Sansa took a deep breath, and nodded.

It was the subject she had been dreading since her own shock had worn off, and she had played out the thousands of scenarios in her mind. There were infinite ways matters could unfold. After all, they hardly seemed to be playing by any known rules, considering the gods themselves had been responsible for bringing back the Starks. Sansa had seen her father's head removed from his body, and yet he stood before her, as tall and unmoving as the walls of Winterfell, also risen again. Sansa had managed very little sleep the night before, too consumed with all of the possibilities and potential catastrophes she could see emerging from the miracle of her family's resurrection. There were no less than a dozen different ways it could end in war, and Sansa simply could not allow it to happen. Nor would she see her family shatter under the weight of a new world, not when she had just managed to get them back. She was grateful to the gods, she would finally admit, though not aloud, lest her voice be heard, and the miracle be snatched away as quickly as it had been given. Sansa was grateful her family had been returned to her, but it complicated matters.

Sansa could not even begin to think of the South and the impending arrival of their delegates, though it was of utmost importance, and would require careful planning and forethought. She couldn't begin to unravel the messy, tangled strings Bran's death and now resurrection would cause to the other kingdom, for she needed to sort out her own first. Sansa had spent the better part of five years doing everything she could to defend and stabilize the North, and it was quite possible that it would all crash down around her, with the blessed arrival of the Starks that had died.

Two former kings and the Warden of the North, all three of whom had a strong and powerful claim to the seat Sansa now occupied.

Sansa had taught Jon the unique language of symbols and signs through her clothes, her words, and his own questions. Jon had noted how Sansa wore only three colors - blue, white, and gray. As a child she had delighted in wearing beautiful fabrics in an array of shades and hues. Although her limited palette had been infinitely more practical, Jon had still felt his heart sink at the realization that the girl he had known in Winterfell might have truly died. "Kill the boy, and become the man," Maester Aemon had told Jon. He wondered if someone had advised Sansa similarly.

Jon had asked Sansa about her choices, and she had looked surprised that he noticed. "Grey and white are Stark colors," she explained patiently. "And the Tullys wear blue. Other colors remind people of the South, especially now. I do not want to give any more reasons for people to associate me with the Southerners who have hurt the North so fiercely. They have enough cause as it is." Her voice had become sad, and Jon's fingers had instinctively reached to twine in a long strand of red hair that had escaped the thick braid that draped over her shoulder. Sansa's blue eyes had stared at him in surprise, and color had flooded his cheeks, before Jon hastily dropped his hand, and stepped away from his sister.

"Forgive me," he had muttered, and hurried back to his tent to discuss more plans with Davos and Tormund.

JON: Bran getting rich from his creepy power that no one actually believes in sounds suspiciously like that weird chick from Twilight

SANSA: typing...

ARYA: typing...

ROBB: typing...

RICKON: typing...

GENDRY: typing...

SANSA: You just displayed way too much knowledge of Twilight in such a deliberately casual manner, there is only one conclusion that can be drawn

Guilt crashed down upon Jon, like a wave descending upon a rock. He could remember Ned's death, and Robb's and Catelyn's. He remembered learning what Theon Greyjoy had done, and discovering that his baby brothers had been murdered by their father's ward - even if they were no more his brothers than they had been murdered. But he had not seen their deaths. Jon had seen enough executions to easily imagine Lord Stark's head severed from his neck, but he had not witnessed it. Horrific imaginings of the Red Wedding had plagued his nightmares, but Jon had not been at the Twins, for all that he wished he had been, when he learned of the Northern king's demise. In whatever life he had lived past his men's betrayal, he had not seen Arya die, and he himself had died before Bran, according to their own words.

He had seen Rickon die though. The very last thing Rickon had seen in the world was Jon's arm extending out to him, and then he had died. Jon had failed.

"I'm sorry," Jon managed to gasp out against the painful crush of his lungs collapsing in his chest. "Rickon, I'm so sorry."

Jon's hand reached out to Rickon, unbidden, as if seeking absolution from the Stark he had failed. Hadn't he failed them all though?

It did nothing to diminish the torch either of them held for Sansa - practically a bonfire at this point. In fact, being in love with two someones, one of whom was also in love with the other someone, honestly only fanned the flames. Theon was pretty sure he and Jon spent at least half their time talking about and pining after Sansa fucking Stark. Perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, but not by much.

It was fucking relieving though, loving Jon. Theon couldn't imagine being with someone who didn't want to talk about Sansa as much as he did. Since the only other people who seemed to adore Sansa as much as Jon and Theon happened to be related to her, Theon's options were rather limited.

She hadn't been able to see the stars in King's Landing. But the night she arrived at Castle Black, she would have sworn she never saw anything so bright in the sky, as the millions of pinpricks of light, gleaming down at her from the heavens.

