SANSA II:

"Sweetling, what are you sewing over there?" her mother asked. Septa Mordane's lessons for the day had finished with Lady Stark coming in to check in on her two daughters, though Arya had scampered off fairly quickly - to the tiltyard, no doubt. Now that the septa had gone, it was just Sansa and her mother, sitting together in companionable peace and quiet.

"It's a handkerchief," Sansa answered, handing over her work in progress. She had only so far barely outlined the white moon on the blue fabric, but it would be complete soon. Good, now I'll begin.

"Sansa, this white circle...are you embroidering the sigil of House Arryn?" her mother asked, a bit surprised.

"I thought to give it to my cousin for his nameday," she replied gently. "It would be very nice to meet him," she added. Her mother's eyes sparkled at the first statement, but her expression grew a bit pained at the second.

"Oh, sweetling," she sighed. "You know that your cousin is all the way in King's Landing. It's a long trip, and not one I think your father would approve of," she explained.

Gods, I'm an idiot, thought Sansa, though she didn't let it show on her face. I forgot they'd still be in King's Landing. But then another thought struck her.

"But isn't Lord Arryn the Lord of the Vale? Shouldn't his family visit sometime?" she asked, feigning confusion. Let's add one more. "What kind of lord doesn't even see the people he rules?" she murmured with feigned melancholy, adding a bit of a pout for good measure. "Surely Lord Arryn and his family must be at their castle at least once a year."

Catelyn Stark sighed, sending a tight-lipped, tired smile at her eldest daughter, but Sansa could see her mind whirring.

"I will write to your Aunt Lysa to see if such a trip is amenable to her and her son," she relented. "It would be good to see her again, after so many years."

Good, thought Sansa, a small but satisfied smile on her lips. Yet she knew her mother's promise would not be enough.

"Perhaps if Father wrote to Lord Arryn to see if he could come as well? It would be so good of him to see his friend," Sansa suggested meekly.

"You thought well, sweetling," her mother replied, smoothly stroking Sansa's hair. "I will tell him of our plan, for I like it. Gods know he will need some sort of diversion from the Lannisters," she added, the last sentence more for herself than for Sansa's ears.

I'll pretend that flew past my head, Sansa thought. Though from the calm expression on her mother's face, she could tell that her mother did not harbor the same resentment for the Lannisters that her father did. There was distrust and general guardedness, yes, but not bitter dislike. I can work with that, she brightened. Influencing Mother would definitely influence Father greatly.

"Thank you, Mother," she exclaimed. "Oh, it will be such a great adventure! I hear there are many famous knights in the Vale. Will we meet them at all?"

"Now, now, sweetling. I must bring this up with your father first," Mother chided gently, chuckling. The two of them soon returned to their needlework as Sansa continued to embroider the bright blue handkerchief. She had finished most of the outline of the falcon's left wing when the thud of a door being pushed open jolted her from her task.

"Arya, what have I told you about-" Mother began.

"The Lannisters are coming!" her little sister announced, panting. The two embroiderers shot straight up from their seats.

"Arya, go quickly tell whatever family you have not yet found and then you must be bathed," Mother ordered, immediately shifting into the commanding presence of Lady Stark. "Sansa, go ask Sarra to do your hair, put on a finer dress, and find something suitable for your sister that she will concede to wear," she added, both girls nodding and dashing out of the room. "Quickly, now, quickly!"

Sansa sped into her room, summoning her maid along the way. While the servant woman plaited her hair into a simpler version of a Southron style she had enjoyed in her childhood, Sansa mentally sorted clothing options for both herself and Arya. It was lucky that she had finished a silver lambswool tunic for her sister the other day - it would probably be a working compromise between a fine dress and her usual shirts and breeches. For herself, Sansa selected a blue dress of similar fabric that had been lined with silver ribbon. With Sarra's help, she laced herself into the dress and added a direwolf brooch on her left side. So no one forgets I'm a wolf, not a fish.

Sweeping up her sister's clothes in her arms, Sansa hurried to Arya's room and dropped it onto her sister's bed. Arya, who was nearly done bathing, noticed the clothes and frowned.

"I don't want to wear a dress!" she cried.

"Well, you're fortunate that this is not a dress," her sister replied. Thank the gods I finished this in time. Arya sent her a confused glance as she stepped out of the bath and rubbed a towel over her body. "Now come on, get dressed." Drying herself up, the younger girl walked over to the bed to see the clothing.

"Sansa, this is...this is so nice," she breathed. "It's not a dress, but it's...it's…"

"Let's take a look," Sansa encouraged. Arya fingered the fabric gently, slowly pulling it over her head with great care - or, at least, great care for an eight-year-old boyish girl. Good, Sansa thought, proud of her handiwork. All those years of needlework and watching courtly fashions do pay off sometimes. The silver of the fabric did something magical to make her sister's grey eyes shine brightly, and the sleeves and torso were well-fitted to her small frame.

"It really does suit you," Sansa said. Arya simply looked at herself in the mirror, stunned. "You look pretty."

"Pretty?" the young girl whispered. "But it's not a dress, and I'm not a good lady. Pretty, Sansa?"

