In the previous chapter: Slowly but surely Sansa's rehabilitation back to her old life begins. Although her physical progress is good, mentally she is not doing so well, largely because she can't share her experiences with anyone. She embarks on historical research, where to her delight she finds that her family and friends from the past indeed did do better, this time. Even Sansa and Sandor are described as having a long life, children and home together – a notion that makes Sansa happy and at the same time, irrationally jealous. Eventually, the fact that she can't truly reach the people, only stories of them, and is left forever an outsider in the events that meant so much to her, leaves Sansa increasingly depressed.

Author's Notes: Sansa's tough experiences are not over as yet – she still has to go through some things before she is ready to move on – if she ever can even do that…

Thanks you so much for all of you who are still hanging on! I know this story changed tack quite drastically over the last few chapters, and that may not be everyone's cup of tea… but then again, one has to listen to one's muse and write what one feels resonates the most in one's soul!

Million thanks also to kind Gefionne, who is still sacrificing her valuable time for betaing this monster!

Sansa

While navigating her way in the bewildering new world, one thing that amazed Sansa - and eased her conscience considerably - was to find how little had actually changed despite her interference in the past. Gods knew how often she had worried about the famous 'butterfly effect': how a small change can be the cause of much bigger changes, like a butterfly flapping its wings in the Dornish desert resulting in a storm ravaging half the Westerlands.

In her nightmares, she had returned to her own time and seen everything changed; not only historical events but also cities, people, her own town and her family. And yet for the most part, things were as they had been.

When trying to find proof of her experiences, she had come across an interesting theory about the nature of change: the theory of a 'shape memory'. It hypothesised that even if things were forcibly changed, they had an ingrained 'memory' and were bound to return to their previous state as fully as possible if given a chance. Certain plastics, which can be deformed but return to their original shape when given an appropriate stimulus, were a real-life practical example. However, the theory was sometimes applied to even more esoteric situations - and that seemed to have happened to her world.

Yes, some big changes had become the reality, including the fate of her family and the people whose lives she had directly touched, but many things had stayed the same. Westeros as a state, White Harbor as a city and her family and her friends were largely the same as before. If every now and then she found herself faced with a building, a bridge, a park or a memorial plaque suggesting a change from what she had known before, Sansa could only shake her head, explore what was different and sometimes even try to guess what might have caused such a deviation.

Despite her strong focus in the past, Sansa's life was however not totally dedicated to it. When she had left the hospital, she had discussed with her doctors and her family about what she should do next. She had obviously missed her first year to study medicine in the White Harbor Medical Academy, but her father informed her that he had made some calls and found out that she hadn't lost her spot and could still enter when she wanted.

The new semester had already started and she still had had the arduous path of rehabilitation in front of her, so it was deemed best that she would start only the following year - if that was what she still wanted. The psychologist explained to her that often people who had experienced a brush with death or significant trauma re-evaluated their life choices and sometimes chose a new path for themselves.

As for Sansa, she truly didn't know what she wanted, so more time to think about it seemed like a good idea. In time, she hoped to get over the profound loss she had experienced, but of which nobody around her knew anything about. Then, and only then, she would be ready to consider her next steps.

Sansa knew she didn't have to figure it out all alone and that she was surrounded by well-meaning people, who wanted nothing more than to support and help her. Nonetheless, there was a limit to what they could do, not knowing all the facts – a situation she wasn't prepared to address, at least not until she had regained some kind of footing in her new life.

After Sansa had recovered enough physically, she was ready to meet friends and relatives, who were keen to welcome her back. Jeyne was one of the first, tears streaming down her face when she hugged Sansa and sobbed how happy she was to have her best friend back.

Jeyne told Sansa about her studies and the apartment she shared with another girl – just as she and Sansa had planned. Her awkwardness about it was endearing, and Sansa had to assure her many times that it was perfectly fine, and of course she hadn't expected her to wait for her recovery. Emboldened, Jeyne launched into an enthusiastic tale about how great it was, and how wonderful it was to live on her own and be independent, take her life into her own hands and feel empowered and adult.

