A.N.: I know, you thought I'd abandoned this baby… This chapter was a bitch to write, and I have no idea why! Damn…it's been eight months since I updated, all of lockdown... I can only but beg your forgiveness.

Side-note: Whatever gods blessed us with Henry Cavill in Night Hunter need new monuments raised in their honour. Because damn. He's huge, and a little unruly because his hair's just a little longer than we're used to seeing - those darling curls! - he's got a full beard, mmmm - and he wears snuggly jumpers! Cavill's always been my inspiration for Gendry's looks (and Robert's, in his youth, okay, and Rhaegar's, because Geralt of Rivia).

When I came back to this story (about halfway through a very rough draft of the intro to this chapter) I realised that I was trying to keep within the plot and timeline flung at us by Those-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. And I asked myself, WTF, why are you doing that?! I've liberated myself: I've come up with new ideas to extend things and do the story justice.

I was also struggling with how to get Daenerys and Jon into bed together, when Jon (in my canon) has no desire, and actually a great deal of distrust and very little respect for her? Then I came up with a cunning plan.

Valyrian Steel

18

But

She was mesmerising to watch.

Not because she strode through the halls of Winterfell in fine leathers and new velvet gowns, her hair free and curling, her violet eyes flashing - because she didn't.

The girl who might once have been overwhelmed with pride at her brother's kingship, and simultaneously delighted and chagrined by her new status as a King's eldest, twin-sister, had gone dormant in the godswood with Maester Luwin: The woman she had had to become, to keep her brother alive, was a quiet, shrewd, dangerous woman honed to kill when startled, whose experiences had made her brutal, efficient and watchful.

Larra was cunning.

Some of the hardest lessons she had ever learned had been taught to her not in Maester Luwin's schoolroom, nor in Mikken's forge, or Ser Rodrik's training yard, or even at her father's knee. Sansa had learned the same lessons, in the sweltering, duplicitous court of King's Landing: Larra had learned them in the endless, glittering ice-meadows, the majestic fjords and the snow-capped mountains, frozen lakes and beguiling caves of the True North.

How to watch.

How to listen.

How to trust implicitly in her own senses, the feeling in the pit of her stomach warning her, always warning her…

She had been stripped of everything superfluous, her education and fine upbringing, her manners and compassion, stripped of everything but those skills inherent to survival.

Larra relied on her senses, her instincts, just as much as Last Shadow did. She was a wild thing born of the North; and only a direwolf could survive the winter.

She did not saunter around Winterfell as the King's sister - was she a lady? A princess? - in fine gowns and jewels, and, in the beginning, at least, she did not spend the majority of her days cloistered with Lady Stark in the solar combing through papers.

Because Larra…was now rather feral.

She was not the sister Sansa remembered, with her magnetic charisma and deeply maternal warmth and soft curves, calloused hands, sharp wit, sternness balanced by her playfulness - and her boundless love and affection for her siblings. Sansa remembered Larra striding around Winterfell with her head held high and shoulders thrown back, self-assuredness born of her own tenacity, her education and her decisiveness in forging her own role in the world where none had been made available to her because of the circumstances her birth - which Sansa's mother had done nothing to aid.

Larra had been the confidante of and compassionate, sensible dispenser of advice to Robb; had knocked Theon down a few pegs, slapping him when he was foul and his arrogance was overwhelming; a playmate and tutor to curious, sharp little Bran; idol to rambunctious young Arya. Larra was the only one who appreciated that wild things like the youngest Stark sister were made to be free, could be gentled but never truly tamed, and had learned how to gentle Arya. To Rickon, Larra had been a second, then surrogate mother, his playmate and the one who kissed his injuries, cuddled him, knew how to gentle him as she did Arya, to sit in her lap and learn his letters, paying him attention, showering him with love and kisses and listening to his stories and getting to the source of his wrathful tantrums - especially in those dark days before their family splintered and divided irrevocably, and the worst thing to happen to them all was Bran's fall.

With Jon, she had had a deep, impenetrable bond, his equal in everything, his partner and playmate, his guiding light and the tenacious warmth and unconditional love of family he had always craved, of belonging - she was his sister, his home.

To Sansa, Larra had always been a strange figure. Simultaneously she had admired and disdained her older sister, the eldest of them all: She was charming, witty, elegant and flirtatious, earthy, sensible, hard-working, decisive and shrewd, a creative thinker insatiable for knowledge and new skills. Sansa had been raised by her mother to look at her bastard half-sister, and strive to be more.

