Chapter Three. Poor Unfortunate Souls (In pain, in need)
Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews on the last chapter! However, I'm not really sure how to take all of the questions about whether I had abandoned Kings, Sisters and Arya the Unlikely, and am trying to remain positive that everyone is enjoying my writing. If I don't touch my fics for more than twelve months, ok, asking about abandonment is a valid question. If I updated the week/month before, please just assume that I'm working on the next chapter – I am a fairly slow updater. I work in tourism, and our season just started.
Chapter warning for canon-typical violence and sexism.
Sandor had ridden them all hard to try and get them from the Trident to the Inn of the Kneeling Man (food they didn't have to hunt for, beds, and wine – nobody complained once he explained the pace), but even still they had not been able to get there by the time the sun had gone down, and Sandor hadn't wanted to risk the horses in the dark. With two inexperienced riders and one going bareback, it was unwise to push too hard. They were somewhere between the Inn and Castle Stone Hedge, and as long as nothing bad happened, they should get to Riverrun within three days.
Weary and travelworn, the companions had tucked themselves away in a corpse of trees in a similar arrangement to the night before – Sandor against a tree wrapped in his cloak, the boys huddled together in Sandor's bedroll, and the Stark girls in Sansa's, Stranger picketed separate from the other two horses, and Sorrow balanced high on Mercy's neck. All of them fall dead asleep immediately, and the girls don't even dream, they are so tired.
Hours later, it is the screams that wake them. Sansa jerked up and sideways, scrabbling at Shae's dagger, reaching for her bow and tugging at Sorrow's mind, even as her little sister was lurching for her sword, as Sandor looked away grimly and a groggy Gendry and Hot Pie exchanged rapidly-paling looks.
"Rape," Sansa breathed, eyes wide. Gathering all of her courage, she wrapped herself up in her cloak and started the hike off towards the screams.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sandor rasped. "So eager to have that experience again, bird?"
"You saved me last time," Sansa tells him calmly, still walking. "I'm passing the favour forward."
Arya is at her coattails with steps as quiet as Sansa's own; with a sigh Sandor clambers to his feet as well, but he is even quieter than they. He growls at the boys to stay put and belts on his sword as he follows them.
They sneak through the forest, and slowly the scene is known to them. The woman in question is nearly as tall as Sandor, dressed in men's clothes that appear well-made, and tied up in rope that is considerably less so. She is surrounded by three cloaked men, dressed in the Northern style. One of them has the flayed man of House Bolton. They are taunting the woman, encouraging her screams, and Arya suddenly moves faster than Sansa, moves as a wolf going in for the kill, her sword angled to avoid the light but her eyes lit with bloodlust. Sansa has an arrow knocked and is drawing to back her fierce little sister, resolving herself to taking the life of a Northerner, one of Robb's soldiers.
Before anyone can do anything, there is another call from the opposite camp of, Bring her back here!
Arya freezes, Sansa stiffens where she is, and Sandor clamps his hand down on Arya's shoulder and mouth.
There's growls and grumbles, but one of the men calls out Yes m'lord! in any case, and they start to take the big woman back towards the fires. Carefully, they track these would-be rapists, following and watching to see what has changed their mind about this woman.
"Bugger me with a poker," Sandor breathes, staring at a bearded man tied to one of the sturdier trees. "It's Jaime fucking Lannister!" Both girls shoot him looks, so he elaborates. "He's supposed to be a prisoner of your brother – supposed to be in a cell at Riverrun, your grandfather's seat. And that woman is Brienne the Beauty, Tarth's Lady Knight. They say she murdered Renly Baratheon and entered your mother's service."
"If we return Robb's most valuable prisoner," Sansa whispers back, "And give Mother back her sworn shield, then that might stop them from trying to force us in to betrothals or marriages! Can we take the company, do you think?"
"Three against fifteen? One of them a tiny little girl, and the other a lady just learning the bow – we don't stand a chance."
"Don't forget me," Gendry's low voice comes to them out of the darkness. "I left Hot Pie with Sorrow and the horses. I'm not a soldier, true, but I'm strong, and I can fight."
"You don't have a sword," Sansa pointed out, eyes flicking back to the campsite.
"I'll steal one from whoever you hit, Lady Stark."
"Against fifteen bloody Boltons, we're still fucked." Sandor contributed darkly before Sansa had a chance to correct the title.
"What if we arm the lady and the Kingslayer?" Arya murmured. "That's six to fifteen, and we have the element of surprise. Sansa, how many can you take out before they react?"
"Three, if I'm quick. But I'll need to keep moving, I'm no good to you in close combat. Any others, I can't guarantee."
Arya nodded. "Take out the three closest to the Lady Knight and her rope if you can, then move. Go and free their horses or something, or shoot from the edges, I don't care, just don't hit us. We'll be the main attacking force until those others can get blades in their hands."
As they had been talking and watching, the Kingslayer had sweettalked his way off of the tree, and was taken a ways away. Sansa took this as an opportunity, and let loose three rapid arrows that all found their marks, a fourth cutting through the Lady's rope at the back. The men kicked up a fuss as Jaime Lannister started screaming fit to wake the dead, though Sansa didn't stop to see what caused the ruckus. She saw her sister, guard and the blacksmith take off, and moved quickly to the sides herself, lining up another shot and taking it. Instead of catching the man in the throat as she had intended, Sansa had rushed her shot and caught the man in the shoulder, and given her position away too.
Swiftly Sansa ducked back the way she had come, loosing another arrow that caught a man in the gut. She raced to the horses, cutting them free with Shae's dagger and stampeding them back through the camp. She took control of some of them, forcing the beasts right in to the men who were trying to take out her friends.
Arya's piping voice cut across the sounds of battle clearly.
"Fuck off, Sansa!"
Sansa grins ferally, and tries to hold her giggles back. She has to focus if they are all to escape unscathed; they cannot leave survivors, it won't do for Roose Bolton to find out that the Stark girls had killed his men. There had been fifteen at the start of the battle – Sansa had shot four, and the horses could account for two of the bodies on the ground. Arya had three deaths to her name, Gendry one, and Sandor had taken out five all on his own. The Lady Knight and the Kingslayer hadn't had to do a thing. This was fortunate, as the Kingslayer was still screaming.
"What's wrong with him?" Sansa demanded, coming out of her hiding spot to get a closer look at the fair knight.
