Dad always starts his gentle pleas for her to break things off with Joff with All I'm saying, sweetheart.

He's got half a dozen speeches, all of them honed to perfection over the years of repetition, but every single one of them starts the same. He waits until it's just the two of them, and he softens her up with dinner, or a very hearty lunch, and he clears his throat before he starts.

He starts this one as they're leaving Heddles, and Sansa's so stuffed with thick mushroom soup and crusty sourdough bread that she's waddling a little.

"All I'm saying, sweetheart," Dad says, having cleared his throat, "is that we're behind you. No matter what, your mother and I are with you - you can always move up home, if that would work. I know Vayon and Marya have been begging Jeyne to think about it for ages."

"I know, Dad," Sansa assures him, because she does. She could dump Joff right now, by text, and Dad and Mum and the others would stand right by her. So would Winterfell, and most of the North. They'd crowd in around her and hide her in the fold, and she'd be free as a bird, provided she never came further south than the Neck ever again. She knows the North. She knows her family, and she knows Mum and Dad would rather die than let anything bad happen to her or Arya or the boys.

It's the rest of the country that worries her. It's Joff that worries her.

"I wish to the gods we'd never sent you to Duskendale," he sighs, nudging his temple to hers and tugging her hand a little tighter into his elbow. "It had seemed like such a good idea, and your mother loved it so much-"

"Dad," Sansa says, drawing him to a halt. "This isn't your fault. This is just… It just is. It'll be fine."

"Sweetheart-"

Dad's head is whole, and then it isn't.

Sansa's top is white, and then it's red.

When Sansa was nineteen, she got engaged.

She hadn't really meant to do it. In fact, she really hadn't meant to do it. Joff was twenty-one then, smart and beautiful and charming, and he spoiled her rotten when he wasn't being terrible. They'd been going out since she was fifteen and he was seventeen. His father was king and hers was soon-to-be prime minister, their families had gone to the same schools, their grandfathers had worked together, their grandmothers had been on all the same committees and fundraising boards - they were an obvious match. He was so nice in front of everyone else that the little cruelties didn't matter, really, until they did.

All the while, the blush-pink birthmark on the inside of Sansa's wrist remained an indeterminate little smudge, and she never paid it any mind. She knew what it was, but since it hadn't reacted to Joff she supposed that it didn't really matter. She was more worried about the bruises and the marks, the cigarette burns on her thighs and the other, harder to heal scars on her back.

No chance of a backless wedding dress, then.

"Get her in, get her in!"

Is that Jory? She doesn't know. She can't hear much over the ringing in her ears and whoever's screaming.

She's screaming.

Dad is on the ground, missing half his head, and she's screaming.

Jory's next.

"Get her in!" Hallis roars, throwing his arm around Sansa's waist and heaving her off her feet. She's vaguely aware of where they're going, inasmuch as it's away from Dad, and she can't seem to shut up. Joff's going to be so angry with her about that, later. There's going to be viral footage of this all over the internet, and he'll be furious that she's not presenting herself better.

Hallis slumps and they hit the ground, and it's Donnis who gets her back on her feet. She's stopped screaming, started crying instead, and they're almost to the car when a bullet goes through Donnis' throat and into the windscreen.

That starts her screaming again.

The trouble with Joff was… Well. Where to start.

The real trouble with Joff - the root of the problem - was that no one had ever said no to him. Sansa knew she was as much to blame as his parents, really, because she'd been so overawed by Joff, Joffrey Baratheon, Prince of Dragonstone, wanting to take her to the cinema when she was fifteen and not quite grown into her legs yet with braces and spots and a dodgy fringe, that she'd gone along with whatever he'd wanted.

She'd let him bully her into shorter skirts and blonder highlights, because that was what the older girls he talked about wore and did. She chose to go to college further from home because it was closer to him, even though that meant she couldn't do Design and a language together, like she'd always wanted.

And then, when she was nineteen, she agreed to marry him. She still didn't know why.

"Don't worry, Sansa," Petyr says, putting his suit jacket over her head and guiding her down into the well behind the driver's seat of his big flashy jeep as his escort drives them away from the- from that. "We'll get you safe away, sweetheart."

She doesn't want to go back to her and Jeyne's apartment with Dad's blood and Jory's blood and probably their brains all over her white top.

Where did Petyr even come from? Ormund Square was quiet, so much so that she and Dad had remarked on it when they came out of Heddles, and she would have noticed Petyr's jeep.

She dares to peek out the rear window as they exit the square, and she wishes she hadn't. The dark grey suits of Dad's security team look very stark against the pale cobbles.

