Oneshot: A Time for Wolves
And yet another oneshot from me. Spoilers up until A Dance with Dragons.
**
The wolves are howling again.
It had started a week ago, a single voice raised at the moon. Sansa remembers shivering suddenly, a feeling, a remembrance, Lady.
Every night since then, more voices have joined the first, howling in chorus. A huge pack is now gathered outside the Gates of the Moon, vanishing by daylight but reappearing once more when the sun sets.
The lords of the Vale discuss taking a party out to hunt them and drive them away, and the villagers tell stories of the monstrous she-wolf who leads them, larger than any horse.
Mothers keep their children close and Lord Baelish has ordered that nobody is to step outside while they remain, yet Sansa is not scared.
There is something strangely familiar in the howling, in the one voice that rises louder than the others, something that calls to her. Alayne would have hidden beneath her covers and wished them to be quiet, but since the night that the wolves first began to call, Sansa has begun to shake Alayne off, to remove that girl’s skin and reclaim her own. Sansa sits by her bedroom’s open window to listen to them and feels her strength grow every night.
The moon has only just risen and the voice of the leader of the pack with it, and Sansa wears her warmest cloak and steps outside. Slowly she makes her way to the gates, nodding and smiling at the guards she passes. If they think to question her they do not, and Sansa waits until the back of the nearest guard is turned before she exits through the postern gate.
She walks forward, almost to the edge of the light that the torches, and waits.
She does not need to wait long. There is a sudden silence as the howling stops and then from the shadows, Sansa sees the she-wolf step forward.
It has been years since they saw one another, and the direwolf now stands as tall as Sansa, perhaps taller. They look at one another for one long moment, recognizing, remembering. Then Sansa takes two steps forward and extends her hand, laying it upon the soft fur on Nymeria’s muzzle.
“Sister.” Sansa greets her, and it is right. “Have you come for me at last?”
The direwolf dips her large head as if in assent, butting gently at Sansa’s shoulder, and she cannot help but smile, help but thread her fingers through the thick fur in a gesture of love.
The postern gate opens suddenly and Littlefinger steps out, guards reluctantly following him, crossbows in their arms.
“Alayne, what are you doing?” he calls to her, “Come back here at once, back away slowly.”
“Alayne is gone now.” Sansa informs him, and then she turns back to Nymeria. “That man, do you see him, Sister? He was responsible for Father’s death, and then he tried to take his place. That man caused harm to our pack, caused the deaths of our Father, of our brothers.”
Sansa does not need to say more, Nymeria knows what must be done.
She leaps forward before the crossbows can even be raised and the guards scatter, running back for the gate. Petyr Baelish is not so fast nor so lucky and soon he is nothing more than a stain upon the snow.
Sansa does not avert her eyes.
The direwolf returns to her and lies down upon the snow and Sansa knows what she must do now. Quickly, she climbs onto Nymeria’s back and tangles her fingers in the direwolf’s thick fur, clutches her tightly. The night is cold but the she-wolf is warm under her, and Sansa leans forward to speak in her ear.
“Let us go home, Sister.” Sansa tells her, and Nymeria begins to run.
**
The journey takes weeks, travelling by night and resting by day, running through the forest rather than upon the roads. Sansa curls up with her wolf-sister for warmth and finds that she sleeps better than she has in years, that for once there are no nightmares.
Nymeria hunts, and brings back food for her sister, but Sansa does not know how to prepare it. Instead they stop in towns and villages along the way, appearing from out of the shadows and into the light. The townsfolk look upon Sansa with fear, a girl who rides an enormous wolf, and provide her with bread and other provisions when she asks.
The Wolf Queen, they whisper when she is out of sight, and tales of a young maiden who rides upon a direwolf soon begin to make their way across the realm.
They reach the outskirts of Winterfell, covered in snow and in the grips of a blizzard and Sansa dismounts, stands beside Nymeria and places one hand upon her flank. They have stopped upon the way to ask and Sansa knows who holds her home now, knows who currently sits within.
“There are foes inside, enemies, traitors who harmed our pack.” she tells Nymeria, “But perhaps there are some friends as well, biding their time until they may take revenge for us. You will know which is which by the smell of them. Harm not our friends but make those who betrayed us pay for what they have done. The North Remembers. Let it ever remember this night, let it never forget what happens to traitors and oathbreakers.”
Sansa walks forward and knocks upon the outer gate.
In the space of time it takes for the guard to open it and see her, the wolves are already upon him.
