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we're a mystery which will never happen again

Summary:

“The past is written, the ink is dry,” she says as she hugs her knees to her chest, Bran had said this once, more to himself than anyone else, “but ink can be washed away.”

Notes:

i'm always a slut for time travel fics. (title and chapter title are both from an e.e. cumming's poem).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: a miracle which has never happened before

Chapter Text

Sansa sits on her throne of ice and glass, waiting for the Others to come. She stays in the cold keep, long abandoned, for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell and she is the last Stark left living. (Father was first, beheaded in front of her by their king. Robb and Mother were killed next, betrayed by someone they thought they could trust. Jon died once but then he lived again, only to be killed by the Night King’s own hand. The Night King sought Bran out, who once died a false death, so he could not inform them of the Night King’s moves. Rickon was felled by a White Walker’s sword, before that he fought in the savage ways of Skargos, taking countless wights back to the grave with him. Arya was last, she took three White Walkers with her, she did not rise as a wight, for no White Walker didn’t fear the name Arya Stark.)

Salty tears well up into her eyes and she grips the torch in hand tighter. ‘They’re coming,’ the wind sings, ‘They’re coming for you, Sansa Stark.’  She doesn’t falter, Winterfell would burn again, this time taking the army of the dead with it.

There are sounds of ice cracking and she knows that they are coming.

Instead of a White Walker, a wight, or even the Night King, it is some other abomination that enters her keep.

It stands as tall as Hodor once did, with blank eyes and silvery skin. “ Child ,” it rasps in a terrible voice that makes her want to cover her ears (she resists the urge), “ What do you wish ?”

She instead of answering, she asks, “What are you?” Her voice is strong, unwavering, and she must be as well.

It tilts its head (it’s an ugly thing, made of silvery flesh with blank white eyes, it’s mouth reminded her of the Heart Tree in the Godswood but she knows better than to voice that sentiment), “ What am I? Dear child, I am the Neverborn .”

It’s a name she recognized from the oldest songs Old Nan sung when she was just a child (as most are, Old Nan is dead, never to tell beautiful tales again), but she doesn’t remember the context. Still, Sansa keeps her head held high, “The Neverborn? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

It ignores her, slowly looking over her. “ I see ,” it says, “ You wish to go back to before, very well .”

It looks to the torch in her hand and suddenly the torch falling to the ground, fire spreading. Sansa doesn't move, for they say fire is cleansing and she desperately needs to be cleansed.

She closes her eyes and let's the fire take her. She doesn't see the Neverborn smile, showing blood red teeth and black gums.


Sansa Stark wakes up in a room long forgotten (Winterfell burned twice now, once by a traitor, once by herself). The furs are stack heavily on top of her, perhaps to emulate her mother in someway, she is of the North and she has no need for extra furs in Summer.

She pushes the furs back, she has no need of sleep anymore (not if she's back here, back in her childhood room from before King's Landing).

She is a ghost in these halls, an old soul.  Her mind rages and body burns once more. Her steps are deft and knowing, despite not walking these halls in nearly a decade.

She takes a deep breath before taking one last step, there she stands in front of her little sister's room (dead, dead little sister). She takes a breath before turning the knob to her sister's door, opening it enough to see her sister's sleeping form (not a dying dream then, her sibling's are always dead or dying in those, but she can clearly see Arya move now).

The door creaked as she open the door to her younger brothers' room, they both slept on, probably attributing it to their lady mother. Sansa smiles at the boys, they're curled around each other in Bran's bed, Rickon tended to sleep in his brother's bed when he got too old to cling to their mother. The door shuts quietly.

Sansa treads carefully as she walks towards Robb and Jon's matching doors, it's probably not the best idea to check on Jon, he sleeps lightly after all. Robb's door opens easily and Sansa sees him drooling on his pillow, it brings a smile to her face.

She does not dare to approach her parent's shared room, her father sleeps lightly and if she enters he will surely notice.

Lady! She thinks and perhaps she thought it odd not to have Lady by her side when she slept, but her mind consumed by thoughts of her lost Direwolf.

She makes for the kennel, not even trying to hide her glee at the thought of seeing her precious Lady once again. She remembers the way to the kennel by heart and she lets it guide her way.

She enters the kennels with a confident stride, searching for the Direwolves she missed so much. She looks and looks but only finds long forgotten hunting dogs.

Has Father gone to behead the oathbreaker yet? Sansa wonders, knowing that the Direwolves are found soon after that.

She leaves the kennel with disappointment weighing heavy on her heart. Her nightgown is light and it makes no sound as she walks Winterfell’s walls (unlike her dresses - the ones she made herself, the ones made for the North only) and she returns to her bedroom with ease.

When she sits on her bed, she doesn’t bother to wrap herself in furs, she doesn’t feel the cold like a Southerner would (as a child, she would have preferred to forget her Northern roots, but her mind is not one of a child any longer). “The past is written, the ink is dry,” she says as she hugs her knees to her chest, Bran had said this once, more to himself than anyone else, “but ink can be washed away.”

She sits there for ages, unknowing of the time passing. Perhaps her face is wet with tears and her eyes are red, but she pays it no mind. She sits there until her mother comes searching for her.

Lady Catelyn finds her precious daughter sitting on her bed alone, with a face full of dried tears. “Sansa," she says as she rushes to her daughter's side, “What is wrong, child?"

“A nightmare, simply," Sansa says as she presses her head against her Mother's chest.

Sansa missed her mother's touch much after her death that it is a relief to be held by her once again. "Do you wish to speak of it?" Catelyn asks as she runs her fingers through Sansa's hair.

She swallows before speaking, "I dreamt you died, you and Father and Robb and Bran and Rickon. Arya was gone, I think she survived." Sansa's voice trembles as she speaks, she hates to be reminded of such times but keeps to her story all the same.

"Can you help me dress?" Sansa asks as she sits up. Sansa misses her mother's touch but hurries to pick out a dress all the same.

Sansa picks out a soft woolen dress, not a silk dress in the Southern style she would have usually chosen. Mother will think it's because of the nightmare, she wants to be reminded of home.

Mother helps her slip into the dress which Sansa wears like a second skin. Sansa resists the urge to take Mother’s hand, she strides out the door without a purpose but it is easy to fake having one.

When she enters the hall to break her fast, she feels eyes on her immediately, Sansa ignores them as she takes her seat at the High Table beside Arya. “Sister,” she greets as she begins to eat.

She doesn’t speak to her parents or siblings while she breaks her fast, as soon as she is finished, she begins to make her way to the godswood. The cold isn’t bone-chilling, not like in Winter, it’s just refreshing.

She sits on the bench in the godswood, right next to the small pond. Once Sansa wasn’t sure which gods she kept to, the old gods or the Seven, but since the Seven have failed her and now, she now only keeps to the old gods.

As she sits, she thinks of her siblings, her siblings from her old life. Robb, the war hero and the Young Wolf, a brilliant strategist and the first King in the North in three hundred years. Jon, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the twice lived, the bridge between the Westerosi and the Free Folk, the merging of Ice and Fire. Arya, the second coming of Lyanna Stark and a Faceless Assassin, the Wild Wolf and the Slayer of White Walkers. Bran, the Three Eyed Crow, the All-Seer and the White Walker’s Bane. Rickon, Brandon Stark reincarnate and Skargosi Raised, a Wildling in all but Name. Her brother’s and sister, all better than her.

She was the third eldest but she was the last left living, the last Queen in the North (the last Queen in Westeros).