. But what sparked this sudden movement into action?

Such life had not been seen in the north for months. The Manderly flags snapped in the wind, the fat lord riding astride a barrel-bodied destrier. For miles they marched, until the massive host halted at the steps of the Bloody Gate.

It was columns and columns of infantry and cavalry, and above the Manderly merman, was the Stark direwolf.

Guards of the Vale drew blades and bows in suspicion, as a single rider emerged from the mass of Manderly colors. Black, it was, for both horse and rider were as dark as night. Hoof steps echoed against the silent pass.

"I request audience with Sansa Stark."

Jon's eyes gleamed in the morning light, his hair falling over his face in small ringlets. The ruby eyes of Longclaw identical to those of the direwolf at Jon's side.

 

[moffnat]

The soft patter of fresh, heavy snows was a sound Sansa Stark welcomed above all others. Whenever the gods would grace the Eyrie with such a Northern gift, it made her smile to know that it was possible her prayers could be answered. Could she remember Winterfell? Could she envision the dome-shaped rooftops and warm walls and the laughter of her brothers and sister, the Heart Tree, Lady playing with Grey Wind in the courtyard or the smile on her father's face? So long it had been, the Stark girl doubted she truly remembered her home in all it's glory. She would give anything to return there, to chase the Boltons from her halls and reclaim what was once hers, to sit at the dias with the sound of her people filling her ears. She had dreamed of it, once, and had awoken in a fit of angry tears. Even after all this time, her ties to Winterfell had only grown stronger. It would be so sweet to see it again. Surely the Weirwood had survived the fire, she often wondered on particularly lonely days. Simply a glimpse of that, and I would be a shadow of former self once more.

But it would not do to bet on the wasted dreams of a foolish girl.

She looked down to the few inches of snowfall that the Mother Above had graced her with and smiled, a sad image. Sansa leaned to take a ball of fresh powder and slip it between cold, porcelain fingers, simply marveling at the little things that brought home back to her veins. It was queer how often Sansa's thoughts drifted to better days, so broken was she that the prospect of happy memories was once far beyond her, but freshfallen snow always did wonders on her perspective. If only I could lay in it and be taken somewhere else, why had the gods not frozen rain for the purpose of magic?

Sansa couldn't resist. She pressed her knees against the snow and twisted her body, laying gently on her back and sighing as ice-cold temperatures kissed her back through the fabric of her dress. A familiar chill. It made her miss her father, her mother, sweet Robb, Bran and Rickon and Arya too. Even Jon Snow. The North should treat their bastards better, she thought, since they are given such a name of splendor.

"Lady Alayne?"

The girl lifted her head, a bit ashamed to be found laying on the ground in frozen rain, but acknowledged the voice all the same. The audience was only a handmaiden Lord Baelish had assigned specifically to her service, and while Sansa knew better than to trust anyone Littlefinger handpicked to serve her, the girl was pleasant all the same. "Yes," she replied, standing from the snow and brushing it off the skirt of her violet dress. "What is it?"

"Your presence is requested in the main hall. You..." The girl smiled. "You have someone waiting for you, my lady."

"Waiting for me?" She looked mildly shocked, trying to hide how bizarre and strange the circumstances suddenly seemed. "Who is it?"

"He told me not to tell you, my lady."

"Will Lord Baelish be there too?"

"He awaits you as well, my lady."

"Oh. Thank you." Sansa dismissed the girl and curled her hair nervously behind her ears, rubbing her hands together in attempt to regain some form of warmth. It wouldn't do to have her guest think her freezing cold, not when truthfully Sansa felt more welcome among the cold than the heat.

Handing her cloak and gloves to the haindmaiden before she made her leave, Sansa picked up her skirts and walked towards the audience chambers.

Who would want to visit Alayne Stone?​

 

[Lord Snow]

Jon's eyes were downcast. Not two steps he took into the Eyrie, before he was scolded.

"She's Alayne, here. Amongst the common folk, anyways. Don't call her Sansa again until we arrive in the solar."

Petyr Baelish had stated this in a rather firm tone, as he escorted Jon to the throne room. Wyman Manderly was just ahead, leading the procession. The large man cast a long shadow down the marble halls. Jon peered up at the high, vaulted ceilings. This was a long ways from Castle Black, or even Winterfell, and the sheer size of it amazed the young man.

It had been a long trip from the Bloody Gate to the grand Eyrie itself. Freshly fallen snow dusted the wolf fur cloak he wore, his raven locks peppered by it. Jon didn't mind, this was quite light compared to the Wall. Surprisingly, he found he missed that miserable place from time to time.

