A.N.: I keep listening to "The Last of the Starks" and that song breaks my heart; it encapsulates everything I love about the show. Oh, the cellos!

To FoxFabled, Moshi and RHatch89, thank you for the reviews: FoxFabled, I intend to bring in some of the Sand Snakes to address the atrocity that was D&D's Dorne! Moshi - I'm glad I'm not the only one who misses the introspective moments we were treated to in the early years! And RHatch89 - exactly! Daenerys even mentions to Olenna that she's only there out of hatred for Cersei. Olenna's too smart and suffered too much not to be weighing her options.

Valyrian Steel

16

Home

They stopped at every holdfast and hamlet, helping those who struggled to leave their homes due to the snow, sickness or recalcitrance. The column kept moving, herding cattle, swaddling newborns delivered in the fiercest snowstorms in centuries. Bran guided them, and direwolves guarded them from worse monsters. More died on the journey: Any who fell were burned where they landed. It was a relief, as much as it was tragic: Fewer to fight the winter, but also fewer to feed through the winter.

It was well into their fifth week of travel when she saw it. It wasn't the snow whirling around them thickly that disoriented them, reducing everything to indistinguishable dark shapes; it was the howling winds. This winter had long threatened to be the worst in living memory. She had seen the eye of the storm to come; it would be. The storms had been getting more and more violent as the weeks passed: She had endured worse, north of the Wall - but anyone who had looked the Night King in the eye would brace against this storm, and realise…his power was growing, his influence over the elements strengthening. Whatever power the Children had bequeathed so foolishly to their creation was building once again: All Man could do was weather it out. Fight. Survive. Rebuild. And remember.

The Wall still stood: Regardless, winter chased at their heels. Larra, who would never forget the unfeeling malice, the pure intent in the Night King's eyes, kept driving them further, faster: She had empathy for those who struggled but if they sank back into the snows to wail and catch their breaths, they were lost - she would have been taken by the storm years ago. She couldn't afford to look back.

But then she saw it. There was a break in the storm, the iron-grey clouds parting briefly to shine meagre silver light on the snow-strewn landscape, the sky brightening as the snow gentled, and the wind died. The world became still, breathless almost. And she knew where she was. Intimately.

Their path wended alongside a river, unfrozen even in these storms; it was fed by hot-springs, the same as piped hot water through the walls of Winterfell, the same that fed the pool in the godswood where Father cleaned his sword under the heart-tree, watching the water ripple. In winter, steam rose from the churning water, so thick it looked like fog. Everywhere around the water, around the steam, the ice had melted, the snow did not stick; animals crept to the water's edge, and high above, in ancient trees bowing their limbs toward the water, tiny dew-kissed buds ready to unfurl into fresh green leaves, were dire-eagles. Hundreds of them, ink-eyed and half as tall as an Umber, a coronet of tufted feathers around its head, talons like meat-hooks and incredible stormy plumage of greys and whites making it perfect camouflage for the winter - for hunting. Hundreds of them, waiting in the trees, watching carefully. It unnerved most who noticed them, made the hairs stand up at the back of their necks. The dire-eagles couldn't care less that thousands of Men wandered past their hunting-grounds: They had easier prey in mind.

Larra knew this place. It was her favourite place outside Winterfell, and Father had told her stories about the river that defied even winter itself. Maester Luwin had called the phenomenon - of the unfrozen river in winter, a thriving haven to wildlife in one of the harshest places in the world - a microcosm: a meticulously-balanced ecosystem within another, larger environment. In the heart of winter, predator and prey would gather near the water: The eagles waited for Man to pass by, so they could return to their fishing. The river churned not with rapids but with salmon that had spawned during the autumn. The direwolves scented the area as they padded past, marking territory and familiarising themselves with fresh scents the snow had hidden from them for leagues. Larra could see where deer had stripped the bark from trees close to the water's edge, where the steam had thawed the ice.

Father used to theorise that Brandon the Builder had chosen to build Winterfell where he had because he had likely been following the river, where he and his people could survive the harshest winters. Once, Larra's ancestors had lived like the Free Folk, migratory, following their food-supply, chasing warmth: It was Brandon who set down stone and built a great keep, using curiously advanced irrigation to pipe hot water from the rivers through its walls to keep the bite of winter at bay.