"Don't look, m'lady!" Gendry exclaimed, trying to hold her back.
"Arya?" She snapped, glaring up at the smith.
"They took his hand," Her sister breathed, slinking past Sansa with her sword still bloody.
Sansa paled. "I'll have a look at it," she whispered, slinging her bow over her shoulders numbly. "Pick their pockets for me, Arya? Then build a pyre to dispose of the bodies. Strip them first, see if we can't find a use for anything, or can sell anything at the next hamlet."
Arya gives her an approving look, and drags a green-faced Gendry after her. Sansa turns to the horses who still mill about, warging one of the more intelligent to head back to their original camp to collect Hot Pie (who could in turn bring Stranger, Mercy and Wolverine).
Slipping back in to her own body and drawing in a deep breath, Sansa moves towards the Kingslayer. "Ser Jaime! I need you to calm down!"
The big woman has gone to him as well, her blue eyes wide with horror. The Kingslayer is still screaming, so Sansa looks at Brienne and snaps, "Hold him down for me, please. Arya, is there any wine? Gendry, look for clean linen for me – actually, never mind, boil me some water and tear up some strips of cloth, that will do. Sandor – "
"I'm not getting the other one, Little Bird," he growls at her. "Fat shit won't be any help here, anyway."
Sansa sighs to herself and declines to inform him that that wasn't what she was going to ask. Hitching her shoulders back up, grabbing a water flask and pulling one of her own kerchiefs from her pocket, she moves closer to the bedraggled pair. "Fine, then. Lady Knight, keep him steady for me instead, please. Ser Jaime, I need you to hold very still. Sandor, would you – ?" Her grumpy shield moves before she can even finish, helping Brienne hold down Jaime's arm. "Thank you. Ser Jaime, I'm going to do what I can here, but you need to help me, too."
"Lady Stark, where ever did you come from?" He snarks weakly, head lolling and eyes glassy.
"Hold still, Ser Jaime." Sansa repeats firmly, gently washing around the stump of his arm with the water flask, and then tightly binding the end with her kerchief.
"Well?" He asks arrogantly, head lolling. "Does the Lady Stark know anything about healing?"
"There's no need to be hateful," Sansa scolds absentmindedly. "Gendry, how's that water coming along?"
"What's your plan now?" Arya grumbles, tearing into a bit of pheasant. Sansa gives her a long-suffering look before answering.
"If we return Robb's most important political prisoner, we have even more sway than before, don't we? We could trade Ser Jaime for peace."
"Good fucking luck," Sandor growls. "Cersei might do it, Tywin probably won't do it, and Joff certainly won't either."
"Well, we're still better off than without a prisoner, aren't we?" Sansa snaps back at him. "Lady Brienne, if we have you deliver him and a note to Robb? We can say that we won't come in until he swears on Father's grave that he won't marry us off without giving us the chance to make our choices first."
"I don't know how well received I'll be, my ladies," Brienne offers slowly, casting frequent looks to the passed-out Lion behind them. "I am your mother's shield, I do not serve your brother."
"It's easy," Arya growled. "Take him to the gates. Tell Mother that we're not in Kings Landing, so she and Robb can keep their prisoner. We'll draft up a letter for Robb to let him know our terms. If you take Sorrow with you, then he can let us know when it's safe to go inside."
"And what about us?" Gendry murmurs lowly.
"You can smith for Robb," Arya answers. "And, Hot Pie, I'll be they'll love another cook!"
As much as Arya might look like Father, she is truly Mother's daughter. Sansa knows people better than even her friendly little sister now, can read the nuances of their thoughts written on their faces, and can see what Arya somehow misses.
"Gendry?" Sansa asks gently. "Is there something else you'd rather do?"
Pink dusts his cheeks, and the tall youth ducks his head. "I am a smith, m'lady," he says lowly. "I'm good at it, too, I like it and I like being useful."
Sansa hummed, Tully eyes flicking over to Arya. "What are you going to do?" She asked. "I'm to be Robb's Master of Whispers. How will you prove your worth past marriage alliances?" Gendry's shoulders tighten, Hot Pie looks sick, and Sansa hopes her sister won't hit her for such a question.
"As a fighter, of course!" Arya says indignantly.
"One little girl still learning her blade, versus the hundreds or thousands of men that her marriage could bring to Robb's cause. Think bigger, Arya."
"Bigger, like the Small Council?" Hot Pie tries.
Sansa smiles at him encouragingly.
Arya counts on her fingers the same list of titles that Sansa had recited to herself only a week earlier. "Hand of the King, Grandmaester, Master of Whispers, Master of Laws, Master of Coin, Master of Ships, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Lord Commander of the City Watch."
"You can't be a Lord Commander of nothin' Arry," said Hot Pie. "You're still learning. An' you can't be Grandmaester neither, you don't know nothing about healing, and Lady Sansa is gonna be the Whisperman – woman, whisperlady, the Whisper – "
"It's fine," Sansa interjected smoothly.
"Sorry, m'lady; and Arry, your brother has to have a Hand already, so that just leaves Law, Coin and Ships. D'you know anything about any of that?"
Arya is chewing on her lip as though she's fit to bite the whole thing off. "I don't know anything about Ships, which leaves Coin and Laws. I'm good at both of those."
"You're not good at rules," Gendry scoffs. "You break them all the time."
"It's more than just that!" Arya spat back. "It's about administering justice, and managing the chief gaoler and all the under-gaolers, and making sure the right laws of succession are followed, and sorting out inheritances and stuff! I can do all of that, I'm not scared."
"No one is calling you afraid," Sansa corrects, elbowing Sandor before he can open his mouth. "Can you do it? Can you be impartial enough to administer a fair justice? I've heard your prayer. If one of the people on it were brought before you, can you tell me truthfully that you would follow through all of the steps of an unbiased sentencing?"
Arya is quiet, and coupled with the looks the two boys are giving her, it is very telling.
"Think on it," Sansa says softly. "We're close now, closer than either of us has been to Mother or Robb since we left home. Mirth thinks that they'll be at Riverrun for another few days yet, and you said that Nymeria shouldn't be too much further away, either. Let's wait for the pack before we go anywhere, plan, and train. Then we can go to Robb with our ultimatum. Yes?"
She thinks perhaps she ought to be shocked at how easily she orders their company and expects it to be followed, a little bit afraid by Arya's compliance and the lack of judgement from Sandor.
