Arthur's phone rang just as he suggested a break, and Sansa grabbed her water and a towel. He'd wrapped her hands in some kind of gloves so she could hit the pads he held in front of her, but she honestly felt like she was the one who had taken the beating.

She gave him some space and tried to catch her breath, his chants of "Again," ringing in her ears. She would be hearing Arthur's brisk commands in her sleep, she was sure of it.

She definitely heard the change in his tone from, "Speak," to, "Are you okay? Do you need me?"

The hitch in Arthur's voice, that undisguised concern made her look up, sure she'd imagined it. He was facing away from her, his shoulders high and tight, ready for action even as he stood still. Then he barked, "Your teeth better be the exact same, you hear me?" but he was sinking onto a bench as he said it, slumped with relief.

Sansa rose, understanding settling in her gut. She'd been left behind. She'd been lied to and handled, and she thought she'd gotten over being hurt by something like that, after so much time and so many attempts. But, she reminded herself, she was, after all, a Queen. And she apparently needed to remind everyone else.

She stripped off the gloves, and the rough sound of the fabric separating was loud enough to make Arthur look up. He straightened and became Arthur once again, and she looked at him flatly, cold and cruel, the way queens looked at those who should know better.

"Yeah," he said into the phone. "Yeah. I will. Okay. Right." He watched her. She set the gloves on the bench and then exited toward the room of lockers.

"Lady Sansa."

She didn't want to listen, but she only let herself get three more steps away before she stopped. She wasn't angry. Queens didn't get angry. Queens got even. She refused to look at him though.

He didn't say anything at first, and she just stood there, staring at the sweating, grey walls and waiting.

"I apologize for deceiving you," he said, succinctly.

She ran a tongue over her teeth, grounding herself. "Your apology does little to make you sound sorry."

"I'm not."

She looked at him then, his lean, wiry frame comfortable in his own skin.

"Dean wanted me to keep you safe. I couldn't confirm I could do that, since I've never hunted these things before. This was my compromise, and he agreed."

Sansa turned to him, head held high and regarded him carefully. "I don't appreciate being treated like a child," she said. "But as it seems that was not your decision," she allowed, "I shall direct my displeasure elsewhere."

Arthur shrugged, hands in his pockets. "If you'd like."

She gave him the look she gave from her father's throne, the one which made lords quake. "I know my own mind, Arthur."

He bowed his head and she turned on her heel, the low shoes Nat had purchased for her squeaking on the floor.

…

Dean unwrapped his food, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and Sansa meant to keep ignoring him, or perhaps berate him, except what popped out of her mouth was, "Do you mind if we eat outside?"

Dean paused, a french fry halfway to his mouth as he studied her. "It's October."

She lifted an unapologetic eyebrow. "It's very warm here. Surely you'll be alright."

He looked incredulous but shoved the food into his mouth with a muttered, "Fine," wrapped up the food and stood up from the booth.

She pursed her lips at the back of his head and followed him outside. Arthur was at the other end of the parking lot speaking quickly into his phone, one hand on his hip, and Dean spread their food on the hood of his Impala. He leaned against the black metal and took a large bite of a greasy sandwich wrapped in paper. Sansa followed his lead, the food hitting her tongue a welcome distraction.

"You left me," she finally said, studying him coolly.

Dean just nodded, his cheeks puffed out with the large bite he'd taken, his eyes squinting as he surveyed the horizon.

Sansa ate slower, thinking. Dean ate like he wasn't sure where his next meal was coming from, but in the time they'd been together, the meals were constant and large. He wasn't going to apologize. He might, she conceded, have been right to leave her out of a fight she had no experience in. And he had returned, still ready to help her get home. But that didn't excuse—

Dean turned up the collar of his jacket, ducking away from the wind. "Is it too cold?" she asked, curious. "If you are chilled, we can go back—"

"It's fine," he broke in. "What kind of man do you think I am that I can't handle the outdoors?" He shifted his weight. "This is actually better, you know. I was getting kind of hot in there, so." He trailed off and took another bite, curled in on himself, his back to the wind.

Sansa bit back a smile. "Of course. I mean, I didn't assume you were cold, since you're so… virile."

He looked wary, like he wasn't sure if she was teasing, and she let him wonder, her face blank.

"Right. Of course. Virile, that's," he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, "that's me."

Her tongue was going to bleed if she kept this up. Unbelievably, she felt a warm fondness for Dean replace her previous annoyance.

"Do you know why I asked to come on the hunt?" she asked as Dean finished his sandwich in three monstrous bites.

