Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights overhead are achingly bright, and her heels click on the white tiled floor, echoing through the otherwise silent hallway. When she reaches the Director's door she pauses, smooths out the crisp lines of her suit, makes sure her ponytail is tight, looks at her watch to confirm she's on time, then knocks sharply and precisely.
At the muffled, come in, she does exactly that.
“Ah, Ms. Stark,” the Director gestures at a chair across from him, and she takes it. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Of course,” she says, keeping her face serene.
Sansa Stark has learned to control her face. If she frowns or looks bored, then she's a shrew who should smile more. If she smiles too much or too wide, then she's silly and not to be taken seriously. With her cases, she needs to be sympathetic, but not too sympathetic, because there's a line. She has had years to perfect this mask.
“We've got a case,” the Director says, tossing a file across the desk at her, which she only stops from sliding off onto the floor by slapping her hand down on top of it, just at the edge. “Six girls found dead. You'll be working with Agents Lannister and Tarth.”
Sansa's mask slips.
“I don't work criminal cases,” she says, wincing after the words escape her. Obviously the Director would know that.
But she doesn't - Sansa works in the Victim Services Division, she isn't a Special Agent. She deals with the aftermath of crimes, the devastation they leave behind, not the investigations.
“That's why you're with Lannister and Tarth,” the Director says stiffly, only a slight pursing of his lips giving away his annoyance with her outburst. Sansa knows better than to challenge the decisions of a superior. Especially a male superior. They don't tend to like being talked back to. “We figured you could give a... unique perspective.”
“I'm sorry, sir, I'm not sure I understand...” Sansa says, turning the file towards her and finally opening it, and the rest of her sentence dies on her tongue.
“You're from Winterfell, aren't you?”
Sansa swallows, her mouth and throat going dry, heart starting to thrum. “I haven't been back since I was thirteen,” she says. She hopes the Director can't hear the scratchiness of her voice.
“Better than nothing,” the Director sniffs. “You know how these insular northern communities can be. We have six dead girls on our hands, a bunch of backwater towns that don't like strangers prying in their business, and the press sniffing around about a possible serial killer because some jackass couldn't keep his mouth shut. We need this done quickly and quietly. You're our way in.”
“Why would they call us if they didn't want our help?” she asks. The folder in front of her doesn't have much information, but from what she can tell, this shouldn't be a Federal case.
“The last girl, Beth Cassel, was found inside the Wolfswood National Park. The NPS called us in. She was a resident of Winterfell, so that's where you're starting.”
Sansa nods, though her mind is reeling. She isn't a homicide detective - she's spent the last decade of her life training in psychology, as well as behavioral and social sciences. She has never investigated a crime. She's never wanted to.
Her mind tries to work, tries to come up with some argument, but she knows, deep down, there is none. If the Director wants her on this case, then she's going on the case.
“Of course, sir,” she says.
She doesn't even have time to study the real case file before she's put on a plane to White Harbor, the closest airport to their destination, and the city she actually calls home.
They moved when Sansa was thirteen, two years after dad died and right around when she had her car accident. Those are her first memories of White Harbor, actually – the hospitals and the checkups and the therapists. A jarring transition to city life from the rural town she was born into.
She doesn't consider Winterfell home, even though she was born there, even though that's where dad's buried. It hasn't been her home in nearly twenty years, and she doubts anyone there even remembers her. She barely remembers them.
“Gods, but it's dreary up here,” Jaime Lannister drawls from the backseat, gazing mournfully out the window. Sansa looks up from her case file just in time to see Brienne Tarth roll her eyes in the driver's seat. Sansa's heard a lot about the pair – they have an incredible solve rate, the best in their division, which only makes her feel even less prepared.
“So, six girls from six different towns,” Sansa says, because she wants to make sure she has everything right. “All found along the edges of the Wolfswood, except for the last one, who was found deeper, within National Park limits. All in... fifteen months?”
