Sansa was floating.
Impossible softness surrounded her.
The air she breathed was cold and clear.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling of her childhood room was above her. She had studied the knots and whorls in the wooden beams for many a night before falling asleep. She struggled to sit up, her senses dull and dizzy.
Arya. She turned her head to her sister's bed. The furs were thrown back in disarray. The bed, empty.
She realized suddenly that Arya was huddled in the corner. Pressed up against the rough stones like she was trying to melt through them. Mumbling frantically to herself.
"Joffrey..."
Sansa tilted forward in her bed, her head spinning.
"...Cersei…"
She slid to the floor, her movements sluggish, like she was swimming through a fog.
"...Frey…"
Crawling, she made her way across the room to Arya.
"Arya," she croaked, keeping both hands flat on the smooth stones of the floor.
Distantly, Sansa recalled the rules. Don't startle you sister. No sudden movements. Especially when Arya's mind is elsewhere.
"Arya"
"No one," mumbled Arya, "a girl is no one."
"A girl is Arya Stark," said Sansa, drawing the words out like a bucket from a deep well. "A girl is my sister. You are my sister. You are our mother's daughter. Our Father's daughter. A lady of Winterfell. A wolf."
She stared at her sister intently until Arya focused on her.
"Sansa," whispered Arya, "sister."
She paused and regarded Sansa with suspicion. "You burned," Arya told her, severely, "we all burned."
"Yes," said Sansa. Like recalling a dream, her memories drifted free of the haze. She looked closer at her sister. Arya looked like a child, like she had before they had left Winterfell.
Arya regarded her with a similar fascination. "You look like a babe," she told Sansa, bluntly.
Sansa pressed her hands to her soft, child-round cheeks and gazed at her arms, pale and unscarred. She lightly ran her fingers over her smooth skin, places where chains had once left their mark. There was nothing there.
Together they helped each other to their feet, stumbling on unsteady legs.
"It could be a trick," said Arya, rubbing her uncalloused hands together in distaste, "a test for us to fail."
"It's a very beautiful trick," murmured Sansa, fingering the edge of her silk nightdress.
Arya seized her hand, hard, staring at her with wide, wild eyes.
"Don't leave me," she commanded of Sansa.
Sansa dropped the silk, and squeezed Arya's hand.
"I'm here," she said quietly.
They walked hand in hand to the hall. Sansa had rather unceremoniously won the effort to force Arya into one of the dresses residing in her closet. In response, Arya had snatched a letter opener, and tucked it comfortingly into her pocket.
Arya stopped before entering.
"You wouldn't hold my hand," she said.
Sansa nodded, pulling away.
Haltingly, they stepped through the doorway.
Immediately, Septa Mordane hurried over. "Ladies don't sleep this late," she chastised.
Sansa stiffened when the Septa placed a hand on her back, and Arya nearly came out of her skin.
They were too obvious, Sansa noted, panicking. But she couldn't collect herself. Hungrily, she took in the bustling scene in front of her. There was Jeyne Poole laughing with Beth Cassel. There was Theon lounging on a bench. Maester Luwin drifting past with his breakfast.
It was the high table that stole her breath away. Tears blurred her eyes, but she kept looking. It was her lady mother, looking as beautiful as a dream. In her arms, she cradled a small boy. Rickon . Sansa thought in wonder. Next to her was Bran, kicking his legs in excitement.
Suddenly, she realized that Septa Mordane was scolding them, as her and Arya were standing frozen, staring at their mother.
Uncaring, she grabbed Arya's hand and together they ran. Catelyn looked up and smiled at their arrival. She looked surprised to see them together, even more so when they pressed close to her.
Kissing them tenderly, Catelyn urged them into their seats. In a warm daze, Sansa began to eat her meal.
"Mother," said Arya, forming the word softly, in wonder, "where is Father?"
Father. The precarious delight that had been growing in Sansa's chest all morning blossomed at Arya's words. Father was here.
Catelyn frowned lightly.
"Your father is with Robb," she told them, "apparently, Jon Snow took ill this morning." Catelyn's mouth twisted slightly.
Sansa felt faint, until Arya kicked her hard and indiscreetly under the table.
"Jon is… ill?" Sansa wondered aloud.