She marvelled in the river, the first time in her life she had ever seen it in the heart of winter, pure and bare and extraordinarily beautiful, those thousand birds perched patiently, steam drifting in a gentle breeze that started to whistle as their path wended away from the water, through thicker woodlands, and as the last eagle disappeared from her view, Larra glanced around, identifying markers she used to use when hunting, familiar and yet not because the winter had stripped everything she knew from her memory. She sat up straighter in her saddle. She dug her heels into Black Alys' sides. Edd called to her, his voice tinged with concern. She ignored him. And rode on ahead, weaving her way through the column, past smallfolk on foot and carts laden with grain and meat, wagons full of children and nursing mothers, skirting around herds of cattle, leaving them all behind.

The river wended to the left; she followed an ancient path to the right, curving around and up a steep hill that had forever created natural fortifications for Winterfell - the same natural fortification that had cost King Stannis Baratheon his campaign when he led the assault against Ramsey Bolton. It left attackers blind to Winterfell's advancing cavalry or infantry, gave the armies precious moments to ready themselves and either be waiting to slaughter, or sneak around the rises and take advancing enemies unawares from behind, using the ancient wolfswood as protection. Yes, Brandon the Builder had been canny indeed when he chose to lay the foundations for Winterfell where he had.

Larra crested the hill.

There it was.

Home.

Nestled comfortably and conspicuously among the flawless white moors: Winterfell.

Even from her vantage, Larra could see the vibrant, violent red of the weirwood heart-tree dominating the ancient, sprawling godswood.

Her heart cracked, and she stared at her home in grief and stunned disbelief - she was home. There and back again… The last time she had seen the heart-tree…she had been sobbing into Maester Luwin's bloodied grey robe, a part of her heart withering and dying as the life-blood seeped from that marvellous man, her hands shaking as she gripped the coarse material of his cowl, the sting of metal cold against her hands as his heavy chain clinked against her fingers, and his spindly hands trembled as he rested them on her shoulders, raising her face in his hands, stroking her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs, as he had thousands of times before. His kind, lined face had been drawn in pain and anguish - at his parting from them - and he made her promise…protect her brothers… "You're the only one who can…"

Tears pooled hotly in her eyes, and stung her cheeks as they slipped down her wind-bitten skin, gazing at Winterfell, her memories an onslaught as devastating as any army cresting the invisible rise ahead.

Black Alys snorted and stamped impatiently, but Larra didn't respond, blinded by tears, by ghosts, trying to catch her breath as she stared at her home. She never thought to see it again.

She shoved the tears from her eyes, sniffing, and focused on the horizon, on Winterfell. The moors were not unblemished, she realised, squinting in the snows that had returned, more gently than they had been most of their journey, delicate kisses whispering against her skin, as if nature itself was trying to soothe her, to say, "Welcome home. We've missed you."

A haze of dark smoke lingered like a dense blanket over Winter's Town, rising up to from the moors past the South Gate, busier even from a distance than Larra had ever known it: All of the North had gathered to Winterfell to endure the storm, and the town had been built for the occasion. Banners flew high over the grey stone buildings, whipping and snapping in the wind, colours whitewashed from ice and snow but still recognisable due to the rich dye pigments and designs. Many familiar Northern banners, but some unusual ones - unusual in that they flew over Winter's Town at all: Corbray, Belmore, Melcolm, Hunter, Templton, Egen. Valemen. Lesser lords from the Riverlands: Blackwood, Darry, Pyper, Mooton, Strong and Vance. Even a Tully trout, black against the blue and red Tully colours. Brynden the Blackfish? she thought, slightly stunned. Lady Catelyn's uncle - and a legendary warrior. One standard stood out, quartered with yellow suns emblazoned on rose and white crescents stark against azure blue. Tarth. How had the North secured support from the Evenstar?

Black Alys stamped her hooves and snorted, fidgeting: A smaller horse appeared in the corner of her eye - not a horse. Last Shadow. Hot breath pluming in the cold air, her night-black coat sparkling with melting snow, her inky eyes glittering with the warmth of embers as she raised her muzzle to nudge Larra's leg. She looked Larra in the eye, and started padding away, toward Winterfell. Larra could do nothing but follow. She sniffed, wiped her face, sat up straighter in her saddle, and kept her pace slow as the rest of the column started to catch up. The sighs and chatter of exhausted people finally reaching safety was like music as it spread through the column like wildfire, relief and delight mingling with cries: They had made it.

