Chapter Text
Out of all the people in Westeros, this one gentleman in particular definitely wasn’t counted among those whom Sansa had expected to attend her coronation. Sure, she hoped to tempt Gendry or Robin to visit, she needed some familiar faces other than her soldiers or a few overprotective Northern lords, she needed someone other than her ladies in waiting, other than the hopeful faces that expected her to care for them as no one had before. She needed friends. She needed her family, though neither of her siblings could come – not Bran, now overcome with his own responsibilities as king, not Arya, busy travelling the world in hope of finding whatever she set out to look for, not even Jon, lovely Jon, so determined to continue his exile as a punishment for killing the tyrant. No, they wouldn’t come. But it would be easier to bear with Brienne or Podrick by her side, she’d even welcome Uncle Edmure with open arms… Someone. Anyone.
Robin congratulated her on her accomplishment – “What accomplishment,” Sansa thought bitterly, “Why do people assume that this crown could ever ease the pain of losing Jon?” – as well as expressed his sincere regret that he wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony. “I will be sending my right hand and your dear friend, Lord Royce” – he wrote – “Please accept a gift that Lord Royce will bring with him, as it comes with my deepest adoration for you, sweet cousin. I hope to see you again quite soon. Love, Your Cousin Robin Arryn.”
Gendry didn’t even write the letter himself, he asked a maester to do it for him. Sansa understood that he did it out of respect – he probably didn’t want to offend her by sending a message full of grammatical errors, what would probably happen given his lack of proper education. Not that Sansa cared about it, but Gendry, apparently, did. Oh, how she wished he had stayed in Winterfell with Arya. Sansa missed her sister terribly, and she knew that Gendry could make Arya happy. Maybe one day…
Sansa put away the scroll which arrived not an hour earlier. The broken seal reminded her of a naïve little girl she was all those many years ago, dwelling on dreams and seeing the good in all creatures. She smiled to herself and moved her fingers across one half of the red sun imprinted in the sealing wax. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
“To Her Grace Sansa of House Stark, Queen in the North, First of Her Name,” it read. “I hope my letter finds you in excellent health. The Principality of Dorne was happy to hear about your safe return to Winterfell, Your Grace, as well as your upcoming coronation as the rightful Queen in the North. We have received your kind letter inviting us to participate in some barter trading with your kingdom, and Dorne is proud to accept your offer. I will be arriving with a small retinue a fortnight before your coronation to talk over the specifics of our deal. Yours sincerely, Lewyn Martell, Prince of Dorne.”
She did invite him to Winterfell – it was a polite thing to do – but she never expected him to ever acknowledge said invitation, let alone travel across the entire continent to talk about wood and lemons. He must have had a hidden motive to befriend her, and Sansa suspected she knew exactly what he was after. Honestly, it came as a shock to her that Dorne did not follow suit and demand their independence the exact moment they realised that it was, in fact, an option. Lewyn Martell might’ve actually had some brains if he chose to stay silent during the council only to pursue his people’s desire almost immediately after, though secretly and through different means. To have the Queen in the North, who also happened to be the sister of their King, speak for them? Surely Lewyn Martell considered it a huge opportunity.
The man was a rather fortunate individual. When Sansa first heard of him from Maester Wolkan before venturing South on her mission to rescue Jon from the Unsullied, she frowned and then laughed coldly. “Are the dead coming to life again?” she asked. “I thought that Arya had dealt with it once and for all.”
“He’s a different Lewyn Martell, my lady,” Maester Wolkan answered. “His father was a bastard born out of a forbidden affair between the esteemed Lewyn Martell, a knight of the Kingsguard, and his paramour, lady Sheyna of the Summer Isles.”
“A bastard. How…?”
“He was legitimised, my lady. By no other than Daenerys Targaryen, after the assumed death of her other Dornish ally, Ellaria Sand. Lord Varys was determined to solidify the alliance, and what better way to do it than legitimise a bastard?”
“And make him grateful for the rest of his life,” Sansa smiled. “Lord Varys was a clever man. And a good one, in his own way. He will be missed by the realm, if not by those of us who were personally hurt by his actions.”
The prince was nothing Sansa expected him to be. Yes, he seemed just a bit too laid-back, almost carefree in the wake of the horrifying distraction of King’s Landing – a city once full of life, bright and loud, even suffocatingly so, now dead-silent and filled with ashes that looked like snow – but he didn’t lack manners, nor was he one of Daenerys’s apologists. He mostly observed, rolled his eyes a bit and shrugged a lot, but when he approached Sansa a few days after the council to say his farewell, he was much more outspoken.