Sansa listened, nodding politely when nodding was required, but not being quite able to share Jeyne's excitement. During that same time, she had been a prisoner of the crown, escaped twice from political imprisonment, travelled across the country in a one-horse cart, fought for her life in an ambush, fell in love with an ill-tempered warrior with a troubled past, plotted to overthrow a king… Buying her own food and paying her own bills didn't feel quite as exciting after that.

Edric, her "almost-boyfriend", visited as well, having flown all the way from Sunspear. It was great to see him and Sansa was touched that he still cared – but seeing him sitting there, all sun-kissed and relaxed, dressed in casual khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, only acted as a reminder of what she had lost. Edric was manly enough and not a skinny runt by any means, but his height, the width of his shoulders and the shape of his arms were nothing compared to those of a real man - to Sandor's.

Sansa was well aware of how unfair she was, but still the thought of how she could have ever thought him as attractive and exciting was too much, and she had to apologetically cut the visit short, mumbling apologies for not being quite well enough for an extended visit. Edric was great about that too, kissing her on the cheek and wishing her speedy recovery, swearing they had to stay in touch and that he was looking forward to seeing her again on his next holiday.

Then he left and Sansa stayed, staring morosely at the spot Edric had vacated, trying to keep any thoughts of Sandor at bay – as what was the point? – but failing miserably.

After a while, Sansa's obsession with the past became more painful than enjoyable. Back in Winterfell, when she had still considered the possibility of a voluntary return, she had imagined how great it would be to read about the events from a privileged position of seeing it from all angles and with the benefit of several sources and meticulous research.

To now realise that what she really wanted to know couldn't be found in books had been only a mild irritation at first. Yet the more she faced the frustration of missing out on why people had done what they had - what their emotions had been, how their relationships had developed or what they had thought, wished and hoped – the more depressed she became. The finality of it all was what hurt the most, though.

Her lover, dead.

All her family, dead.

All her friends, dead.

All her aspirations, achieved by the others.

Before long Sansa stopped visiting the library, and the bookmarks for interesting websites she had marked during her research stayed unopened.

She started sleeping late and staying up late, watching mindless TV programs and internet memes. She neglected her exercises and missed appointments with her therapist. She knew she should do something with her life while waiting for her studies to begin—maybe get a part-time job or something—but she simply didn't have interest or energy.

And in a downward spiral, the less she did, the less she wanted to do.

Sansa knew her parents worried about her and tried by subtle and some less subtle means encourage her to become more active – but the more they pushed, even if ever so gently, the more she resisted.

All she wanted to do was to sleep, think nothing and do nothing. She floated through her days suspended between two worlds: the one she had been so cruelly pushed out of, and the other, which she didn't feel ready to re-enter.

The routine that had seemed so comforting in the beginning started to chafe her. Getting up in the morning, wishing her parents and Bran a good day, exercising – or more often, not - having a shower, then watching TV or surfing the internet aimlessly… maybe visiting the shops and maybe cooking the evening meal when she had the energy for it, then watching more TV in the evening, going to bed… The days started to blur with each other and the monotony of them wearied her.

Yet Sansa didn't know how to move on.

"Sansa, you know what I'm going to say to you, do you not?" Bran slumped in front of Sansa on the bed, where she was busy searching for new videos about the latest internet cat sensation: a kitten who could dance on her back feet to the tune of the latest pop songs.

Annoyed, Sansa shifted her laptop. She had just found a page with a whole collection of videos – Bran's visit was truly badly timed.

"If I know, then you don't have to say it and we can finish this discussion straight away," she quipped.

Bran was unfazed. "Knowing is not doing. And you need to start doing something. I thought I wouldn't have to tell you that, but it seems I do."

"Doing what? If this is about those exercises, Ellara tells me I'm in good enough shape. It's not like I'm practising for the White Harbor Marathon or – "

"Living." Bran pushed her laptop gently aside and rested his hand on Sansa's when she fought to get it back. "You must start living."