You made it, she thought to herself, a mixture of grim acceptance and wonder. There and back again… She glanced over her shoulder, finding the familiar wagon where Bran was entertaining Little Jon and Ragnar with stories that would frighten even a Thenn, guarded by several direwolves and Night's Watchmen: Edd rode ahead to meet Larra.

"You alright?" he asked, and Larra nodded mutely.

"Winter's Town looks to be filling up," she said. "Knights of the Vale and Tully bannermen."

"How did that happen?" Edd frowned. He had been born and bred in the Vale: As one of Jon's greatest friends and advisors and acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Edd had a better picture of what had been happening throughout the rest of Westeros. The last he had been informed, the Lannisters had helped the Freys claim Riverrun, using Edmure Tully as hostage and leverage to surrender the castle without bloodshed. There were claims Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had died in the ensuing skirmish when he refused to meet Lannister terms. He had escaped the Red Wedding, they said; Larra marvelled that his standard flew above Winter's Town. But then…she was returning to Winterfell, after being declared dead, after surviving the True North and all the horrors of legend and nightmare.

Stranger things had happened than seasoned old warriors surviving battles.

"We shall soon find out," Larra murmured, and Edd nodded, his eyes on the horizon, squinting through the gentle snows.

"I'll spread the word. Bannermen ride on ahead to the castle; everyone else settle in at Winter's Town," Edd said, and Larra nodded her agreement; he turned his horse around and trotted off, to pass orders along the column. She let Black Alys go, trotting gently along the path carved through the snow, snowbanks eight feet high and looming over them: The path had been created by foot-traffic and wagons - ahead, she could see several carts and a flock of black-faced fluffy Northern sheep being herded by clever Northern sheepdogs. Larra was reminded fleetingly of strict Septa Mordane trying to corral boisterous Arya, as Sansa preened by the hearth with her needlework, and the thought made her lips twitch as her eyes drifted to the castle, looming ever larger, ever closer. She glanced over her shoulder, seeking out Meera's dark curls; she must have her head covered, as Larra did, against the bitter wind that had made her ears and back of her neck throb.

Winterfell.

It was full of ghosts - some of them exquisite, filled with delight and wonder, with warmth and love and friendship. It was the others that plagued her mind now, wheedling into the crack that had appeared in her heart long ago, weeping and screaming as Theon Greyjoy butchered Ser Rodrik in the courtyard, shaking with rage and grief as the Ironborn gave up Mikken to their Drowned God… She had been bullied and nearly raped in that castle. They had hidden in the crypts like common criminals - her, and Osha and Brandon, Rickon and sweet Hodor. She had turned away as Osha unsheathed her blade to gift Maester Luwin with mercy in the godswood. Smoke had billowed from the castle itself as they strode away across the moors, headed north to find Jon and some illusion of safety, long before they had ever met the Reed siblings. Winterfell was where her family had once been whole; and where she had experienced the first of the great horrors to define the woman she had become.

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as she drew back to match pace with Brandon's wagon, Meera resting beside him, tired and bleak-eyed. She met Larra's gaze, and they communicated without speaking: Not all of them had made it back to Winterfell. Osha, Hodor, Jojen, Rickon, Shaggydog… Larra didn't need to voice her trepidation about returning, about setting foot inside the courtyard still, in her memory, soaked with Ser Rodrik's blood, about praying to the very same heart-tree under which Maester Luwin had been given the gift of mercy, the warm halls that had turned into her prison cell, hunted by Ironborn for sport.

They were digging a deep, wide trench. The poor sods who had to dig had broken through the frozen earth, and great mounds of it were piled outside the trench, forming a rise living infantry would find difficult to scale without being riddled with arrows - only to find a sudden drop and death beyond even if they survived the archers, an impassable boundary… Only a very narrow path, barely wide enough for a single wagon to pass through, had been left for access, a hundred yards to the right of the South Gate, which was being refortified with new gates made of ancient oak from the wolfswood, behind a new double-portcullis of tempered steel. Strong. Stronger than anything the Free Folk could ever craft.