"And the Lion?" Sandor askes instead of questioning her plan.
"I'll write to Talisa, and send the ravens at dawn."
"Very good, my lady," Brienne of Tarth finally says. She is a quiet one, steel-spined and honourable. "And after that?"
Sansa smiles her most charming, winsome smile. "Between yourself, Ser Jaime, and Sandor, I rather though we might work on our martial skills."
Arya's answering smile is vicious and pleased, Gendry's hopeful and Hot Pie merely resigned.
They bid themselves a goodnight, and take up their places around the campfire – Ser Jaime and the Lady Knight, Sandor, Sansa and Arya, and the two boys. They have eleven horses to sell at the neighbouring hamlets and villages, swords that Gendry can touch up for them to keep or sell, and spare clothing to go around. They have food, new bedrolls that might need a wash or two in the river, and most importantly, they have hope.
Things are looking up.
When Sansa returns from catching a breakfast of rabbits and squirrels in the grey predawn, it is to find Arya dancing around Sandor, moving through the motions of what must be her water dancing, a glum Hot Pie and Gendry going through drills with the lady knight, and the Kingslayer breathing heavily in a fitful doze.
"Is that all you've got, ya little shit?" Sandor growls at Arya, flicking her blade away contemptuously.
With a battle cry that is more fury than intimidation, Arya throws herself back at Sandor, dancing, weaving and even leaping in an attempt to land a hit.
"Lady Sansa!" Brienne calls. "Leave those for the time being; boys, keep at this drill until I return. My Lady, let me see your bow, please."
Bemused, Sansa handed the weapon over and unslung her quiver too.
"My lady, this is too small for your figure," Brienne said worriedly.
"Aye, I am aware, Lady Knight. Unfortunately, I don't know how to make another, and it is the only one I have."
"Certainly there must be someone in one of the neighbouring hamlets who knows how to make a decent bow. We'll have a look when we're selling the horses, my lady, don't worry. Would you shoot for me, please?"
With a polite of course, Sansa obligingly shoots ten arrows rapidly, at various distances.
"Have you been learning the bow long, my lady?"
"I started learning the day after the Blackwater burnt, Lady Knight."
Brienne's eyebrows tick upwards unconsciously, surprise written heavily on her face. Sansa tries not to hold it against the older woman, keeping her face politely neutral.
"You do very well, my lady. If we find you a bow that fits, I expect you would be an archer of great skill before this war is over. However, you will have to continue to practice to achieve such a level. Can you move at all whilst shooting?"
"No, Lady Knight, not yet. I can work on it, however. And, perhaps, would you know how best to shoot from horseback?"
"I'm afraid I only know the basics, my lady, but we can always practice. Have you any other weapons?"
Sansa draws Shae's dagger, and holds it out carefully.
"This is Lorathi metalwork?"
"It was given to me by a dear friend." Sansa says quietly. "I do believe that she was from Lorath, originally. I would… I would like to learn how to use it."
Brienne is nibbling on her bottom lip. "I am… not as proficient in knife-work as I am with the sword. Perhaps the Hound – ?"
"I have asked him already, Lady Knight. I'm afraid he is in the same boat as yourself. That's alright, though, I'm sure if we look around, we shall find someone."
Brienne nods at her, instructs her to shoot another ninety arrows, and then goes back to Gendry and Hot Pie. Arya and Sandor are still screaming at each other, and Sansa can't help but wonder if wild Ygritte doesn't know any knife tricks. She bets that the answer is yes, and resolves to warg the third raven over lunch, barring any complications. Hopefully Talisa will have written a reply by then.
Goodsister,
What do you do to an amputated stump? A hand was severed at the wrist; we've washed it with water and bound it with kerchiefs, but are yet concerned. Any advice that you could offer would be greatly appreciated.
Lady and Nymeria
Talisa Maegyr stares at the note, looks at the raven that had brought it, and then back to the parchment. It is … likely an unwise course of action, to show the letter to either her husband or his mother. Both are worried enough already after the last letters from Sansa, and Robb was certainly in a temper after Mirth's bit of fun.
(If Talisa is honest with herself, which she always tries to be, Robb well deserved the mess yesterday. Really, he should have more faith in his sisters.)
So she decides to wait awhile before speaking of this to Robb and Catelyn, instead drawing up a letter of instructions and another on plant identification for the girls, and sending both away with yesterday's Mirth and today's Sorrow. She cannot do much for her new little sisters, but what she can she will.
At lunchtime, she will tell the Starks that their missing girls have found each other, and perhaps more than their fair share of trouble. Until then, she had inventories to conduct, injured soldiers to manage and apprentices to train.
It was a hard life, being Grand Healer to the King in the North.
There is a caw from above Jon's head, and that raven is back again.
"Sansa?" He asks hopefully.
The bird lands softly in front of him with an affirmative caw, draws an A, S, R and a heart, and taps the image twice.
As before, he feels a quick lance of warmth through his heart. "I love all of you too. Are you with Robb already?"
The bird hisses, and shakes its head twice. Ruffling the bird's feathers, Sansa sketches a Y and looks about expectantly. So, they aren't with Robb yet, but Sansa and their brother are fighting over something. That's unusual, but it's not as though the raven can tell him the details.
"Ygritte is with the hunting party. She should be back soon."
The bird visibly wilts – clearly, Sansa had been looking forward to talking to the Free Woman who seemed to have claimed Jon for herself.
"Did you have a question for her?" A nod. "Can I help?" The head tilts from side to side, considering, before Sansa draws a bow and what could be a dagger, followed by the word help.
"You want help with the bow? And… knifework?" Another nod. "I am… not the best with knifework. But I can certainly try to help with the bow, I used to train Bran, do you remember?" The first comment earns a morose croak, but the second gets him a slow nod.
Getting Sansa to hop on his shoulder, Jon wanders through the camp until he finds someone willing to lend him their bow for a moment (explaining that he is trying to teach his little lady sister via a warged raven means that the wildling woman who finally agrees laughs fit to burst, even swollen with child as she is, and then begs that he let her watch).
Jon demonstrates how to draw, aim and fire, giving Sansa the same advice that he had once passed on to Bran and, in secret, Arya. Sansa's bird nods at him, and listens attentively when the wildling Birch adds her own secrets to a faster draw. The raven gives them a graceful avian curtsy, and then hops forward to tap at the bow itself. How, Sansa writes in the snow.