Sansa huffed. It wasn't as she didn't know it herself. She just didn't know how.

"But I am! Am I still lying in bed, unconscious and hooked up in a drip?"

"Maybe not literally, but you might as well be." Bran's eyes bore into hers and Sansa squirmed under their scrutiny. "Tell me, Sansa. Tell me what it is that really troubles you."

Sansa opened her mouth and almost replied with a few well-rehearsed lines about how she found it difficult to adapt back into a life where she had no permanent place as yet, and how it would surely be better when she started her studies, and how she just needed to get over the first few months, and how everyone should just give her a bit more time and not be so demanding – but she didn't.

She closed her mouth, then opened it again but words didn't come. She looked into Bran's eyes, which were calm and understanding and she knew Bran was different. He might understand. He would understand.

And Sansa broke down and told him everything.

Later, much later, Sansa felt as if she had indeed run that marathon up and down the sloping hills of the outer harbour. Every fibre of her body was raw and hurting and the toll it had taken to finally unload her burden left her weak and breathless.

And yet, beyond exhaustion, there was a small sense of lightness growing inside her.

Bran had listened to her story, starting all the way from that first day in the Red Keep and ending under the bed in Winterfell, intently and without interruptions. Only once or twice he had encouraged her to continue when she had faltered, either with a few muttered words or wordlessly, touching her shoulder or pulling her to lean against him, so Sansa didn't have to face him when she shared what had truly happened.

It was ridiculous, really. Bran was younger than her and although of a height with Sansa, skinny and wiry – and yet when Sansa leaned on him, he felt strong and comforting and as if he could protect Sansa from everything bad in the world.

She cried. Of course, she cried, tears streaming down her face when she tried to convey how it felt to have found love and have it snatched away. She laughed too, self-deprecating laughter, describing her jealousy towards the woman whose own body and life she herself had so callously stolen, albeit unintentionally.

Bran didn't challenge her even once. He didn't say how unlikely it sounded, or how there could be no explanation for it, or that Sansa must have hallucinated the whole thing. As a matter of fact, he didn't even seem all that surprised. He only listened.

After Sansa told him all she could think of, including her research into how she had changed the history and how frustrating it was that she couldn't reach the real people – living, breathing, thinking, feeling people - from her past through books, silence fell upon them both.

Bran had come to her room mid-morning and now it was evening, darkness prevailing outside. Their mother had come in once to call them for dinner, but Bran had turned her down, gently but firmly. After assessing the scene in front of her, she had withdrawn quietly but returned moments later with a platter of steamed dumplings with a dipping sauce, leaving them unobtrusively on the table before retreating again.

"Sooooo… what now?" Sansa finally asked, blowing her nose. She didn't truly expect Bran to have a snappy solution to her problems, but it seemed like a reasonable question to ask. To her surprise, Bran did have an answer.

"You have to say goodbye. You can't move on before you do, and I think you do want a way forward." Bran grabbed the last remaining dumpling, now gone cold, and stuffed it into his mouth in one piece. He seemed casual but his eyes following her every move suggested he wasn't quite as nonchalant as he seemed.

"And how do you propose I do that?"

"You say that you gave up your research because you couldn't find what you were looking for: connection with the people you knew. Maybe you need that connection to be able to let them go." Bran smiled sadly. "Especially him."

He didn't need to specify who he meant. But how to say goodbye to Sandor when he was only a few dry lines in a book or a few blinking words on a webpage – even those focussing more on his dogs and horses and anything else except what had made him her Sandor?

"I tried. It didn't work."

"Maybe you need to take a different approach. More direct. Maybe what you need is a road trip." Bran became animated as he spoke, conjuring action out of thin air in front of Sansa's eyes. "You could go to King's Landing and the Quiet Isle and the Hound's Den and Winterfell and see the places where he – they – lived and breathed, walk through the rooms they inhabited, touch the things they touched. Maybe there you could also find a bit more about the private side of their lives."

