Some Secrets About Love (10)
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Read it on AO3 here.
Sansa has never thought that praying to the Old Gods is something comforting. Lady Catelyn Stark had ensured her endearment towards the Seven and her childhood had been spent praying at the sept. Over the course of the years, the Old Gods felt like a story myth more than a deity real and forgiving enough to protect her.
Oh, but what can desperation make and do to a woman.
Ever since the news of Robb and Catelyn Stark’s demise—when her maids had whispered how Grey Wind’s head was sewn into Robb’s body and how her dear mother was thrown into the river to mock the long-tradition of the Tullys, Sansa had found no escape in King’s Landing except for the always empty and unkempt Godswood. Her then-husband, Tyrion Lannister, presumed these visits as a means to pray to her faith, for the soul of her Northern family, but she had bluntly rejected it.
“I don’t pray anymore.” she said then.
She remembers Tyrion’s face trying to hold a mask of understanding but she could not deny the shock that had crossed his features. His bride, the sweet innocent little Sansa, was gone.
Sansa went to the Godswood in King’s Landing to be alone. But once in a while, when her loneliness had overcome her, she would speak. She would cry in anger, calling for the Old Gods who had forgotten about her family; who had forgotten about her.
She didn’t believe in them for a while; when she was still in King’s Landing, when Littlefinger took her under his wing, and most certainly during her marriage to Ramsey Bolton. But even then, and bitterly admitting it, Sansa knew that the Old Gods were all she had left. Her entire family was dead. And in a world that had abandoned her, that had betrayed her, if seeking myths was the only way to cope, then she poured her heart to it.
Not until Jon.
Sansa looks up and straight into the eyes of the weirwood tree like it spoke this miracle to her. She could not help feeling the slight relief for it is true. She could also no longer feel any pain in her kneeling, like she once used to, reveling in the notion that her devotion to the Old Gods this time are sincere.
Jon.
Jon has changed everything.
His name alone brings comfort to Sansa.
He’s been on the journey south for almost a full moon’s turn now and she admits she misses his presence wholeheartedly so.
She feels like standing on the edge of a snowy cliff, in between two scenarios: to turn around and endure the burden of the Northern court, or to make one single step over to the vast blackness before her and succumb to the fear.
To the weariness.
Hopelessness.
But she remembers that she promised.
Sansa promised not to let anything happen to Winterfell the same way Jon had promised to return to her. So, every day, holding on to the memory of that last sunrise they witnessed together, she goes to the godswood and does the one thing she used to despise:
She prays.
She prays for Jon and for his safe voyage and return. She prays for Arya and for Bran, wherever they are, hoping that they could hear her plea for them to finally come home, and then she prays for their fallen. She prays for Lady and Jory, Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane and even the wildling that once took care of her brothers.
Then before she ends, she reserves the last moments for those she misses the most—enduring the pain of remembering them all over again.
Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon.
Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon.
Over and over and over again, Sansa whispers their names like a treasured secret.
The snow, weightless and soft, drifts around her in the godswood and for once, it is peaceful. She quietly celebrates the sheer joy of being in her own head and think of them. Because, Sansa believes, if she keeps her eyes closed long enough, she could pretend that nothing has changed in Winterfell; that in a few minutes it would be Robb or Bran kneeling beside her or there would be Rickon laughing and throwing snow her way. Arya would have loved to see that.
She could feel her mother brushing her hair and she could see the small, timid smile from Lord Eddard Stark whenever she recites her favorite poems for him. She could feel Jon beside her and she could hear him whisper her name and gently pull her close that she can almost smell his leathery and woodsy scent.
Sansa.
Sansa, he says and she can’t help a smile forming on her face.
She could go on for the rest of her days just thinking about her family, in this solitary state in the godswood, and she thinks it would be a life so fulfilled. But the sudden rush of the cold wind and a crunch on the snowy ground wakes her from her trance and allows misery to take its place back in the center of her chest.
Sansa takes a deep breath, terrified to feel the all-too familiar feeling of wanting to cry. She knows she cannot hide behind the songs and the poetry that is her life before the chaos had begun. It is a previous life that feels like thousands and thousands of years ago, it doesn’t seem real at all.
The ghosts of that previous life just drift around her now, like the snowflakes that melt in her hands, ungraspable and is forever lost.
It is in this moment of slight panic that Brienne finally makes her presence known, politely begging her pardon, ever graceful whenever she is within Sansa’s presence.
“My lady, I apologize for disturbing you.”