“The causes of death were ruled as animal attacks, initially,” Brienne nods. “Open and shut. It wasn't until the last girl - the coroner on that case reported that she had been sexually assaulted right before her death.”
“Doubt a bear's doing that,” Jaime muses, which causes Sansa's hands to curl around the edges of the folder in her lap. She knows it's likely the sort of gallows humor most agents have - she knows, psychologically speaking, that making light of awful situations is a coping mechanism for the horrors they see on this job. Still, Sansa works with victims every day. She doesn't find it funny.
Neither does Brienne, it seems, because she only frowns and continues on. “The Winterfell Sheriff was the one to bring the assault to the National Park Service's attention. The Rangers didn't like that, and pulled similar cases in the area and checked those autopsy records. Five others matched the MO. The coroners in those five cases had noted sexual assault, but all of them were still officially ruled as animal attacks, and the assault was dismissed as unrelated by local law enforcement.”
“Typical,” Jaime sighs. It's casually spoken, almost flippant, but she hears an edge to it, and she looks over her shoulder at him. His jaw is held tight, and he's looking at Brienne through the rearview mirror. Brienne meets his steely eyes with something like understanding. Sansa's hands relax around the folder.
“So, do we think someone is assaulting and killing these girls, then leaving them in the woods for animals to dispose of?” Sansa asks.
“Seems the most likely,” Brienne nods. “Using wildlife to cover the actual cause of death.”
“Who can pinpoint a knife wound when the body's been slashed up and chewed on beyond recognition?” Jaime adds breezily. “Though whoever did it isn't very smart. He should dump them further in.”
“Or maybe he wants them to be found,” Sansa murmurs, and she turns to look out the window at the passing scenery. The trees have started to spring up around them, the start of the great Wolfswood that covers a large swath of the North, wild and ancient and uninhabitable. The sky overhead is a muted grey, and dense fog sits low on the ground. Brienne has the air-con on just to battle the humidity, even though it makes the car uncomfortably cold with the autumn temperatures, and Sansa has to pull her jacket tighter around her. She didn't think to bring a full coat. She forgot how quickly the temperatures drop once summer ends.
She knows that if she opened her window, she'd get a lungful of air, heavy and damp and smelling of earth and pine. The memory of it is so sharp that it takes her aback, because she hasn't felt that particular sensation since she was thirteen years old.
“Alright,” Jaime breaks her concentration. “On a scale of one to ten, how hostile do you think this Sheriff Snow is going to be? One being he magically solved the case for us already, ten being we're met with a shotgun blast before we even make it inside the station.”
“Snow?” Sansa asks. The name claws at something in her memory, something that makes her belly twist and heave, her nerves alight, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
Jaime hands her another file, and she opens it. In it, there are profiles on every law enforcement officer involved, but she doesn't move past the first page, her eyes caught on the photo.
“Sheriff Jon Snow,” Jaime recites from memory. “You know him?”
“He was my older brother's friend,” she says, her voice whisper-quiet.
She remembers him as a boy of fifteen; dark hair, a perpetual scowl, too quiet for her liking. He always unnerved her. She never knew how to act around him. The man in the photo is no longer fifteen, and he stares dead straight at the camera, mouth grim. Dark hair, dark stubble along his jaw, a scar through his brow. It looks more like a mugshot than it does an official sheriff's portrait.
“Is your brother still in touch with him?” Brienne asks, and when Sansa finally tears her eyes away from the photo, she sees Jaime watching her intently.
Sansa opens her mouth to speak, but she finds her throat so dry that she ends up coughing, and she has to grab her water bottle from the cup holder.
“No,” she finally says. “We moved when I was thirteen. I haven't heard the name since.”
Silence descends over the car, and Sansa closes the folder on that photograph.
She hasn't heard a single word about Jon Snow since they moved. She didn't think much of it then – hasn't thought once about it in the eighteen years since - but now it strikes her as strange. He and Robb had been best friends since they were in diapers, but once they moved, she never heard Robb talk about him again.