"How … to make a bow?" Jon hazards.
Sansa gives him a quick nod, hopping forward and chirping happily. He turns to Birch to see if she has an answer – he's never had to make a bow before.
If Sansa had asked this question at the start, Jon is sure of what answer they would have received – he knows Birch, if not by name before a half-hour ago, then certainly by face. She doesn't like having a Crow in their midst, hates that this Stark (and no matter how many times he says he's a Snow, Stark is still whispered to his back) is on their side of the Wall, and upon first hearing from Ygritte that one of Jon's sisters had found herself to be a warg, Birch had been amongst the cacklers, dismissing his Southron Princesses as useless and incapable of such a Northern ability.
To his great shock, Birch offers to teach Sansa rather cheerfully. She makes sure to say that it is not a quick process, to explain that the many stages that lead up to the creation of an excellent bow take time. Sansa nods along to everything that is said, ruffles feathers when she doesn't understand until Jon can get Birch to elaborate on her point, and seems completely enraptured by the whole process.
Ygritte finds them eventually, Sansa's bird on Jon's knee as Birch is discussing the pros and cons of different treatments for bowstring.
"Wha's all this?" Ygritte asks, plonking herself down by Jon and giving Birch a warning look.
The older woman gives the redhead what could generously be called a smile and says, "His sister has teeth, even if she is a Southerner. I'm teaching her how to make them sharper."
Ygritte cocks her head at the bird with a feral grin of her own. "Bows are best," she says agreeably. "When we're south o' the Wall, I'll bring ye a proper one made of weirwood, Sansa Stark."
Jon feels uncomfortable when his little sister looks at him, with those gimlet raven eyes.
Clicking her beak, Sansa ruffles her feathers apologetically at Birch, and drops to the ground.
"You need to go?" Jon asks her. She nods, so he asks again, "Does this bird have a name?"
Sansa cocks her head, then writes in the snow, ||| for a 'Ding.
"Ding?" A nod. "'Three for a Wedding', huh?"
Sansa gives him a raven laugh, and between one moment and the next, it is just Ding sitting before him. If pressed, Jon wasn't sure he could really explain how he could tell the difference between Sansa being in charge, and Ding being the only mind within the bird – a presence, perhaps, or even the way the body was held.
"The little princess is sharpening her fangs," Ygritte grins at him. "C'mon, Jon Snow, lemme show you somethin' good."
Birch makes vulgar remarks as Ygritte drags him away, and Jon tries hard not to squirm. Sansa knows, he thinks despairingly. Just because she had loved her stories as a child in Winterfell did not make his sister an idiot – indeed, her education had been even greater than his and Robb's, and they were boys. No doubt his sister thought him an oathbreaker, or something similarly awful; she had not drawn a heart before departing this time, had looked at him queerly before she had left, and if she had not hated him before, she certainly hated him now.
Miserable, Jon followed Ygritte to the edges of camp.
"Wha's wrong with you?"
"Sansa hates me, I know it." He mumbles.
Ygritte rolls her eyes at him. "How far away is she, this sister of yours?"
"I don't know where she is," He says unhappily. "She was supposed to be in Kings Landing, but I think she's left there and headed north again. So, at least a thousand miles? Maybe two?"
Ygritte stills suddenly. "A thousand? You're sure?"
"Well, give or take a few hundred?"
"A warging of at least a thousand miles to try and find you, and you think she hates you?" He hesitates, before asking if that isn't normal. "No, you idiot. Haven't you noticed that Orrel is always near to his eagle? That's normal for us."
"But she never–!" He begins, stops, and makes a concentrated effort. "What did you want to show me, Ygritte?"
"Nothin', really, just had to tell ya so you don't get uz in trouble. We're going to move out soon, march on the Wall; you better give Mance and them the answers they want, or it's both our arses in the fire ... I want you to show me how that writing works, and I'm going to teach you how to make a bow. I want to help your Sansa Stark too, ok?"
Blinking to keep tears at bay, he can manage only a whisper. "Ok. Thank you, Ygritte. You've got a deal."
When Sansa opens her eyes, she finds a small flock of ravens waiting for her (Mirth and Sorrow both in their midst), Hot Pie chipperly describing different bread-making processes to Ser Brienne, Gendry sharpening the weapons they took from the Bolton men, Ser Jaime mumbling in his sleep against the bough of a tree, and Arya and Sandor screaming at each other. Again.
" – reatest swordsmen who ever lived was killed by Meryn fucking Trant?"
"He was outnumbered –!"
"Any boy whore with a sword could beat three Meryn Trants!"
"Syrio didn't have a sword! Or armour, just a stick!"
"Greatest swordsmen who ever lived didn't have a sword?!" Here he laughed cruelly, and had they been at Winterfell, Sansa is sure that Arya would have sheep shifted Sandor's bed within an inch of its life. "You have a sword, and I've seen what he's taught you. It's a fucking wonder you're not dead."
With an inarticulate scream, Arya launched herself at Sandor with her sword leading; it did not make it past his own armour, though not for lack of force on Arya's part.
"Arya! Sandor!" Sansa's voice cracks across the glade they had shifted to to avoid detection from last night's bonfire. "What in seven hells are you doing?!" She drags herself upright, and then keeps the straightest posture she possibly can. She hopes she is terrifying – her own rage shocks her, and she hopes it shocks the pair before her, too.
Ser Jaime jerks awake, her ravens caw and flock to the horses or the trees, Hot Pie jumps and fumbles the bread he had been using to demonstrate to Brienne, and Gendry's shoulders hunch up about his reddening ears.
Arya and Sandor freeze, Sandor stiff-shouldered and Arya rigid-backed, neither looking at Sansa.
"You aren't Mother," her sister hisses, voice icy.
"I'm also not a child, like you two seem to be! What has brought this on?!"
Both are too busy glowering at each other to answer, so Sansa swings around to look at their companions. The boys quail before her, and Hot Pie caves first.
"'s about Arry's dancin' Master, Lady Sansa!" He squeaked. "A Braavosi?"
"He wasn't just a Braavosi, he was the former First Swordsman to the Sealord of –!"
"And what does that have to do with screaming at each other like a pair of, of – !"
"Cunts?" Sandor offered drolly, the shoulder closest to her hitched up as though he expected her to hit him.