“I’m sorry it went that way,” he told Sansa while pressing his hand to his chest and bowing slightly. “I don’t know your brother and I don’t know you, but from all I’ve heard and seen, the deed had to be done.” He didn’t, of course, say what sort of deed he meant, but Sansa understood him well enough. “And to think that Jaime Lannister had once been pardoned for a more horrific act, huh?”
Sansa sighed. If it was up to her, Jon would be ruling over all of the kingdoms. Or at least the North. It was, after all, his home. The prince must have sensed her sadness, as he gently placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.
“The wars have finally ended. We must draw our strength from that, Your Grace.”
Sansa shook her head.
“I’m not a queen,” she protested.
“You will be, soon enough,” Prince Lewyn smiled and his eyes sparkled in a way that reminded Sansa of his cousin, Prince Oberyn. “And what a queen that will be,” he added with a soft laugh.
Sansa wasn’t sure whether she should feel offended or flattered by his last comment, but before she could make up her mind, they were interrupted by Arya, as impudent as ever.
“Go away, I need to talk to my sister,” she demanded.
Sansa almost let out a chuckle. Now that Westeros was about to be ruled by two of Arya’s siblings, she could probably be as blatant as she wished to. Besides, who would dare to lecture a woman who had defeated the Night King? Not Sansa, not Bran, and certainly not some recently legitimised Dornish princeling.
“My lady.” Lewyn Martell acknowledged Arya’s approach with a quick nod, his body still angled towards Sansa. “I was just telling your sister—“
“Yeah, yeah,” Arya interrupted him. “I’m sure it was fascinating. Pointless, though. You won’t sweep her off her feet, you’re too little for her. And honestly, that’s a tad too flamboyant an outfit for this graveyard, don’t you think?” She gave a long, pointed look to his golden robe. Ignoring the fact that her little sister might have had a point, Sansa struggled to keep her composure. Arya waved her hand at Prince Lewyn, now visibly annoyed. “Off you go, best of luck finding a wife that is not Queen in the North.” She then turned to Sansa. “Come on, they’re releasing Jon.”
Jon.
It was as if someone had poured down a bucket of ice-cold water on Sansa’s head, all thoughts of impropriety immediately evaporating from her mind. Nonetheless, she turned to Prince Lewyn before following Arya to the docks and mouthed a quick “I’m sorry”. He just bowed and winked at her, and as she was rushing down the stairs with folds of her dress in her hands, she could swear that she felt his amused stare boring into her back.
It was the last time Sansa had seen him, and until today she was certain that it would not happen again.
There was a knock on her office door. Sansa carefully folded the letter, trying not to imagine Prince Lewyn freezing over on his way north dressed only in his golden robe, before inviting her guard in.
“A visitor, Your Grace,” said young Eddard Cerwyn, one of many Northern boys named after her Lord Father. Edd was one of her bravest, most loyal soldiers, and would be her first choice had she finally decided on whether to conscript Queensguard in some form. “Lady Meera of House Reed is requesting an audience.”
Sansa stood up a little too enthusiastically, knocking over a candle and almost setting fire to her new dress. The truth was, being a queen wasn’t that great if one had to do it alone, and Sansa was desperate to see some familiar faces, even if that familiar face in particular belonged to a friend of Bran, and the last time Sansa had seen her, she was leaving Winterfell in anger.
“Show her to the library,” she instructed Edd. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Finally, someone with whom Sansa shared a personal connection. She missed not being just a queen to everyone around her. Even Daenerys, who had seemed to relish in being worshipped, had had ser Jorah and Missandei by her side. And Jon, too, however Sansa might have hated it. She waited a few minutes, not wanting to appear too eager to see Meera, and then slowly and gracefully made her way down to the library.
At first she didn’t even notice Meera who almost blended with the shelves in the back of the room, but when Sansa’s eyes adjusted to the brightness caused by sunlight bursting in through one of the broken windows, she smiled at the sight of a tall, skinny woman stroking the cover of “The Kings of Old”, one of the books that Old Nan used to read to them when they were children.
Meera did not jump when she realised Sansa had been watching her, but she put away the book and kneeled.
“Your Grace,” she said.
“Please stand up.” Sansa moved a few steps closer and pulled Meera up by her shoulders. “I’m so, so glad to see you.”
Meera gave her a hesitant smile.
“The windows are broken,” she said to break the silence and pointed towards the one closest to where they were standing.