She could call Robb and ask why, but she doesn't. Whatever the reason, it was nearly two decades ago and it doesn't matter. It has nothing to do with the case, or the murdered girls.
She steps out of the car, and that air pours into her lungs, heavy and thick, scented with pine and damp earth. Exactly like she remembers.
It's the only reason she knows she's awake, nothing else feels real. Not the cracked asphalt beneath her feet, not the towering pines in the distance, not the squat brown brick building in front of her. Winterfell Sheriff's Department, the sign reads.
She can't help but look towards the trees that edge the town, silent and still.
“Shall we?” Jaime sighs, heading for the door, Brienne at his side.
Sansa trails behind. It's best if they take the lead, she reasons.
Inside the station the air is clearer, and some of the fog lifts from her.
“Can I help you?” a voice at the front desk asks. A kid – no, not a kid. A man, probably around twenty five, with ears so big it makes him look much younger.
“FBI,” Jaime introduces, pulling his badge out of his pocket and flipping it open in sync with Brienne. “Here to speak to Sheriff Snow.”
There's a fumbling sound and the man raises a receiver to his ear, then - “hey Jo- uh, Sheriff, there's people here to see you. They say they're FBI. Uh huh. Uh huh. Alright.” He hangs up and looks at Jaime and Brienne. “He'll be out. You can take a seat in the waiting area if you'd like.” He points at the other end of the room.
Jaime disdainfully eyes the waiting area – three plastic chairs and a plaid sofa huddled around a plywood coffee table, with stacks of what appears to be decades-old car magazines – and turns back to the front desk clerk. “I hope he's not planning on taking his time. I don't like being kept waiting.”
As he says that, Sansa sees a door open, and a new voice joins them. She can't quite see because Jaime and Brienne block her view, but she can hear him. “I didn't realize thirty seconds would be considered waiting, but I guess they do say things move faster in the big city.” The new voice is steady and deep. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
“We wanted to come by and introduce ourselves,” Brienne says, sending a look to Jaime that Sansa can't fully interpret. Maybe, don't antagonize the locals. “I'm Special Agent Brienne Tarth, and this is Special Agent Jaime Lannister.” Again, they both flash their badges.
“Yes, you're here for the Cassel case. Well, welcome to Winterfell. I'm happy to help however I can.”
“Perfect,” Jaime gives a mocking smile. “We'd like to start things off by taking a look at the body. From what I understand, it hasn't been released to the family yet.”
The sheriff sucks in a slow breath through his teeth. “Sorry, no can do. I don't have access to the morgue.” If he's trying to sound apologetic, he's failing. She peeks between Jaime and Brienne to see the man from the photo. Dark hair, dark stubble along his jaw. Eyes too dark under the overhead lights to properly see the color. Jagged scar through his brow.
“So let's call up the coroner,” Jaime says tightly.
“Ah, see, there's the rub,” Sheriff Snow brings one hand up to scratch at his beard, an affable, apologetic smile on his face. “He's on vacation this week.”
“On vacation. During a murder investigation.” They aren't questions, and Sansa can hear the incredulity in Jaime's voice.
“Well, he had it scheduled already, so...” Sheriff Snow gives a shrug, as if they're discussing the weather, and not an active FBI murder case.
Sansa can't tell if he's purposefully trying to piss Jaime off, or if he's just that stupid. She tries to remember Jon from when they were young, more than just the generics, but she comes up blank. She knows him – or, knew him. He spent so much time in their home, her siblings practically considered him another brother. He's there in her memories, on the periphery, but whenever she tries to look directly at him, it's like he dissolves into smoke.
“Surely there's someone else who has access to the morgue,” Jaime presses.
The sheriff clucks his tongue, looking up towards the ceiling, face twisting like he's thinking very hard. “I'd have to check,” he finally says. “Why don't you come back tomorrow and I'll see what I can dig up?”