More elegant and refined. More charming, more amenable, gentler, sweeter. Daintier. Soft. The wildness of Larra's personality, the interests Sansa had disapproved of - riding, hunting, gardening, her education, working with her hands on anything but embroidery - had been a model for Sansa of things not to do, if she wanted to be the refined lady she envisioned her older self as, who was sophisticated and dainty in everything she did. Sansa's smiles were gentler; her voice softer; her movements more restrained, almost delicate. Even the way she had been raised to eat was dainty. Lady Catelyn had done all she could to ensure Sansa was raised to perfectly exemplify the traits of a well-bred daughter of a High Lord of Westeros. Even their accents were different, Sansa's cut crystal, soft, lyrical; Larra's the earthy, rich, almost guttural accent of the North, sometimes harsh and often boisterous. Sansa spoke like her mother: Larra spoke like their father.

Only during her captivity had Sansa realised that the things about her sister's character that had chafed - her vibrant smile; her enthusiasm for everything; her flirtatiousness and love of rambunctious play and dancing; her cleverness and fierce dedication to pursuing a "man's" education, sharing Maester Luwin's schoolroom with their brothers, and applying everything she learned by creating games to teach their little brothers, songs and books and toys, finding cunning ways to educate Rickon when he refused to take lessons; her wildness and her free laughter; her expressiveness and physical playfulness - were the very things Sansa missed the most, and had made even fading memories of Larra outshine a sea of faceless sweet young ladies Sansa had suffered in her years at court.

She was ashamed to admit it had taken her far too long to realise that Larra had been wild, fierce, deeply loving, creative and unique. That the sister she had often maligned was truly exceptional.

Larra was mesmerising in her passion, her commitment, and her grit.

Larra was the kind of woman epic poetry was written about.

People forgot perfect little ladies - little doves like Sansa's younger self - the moment they left the room.

But everyone remembered Larra's fierce, flashing wolf-smile, her vivid violet-blue eyes, her rich laugh and passion, her sharp tongue and dry humour, her cleverness, her playfulness and creativity, and her earthy, rich warmth and deep love.

Among a thousand Sansas, there was only one Larra.

Rather, thousands of the girl Sansa had once been, and would have been content to remain, if she had lived another life.

Sansa had grown - fangs and claws and a glorious fur coat, and had remembered how to howl to the moon and stars and hunt for her prey - and Larra had changed.

Experience was the most brutal teacher: And they had both learned.

The warmth Sansa had always associated with Larra - even toward Sansa, who had always been disdainful and prickly toward her half-siblings as soon as she had learned what the word 'bastard' meant - had cooled. Because all Larra's strength, all that she was and all that she had to give, all that she had been forced to become, was so honed on Bran's survival that there had been no room for anything else. The Land of Always-Winter had stolen Larra's warmth.

And Larra's world had become smaller: Her world had become Bran - and Meera Reed, the wild-haired girl from the Neck whose brother had been lost beyond the Wall, whose face was tired and wan but creased with a small, powerful smile full of innocent, pure delight tinged with grief when a breakfast consisting a single egg fried in butter and rashers of smoked back-bacon were set before her.

She had been intrinsic to Bran's survival, and to his and Larra's return to Winterfell against all odds, when all the world believed them dead: Sansa would have given Lady Meera anything she asked for to show her gratitude. Sansa knew Meera had Larra's love and loyalty forever.

One absurdly modest breakfast was all Meera had asked for.

And she had eaten it, wearing her wildling furs, strapped with weapons, her fingers scarred and chapped and bruised, her hair tangled in curls that reminded Sansa too vividly of Jon, as Larra looked on, fiddling with her spoon and a tiny portion of porridge, the ghost of her old warmth flickering with the first smile of contentment Sansa had yet seen on her sister's rosebud lips since her arrival.

It had not taken Sansa long to realise that, in her world becoming so small, and her role in it so brutal by necessity, the very things she had once disdained Larra for were now the traits Sansa was most anxious to encourage in Larra's recovery.

Lady Meera Reed sought Sansa out, one brittle afternoon with the fire crackling in the grate of the solar, to quietly and patiently explain that, "Larra puts everyone else first; she's forgotten what it means to think of herself - if she ever knew to begin with."

Sansa set down her papers, and sighed softly, reflecting on her own childhood - watching Larra carving out a place for herself in Winterfell, as her siblings' carer, as their brother's castellan in his absence. Both roles demanded sacrifice, unswerving duty - to the Stark family, whose name she was denied, and to their people, selflessly devoting herself to their wellbeing, unthinking of her own desires.

