If you have one child, you are the father. If there are two, you are the referee.
Quote from the depths of the author's subconscious, surely someone smart said that before
The door to the Queen's chambers slammed behind her, and the royal guard, she didn't know the name of, measured her with an odd stare.
This stare made her want to draw a dagger.
"Ser," Sansa bowed slightly, still flushed and confused, but that didn't stop her from trying to switch to something other than the odd emotions caused by the Queen's demeanor. "May I learn your name, ser?"
"Meryn Trant, Lady Sansa," the knight's voice was low and not unpleasant. "Why do you ask, Lady Sansa?"
"My brother really wished to train with a member of the king's guard, but yet did not find the time or the words to ask one. Could you..."
"Sure, Lady Sansa."
The man broke into a polite smile, but Sansa stayed a bit uncomfortable, although perhaps she was still under impression of what happened in Queen Cersei chambers.
"I look forward to it."
"Any time you like, Ser Meryn. Brother Robb with Jon and Theon will be waiting for you when you say so."
This was also her father's task. He explained that Robb had been wondering for a long time how he could prove himself against one of the White Cloaks. Therefore, at every opportunity, each of the older Stark children should have provided Robb and the other guys with the opportunity to train with someone from the guard.
That is why when Sansa realized that one of the guards was standing at the door to the Queen's chambers, as it should be, she decided to kill two birds with one stone, as her father likes to say.
Sansa looked into Ser Meryn Trant's face, sending the knight a timid smile, mentally clutching the hilt of her dagger. It was not with her now, as well as the direwolf that usually stayed close and left a feeling of back being covered. Even if Lady behaved almost as quietly as John's Ghost, she was no less dangerous.
Sansa turned around and went to report back to her father. She immediately wiped undue emotions from her face, but still felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and ears.
Her wolf was now with the rest of the pack in the Godswood, and Arya was quite possibly running with the wolves. Arya was allowed. She was still too young and too hot-tempered to receive such tasks from her father.
Her last task, as emotionally odd as the conversation with the Queen, was to make Domeric Bolton feel at home. He got into some kind of trouble when her father decided to go to the Boltons and look at the obsidian pits at the foot of the Dreadfort. Those, at her father's request, Roose Bolton began to exploit.
At that time neither she, nor her father, nor the other Starks had any idea that there was a threat from beyond the Wall. And this threat was not in the pathetic frostbitten wildlings, but in the risen from the dead and awakened White Walkers. But when the only place where obsidian comes from is distant Asshai, even Sansa could understand the benefits of such pits in the North.
Neither Domeric nor Eddard wanted to tell more than was necessary about what exactly happened to the boy. Dad said it was the Bolton House business, and it wasn't for the Starks to get into such things - it might be considered an insult. The father said that he had already done everything he could as their suzerain, but he was not going to get personal, as well as telling details that only the Bolton had the right to tell.
She had to approach her quest creatively, as her father likes to say. She gifted Domeric her harp with direwolves on it's pillar part, because one day she saw his wistful look cast in the direction of Jeyne Poole. The girl was learning to play the harp at that point and humming something to herself. Under other circumstances, Jeyne never got any longing looks from Domeric, so it was obvious.
In addition to this, Sansa thought of writing a collection of songs herself, compiling it from all the mentions in the Winterfell library, and from all the stories of the servants about their favorite songs and singers. It took more than one week, but it was no longer about Domeric, but about the enthusiasm of both Sansa, Maester Luwin and Old Nan, whom the young Stark did not hesitate to involve in her research.
She decorated this book appropriately, in the colors of the Bolton house. Though she felt squeamish once her imagination went to sewing the book cover not with pigskin, but human skin, as in Old Nan's tales. The father, by the way, delighted at the very idea of this collection. He almost seemed like little Bran when he was told that a sweet cake for his birthday would be with the lemon filling. It was that birthday when Dad said that Sansa infested everyone she could with her love for lemon cakes.
And the second songbook, rewritten, supplemented by her father and decorated in the gray-white colors of the Starks, was sent to the Reach, to the Citadel of Maesters in Oldtown. There was not a book quite like that on her father's memory. Apparently, because noone actually bothered, as her father said, and he was being awkwardly truthful about it. But Sansa was still very pleased to learn that she'd done something that had not been done before her, that her work was truly appreciated and encouraged.