It looks like Jaime's about to say something, but Brienne cuts in. “It is getting late,” she says, which is true. It took hours for them to drive here from the airport and outside, the sun is already setting behind the trees. “Why don't we pick this up tomorrow? We're staying at a hotel nearby, the-”
“Mockingbird,” Jon cuts in. For just a moment something darkens his features, but then Sansa blinks and it's gone, and once again he's the helpful-but-stupid small town sheriff. “It's the only hotel around. Real tourist trap, make sure they don't overcharge you.”
“Stark is familiar with these parts, I'm sure she'll catch any funny business.” With that, Jaime moves so that Jon can see her. The moment the name Stark is out of Jaime's mouth, Jon's eyes snap to her and stay there. His carefully affable expression slacks to something akin to horror, though she's sure it's just surprise.
He recognizes her. She's sure of it.
No one is speaking, so Sansa swallows and says, “I'm actually not familiar with the hotel.”
“It was built after you left.”
There's silence again, deafening. She wishes Jaime or Brienne would say something, but they're both mutely watching the exchange.
“That would be why, then.” Her voice sounds small. She wishes it didn't.
Jon blinks, as if clearing his vision, and he says, “better get going. The roads can get pretty dangerous in the dark if you aren't familiar with them.”
“Tomorrow,” Jaime nods. More a threat than a promise.
It's only when they're back in the car that Sansa realizes her hands are shaking.
The Mockingbird Hotel is jarringly out of place.
It sits a mile outside of town, and the modern architecture frays at her nerves, sets her teeth on edge; discordant and grating. She remembers this area as wild and overgrown, pine and spruce and fir and mossy undergrowth, but they've cut all the trees down, and now there's landscaped grass and gardens and even a marble fountain. She feels sick looking at the empty space where forest used to be. It doesn't smell right.
Inside, a girl who can't be older than twenty sits behind the desk, but as she's checking them in, a man in his early fifties steps out from the back, a smooth smile on his face. His nametag reads Mr. Baelish. Both his salt-and-pepper hair and his goatee are oiled, his suit sharp and fashionable. As out of place in this town as the hotel itself.
“You must be the Special Agents,” he says.
“Word really gets around fast,” Jaime leans against the counter and gives the receptionist a charming smile and a wink. It doesn't seem to phase the girl, which makes Brienne smirk.
“Well, actually, you're using a government account for the rooms,” Mr. Baelish gives a placating smile. “And with the news of that poor girl, it wasn't hard to figure out.”
“Speaking of,” Jaime frowns, digging into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a card. “I'd like the nicest room you have.”
The receptionist frowns. “You're scheduled for two-”
“Economy, yes,” Jaime sighs. “I'd like a third room. A nicer one.”
Sansa looks to Brienne, who only stands stony-faced.
“A man of taste,” Mr. Baelish's eyes flash hungrily, eyeing the black card in Jaime's hand.
“No reason to languish in sub-par rooms just because the government is cheap,” Jaime breezes, still leaning against the counter. While the receptionist is typing, Jaime pulls out his cell, taps the screen a few times, and frowns. “No wifi here?”
“Ah,” Mr. Baelish winces slightly. “Unfortunately, we get very poor reception, and even the wifi doesn't seem to work properly half the time. There are ethernet cables in your rooms, as well as landlines.”
“I get cell service being sub-optimal out here, but wifi?” Jaime is still frowning, bordering on petulant.
“The explanation I've been given by local authorities is, oh, something or other about magnetic waves and frequencies,” Mr. Baelish waves his hands dismissively. “But I can never seem to get a straight answer from these people.”
“Local authorities?” Jaime asks, still leaning casually, though Sansa can see his eyes go sharp and focused. “Do you mean the sheriff?” He puts on a tone, something derisive, as is the word sheriff is an insult.
Mr. Baelish picks up on it, a condescending smile curling his lips. “Ah, Sheriff Snow. Yes, he's one of them. I'm guessing you've had the, uh... pleasure of meeting him?”
