Mid October, 299 AC

The silvery moon peered through her veil of clouds as the direwolf swam to shore. Her destination loomed ahead, a dark shadow in the moonlight. The great towers reached into the night sky, five broken fingers. The tallest had suffered the most ruin; its top was melted, the granite turned to slag. Sansa had not believed stone could melt, but Old Nan had told her true. King Harren and his sons defied the dragons, and Aegon the Conqueror burned them in their hall.

The direwolf paused, her nose twitching. Suddenly she turned, making for the woods beside the castle. Her cousins were here, cousins who could help her- she howled, tail wagging.

When no reply came, the direwolf followed her nose to a den beside a stream. The direwolf was almost too big to squeeze through the entrance. She crawled down a tunnel that was at least twice her length before opening into an empty chamber.

The scents were a few days old. Sansa inhaled deeply, sorting through the smells as Fleetfoot had taught her. Nine wolves had lived here. The oldest male and female had been the parents. The other five adults were their children, and the last two were pups from the autumn litter. With some effort Sansa wiggled back out of the den, shaking the dirt off her fur. Now that she had their scents, she could follow their trail.

The deer's carcass lay on the forest floor, its flesh almost entirely gone. The direwolf snuffled at the carrion. A badger, a weasel, and several ravens had been here, taking advantage of the wolves' kill. And all around, the stink of men and wolf blood.

The red direwolf whimpered. Ever since Nymeria's wolves knelt to Robb, they were off limits, so Anguy had said. Had the westermen retaken Harrenhal? Hunger gnawed at Sansa's tummy, so the red direwolf gnawed on what was left of the deer, stripping the flesh with her sharp fangs and powerful jaws. It was not as good as a fresh kill, but it was still meat.

By the time she finished eating and loped toward the castle, it was almost dawn. She concealed herself in a bush, waiting for enough light to see the banners on the walls. To her confusion she saw the Stark direwolf racing across its ice-white field. What northman would defy his king? The banner beneath the direwolf was pale pink, with a red man at the center… The Red Kings of the Dreadfort flayed their enemies, and made cloaks of their skins, Old Nan had said. Even a few Starks suffered such a fate, before the Boltons bent the knee to the Kings of Winter. And despite her warm fur, Sansa shivered.

It took several nights to dig under the wall of the godswood. She was unused to digging, and the walls were immensely thick. Sansa slept during the day, but she found little respite from her labors. Since leaving the isle, every time she closed her eyes she saw lavish chambers, a broken door, bloody skirts, and death.

Her nightmares only increased her fear of discovery. What would they do to her, if she was seen? If she remained a wolf she would surely be slain by a dozen arrows; if she returned to her maiden's skin she would be naked, entirely at the mercy of Lord Bolton and his men. Sansa wished she had not slipped inside a friendly pigeon to scout the castle. The sight of the stripped and shaved women in the stocks had made her return to her own body with a jolt, and she had vomited the entire contents of her stomach. She had been cautious before, but now every snapping twig sent her scurrying to hide. Yet still she clung to her resolve, forcing herself to keep going despite her aching paws.

By the time she emerged inside the godswood, her limbs were sore and trembling. The godswood stretched out before her, ten times the size of the one at Winterfell. The ground was littered with the fallen needles of pines and sentinels. Bats squeaked overhead as the direwolf paused to drink from a little stream, letting the cool water soothe her sore paws. Rocks littered the stream bed, and she nosed among them until she found one that was slim and sharp as a knife.

The heart tree shone in the moonlight, her limbs white as bone, her leaves black as pitch. Yet as Sansa beheld the weirwood's face her blood ran cold. The eyes were flaring and full of hate, the mouth twisted with disgust. Thirteen great wounds marked the trunk below the terrible face. Sansa's heart fluttered like a rabbit's as she gazed up at the tree.

"Can it be done?" Sansa asked, watching the ripples spread across the water.

"Many have tried," the green woman said, her sunken eyes glimmering.

"What must I do?"

"Your will must be as steadfast as stone, as strong as water, as deep as the roots of the trees."

"And then?"

The green woman sighed as she brushed Sansa's hair away from her cheek. With deft fingers she plucked a tiny pebble from the rocky shore.

"There is a cost, young one, no matter how small the pebble. Even the singers do not know all, as they learned to their sorrow. What you want may not be what you receive."

"But—" the green woman pressed a finger to Sansa's lips.

"Time grows short, and the wolf must learn her songs. Come; the singers are waiting."

Slipping into her own skin was as easy as breathing. The night air was cool without the protection of her fur, and her exposed skin prickled with goosebumps. The old gods did not care for crystal crowns or silken garb; she stood before them as bare as she had come into the world.

The knife lay at her feet, and Sansa picked it up without hesitation.