She was gratified they were preparing: She also knew better than to think any of this would hold up against the Night King's armies for long. A living army would be deterred by the trench and fortifications, and perhaps the trebuchets, launching fiery projectiles, might put a dent in the advancing hordes…but the Night King's armies were not living. They did not tire; they felt no fear, or pain. They did not stop. They were fodder. And utterly, utterly in the control of their commanders. They would not break ranks, they would not flee. The dead would not stop for anything. Anything but fire or obsidian…

Still - they were preparing. And Jon had fought the dead at Hard Home - and lost. Edd had been at his side, fighting alongside the Free Folk to get as many of the wildlings onto Stannis Baratheon's as possible: They'd talked about it, on their journey south. Edd had seen hardened wildlings weeping as the Night King raised the dead on the shores of Hard Home.

Winterfell was not Hard Home. And they were not going to be caught unawares, fractured, scattered - they had time, that precious commodity. They had weapons. And they had a fierce leader supported by equally fearsome advisors and chieftains and warriors, and allies experienced in many different kinds of warfare. That combined experience, combined resources, the strength from unity…

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it," she murmured to Edd, who glanced away from a trebuchet being pieced together by a team of rugged Northmen and Free Folk - recognisable by their furs.

"What's that?"

"The difference it might have made, had Mance been allowed to lead the Free Folk south of the Wall," Larra sighed. Edd nodded to himself.

"Even as I die I'll still remember the shores of Hard Home," he muttered, scowling in the snow. He sighed heavily. "Jon wondered the same thing, you know. We knew even as Mance Rayder marched his armies upon the Wall that the true enemy was the dead…but too few of us knew, or believed…"

"We built the Wall so we would never forget the threat," Larra said, pulling the fur down from over her mouth so her voice wasn't muffled. "The memories faded into myth and legend…we forgot. When we should have been afraid, and waiting."

"Can't help but think what we'd be doing now if Jon had never joined the Watch," Edd said, raising his eyes to the great outer curtain wall of Winterfell.

"Strange how a single decision can alter the course of history," Larra sighed glumly. She had always known, since they were children, that Jon would join the Watch. He was unwelcome at Winterfell, as Larra was, but he had opportunity due to his gender; and he was awed by Uncle Benjen's stories of Ranging. These weren't the lives either of them had imagined for themselves when they were small. Jon had joined the Watch, risen to Lord Commander, and defined the history of the Watch's last war. The North would never forget his name.

If they survived the Long Night.

No-one stopped them as they made their way through the trench, across the narrow bridge of earth left untouched for easy access for the men working on the trebuchets; the few already constructed were launching projectiles, marking their range to improve their positioning. Carts laden with freshly-hewn tree-trunks rested beyond the trench, men working to sharpen some to savage points to embed in the trench, others to go toward more trebuchets; she grieved briefly for the wolfswood. The sacrifices they had to make if they wanted to survive.

Some of the men turned to watch, and Larra realised it was because of her - rather, because of Last Shadow, who padded silently beside Black Alys, hulking and gorgeous, bigger than any pony, lethal - and familiar…

A blur of something enormous and white streaked out of the gate: Last Shadow raised her muzzle to the skies and howled with relief as Larra's heart swelled - Ghost!

Brother and sister pelted toward each other, tumbling together as they met, yipping and nuzzling, scenting each other, licking each other's muzzles affectionately, playing together for the first time in years.

Men nearby backed away from the wolves, stunned and awed. Perhaps they were used to Ghost: But Lady had been killed years ago, Nymeria lost, Grey Wind butchered, and Shaggydog slaughtered. They wouldn't know the rest of Ghost's litter. They wouldn't know the bond between Ghost, the albino runt of the litter, and Last Shadow, whose eyes had been open, howling adorably to Larra so they weren't overlooked when Robb and Theon had gathered up the other pups mewling and whimpering and blindly seeking their dead mother's milk. She still remembered Last Shadow, a tiny pup with soft down black as night and lustrous as velvet, a keen-eyed, brazen, cunning thing even as a pup as Larra taught her to hunt in the wolfswood. Larra had been so in love with watching Last Shadow grow, and learn, building on the instincts and resilience as a pup to one day survive the frozen wastes of the True North and, as a mature direwolf bitch when all her brothers and sisters were taken from her, form her own pack.

Larra handed Black Alys' reins to Edd, and climbed out of the saddle, her legs aching, drawn to the two direwolves, as much her home as Winterfell was. Last Shadow howled her delight, and in the distance howls echoed back, each unique; the rest of the pack had stayed back from the castle, instinct warning them against coming too close. But Last Shadow knew this place…she had been drawn home…to her brother.