Sansa made that same boiling-kettle noise she had made during her own argument with Arya the day before, and feels herself flushing in anger. "Sandor, go over there! Arya, over here! And don't either of you talk to each other for the rest of the day!"
Arya growls instead of hissing, gnashing her teeth as she stalks past Sansa to Gendry, throwing herself on the ground beside him. Wordlessly he hands her a dagger and a whetstone, and Arya begins to rasp away at the steel.
Sandor is giving her a funny look again, before growling out, "Walk with me, girl,"
They stalk in to the forest, both of them still in fine tempers.
"You aren't my master, girl." Sandor finally snaps. "I swore you no vows."
"You made me a promise," Sansa agrees, waiting.
"I said I'd never hurt you! But fuck if you don't make it hard some days – I'm not sworn to you, you aren't in charge of me, you can't just order me around like that!"
"Perhaps if you and my sister would stop antagonising each other, we wouldn't be having this conversation!"
"It's training."
"Training!" This time, she is the derisive one. "How is screaming at my twelve-year-old sister training?!"
"You're the one who asked her if she can stay impartial with that little kill list of hers! Don't be stupid, Bird, you've heard it, same as me. I'm on her bloody Prayer. If she can't handle me, how can she handle the others? How can she be the North's Master of Laws?"
She is still mad at him, but Sansa feels herself softening at his reasoning, gods damn it all.
"You couldn't have explained that first?" She groans, trying to hold on to her anger.
"That defeats the point," Her shield grumbles back. They are quiet for a moment, before he asks, "Well? Am I forgiven, Little Bird?"
"Aye," She smiles, a soft little thing. "And I'll not tell Arya what you're doing, either. Just, please try and limit it to one fight a day? I don't know that the rest of us can handle it, elsewise."
He smiles back. "Yeah, Bird; I can do that."
They make their way back to their camp, stopping only to pick some wild onions and more healing herbs, and keeping their faces carefully blank so not to give anything away to the others. Sorrow is back with Talisa's reply on how best to treat Ser Jaime's injury, and Sansa sets about trying to follow the careful instructions. It wouldn't do to lose their prisoner before they can do anything with him, after all.
The birds are still waiting for her, Sorrow and Mirth and five other ravens. A crownland bird asking the King's blessing for a betrothal and another from the Westerlands, two replies from noble sons who survived the Blackwater and wished to ally the fears of worried parents, a reply from Aunt Lysa to Petyr Baelish expressing her sincere delight at their impending nuptials, and lastly a deliciously nasty inquiry from Lady Olenna Tyrell to Tywin Lannister about finally saddling his horse and pulling his finger out, which had solicited a shout of laughter from an unprepared Sansa, and various snorts and giggles from around the campsite when she read the letter aloud.
A still-sour Arya spoilt the mood somewhat when she mentioned that the Queen of Thorns had three unmarried grandsons.
After a tense breath, Sansa told her, "Actually, Ser Garlan was married not long before Father became Hand of the King. I can't say that I've heard any whispers of heirs, but whether the lady Leonette is at fault, or whether they simply wait for the Highgarden heir Lord Willas to be married himself, is still up for debate." Carefully she scribed a thank you note for Talisa, adding Jon's love as well and giving the note to Mirth.
"Why don't you marry him, and then Robb can have his armies and you can have –"
"Didn't you listen yesterday?" Sansa snapped back. "Just because you're in a foul mood, doesn't mean you need to be terrible to me! I told you, I don't want to marry anyone; that's why these birds are here, that's what that bow is for, and that is what he – " here she jabbed a finger towards a dosing Ser Jaime "is for! Grow up!"
Each note had been read, transcribed, fixed and reattached as Sansa read it, and each bird had taken off once it had its scroll back again. At her shout, Mirth flew towards Riverrun, and Sorrow alit himself on Sansa's shoulder.
"Gendry! Hot Pie!"
"Y-yes, m'lady!"
"Come with me! I'm going to teach you how to read." Sansa gave an almost-poisonous look to her shield. "Would you please find something for lunch, Sandor? And Lady Brienne, if you would watch my little sister, please, I would appreciate it!" Back straight with temper, Sansa stalked back into the forest with the two boys just behind her.
Lunchtime at Riverrun is proving to be more… more, than Talisa would like. She keeps trying to take Robb and Catelyn away from the other lords to tell them of this morning's letter, and more and more people just keep coming up and interrupting them, and she's going to hurt someone soon, healers' vows or no.
She has been at this for two hours. What the fuck?
"Your Grace, Queen Mother," She finally interrupts some stuffy Riverland lord or another. "Lady and Nymeria sent a letter this morning."
The reaction is instantaneous. The lords are dismissed until it is only the Starks and the Tullys left behind.
"When?" Lady Catelyn begs, desperate.
"The early hours, my lady."
"What did the note say?" Robb demanded. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
Here she hesitates, but says quickly enough, "They wrote to me about a medical matter. I don't really know the full details, but I sent them a comprehensive guide on how to treat the injury, and asked that they write back to me with the complete tale. And I've been trying to tell you for a while."
Catelyn releases a relieved sob, but Robb is frowning. "How do they know about you?"
Talisa shrugs. "I don't know; yesterday's bird, mayhaps. The letter was addressed to their goodsister and the bird flew straight to me; however they found out, they know a lot more about me than one would think."
"Can I see the letter?"
"My lady, I don't thi –"
"Talisa, what sort of a medical matter?" Robb worries.
"I don't think it had anything to do with them, your grace. If we just wait for the return letter – "
"What matter, Talisa?"
How does one tell one's husband that his little sisters had been asking about amputation treatments?
Before she can really answer, there is a caw from above. Mirth had taken to following Talisa about to avoid Robb, but the cheeky bird is back again with this morning's Sorrow in the windowsill.
Goodsister,
Thank you for your help! Does Grey Wind require more cooks or blacksmiths? Let Beta know we love her. We'll see you soon. Ghost says hello!
Lady and Nymeria
This answers exactly nothing. Talk about an evasion.
"Beta?" Robb askes over her shoulder. "Her?"
"If their code is based around the direwolves," she says softly, "who would be the second-in-command to the pack?"
They both look to Catelyn, who goes through a number of emotions before settling on joy. Her lost daughters wrote of their love for her – what mother wouldn't be happy, in the face of that?
"Who's Ghost?"