"You have been fortunate," the green woman said, examining the little silver lines on Sansa's forearms. "Blood flows through the body like a river with many streams. Cut too large a stream, and you will lose your life's blood in minutes."

Sansa inhaled deeply, and cut her arm where the green woman had showed her. Before a single drop of blood could drip to the ground, Sansa pressed the wound against the trunk, against that awful twisted mouth. She steeled herself as she met the heart tree's gaze and fell into the bloody eyes.

She looked upon a singer, golden eyes shining in her nut-brown face. An obsidian knife was in the singer's hands, stained with sap. The walls of the godswood were gone, and there were singers all around. For a moment Sansa watched, curious.

But only for a moment. Sansa knew where she needed to be, and it was not this ancient wood with its saplings and singers. Take me here, she commanded, calling up a vision of a cherrywood cane, of a woman lying on a bed of leaves.

She looked upon a dark haired girl hanging a shield from a branch. It bore a device she did not know, a weirwood with a laughing face. The girl grinned, and with a start Sansa realized it was Arya, but she was older, and wearing a fine gown. This isn't what I need, Sansa insisted. The girl turned as footsteps approached, and was gone.

She looked upon a princess lying on the grass, her babe asleep against her round belly. Beside her stood a tall knight, his pale sword gleaming like the rising sun. Sansa called to them, but they paid her no heed.

"He meant no ill," the Sword of Morning said quietly. "He never saw her before this tourney, I swear."

"What was he thinking?" The princess hissed. "It matters not what he intended; his father will take it for another sign of rebellion. And what of Baratheon and Stark? Their wrath is almost as great as Oberyn's."

Ser Arthur Dayne hesitated, his purple eyes uncertain.

"Rhaegar thinks the prophecy…"

"The Others take his prophecy!" Princess Elia's eyes were gold as honey, but there was no sweetness in her gaze. "If it will be then it will be, but his choices are his own."

"It was but a moment of foolishness, this business with Lyanna Stark will soon be forgotten," the kingsguard soothed.

"No!" Sansa shrieked.

Princess and knight frowned as they looked up at the rustling leaves. A spark of hope leapt in Sansa's heart- and it almost went out as they looked away.

A thousand voices sighed, unsurprised, resigned. She was but one, bright though she was. What could she do alone? She was fading already; she'd be dead before they heard her, her spirit floating away to join the others within the weirwood.

Sansa closed her eyes and breathed. She thought of deep roots beneath the wolfswood and wrapped them around her spirit, holding her fast. She thought of the roaring waters of the White Knife and let them flow through her, the power shining as she rebuilt her body. She thought of the unyielding northern mountains, drawing on their steadfastness to strengthen her resolve. Last she thought of Winterfell, of her father and mother, of Robb, of Arya and Jeyne, of Bran and little Rickon, of Gage and his lemoncakes, of tiny Beth Cassel, all those she loved both living and dead. The pack was with her, the pack was always with her.

Sansa opened her eyes and looked down upon the princess and the knight. Every inch of her blazed with magic, magic no human was meant to claim. She could not hold it long; it would consume her. She must do what she had come here to do, and quickly. But how? There was no time to explain, to argue against their doubts- it came to her suddenly, and she laughed, her voice echoing across time and space. The princess and the knight looked up, their eyes widening as they saw her. Brown eyes met blue, and with a flash of lightning it was done.

Sansa awoke slowly, her eyes nearly blinded by the sun shining overhead. Every fiber of her being ached as though she had been thrown over another waterfall. Her limbs trembled as she tried to sit up, and dimly she realized her arm was still bleeding. That couldn't be good. Her head spun and she fell, tree roots digging into her upper back. Her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and her breathing was quick and shallow.

She was supposed to be doing something, something important. The stream burbled behind her, and her breath caught. The wolf must learn her songs. Her voice shaking, Sansa began to sing softly, her voice rippling like clear water. Slowly the skin pulled itself together over the wound, the bleeding stopped. It worked. She smiled, and the world went dark.

It took three days for her to recover her strength. Most of her time she spent in slumber, when she wasn't eating what nuts and berries she could persuade the squirrels and rabbits to bring her. They had been frightened of her at first, for no wolves lived in the godswood. But she had convinced a few of them to help her, now that she was a maiden again. Being naked terrified her, but she lacked the strength to slip into her wolfskin.

Until now. Her limbs no longer trembled, and her mind no longer felt as though it was stuffed with wool. She was tired, and hungry, but that could not be helped. Once she transformed, she could return to the isle and rest there. She was lucky she had not been found already, with a castle full of northmen. Several times she'd heard men coming to the godswood, and fled to hide in her tunnel until they went away.