"Ghost," she murmured, and the albino wolf, hulking and snow-white, fidgeted in the snow, ears twitching toward the sound of howls as Last Shadow licked his muzzle and nipped his ears. Glowing ruby eyes turned to Larra. She remembered Ghost slender and gangling and silent; before her, now, stood a beautiful strong, mature wolf, his face handsome and thoughtful and sorrowful, as if the emotion of every tragedy Jon had survived had pooled in his eyes, which were wise and sad even though they unnerved most. Some said Ghost's eyes were the colour of blood: Larra knew they were the colour of weirwood amber, pure and vibrant.

If ever they needed confirmation that Larra and Jon were truly born of Northern stock, all anyone need do was look at Ghost, bonded so fiercely to Jon: With his weirwood-white fur and red-amber eyes, Ghost was the living embodiment of the North - of the Stark sigil and their First Men ancestry, linked so closely to the Children and the weirwoods that their devotion to heart-trees persisted in spite of invasion and conquest and beguiling new gods.

She fell to her knees in the muddy snow as Ghost approached; kneeling, he loomed over her. She didn't see Edd ride on; or the wagon trundle past with Brandon and Meera watching from their furs. A subtle smile lifted Brandon's sombre face as he watched Larra reunite with Ghost.

Tears slid down her face: Silent as she always remembered him, Ghost licked the tears from her face, so, so tenderly. His clever, sad eyes examined her face, remembering, recognising; he tucked his muzzle under her chin, chuffed gently, and licked her face, her ears. His thick fur warmed her exposed skin as tears slid down her face, tickling her chin; her body shuddering with sobs, her eyes burning from tears, she looped her arms around his neck and hugged him, hugged Ghost, as much a part of her brother as Last Shadow was a part of her. She buried her face in Ghost's fur, his warmth seeping into her, his musty familiar scent soothing her, filling her with extraordinary memories to chase away the nightmares, memories of Shaggydog jumping out at them in the crypts; of Grey Wind and Summer tearing across the moors as Bran whooped and yelled in his new special saddle; of Last Shadow's self-satisfied lick of Larra's face after she brought down the stag Theon had been itching to successfully hunt for months; of Nymeria and Lady play-fighting and licking each other lovingly in the godswood as Last Shadow taught Shaggydog how to stalk their sisters; of Summer contentedly licking the cutthroat's blood from his paws as Bran slept on; of Shaggydog and Summer cuddling with her brothers in the abandoned holdfast as they waited out a storm, warm and for the moment safe, the worst horrors behind them as far as they had known then, sleeping peacefully.

Ghost raised his paw, landing it heavily on her back, wriggling in her arms; his tail was wagging when she opened her eyes, raising her wet face from his fur. He snorted gently, his breath pluming in the air, gazed at her with those red-amber eyes, and gently licked the last of her tears away.

"You've been looking after him, haven't you," she moaned, her smile tremulous as Ghost's tail started wagging again, and she raised her hand to stroke his face lovingly. He sniffed at her fingers, licked them, and gave them a brief, sharp, not unpleasant nip of affection. She gulped back more tears, wiping her face on her furs, and rose on weak knees, her fingers trembling as she grasped the hilt of her sword for something solid to hold onto; Last Shadow and Ghost prowled beside her, brother and sister on either side, as she approached the gate on foot. People moved out of the way for her - for her, and the direwolves.

Contentment, relief, swept through her for the first time in ages, Ghost and Last Shadow walking so close they bumped against her as they walked, matching pace, their heat radiating through her. She let her fingers trail through their thick fur as they walked. She knew Jon had gone south to meet with Daenerys Targaryen; but Ghost was here. Part of Jon was here. She followed the happy chatter and the sound of excited, contented people working hard, not pausing to reflect on the shiver that passed down her spine as high stone walls seemed to close in on her, unfamiliar shadows looming overhead - she had become unaccustomed to great stone structures, to castles and courtyards and looming towers. She had become used to the caves under the weirwood; to the open, endless grey skies; to the bare skeletons of trees whipping and cracking in brutal winds. For the briefest moment, she felt as if she was being crushed.