When the group arrived before the weirwold throne, Jon stood out like a sore thumb, clad in black amongst those in bright plate.

I hope she remembers me.

 

[moffnat]

Sansa's heels clicked one by one against the stone floors, announcing her entrance to throne room unlike any other. The sight of so many soldiers huddled together before the Moon Door was an odd one indeed, especially considering none of the men in question were lords of the Vale. Why are they all meeting here? she wondered to herself, and what do they want with me?

It was then that she noticed the sigils, a merman with a trident. House Manderly. Sworn to Stark.

Her heart began to pound in her chest.

"Ah, there's the beautiful lady I've heard so much about." The large man at the head of the procession took Sansa's hand in his own and kissed her knuckles out of respect. "Your Grace," he told her quaintly. His smile didn't go unnoticed. "You are more beautiful than even your mother was, my queen. May the Old Gods watch over her soul."

"Lord Manderly?" Sansa could hardly believe her eyes or ears, convinced she dreaming. She looked to Lord Baelish for answers and he gave her none, as usual. They know who I am, they know why I'm here, but why do they refer to me as a queen?

"What are you doing here?"

She had yet to notice the black-clad figure just out of her sight.​

 

[Lord Snow]

A jaunty laugh came from the obese lord.

"My Queen of the North, we present your most humble bannermen. Six hundred men-at-arms, and three hundred mounted knights! Lord Tytos Blackwood has promised as many in archers and knights as well."

He beamed, the merman upon his chest seemed to match his wearer's weight. Stretched cloth, no doubt.

"But we wouldn't be here without this fine young man!"

With a grip on Jon's shoulder, Wyman heaved him forward. With a slight stumble, he stood before Sansa.

"Your Grace." The words came with a very faint grin.

 

[moffnat]

Dare I look?

She feared her eyes would meet the ghost of Robb Stark, the head of a direwolf sewn onto her dear brother's mutilated body. She feared it would be her headless father or any of the knights brought with him from Winterfell, Fat Tom, her uncle Benjen, even the spirits of Bran or Rickon fully grown into the forms of men. But what met her curious eyes was someone far sweeter, far dearer, and much more alive.

"J..." Jon Snow.

Her skeleton locked into place beneath porcelain flesh, as frozen as the snow outside, not quite solid but unnameable as a water. Sansa's frame nearly trembled and shattered to pieces at the sight of her bastard brother, all clad in black as a proper man of the Night's Watch ought to be, dark curls dangling from his head as Arya's might have. He was Robb, he was her father and all the others. Jon Snow had breathed life back into all of their memories and their spirits, even little Arya, even Sansa herself. It didn't matter to the Stark girl how handsome he had become since she last saw him, how much taller and broader and muscular and huskier and reminiscent of any Stark. He is here, he came for me when Robb couldn't, he is right in front of me and he isn't a vile trick of my mind. He is all the family I have.

The sound that came forth from Sansa's throat was more sob than laughter. She gently reached her hands forward to cup his face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks and the softness of his skin, simply to attest to her reality. When she knew without a doubt he was a true form before her eyes, she wept with the force of all the past years smashed together and didn't hesitate to wrap her arms tightly around her brother's neck.

She didn't say a word, only cried.​

 

[Lord Snow]

The wall wasn't forgiving. It did not stand for grieving, it did not stand for warm memories.

No, ice was born and it had grown in the heart of every man of the Night's Watch, even young Jon Snow. But months of freezing were undone in that split second, a mass thawing that send a chill through his body.

His arms were thrown around her, grasping her to him. Gods, it had been so long since had felt the warmth of Stark kin, and he didn't mean to cease this moment soon.

And so the pair stood, hugging and sobbing amidst strangers doing their best to look on politely. Jon did not speak, the small tears trailing down his cheeks said enough.

His fingers dug dully into her back, for he seemed unable to satisfy a need for love that had been so present for so long. But now, at last, he had it.

Home, home at last.

 

[moffnat]

And so, she wept.

Sansa buried her face into the center of his chest and reveled in every physical touch they gave each other. Had she paid any attention, she would have noticed that the reunion inspired so many others in the room to tears as well. It didn't matter. Everything had slipped away from her reach except Jon Snow. The gods are real, she was certain of it. They have brought me redemption. They brought family back to me, and they had mercy on my soul. And Jon's too. They held each other for what seemed like hours, still not enough, before she allowed herself a small bit if separation. Sansa remained in his hold, lacing her fingers with his as to never lose him again. She would die before she let that happen.

