The Twins. Past. Day Five.

Around the time the last of the war had ended, I began to hate getting letters. During the war they weren't too bad. Small notes carrying little pieces of intelligence from far flung areas of the kingdom. But once the weapons were sheathed at last and the celebrations had begun, they got longer. And more complex. Simple messages and quickly jotted tactical ideas gave way to full blown letters with proposals and choices to be made. Where to station this legion? How many men do we dispatch to see to the Dreadfort? How do we organize border patrol?

Shoot me in the face. With a mace.

But sometimes, amongst the mountain of letters waiting for me every morning, I find a little treat. A message from Jon. Word from Rickon. News on the Bolton capture. And maybe a green envelope lined with gold patterns and the swirly scrawl of an unmistakably feminine hand.

Dear Robb,

I'm pleased to hear you've gone at last to the Twins to make good on your deal with Walder Frey. I had begun to fret that you may have changed your mind. The situation here hasn't changed much since I wrote you last. Only now that Arya has arrived things have certainly gotten more exciting. Loras has taken up training her in swordplay. She excells. She's bested him twice already. Lady Olenna swears up and down that Arya is the best thing to happen to Highgarden.

Lady Margaery has settled the terms of her engagement, but I'm pleased to say that she'll be staying in Highgarden. Her future husband is so old, in any case, that he'll hardly notice if she's by his side or not.

I wept for hours when I got word from Jon that Rickon was en route to Winterfell. I hope to be seeing you all there sometime in the future. Arya is scarcely less eager to return home as well. But until things have settled, we're well and truly trapped in place.

While on the subject of state, I have recently returned from King's Landing and have spoken to Stannis about dismantling that gigantic army you two pulled together. There are so many details to be drummed out, but Loras is helping me. He's turned it into a game of sorts. Such a wonderful young man I have the fortune of calling my husband.

The peach orchard is still my favorite place. Not just while it's in full bloom. Once the fruit has been picked, the trees are bare and late at night if I stand out under the full moon, I can pretend that I'm in the woods in Winterfell. Only it's not cold.

All my love and best wishes,

Sansa

Letters like this get me thinking about what a wonderful family I have. I smile at it, at her curvy writing, at the gold lining on the page, for what seems almost like a decade just remembering how she looked last I saw her. How she must look now. How they both must have changed.

"YOU DIRTY TOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDD!"

I'm the first person to open the door and pop my head out into the corridor. Seven more have followed suit in the next second-my mother, Edmure, and Bryndon amongst them.

"What was that?" Edmure asks.

I shrug.

"GIVE IT BACK OR I'LL FEED YOU YOUR TEETH!"

"Someone fetch one of the boys!" an elderly voice calls from below. "The girls have gone mad!"

Of course there's no way to not be curious after hearing things like this. So I like to think none of us are being nosy by dashing downstairs to the girl's floor beneath us to see what all the fuss is about. And what a sight it is.

The girls have all assembled inside of a single bedroom. I couldn't tell you whose room it is, only that it's big. Big enough that all of them-eligible and otherwise-can fit inside comfortably.

Being the eldest of six (Jon included) siblings, it sort of goes without saying that I've seen a fair share of fights. When I fight with Jon or Theon, it's over quick as a blink. But watching Sansa and Arya fight has always been a different story. Sure, their lack of access to the weapons that Jon, Theon and I have always had readily available made their fights initially seem a little lackluster, but there's nothing dull about watching girls tear each other's hair out and screech every single secret they've ever known about each other at the top of their lungs. And to tell you the truth, watching a gaggle of Frey girls tear each other's hair out and screech every single secret they've ever known about each other at the top of their lungs is a whole different ball game and I knew that before I saw the door vibrating as the shrill screeches and violent thuds on the other side of the wall quickly awaken the entire castle.

"What in creation?" grumbles the Septa as she hurries to the door. "Girls? Girls! Open this door no-"

And she's abruptly cut off as the door opens and she's slammed right in the face and then pinned behind it. The door swings back lamely and we are all afforded a brilliant view of silk gowns and shiny hair as the lovely ladies of House Frey attempt to render their rare species extinct by annhilating each other.