Sansa stands and gives her knight a smile, not wanting to let her see her distress. “Do not fret, Lady Brienne. I’ve just finished my prayers.”
Brienne nods, looking relieved. “Well, that is good to hear then, my lady. Someone of importance just arrived at the keep.”
Sansa raises an eyebrow in question.
“Lord Howland Reed.” Brienne answers. “Podrick is leading him and his men to the Great Hall for some food.”
Sansa has almost forgotten about this visit until she had found the lord’s letter lying about in Jon’s chambers a few days ago, a moment of weakness when she had allowed herself to spend more than an hour or so in his room, pretending he was still there. She had the steward prepare rooms for the lord and his men immediately after that short lapse in her reasoning.
“I am very curious, my lady,” Brienne continues as they walk back towards the castle, the snow still quietly falls around them. “The lord is notoriously private so forgive if I feel that this visit is quite uncanny. I can’t help but wonder what might have brought him out from his home? Can this possibly be about what your King brother is talking about? The Others?”
“There could be many reasons.” replies Sansa, ignoring the quick and yet sharp thud on her chest because she has heard it again. That word. Brother.
“But in comparison to all of Jon’s tales of magic and the dead,” she continues, leading up the way towards the gates. “I might not be surprised to hear about any other curiosities anymore.”
The knight grunts and Sansa takes this as an agreement. They are quiet in the remainder of their journey inside the keep and towards the Great Hall but the silence is disrupted once again by Brienne as she draws a heavy breath and speaks. “I think I would just be more comfortable with any visitors if your brother was here, my lady.”
Sansa stops, surprised at the sentiment and turns to face her knight. “Have you finally found a certain endearment to Jon, Lady Brienne?”
She does not know if she has seen Brienne blush this much and Sansa thinks there can never be more comforting than seeing her protector finally put her trust to that other one person that matters most in her life. The knight tries to keep herself composed though and avoids looking at her in the eye. Sansa finds this even more reassuring.
“Well,” Brienne clears her throat. “He is my king now, I suppose. I should put my loyalty to him as you are loyal to his crown. I have to say his disposition nor his brooding has not greatly improved over the months I have spent here in Winterfell but there is something that tells me he is a good man. That, and I see the way he cares for you, Sansa… as if he’d be willing to exchange his life to save you.”
Brienne pauses and hesitates at first, managing to sneak a nervous glance towards her before continuing, “If only you could see the way… well, the way he looks at you, my lady.”
Sansa blinks her shock and tries to remain impassive as for a while there, she sees a semblance of curiosity flash on Brienne’s face—the same wonderment Sansa herself had carried in her heart the moment she knew of how much Jon meant to her, of what he is now to her. It is a terrifying feeling. Curious and yet terrifying.
She does not expect a revelation to happen this soon, though. She knows this scenario could happen one day; that no matter how much she and Jon had been careful with their affections, someone must have noticed. Someone must think there is something peculiar happening between the king and his sister—a tension maybe too palpable it runs all over the entire keep; the whispered words that travel from Jon’s lips for her to receive maybe also echo for everyone to hear.
Sansa knows now, as she starts to move again and the knight has cleared her throat to eradicate the sudden awkwardness, that Brienne must have already caught on. Sansa wonders for how long now and despite feeling slightly shaken at the thought of someone knowing this certain secret, she appreciates that Brienne has remained loyal to her.
“I am sorry, my lady.” the knight calls. “Perhaps, what I said was out of line. I should not meddle with such… interactions. It goes beyond my duty—”
Sansa turns to look at Brienne and gently raises a palm to cut her words.
“There is a proper time to address whatever questions you have in your head, Lady Brienne. I am more than willing to answer it for your peace of mind. But for tonight, we shall first entertain our guests. I know they might be weary from their travel.”
Brienne nods before stepping forward and opening the oak doors of the Great Hall for her. Brienne doesn’t look at all relieved as Sansa might have hoped but her silence on the matter is enough for now; The Lady of Tarth’s silence since the beginning of her and Jon’s affair is more than enough.
Sansa walks in to find the Great Hall almost empty except for a couple of men with whom Podrick and a few stewards are waiting on. The men are dressed in thick cloaks of beige furs, patched up and worn-out, and some of their shields and swords rest on the wooden benches. Without their armory, Sansa thinks, they could have been mistaken as wildlings.
Podrick fidgets as she sees her come closer.
“Lady Sansa… Lady B-Brienne.” he stutters.
The men on the table look up from their plates to watch her cross the room. When she nears the high table, Sansa finally addresses them.