Then she saw the Stark banners hanging from the walls, grey direwolf against a pure snow-white landscape, and calm seemed to suffuse her body, her lungs cracking open to take in the cool air, the warmth of the direwolves at either side soothing her ragged nerves. She focused on the hum of activity, the anvils singing in Mikken's great forge, the women clustered around open fires weaving baskets, old men fletching arrows and carving bowls and spoons, orphans helping wizened women prepare food in cauldrons hoisted over great fires.

The smallfolk of Winterfell were preparing for war. And yet they were happy.

They knew war was coming, but could not comprehend how devastating things would soon be: They were content to know that the Starks had returned to Winterfell, reclaiming the North - Starks were once again taking care of their people.

She heard the soft murmurings, the singing of women and the chatter of busy, contented people, the hacking of axes and chiming of hammers against anvils, heard the gasps as she relished the sight of her father's sigil hanging from the walls once more, and her eyes flicked down to waist-height as she entered through a small gateway, where a new oak door banded with steel stood flanked by two freshly-hewn direwolf statues. She knew they were freshly-hewn: Generations of Starks had worn down the ears and noses of the direwolf statues guarding the entrance to the crypts as they passed their fingers over the fearsome effigies, each time they descended the age-worn steps into the ancient crypts, the burial-place of their ancestors…their brothers and sisters… Her mother.

Her mother rested beneath the courtyard flagstones. She had rested, in peace, with her brother and father, visited often by Ned, who held vigil over her, lighting her candles and bringing her flowers, bringing light and warmth and perfume to the dank crypts…

Larra glanced away from the entrance to the crypt and entered the courtyard, noticing a grim-faced man in a billowing yellow cape, Free Folk in their furs, and a shrewd-looking girl with the Mormont bear on its hind legs emblazoned on her leather breastplate, watching the people clustered around a wagon. Brandon's sombre face turned to gaze at her, smile benign, and Edd's sharp features creased in a contented smile as he leaned against the back of the wagon, watching Meera talk earnestly to a tall woman in a heavy, rich cloak. Meera's eyes darted from the woman to Larra and back; Edd grinned over at Larra, his shrewd eyes alight with anticipation. A hush fell over the courtyard, people staring, parting to allow Larra and the direwolves through the throng of gathered nobles and smallfolk and knights and Free Folk.

The woman in the rich cloak had her lustrous red hair neatly plaited from her face and braided, coiled into a thick bun, the Northern hairstyle known as the "crown" adopted by every noblewoman north of the Neck, waves of copper shimmering over the thick wolf-pelt draped over her shoulders. Her profile was elegant as she turned; a long, slender nose, pretty rosebud lips and short, thick eyelashes. Blue eyes like the skies of the spring of Larra's childhood, damp from shock and relief. Those blue eyes landed on Larra, and the Lady of Winterfell stumbled back, her lips parting, tears streaming down her face in shock, her face grief-stricken, heart-broken.

Larra stared at her sister. Gone was the delicate, petty young girl in softly-hued princess dresses, fussing over her embroidery and her braids; gone the courteous, sharp-tongued girl who cared more for poems and pageantry than appreciating her siblings. Gone the young lady who walked on air, her head full of songs and her heart full of dreams.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to forget, beneath the weirwood, that time was indeed still passing; until she looked at Sansa and felt the blow to her stomach as if kicked in the chest by a mule. Sansa was a woman now.

As a girl she had been pretty, promising great beauty: As a woman, with a steely glint in her blue eyes and her chin raised in defiance even as shock rendered her unsteady on her feet and gulping back tears, she was magnificent. Tall and stately, poised: She radiated strength and an unfamiliar confidence, a sternness that maintained the respect of those around her, even as she was reduced to tears. There was a cold, hewn sombreness to her face now, older and wiser and harsher.

For the first time in her life, Larra thought Sansa looked…Northern.

She was shrouded in a thick brocade cloak lined with fur, the fine wolf-pelt on her shoulders glistening in the pale light, her hands concealed by fine leather gloves, and beneath the folds of her cloak, Larra saw the familiar sheen of fine tooled leather and the shimmer of heavy skirts. Larra recognised the fabric, charcoal and onyx patterned with silvery steel-grey crosses. Beneath the clasps of her cloak, two silver direwolves pinned an exquisitely-embroidered high double-collar in place; a silver chain tinkled as Sansa moved, draped around her throat, dangling to her waist, ending with something small and dagger-like that glinted in the light.

