Sansa's heart was troubled. Two dozen good, trusted men left Winterfell through the mysterious passage that was found in the crypts, and Arya went with them, no matter how much Sansa tried to dissuade her.

"I won't talk about the propriety of this," she told her sister, "going alone with all those men... but think about the danger! If anything should happen to you..."

"You are just like Mother," Arya said, "I can hear her voice speaking through you."

"I wish I could be more like Father. Perhaps then I would be able to stop you."

"You are welcome to try," Arya said wryly, but of course Sansa didn't accept the challenge. When her sister's mind was settled on something, it was futile to try and make her waver. "I must go," she added softly, "I know it's hard to explain, but... I need to know what lies on the other side of this passage."

In addition to that, there was the spring feast to be hosted. All the noble northmen would come, Umber and Manderly and

Karstark and men from other, lesser houses, and all would expect to find a hospitable hearth and a gracious hostess in Winterfell. While giving parties and making people feel welcome was just what Sansa was raised to do, at the moment she didn't feel quite up to the task.

The sound of the Maester's footsteps was a welcome distraction, but the grim expression of his face made Sansa's heart miss a beat. Maester Kaeth had an unfurled roll of parchment in his hand, and on his shoulder was perched a black, plump, glossy-feathered raven.

"Lady Sansa," he began without preamble, "I'm afraid I bring ill news."

Arya. Gods be good, please don't let it be Arya. I should never have let her go, I should have tried harder to stop her. "Is it my sister, Maester?" Sansa asked in a faltering voice. Better know the truth at once, she thought.

"No, my lady, not your sister. There have been no news yet of the men of Winterfell, and I think it's too early to expect any. No, it is about your lord husband."

Tyrion. The momentary relief Sansa felt evaporated at once. "Tell me."

"There was a raven from Castle Black, from the Lord Commander's steward. He writes that Lord Tyrion went along with a group of rangers, led by the Lord Commander himself, beyond the Wall. And there, the lords Lannister and Mormont were ambushed and kidnapped by a band of wildlings."

Sansa paled. It didn't make any sense. "But... but why - why would Tyrion have gone with the men of the Night's Watch?"

The Maester shook his head sadly. "To this, I fear I have no answer. Be that as it may, this doesn't bide well. Lord Mormont, it appears, managed to shout and warn the others, but it didn't help to recover him or your lord husband. There were also signs of struggle... signs of blood. I'm afraid you must prepare for the worst, my lady."

The worst. Sansa felt sick to her stomach. Why did Tyrion go with Mormont? She knew her husband was a brave man, but he couldn't have fancied himself a ranger. Many seasoned warriors of the Night's Watch, like her own uncle Benjen, disappeared beyond the Wall, and their traces were never found. No one could tell for certain whether they were devoured by wild beasts, or resurrected as white walkers... or whether they simply wandered in circles, looking for the way back, until their resources and supplies were at an end and they had nothing left to do but lie down and die.

Still, they might be alive yet. The chance, however faint, was there, and she must do whatever she can... but what can she do? I am the Stark of Winterfell now, she reminded herself. I must forget my fear and remember my duty.

"Write to whoever is in charge on the Wall now, Maester. Ask them to send parties to look for my husband and Lord Mormont. Not one party, several, to go in different directions. Write that if Lord Tyrion comes back alive, the gratitude of Winterfell will be with the Night's Watch... and the gratitude of Winterfell has always meant much on the Wall."

"I'm sure every possible action is already being taken to locate the Lord Commander's tracks," said the Maester, "but I will, of course, send your message along, my lady. Apart from that," he added gently, "there is really nothing any of us can do."

Sansa was left alone in her chambers, and once more tried to choose a dress for the feast, although she had seldom felt less festive. However, there was nothing to it. Her father told her once that there are different kinds of courage; there's the bravery of battle, when you know you might lose your life any moment. And the courage of talking to an enemy - a dagger hidden in the dark - knowing he is waiting for the first opportune moment to strike. And there's also the courage of smiling when all you want to do is cry. I must try and do what would have made him proud. Even if everyone close to her is in peril, she must be strong. Mother have mercy, please let them come home safe.

She settled for a dress of grey satin trimmed in white, embroidered with baby pearls. Grey and white, the Stark colors. Just like she wore at her wedding... how wretched she had been on that day, to think that she would become Tyrion's wife! And now she might never see him again, and... she covered her face with her hands. Once more, the memory of the night when she came to his bed flooded her mind, and she felt more confused than ever. I shouldn't have come, she told herself. Or perhaps I should have stayed with him.

She felt utterly alone. In the entire castle, there was no one to talk to, no one who could hear and understand the woes of her heart. No one but the gods. She lit candles to the Mother and Maiden and Warrior, but she felt it wasn't enough. She craved the closeness to the old gods of her ancestors, the ones whose faith flowed in her blood.

When she knelt in front of the heart tree, a sudden hopeful thought struck her. Perhaps he is still here. Perhaps she is not the only Stark in Winterfell after all. She cleared her throat and called in an uncertain, quiet voice:

"Bran?"

For a moment, all she heard was the rustle of leaves, but then the faint, disembodied, yet unmistakably familiar voice of her brother answered her:

Sansa.

"Bran, I am afraid. What am I to do?"

Do not fear.

Do not fear. That was easy to say if you are a spirit, beyond the woes and hopes of the realm of living. But how would she attain that?

"Arya is gone, Bran. She went below, through the door. Down below, just like you said. And Tyrion..."

They will be back.

Those were the last words she heard from him that night. After that, there was only silence.

They will be back. Somehow, she could not help but believe him. But will they be back alive, or dead?