“I apologize for not being able to welcome you at the gates, my lords. I might have missed the call for I was in the godswood. My loyal knight, Lady Brienne of Tarth, had to fetch me from my seclusion.”
A tall man, lanky with graying hair, skin almost transparent, pale with sunken eyes perhaps from restless nights on the way to the North, stands from the bench and walks towards her.
“My lady,” he bows. “For a moment there I thought you were Lady Catelyn. You look just like how I remembered her from our younger years.” He smiles warmly before proceeding. “But time has not been our friend, hasn’t it?”
The old man takes another step and studies her before his eyes lit up in a small delight. “Oh, but to see you up-close is a different matter, isn’t it?” His smile only grows wider if not slightly wary and melancholy. He peeks at her closely, intelligently and with satisfaction. “I see so much of Ned in you now.”
“Lord Howland Reed,” Sansa curtsies, hoping that with the man’s emboldened stance amongst the others, he is indeed her father’s old friend.
“Forgive my lack of manners, Lady Stark.” Lord Reed chuckles, patting her by the shoulder. “I have not been out of my castle for years I have forgotten what it was like to be back in civilization. Please, my lady, there is no need to be so polite. The gods only know, I am the least of the lords and ladies in this room who deserve it.”
“I hope you’ve had a comfortable journey, my lord?” Sansa inquires. “I welcome you to Winterfell.”
Lord Reed has once again taken his seat beside his men. “It is a cold place, is it not, the castle and the North?”
“Yes, it is.” Sansa replies, almost stoically. “But it could be worse.”
The lord looks up from his plate of food. “So, the rumors are true then? About the Others? About what Jon Snow makes the North believe?”
“You speak as if you are not part of the kingdom, Lord Reed.”
The man chuckles again, returning to grab his spoon which he has absently clanged on his metal bowl. “Perhaps, I have forgotten yet again. Truly, my years in the marshes has made me even more frail than I cared to admit.”
Sansa keeps her emotions at bay but she is starting to get annoyed, not only because the lord and his men look so foreign inside the Great Hall, but the mystery that surrounds Howland Reed terrifies her. She could not care any less for his time in the marshes because for sure, his reason for coming to Winterfell is not good news.
There is never good news anymore.
Podrick leads her to the high table where her own meal awaits. Howland Reed returns to talk to his men and the Great Hall fills with nothing but cutleries scraping over bowls and plates. There are few japes and laughter but more than anything, Sansa is glad that none of the other lords have made their appearance. She can only take so much of their ramblings and questions especially when a new lord arrives at the keep.
When the stewards have cleared the tables and Podrick has gallantly offered to take the newcomers to their chambers, Lord Reed has respectfully declined the offer.
“I shall speak to the lady first, if she does not mind.”
Sansa nods her approval and Lord Reed waits for the hall to empty before he approaches the high table. Brienne stays loyally at Sansa’s side and she is grateful he did not contest this.
“I am very sure there are so many things running inside your head right now, my lady,” the lord starts, taking a seat a few chairs away from Sansa, his wine goblet in hand. “And one of which I know concerns me and this very peculiar visit.”
“I will not lie to you, my lord. It is indeed a peculiar visit.”
“It is not every day though that I hear news about a new King in The North.” the man continues. “But it saddens me that I have apparently missed a chance to see his grace both in his departure from Winterfell and even on the road where I pray to at least have a glance at him.”
“I am sure there would be plenty of time to see his grace.”
Lord Reed smiles. “Then I am glad.”
Sansa watches as he sips from his wine cup and then politely offers the wine carafe in front of her.
“Ever the courteous one, are you?” he chuckles. He pours himself another glassful. “I’ve only heard little about all of Ned’s young wolves but songs about your beauty has crossed the mountains and the rivers of Westeros that when I’ve heard of your betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon, I can also hear young lords weeping everywhere.”
“I have not heard such songs or cries in my lifetime, my lord.” Sansa says stiffly, hearing the evil bastard’s name only resurrects memories she’d rather not remember.
“Oh,” he smiles kindly. “Perhaps you’ve only had your eyes and ears for one.”
“Then how foolish of me to have missed.”
Lord Reed shakes his head. “Please, my lady. Foolish is the last thing I’d impose upon you. You are a young girl, and by all means, have the right to dream only of wonderful and pleasant things. Forgive me if I have made you feel otherwise.”
Sansa would have snorted if she is not at all careful with her manners. But she ignores the temptation and pours herself some more wine instead.