Larra had the time to take in the details of her sister's appearance as Sansa strode toward her, her eyes filled with tears, unblinking as she drank in Larra's appearance. Hers was not as magnificent, she knew, but she raised her chin and met Sansa's tear-filled eyes as her own burned, stunned by this stern beauty advancing on her, a smile breaking through as Sansa choked and threw herself at Larra, knocking her off-balance, embracing her.

Stunned. She was stunned. Too stunned to hug back immediately; but she blinked, and hot tears fell down her cheeks, and she found her arms wrapping themselves around Sansa tightly as Sansa shook against her.

She had never been embraced like this by Sansa…like a sister.

As an equal. As someone Sansa loved.

She hugged back fiercely, her eyes burning as tears streamed down her face, and Sansa shook in her arms, and Larra remembered that this was still her little sister, and that little girl in airy princess gowns was gone for a reason. Suffering had tempered her sister's nature; and Sansa Stark was stronger for the pain, the resilience she had come upon through experience.

Her little sister. A grown woman, stern and unyielding as any she-wolf who had come before her. Beautiful.

Larra hugged her sister, as Sansa wept into her shoulder, shaking. Her little sister. Home. They were home. She panted, and sighed, and relaxed into her sister's embrace as she held her sister upright, the fragrance in Sansa's soft hair beguiling her nose, the softness of her cloak unfamiliar against Larra's scarred palms. She gentled Larra, as she relaxed, stroking her long hair, rocking them both gently.

"Sansa?" she murmured.

"Yes, Larra?"

"Did you steal my dress?"

Startled, Sansa's cries turned to a rippling laugh as they unfolded from each other; Sansa's smile shone through her tears, her eyes glinting, and they parted, though they did not move away from each other.

"I did," Sansa nodded unapologetically, glancing down at the rich folds of her gown. Larra noticed the leather wrapped around her sister's torso in a complicated configuration, the laces hidden at her waist beneath a wide belt. Tears slipped silently down Sansa's delicate pink cheeks as she smiled tremulously. She told Larra earnestly, "I wished to don a she-wolf's pelt. I wanted you with me."

Larra gazed at her sister: They were now the same height, gazing eye-to-eye. She was truly beautiful. Her fiery red hair shimmered as the snows drifted gently around them, clinging to her wet eyelashes, kissing her elegant nose.

"I always was…" Larra told her. How could she not think of her sisters constantly? "Look at you…" She stepped back, keeping a hold on her sister's gloved hands, sweeping her eyes over the gown Sansa had fashioned for herself from Larra's fabrics, the elegant cloak that brought to mind Father, the hairstyle that reclaimed her heritage as a Northwoman. She sniffed, wiping her tears away. She cupped her sister's cheek in one hand, gazing into her face - a face so familiar, and yet so strange - and leaned in to kiss her cheek fiercely. "A warrior-queen stands before me."

"A strategist, perhaps," Sansa corrected, with a little irony. "I never did quite made it to queen."

Larra smiled without delight. "But you made it home."

Sansa gave her a tight, sad smile, a lot left unspoken. "And so have you… The Ironborn claimed they'd kill you."

"It will more than a few krakens to squeeze the life from me," Larra sniffed disdainfully. "I've a dreadfully nasty bite."

Sansa smiled, more warmly this time. "Me too."

She fed him to his hounds. "So I've heard," Larra grinned, pride warming her. She glanced around the courtyard, ignoring everyone watching them, focusing only on the Stark sigil draped against the wall. She turned toward the direwolf statues.

"They're new."

"The others were beheaded," Sansa said, with the cold bite of an unexpected frost. Sansa sighed heavily, staring grimly at the new oak door. Her blue eyes slid to Larra. "He's down there, with Father and Robb."

Larra knew who she meant. She didn't need to ask. She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement as Sansa took her hand, both of them gazing at the door where their father and brothers lay beyond.

Where Larra's mother had been all along.

A.N.: Not going to lie, writing this while listening to the "Marry Me" suite from POTC: At World's End had me weeping. I was going to do one reunion, and then I thought of the Best Boy in all of Westeros and I had to give D&D the proverbial F-U by giving Ghost the love and respect he's earned. You all have LiliLoveNutella for provoking this reunion chapter - I didn't know if it was too soon, but I am a slave to my reviewers, so here you are! A two-for-one deal because I'm nice like that.