"Yes," replied her mother, frowning at Sansa's response, "I'm sure your father will see to him."
Arya stood impatiently. "I would see to him as well," she announced.
"We would," murmured Sansa thoughtfully, rising to her feet.
"Do not trouble yourselves over nothing," ordered Catelyn, "stay and break your fast with your brothers and I."
Arya opened her mouth, but Sansa spoke first.
"No mother," she said demurely, "it is no trouble. I - and Arya as well - would like to greet Robb and Father this morning, anyway."
She leaned over and kissed Catelyn's cheek tenderly. Arya did the same, much to their mother's surprise. Together they slipped from the hall, hurrying towards the boys' chambers.
"Does he -" began Arya breathlessly.
"- I don't know," said Sansa, "but we must find out."
Her father turned to smile as they entered the boys' chambers, and it stole Sansa's breath away.
Arya cried out rather alarmingly and ran to him the moment they stepped in the room. Ned Stark accepted his youngest daughter into his arms, in a bemused, but tender embrace.
The sight of her father, and Robb beside him caused an ache that seemed to swell beneath Sansa's ribs and flutter in her chest.
It was Jon Snow though, that made her heart stop.
He caught her gaze and his eyes burned, as they bored into hers. The same haunted, fragility that she and Arya had carried with them all morning clung to him as well. With one look, she knew that he remembered too.
He had left her as a Northern King, and had returned as a southern Prince.
Targaryen.
The bannermen of the North had muttered, shifting uneasily under the cold eye of the Dragon Queen. Until she saw him, she had not truly believed that he had bent the knee. Handed their hard-won kingdom off the the conquering Dragon Queen with no word to her or their council.
It was only by the thinnest of graces that Jon and Daenerys had been allowed entrance to Winterfell. In memory of Ned Stark, one member of the council had advised. In memory of mad kings and dragon fire, Sansa had thought. With Daenerys, came her fearsome beasts. They circled Winterfell, before settling behind their mother, turning the snow to puddles and mud where they stood.
It had been unbearable to look upon them. Her wild relief at his safe return drowned beneath her resentment and fury. Beside her, Arya had swayed on trembling legs, desperate to see her brother once more. She had broken the spell that held them all stiff and still by running to Jon. He had swept her off her feet, and held her close. His relief at her welcome was palpable. Soon, though, she stepped back, resuming her position beside Sansa. And Jon's face had fallen the tiniest bit at this clear division.
He reached for Sansa many times, after that, whispering apologies and excuses. His floundering manner was distressing.
"A man takes responsibility for what he has done," she had told him, "it is craven to act as if you had no choice, when you did."
He had sputtered, but had offered nothing else. He was still honorable in some ways, she supposed. Too honorable to lie, or perhaps he just knew that there was no mistaking the truth.
They had left on the last cold, clear day of Autumn with the bulk of the armies.
He hugged and kissed Bran and Rickon. Rickon wailed as Jon tried to set him down, his face contorted in grief and disbelief. Sansa took pity on him and moved forward to take Rickon in her arms. Arya came up next to them, her presence strong and reassuring. Jon drew her to his chest, and kissed her forehead, smoothing her hair down and cupping the back of her head. She allowed it, closing her eyes for a moment before they pulled apart.
Finally, he turned to Sansa. Even under Rickon's struggles and tears, she stood tall and resolute. Her initial anger had thawed somewhat in the face of the looming threat of the Others. Hesitating, he took her hand and kissed it gently.
"A favor," she had said then, pulling his hand closer. In it, she placed a black handkerchief, embroidered with the Stark sigil.
"Sansa…" he had began horsley.
"Take it and come home to us," she told him quietly so only their family could hear.
He tucked the favor against his breast, and turned to join Daenerys who stood waiting by the dragons.
Sansa turned to her sister, who stared after the army with a glint in her eye.
"I won't make you stay," she had whispered to Arya, "if you want to join them."
Arya stared for a moment longer and then turned to her sister.
"No," she said, "I won't march with the Dragon Queen. I'll be with you when they come. Not them."
It was the last they had seen of Jon. Two ravens had come back before they reached the wall. Eight men had struggled back after the battle. But Jon had gone down riding a dragon. True to his name in the end.