The nights had been growing longer, with the sunlight of the daytime becoming scant, covered with thick, gray clouds. Night was beginning its descent across Westeros, chasing at the ferocious heels of winter. A flurry of ravens had traveled back and forth between the Citadel and Winterfell. A small group of Maesters was being sent North, to study the phenomenon, and to offer assistance to Winterfell. Privately, Sansa very much doubted there would be anything to study, but she would not refuse any Maesters that came. She knew as surely as the people of the North that war was the natural consequence of this marriage of night and ice. Already the first of the Maesters had arrived, though he was not quite a Maester yet himself. Samwell Tarly and his wife, a curious woman who answered to the name of Gilly, had greeted Sansa personally, with the former stammering out that he would have recognized Sansa by her hair. It had taken several more minutes for Sansa to piece together the truth of the matter; Samwell had been a friend to Jon on the Wall.

She had found herself fighting back a blush - a curious, girlish reaction she had thought well behind her. She hadn't ever imagined Jon would speak of her at the Wall. She hadn't thought Jon had given her any thought in the long stretch of time from when Sansa had rode off to Winterfell certain in her future, to when she had arrived at Castle Black, humbled and erect. "He said that he had two sisters. One was a beautiful lady with red hair. The other was a beautiful warrior with brown." Sam had seemed almost apologetic, though Sansa couldn't claim to understand why. She had thought Sam felt ashamed at revealing the words exchanged between two friends, before she realized he assumed she had perceived it as some sort of slight. She hadn't.

Arya nudged her side again, and Sansa glared down at her younger sister. "Stop it!" she hissed, trying not to draw attention to the pair of them. She was only half successful, as Jon turned partially, still absorbed in conversation with Sam and Bran, but gave her the sort of smile that made her knees go a little bit weak. Thankfully she had the floor length gown to cover it.

Her sister, never one to do as she was told, just smirked at Sansa and made kissy faces. "Oh no. There's no way I'm letting this one go. You are so transparent Sansa Stark."

Sansa flushed, having half a mind to snap that she was no more transparent with Jon than Arya had been with Gendry. But pointing such a thing out would draw the comparison that Sansa really didn't want her sister dwelling on. Besides, it wasn't as if Arya or Gendry had any shame whatsoever. They would probably just shrug the whole thing off, and then fix their wicked grins on Sansa, refusing to let her wriggle her way out of the teasing. Which was truly unfair, since she had only teased them lightly when they finally bothered to tell everyone what had been obvious for ages.

Sure, he was at the hospital, working, but he didn't have much in the way of family in the first place, and he also didn't have a gash down to the bone because he had tried to use an electric knife improperly. Theon had Yara, who had Dany in turn. He would meet up with them at Yara's bar later that night, and Missandei and Grey might wind up joining them. Yara would shove some store bought pumpkin pie on a plate, and Theon would beat Dany's ass at pool, because it was fun to see her weird violet eyes go dark with anger, and she was always way more eager to go home with Yara when that happened.

So maybe helping his sister score with her quite devoted girlfriend wasn't the layman's idea of a great Thanksgiving, but it was Theon's.

Besides, on top of not having a terrible injury, Theon was getting his regular salary two and a half times over for putting up with the circus that was the emergency room. It honestly worked out best for Theon, if anyone ever bothered to ask, instead of just looking at him with wide, sad eyes.

Jon had been born in a bed of blood and roses, in the violence of the denouement of a war, underneath a streaked sky. He had been born in the Tower of Joy, a misdirect if he had ever heard one. His existence itself had meant the end of his mother. His existence had brought about war. He was born of love, his father had said once, careful hands plucking delicately at the strings of an instrument he had always cared for more than any of his children. Jon had been born of love and violence. Jon had known only violence.

It languished within his breast, something dark and ugly and cruel. It was a ravenous beast, always hungry, curling his fists with its anger. Jon had known tenderness as a boy, but he had been taught to worship at the shrine of the violence that had ushered him into the world, into the war. A blade had been placed in his hand by Jon Connington at only five years old, fashioned of wood rather than steel. He had his father's solemnity, he had been told. Jon had learned to stop squirming under the wrongness of those words. Jon Connington had handed him a wooden blade at five, certain of Jon's resemblance to his father, certain that he would be a natural like him too.

Jon was a natural. He was nothing like his father. He did not move with the swift gracefulness of Rhaegar, though he eventually learned. He moved like a man possessed, a boy of just five. He was knocked back easily, sent sprawling onto the ground. Jon remembered scrambling to his feet, pushing the dark curls - unlike his father, so unlike the Targaryen look - out of his eyes. He remembered the uneasiness in his father's eyes, in the inscrutable gaze of Jon Connington. He remembered how his heart sank. He was nothing like his father.

