renatumbellator:

He looked to her during all her words and nodded lightly. He can see it in her—the desire to take back their home. Oh how he wanted it too, but he knew this was still a war. “It is unsure at this time.” He took a seat, due to the fact that there was still some food left to eat—and it would be wise to not let it waste. However, it was the news he received that made his hunger leave entirely. Battle was what he was good at, but he did not expect it so soon.

“As for what we want to achieve? It is quite simple. Our home. That is what we want. The North does not belong to Freys or Boltons. It belongs to Glovers, Umbers, Manderlys, Cerwyns—it belongs to those who have held true to the Wardens of the North—our House.” In his mind, he felt odd to speak such words. He realized that the longer he spent in councils and the longer he spent around politics, the more he became like a King. He knew that his true battlefield was with swords and fists, not words and decrees—and that is where he would excel.

Snapping from his brief thoughts, he looked to her. “While those of us who are fit to fight are away to fight, you may be able to help us on another field if you wish. I am a man of battle, Sansa, not a man of politics. If you would be up for it, I would ask that you be my voice in Deepwood Motte.” This was spoken low—no other lord or lady could hear his words.

“But only if you would wish to help.”

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

            Our house, our legacy. The name of the Stark. An ancestral family line, one shrouded with honor and martyrs, a historical seat that has weathered through all manner of storms, from the harsh winters to the drawn out summers. The House of Stark shall retake its rightful place in Winterfell, King of the North.

             Her stomach churns, whatever appetite she has developed in the last few moments dissipating to make room for the fear, the apprehension, nerves that cackle and snap to rise the bile in her throat. Sansa sets down her utensils, inhales deeply and tries to clear the crowding thoughts in her head. Instead, she focuses on his words.

              “You know I want nothing more than to help. Jon, you said so yourself. This is ours by right. I will hold Deepwood Motte while you reclaim our home.” She speaks softly, not letting her words travel beyond his ears but there is a thread of steel there. One that promises she will hold or die trying and no one can stop her. Reaching out, she offers a smile, one full of determination, of understanding.

              “I do think I’ll take my leave for the night. I– don’t feel too hungry anymore. if it pleases you, brother. We will talk with the council in the morrow.”