"You are, and you don't even have to wear a dress," Sansa remarked, thinking of Brienne of Tarth or Obara Sand or any of the Mormont sisters she had met - all who fought bravely in the war against the Others.

"Thank you," Arya murmured. "You've been a much better sister recently."

"I'm happy to hear that," her older sister replied with a snort. "Now, let's get to the courtyard."

It turned out that nearly all of their family was present in the courtyard already, though the main highborns of the party had yet to enter the castle. Wordlessly, Sansa strode over to stand beside Robb, whose gaze was stormy as expected, but tempered. She gently squeezed his forearm to reassure him. He and I are the only ones who know what's at stake.

It was not long before the Kingsguard rode in. Sansa held her breath, peering closely at their faces. Ser Arys and Ser Balon, she noted with relief. None of this party of Kingsguard had been one to take pleasure in hitting her in King's Landing. No Ser Meryn or Ser Boros, thank the gods. Yet with a touch of dismay, she saw that Sandor Clegane - her favorite member of the Kingsguard, her protector at her worst times in King's Landing - was not in the party.

But, she was at least glad that none of those who had come enjoyed beating little girls.

Suddenly, she felt Robb tense beside her, his eyes determinedly set on the last of the Kingsguard. Sansa followed his gaze, and sure enough, he was staring at the Kingslayer with...moderately veiled dislike, to put it lightly.

Jaime Lannister was the last of the Kingsguard to enter, riding just in front of an ornate wheelhouse, his face full of displeasure and condescension. Gods, I nearly forgot how conceited he was once. Of course, he still had his swordhand, and his relationship with his sister was still strong. He's going to be difficult to work with, she thought with a sigh, remembering his early transgressions against her father and Bran. But then she recalled how he had entered her service at Winterfell with his whole army following suit, how he had saved her and Rickon from a wight attack, how he and his brother helped her younger siblings voyage to Essos, and she smiled. Turning to her distraught older brother, she nodded in understanding and squeezed his arm. He has more right to be upset, she thought, but he is doing well for now.

The doors of the wheelhouse that followed opened, and out came a barrage of blond Lannisters. First was Tommen - sweet Tommen, small and round and soft as he had been before - who was followed by another Lannister-looking boy, this one about Sansa's age. That must be one of the young cousins, she noted. Not Lancel - Martyn? Tyrek? Whoever it was, the boy, whose face was strangely turning bright red, could not truly be a threat to the family.

When the next figure stepped out, Sansa's breath nearly caught in her throat. Myrcella, she thought, examining the young golden girl before her. What is she doing here? Sansa turned to Robb and then to her parents, but they seemed equally perplexed - indeed, Sansa thought she was hiding her confusion rather well in comparison. She could have sworn she saw Robb's cheeks turn pink for a moment, though she didn't think much of it. The young princess is quite beautiful, she thought. And intelligent, if her eyes are anything to go by. Most importantly, though, Sansa could not find any malice in her expression. She would be wary of Myrcella, but it would be safe to befriend her for now.

Last to exit the contraption was Tyrion. Of all the Lannisters, it was he who was the least changed in appearance from her memory. He was just as hideous, and his mismatched eyes sparkled with wit as they did before. Sansa had been grateful of course for the little kindness - perhaps, more like decency - he had shown her in King's Landing, but he had gone down a dark path since then. She had met him again later, far later, after Aegon the Blackfyre pretender had burned in the flames of the dragon queen. He had been different then, his hate for the entire world not bothering to hide itself behind a mask of self-deprecating humor. It was murdering his father that did it, she had thought then. And perhaps that revelation from Jaime...I will not let him go down that path. Not this time.

The wheelhouse was followed by one more golden-haired rider trotting through the gates. It was a boy of near thirteen or fourteen, with a handsome face and a haughty expression that Sansa recalled all too well.

Joffrey.

No. No! He wasn't supposed to come!

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at Robb, panicked. No, he's a monster, no, no! How was she supposed to deal with-

Wait a minute. She gazed at the Lannister rider once more as his horse rode closer to the rest of the party.

It's not him.

His golden hair was a tad lighter and less curly, his features were softer and more expressive, but most importantly, the expression in his green eyes, though full of pride and disdain, was not cruel. It must have been another cousin...near Robb's age...it must be Lancel, she realized. So this is what he looked like once. It was hard to reconcile the young, comely boy before her with the emaciated, skeletal creature that had suffered at Blackwater. He's still in his arrogant, unkind phase, she noted. But he's young and redeemable yet. As was the case with Jaime, simply keeping Lancel away from Cersei would work wonders.

"I thought it was him, but it isn't" she murmured to Robb, who nodded and gave her a reassuring smile.

"This will work," he replied in a strained whisper, as if he was convincing himself more than her.

This will work, she breathed to herself. This would work.

It was time to truly welcome the Lannisters.

A/N: The one difficult thing about writing Sansa is deciding how much of the alternate/after ADWD route to divulge. Thus, I always have to limit her thoughts so that the information slowly trickles out instead of coming in one huge flood. We have seen quite a lot of her thoughts on the Lannisters so far, but what opinions do you think she may have about fAegon or Dany? Also, did you also have a Joffrey scare?

Next few chapters: a slew of new POVs (yes, Tyrion included, but not immediately).