As little girls, Sansa had wanted to be a lady, about whom epic poems were written, songs sung of her beauty and all of that. Arya had wanted to be a warrior, to fight beside their brothers, ferocious and just.

Sansa could not remember what Larra had wanted for herself. Perhaps because she had never cared to know. All Sansa could remember was that Larra was going to remain at Winterfell, long after Sansa had married her honourable knight or shining prince and had babies of her own, to look after Robb's heirs and lands.

It was not like Father, Sansa thought to herself, not to nurture his daughter's desires and hopes for her future.

Especially Larra - Sansa had often considered Larra to be Father's favourite. She could remember yearning for the kind of smile from him that Father always had for Larra.

Now, of course, Sansa understood that Father's smile, his love, was all he could give Larra. Because of Sansa's mother's hatred for two motherless children.

Larra had fashioned herself for duty from a young age - bastards grew up sooner than true-born children, Jon had always said: Larra had understood her place not just in their family but in the world, and had made herself indispensable to her siblings - to ensure she had a place in their home long after Father was gone, and his protection with him.

It nettled Sansa, to realise she had no idea what her sister wanted from life, what secret desires warmed her heart and kept her going, even if she couldn't acknowledge them, and never dared hope for them.

It upset Sansa to realise she had never had any true relationship with her sister - just as she hadn't with Jon. Not like the sometimes absurdly intimate bond she and Jon had been nurturing these last months together, uniting the North to reclaim Winterfell, and ruling it justly and wisely together, as Father and Mother had.

Now was Sansa's chance. The sister she had thought dead, skewered and burned by Ironborn…was very much alive. And Sansa was not the girl she had once been; she appreciated how unique her sister was. How rare her qualities.

Sansa invited Lady Meera - in her furs and tangled curls - to sit in the solar with her, sharing a cup of herb tea. Until the pot was emptied and the tea cold and bitter on their tongues, they spoke about Larra. Things Larra had not yet divulged - either because she could not, because they were observations Meera had made, or because she would not. And Sansa respected that some secrets were not meant to be shared, or coerced, or bullied and frightened out of a person; at the first sign of Meera's unease, Sansa gracefully guided their conversation in another direction.

Sansa had yet to reveal - even to Lady Brienne or Jon - the darkest of her secrets, though she had alluded, and Lady Brienne and Jon had both inferred enough to know. But she could no more share her experience with Jon than he could share his experience of Hard Home with her. And she was not going to betray Larra by pressuring Meera into divulging secrets she had not earned. Even if she was eaten up by curiosity.

But what Meera had shared was enough: It painted a vivid picture of what Larra had done to protect their brother.

"She's…struggling," Meera told her quietly, uncertain about discussing Larra without her knowledge - even to Sansa, her sister. Whether Meera knew their past, contentious relationship, Sansa did not know; but it was very clear that Larra had Meera's loyalty and a deep bond founded on their shared experience. "I don't mean, with what we have endured - in fact, most of the time, Larra was the strongest of us, in her body as well as in her mind, coaxing us ever onwards… She's struggling, here in Winterfell…"

"I'm not sure I quite know where to start to help," Sansa admitted. She had never understood wild creatures, the way Jon and Larra and Arya had.

"She has devoted the last six years utterly to Brandon," Meera said quietly, something smouldering deep in her dark eyes. It might have been anger, but she blinked, and Sansa was uncertain whether she had seen the rage mingled with grief in Lady Meera's dark, tired eyes. "And now Brandon is returned safely home and…the role she fashioned herself for is no longer needed."

Meera winced slightly, and Sansa understood: Because Sansa had taken what should have been Larra's place, as chatelaine of Winterfell, de facto ruler of the North in her brother's name. Her only place in the world because of her birth.

Meera stared at her, saying, "I do not mean running this castle - Larra has told me how impressed she is with you… I meant that, she created herself as Brandon's protector…now they're home and there are so many other people who can share that responsibility, leaving her free to do other things, but..."

"But she's at a loss what to do, because I have taken the position she was trained for," Sansa finished, the great swooping feeling of shame mixed with pride and a little regret settling in her stomach as relief swept through her - Meera wasn't criticising Sansa for stealing her sister's place as castellan… Sansa didn't need Meera to tell her that was what had happened: She knew she had taken what should have been Larra's role…leaving Larra at a loose end, all the more because she had re-forged herself for something else, only to have that role taken from her too, simply by the fact they had returned to Winterfell, safe and for the most part, as whole as they had been when they left…

"You've spent all these years with my brother and sister," Sansa said softly. "Living and fighting alongside Larra."