"Jon, our half-brother. But he's at the Wall, so I don't know how he can possibly say hello."
Talisa quirks her brow at her husband and points to cheeky Mirth and watchful Sorrow. He gives her an embarrassed smile, and takes the letter from her.
"Do you need any more cooks or smiths?" She asks him cheerfully.
Her husband is busy studying the four lines of text, as though if he stares at it long enough, he will learn all of the girls' secrets. It doesn't appear as though she is going to get any help from Catelyn, either, so she just pens a quick looking forward to meeting you too! and have heard so much about you! to Sansa and Arya.
She's always wanted a sister, and now she has two.
Mirth bears the response from Talisa, a positive two-sentence reply, with a query regarding their knowledge of her and a reminder that she is owed an explanation in the Post Script. Sorrow, who had flown off after they had gone in to the forest, bears a message from their mother. Lady Catelyn's words are full of love for her daughters, recalling shared memories fondly and her hopes that they may all be reunited soon.
Sansa throws it at Arya's head when she and the boys return from their impromptu reading lesson on the riverbank, three hours after the initial spat and barely a half-hour before the sun sets. Arya snaps and snarls back, and Sansa wonders if perhaps her sister might not have been telling the Brotherhood a lie, after all.
Then again, she could just be prickly. It had been a very stressing year, and a few days of peace weren't going to changed learned habits.
Sandor is glowering his way through spitting some rabbits, chestnuts roasting in the coals and a pot of tea being tended to by a wary Lady Knight. The Kingslayer is watching everyone as well, even if his eyes are slitted.
"Ser Jaime," Sansa addresses him primly. "If I might see your arm, please?"
He is uncharacteristically quiet when he holds the stump out to her, watching with those sharp green eyes that she so loathes as she follows Talisa' instructions, unwrapping the stump to carefully bath it in a tincture she and the boys had put together, and then bandaging again with linens that they had boiled earlier that day.
"Is there something amiss, ser?"
"You aren't quite how I remember you, Lady Stark," he quips.
"Your son can be thanked for that."
"I don't know what – "
"Please, Ser Jaime," here she tugged on his bandage, causing the knight to hiss and wince. "I spent a lot of time in the presence of both Joffrey and the Queen. He doesn't look anything like Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or King Robert. He looks exactly like his mother – exactly – and not a thing like anybody else. The only other person in all the world who looks that much like Cersei Lannister is her twin brother – you."
"And what were you doing, to so frequently be in the presence of the King?" He asks, derisive.
"I was the reminder, my lord. Of how far a noble woman can fall; for every victory of my brother's, I was publicly beaten and humiliated. I was taken up atop the walls every day by Joffrey and his Kingsguard, and I had to look at my father's head, and the heads of our household, until the King told me I could look away. I was without a maid for a long time. That might not sound like too terrible a thing, but there was no one to help me do my hair or my clothes, when a woman's status at court is held by her appearance, her family name and the rumours that surround her. There was no one to empty my pot, and I was mocked and beaten when I did it for myself, so I had to learn where all of the public drops were on my own, go only in the early hours or not at all, to salvage what remained of my reputation. No one wished to curry the King's displeasure, so they all stayed away from me – Sandor and your brother's mistress were the closest to friends I had in that whole festering city."
Shae had never told her how she had come to Kings Landing, and had stated rather simply that it was Lord Tyrion who had placed her in Sansa's service as a kindness. In hindsight it's a wonder she didn't figure it out sooner.
Porcelain, Ivory, Steel.
"It's a wonder you don't hate him, then," the fallen knight quipped lightly.
Sansa blinks at him. "What makes you think I don't? Because I'm good? Because I'm Ned Stark's daughter? Because I always tried to be the most perfect lady that I possibly could? I assure you, Ser Jaime, if the opportunity to put one of my arrows in Joffrey's heart arises, I will take it."
She tied the last knot in the bandages, rose and glided back to the main camp. "Sandor, Hot Pie – how fares dinner?"
The little cook is watching her fearfully again. "Lady Sansa, it's only just gone on."
"Lady Sansa, perhaps you could practice your shots again?" Gendry offers. "You missed some, yesterday. Hot Pie, Arry, will you call when dinner's ready?
Sansa raises her brows as the others voice their agreement, and allows Gendry to walk with her. She takes them further in to the forest than perhaps she would have gone on her own, far enough in that they can hear a shout, but not so close that any conversation of theirs could be accidentally overheard.
"What did you want to talk about?" Sansa askes gently.
" … When we find your brother and mother, what will happen to everyone?"
Sansa hummed, restrung her bow and started to pace and shoot, practicing this as a just-in-case for future skirmishes. "Brienne will go back to protecting Mother. Ser Jaime will return to the dungeons. Sandor will either be imprisoned, scripted into training soldiers, or perhaps even continuing on as my guard. Yourself and Hot Pie may be offered positions within the smithy and kitchens. Depending on our gamble, Arya and I are either going to be granted the immunity of the Council positions, or will be married off to raise troop numbers." She watches him out of the corner of her eye, crow-like, and observes the stiffening of his shoulders, the forced casualness of his slump against a nearby tree. "Nymeria and the wolves will take their time to get here, and time again to organise logistics. If one were to train every day with master knights, one could perhaps become a sworn shield of a princess, too."
He looks up in shock, blue eyes blown wide. Sansa takes a tricky shot, aiming for a knot on one of the highest branches of the tree he leant against. "If a sheltered noble girl can learn the bow in a week, I don't see why a strong young smith cannot come to learn and master the sword. We can speak with Brienne and Sandor after dinner – train with them in the mornings, and learn your letters with me or Arya in the afternoons, and we'll see how you fare by the time the wolves have joined us. How does that sound?"
Joy replaces shock, and is replaced in turn by a wicked smirk that Sansa knows she has seen before. On another face, black haired and blue eyed, in Kings Landing.
"Thank you, Lady Sansa! Thank you!"
She smiles back at him softly, squishing her sudden understanding down as surely as she had forced away pain and all other emotions when in the presence of the Queen or her monstrous son.
"It's not a bother," She says prettily, taking three more shots in a rapid volley. It isn't as accurate as she would like; one problem at a time, Sansa, she tells herself. We can do this.
Winter is coming.
