GOT: The Arcanine of the North

The rhythm of the two hundred heavy warhorses galloping over the Kingsroad leaving behind a brown slurry in their wake, was the only sound for miles. We rode hard westward, leaving the ruins of the Trident far behind us. The rain had returned, a cold, driving drizzle that soaked through the northern wool and my furcoat, but neither me nor the Northern lances slowed our pace.

Sansa rode on my back. Her hands buried deep in my thick mane, her knuckles white.

I kept the heat in my chest burning at a low simmer, letting the heat radiate outward to ward off the biting chill. She pressed her face into the coarse hair between my shoulders. She was trembling violently, but not from the cold. Her mind was a bruised, fragile thing, overwhelmed by the rescue at the ruby ford and what she went through alone at King's Landing.

For months in King's Landing, she had to survive the inhumane. She had learned that monsters wore silks with pretty smiles, that words were empty and that every lie held a dagger. She had been forced to be small, but now, she was clinging to the back of a six-foot beast, surrounded by the honest bearded men of the North.

Yet, as the miles wore on, the frantic hammering of her heart began to slow. The Northmen did not smile at her with false courtesies. The Greatjon rode ahead, his massive frame blocking the wind, barking harsh, ugly commands to the vanguard. The men were grim, coated in mud, and entirely focused on keeping her alive. For the first time since the Red Keep's doors had closed behind her, Sansa felt the suffocating emotions lift from her chest. She wasn't a hostage anymore. She was a Stark, surrounded by her father's banners. She closed her eyes and let the steady, rocking gait of my heavy paws lull her into a numb exhausted rest.

Hours into the ride, Ned Stark raised his fist.

The column ground to a halt beneath the sparse cover of an elm grove to rest the blowing horses. Men dismounted quietly, checking girths and passing water skins.

Ned swung down from his saddle and walked through the mud and stopped beside me. He just stood there, looking up at his eldest daughter.

Sansa lifted her head. Her silk dress, the color of autumn leaves, was ruined, caked in mud and soaked through. Her auburn hair hung in wet strands across her pale face. She looked at her father, seeing the grey in his beard and the hollows beneath his eyes. The war had aged him ten years.

Ned reached up, his leather gauntlet gently brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. His hand lingered, resting against her jaw, assuring himself that she was real, that she was breathing, that the Lannisters hadn't broken her completely.

"You are safe now, Sansa," Ned said. His voice stripped of his authority, leaving only the weary, absolute promise of a father. "We are going home."

Sansa's lower lip trembled. She nodded once, unable to find the words, and leaned her cheek into his rough, leather-clad palm. Ned held her gaze for a long moment before turning back to his men.

"Mount up," Ned ordered, swinging back onto his warhorse. "We don't stop again until we see the walls of Riverrun."

...

Miles away, within the high sandstone walls of Riverrun, Robb stood over the heavy oak table in his solar. The maps of the Riverlands were spread out before him, weighed down by iron daggers. He stared at the red and grey markers, trying to calculate how fast Tywin could move his host from Harrenhal to the Ruby Ford. He was a boy playing a lord's game, carrying the responsibilities of the entire Northern army on his shoulders. If his father died at the crossing today, he would have to lead these men into a war he wasn't sure he could win.

The sudden, frantic pounding of boots on the stone spiral stairs shattered his thoughts.

The heavy wooden door to the solar burst open. A Tully guard stood panting in the doorway, his face flushed red, rain dripping from his helm.

"My Lord," the guard gasped, bracing himself against the doorframe. "The Blackfish's outriders. They just crossed the drawbridge."

Robb's hands gripped the edge of the map table so hard the wood groaned. "And?"

"The Lord Stark returns," the guard said, breaking into a massive, breathless grin. "They have the girl, My Lord. They have Lady Sansa."

Robb dropped the iron map weight. It hit the floor with a loud clang, but he didn't care. The mask worn by the Young Wolf vanished in an instant, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated joy of a boy getting his family back. He bolted around the table, shoving past the guard, and ran down the hallway.

The news soon swept through the castle. By the time Robb reached the lower courtyard, the castle was in an uproar. Tully spearmen and Northern foot soldiers were crowding the battlements, cheering in the pouring rain.

Catelyn rushed out from the keep, her blue dress dragging through the mud, heedless of the puddles. Arya was right behind her, pushing her way violently through the crowd of armored men, her dark hair plastered to her forehead, a small, fierce shadow darting toward the main gates.

The heavy iron portcullis groaned upward. The wooden drawbridge slammed down against the stone abutments.

The direwolf banners appeared first out of the mist. Then Ned Stark rode through the gates, his heavy lances falling into formation behind him in the courtyard.

I walked right beside Ned's warhorse.

The cheering in the courtyard faltered for a fraction of a second as the men laid eyes on me, stepping back out of instinctual horror, but the silence didn't last.

…

I stopped in the center of the muddy courtyard and lowered my body, dropping my belly flat against the wet stones. Sansa slid off my back, her legs buckling instantly after the grueling ride. Ned already off his horse, caught her by the waist, supporting her weight before she could hit the mud.

"Sansa!"

Catelyn's scream was raw, tearing through the noise of the courtyard. She ran the last few yards, throwing herself to her knees in the mud. She grabbed Sansa, pulling her out of Ned's arms and burying her face in her daughter's neck. Catelyn wept, her shoulders shaking with loud, agonizing sobs, pouring out all the grief and terror of the past months into that embrace.

Arya slammed into them a moment later. The fierce, feral little girl who had survived the streets of King's Landing threw her arms around her older sister's waist, burying her face in Sansa's ruined silk dress with joy.

Robb reached them, dropping to his knees in the mud beside his mother. He wrapped his thick arms around all of them, pulling his mother and his sisters tight against his chest. Ned stood over them, looking down at his family, the cold Warden of the North finally letting his guard drop.

I watched them from a few paces away.

I didn't intrude. This was a human thing. I remained still, feeling the cold rain wash the ash and sweat from my fur.

Slowly, Ned looked up from his family. His grey eyes found mine.

He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He stepped away from the knot of weeping women and his eldest, he extended his bare hand toward me.

I let out a slow breath, the steam rising into the rain, and took a heavy step forward. My massive paws splashed in the mud until I was standing right beside him. I lowered my head.

Ned Stark placed his hand firmly on the thick fur between my ears. He pulled my heavy head forward, resting it against his side, drawing me into the tight circle of his family. Catelyn looked up through her tears, her hand reaching out to touch my shoulder. Robb leaned in, his hand gripping my mane.

I would need to work harder to keep this illusion alive.

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