She was just glad she'd never moved in with him. Instead, she had a little two-bed apartment with Jeyne, twenty minutes walk from Jon's and five minutes from the nearest bus stop. If Joff ever wanted to come over and she needed an excuse, she could say she was going to Jon's for dinner, and he'd meet her halfway in case Joff came to check. Jon was warier of Joff than anyone, probably because of the Coup.

Arya also liked to stay over. She never said that it was to stop Joff from doing the same, but Sansa wasn't as stupid as she played for Joff and his friends. Sometimes she brought Rickon and the Wii, and they played Wii Sports for hours. That meant she could throw a dozen pictures of Rickon and Arya fighting on her and Jeyne's bright blue rug up on her Snapchat story as proof that she really couldn't have Joff over, look, her brother and sister were visiting.

And somehow, she hadn't broken it off with him.

Sansa's engagement ring had to be resized to fit over her knuckle after Joff slammed her hand in the car door.

It's no great loss to leave it in the big envelope Petyr gives her for her clothes, along with the lion's head necklace and the heavy golden watch. It looks like a police evidence bag, and she throws it out the door before stepping into the shower to wash Dad off her skin.

It's been just under half an hour. She's scrubbing at her neck with a facecloth and heavily-perfumed shower gel when she realises she probably should have waited to see the police. They probably would have wanted photos or- or something. She remembers, sort of, what happened when Joff's uncle lost his hand, and she remembers Cersei complaining that Colonel Lannister had been questioned even while he was being wheeled down to surgery. Captain Tarth was one of Mum's scholarship girls at Duskendale, and so Sansa remembers a little better that Brienne had had to sit in clothes crusted with Jaime Lannister's blood for three hours of questioning before she'd been allowed to shower.

She's tried calling Mum but can't get through, and her phone is dead now and Petyr won't give her his - says his is being traced, and if the rest of the family have any sense, they'll be hiding now, too, so they've probably dumped their phones.

As he says it, that makes sense. Petyr has been an advisor to cabinet for as long as Sansa can remember, and even if no one particularly likes him, Sansa can trust him. Mum trusts him, so Sansa can trust him. She has to trust him, because all of Dad's protective detail are lying dead on the ground in Ormund Square and she has no one else on hand who knows how to keep her away from a bullet.

She didn't try to call Joff. Part of her is hoping that this was some sort of concerted effort to off the royals, and Joff got caught up in it. Everything would be better if Joff was dead. She knows that this isn't about the royal family, though - Dad wouldn't have been their first target if it was - which means Joff is still out there, probably cheating on her right this minute. Good. That means he won't be looking for her.

She sits on the floor of the shower until the water runs cold, rubbing her left thumb over the pink birthmark on the inside of her right wrist. It's just a little blob of discolouration, but this has always been the quickest way for her to calm herself down short of sleeping tablets.

Someone's left clothes in the bathroom for her. Funny thing is, she's certain she locked the door.

When Sansa was nineteen, she agreed to marry Joff.

No, not quite.

When Sansa was nineteen, she tried to dump Joffrey. Arya had found the burn marks on her thighs, and the bruises from his latest beating had been shiny and dark on her back and around her throat. She'd spent a night in hospital to make sure she wasn't concussed, and then she'd agreed - she'd promised - that she'd break up with Joff.

Except she'd tried to do it at dinner, and as if he'd been expecting it, he got down on one knee and produced an absolute whopper of a diamond, right there in the middle of the restaurant. How could she say no to the Prince of Dragonstone? How could she refuse such a magnificent engagement ring, such wonderful prospects, such a fine, charming, upstanding young man?

She couldn't. And so she said yes, and Joff invited himself back to her place, and he took his belt to her back for daring to make an escape attempt.

The one thing she'd always comforted herself with was that he'd never raped her. He'd never forced so much as a kiss on her, always accepting her refusals with an uncharacteristic patience that made her worry about what went on behind castle walls. Instead, he just embarked on an ever more public string of affairs, starting with prostitutes and culminating, just three weeks ago, in an attempt to seduce Margaery Tyrell at her Fall/Winter show.

Margaery had been Sansa's friend since they were on the showjumping team together in college, and she wasn't particularly interested in men anyways, but it had been how open Joff was about it that had really stung. They'd been at Marg's show together, mostly for Sansa's sake and a little because having a royal on the front row would be good for publicity. They'd been chatting with Loras and Renly - Marg's brother, Joff's uncle, and damn good company - when he slipped away.

The first Sansa knew of it was Marg throwing her champagne in Joff's face.

