The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

50.

Chapter Fifty.
Ren

Boots pounded against the tile of the courtyard.

The young guard sprinted, metal armor clanging, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Even in the chill of the recently arrived Winter, sweat beaded on his face. Whether it was from the anxiety or the exertion was yet to be told. The sun hung low in the sky, just beginning to sink below the horizon, casting the entire courtyard in a purple hue.

The snow stuck to his face as he ran, the gates dead ahead. He saw the familiar flame of red hair in front of him, the Queen tapping her foot impatiently.

"Your grace," He heaved, skidding to a stop in front of her. "She's getting close."

"And?" Queen Sansa grimaced, pulling her coat tighter around herself. "Is she cooperating?"

The guard hesitantly shook his head.

"She won't go any further until he arrives."

Sansa cursed, looking back to the snowy landscape just outside the gates of Winterfell. Her eyes scoured the field ahead, heart pounding in her chest.

"He can't miss this." She growled.

"Perhaps he isn't coming this season, your grace." The guard wheezed, resisting the urge to double over. "The Summers are growing shorter and shorter, and Winter has only just arrived again. It may not be worth the journey-"

"Leave me be." Sansa's eyes shot to him, glowering. "Go get me a new report."

The guard looked down, still breathing heavily. Hesitantly, he straightened, beginning the run back to the castle.

Sansa turned back towards the gates, anxiously bouncing on her heels.

"C'mon, Jon." She whispered to herself, desperately scanning the landscape ahead. "Please."

Just when her heart had begun to sink, she saw two horses appear on the horizon. A familiar mop of black ringlets sitting atop the head of one figure, and a mountain of a man with a flame of red hair riding alongside him.

She took a sharp breath, eyes widening.

"JON!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. "HURRY!"

Across the field from her, Tormund looked to Jon Snow, frowning.

"What'd she say?" He asked quizzically. Jon shrugged, his brows furrowing.

"Dunno. She's too far away." He hummed. "Quicken, then. Let's see what the fuss is about."

Jon snapped the reins, his stallion speeding up below him. He scanned the gates, searching in vein for a familiar head of black curls.

None to be seen.

"Sansa!" He shouted as he drew within earshot. The Queen had hitched her skirts, hustling towards him through the freshly fallen snow. "Where's-"

"Shut up and ride!" Sansa screamed, coming up to the side of his horse. She pulled herself up onto Tormund's horse behind him, grunting in exertion as she awkwardly straddled the steed in her many skirts. "Her chambers! Now!"

Jon could hear the urgency in her voice. He snapped the reins, flying through the gates of Winterfell.

"Sansa!" Jon shouted over the wind as they bolted through the streets of Winterfell. "What's happening?!"

She shouted back, but her voice was lost as the wind whipped through his ears.

Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, anxiety filling his chest. Where was she? Had something gone wrong?