Dean just shrugged, balling up the paper and moving on to the french fries, eating so fast she wondered if he could taste it.

"I wanted to prove my worth to you and Sam," she barreled on. "My little sister would say that I am useless in such a situation, but I can assure you—"

Dean's eyebrows drew together. "It doesn't matter. Okay?" He swept the papers into the nearby bin and stuffed his hands in his pockets, glaring out at the world. "I wasn't going to let you come and distract everyone, or worse, get hurt and die. You're going home, and that's the end of it. And in the meantime, you're my responsibility to keep safe. Got it?"

Sansa felt her appetite ebb but took a bite of the food in her hand anyway, chewing and fighting the rise in her gut. "I understand," she said, keeping her voice light. And she did. "I have responsibilities to keep people safe also. I know what it's like to take care of siblings. However, I am not a child. And I assure you I can be reasoned with. Which is why," she stressed, "I would appreciate you including me in your plans for me."

Dean grunted, staring into the distance. "It's different with me," he said brusquely. "This isn't a kingdom we're talking about here. I would die to keep Sam safe. So that's what I need to be focused on."

Sansa licked her lips and took a deep breath. "It is not different," she said. "I have siblings, and they are more important than kingdoms. There used to be six of us," she said, looking away. "There are four now."

Dean stopped glaring at the field past the parking lot and looked at her, his eyes older than she'd ever seen them. "What happened?" he finally asked.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and turned her face to the wind, letting the cool breeze whip her hair out behind her. "When the wars started, my older brother, Robb, declared himself King in the North. He was killed by our allies for having the audacity to marry for love instead of politically." She gave a half smile, but she knew it was falling flat. "They killed his wife and their unborn child too. And my mother."

She made the mistake of looking at Dean, whose face reflected her pain back at her. She didn't cry. She was not a cryer. But her throat felt tight, and she fought her emotions down.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, and that might have been the first time anyone had bothered to say it to her.

"Thank you," she said, and she meant it. "I want you to realize, Dean, that I can appreciate your ends. But I have a problem with your means."

Dean looked at her, an eyebrow raised, and he seemed to be fighting a smile. "I can appreciate your— I mean. Yeah. Lady Sansa. I will try to have better," he gestured, "means."

"Thank you."

He grunted.

They sat for a bit, not eating anymore, just lost in their own pasts, until Dean cleared his throat. "So. What happened to the other one?"

This time her smile was not possible. "My youngest brother, Rickon, was killed by my husband."

Dean looked like she'd punched him in the stomach. "Husband?"

"Former," she clarified. "He's dead now."

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "And how did he die?"

She didn't say anything, just looked at him steadily. When it became apparent she wasn't going to say anything, Dean's eyebrows climbed.

"Well, now. That's a bit different than hunting pigeons."

Her spine stiffened at his teasing. "Can you honestly say you'd have done differently?" she asked.

"No," Dean answered without hesitation. "Not when it comes to little brothers. Hell, if it had been me, I'd have killed the bastard twice."

Sansa blinked. "How did you know he was a bastard?"

Dean blinked back. "What?"

"What?"

They stared at each other for a beat, until a slow, wide smile spread over Dean's face. His easy chuckle and the crinkle of his eyes made it hard not to join him.

"Okay, so," Dean said, tossing his remaining trash towards the bin and making it on the first try, "enough about him. There's four of you. You, a brother that reminds you of Sam, and a little sister who is a better fighter than you. Who else?"

Sansa warmed, thinking of her family. "Bran, my younger brother, is becoming the Three-Eyed Raven."

Dean made a face like he was impressed, and she bit her lip in a smile. She knew how it sounded, but she was proud of Bran. She'd always known Bran was destined for great things. He'd always been so interested in books when he was littler, and when he'd lost the use of his legs, it was a blessing he could distract himself.

"Three eyes, huh?" Dean said. "You don't say."

She chuckled softly and said, "I don't really understand everything, but he's a... seer? Like a wise man, I suppose. He holds the knowledge of the past, and can see the future."

"Oh," Dean nodded, appearing to understand. "I know a few of those. We just call them psychics."

Sansa warmed, pleased he was willing to accept what had taken her a long time. "It was a lot to get used to," she confessed, unwilling to imply she hadn't rejected his prophecies outright, called him a liar, and forced him to prove himself before she was ready to believe him. Her cheeks burned in shame, but she smiled over it.