Then she realized that she likes not only to simply sing and embroider. She liked to create. To approach her quests creatively.
She had the task before last. It was before Domeric, who now, after almost two years in Winterfell, responded to Domix, got himself a Myrish crossbow and made friends with Theon Greyjoy more than with anyone else.
The task was to make sure that Arya at least tried to strive in the rest of her exercises, and not just in training her shooting, swordfighting and horseriding. It was then Sansa first realized what it was like to approach things creatively.
Her father explained to her that because Arya is younger and does something worse than her older sister, she could simply stop trying. And then neither Sansa would get better, nor Arya, and the relationship would be spoiled. Then her father asked her, more like begged and not ordered, to tell him about those occasions when Sansa is praised as reproach to Arya.
Sansa counted, even wrote it down. And it became somewhat difficult for her to speak coherently and loudly when she realized how often Arya hears that she is worse. But she is just younger, that's what Dad said!
And then she took the list to her father.
At the time she realized several indisputable things. First, there are limits to Father's composure. The second is that despite the statements of Septa that all her notes are childish exaggeration and outright untruth, Father will be on Sansa's side.
It was then that she realized for the first time that her father didn't care about the Seven Gods, the Sept, and as he said at the time, most of the Southern prejudices.
And that is why now she was supposed to fully calm down, go report to her father, and tell him about the odd feelings that the Queen's actions caused in her. And after that she will change her skirts into pants, put on a quilted gambeson and do all the same things that Arya likes to do, even though Sansa is not so good at it. Not like embroidery, reading books and singing.
She will be with Arya.
Training their shooting, swordfighting and horseriding.
***
Sansa was close enough to the doors to her father's solar to notice the odd absence of at least one guard on duty.
Sansa's heart skipped a beat - the girl chose to stop for a short contemplation. It ended with Sansa deciding to strain all her stealth skills she had after playing hide-and-seek with her brothers and sister. She leaned to the doorpost so that she could hear what was happening inside.
The door wasn't completely closed. Whoever entered the room before Sansa was not too worried that they would be overheard.
Well, maybe they were just unreasonably carefree.
"What you're suggesting stinks of dishonor, Lord Stark," Sansa heard Domix's voice, and her heart skipped a beat again.
"He's just a man who likes little girls. So we could have his guts cut open. So we could take his place, and no one's conscience will be hurt," someone's unfamiliar, much sharper voice began to argue with Domix.
The voice's feature was a severe nasal congestion or maybe a broken septum. Sansa could only guess, while she was behind the door.
"My conscience does not allow me to use poison," Domeric replied in a distinctly irritated voice. "About your conscience, especially when it comes to replacing someone in his rightful place, we know everything perfectly well."
Sansa calmed down once again, as she recalled that she did not like Domeric as much as at the very beginning of their acquaintance. She'd never liked his Bolton appearance, especially his eyes - he shared them both with his father, Roose Bolton, and with his bastard brother. The one who trains hard under the only anointed northern knight at the Stark court, Rodrik Cassel. Sansa tried to memorize the name of his bastard brother at some point. But since the boy didn't live in the castle, spent his nights and dined somewhere in the Wintertown, and rarely showed his face, the things she remembered about him were his eyes, the same as all other Boltons, and the presence of a clingy mutt by his side.
She always liked Domeric's voice, velvety and completely controlled. This voice brought memories of the pleasure received by all the inhabitants of Winterfell when young Bolton decided to sing. Sansa at first thought that she was in love with the son of her father's vassal, assumed that she would have to disappoint her mother and marry not a southern lord, but a northern one in the future. Not what Mother wanter, for sure.
That tender feeling especially intensified when Sansa was working on her gift to Domeric, she just imagined how he would use her songbook and praise her for her efforts every time his eyes fell on the lines made by her own hand.
When Father decided to find out what his daughter was so enthusiastically engaged in, he did not yet know all her ideas about the gift. Then she emotionally burst into tears out of nowhere and rambled out something, she couldn't even remember what. Her father listened her out and told her not to tell Mother, else she'd take everything too seriously.