"We were fighting…but we weren't living," Meera said softly, but her tone was ominous. Her eyes were dark and glinted in the firelight, emotion flickering across her face as she gulped, sniffing delicately. "We were surviving, for as long as the True North allowed us. And it chased our heels until the very moment we reached the Wall. And all that time, Larra never stopped - never stopped fighting; never stopped grieving for Rickon and Osha; never stopped worrying for Bran - never stopped supporting me. She is the sister I have never had; and the only one who could ever have guided me through my grief after the death of my brother. But she…"

"She what?" Sansa pressed gently.

"She never leaned on me the way I did her," Meera said sadly. "I don't know that it's in her nature now to ever…be vulnerable, to let her guard down. Especially when she sees others in need. She puts everyone else first, always."

"Larra trained herself from a young age that she would never be the most important thing," Sansa said regretfully; her own mother had done everything in her power to ensure the twins knew they were unwelcome in their family's ancestral home, that they were bastards, and that that meant being so far below the rest of their siblings, with no hope of ever becoming anything significant, or treasured, or even thought well of, respected or admired. Moreover, that there was no point hoping for anything different: Their roles had already been carved from stone the moment they first drew breath and whimpered at the breast of the mother they never knew.

Sansa sighed to herself. It was different, now, though; Larra was different. She had always been…happy, content, thrilled to find herself useful and needed… Now, Sansa was troubled by the impenetrable aura of aloneness that seemed to emanate from Larra. Strong, but taut - ferocious, cold and brutal as the True North. Sansa had stood atop the Wall, only once, and from there the view beyond it was not so very different than the terrain she had covered with Lady Brienne and Podrick. Jon's stories of the great ranging had altered her perceptions of the True North; as had the few details Larra and Meera had given her of their time beyond the Wall in the Land of Always-Winter. They all said something similar, though: That it was beautiful, and brutal, and unknowable.

And that was Larra, now. Beautiful, and brutal - unknowable.

Even Sansa's limited experiences of the wilds during her flight to Castle Black had left her with a deep respect for whoever had developed the skills to survive extended periods out in the elements. She had found herself thinking of Jon, and of Uncle Benjen, who had devoted his life to the Night's Watch, Ranging far beyond the Wall for months and even years on end - a stranger to Sansa and, frankly, a figure that had always frightened her when she was a child…

Somehow, Larra had survived; and, beyond all hope and reason, she had kept Bran alive too.

Whatever lessons Larra had learned on survival were not easily forgotten, or even pushed to the back of her mind once she returned within the strong walls of Winterfell. It was as if she was still out in the wilderness of the True North, anticipating attack all around her, from the very earth beneath her feet to the skies and the misleading woods and the screams of the winds that tore at her furs.

Sansa had sent maids to air out Larra's old chamber, and guards stationed outside the door had reported that Larra did sometimes retire to her old chamber in the evenings…but whether she rested at all was another matter. Maids told her that the bed, with its fresh feather mattress and clean linen sheets, quilts and furs, warmed by a bedpan every night, was rarely rumpled. As if it had not been slept in.

Once, a scullery maid sent in to relight the morning fires had reported back that Lady Alarra had been asleep in the rocking-chair beneath the window, which had been open, snow whirling gently over her as two little boys slept soundly, cuddled in her bed. The Umber boy, and the wildling child Larra had saved from a hanging cage at one of the holdfasts on her journey south from the Wall. The moment the door had cracked open, Larra had woken, shimmering black dagger in hand, eyes locked on the maid, lethal and assessing - assessing whether or not the maid posed a threat. The poor maid had been frightened out of her wits: Larra had risen from her armchair, the shadows beneath her eyes almost purple, and prowled the castle, restless and agitated, her new Valyrian steel sword loose in its sheath, an obsidian dagger curled in her scarred fingers. Always wary, always watching.

As intuitive and ferocious as a direwolf.

She could not ignore the restlessness in her bones, the need to keep moving that had become so ingrained in their journey to the Land of Always Winter - and back - that…Larra could not settle.

Larra was restless; but Bran did not share her struggles. Since their return, Sansa had had to reconcile the drastic differences in her older sister and their youngest surviving brother from the siblings of her memories.

