Chapter Text
310AC
Sansa paced the godswood as she contemplated the new problems that the North faced after the end of all the wars.
The death of dragons and the Others had brought balance to the seasons, with each lasting for three months.
A gift, the Northerners who’d suffer years of harsh winters would say. And indeed it was - but not for Sansa, who had to work from sunrise to sunset and from sunset to sunrise with few breaks to ensure that the war-torn North could survive each winter.
This year had brought with it a new problem - King’s Landing had an emergency for food, requiring the Riverlands and the Reach to send what they could to the Crown, leaving the North with only scraps. Sansa must look to other places to ensure that her people survived yet another winter.
As she paced and thought, Bran, all the way from King’s Landing, reached her through his mind. “I hope you’re not angry with the Crown requesting grains sent to King’s Landing,” he said, sounding sheepish.
Sansa did not tell her beloved little brother to shove it, but she wanted to do so enough that the sentiment must have reached Bran regardless.
“Forgive me, sister. Had my hand not been forced by the new wave of Essosi travelers settling in for this season of fall and winter I would not have put you in a situation like this.”
Sansa continued to say nothing, but the apology did make her mellow a little. She ceased her pacing and sat beneath the Heart Tree, gazing at the woods and taking in the serene view.
“How many times,” she finally spoke. “Must I tell you not to do that unawares?”
Bran’s habit of conversing with his siblings continents away was no doubt a great boon for the young king as he could speak to them whenever his heart longed for family. And while Sansa also appreciated it, sometimes, having your little brother speak inside your head out of nowhere could be a little startling. And gods know that Bran loved to abuse his newfound ability.
“As many times as I must tell you to rest, I imagine,” Bran teased.
“Rest is for the wicked.”
“You are not wicked,” Bran said.
“I would be if I rested whilst my people starved.”
Bran sighed. “The North has bloomed since you took the throne.”
“Because I do not rest,” Sansa retorted. “Can you imagine the North if I left matters of the state to the council and the court for a day? The Others would rise again.”
“Matters of the state, running the castle, overlooking every rebuild… you stretch yourself thin, sister.”
“I am doing my duty,” was Sansa’s reply.
Bran sighed again. As he did, a cool autumn air blew past gently. Sansa wondered if she was imagining it.
“I think,” Bran began. “That I know of a way to help.”
“How so?” Sansa asked, all thoughts of the wind drifting away as the wind itself had.
“Give me a minute,” Bran said.
Sansa was gracious enough to grant her little brother that.
While she waited for her little brother’s solution, she rested her head against the bark of the Heart Tree and took in a deep breath. Yes, it was no doubt summer had ended. The air was cool and crisp in a way that could only be when summer had faded and the first few days of autumn had begun. For one small little moment, Sansa let herself forget her position and duties and allowed herself to enjoy the fresh air, ignoring what the beginning of fall meant as she did.
All too soon, she was shaken out of her thoughts not by Bran’s voice, but by a rather strange feeling as the ground beneath her began to tremble.
“Bran?” She called out loud. Fear like nothing she’d felt since the day the late Dragon Queen walked into Winterfell struck her then, for she could not move. Her lips did not cooperate and she could not scramble up and away from the tree.
Worst, Bran would not answer.
“Bran!” She called out in her head.
The ground tilted, her cloak, having been taken off a few minutes prior and tossed to the ground, fell sideways. But Sansa herself did not move even an inch.
Something slithered across her ankles. Sansa, always scared and disgusted by bugs, screamed, the sound muted as it could not leave her closed lips.
Sansa tried to look down. From the corner of her eyes, she saw that it was the roots of the Heart Tree binding her ankles. Her relief was brief - yes, thank the gods it was no insect, but why was the tree moving?!
“Bran!” Sansa all but screamed in her head. “Bran!”
“Sansa?” Bran’s voice came to her finally, although it sounded far away. “Sansa, where are you? Whatever you do, do not go to the godswood, I think I messed up. It wasn't supposed to be - “
Whatever Bran meant to say was lost to the wind as the ground cracked open, revealing ancient roots as they swallowed a frozen and terrified Sansa whole.
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209AC
“This day could not get any worse, ” his little brother grouched bitterly as he mounted his horse.
Clearly someone had never been told to not tempt the fates.
They’d had to continue their way to Ashford despite the news that Daeron and Aegon had not been found in bed - or anywhere near their retinue, really - and the poor servant who'd had to report this had found the younger prince as happy as one could expect Maekar to be happy after receiving bad news, in the sense that he was not happy at all.
“Not,” Maekar continued, as Baelor approached him to mount his own steed, because gods forbid Baelor get more than a second of sweet blissful silence. “Unless the gods decide to strike us down where we stand. Because why not at this po -”
It was as though all the magic that Shiera Seastar and Bloodraven had fled its owners in that moment and possessed Baelor’s little brother instead. Never, in all his years of living, had Baelor seen a man’s words come true so quickly.
Before Maekar could even finish whatever whiny sentence that he was surely about to spew, lightning quite literally struck Baelor down where he stood.
For a moment, all Baelor knew was sharp yells and several hands touching him all over and a light weight upon his chest. Then, he returned to his senses and blinked, finding himself lying on the ground, someone atop him, hair - so much hair - in his mouth and the faces of several king’s guards surrounding him, Maekar among them.
“Baelor!” Maekar said.
“Brother,” Baelor muttered through a mouthful of - red? - hair. “You couldn’t have asked for a decade of peace instead?”