Dad explained her that Domeric had become her first crush, and there was nothing to do with it, except try to make friends and endure. If after "making friends", whatever possible between the little girl and the almost grown-up boy, she'd still have a wish to get his attention, then this should be told, again, to her father. Dad then clarified that it's better to have the cold head on your shoulders while having the hot heart in your chest. With the heart, Dad said, the Starks always had everything in order, but with the cold head, faults were there for centuries. And as soon as the Stark lost his head, then he lost it in the literal sense of the word. And Mom would've started acting rashly, Mom's just had that personality, he said. Dad mentioned then, sure he loves and respects Mom, but this does not negate some of her not most helpful sides. Dad said that Mom would try to influence both Sansa, fearing the worst - the bastards, and the boy. And the boy wouldn't be lucky she fell in love with him.
Sansa nodded, agreed and accidentally did the opposite.
Mom squeezed out of her a confession that the gift for Domeric in this form was her own initiative. Her Mother stormed and raged, ruined a bunch of pages already ready for filing the songbook. It happened by accident - because of her slamming the table. She spilled ink all over and brought Sansa to tears.
Sansa promised some pontless stuff that Mother demanded, and in the end she still did it her own way.
Her father swung by the next day, telling her right at the doorway that her mother told him everything, and he'd like to hear Sansa's version of events. The girl did not cry again, although she really wanted to, because of the overwhelming aching emotions that simply swooped her heart when she realized that her father was on her side again. That he came not to scold her, but to sort it out.
Then Sansa silently pointed at the stack of damaged parchment and continued to copy from the draft again.
A minute later, her father offered his help.
Sansa just smiled and replied that she wanted to do it on her own.
"Stop teasing Ramsay, Domeric. He's already apologized, like, twenty times," her father's voice sounded tired.
That's why Sansa nodded to herself and decided to knock, even though the door was not locked.
"It must be Sansa," her father said.
And Sansa realized that she'd heard them so well because the end of the conversation was happening right by the door. The doors swung open, and the girl smiled, looking into Dad's eyes. He squinted worriedly and asked.
"Is everything allright?"
"I've given a message to both the Queen and her guard. It was Meryn Trant. He agreed to train with Robb."
"Sansa did good."
Theon said, widely grinnning at her. It turns out, he was also in the solar, just uncharacteristically silent.
Well, maybe Sansa just came by when he'd already managed to shut up.
"Out."
Despite the terse and seemingly strict order, there were sparks of amusement in Father's eyes, and the guys didn't have any frustration on their faces. Here they were, Theon and Domeric, not the most solemn in most situations. Well, this Ramsay, who was staring at the floor and scratching his short greasy hair, seemed vaguely familiar.
Sansa couldn't really pinpoint why.
They hurried to leave her father's workplace. As soon as the door was thoroughly slammed shut, the footsteps and the quiet hubbub created by the opinionated and temperamental guys ceased to be audible, Sansa took a couple of steps towards Dad and squeezed his lower back with all her might.
"Everything went like knife through butter, and you seem like you patted the hedgehog, or something," stated Father over her head in an utterly even voice. That made Sansa burst out laughing and raise her face to meet her father's gaze.
"Do you remember when I liked Domeric?"
"Unforgettable. Why ask?"
Dad frowned, but didn't tense up - Sansa would have noticed, because she was hugging him.
"I felt something similar when the Queen touched my chin. The same embarrassment, the same reaction to her voice. The pulse, the heart just stopped. What is it, Dad?"
"It will pass, dear, it will pass," her father caressed the top of her head and removed a lock of hair off her forehead.
His actions made Sansa smile crookedly and pushed her forehead into his palm. Then he continued.
"It did pass, your crush on Domeric, didn't it?"
"Well, yes, it helps that we're so different that it's not even funny," Sansa shrugged. "But he still sings beautifully, his voice is just..."
The girl couldn't find the words, therefore switched to a more important problem.
"But she's a woman, isn't she? And I'm a woman... I've heard about it from the septa, Dad, I've heard that it's a sin."
"Not for the Old Gods," her father shrugged. "But life is such that you simply have to take a wife... Or rather, take a husband, Sansa, stop giggling! I'm going to die at some point in the future, and this life works in such a way that women need certain protection to thrive. In the event of my death, your brothers will have to become your protectors, and as long as your brothers are alive, neither you nor your sister should think hardly about marriage. If a terrible thing happens, and all the men of our kin are gone, you will become the eldest. So, you'll simply have to ensure loyalty this way. It's not too pleasing to anticipate, but..."