Bran had become a man; his face had matured, and he was so still all the time. Vacant, distracted, and eerily quiet when he did speak, unnervingly accurate about things he should have no knowledge of. Larra had told Sansa early on that this Brandon was new. Until recently, their brother Bran had been a more belligerent, frustrated version of the boy they both remembered, who had been impish and kind, playful, stubborn and protective, fiercely good and conscientious. The few attempts Larra had made to illuminate the reasons for the change in Brandon left Sansa with a headache and a queer sense of dread in the pit of her stomach she most often associated with Jon during the rare moments he spoke of Hard Home and the Night King.

It didn't make any sense to her - she knew Jon wouldn't struggle, after what he had seen; Sansa knew he would accept it. Whatever it was that had altered Bran to this unrecognisable, eerie ancient boy, perhaps it did not need to be understood; only accepted.

Strange as he now was, it was Brandon who settled back into life at Winterfell with peculiar ease. As if he had never left - or as if he had been anticipating his return for so long, he could shed all other worries and sit smiling blandly in front of a roaring fire in the clever wheeled-chair Maester Wolkan had had the carpenters craft for him, furs tucked over his legs, pale hands clasped elegantly in his lap, eyes bright and flat as he gazed unseeingly into the flames. If he was not in his chamber, gazing placidly into nothingness, then Brandon was to be found under the weirwood, furs tucked around him, a guard keeping an eye on him at a distance. The first time Sansa saw his eyes milky white and unresponsive, her heart had flown into her mouth, calling for a guard - Larra had strode over, gave a quiet word to the guard, tucked Brandon's furs tighter, and left him alone.

She had calmly explained to Sansa that Bran was now the Three-Eyed Raven, the last of the ancient greenseers from Old Nan's stories. They had travelled North, to the Land of Always-Winter, seeking the previous Three-Eyed Raven, Bran's guide and mentor, their guardian - and a Targaryen bastard, a figure from their history-books, the Bloodraven of legend, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch lost to the frozen wastes of the North. As the mantle of king passed from father to son, and the title of High Septon was bequeathed on his successor, so too was there always a Three-Eyed Raven. A being of extraordinary power - Larra called the Three-Eyed Raven the keeper of the world's memory.

He knew all that had come before, and all that still might be, everything happening now, and some things that might never be.

The transition from apprentice to master had been so recent, Brandon was still too overwhelmed to remember that he was Bran Stark, their impish, bright little brother. He was Brandon now. Brandon the Broken. The Three-Eyed Raven. As he was always meant to be.

Sansa knew that Jon had been resurrected by the Red Witch when mutineers had murdered him for decency. She knew it had pained him to talk about it, almost ashamed for her to know, bewildered about why he had been brought back, for what reason, why he was deserving of another chance at life, when his choices had led to his murder… She had heard it from Ser Davos, his blunt, earnest voice thick with emotion, and knew he spoke the truth: She believed it.

When Larra told her that Brandon was the Three-Eyed Raven and saw the past more clearly than the present, Sansa could do nothing but believe her. Take it with a pinch of salt, and get on with things; there was no point gawping and marvelling and trying to figure out the minutiae of details when all her instincts - her training - had taught her to focus on the tiny details that could unravel a lie or build an empire…

Lady Meera Reed confessing to Sansa that Larra was struggling was the easiest thing Sansa had to absorb, her sister's transformation the easiest thing to adjust to. Though, perhaps transformation was not the right word: as with Sansa, the potential had always been there. This new Larra was one who had had everything but her purest instincts stripped away.

Sansa wanted to help her. Wanted to take the time, and coax and gentle Larra the way Larra had the dire-eagle she had once nursed back to health, slowly and surely calming, befriending and nurturing it back to health…

She recalled how she had felt, all those long years in King's Landing, when she had been aching for closeness, for companionship and…and trust…to be able to relax, utterly, and be vulnerable without fear.

Until reuniting with Jon, Sansa had never experienced it.

Their experiences had been utterly opposite, Sansa in the glittering, malicious court, Larra in the barren, unforgiving True North, but they both shared the same thing: Isolation. Reliance on their own resources to survive impossible odds.