"Queen in the North?" Her main concern had been Jon, and would continue to be, but the title of royalty had yet to seep into her skin. Sansa wiped her cheeks to rid her face of tears. "Queen? Me? H-how, my brother's army was slaughtered at the Twins..."​

 

[Lord Snow]

Petyr had remained silent, but no longer. His eyes had in fact, been elsewhere. Presumably anywhere but at those two. With a clearing of his throat, he moved to one of the large windows. Boots clicked on the stone floor as he gestured to the window.

"If you'll be so kind as to look outside."

Once they did so, a spectacle was to be held. What seemed to be the entirety of the Vale had risen to Sansa's cause, seemingly thousands of men with the Stark direwolf upon their breast. Below the wolf, banners of the various Vale noble houses, as well as numerous Riverlands and other Northern lords, we're flying proudly.

Jon looked to Sansa. "We've not forgotten. Now, we can come back."

His hands encased one of hers, fingers curling into her palm as he watched we expression.

 

[moffnat]

She was paralyzed at the sight. As far as her eyes could see, the Lords of the Vale had brought their valiant knights to a Stark cause, a cause she thought had long since died. Seeing the direwolf fly so high in the Mother's was a sight she had only in dreams, or nightmares, depending on so many other extraneous circumstances.

"You...you knew about this, all of it..."

Sansa turned to Petyr with an expression contorted with a sudden rage. "You knew, and you never told me? Why? How could you keep me in the dark all this time, or was it all a part of your little game?" Sans was no fool. She knew that if Lord Baelish was hiding something from her, it was only for his own personal gain.

That seemed to anger her even more.​

 

[Lord Snow]

Petyr remained surprisingly calm. "A scared little girl is more believable, less of a danger."

He eyed her coolly, hands clasped calmly behind his back as he seemed to size her up. With a step forwards, he cantered his head to the right.

"Are you not grateful? You've just been given the ability to seize this land."

That smile he wore seemed to allude to his desire, more than hers. With a turn on his heel, he left abruptly. The clicks of his boots receding into the long halls of the Eyrie.

Jon had remained back and away, brows knitted together with curiosity, and confusion with the situation.

 

[moffnat]

There was far too much lust in his eyes for her to remain comfortable. Sansa watched Petyr leave the room, unable to argue with his reasoning for keeping her in the dark. It would be much more convincing to be a fool than to act it, but that didn't ease the flare in her heart. He used me to get what he wanted, she knew, and I can't even be ungrateful.

Sansa fumbled with her hands before turning to Lord Manderly, and if he were much less fat and strange she could consider him a god for bringing an army to her. "How...how many men are there?" she questioned with a strong tone in her voice, "how many total? What Houses, what of the Boltons, do you know anything of my sister? Of Arya?"​

 

[Lord Snow]

Wyman Manderly, despite his encumbrance, had a posture befitting his title. His hands spread before him as he stated the number of their armies. It seemed that they were nearly one hundred thousand strong, and growing. Numbers that rivaled Renly Baratheon's, before his untimely demise.

"With the Boltons showing resistance, it may be a hard fight to the south, but we've retaken Moat Cailin, which will allow us safe passage." Wyman stated, nodding firmly at the fact.

Jon seemed somewhat pleased, for the situation they found themselves in was much better than he had anticipated. But nonetheless, it would be a damned hard fight all the way to King's Landing.

"Stannis is up in the North still, fighting the Boltons at Winterfell. We should back Stannis for the Iron Throne, and he may allow us a seat in Winterfell." Jon stated off-handedly.

 

[moffnat]

"One hundred thousand..." Sansa felt like she was going to faint, and clung to the nearest person, Jon, for support. "How long? How long have you been recruiting?"

"Ever since the Red Wedding, Your Grace. We know you have the strength politically to lead the North, if Lord Baelish's word is something to be trust." Sansa knew it wasn't, but he hadn't lied to her about everything thus far and if he had spoken praise of the young Stark girl it could very well be his honest opinion. Or something he needs for his own gain, Sansa thought, but there was no sense in thinking negatively during a situation like this.

The North could return to its glory, and exceed it exponentially.

"...the Vale...what do I owe them for their support? A seat on the council, a marriage between Robert Arryn and Shireen? If I can negotiate that with King Stannis...yes, he will have to be involved..."

If they brought Stannis into the fold, Sansa could march North.

March home.​