Chapter 6: The Queen's Counsel
The stone of Winterfell held the cold like a memory. It seeped through the soles of Y/N’s boots as she walked the keep’s inner passages toward the queen’s solar, the weight of the burned secret a quiet heat in her chest. She’d slept maybe an hour, sitting upright in her chair, listening to the wind. Now, dawn was a grey rumour at the high windows.
She knocked twice on the heavy oak door, a specific rhythm Sansa knew.
“Enter.”
Sansa’s solar was a fortress of different kind. The air was warmer, scented with dried lavender and ink. Parchments covered the wide table, maps weighted down by polished river stones. Sansa stood over them, auburn hair coiled tightly, her fingers tracing a route near the Neck. She didn’t look up.
“Close the door.”
Y/N did, the latch clicking into a silence that felt expectant.
“You look like you fought the Long Night again and lost,” Sansa said, her voice flat. She finally lifted her gaze. Her blue-grey eyes were sharp, missing nothing. “What did you learn?”
Y/N moved to the hearth, held her hands out to the fire. The comfort was an illusion. “Rodrik had a token. Hidden in his bench. A Targaryen sigil. A lock of silver hair.”
Sansa went very still. The only sound was the pop of a log. “How old?”
“The silk was faded. The hair… fresh. Not aged.” Y/N turned. “I burned it.”
A flicker of approval in Sansa’s eyes. “Good. Proof is a liability if you find it at the wrong time.” She leaned on the table, her palms flat on the map. “Why tell me?”
“Because they’re hours away. And when they’re here, in this hall, I need to use what I know. Not the token itself. His knowledge that it’s gone.”
“You want to rattle him.”
“I want to see where his eyes go when he’s scared,” Y/N said. “He’s my second. If he’s compromised, the entire garrison’s integrity is a question. I need to ask that question loudly. With you watching.”
Sansa considered this. She picked up a raven feather, twirling it slowly. “He fought for Winterfell. He bled for it.”
“So did Theon.” The name hung in the air, ugly and familiar.
Sansa’s mouth tightened. She gave a single, curt nod. “Do it. But Y/N… be sure. A loyal man scared looks the same as a traitor caught. Don’t make me choose between my Warden and a knight on a suspicion.”
Before Y/N could answer, a firm knock echoed at the door. A guard’s voice, strained. “Your Grace. Riders on the kingsroad. Dragon banners. They’ll be at the gates within the hour.”
Sansa’s posture shifted, every inch the queen. “Summon the lords to the Great Hall. Ensure the courtyards are clear. No crowds.” She looked at Y/N. “Walk with me.”
They moved through the keep, a silent pair. The castle was stirring, a controlled panic. Servants hurried, guards took positions on the walls, their breaths pluming in the frigid air. The sense of a door swinging shut, of options narrowing, was palpable.
The Great Hall was cavernous, steeped in the smell of stale rushes and cold smoke. Torches guttered in their sconces, throwing light up onto the stone direwolves carved into the pillars. At the front of the hall, near the dais, Arya stood.
She wasn’t standing like a lady. She was standing like a sentinel, lean and still, dressed in dark leathers, Needle a slim line at her hip. Her eyes found Y/N’s, then Sansa’s. No smile. Just a fractional nod. She’d positioned herself where she could see the entire hall, and the doors.
Sansa took her place before the high seat, but did not sit. Y/N positioned herself half a step to Sansa’s left and slightly forward, a Warden’s place. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword.
They didn’t wait long.
The great doors groaned inward. Cold daylight spilled across the stone floor, and with it, shadows.
Jon Snow entered first. He looked older, weary, his face set in grim lines. His eyes found Sansa, then Arya, a pain flashing in them before it was banked.
Behind him, she entered.
Daenerys Targaryen was small. That was Y/N’s first, irrelevant thought. The tales spoke of a towering conqueror, a goddess of fire. This woman was slight, wrapped in white furs that only emphasized her delicate frame. Her hair was the precise silver of the lock Y/N had burned. Her eyes were violet, unsettling, taking in the hall with a calm that felt like assessment, not awe.
Tyrion Lannister shuffled beside her, his expression unreadable. Missandei and Grey Worm followed, the Unsullied commander’s face a mask of stone, his eyes scanning the room for threats, lingering on Y/N, on the positioning of the guards.
