A raven is not a writing desk, but both can be used to convey betrothal contracts, and so it was that King Peter of Narnia arrived in the war-torn North to rule at the right hand of Queen Sansa.
She came out to meet him at the gates of Winterfell. He was all courtly grace, full of bows and pleasantries, but still nearly a boy beneath that, she thought.
"You remind me of my brother Robb," she said, smiling.
"You remind me of my sister Susan," he said, smiling.
She did not mention that Robb was dead, though of course Peter knew; he had been fully briefed during the long voyage. He did not mention that Susan had refused to speak to him since he had pressed his lion signet to the wax seal on the contract, with its stipulation that he leave newly green Narnia for another land buried in snow.
Peter and Sansa had many things to speak of and knowledge to share. Two hours later, having taken refreshment and enjoyed a performance by Winterfell's minstrels, they settled in Sansa's solar. They were deep in conversation about crop rotation when Jon and Ghost came in.
Peter leapt to his feet and drew Rhindon. Only Jon's tight control kept Ghost from tearing Peter's throat out, and the direwolf bared his teeth in a silent, slavering growl.
"Stop!" Sansa cried. "This is my brother!"
Peter slowly lowered his sword. "Yes," he said. "Lord Snow. Of course."
"Did no one tell you that the Starks keep wolves?" Jon said, an eyebrow raised. Perhaps he should have added "Your Majesty," but it seemed they were dispensing with courtesies.
"No, yes, they did... I had not understood that they were Wolves." Peter sheathed his sword and bowed humbly to Jon and Ghost. "My apologies to you both. In Narnia, there are few good Wolves."
Jon did not return the bow. "Nor in the North," he said.
"Jon, behave yourself," Sansa said firmly. "You are to be brothers."
"I've had my fill of those," Jon said. With a nod and murmured "my lady" to Sansa, he turned and left. Ghost gave Peter one last red-eyed glare before following.
Peter sat heavily and drained his cup of wine.
Sansa regarded him. "It seems the dossier omitted a few things."
"Have you any giants in your employ?" Peter asked. "I've no love for those either."
"None," she said. "The giants are all gone, and none were ever employed by other than themselves."
"Witches who command ice and snow?"
"My sister slew the last of them."
"That's well, then." His hands were shaking. "And no Wolf of your own."
Sansa felt a pang, as always. "No. Lady is dead these many years." She touched her breast. "My wolf is within me."
He nodded, gazing out the window at the falling snow.
Sansa laid her hand atop his, felt it tremble. "Is it hard for you?" she asked. "The snow?"
Peter shook his head. "The snow itself, no. Where I come from—originally—it is an ordinary thing. When we came to Narnia, it had been under the Witch's spell for hundreds of years, but our coming was what heralded the thaw." He looked around at the stone walls, the roaring hearth, the shaggy pelts on the floor. The woven wall hanging with the direwolf sigil and the Stark words. "I expect I will see more snow here than ever I did there. No, it's... the Witch had a Wolf, you see. And I slew him before he slew me, but it was a near thing. Aslan himself named me Peter Wolf's-Bane."
"I see," said Sansa, who knew a bit about how to speak with men haunted by their battles. "Well, are you the sort of man to harm his wife?"
Peter jerked around, startled, staring at her. "No, of course not!"
"Then you're unlikely to meet my wolf," she said, "and you have nothing to fear from her."
Slowly he relaxed, and began to smile. "Here I thought you might fear me," he said.
Sansa smiled back, kind, at ease. "No," she said. "I have faced much worse than you."
He turned his hand beneath hers so they were palm to palm. "I begin to see why the Centaurs thought so highly of our match."
She rested her hand on his, not holding it, feeling his sword-calluses against her soft skin. "What the North needs is healing," she said. "Healing, and the spring."
"I have brought spring to one land already," Peter said, the lightness only a little forced. "Surely I can manage another."
"The spring will come when it comes," Sansa said. "The healing... that, I hope, we may hurry along. For each other, as well as our people."
Ever so gently, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. "I would be honored," he said, "my queen."