Dinner was uncomfortable and quiet. Everyone retired as soon as they possibly could; Lady Knight and Kingslayer bedded down by the horses, Gendry and Hot Pie under a tree, the Hound by his horse and wrapped in his cloak, Sansa in her bedroll with Mercy, Sorrow and Mirth, and Arya by the fire with Needle and her thoughts.
Before their father had died, Sansa had been predictable. Near all of Arya's life, she had known exactly how Sansa would react, close as she followed the rules as their world knew them.
She wasn't predictable anymore, and Arya didn't like it.
Rickon was dead. Bran was dead. Sansa was weird. Jon was north, and Sansa was refusing to talk about him. Robb was at Riverrun with birdshit all over his face or something, and a wife. Mother was with Robb. Father was dead. Their family was small, and if they weren't careful, it would keep getting smaller. She hadn't lied, when she told Tywin that anyone can be killed, even if she'd meant it as a threat.
Her world was getting smaller and smaller even as the world in general became larger and larger, and all she could do was think about Sansa's comments yesterday, about being Robb's Master of Laws. Could she do that? Once, yes. The daughter of Winterfell she had been only two years ago would have been more than capable of growing into such a role, and would have been good at it. But this nothing creature (Arry, Lana, Weasel, No One) and her list of dead men? Sansa had been right. If she came face-to-face with the Tickler, what would she do? If she found the Mountain, or Joffrey, or Cersei? She was handling the Hound well enough, but that was only because of what he had done for her sister. She wasn't going to forgive him any time soon – but she could let go of her need for vengeance. And, when she thought about it, that might explain why the Hound had been such a, a cunt to her the last two days, and why Sansa hadn't said anything much about this morning's argument. He was training her, and it was galling.
She missed the world making sense, she missed Winterfell, she missed her family and her countrymen and her direwolf, and she wished desperately that Nymeria and her pack would hurry up! There wasn't much of anything she could do about that, though – but she could see what was taking so long!
She reached for Nymeria again, calling to her wolf and hoping for good news. The slip from two legs to four was easy, the adjustment to the increased scents and sounds a little harder, and the presence of her wolf circling her mind and soul was comforting.
My girl! Nymeria was glad to have her, at least. What is wrong?
Arya told her everything, how strange this new Sansa was, her list, how she would have to adjust her ideas of justice, the Hound, the fight, how much she missed the rest of their pack and the days of old. Nymeria ran the whole time, her pack of hundreds matching her and an awareness at the edges of both female's mind.
Pack, Nymeria thinks sadly, can change. Birth-pack are always inside, always close. There is a fluttering, as Nymeria sent her thoughts out to their brothers – Grey Wind close and growing closer, Ghost over the Wall and past their reach, Summer and Shaggydog far North but still on this side of the Wall –
Arya felt her heart stop. THEY LIVE?!
Yes? You … humans cannot tell. Oh, my girl.
Nymeria called for a slowing of the pace, the pack now a steady lope as she sent her/their thoughts out towards Summer and Shaggy.
Brothers! Brothers, join the Pack once again!
Four direwolves raised their heads and howled for their missing pack. Four Starks startled, and three were dragged in to the mind joining.
Alive alive alive alive! Arya crowed it across the link, touching the edges of her baby brothers' minds. Are you ok, where are you, how are you alive, they all say you're dead!
Bran? Rickon? Robb's voice came across choked, his emotions fairly singing, a mirror to Arya's own joy, grief still thick on its tails.
Bran sends across the impression of wide eyes, shock-and-hope-and-love all mixed together. Rickon is just … shocked. He barely recognises them, not Robb's beard or Arya haircut and the muck and mire of war, though he can understand who they must be because of the wolves.
Where? Both little brothers send back.
Robb gives them the images of Riverrun's great castle, of Beta-Mother and Mate-Talisa and the greatwar-northmen-pack.
Arya adds her sensation of the forest, the smells and presence and pack (Sansa-Gendry-HotPie) and tagalongs (Hound, Lady Knight, Kingslayer).
The boys are a jumble of memories full of emotions and scents and impressions: Osha and Hodor, their home burning, and hiding, and escaping, and the track North North North to Jon, the Reeds.
No use, Arya sends. Sansa says Jon's beyond the Wall.
How does she know? Bran demands, shocked.
Warg. All of us, we're wargs. Sansa just figured it out first.
Why isn't she here too? Rickon demands, young and piping.
Arya sends back the memory of Nymeria attacking Joffrey, of the time spent hiding in the forest and trying to chase Nymeria away, the Queen's call for blood and Lady's price. Grief bounced across the bonds, with rage hot on its tail. Vengeance, wild Shaggy and Rickon demanded.
Wait, Bran cautioned. Let Sansa say what she wants.
I'm going to kill the Queen, Arya snaps at him. Get in line!
How? Three minds asked, all accompanied by the image of coltish, stick-thin Arya of Winterfell in a towering temper and little fists stuffed full of sheep shit her only weapons.
Arya gives them her memories of Syrio, every hurt and every lesson, every cat and cut and parry, twirls and twists and the sword that Gendry had taught her how to maintain, the sharped dagger in each boot. Gives them the image of Sansa, stringing and drawing and unstringing her bow again and again and again, regardless of how bored or pained she must have been. Gives them the carved targets that, more often than not, are struck; faceless bodies collapsing with Sansa's arrows heavy in hearts or throats.
All wolves have teeth, she sneers at them. Even the ones that look like gilded dogs.
How far are you from me? Robb demanded. I'll come get you.
You will not! Once the pack gets here, we'll do what we want, and then we'll take the North back and rescue the babies!
I am oneyear younger than you!
But I don't need a rescue. Nymeria?
The count was less than she had expected – the pack moved quicker than Nymeria had originally thought. Another four nights, and she would have her wolf back, and an army of her own.
I can be there before Nymeria. I can bring you girls both back to Mother; she misses all of you!
Arya sends the image of the letter that Mother had written, that Sansa had chucked at her head, and growled at her big brother. Just because you're the King, doesn't mean you should always get your way! She gives him Sansa's impassioned speech from the day before, of expected desires and actual wants, sends the image of Mirth and Anguy, of Sorrow and herself, thinks how close will Grey Wind let another wolf get to you? and sends them all the image of cocked legs and the hot scent of dog piss. Robb gives back anger, a tinge of panic, and a great collision of older-brother-protectiveness that put Arya's and Nymeria's hackles both up.