When one thought of things in such a way, Sansa felt far more confident in approaching her ferocious, eerie sister. She had been hesitant - because, truth be told, this stripped-back, brutal Larra unnerved her - frightened her, even. Those queer purple-blue eyes were sharp as daggers, brutal as direwolves, and saw everything in a way even Brandon could not: he was too distracted by the history of the world, by what had once been. Larra was focused on what was, now, in Winterfell, and nothing escaped her notice. It was a distinctively uncomfortable process, Larra levelling her violet gaze on a person. Because the warmth of Larra's smile no longer softened that quelling gaze that stopped hard Northern lords in their tracks. The Lords who had already returned to Winterfell knew Larra was not to be trifled with. And sometimes, when Sansa approached too quickly and Larra pinned those violet eyes on her, Sansa stopped dead, her heart in her throat from fear. There was a predatory grace to Larra now, and an impenetrable wall of ice around her that would take a long time to thaw…

Sansa sat in the solar, the sound of the fire crackling in the grate soothing, its warmth lulling, watching as the firelight caught on the huge snowflakes idly whirling past in the dark beyond the diamond-paned windows dripping with condensation. Whenever Larra came to the solar, and stayed for any duration, she cracked a window open and sat beneath it - whether or not there was sleet or snow or a clear white sky; she could not abide the claustrophobic heat emanating from Winterfell's heated walls, the water from the hot-springs sluicing through the walls…keeping the North alive through the harshest winters…

A soft smile came to Sansa's eyes, and she pushed away from the worn oak desk, aching as she rose for the first time in hours. She remembered how tired Father used to look in the evenings, but he always made time to invite someone to the high table and listen to their lives… Tonight, though, she had asked for a simple supper to be brought to the solar later in the evening. The days were getting shorter and shorter. Her lessons reminded her that sometimes, in the very heart of winter this far North, the light of day could last as long as three hours together, before the world was plunged into darkness again.

They only had to look for the days growing longer again, to know that spring was on the way.

Until then, they endured.

But, Sansa thought, striding through the castle's more private corridors and chambers - those devoted to the Stark family itself, affording them privacy when the entire North congregated at Winterfell for the winter - they could also thrive.

Jon had helped Sansa. Whatever magic had warmed his heart again had started to soothe hers. Now, she passed on the gentle, steady strength with which Jon loved, and protected… That was what he was, Sansa knew; a protector. The shield that guards the realms of Men…

She hoped, not for the first or even the hundredth time, that Jon would return home soon. She remembered his reaction when his eyes had rested on her at Castle Black for the first time, grubby and frozen in the courtyard amid the gentle snows…how he had stopped still as any statue in the crypt, his lips parting in quiet awe, and stepped back as if stunned by a physical blow, his long scarred fingers curling as if already holding her close to him… He had not even blinked as he stepped down into the courtyard, never even looked away from her for a single heartbeat, and Sansa had forgotten any physical discomfort - and distrust of being touched - and threw herself into his strong arms. Thrown herself at Jon, tall as an oak and resilient as any weirwood, fierce and bearded now, his hair freshly shorn, the wind flirting with his cropped curls, his face pale but his dark eyes glittering with wonder, grief and love as he gazed at her, sat before the hearth with soup to warm her hands…he had laughed when she had choked on the bad ale he drank so easily, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes, his white teeth flashing in his bearded face, and it looked strange, seeing him smile at her - because of her: His smiles had been for Larra.

Sansa couldn't wait to see Jon's reaction when he realised Larra was home.

She was still of two minds: Send a raven to Dragonstone, telling him - or let him find out upon his return.

On the one hand, she wanted him to know - to speed his return to Winterfell.

On the other, Sansa refused to distract Jon from doing what was necessary - for his survival, for their freedom; for the Long Night, and the wars to come.

Larra had not asked her to send a raven; nor had she expressively forbidden Sansa from doing so. And Sansa had not brought it up to her - a little in part due to her dread of what Larra's choice would be. Because Sansa had to respect her choice, and her insight.

The fire crackled and Sansa tidied her working desk, before sending a maid ahead to prepare, and she shivered as she exited the solar - she had not realised just how hot the fire had been burning - and strode through the castle, appreciative of the fact that she had enjoyed the entire day without sight or sound from Lord Baelish. She had given instructions Littlefinger should be…kept occupied. Because Sansa did not want him too near her; but she could not afford to send him away - he was simply too dangerous to let out of her sight.

As long as he was at Winterfell, she could anticipate what he would get up to: Exactly what he always had, manipulate, murder and blackmail his way to getting what he wanted. Her. Control of the North through her. Northern armies combined with the might of the Vale to snatch the Iron Throne from Cersei. Litter Westeros with the bodies of anyone who stood in his way - and perhaps especially those who had helped him climb onto that unsightly chair.

But she was glad of the reprieve from his constant presence, from the shrewd, greedy gaze and the smirk she was desperate to slap off his face. Her lips burned whenever she thought of his presumptuous kiss, made her shudder with discomfort, more than memories of the King's Landing bread riots - because Littlefinger was far more dangerous.