**
Afterwards, she picks her way through the carnage, ignoring the dozens of eyes upon her, watching her every move. There are Manderly and Umber men here as well as others, all of whom turned on the Boltons and the Freys as soon as they saw her and the wolves. There is time enough for Sansa to speak to them, for now she makes her way to where Nymeria sits, looming over the prone body of Roose Bolton, his bastard son’s corpse strewn in pieces nearby. Looking down, Sansa sees that the man is still breathing, though barely. He looks up at her with disbelief, opening his mouth but unable to speak.
“The North Remembers.” Sansa tells him gravely, and watches while the light in his eyes dies before turning back to her family’s loyal bannermen.
Staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear, one by one they take the knee, fat old Lord Manderly the first to do so.
“The Stark in Winterfell.” one man murmurs.
“Queen of the North.” another says.
“Queen of the Wolves.” a younger boy breathes, staring as Nymeria lies down at Sansa’s feet, for now quiet and at peace.
All Sansa knows is that she is finally home.
**
When Stannis’s forces arrive at the castle, expecting a bloody battle, they find the gates opened to them instead.
Upon the high seat of Winterfell sits Sansa Stark, a massive direwolf lounging at her feet.
“Only until my brothers return.” Sansa tells her lords bannermen, never intending to claim the seat for herself. She does not wish to be Queen in the North, she never has.
It matters not if she takes the title, they shall always think of her as the Queen of Wolves regardless.
She begins to put her home to rights, her sister-wolf always following at her heels, guarding her.
“Tell your mistress to hurry home,” Sansa tells Nymeria, hoping that the bond between she and Arya still remains. “Tell your brothers that we are waiting for them, to welcome them back.”
She knows that it may take time, that they are all far away, yet she also knows that they will heed her call, that eventually they will return.
All of the wolves will come again.
In the meantime, having heard the stories, others arrive.
A tall female warrior from Tarth who once served Sansa’s lady mother; She will serve Sansa now, she swears, and Sansa takes her oath of fealty.
A scarred man, a loyal Hound, whom Sansa had once believed dead. He is changed now, as she is, and he pledges to serve her too. She takes his vow, the only one he has ever made, and knows that he will never let her down.
She names him pack to Nymeria. She thinks, as he follows her around the castle with hungry eyes, that perhaps one day she will name him mate.
There is time for that though, time enough now.
One by one they will come home, the missing members of her pack, and Sansa knows that their time has come at last.
A time for wolves.
**
The wolves are howling again.
It had started a week ago, a single voice raised at the moon. Sansa remembers shivering suddenly, a feeling, a remembrance, Lady.
Every night since then, more voices have joined the first, howling in chorus. A huge pack is now gathered outside the Gates of the Moon, vanishing by daylight but reappearing once more when the sun sets.
The lords of the Vale discuss taking a party out to hunt them and drive them away, and the villagers tell stories of the monstrous she-wolf who leads them, larger than any horse.
Mothers keep their children close and Lord Baelish has ordered that nobody is to step outside while they remain, yet Sansa is not scared.
There is something strangely familiar in the howling, in the one voice that rises louder than the others, something that calls to her. Alayne would have hidden beneath her covers and wished them to be quiet, but since the night that the wolves first began to call, Sansa has begun to shake Alayne off, to remove that girl’s skin and reclaim her own. Sansa sits by her bedroom’s open window to listen to them and feels her strength grow every night.
The moon has only just risen and the voice of the leader of the pack with it, and Sansa wears her warmest cloak and steps outside. Slowly she makes her way to the gates, nodding and smiling at the guards she passes. If they think to question her they do not, and Sansa waits until the back of the nearest guard is turned before she exits through the postern gate.
She walks forward, almost to the edge of the light that the torches, and waits.
She does not need to wait long. There is a sudden silence as the howling stops and then from the shadows, Sansa sees the she-wolf step forward.
It has been years since they saw one another, and the direwolf now stands as tall as Sansa, perhaps taller. They look at one another for one long moment, recognizing, remembering. Then Sansa takes two steps forward and extends her hand, laying it upon the soft fur on Nymeria’s muzzle.
“Sister.” Sansa greets her, and it is right. “Have you come for me at last?”
The direwolf dips her large head as if in assent, butting gently at Sansa’s shoulder, and she cannot help but smile, help but thread her fingers through the thick fur in a gesture of love.
The postern gate opens suddenly and Littlefinger steps out, guards reluctantly following him, crossbows in their arms.
“Alayne, what are you doing?” he calls to her, “Come back here at once, back away slowly.”