With a growl and the impression of snapping jaws, Nymeria and her girl sever themselves from the bond. Arya stayed with the wolves until her rage quieted, watched the countryside role away beneath padded feet, and planned.
Little sisters are the worst!
Arya had awoken Sansa before even dawn's pale fingers were touching the horizon. She had done so by spitting on Sansa's face.
"What the fuck was that for?!" Sansa whisper-shrieked, trying not to wake any of the others and scrubbing desperately at her cheeks and mouth. Sandor jerked upright and Brienne snorted awake, regardless.
"Did you just swear, Bird?"
"Don't laugh! Arya, did you just spit on me?!"
"Robb's a warg too." The smaller girl said, stony and unrepentant. "The direwolves can find each other, and share an awareness of each other. I dreamt Nymeria last night, and she called her brothers for me. Robb might be coming to find us, so send Talisa a letter to head him off. Bran and Rickon are alive, and North. I'm going to Stone Hedge with Gendry to sell some horses. Don't kill Hot Pie. Don't follow me; stop squawking."
Before Sansa could do any more than gape – their little brothers lived?! – the two youths had grabbed the leads of two of the poorer horses, and were gone.
"Little Bird?" Sandor asked, worried.
"I – I'll be fine." She breathed back, giving her face a final, absent-minded swipe. "I, um – go back to sleep. I'm going to try something. Sorrow, Mirth?"
The two birds squawked back at her, shuffling down Mercy's back and then hopping down by her bedroll. Grabbing for her writing kit and stoking the fire, Sansa penned a quick message for Robb, tied it to Mirth and instructed her to take it to Talisa as soon as it was light enough.
Goodsister,
DO NOT let Grey Wind come for us – we'll come to you when we're ready. Tell him I'll find Summer and Shaggy. Thank you for the medical help. Lady and Nymeria.
Sansa laid back down, and thought as hard as she could on her little brothers, drawing on countless memories and crafting within her mind Bran and Rickon as she had best known them. Her breath slowed, each heartbeat she felt from her head to her toes, and when she opened her eyes again she was in a crow unknown to her.
Four for a birth. Bir.
Beneath the resting bird (flighty, this one, young, and almost as uninterested in being warged as Ding) were two beloved redheads, two direwolves, and their companions.
Bir wasn't going to speak for her, she could tell already. Bir didn't want to flit down to join humans and wolves, either, but on this point Sansa would not bend. She dropped them both straight on to Summer's head, and croaked.
Bran sat up like he'd been struck, eyes drawn immediately to the raven atop his Direwolf.
"Arya?!"
Sansa hissed at him, puffing Bir up and wishing the contrary bird would let her give him her name.
"Sansa?! Arya was telling the truth, you're a warg too?!"
She hissed again, wishing that she had someone that she could talk to her brothers and give them all a good scolding for such a lack of faith.
Bran's blue eyes grew, impossibly, even wider.
"Sansa?"
She cocked her head back at him, ruffling her feathers. She wonders what it is that has taken his fancy, to shock him so.
"I'm not fanciful!"
Sansa's breath catches. Bran? You hear this?
"Yes, I – I don't know why, but I can. Sansa, what has happened since you left? Are you alright? Arya didn't say anything, but she showed us memories, and – can you really shoot like that?"
Sansa thinks of her practicing, her fat rabbits, the night they rescued Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne and the lives she had snuffed out, and watches the awe grow in her younger brother's eyes.
"That's amazing! When did you take up the bow?"
After Sandor and I escaped. A little over a week ago.
"No way. Sansa, you can't be that good after a week, nobody is!"
I practiced. She thinks of the wry smirk she would give her brother if she could, and then gives a raven's laugh when he blushes bright as their hair.
"I practiced," he says petulantly. Sansa gives him her memories, hours spent stringing-drawing-unstringing and hours more aiming-firing-collecting-assessing. "Well, of course I didn't practice that much! I had other things to do!" She thinks of the spots that Bran had been found in, and laughs again at his awkward shuffling.
"Bran?" Rickon calls sleepily. "Wha' ya doin'?"
"Rickon, it's Sansa! It's as Arya said, she's in this raven!"
Bir, Sansa thinks. Four for a Birth.
"It's nice to meet you, Bir," Bran says courteously. There is a spark of amusement in the back of Sansa's head where Bir is watching.
Rickon crawls over Shaggy to collapse on Bran's legs. "'s it Sansa or Bir?"
"Bir is the bird's name, but Sansa is inside – like when we dream we're Shaggy or Summer."
Rickon blinks at her through his tumbled curls. "I'm glad you're safe, and that you learnt to fight. Will you teach me how to shoot like that when you come back?"
Sansa nods eagerly, but adds, You will need to practice hard, baby brother.
"Are you going to kill the Queen for what she did to Lady?" Rickon doesn't seem to hear her, as Bran does, and Sansa squashes panic down so as not to alert him. Is this something only Bran can do? How lonely. But, at least there is one of her scattered brothers that can understand her when she wargs, she supposes.
She has Bir give a raven-shrug, and says for Bran, I don't know yet. It is easy to kill a stranger, in the heat of the moment. I hate her and her son so much that I could do it – but should I? Would that be just?
"It would be your right, Sansa." Bran says firmly. "Not just for Lady, but for Father and our household, too."
Their faces flash through her minds' eye, Father and Jory and Vayon and Septa and everyone, and it is all she can do to not think on their faces on the battlements; she will spare Bran that, if nothing else.
"Where are you and Arya? The Riverlands somewhere?"
Bir nods, and Sansa adds, Don't tell Robb. I'm still mad at him, and he's not listening to us.
"That's what Arya said. Unless the wolves let us share a mindspace again, I don't think I can pass anything to him, anyway. How did Bir find us so quickly? Is it ok to be without your warg?"
Bir is my fourth Raven. Sorrow was first, and he's still with me. Mirth is flying to Robb. Ding is Beyond the Wall with Jon. All the ravens around me come to me, I called them. I read all of the scrolls before anybody else, and I take down what I need to pass on to Robb so he'll believe me. I'm going to be Robb's Master of Whispers.
A smile grows across Bran's face. "And Arya?"
Master of Laws. Maybe.
"Sansa as the Master of Whispers and Arya as the Master of Laws," Bran tells Rickon, grin growing sharp. "You're going to change the world!"
Yes, my sister has spat on my face to wake me up. So have two of my four brothers, and at least one cousin. Family is gross like that.