He didn't like Larra, Sansa could tell by the way his sharp eyes lingered on her. Didn't like her presence in Winterfell. Not her furs, not her handiness with weapons - or how she had taken the measure of him the first time she laid eyes on him.

Jon, Larra, Bran…her family had returned. There were now more and more people to strengthen the Stark hold over the North, to strengthen her; more people Littlefinger would have to find creative - or perhaps not subtle at all - ways to despatch in pursuit of his desires. Sansa, the Iron Throne.

At this time of afternoon, Sansa could usually find Larra in the training yard. She drilled with different groups of young people, with spears, bows and knives. And often, Sansa had watched from the gallery, Larra would issue drills, correcting posture and grip, encouraging people and setting high expectations people strove to meet, while her hands were busy with a hunting knife, whittling a basket of arrows to be delivered to the team of fletchers. Even stood still, Larra was never idle. It was a strange thing to watch Larra, and Sansa paused in the gallery once again, gazing down into the training yard illuminated by fires crackling here and there, and heard her sister's voice before she saw her. Larra had picked up languages north of the Wall. Sansa had not yet asked about it, but Larra understood the dialects of several of the wildling clans - there were seven different languages spoken among the Free Folk - and Larra acted as interpreter for the Magnar of the Thenns, who spoke only in the Old Tongue of the First Men. Sansa heard Larra's voice, but did not recognise her words: Peeking over the railing, Sansa finally found Larra, amid a cluster of wildlings, almost indistinguishable because of their furs - and they were…laughing. They were playing a game - one Sansa could remember her siblings being scolded for playing when they were little. Holding their fingers out, snatching out their hands to slap each other's knuckles. Wildlings, and their children clinging to their furs, all laughed richly, chatting in their native dialects, as they watched Larra engaged in the game with a young Thenn, tall and pale as a weirwood with a shaved head, dazzling sapphire-blue eyes, wicked ceremonial scars and an insane grin. They were playing without gloves.

"Why?" Sansa asked with a mixture of curiosity and exasperation, eyeing her sister's pale, scarred hands - skin reddened from the Thenn's ruthless slaps - as the wildings dispersed, uneasy in the presence of someone who was so completely other, a southern Lady in her finery, the King's sister… Not like Larra, who could pass as one of them, who had learned their secrets and their dialects, their culture and respected the cold war they had been fighting for years against the Night King, because she was also a warrior who fought for the living…

"Because it hurts more in the cold," Larra said simply, as she trudged rather reluctantly inside, her eyes watchful as they entered the castle. Sansa had noticed that Larra was always rather unsettled by the idea of returning inside, as if she could not breathe freely within the ageless stone walls that had protected their family for thousands of years. The open window in the solar; resting in the rocking-chair rather than her feather bed - Larra was uncomfortable in their home, and Sansa knew it.

She rolled her eyes slightly at Larra's answer, glancing at her sister, whose eyes glowed vividly violet as the torchlight caught them.

"Have they said anything?" Sansa asked curiously.

"About what?"

"The Northerners have me to bring complaints to; the Valemen have Lord Royce, who brings the few issues that he cannot settled to me…the wildlings had Jon," Sansa said, frowning slightly. When it came to the wildlings, Sansa knew the respect they had for Jon would not pass on to her simply because she was his sister: His status as their leader was founded on his being a fellow survivor of the Night King's hordes, as someone who had died to give them a chance at life… Sansa knew how to deal with the Valemen, who, as proud and honourable as they were, were well-behaved boys in comparison to the hard Northern lords… And compared to the wildlings, well… The Northern lords seemed like child's play.

The wildlings were utterly foreign to her; they might as well have come from Asshai, for all Sansa knew of their languages and culture. They were utterly intimidating. But Larra…she had lived in the True North, and the wildings had appreciated that from the moment Larra, Bran and Meera had reached Winterfell. They could see it in Larra's furs; in the way she held herself; in how swiftly she drew her short hunting knife - rather than her Valyrian steel sword - because it was cumbersome, not to mention unwise, to unsheathe a longsword and fight in snowdrifts. The True North was in Larra, in a way it never could be in Sansa: Larra appreciated their cultures, had adapted some of what she had learned to survive, and respected their strength and ferocity, their freedom.

Larra treated every person she met as her equal - because she had grown up being treated as inferior.

"Be assured, if the Free Folk have any issues, they'll be dealt with swiftly and brutally," Larra said, her pretty lips pursing in wry amusement. "The Thenns hate the Hornfoots; the Hornfoots hate the Ice River clans. Everyone hates the cave people… But they're not so blinded by their hatred that they can't see that they must work together if they want a future. Especially not after Hard Home… You don't need to worry about the Free Folk, Sansa. They settle their own affairs…and as soon as they're able, they'll pack themselves off home to hack each other to bits over one perceived insult or another."