The clothes Petyr left in the bathroom fit well enough to make Sansa uncomfortable - she's heard the rumours about his money, listened to the scandal about all those suspicious hostels of his on Satin Street, where all the brothels moved once Silk Street really established itself as a heart of the theatre district. Even if he was a pimp, why did he know her bra size? Not even Margaery could guess someone's bra size on sight. And why had Petyr had clothes to fit her on hand?

Is she in a brothel? She's never even been in a strip club before, never mind the sort of establishment Petyr's rumoured to operate, and her skin is already crawling. She knows - from tabloids, from overhearing Mum and Dad talk about it, from Joff's occasional outbursts - that it was while hunting in a brothel that the King had his last heart attack. She wants out of here, away from Petyr. She wants to go home.

She wants Dad, but that's beyond her now.

She throws up. Then she does it a second time for good measure, because she hasn't a clue what else to do.

Joff hated Sansa's family. That was okay though, because she didn't like much of his, either.

He'd hit the roof when Mum and Dad weren't pleased about the engagement. He'd been even angrier when Sansa agreed with their parents - hers and his alike, which had surprised her at first - that a long engagement was a good idea, at least until she'd finished her masters, which she'd then wheedled out into a delay until her three-year doctorate was done. They'd been aiming for September next, although they hadn't made any plans yet.

His mother hadn't wanted them to make any plans. His mother disliked Sansa even more than Sansa disliked her, for some reason. Joff had known that, and found it hilarious, and Sansa sometimes wondered if he only kept on with her to get under his mother's skin.

Maybe, if Joff thought she was dead, as well as Dad, he'd move on.

She could be free.

The blouse Petyr left for her has a patterned silk front - an ugly golden bronze, with green and orange tropical flowers splashed all over it - but the back is sheer, and Sansa doesn't know whether she feels more conscious of her scars or the backband of her bra.

"There she is," Petyr says, smiling at her as though nothing about this is any different than when last he had dinner at Winterfell. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you a drink."

It's definitely a brothel. A high end one, since all of the girls sitting around this lounge are fully and elegantly dressed, and it only smells a little of sex, but a brothel nonetheless.

Someone snaps Sansa's bra. She nearly jumps out of her skin, because the sound echoes in her still-ringing ears like a gunshot, and the men sitting around Petyr all laugh.

"Doesn't really need that, does she?" the ugly little ginger says, sidling around to settle beside Petyr's escort from earlier. Broom? Brown? No, Brune, that's the big man's name. "Wouldn't mind seeing her dance, if she got rid of it."

"Mind your tongue, Shadric," Petyr cautions, but he's smiling too. "This isn't one of the girls, you know."

"You'll need to hide the hair," another of them says - an old man, grizzled and overgrown his suit. "That'll catch eyes even without people looking."

"Shame," Petyr says, and Sansa folds her arms over her chest because of the way they're all looking at her. "I do like the hair."

Sansa's starting to wonder if she might not be better off back with Joff.

Willas is on a flight to King's Landing within four hours of hearing that Ned Stark has been killed, but as always, that's too late.

Marg is waiting for him at the airport, all pale and anxious, and she tucks his good crutches under his arms before throwing his shitty travel sticks over her shoulder.

"Well," she says, her voice thick and her jaw tight. "Looks like we missed the boat on this one."

She pulls his bag along behind her, and he follows her out to the car - not her own car, or one of the old man's. Incognito.

"Fred's?" he guesses, because he can't imagine anyone but a Manderly choosing teal leather for the upholstery. Wynafryd's a new girlfriend, but Loras says there's a small ocean thriving on Marg's left shoulder now, so who knows? Maybe she's a permanent fixture.

"Who else is going to lend me their car?" Marg points out, which is fair. She's probably the worst driver in the whole country, and that's including Granny, who has a record twenty-three crashes under her belt. "I thought you'd prefer it this way. No one cares about the Manderlys this far south."

They get out of the airport. Willas assumes they're going to Marg's apartment in the incredibly bougie Riverside, formerly known as Flea Bottom, but they could just as easily be going to his equally overpriced townhouse on the million mile, just below the university.

At least his house is overpriced because he's had it refitted to accommodate his wheelchair, and because real estate on any of the three hills has always been overpriced. Marg's paying ten times over the odds for a view out over the Blackwater Rush, and it's no Oldtown Harbour.

"How is she?" he asks, because even when he fucks up, Marg always manages to do some good - she always manages to get near Sansa to do some damage control during the very worst of things. "Have you spoken to her yet?"

"No one has," Marg says, and Willas can feel his blood pressure rising. "She was with her father when he- when it happened, and no one has heard from her since. Alla's been calling me every twenty minutes on Arya's behalf. Nothing."

"Then she's with Baelish."

"Has to be."