“We just came from the station. I understand what you mean about not getting a straight answer.”
Mr. Baelish gives a sympathetic hum. “Well, I don't know what I could possibly do, but if you need anything, I'm here to help,” Mr. Baelish offers. “That poor girl.”
“What have you heard about it?” Brienne asks, and Mr. Baelish turns his gaze on her, though he seems less interested than he had been in Jaime, and Jaime's credit card. For a moment, the man's eyes slide to Sansa. He looks at her in the way men sometimes do, though he keeps it quick and subtle, turning back to Brienne.
“Not much, unfortunately. I'm not from here originally, and the locals don't tell me much. They weren't happy I built the Mockingbird, even though it's bringing in tourism for them. But you know how these people can be.”
Maybe because you keep calling them 'these people', Sansa thinks, though she doesn't say it out loud. It's clear Mr. Baelish doesn't care for the town or the people; looks down on them, thinks of them as lesser. No wonder they don't tell him anything.
“But I can't say I'm surprised the sheriff isn't as cooperative as you'd like,” Mr. Baelish continues, his voice going low and conspiratorial. Sansa can see a glint in his eye, like when he'd seen Jaime's card. Something hungry.
“Why would you say that?” Jaime asks, still leaning, looking almost bored with the conversation. It only seems to spur Mr. Baelish on, keep him talking.
“Well, like I said, they don't tell me much, but I employ quite a few of the locals...” He looks over to where the receptionist is making key cards for their rooms. The girl is pretending she can't hear them, but Sansa would bet anything that she can. Mr. Baelish drops his voice lower. “I overhear things sometimes, and the murder has gotten people talking. Apparently, when the sheriff was young, there was an incident. Something to do with a local girl... I don't know the details, but it sounded like there was some sort of violence involved.”
Jaime doesn't answer, only gives a hum. Mr. Baelish's mouth presses into a line, almost like he's disappointed. Sansa can't tell what reaction he was hoping for.
“If it's true, I'm surprised he was elected,” Mr. Baelish continues as the receptionist comes over and hands their keycards to them. “But I suppose they liked Bolton even less.” With the receptionist back, Mr. Baelish stands up straighter, his smooth smile back in place, his voice back to a normal level. “As I said, if there's anything you need, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Right now, just a hot shower and a soft pillow,” Jaime flashes a grin, plucking the cards out of the girl's hand.
Sansa follows him and Brienne to the elevators, and they start up. The ride is silent, until the doors slide open at the second floor.
“This is you,” Jaime hands over two cards, and Sansa steps out of the elevator. “Take a shower, settle in. Rendezvous in an hour, my room, 315.”
“Rendezvous,” Brienne snorts when the elevator doors have closed again. “He's insufferable.”
“Does he always get a different room?” Sansa asks, hoisting her bag more securely on her shoulder and following Brienne down the hall.
“Unless we're staying somewhere that doesn't have nicer rooms. Then he just pouts the whole time.”
“He really has the money to do that?”
“Family money,” Brienne nods. “I'll admit, when we first joined the Academy together, I thought he bought his way in.”
“But you don't think that anymore?”
Brienne sighs, stopping at a door. They're at their rooms, Sansa realizes. “Unfortunately, he's an excellent agent. Don't ever tell him I said that, his ego is big enough as it is.”
Sansa can't help but smile, and she realizes it's the first time she's smiled since she got called into the Director's office. “Meet in an hour?” she asks.
“In an hour,” Brienne agrees.
Showered and dressed, Sansa stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom and stares at herself. She wonders if she should put makeup on. It's part of her mask, after all. But Brienne doesn't wear makeup, and Jaime doesn't, so she decides not to for what is only a debriefing in a hotel room that likely won't last very long. Instead, she simply slicks her hair back into an efficient bun and heads out into the hall.
She and Brienne head up, and Jaime opens the door for them before they even knock.
