The leaves of the weirwood tree shone as red as ever. The mellow spring weather had made the trees bloom even in the frozen North. Sansa picked up a fallen leaf and let it slip between her fingers. It reminded her of Bran. He'd always loved those trees. Even more after he came back. He'd always sat right there, in the shade of the weirwood.

He'd been different, but he'd still been Bran. She couldn't let herself believe anything else.

"How can he..." she muttered. "How can Jon come here and expect me to just believe him like that?"

"Do you think your brother is lying, my love?" her husband Quentyn asked with a jovial smile on his lips as always. He definitely was a breath of fresh air after the drama and intrigue before she took the throne. A ray of sunshine lighting up the harsh northern plains.

She shook her head. Jon wouldn't lie. She wasn't even sure he was capable of such acts. He was as honest as her father, the most honorable man she'd ever known. "No, but someone's turned his head. He's been deceived or misinformed. That's the only explanation."

Someone must be trying to usurp Bran from the throne of Westeros, and somehow whoever that was must have gotten to Jon. That's what always happened in this kingdom: if someone had power there was someone else who wanted that power for themselves.

"Gendry Baratheon. It has to be him," Quentyn said. "House Seaworth is sworn to House Baratheon after all, so it makes sense. I've had word from my family down south. They say he's growing power-hungry. Ellaria tried to quench him but unknown forces showed up to his aid."

"He's just like his father," Sansa surmised.

"But your father fought with his father."

"My father fought for his sister. Robert winning the throne was just the end result of that quest."

"Robert Baratheon fought for your aunt Lyanna too, didn't he?."

Sansa sighed. "You're right," she concluded. "But Gendry Baratheon isn't his father. He's a bastard blacksmith who is letting power get to his head. A foolish commoner with no sense or reason. Unfortunately, I was forced to accept the Dragon queen's legitimization of him, but I won't stand for this treason."

She pounded her hand on the trunk of the weirwood for emphasis, making red leaves rain down over them both. But as the red rain ceased, Quentyn wasn't there anymore. Neither was the courtyard where they had stood. Winterfell had turned into a snowy field.

Snowflakes whirled around Sansa, but they didn't chill her bones. Instead, they felt like a warm embrace. Like her father's hand on her shoulder and her mother's fingers on her cheek.

The snow disappeared, and a young man with blond hair stood before her. His eyes glowed red like weirwood.

"I welcome you, the queen of the North." He said, bowing down to her in reverence. "The queen of my father's lands."

She looked him up and down, confused about his sudden presence. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name's Jojen Reed," he replied.

"Jojen Reed died. My brother told me he sacrificed himself during their journey North."

The man pretending to be Jojen Reed shrugged. "Whoever told you about my demise was not your brother. That's what I'm here to tell you about."

"I don't believe you," she said resolutely. "Whoever you are and for whatever reason you're here, I don't believe your lies."

"I figured you would say that," Jojen, or whoever he was, said. "So I brought someone else along. Someone you may listen to." He gestured for her to turn around. Sansa refused. She wasn't interested in whatever this imposter wanted to show her.

That's when she heard a voice. A voice she hadn't heard for many years. A voice she thought she would never hear again.

"Sansa," the voice said, ringing as true and honest as she remembered. "Turn around and look at me, sister"

She turned. Fast. Her skirts swooshed over the snowy ground below, making glittery powder dance in the red light.

"Robb..." she whispered, looking upon the handsome form of her deceased brother. Robb Stark. The young wolf. Chestnut curls hung mischievously over deep blue eyes. He'd always looked so much like their mother. But the pride in those Tully eyes was all from the Stark side of the family.

The next moment, his strong arms were around her. She nuzzled her nose into his shoulders and enjoyed a brief moment of feeling safe and tethered to this world. Ever since the death of her father--beheaded before her eyes--she'd felt like she was floating free through life. Brief moments with her siblings or husband may ground her for a moment but the feeling never lasted.

"Let me look at you," he mumbled into her hair and took a step back, while still keeping his hand on her shoulder, to gaze upon her fancy royal gowns. "The Queen of the North." A warm smile lit up his face.

"It should have been you," she mumbled. "I wasn't meant to rule. I only finished what you started. I created the independent North you strived for. Never again will we be controlled by Southern forces."