Dean just smiled, warm and wide. "I hear that. Especially if they're seeing stuff about you. Kind of hard to accept."

Sansa nodded and even took another bite of her food, previously forgotten in her hands. Dean watched her, then cleared his throat and rubbed his hands on his thighs.

"So. Two brothers, one sister. Anyone else?" He frowned, casting around. "Boyfriend, maybe? Or your dad?"

Sansa swallowed and shook her head. "Both of my parents are dead." She held herself still, not really wanting to talk about her father's death and hoping the hurt didn't still leak through. Dean's eyes told her it didn't matter though.

"I know how that is, too," was all he said, but the look he gave her said he actually did understand. He knew it didn't stop hurting just because everyone thought it should. It spoke volumes of horrors witnessed and buried, deep down.

"I am sorry to hear it," she said, and he shrugged.

"I can't complain," he said. "I'm luckier than most. I got to kill the yellow-eyed bastard responsible."

She gave him an odd look. "Yellow eyes? Was he a white walker? An undead?" She had visions of wights and their blue eyes, menacing and unfeeling.

Dean moved his head in a "so-so" motion. "It's a long story. Actually," he said, thinking, "all of our stories are long."

She smiled at him, knowing full well how long your own story could feel, even if you were right in the middle of it.

Dean bent at the waist and picked up a handful of the small rocks from the ground. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he started to toss them, one at a time, toward the bin, each one making a 'ping' as it bounced off. "Stick around long enough though, and I'm sure you'll have a few stories to tell too."

"Will you tell me about her? Your mother?"

Dean looked surprised, then unsure, so Sansa busied herself taking one more bite before wrapping the remaining portions up and storing them safely in a paper bag. If they were traveling the rest of the day, she could get at least two more meals out of the food Dean had provided. It wouldn't do to continue to rely on his kindness when she knew how to ration.

When Dean finally started talking, the things he told about his mother were a strange conglomeration of things a child would notice and stories about her youth with an odd level of detail. Sansa listened, wondering at how his voice took on a bitter tone and some rocks he hurled with more intensity. When he finally stopped talking, it was like a carriage slowing, gradually, and then with a jerk that could toss you about if you weren't ready for it.

He stared at the bin, rocks remaining in his hand forgotten, and a far-off look in his eyes.

"So, I suppose that means you're a liar."

Dean's head swiveled at that, his eyes tightening as he frowned. "I am not a liar." His tone was hard and flat.

Sansa shrugged, unaffected. "You said you were lucky. But that isn't precisely true." He just stared at her, his frown deepening, and she continued, "It wasn't luck. It sounds like sacrifice and hard work. And a long story."

Dean's jaw clenched as he fought for control over whatever demons he was facing, and Sansa had an urge to reach for him, soothe him in some way. She curled her fingers into her palms, wondering at herself, and knowing that whatever the customs here, Westeros would have raised an eyebrow at that.

"Yeah, well,— "

Dean broke off at the sound of an engine, and they watched the other two men pull up in Arthur and Eames' horses-under-the-hood carriage, smaller and sleeker than Dean's. Dean let the remaining rocks he held slide from his fingers as he straightened, shoving his hands in his pockets and, in general, pulling back on a mask she wasn't sure he'd realized he'd dropped.

When the door opened and Eames stepped out from the driver's seat, Sansa smiled a fond hello. He responded, a wide smile that changed as he looked past her.

Arthur was walking up behind them, a dimple showing on his cheek, and she could see why Eames stared at him when he thought no one was looking. Eames enfolded him in a wide embrace, and Sansa checked the others' reactions, prepared to defend them if needed. But Sam simply unfolded himself from the other side of the carriage, wrinkled and smiling at her and Dean, and not even noticing the way Eames was whispering something in Arthur's ear, and Arthur looking distinctly like he was blushing.

"You eat already?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, but I could always go for dessert."

Eames turned his attention to Sansa, grasping her hand and pressing a kiss to the back.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted, his voice low and sensual, and she couldn't stop the blush that crawled up her neck, even though she knew he was teasing.

"Ser Eames," she replied coolly, looking down her nose, making him laugh.

"Alright, don't encourage him," Arthur grumbled, ignoring all of them and striding into the small building, Eames trailing after, presumably to get their own food.

"Why are you guys out here?" Sam asked as he followed Arthur and Eames. "It's freezing."

Dean flashed Sansa a look, his eyes twinkling, and then followed, checking to make sure she was coming. She accompanied them at a distance, waiting for the little thrill and warm sense of belonging that small look had given her to subside.