Sansa stared at her phone for a moment, wondering if she were to drop it into the tub, if that would somehow manage to rescind the very nude picture of herself she had tried to text to Jeyne, that had ended up in Theon’s inbox, through absolutely no fault of her own. It probably wouldn’t work, but it might just electrocute her, and Sansa could settle for that option as well.

THEON: Based on those texts I reckon you didn’t mean to send this to me?

THEON: So I’m going to delete the picture, don’t worry

THEON: But for what it’s worth?

THEON: Seven fucking hells Stark, you’ve got nothing to be self-conscious about, you’re a fucking vision.

Tension was coiled tight in Sansa's belly as she made her way through the restored Red Keep, though she fought to keep her limbs loose and delicate, rather than drawn tight to her sides in some meager form of protection. It mattered not that Brienne, Podrick, and three other Winterfell guards shadowed Sansa's every step. The lack of dragons and lions did nothing to soothe her nerves. Even the differences, noticeable though they were, did nothing to hide where Sansa truly was. If she allowed her eyes to sweep across the castle floor, she would be able to count of at least three places where her own blood had dripped onto the cold stones after Joffrey demanded his Kingsguard members strike her. Sansa had developed a great distaste for signets as a result.

Nightmares seemed to lurk like wolves around every corner of the Red Keep, snarling, vicious things, but Sansa walked with her head held high, her visage giving no impression that she was haunted in these halls. The walls had eyes and ears here in the South, and Sansa had little doubt that many had taken it upon themselves to arrange to watch the Northern Queen's every move, whether it was to benefit themselves, or simply to take stock of her mettle. Sansa could not afford to be seen as weak, no matter what beastly horrors this place represented. Besides, she was no stranger to walking through a castle of torments. Winterfell had nightmares of its own, and some days Sansa thought she would go mad amongst the silence of the ghosts that still lingered.

To the people of the South, Sansa Stark was largely untested. She had the name, but little else, it seemed, to Southron lords and ladies. Sansa had expected as much upon ascending to the newly created Northern throne, but the confirmation had stung all the same. To those in the South still alive to remember her, Sansa had been the pitiable hostage of the Lannisters, the plaything of Joffrey who was brought out for the amusement of him and his court. Little was known of her after her escape. Though her marriage to Tyrion had been annulled, and her innocence in Joffrey's death had been made official early on in Jon's reign, the Lannister propaganda machine had thoroughly damaged whatever reputation Sansa had, south of the Neck. It was nothing that could not be undone, but it had already affected the North.

About once a week, some combination of that original group - Robb, Theon, Sansa, Arya, and Gendry - would meet up for drinks, or just to simply be in each others' company. Robb was inherently suspicious of Gendry and wanted to keep an eye on him. Arya wanted to rub her relationship in his face, and also spend some time with her sister - making up for their teenage years in which they had not gotten on, according to Robb's dramatic shudder every time it was brought up - so she and Gendry were usually there. Theon couldn't always make it, since his advisor was a madman, and was prone to scheduling meetings at nine in the evening.

Sansa also wasn't one to come every time. She had a busy social life, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Within three weeks, she had somehow become president of the Northern Independence Union - though despite this fact, and rumors of the so-called legendary debates that drifted to the echelons of the graduate students - she actually got on quite well with Daenerys Targaryen. She was involved in a whole host of extracurriculars, and Theon had seen someone hand her a flyer, only for Sansa to thank the beaming, pockmarked freshman, and actually mark down the time of the event in her pastel blue day planner. That was just the sort of person Sansa was, and no one was particularly surprised, though her family seemed quite pleased to see her reverting back to her old ways, or so Robb told Theon.

Theon rolled his eyes. He had thought that as a respectable second year graduate student the partying days were behind him. In fact, Robb had said as much, a lecture given to a smirking and distinctly not hungover Jon and Theon, in the midst of his own, raging hangover after a particularly raucous welcome back party held at one of the frat houses. And in truth, Theon really was tired of the college parties, the cheap, terrible beer and the ridiculous gimmicks put on by the very worst sort at Winterfell University. Theon certainly knew how to chase a good time, but he no longer needed to wander into one of the overly large houses with the ridiculous High Valyrian letters that made no sense to him, and suck up to fucking Smalljon Umber just for some beer and a pretty girl to get his dick wet. He was twenty-four, and his sister owned a bar. Theon had learned how to have a good time away from the confines and judgment of University Row.

Theon finds her in her chambers, and it is a testament to Brienne’s concern for her lady, that she does not say anything about Lord Greyjoy being alone with the Lady of Winterfell in her quarters. There is nothing improper about it.

Neither is there anything proper about the way he sinks to his knees, holding her to his chest as she struggles to breathe. For a moment she is an acolyte of the Drowned God, gasping for breath, but Theon’s own fear climbs in his throat, for there is no water he can save her from. Only the pressing weight of the South.