Robb shook his head in protest. "You've earned it, sister," he replied. "This is all on you. You took on the mantle as head of House Stark, just like our father did after his own brother's demise, and you've made your ancestors proud."

"How are you here?" she asked, finally able to analyze the situation as the emotional high subsided. "Why have you come?"

Robb smiled again, this time with a tint of bitterness peppered into the jovial gesture. "As to how, I don't really know," he admitted. "Only he knows." He gestured toward Jojen, who still lurked behind them. "But I know why... because I have seen it all. I've seen the state of the kingdom. I've seen a man marching toward the capital. That's why I'm here."

She gasped. "Gendry Baratheon? He's rebelling against the crown already? I will do everything I can to stop him, you have my word on that, brother."

Robb vehemently shook his head. "I don't want you to stop him, sister. I want you to aid him. I want you to join his cause."

"But he's rebelling against the king, our own brother! Surely you can't stand for that."

"Whatever is ruling the kingdom isn't our brother, I know that. Bran's dead."

Confused, Sansa looked toward her brother. Her dead brother. "So is he with you then? Wherever that is?"

Rust-colored curls rustled as Robb once again shook his head. "He's not with me. Only Rickon is there." Hearing her younger brother's name felt like a stab in Sansa's chest. Maybe she could have saved him from Ramsey Bolton. If only she'd been braver back then. "But... I hear him sometimes. He's calling for me. He's stuck in between, neither dead nor alive."

That truth was hard to accept. Sansa couldn't lose another brother. But she also couldn't stand for deceit and betrayal. If someone, or something, was pretending to be her brother, they needed to be punished for it. "So how do you know... how do you know we should stand on Gendry Baratheon's side? He's not an ally. He's a bastard drunk on power. Even if the king isn't really Bran, I don't have any reason to stand on Lord Baratheon's side. The North shouldn't meddle in the affairs of the South."

"Because I rebelled once too. I stood on the battlefield and fought against a tyrant king. And I didn't do it for power. I did it for my family. I did it for you, for Arya, for Jon, for Bran, for Rickon. I don't know the reason Lord Baratheon is marching toward the capital, but I know it has to be a good reason. And you need to join him for your family's sake. Do it for your siblings, both the living and the dead."

As he said the last words, Robb started to fade from her view as a whirl of snow stirred around him. He became one with the snow.

"Don't go!" Sansa called out but she couldn't stop the snowfall. After all, if there was one thing all northerners knew it was that. You can't stop the snow from falling.

"Give my regards to Jon and Arya," was Robb's last words before once again disappearing into the abyss of death.

She didn't have the heart to tell him that Arya was long gone. Probably never to be seen again. It would hurt him to know the small pack that remained was split apart.

"Tell Rickon..." Sansa mumbled, even though she knew it was too late. "Tell him I love him."

"Tell who what?" A familiar voice was suddenly beside her. Quentyn's voice broke through the snow and brought her back to reality. The world was alive with chirping birds and rustling leaves.

"Nevermind," Sansa mumbled, realizing her hand was still on the trunk of the weirwood. It appeared no time at all had passed in Winterfell while she was... wherever she had been. She turned, a resolute look on her face. "I need to go see Jon. But first, I need to talk to my military advisors."

***

A rattling of hooves foretold her arrival. Devan first thought there was thunder in the air. But soon thereafter, the Northern Queen walked into their camp, which was set up on the plains around Winterfell as they planned their next move. Her presence was felt by everyone immediately, as she emitted an aura of authority and grace. Her gaze fell upon the men, hungry and dirty from their march from the wall, and each and every one of them turned their eyes toward her and fell to their knees.

Jon was quick on his feet as he saw his sister, or cousin, or whatever she was to him, and Devan scrambled to his feet as well to follow. Rising too fast, he managed to fall into a puddle and soak his knees in dirty water. So that's where he laid, cursing his clumsiness, as the icy queen announced her reason for blessing them with her presence.

"There are five thousand men standing right outside camp, Jon," she announced to Jon and all the other men present. "I give you command of these men and I encourage you to march south and join Gendry Baratheon's cause."

The next day, they would march south. They would pick up arms against the sitting king. They would fight for their families.

Just like Robb Stark once did.

Author's Note: Once again, I apologize for the infrequent updates on this story. I'm trying to get back into writing it. I also apologize for dragging poor Robb Stark into this mess.

One day, this story will be finished.