Sansa nodded.
“They wanted to mend it last month but there were more urgent matters. Nobody lives in the library, it can wait until all of the houses in Wintertown are liveable again. Are you cold?”
Meera let out a raspy chortle.
“I spent years beyond the Wall, Your Grace,” she explained patiently. “Anywhere south from there is simply too warm for me now. And the winter is almost over.” She sounded as if it saddened her.
“What do I owe the pleasure of your visit, lady Meera?” Sansa asked, causing Meera to wince.
“It’s Meera, Your Grace. Just Meera.”
“Only if you stop addressing me as Your Grace every other sentence,” Sansa smiled.
“You are my queen, are you not?”
“And you are a lady.”
Meera sighed, acknowledging her defeat. Sansa pointed to one of the chairs by the table furthest away from the broken windows, and Meera followed her there. Truth was, Sansa’s bedchambers were partly destroyed during the battle and she temporarily moved into her office, so it wouldn’t be very proper to receive guests in there, and the Great Hall these days was always filled with the Northerners looking to be fed. So much had to be done before they could resume their lives as they were before the wars. The library, as poor a welcome it offered, had to be enough for now.
“I was wondering,” Meera started, avoiding Sansa’s eyes, “whether I could be of service to you.”
“Of service?” Sansa repeated, not understanding. “Surely you don’t mean staying here in Winterfell? Not that I would mind,” she added quickly, noticing distress on Meera’s face, “but aren’t you the heiress to your house? I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve.”
Meera clenched her hands into fists and sighed heavily.
“I was away from the Neck for so long, Jojen and I were both assumed dead when Winterfell burned down… My father needed an heir and he needed him fast, so he groomed our cousin Mikken to become the next Lord of Greywater Watch after his death. It wouldn’t be fair of me to demand the title for myself after I’d disappeared for all those years. Besides, I never wanted to be a lady.”
Sansa smiled at Meera, thinking of Arya and how the two of them would likely become the best of friends. Arya. Wherever her sister was, Sansa was hoping she was safe and healthy.
“What is it that you want, then?” Sansa asked and leaned back in her chair.
She found Meera extremely hard to read, a rare occurrence for such a diligent pupil of the late Petyr Baelish. Meera shrugged.
“When I was travelling with your brother, I had little time to think of myself. I was desperately trying to keep him alive, and as far as life purposes go, it felt like a good one,” she offered, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “But that part of my life is over.”
“You could go to him, you know?” Sansa suggested carefully. “I know he’d be happy to see you.”
“The North is my home,” Meera reminded her sharply. “I’m offering my services to the Queen in the North, if you’ll have me.”
Too moved by her eagerness to give an immediate answer, Sansa acted on a whim and reached towards Meera’s hand, grabbing it and squeezing it hard.
“Only if you’re absolutely sure,” she said quietly.
Meera looked her in the eye, determination painted on her solemn face.
“I’m sure.”
Sansa thought of Brienne finding her in her darkest hour, and of Theon pledging himself to her in front of his supposed queen. Her heart fluttered in her chest similar to how it did back then, and Sansa dwelled for a second on how her fate seemed to sometimes grant some of her wishes. She wanted to see a familiar face and here it was; long and honest, lovely face of Meera Reed who was offering herself to Sansa as if it was a favour that Sansa would be doing her, not the other way around.
Before they left the library, Sansa turned to Meera and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Bran did what he did out of love for you, I hope you realise that,” she told her. “He knew what you went through after losing your brother and he didn’t want to cause you any more pain.”
Meera cocked her head and watched Sansa in silence for a good minute before finally answering.
“You really do believe that’s true, don’t you?” She sounded rather dumbstruck. “You are a good sister. Much better than he is a brother, I’m sure, but you wouldn’t think that, would you?”
Not waiting for an answer, Meera bowed her head and left.
Much better than he is a brother. I’m the Three-Eyed Raven now. Why do you think I came all this way?
Sansa shook her head angrily, determined not to let any of these thoughts in. None of the things that had happened were Bran’s fault. Meera could have been disappointed, and rightfully so, but Sansa was Bran’s big sister – she was supposed to love and accept him no matter what.
“I do believe that’s true,” Sansa whispered to herself before summoning the servants and commanding them to prepare Meera’s room.
“How long will she be staying, Your Grace?” Jenna wanted to know.
Sansa picked up “The Kings of Old” from the lower shelf and put it back into its place.
“Indefinitely,” she answered with a soft smile.