08:30

So far as Willas can tell, the whole reincarnating thing doesn't work like that.

There's always some nutjob standing on the Palace steps, shouting about being Aegon the Conqueror reborn, and there's a thriving mysticism movement where everyone involved seems to have been someone important in a past life - it rakes in hundreds of thousands of pounds a year, from what he's read. There are religions, mostly in Essos, that preach a more gentle approach to the whole thing, where instead of a seemingly random and generally quite cruel process, it's a constant, rolling cycle of regeneration.

But for them, it's not like that. They don't tend to remember every detail of their past selves, and the whole business of only some of them remembering those pasts from the off is a pain in the arse. Then there's the Seers, three or four of them scattered across each return, who are of no bloody use because they can't see past the life they're living and even then, it's spotty. And then there's the soulmates.

Or, well. There's sort-of the soulmates. It's not consistent, because not every relationship outlasts a lifetime, and he sometimes thinks that people like Marg and Robb and even little Robin are better off, to have the chance to find someone new on each turn of the wheel. It's been so many times and so many lives that Willas can't imagine not loving Sansa, and that's brought him near as much grief as it has joy. He wouldn't trade it, most days, but there are times when he wonders what it might be to build a life with Ty or whoever (or Rodge, because he isn't blind and he isn't stupid but he also isn't able to be the partner Rodge needs, even without Sansa hanging over him).

There are times.

But it isn't as though they can study it, not without looking like lunatics. They know it sort-of works, even for people who don't know . Sansa's parents, they come together against occasionally overwhelming odds every single time, or Gar and Leo, or even Mum and Dad, who are so well suited for one another that of course they're soulmates. There's enough evidence in its favour that they can't discount it entirely, even at their most sceptical.

The birthmarks stop that in its tracks.

Willas has a smudgy pale patch on his ribs, sort of blobby and uneven. He always puts his hand over it when he crosses his arms, which he does when he's nervous or anxious or in bad form. It's a comfort, just knowing it's there. Knowing she's there.

They grow, become more defined, as the relationship grows. The pattern of softly swelling waves on Margie's shoulder is showing more colour than Willas expected, and the fantastic stag that stands on Loras' waist and spreads up his back and side so that it's peeping, just slightly, around his front, is so black that he usually wears two layers on the court, because some of the older clubs don't approve of tattoos. Renly's got a long green tendril of golden rosebuds spilling down across the front of his shoulder, rooted in his shoulderblade, and Ty's got a star falling down her arm, shoulder to elbow. Some are familiar, seen every time this happens, but some are new - Margie's never had a Manderly before, but something about Wynafryd seems to suit her better than anyone else has.

Willas has his smudgy pale patch, and he takes comfort in it because it's a sign that Sansa is out there, somewhere, and that there is still hope.

Sansa is here, somewhere. Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. He hadn't seen her so completely shell-shocked in so many turns of the wheel, and it had been difficult not to take her into his arms and offer her succour when Marg walked her through the door. Aster's cooking breakfast upstairs - pancakes, of course - and Margaery is steaming Willas' ceremonial robes in the sitting room, and he's sitting on his bathroom stool so he can have both hands safely free to trim his beard.

And Sansa is here, somewhere. In his house.

He puts down his clippers and presses his hand to the smudgy patch on his ribs.

Sansa is here. This time, maybe, they seem to have won.

09:25

Marg's brother's house is just… sublime.

Sansa's always loved the townhouses on the million mile. They're so elegant, so different to anything she ever saw in the North, and a world away from the brutish grandeur of the High Hill. They're all wood panelled, each one painted a different soft pastel colour than the next, every single one of them with bright white shutters, and they have the most beautiful view down the hill, across Riverside and the Rush and out onto the Narrow Sea.

Marg's brother's house is the very palest mint green, and it's a little over halfway down the hill. Sansa can smell the sea when she opens the window. There's a neatly trimmed white clematis creeper trained up around the stairs to the front door, and then around the door itself, too, framing the stained glass half-moon window. In the little front yard, which is cobbled in round-topped stones in every shade from lavender to russet, there are creamy white and brilliant yellow roses in tasteful stone planters.