“It's clean,” he says, and Sansa frowns, but Brienne nods. Jaime must see her confusion, because he smiles and gestures around at the room. “No bugs, no wires. No one's listening. I did a sweep.”
Sure enough, the room looks a bit disheveled, and Sansa notices that while she and Brienne have showered, Jaime has not.
“They wouldn't have had time to plant anything, anyway,” Sansa says. “They didn't know you'd have this room.”
“Exactly,” Jaime grins, and gives her a wink. “We can talk freely.”
“What's our plan of action?” Brienne asks, leaning against the dresser, arms folded across her chest.
“Morgue tomorrow, if Sheriff Snow decides to cooperate. We also need to re-interview everyone. The crime scene, at some point. Talk to the Rangers...”
“Do you think he will?” Brienne asks. “Cooperate?”
“I don't know. He's definitely hiding something,” Jaime sighs. “I don't buy that bumbling small town sheriff act for a minute.”
“Could be he knows something,” Brienne agrees. “Or he's just territorial and doesn't like that the Feds got called in.”
“Or maybe he's the killer.” Jaime turns to Sansa then, one eyebrow raised. “You know what incident that smarmy ass downstairs was talking about?”
Sansa tries to think back, but she comes up blank, and shakes her head. “Not that I ever heard. Must've been after I left.”
“If it's even true,” Brienne adds. “We have Snow's background and there's nothing there. Even if he were a minor when it happened, we'd have access to that.”
Jaime doesn't look convinced. “Or it was covered up. You know how these places can be. Small town, things go unreported...”
Sansa feels her stomach flip. There's something inside her roiling, something that says - no. Jon wouldn't hurt anyone, he's not a killer. A gut reaction that she has to fight, because she doesn't actually know if that's true. She doesn't really know Jon at all. She can barely remember him. He's a shadow in her memory.
“It's very convenient that this Baelish person just so happens to have heard a rumor about a mysterious violent incident involving the sheriff and a young girl,” Brienne argues.
“He does seem keen to insert himself into the investigation, for someone who claims to not be close to anyone in the town,” Jaime muses. He turns to Sansa and asks, “what's your opinion on Jon Snow?”
“It's been eighteen years since I last saw him,” she says. Her voice only shakes slightly, her arms curling around her middle. “I don't even know why I'm here. I barely remember him and I barely remember this town and I can't imagine any of them care that I used to live here-” she cuts herself off when she hears her own voice. Bordering on hysterical, her hands curled into fists.
It's just a case. Get yourself together. She forces herself to breathe evenly, slipping her mask back on, ignoring the way both Brienne and Jaime watch her.
“Get close to him,” Jaime says, and Sansa's eyes go wide. Jaime smiles, but it's harder now, not the easy smile he had downstairs. “Don't worry, I'm not asking you to seduce him. But he clearly recognized you. Talk to him. Share memories. Gain his trust.”
Sansa looks to Brienne, but Brienne doesn't argue.
She swallows, wets her dry lips, and nods.
Back in her room, she lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
She can't sleep, been tossing and turning for what feels like hours. The heat is on, and she already checked the thermostat and lowered it, but it still feels suffocating.
Finally, she throws off the covers and gets up and goes to the window and pries it open, a rush of night air hitting her skin and filling her lungs. Wet and earthy, damp and cold. She breathes it in, feeling her eyelids begin to droop.
She shuffles back to the bed and gets in, pulling the covers up to her chin and snuggling into the warmth her own body left behind, and she falls asleep.
She's in the dark.
Her fingernails scrape against metal, her breath shallow and halting. Her head throbs and tears fall from her eyes, she can taste the salt on her tongue as she screams, but her throat is torn up and no sound comes out. There's something behind her in the dark, she can smell rotting flesh and iron, can feel it breathing hot and wet against the back of her neck.
She tries to scream again, rips her nails apart against the metal.
Come back, come back, come back.