“It is difficult to face the ugliness of our world, Lord Reed.” she starts. “But I have already faced one too many of it and would rather face more than live in the lies of songs and book verses. They are not real. Not to me anyway.”
The old man glances at her thoughtfully. “Then I am very sorry to hear it. Your father and your mother would not have wanted—”
“They are dead.” Sansa replies almost harshly and the man bowed his head perhaps in embarrassment—pity?—and is unable to see her eyes. Behind her, she hears Brienne breathe heavily.
“Indeed, they are.” he says shortly after. “And I am sorry to hear about the young Rickon Stark, too.”
Sansa takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She doesn’t know where the anger is coming from but she feels her head and her heart about to explode. She can take relieving their deaths, she can weep silently in her rooms later on, but she cannot and never will take any signs of pity for her or for her family.
She is a Stark. She is ivory, she is steel.
“Thank you, my lord.” she’s finally able to reply. “I only wish I could have buried them all down at the crypts. But that would have been too fortunate for us wolves.”
Lord Reed shakes his head. “I cannot say this any better than the others who might have already uttered these words to you but my child, your family did not deserve any of it.” He says it with conviction enough for Sansa to hold her breath at the pain, the unfairness, and the injustice that has suddenly run amok in her veins.
She sees the lord grip his wine cup tighter as if he too feels her anger, as if the cup is Joffrey’s neck and he is more than willing to snap and take the breath out of the bastard king once again.
He murmurs, “Ned did not deserve it.”
Sansa feels her heart leap at the slight intimacy of it, at the slight rage that quickly takes over the pallid lord. His knuckles have turned white at the pressure, his neck almost red.
So, it’s true. Howland Reed was once one of the greatest friends of her father.
“I look at your family and I see a family strong and honorable. Lost, dwindled, but never gone.” he insists with more ounce of conviction than his first declaration.
“My family…” Sansa tries to speak but her breath is caught in her throat, surprised at the sudden overwhelming feeling. Foreign to her and the placid disposition she tries to observe daily, but she looks at her hand and she is shaking.
She doesn’t realize this earlier on, or perhaps even days and months ago, but it is dawning now, her tears threatening to fall.
She needs this.
She doesn’t realize how much she needs to talk about her family again and speak of them in words spoken and not just as names that flash in her thoughts or prayers.
“Everyone has outwitted me,” Sansa speaks again after a breath, now feeling more courageous, feeling more uninhibited. She lets the words free her like a breath of fresh air to her drowning body. And she needs Howland Reed to listen. “Everyone was always much cleverer than I was. But I was focused on getting my family avenged. So I wanted to be wiser, I wanted to be a player in the games. I wanted all of them to see my wrath and see how the Starks rise again.”
Sansa lets it all out: her anger, her disappointment, her sadness. She wonders why in the presence of this strange man but his kind eyes make her feel that her vulnerability would not be judged in this moment and that more than anything else, he wants her to continue on, as if he understands.
“I won in my chosen games, my lord.” Sansa continues, the words pouring out of her again like a glass of wine upturned. “I’ve killed and I’ve seen blood. But when the chaos was over, when I returned and conquered Winterfell, my childhood home, it all came crashing down on me.”
She looks at the lord and smiles sadly, “No matter how hard I fought, the emptiness is still here.”
The lord is stoic as she says this so Sansa takes her wine goblet instead and swivels, sloshing its contents. It must have been awkward for both Lord Reed and Brienne to hear her confession but for once, she does not care. She also knows how much of her sadness is painted on her face and yet she does not feel one bit bothered by it. Perhaps the wine has already gotten into her for her to be so bold or perhaps, she just cannot take the weight of all the pretending.
It is not even the entirety, too, of what she is feeling.
“Perhaps I’ve done something much worse for I realized,” Sansa faintly continues. “I have never even had the chance to do the most important thing for our lost family.”
“And what is it, my lady?” the old man asks.
“Grieve.”
Lord Reed now swivels his own wine goblet as he nods at her. Brienne is silent by her side still but Sansa can almost feel her wanting to come closer and offer some consolation, maybe some kind words about her mother.
“Ever since Joffrey had my father beheaded,” adds Sansa as she settles her cup back on the table. “I am consumed by anger. Who would not be? So, I wanted to survive the madness of the Red Keep to have a chance at revenge. But after losing my brother and mother at the Red Wedding, the pain was just unfathomable; growing and escalating. It was taking over me in a pace I could not control. Soon after, I was just numb. I barely survived at the hands of Ramsey Bolton if not for the faintest hope that, indeed, the North has remembered. But I wake up every morning, looking at fresh cuts and bruises and realize, they don’t remember me at all; that I am all alone, that I only have myself. At that point, I was already willing to do whatever it takes so they won’t own me or my family. Not anymore.”