"So don't anticipate!" Sansa exclaimed with tears in her eyes, having endured her father's sololoquy enough to understand how complicated everything is in the adult life that she, Robb, John, Arya, Bran and Rickon are about to enter. "You're not going to die. I don't want you to!"
"Sometimes not wanting is not enough."
Her father began to tousle her hair again, and Sansa freed one of her hands to wipe away tears.
"Sometimes you have to sacrifice something, Sansa. But I promise you, if you honestly fall in love and realize that this is the one, I will support you, whoever it is. True, the person will have to pass some sort of loyalty test, but these are the details. We don't want there to be something like the union of your dearest Aunt Lysa and Baelish, do we?"
"Dad, what are you talking about?" Sansa asked worriedly. "Should I even know about this? Aunt Lysa was married to the Lord of the Vale, wasn't she?"
"I'm not going to ask you to promise not to tell anyone, Sansa. But be careful with this information when we go to the capital and never show that you know it."
The girl nodded and scrunched her face, while her father continued to quietly convey his thoughts to her.
"I have a strong suspicion that little Arryn is Lysa and Baelish's bastard. Jon Arryn had trouble conceiving anyone throughout his life, Sansa. You are already quite a grown-up girl, there will be monthlies soon, as your mother informed me recently. So I'm not softening this information for you. You shouldn't be unprepared for what awaits us in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. I suspect your aunt, my wife's sister, of murdering the Hand of the King. That's why I repeat, I will support any love of yours, if it is not a slug like Baelish, who uses a woman above his status for his own selfish purposes, plays on her weaknesses and even, quite likely, incited her to murder the man who made him rise in station. Don't get any ideas, Baelish is smart and probably even pleasant in appearance, I can't say, because any affection ends where the slippery nature of his personality begins. He will stab his dagger in the back, poison an ally, and there are plenty of such people, Sansa. Simply some are more successful than others."
"You once told me, Dad, that people don't change," the girl took a deep breath and exhaled. "So he's always been like this? How do I determine that that person may want to use me?"
"People change when they are still capable of it. At your age, a little older, a little younger... Or when they were broken by something or someone, and then it does not depend on age. Take Ramsay, for example. The bastard of the Bolton House. The boy was raised by his mother, who survived the rape by Lord Bolton at her own wedding and gave birth to a son from a rapist. He saw no other way out of the poverty and contempt in which he lived, except to poison his legitimate brother."
"He wanted to poison Domeric?!"
Sansa shook her head and finally detached herself from her father, stepping back and frowning at him, unknowingly repeating this stern look of her father everyone feared.
"He lives here and hasn't been executed? How is this even possible?!"
"Then I'd have to execute Lord Bolton as well, because the whole chain of events was launched by his demand for the first night and the murder of the miller who decided to marry without the Lord's permission. This right is prohibited by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms. So the execution would be legal, but it would cause an uprising of the Dustins and Ryswells, strong regions of the North. And quite possibly, it would have been necessary to kill Domeric, who had nothing to do with it at all. I decided that it was possible and necessary to try to rehabilitate Ramsay. I promised him something, and he agreed. After all, everyone has pride and ambition - remember this, Sansa - even the most meager human being. And Ramsay, I'm afraid, is by no means meager."
"I understand, Father, but why didn't you execute Ramsay? It was possible, after all..."
"Listen carefully, Sansa. I will not repeat this on other occasion or confirm that I ever said such a thing. After all, there is little honor in such approach. But take note of this. It is necessary to act honorably only when it promises inevitable advantages. To act honorably when it's not benificial at all would be suicide, sometimes even literal. Never act honorably if you're not sure that it will be a plus. Always deduce the consequences. But never forget about human conscience. Conscience and honor, Sansa, are two different things."
They were silent for a while, looking into each other's eyes, until Sansa nodded in response to her father's expectant gaze.
"And now, daughter, please tell me in detail what you told the Queen, and what you told her White Cloak. Think of it as memory training. We got fifteen minutes."
"Very well, Father. It all started when I disturbed that Guard at the door to the Queen's chambers and answered his expected questions. I said that I would only give the message to the Queen personally, and to nobody but her..."