"LET ME GO YOU GODLESS, BUG EATING, SHRIMP EYED, COW BRAINED, SCUM SUCKING LUMP ON A LOG!"

"I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR HAIR OUT!"

"You're half bald and everyone knows it! Oh, fair maiden, doth your lover nightly sing praises about thine long golden hair extensions?!"

And then Roslin crawls out on all fours, and for good measure, she reaches out and closes the door behind her tightly.

"Good morning," she squeaks to us as she huddles up into a little ball.

"What on earth is happening in there?" the Septa asks as she holds a cloth to staunch the bleeding from her nose.

From the limited words Roslin uses to explain, I gather that the war began when the two pretty ones had a little spat about who got to use the exotic hairbrush and since the fat one was not yet awake no one was there to mediate the rights to use the damn thing and then the others got involved when a stray flying object inadvertedly hit someone in the face and then fingers were licked and inserted into people's ears and the rest, as they say, is history. 'History' here being blood and skin underneath manicured fingernails as hair is torn out and floats carelessly to the floor.

The door opens as two younger girls are pinned against it and I have to duck out of the way as they roll past me, pulling hair and scratching at each other's faces. Roslin just backs further away from them but doesn't unfurl from her ball.

The Big Ten and Why They Need Straightjackets

Aradel Frey: "I hate this stupid ribbon!" Riiiiip. "Why do you even wear it?! Are you aware of how juvenile you look?!"

Reina Frey: "It's a symbol of distinction, you airheaded tramp! I forgot those bloody Mormonts never taught you about that as they breastfed you until you were eight!"

Rhea Frey: "Put that bloody thing down or I'll scalp you with it like a nomad savage!"

Lucyan Frey: "Watch me break off your fingers and stick them to your forehead!"

Brea Frey: "For once you won't be sticking fingers into your usual crevice-the one you've got your head shoved into every night of the week!"

Jaclyn Frey: "And once I scratch your eyes out you'll be so deaf you won't even hear the Trumpet sound on Judgement Day!"

Walda Frey: "You'd need to scratch her ears, not her eyes, you stupid bint."

Marlow Frey: "Whose bloody hair am I holding? What is this?"

Israel Frey: "It's mine, you mindless tart. Who else has hair that dark? Let it go before I tear yours out and use it to strangle you."

And I assume that her hair has been released because she's the first one out. And her eyes fall upon the entire crowd gathered outside of the door, then upon Roslin, and that's all she gets to see before someone has slammed right into her side, knocking her over.

"Get off it, girls!"

Garner Frey has arrived and is apparently wise enough to have brought reinforcements. Benny and Waldron are hot on his heels as they proceed to pry the girls apart. Israel is still being assaulted on the floor and her mystery assailant has to be pulled off of her with Benny and Garner's combined efforts.

At lunch that day, the girls are unwisely seated together, purple or bleeding in some area and nursing battle wounds that seem much worse than anything I've ever seen in the medical camp during the war.

"Families," Bryndon murmurs to me quietly. "Who'd be without them?"

I bite back my laugh. Israel is nursing a split lip and a bruised knuckle as she casually converses with Marlow, who is stroking the hair that she had been yanking at viciously only hours before.

Families are messy, I suppose. And big families are especially messy. And a Frey family is damn catastrophic. But they're family in the end. So the maiming and killing can't really be permanent. And if it is...well, it'll always make for a great story one day.

"I talked to Walder," Bryndon says. "That's Izzy. So she made the tower."

"That certainly recommends her," Mother says.

"But I think we ought to see her technical work firsthand," Edmure says. "Which is why I'm headed off to the archives tomorrow to take a look. If she has any talent, she may even be able to aid in the rebuilding of Winterfell."

"Give me that back," Reina says icily from their table, and the calm waters grow rough again.

"No, it's mine anyways," Rhea says.

"Says who?"

"It's neither of yours," Walda says. "So you'll both have to share it."

And Israel picks up her wineglass and pushes her seat back, safely out of range of the first of the flying fists. I smile. Talent or no talent, I've made up my mind. She's coming with me.

"Your Grace," says an attendant. "You've a fair bit of post that's just arrived from Riverrun."

Letters.

"Right," I grumble. "Send them to my study."