“You were blinded.” affirms the lord.
“I was blinded with rage, yes, so I have forgotten about them for some time.” Sansa bitterly admits. “I have forgotten what I was truly fighting for. My family. I have forgotten what my father last told me before he died. I have forgotten Robb’s favorite food, I have forgotten how my mother favors her hair during the day… it seems silly to hear now, doesn’t it? It is silly but I don’t want to forget about them anymore.”
Sansa watches as Lord Reed takes another swig then turns to look at her. “Family. Family, duty, honor. Your mother’s family motto, you have that well etched in your heart.”
He has a faraway look then, when he speaks the next words and for a moment, Sansa can also feel his certain sadness. “I remember your father most, of course. He was a good man. His devotion to his family and the Stark name is a feat most men can only hope to wear and accomplish. A lot of people has admired your father—those beside him during the rebellion, those from afar, those in the sidelines of the court… A lot of people wanted him to be king.” he looks back at her with fond a grin. “But your father, kind and honorable Ned Stark, only wanted to go home. Like you.”
Sansa feels her chest tighten. But she does not allow unshed tears to fall and instead lets herself feel proud; proud of her father, of what he had accomplished, of the Stark name he passed on to his children—to her. Lord Reed’s kind words feel like a salve to every burns and insults marked on her skin by the Lannisters and the Boltons because they could take away her happiness and her peace, her beautiful face and her riches, but they could not take away the certain truth that Ned Stark was the man she will always call father, her father that will always be a better man than all of them.
“You saved him, Lord Reed,” she is able to whisper amidst her trembling breath. “That is a story I know so well and you will have my lifetime of thanks for what you did.”
He looks at her with such regret in his eyes Sansa feels like it was the wrong thing to say. His voice doesn’t waiver but his face is overcome with grief. “My only regret is that I was not able to save him again from a far greater injustice. I will never forgive myself for not being able to do anything. I was… I was bested by my own fear, of my own sworn words and promises.”
“We all wish we could have done much more, my lord.”
“You cannot blame yourself for that, Lady Stark. You were young. And I am sure your lord father would not want you in any harm’s way.”
“I was young and foolish and it has cost the lives of my family. Bran and Arya are lost to us and they are two more people I am not ready to grieve for, not when the silence of Winterfell reminds me every day of the people I’ve already failed. Now, I only have Jon. And sometimes I feel like I do not deserve him too.”
“My child, we all feel that we do not deserve a lot of things.” he sympathizes. “Forgiveness, love, family… it is pitiful this world of ours make us feel inadequate despite the words of reassurances spoken by the people most dear to us. And your words, perhaps, do not make them feel enough either.”
“This is, indeed, a sad world. Sometimes, I do not know how much of it I could take.”
“So young,” he says thoughtfully at her. “So young to be shouldering the burdens of the world and of the mistake of others.”
“Perhaps, it is my fate.” Sansa shrugs.
“Perhaps.”
Gathering her composure, Sansa takes another deep breath before uttering the words that have consumed the entire keep ever since his letter arrived. “Why have you come here, my lord?”
Lord Reed studies her once more; frowning, deciding. He smiles sadly before shaking his head and softly speaks.
“I do not want you to bear any other burdens on your own, my lady. Once in a while, we deserve to be shielded away from certain truths—even just for a night. Perhaps once the King has returned, you both shall know.”
With that, he stands up from the bench and walks towards her. Memories of Lord Eddard Stark cross Sansa’s mind as she sees him in the old man’s fine lines and graying hair. And then when the lord holds her face before he leaves the hall, patting it slightly and looking down at her with kindness as if he too grieved for her losses, as if he wants to wish her a good night; to dream the sweetest dreams—even if they both know it is impossible—it is more than the memories of Eddard Stark that Sansa remembers.
Mayhap, it is her father himself that brought Howland Reed to Winterfell for whatever reasons.
Sansa watches as the old man retreats with Brienne and walks the aisle to the oak doors. If she looks closely enough, Sansa could almost see the heavy load he carries in his heart and in which she knows will someday be hers.
She sips her wine as the fire fizzles in the room and she grieves, finally, for her own heart. Her heart that currently travels the dangerous path to the South; her heart that she wants nothing but to come back home to her.
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Read it on AO3 here.