"Yes, but until then…"

"Until then, they'll work together, because it's in their interests to do so," Larra said softly. "Never underestimate what people are capable of if they feel it's in their best interests… But they'll never kneel. This is not their home, their lands… They'll do what they must, fight with us…but they'll always yearn for the boundless snow-meadows and clear glittering air of the True North, the freedom to live their own lives…"

"They won't want to stay south of the Wall?" Sansa asked curiously. All her life, she had been warned by Old Nan's stories of wildling raids, brutal wild-men carrying off livestock, castle-forged steel and innocent young girls.

"Some might," Larra said thoughtfully. "There will be more than a few orphans before the Dawn comes…they'll either adapt and kneel, or make their way home - and fight every day of their lives to survive."

"Who would choose such a life?"

"There's freedom in living that way," Larra said, her voice faraway, almost dreamy. "It's brutal and relentless, but you are beholden to no-one… You are stripped to your fiercest nature, left with nothing but what is so precious you would kill to protect it. It's a simple way of life - and it is honest."

"It sounds rather liberating," Sansa said honestly, thinking of King's Landing and the tangled nest of vipers, thorny blooms and mangy lions that was the Court. Everything had been cloaked in deception - even deceptions.

"In a way," Larra said gloomily, keeping pace with Sansa even as she led the way through the bowels of the castle, the torch held by their guard guttering with every open window they passed, snow drifting past idly, the nip of the wind chasing away the worst of the suffocating heat of the walls steaming softly, vapour eddying at their feet. Winterfell had never been so atmospheric as when winter finally came, and the castle itself exhibited proof of why it had been built in such a way - and endured so long. The heated walls of the castle would keep the people of the North alive throughout the harshest winter: The difference between life and death in winter was often warmth, as Sansa could now attest to. She had almost died of the cold several times on her flight to Castle Black. Sharing what little warmth they had with Theon; marvelling as Podrick struck tinder so easily to coax a flame into life-giving ruby warmth.

But Sansa was a novice compared to Larra.

"You miss it," Sansa said, glancing at Larra, who raised her violet eyes to Sansa's face, her own expression rather grim.

"I knew what I had to do," was all she said. Then her dark brows nudged toward each other, and she gazed around the corridor. "Where are we going?"

Sansa cleared her throat, as they entered a familiar corridor known only to those who knew where it was. A stretch of wall had been carved by Stark stonemasons centuries ago, possibly longer, a rather fanciful depiction of Brandon Stark's settlement of the area that became Winterfell, with its godswood and its thermal pools and the irrigation system that kept their walls warm - kept the winter at bay… They had been raised on the story, and on this mural: They knew Brandon Stark by the direwolf hulking behind him, predatory and protective of the first Stark King in the North.

The torchlight threw queer shadows against the mural, and Sansa's heartbeat quickened as she imagined the figures coming to life, Brandon turning his stern, unyielding gaze - so like Jon's, so like Father's - toward her, the enormous direwolf bristling and snarling as it sensed danger, bonded to Brandon as Lady had once been to Sansa... Brandon Stark had to have been a hard man, harder even than Jon - and as good as Jon, as gentle and brave and as strong - to unite the First Men, to ally with the Children of the Forest, to beat back the White Walkers, raise the Wall, initiate the Night's Watch and lay the first foundations for Winterfell… Thousands of years later, here they were, Brandon's direct descendants, preparing to finish what he had started so long ago…

Sansa turned to her sister, and said, rather bluntly - because she was home, and Larra did not appreciate minced words - "I appreciate that weeks cannot undo the work of years…"

"But?" Larra said, her lips twitching with irony, and Sansa was thrown back to Jon's laughter interrupting their squabble - "anything before the word 'but' is horseshit."

"But you are in dire need of a bath."

Larra sighed heavily, her scowl heavy as she glared at the heavy oak door banded with steel hinges worked into the form of snarling direwolf heads. Her fingers twitched, as if itching to reach for her weapon - an instinct Sansa doubted would ever die - because she was in discomfort, anxious… Sansa couldn't help but wonder why - and was clever enough not to dare ask, remembering some of the wisdom Meera had shared on her relentless, brave sister.

"I haven't had a bath in years," Larra murmured, almost to herself.

A.N.: At thirty Word pages long, I had to separate this into two chapters!