#lol eta to put in the blacksmith joke I forgot to look up

[leupagus]

Really enjoying writing Book 2/Season 6 of this monstrosity, where instead of having Sansa and Jon fighting to regain Winterfell and all that nonsense with the "Battle of the Bastards," it's gonna be like 10K of Sansa being the Warden of the North equivalent of that mom who just needs FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE AND QUIET YOU GODDAMN KIDS

To the Lord Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and my Dear Cousin,

I write to you from Wint

"Sansa — sorry, Lady Sansa, you'll never believe—"

"Jeyne, you don't have to call me 'Lady Sansa,'" Sansa said as she looked up from her parchment. "You're the steward of Winterfell now."

Jeyne Poole, hanging onto the handle of the door and swinging it absently back and forth like she'd done back when they were ten years old, frowned. "My da always said the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were worthy of respect."

Sansa leaned back in her chair. Father had dealt with the business of the holdfast in the Library Tower, so he could wrestle with the accounts without being interrupted every twenty minutes. Sansa had always thought that a bit unfair, since it meant you had to climb all those stairs just to find him, but now she was wondering if she could perhaps build the tower twenty or thirty feet higher. The exercise would probably do her good. "Your father always called mine 'oi, you,' if I recall correctly."

The look Jeyne gave her was deeply unimpressed. "Aye, and you always complained about it. Do you want to hear about the cow loose in the guest house or not?"

erfell at last, which was the dearest wish of your beloved goodfather Petyr. His dying words were to express the hope that both his goodson and his niece be safe and secure in their homes, and I am glad to say tha

"Lady Sansa, Master Mikken has refused another dozen apprentices. He said they're all 'knuckleheaded clods who wouldn't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch." This time it was her master-at-arms, who'd been Rodrick Cassel's round-faced child named Beth when Sansa had left. Now he went by Cass and looked like he could wrestle a (very short) bear if needs be.

"I don't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch," Sansa replied, frowning.

Cass shrugged. "Well, and nor do I. But that's near fifty lads he's turned away. We need someone helping with the forges. We've been making do with the army smiths that Prince Stannis let us—"

"Prince Stannis?" He was going to hate that.

Another shrug. "We've got to call him something, milady. You won't call him 'king,' nor will any of your bannermen, but his soldiers give us no end of trouble when we call him 'lord.' So 'prince' it is. And he is one, too, ain't he? King Robert's brother. That'd make him a prince, right?"

Sansa answered with a shrug of her own. By the time Stannis and his companies returned from the Dreadfort, everyone in the North would likely have settled on Prince Stannis, which would lead to a great deal of shouting and probably threats of lighting people on fire, but she had at least a fortnight to think of something.

"As I was saying, we can't use the Baratheon smiths forever, and the ones from our bannermen have all gone home with their bannermen. Mikken needs apprentices, and we need our forge at full strength."

"All right, let's go speak with him," Sansa sighed.

t through the goodness of Stannis, of House Baratheon, and his masterful command of the armies of the North and the Stormlands, I am now secure as Warden of the North.

Not only that, but your dear cousin, my brother Rickon has somehow survived all the danger that the North has presented, while it was under the thrall of the Ironborn and House Bolton. He is now safe and I will reu

"My lady?" Maester Wolkan peered his head into the room.