It took her over an hour to find the feeling of pack, of paws and fur instead of hands and hair. Slowly she crept out of the godswood, crawling under the wall using the tunnel she had made. As she trotted away from Harrenhal, she looked back. Beneath the afternoon sun the Stark direwolf still flew above the keep, and beneath it, the flayed man of Bolton. Were she a maiden she would have wept bitter tears, but a direwolf could not cry. Still, her heart was heavy as she made her way to the lake.

She reached the lake in the middle of the night. Sansa yelped as the cold water brushed against her paws. For a moment she felt refreshed, but then doubt gnawed at her. What if her limbs seized up halfway across the lake? She might drown before the singers came. Her stomach rumbled, and Sansa knew how she must spend her night instead.

It was easier to curl up to sleep with a belly full of duck. She found a nice thick bush to protect her from the wind, and dug herself a little burrow beneath it. Perhaps there was some other reason for the banners. Sansa had thrown her pebble with all her might, she knew it had struck the water. She had only to wait to see the ripples. As she fell asleep, Sansa thought of her family.

She awoke shivering. Her skin was bare against the dirt, her thick red fur gone. Sansa bit her tongue to keep from shrieking and tried to slow her racing heart. She just needed to change her skin again, that was all. Yet as she grasped for the feeling of pack, it slipped through her fingers. Her head was spinning, and her limbs were shaking again. The croaking of frogs made her head throb; the scent of fish made her stomach heave. Clenching her teeth together, she tamped down on her senses until she could hear and smell almost nothing. How much blood had she lost before she sealed the wound?

I must go to the lake, and call to the singers.

Harrenhal was miles behind; there were no fishermen on this lonely part of the shore. Besides, she had no other choice. Sansa crawled across the rocky beach, pebbles digging into her palms and her knees.

She gasped when the frigid water hit her skin. With shaky fingers she began to wash away the dirt and dried blood that streaked her body. Little by little her strength returned, and she stood, wading into the lake up to her waist. The Isle of Faces lay in the distance, as green and lush as she remembered. As she washed her hair she began to sing, the music carrying across the water. I am bathing in a pool like Jonquil, Sansa thought giddily. Her hair was almost to her waist now, the long waves rolling over her breasts and belly.

By the time she felt clean the pain in her head had subsided. With a sigh she opened up her senses, hoping to hear the singers in the distance. Instead, she heard footsteps behind her, and the clanging of steel. A man whistled crudely.

"You there, girl, turn around." Desperately Sansa reached for her wolfskin, for the feel of fur and claws-

"Turn around, and keep your arms down," the man ordered, his voice cruel. Her heart pounding, she obeyed.

The northman grinned and whistled again. He looked to be a youth in his twenties, comely enough for a man at arms. "Very nice," he said, spitting on the ground. Sansa shuddered. She was halfway in the lake already, she could swim away- then her eyes fell on the crossbow at his back.

"Ah, so you saw her? Best be friendly then," the man said, drawing his crossbow and patting it affectionately. "Come here."

She could hear a rider approaching as she stepped forward slowly, and Sansa prayed with all her might that he was half as true and noble as Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Leave the wench be," a ringing voice commanded as the knight emerged onto the shore.

The knight was thin, his cheeks hollow. His left hand held the reins; his right was gone, the arm ending in a stump. His too large surcoat was a plain dark brown, his shield blazoned with a black bat.

Sansa swallowed as she looked at the knight's face. Some might be fooled by the ill fitting garb and the short beard, but not Sansa.

"Ser?" The crossbowman asked. "We'll be watering the horses a good while yet; what I have in mind won't take but a moment. Quicker than what you did with the bear."

The knight sighed, annoyed. He had barely even glanced at her.

"As if once wasn't enough today- girl, are you a maiden?"

Sansa blushed and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Good, you'll be staying one. I only rescue maidens." The knight's lazy smirk did not reach his eyes, and as he brought his horse closer, he began to frown. Please, oh please, let him think me some fisherman's daughter. He'd seen her only briefly, and she'd grown since. The knight stared at her face, ignoring her frantic attempts to cover herself with her hands.

"Go fetch Steelshanks," the knight ordered. "Tell him to bring Brienne and a spare gown."

When the crossbowman was gone, Jaime Lannister bowed in his saddle, a mocking grin upon his lips.

"What a pleasant surprise it is to see you, Sansa Stark."

-End Part II-

Oh shit :o what do you guys think?

That's it for Part II: Red Wolf. We're now leaving Clash of Kings and making our way into a very different Storm of Swords.

What was Sansa doing at Harrenhal? Will she escape Jaime, or be dragged back to King's Landing? Where's Arya? Will Catelyn ever see her girls again? What's up with the Dornish?

Up next: Part III: Caged Wolf