The doors thudded shut, sealing them in.
The silence was thick enough to choke on.
Sansa broke it. Her voice didn’t ring out. It cut, clean and clear. “Winterfell welcomes you, Queen Daenerys. You’ve come a long way.”
Daenerys took a single step forward. “I have. I come with the means to save your kingdom, Queen Sansa. My armies. My dragons.” Her voice was accented, melodious, but with an iron core.
“Your armies are welcome on my fields,” Sansa said. “Your dragons are welcome in my sky. But in my hall, we observe Northern custom. You are a guest. Your safety is ensured. Your authority here is mine to grant while you stand beneath this roof.”
Tyrion shifted. Daenerys’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “A curious greeting.”
“It’s a clear one,” Sansa replied. She didn’t blink. “We face a common enemy. Let’s not pretend that makes us common friends. We will discuss terms, troop placements, and strategy. But first, there is a matter of household security.” She glanced at Y/N.
Y/N didn’t raise her voice. “Ser Rodrik Cassel. To the hall.”
A guard at the side door moved. Moments later, Rodrik entered, his steps firm, his eye patched. He looked between the two groups, confusion etching his weathered face. He bowed to Sansa. “Your Grace.”
“Ser Rodrik,” Y/N said. Her tone was conversational. “You were in the armory late last night.”
He turned to her, his brow furrowed. “Aye. Sharpening your steel.”
“You keep your tools in the top drawer of your workbench.”
“I do.”
“And other things.” Y/N let the silence stretch. She saw it—a microscopic flicker in his one good eye. A dart toward Daenerys, then back, too fast. A tightening in his jaw. Fear, not confusion. “A compartment. Carved into the wood. Very old.”
Rodrik’s face paled. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Y/N took a step toward him. She kept her movements slow, deliberate. “I found it. Last night. After you left.” She reached into a small pouch at her belt. She didn’t pull out the ash. She pulled out a different lock of hair, stolen that morning from a serving girl’s sewing basket—coarse, brown, nothing like the silvery strand. She held it up, pinched between her fingers, a vague shape in the torchlight. “This was in there. Wrapped in black silk.”
Rodrik’s breath hitched. His eye locked on the hair. He saw what he expected to see. His shoulders slumped, just a fraction. “It’s… it’s not what it seems.”
“What is it, then?” Sansa’s voice was ice.
“A keepsake,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “From the war. From… before.” He couldn’t look at Daenerys. “A foolish thing. A memory of a fallen enemy. I should have burned it.”
Grey Worm took a single, quiet step forward, his hand on his spear. Missandei watched, her expression sorrowful. Daenerys was statue-still.
Y/N let the brown hair drop to the rushes. “A memory,” she repeated. She held his gaze. “You will be relieved of your duties as second-in-command. You will confine yourself to the east barracks until I decide otherwise. Your loyalty is under review.”
The humiliation washed over Rodrik, turning his shame into something harder. His eye glinted with a spark of betrayal. He looked at Y/N, really looked at her, and for a second she saw the man who once doubted her, before the respect had been earned. “Aye, Warden,” he spat, the title a curse. He turned and strode from the hall, his footsteps echoing.
The silence he left behind was different. Charged.
Jon looked pained. Tyrion rubbed his temple. Daenerys finally spoke, her voice cooler now. “A dramatic display. Is this how you manage your household, Queen Sansa? With public trials over old trinkets?”
Sansa’s smile was thin as a knife edge. “We manage with clarity. There are no secrets safe in Winterfell. The cold winds tend to find them out.” She gestured to the tables along the wall. “Now. Let us talk of the dead who are coming, and the lives we must spend to stop them.”
As the others moved toward the tables, Arya drifted past Y/N. Her voice, barely a breath, touched Y/N’s ear. “That wasn’t the hair.”
Then she was gone, blending into the shadow of a pillar.
Y/N didn’t react. She kept her position, watching Daenerys, watching Tyrion, watching Jon’s stiff back. The play was made. Rodrik was scared and angry. The Targaryen queen had seen a Northern knight chastised for hiding her symbol.
But Arya was right. The real hair was ash. And the only one who knew the difference was the person who had written the note about secrets.
The crow.
Y/N felt the weight of that unknown, a colder chill than any from beyond the Wall, settle deep in her bones as the talking began.