On the other side of the story—after finishing his negotiations with Cersei and the others—Aedric left King's Landing with Sansa Stark, heading north toward Winterfell.
Say what you will about the Lannisters, but they certainly knew how to show generosity when they wanted to. Once Cersei had agreed to let them go, she personally gifted the pair two magnificent warhorses—each one so fine it could rival the legendary steeds of Eastern tales.
With such mounts, Aedric had originally planned to spur on and see if they might catch up to Lord Eddard's group, which had departed barely half a day earlier.
That dream lasted all of five minutes.
Though Sansa was a daughter of the North, she had been raised as a lady of the court—her horsemanship, therefore, extended only to not falling off. The moment Aedric saw how stiffly she sat and how awkwardly she held the reins, he knew there would be no galloping across the countryside.
And since their relationship had been... less than pleasant—neither wanted to share a saddle—Aedric could only slow his pace to match hers, resigning himself to a much longer journey.
Thus, the two rode together but rarely spoke. Sansa, unlike Arya, had always looked down on Jon Snow—the bastard she saw as beneath her family's station. In this, she and her mother Catelyn Tully were of one mind.
Aedric didn't take offense. After all, in Westeros, despising bastards was the norm. Arya was the exception, not the rule.
As for the dangers of the road—bandits, wild men, and the like—they posed no threat. Wherever they appeared, Aedric's sword flashed, and they fell like straw before a scythe.
Sansa was shocked by his inhuman skill, but her lingering resentment—born from that infamous slap—kept her from asking questions.
And so, fifteen long, awkward days later, they finally crossed into the lands of the North.
No sooner had they done so than they were spotted by a northern patrol, who quickly surrounded them—not in hostility, but to escort them safely home to Winterfell.
Seeing the direwolf banners fluttering in the wind, Sansa's heart, tight for weeks, finally eased. Yet she couldn't help noticing how deferential the soldiers were toward Aedric—nothing like the dismissive way Northerners usually treated bastards.
When she asked why, the men told her of his exploits—of how he had faced down the Lannisters, saved her father and sister, and walked out of King's Landing alive.
Only then did Sansa truly grasp how dangerous their journey had been—and how close her family had come to annihilation.
Sansa might be a romantic, but she was not foolish or weak. In truth, when it came to enduring hardship, she was the toughest of all the Starks. That famous line—"Joffrey is my one true love"—hadn't been idiocy, but a masterstroke of survival. Even Tyrion Lannister himself had once observed that Sansa might outlive them all.
And he was right. In the story as it once was, Sansa did outlive them all—enduring every trial to rise as Queen in the North.
Naïve youth, stoic woman, calculating queen—that was Sansa Stark's legend.
But that was the old story.
Here, with Eddard Stark alive and Robb unlikely to repeat his old mistakes, who could say whether this Sansa would follow the same path?
Not that Aedric cared much.
For just as they crossed into the North, the voice of his mysterious "system" chimed within his mind—mission two, completed.
Mission one, however… still far from done.
As the soldiers looked upon him with admiration, Aedric realized that fame on the battlefield alone would never be enough. No matter how many victories he won, some would only respect him out of fear.
To make all of Westeros truly revere him, he would need a feat so great that no one could deny it—a triumph against the greatest enemy of the living: the White Walkers, and their Night King.
That, he decided, would be his ultimate task.
It was also why he'd deliberately left his advice with the Lannisters. If the world was to survive the coming winter, it couldn't depend on him alone—it would take the armies of the entire continent.
Yes, in the show the living had somehow triumphed—but looking at the writing of that final season, Aedric could only sneer.
"How," he thought, "could squabbling, distrustful humans defeat a united army of the dead? It defies all logic."
No, for victory to make sense, the world needed strong, pragmatic leaders—people like Cersei before she lost her children and her mind. For all her scheming, she understood the rules of the game and knew when to compromise.
He'd take a cunning queen over a stubborn fool any day.
"Jon?"
A soft, hesitant voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Sansa looking uncertain, her face pale but determined.
"I never… thanked you," she said. "And I never apologized, either. I'm sorry."
Aedric blinked, then gave a small smile. He wasn't one to hold grudges—especially not against a girl who was, at worst, a bit sheltered.
"There's no need," he said evenly. "Your father has always treated me kindly. Saving his daughter was the least I could do."
He paused, then added with a curious look, "Tell me, Sansa—do you still dream of being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Her expression froze. For a moment, she saw Joffrey's face—the charming boy who'd turned into a monster before her eyes. A shiver ran down her spine.
But only a shiver.
Because in truth, she still longed for that crown. She had not yet lived through the cruelty that would strip such dreams away. To her, the throne was still beautiful, still golden.
Aedric saw it all in her eyes and chuckled softly.
"When I was in King's Landing," he said, "I made an arrangement with Queen Cersei. If she can see to it that Tommen Baratheon becomes king, then the North may consider a royal marriage again. As for Joffrey…" His voice turned dry. "He's done."
The truth was, Aedric had his reasons. He wanted to prevent Cersei's eventual descent into madness. Much of her later cruelty stemmed from the humiliation she suffered at the hands of the Faith—and from Tommen's death.
But if Tommen were wed not to the Rose of Highgarden, but to Sansa Stark of the North, things might unfold very differently.
The North followed the Old Gods, not the Seven. If the Faith tried to rise again, the old gods' faithful could strike back—through their queen. It would be, Aedric thought wryly, a Western version of the Dao versus the Buddha.
He smirked. "We Chinese have been playing that game for a thousand years."
"Tommen…"
At the name, Sansa's face softened. In her mind's eye appeared the gentle, polite young prince—so different from his brother. Her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes grew distant.
Ah yes—spring came quickly to young hearts.
And Sansa Stark, it seemed, was no exception.
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