High blood pressure and a sick stomach. Lucky there are plenty of laybys on the old airport road, and Marg doesn't mind pulling in for ten minutes so Willas can throw up.

"Reincarnating," Marg agrees. "Absolute pile of shit."

Willas hasn't actually met Sansa, this time around.

That was partly on purpose - it's weird, being around her when she's barely eighteen and he's twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, and something stupid in his hindbrain is telling him to propose to her. That's not a good feeling, not for either of them, so he's stayed away as best he can.

And now it might be too late.

"If you have a panic attack I'm going to throw you off the balcony," Marg shouts in from her very shiny kitchen. Willas is working on it, counting his prayer beads in quickly repeating sevens, but getting to Marg's apartment without losing his mind in sight of a traffic camera or paparazzo had taken all the self control he had to spare.

Onetwothreefourfivesixsevenonetwothreefourfivesixseven.

"Here," Marg says, handing him a fizzing glass of water. "It's got one of those things Mal uses when she has a vision in it - try it. Might calm you down."

He chokes it down between uneven breaths, and sure enough, the tunnel vision starts to widen out within ten minutes.

Still. Onetwo three four five six and seven.

"We'll find her," Marg says. "I promise. We'll find her."

Sansa's sister knocks on Marg's door an hour after Willas manages to calm the fuck down. Sansa has been missing for seven hours - sacred seven. It's an omen, but he doesn't know what kind.

"We know," Arya Stark says. "Me and Bran, anyway. Now tell me what you know."

"What do you know?" Marg asks, but she still steps back to let Arya Stark and little cousin Alla through the door. That's a fairly new arrangement, and Willas has to wonder what it's like to be born with a choice in who you love. He can't imagine loving anyone but Sansa, not for lack of trying, but it might be interesting to have the option.

"Do you think we're involved, somehow?" Marg asks, pushing Alla down onto the couch beside Willas. Alla, sweet, silly Alla, immediately sets to patting his hand, so he obviously looks even worse than he feels.

"Don't be ridiculous," Arya says, sitting down on the edge of Marg's very fashionable, very ugly coffee table. "We know about all the history - and we want to know if you've done anything about Baelish yet."

"I was very sorry to hear about your father's death," Willas says, wondering if he'll ever have a chance to know his father-in-law. He hasn't so far. "I got on the first flight I could find from Braavos, so in the seven hours since Sansa's disappearance, I haven't been able to do much but make a few phone calls."

"You're Hightowers!" Arya snaps. "I know your mad aunt is a Seer, why didn't you do anything? Why weren't you on time?"

"Why didn't you?" Marg asks, cold as the grave. "Your brother is a Seer too, Miss Arya Stark. Why weren't you on time?"

"Because it's their father's death that wakes them up, Marg," Willas says, wishing - not for the first time - that he'd inherited Malora's Sight along with her almost-deaf left ear. "Mal's visions aren't straightforward. She tends to See in portents, mostly, and we can't always interpret them ahead of time. I'm sorry, Arya. I truly am."

She takes a deep breath, pressing her face into her hands, and when she lifts her head the shocking dark silver of her eyes is bright with tears.

"Sansa has to be brought home as soon as possible," she says. "Not for you, for us - Bran and I want her home for Dad's funeral. She's never had the chance before."

"So seven days," Alla says. "Well, six, discounting today."

"I want to find her in less than that, if possible," Marg says, rubbing her hands up and down her skinny arms. "The stories I've heard about Baelish this time around…"

Willas' prayer beads are going to be worn away at this rate.

When Willas was sixteen, Awake and stupid, he tempted fate.

He was going out with Tyene Martell at the time, because he was young and an idiot, and the thoughts of waiting at least another fifteen years for Sansa was torture to his hormones. Ty was great, smart and pretty and just as interested in art history as him - although she skewed toward religious art, because of her mother.

Tyene was also Oberyn's daughter, and Willas, being Awake, really ought to have known better.

He'd been visiting Sunspear - chaperoned, since he was officially there doing work experience with Baelor, and was absolutely not spending two weeks with his girlfriend - when Ty introduced him to her father, and his knee had started to hurt from the moment he and Oberyn shook hands.

But that was fine. He was a teenager braver than he was smart, and so he took up Oberyn's challenge of a race across the dunes outside the city. On horseback.

Willas had tried sandracing before - things weren't as they'd always been, and they'd holidayed in Dorne when he was a child - but he wasn't used to his horse, and he'd been thrown, and his knee and ankle were ruined.

A child, thinking he could avoid his destiny.

He hopes to any of the many gods he's encountered in his travels that Sansa's fate is more malleable.