“Alayne is gone now.” Sansa informs him, and then she turns back to Nymeria. “That man, do you see him, Sister? He was responsible for Father’s death, and then he tried to take his place. That man caused harm to our pack, caused the deaths of our Father, of our brothers.”
Sansa does not need to say more, Nymeria knows what must be done.
She leaps forward before the crossbows can even be raised and the guards scatter, running back for the gate. Petyr Baelish is not so fast nor so lucky and soon he is nothing more than a stain upon the snow.
Sansa does not avert her eyes.
The direwolf returns to her and lies down upon the snow and Sansa knows what she must do now. Quickly, she climbs onto Nymeria’s back and tangles her fingers in the direwolf’s thick fur, clutches her tightly. The night is cold but the she-wolf is warm under her, and Sansa leans forward to speak in her ear.
“Let us go home, Sister.” Sansa tells her, and Nymeria begins to run.
**
The journey takes weeks, travelling by night and resting by day, running through the forest rather than upon the roads. Sansa curls up with her wolf-sister for warmth and finds that she sleeps better than she has in years, that for once there are no nightmares.
Nymeria hunts, and brings back food for her sister, but Sansa does not know how to prepare it. Instead they stop in towns and villages along the way, appearing from out of the shadows and into the light. The townsfolk look upon Sansa with fear, a girl who rides an enormous wolf, and provide her with bread and other provisions when she asks.
The Wolf Queen, they whisper when she is out of sight, and tales of a young maiden who rides upon a direwolf soon begin to make their way across the realm.
They reach the outskirts of Winterfell, covered in snow and in the grips of a blizzard and Sansa dismounts, stands beside Nymeria and places one hand upon her flank. They have stopped upon the way to ask and Sansa knows who holds her home now, knows who currently sits within.
“There are foes inside, enemies, traitors who harmed our pack.” she tells Nymeria, “But perhaps there are some friends as well, biding their time until they may take revenge for us. You will know which is which by the smell of them. Harm not our friends but make those who betrayed us pay for what they have done. The North Remembers. Let it ever remember this night, let it never forget what happens to traitors and oathbreakers.”
Sansa walks forward and knocks upon the outer gate.
In the space of time it takes for the guard to open it and see her, the wolves are already upon him.
**
Afterwards, she picks her way through the carnage, ignoring the dozens of eyes upon her, watching her every move. There are Manderly and Umber men here as well as others, all of whom turned on the Boltons and the Freys as soon as they saw her and the wolves. There is time enough for Sansa to speak to them, for now she makes her way to where Nymeria sits, looming over the prone body of Roose Bolton, his bastard son’s corpse strewn in pieces nearby. Looking down, Sansa sees that the man is still breathing, though barely. He looks up at her with disbelief, opening his mouth but unable to speak.
“The North Remembers.” Sansa tells him gravely, and watches while the light in his eyes dies before turning back to her family’s loyal bannermen.
Staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear, one by one they take the knee, fat old Lord Manderly the first to do so.
“The Stark in Winterfell.” one man murmurs.
“Queen of the North.” another says.
“Queen of the Wolves.” a younger boy breathes, staring as Nymeria lies down at Sansa’s feet, for now quiet and at peace.
All Sansa knows is that she is finally home.
**
When Stannis’s forces arrive at the castle, expecting a bloody battle, they find the gates opened to them instead.
Upon the high seat of Winterfell sits Sansa Stark, a massive direwolf lounging at her feet.
“Only until my brothers return.” Sansa tells her lords bannermen, never intending to claim the seat for herself. She does not wish to be Queen in the North, she never has.
It matters not if she takes the title, they shall always think of her as the Queen of Wolves regardless.
She begins to put her home to rights, her sister-wolf always following at her heels, guarding her.
“Tell your mistress to hurry home,” Sansa tells Nymeria, hoping that the bond between she and Arya still remains. “Tell your brothers that we are waiting for them, to welcome them back.”
She knows that it may take time, that they are all far away, yet she also knows that they will heed her call, that eventually they will return.
All of the wolves will come again.
In the meantime, having heard the stories, others arrive.
A tall female warrior from Tarth who once served Sansa’s lady mother; She will serve Sansa now, she swears, and Sansa takes her oath of fealty.
A scarred man, a loyal Hound, whom Sansa had once believed dead. He is changed now, as she is, and he pledges to serve her too. She takes his vow, the only one he has ever made, and knows that he will never let her down.
She names him pack to Nymeria. She thinks, as he follows her around the castle with hungry eyes, that perhaps one day she will name him mate.
There is time for that though, time enough now.
One by one they will come home, the missing members of her pack, and Sansa knows that their time has come at last.
A time for wolves.