Seven Dreams One Kingdom

52-Sansa

The girl, feigning innocence, stood frozen in the face of Sansa's accusation. "I don't understand. My name is Grace, your grace. I'm from White Harbor."

Sansa's gaze bore into her, a mix of scepticism and suspicion. Ghost, Jon's silent sentinel, had discerned the girl's true identity through scent alone. How could one person wear two different faces? Tales of the faceless men, whispers from the shadows, danced in Sansa's mind—assassins with the uncanny ability to assume new identities. The very thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Dillyn had arrived in Winterfell alongside Lord Varys, a man whose intricate plots and elusive loyalties were as enigmatic as the spider himself. Varys, the eunuch spymaster, a player in the great game, and yet, he was serving Jon, discontented with Daenerys.

Sansa's mind raced through the intricate threads of the past, her memories woven with the fabric of her different lives. In her initial existence, Varys perished when he distanced himself from Daenerys, revealing Jon's true lineage to the Lords. Jon, her half-brother, was then exiled to the Wall.

However, in this second life, the puzzle pieces shifted. Varys, in an unexpected twist, had introduced a faceless assassin into the heart of Winterfell. Sansa grappled with the implications. If not for Daenerys, then why? What dark motives lay beneath the surface?

Sansa levelled a piercing gaze at the girl, her voice carrying the weight of Winterfell's centuries-old stones. "Who paid you?" she demanded.

Jon's brow furrowed, puzzled by Sansa's line of questioning, a sentiment mirrored by Grace. "What do you mean, your grace?" Grace responded.

"You're a faceless man." Sansa stated matter-of-factly. "You donned Dillyn's face, a man I suspect has long departed this world. Tell me, did you kill him before or after he played Cersei's game?"

A quizzical look clouded Grace's features. "What's a faceless assassin?" she asked, genuine confusion etched across her face.

Sansa's eyes narrowed, observing the subtle exchanges between Jon and Grace. "Why would Varys bring a faceless assassin to Winterfell?" Jon's horror echoed Sansa's own growing unease.

"What in the seven hells is a faceless assassin?" Tormund inquired, his gruff voice cutting through the tension.

Jon shifted his gaze toward the red-haired wildling. "They're skilled killers. Experts in all forms of murder, including poisons. Dillyn had a talent for detecting poisons, a skill a faceless assassin might possess."

Tormund scratched his head, still puzzled. "Why the bloody hell do they call them faceless assassins?"

Sansa, her eyes sharp and calculating, stepped in to enlighten the wildling. "Because they can change faces. Beneath the mask this girl is wearing, she could be anyone. Just hours ago, she posed as the food taster, Dillyn. Now, I assume he's dead, and this girl, a stranger to Winterfell, appears in his place." Sansa cast a discerning glance at Tormund. "You see, Grace, I know the names and backgrounds of every member of my staff. I trust no one. I am the one with authority to employ someone to work here, and I haven't done so for you. Lord Varys wouldn't know that. His little birds would be unaware of my knowledge." Sansa's words cut through the air, her tone unwavering, a blend of authority and suspicion.

"Tormund, fetch Brienne," Jon commanded.

The wildling's face lit up at the mention of Brienne. "I'll be happy to do it. If she'll let me. Stubborn one that," he remarked, smiling like a lovesick puppy. If the situation wasn't so dire, Sansa would find it amusing.

Grace dropped her eyes, a mixture of guilt and fear etched on her face. "I know you didn't hire me. I thought if I pretended to work here and they saw how good I was, I might get a job."