"I think I know what you mean," Sansa said slowly. She remembered Uncle Tobin telling that he had gathered most of his material by visiting original archives and collections that were not necessarily open to the public. Being the member of the Westeros Genealogical Society and the Historical Society of the North had opened for him many doors that usually stayed closed.

Bran continued her line of thought as if having read her mind: "You could write to Uncle Tobin and ask for his endorsement to become a member of all his societies. Maybe he could even appoint you nominally as his research assistant. You could say you are helping him to write another book."

Sansa assessed the plan, trying to find weaknesses, but found only strengths. To visit the castle where Sandor had lived as his own man… He must have left something of himself inside those walls. And of his wife, too. Sansa truly wanted to shed the underlying resentment she felt towards her earlier incarnation, as it was so totally unfair, and maybe this would allow her to do that.

"We could go there easily. Stay a few days, visit places…" Sansa looked at Bran. "You would come with me, wouldn't you?"

Bran shook his head. "No – this is a trip you have to do on your own. You owe it to yourself. Just as you owe to give it enough time."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't fly. Drive. I'm sure Mom will loan you her car, or you can rent or buy one. Don't go for a few days, go for weeks. Or months. It's not like you have any other plans – or do you?"

Sansa's first reaction was to argue that it was absurd. Driving on her own would be so boring and take a long time, with all places she would want to visit – the list already forming in her mind – being so scattered across the country.

Then she thought about it. That was exactly Bran's point, she suspected. She needed that time alone; just her and her thoughts, her discoveries, her goodbyes. No well-meaning parents or friends or artificial attempts to pull her back into to the society. Just her and the road.

Maybe there was some merit in it.

The next few weeks while Sansa made preparations for her trip were the most exciting time after her return. Comparisons with her previous journey across the country were inevitable, and often they brought bittersweet memories into her mind.

The tranquil pace of their little cart driven by Ned; the undulating landscape dotted with villages; herds of cattle; groups of peasants toiling in the field. Sandor unharnessing the horse and hobbling it at their campsite; Sansa collecting firewood from the forest and starting their evening fire. The taste of charred hare she had skinned and dressed all by herself; bright stars in the dark, velvety sky; the sweet smell of forest filling her nostrils as she drifted into sleep…

No such journey this time: she was going to stay in hostels and motels and eat in cheap restaurants and pubs. Her route would take her via wide highways cutting through the landscape in direct lines, stopping in petrol stations and fast-food joints.

She planned her trip carefully: she was going to start from King's Landing after taking a car-train there, then make her way up the Kingsroad towards the Hounds' Den and Winterfell, stopping over at least at the Quiet Isle and at the inn of the crossroads, which, to her surprise, still existed. She wanted to visit Casterly Rock and Tarth as well, but she could do that by flying in and out of King's Landing instead of driving. If she wasn't too exhausted by the end of her journey, she might continue all the way up to the Wall before coming back again. She left the plan deliberately loose to allow her opportunities to improvise if she felt like doing so.

Her parents were surprised but offered no resistance when she outlined her intentions. Sansa suspected they were at their wits end about what to do with her, it being quite obvious how depressed and withdrawn she had become. Bran might have advised them too, although he had agreed with Sansa's assessment that it was probably for the best if Alessa and Edmar didn't know the full truth.

Sansa wrote to Uncle Tobin, who was more than happy to provide all the endorsements and appointments she asked for. He didn't even stop to ask why she wanted them – probably taking for granted that study into the past and one's genealogy was what everyone wanted to do if they had time.

And so one day, bright and early when the sun had hardly peeked from the horizon, Sansa stepped into a train and waved goodbye to her family. Her car was in the car-carriage, her luggage packed in its boot. She had her laptop in her backpack, her newly printed membership cards for various societies and a letter of official appointment as a genealogy research assistant in her folder; she had a generous mobile phone plan, a credit card with a substantial limit and a wad of notes to get her through where credit was not accepted. She had a driving plan and the first two nights' accommodation in King's Landing booked.

She was ready.