It's beautiful. Sansa has very similar tastes, even if she's never been able to show them - Joff's too much a Lannister to value such subtlety.

Even the room Marg showed her to last night is perfect - plain coving on the ceilings, beautiful mauve and cream striped wallpaper on the wall behind the bed, to match the cream walls and the mauve carpet and the lace-edged bed linens. It's all so understated and delicate, right down to the rose and jasmine soap in the ensuite, and Sansa wonders how in the world she's never met Marg's eldest brother - who is apparently an art historian. Sansa loves art and history! What was Marg thinking, introducing Sansa to Olive Oil but not to the Right Honourable Willas Tyrell, Earl of Highgarden?

She shouldn't think of Lady Olenna as Olive Oil. She'll know, somehow, and Sansa doesn't have Granny Min on hand to throw at her in self-defence.

"Sansa? I've got some clothes for you, sweetheart, if you're up."

"Come on in, Marg," she calls over her shoulder. She's sitting under the window, leaning on the low, broad sill with one of the beautiful throw pillows from the bed under her backside. Her pyjamas are Marg's, so they're too short in the leg and the sleeve, but they're soft and warm and covered up.

Just because Margaery Tyrell is one of the most popular models currently working in Westeros does not mean that she always dresses like she's on the runway. Case in point, she's wearing raggedy UCKL trackie bottoms and a Harbour Dolphins' t-shirt that she's cut the collar out of.

"Az is making pancakes," she says, dropping a pile of neatly folded clothes onto the bed. "She makes the best pancakes, if you're hungry."

"Have we time?"

"Heaps of it," Margaery promises, offering Sansa her hands to heave her upright. "So get dressed, and eat yourself sick on Az's pancakes, and you can fill me in on everything."

She was crying, sitting under the window. She starts again, and Marg doesn't say a word beyond "Oh, come here, you."

Because yes, Sansa is relieved to be away from Joff and from Petyr and from the Targaryens - she hopes Val doesn't suffer any consequences for helping her, oh, gods, she hadn't even thought of that - but she knows it won't be this easy. She owes the Spiders a debt. She owes the Wildlings a debt, because Val never lets them forget who she was before she married Jon.

And she's a murderer, too. She slept better last night than she has all week, but that doesn't mean she didn't wake up every half an hour to the wet sound of Dad's head exploding, echoing with the dull thud of the lamp against Petyr's skull. She won't ever, ever forget that.

Once Sansa's calmed down, Marg plaits her hair back from her face. It's so familiar, so similar to a dozen mornings they spent together before classes. Joff never raped her, but he could be brutal sometimes, in the evenings, when there was no one earby who might help and no one to run to who could help.

Even Marg, even Arya - Sansa wouldn't bring Joff's wrath down on their heads. She could tolerate it, and if he was being terrible to her then that spared everyone else from the first, meanest impulses of his cruelty. She knows that poor Tommy's life was unbearable, until Sansa came along, and while Joff always made certain that she didn't have a chance to know his brother and sister as well as she might have liked - especially when Robb took up with Myrcella - she knows that she's stronger than Tommen. She's stronger than most people, in a small, only sort-of useful way.

"Get dressed," she says, "and follow the smell of food when you get downstairs."

Sansa gets dressed. She washes her face again, and she follows Margaery downstairs. When she gets there, she follows the smell of food to the big, wide-windowed kitchen looking out over the back garden. It's got dark blue tiles and bright white cabinets with pearly powder blue trim, and it smells absolutely divine. Margaery is there, waving her hands- no, speaking WSL to the tall, skinny girl with the bang on trend undercut.

She's a beautiful girl, with high cheekbones and the narrow Martell face, but bright golden Tyrell eyes and Loras' smiling mouth. This must be Marg's niece, Aster.

"Morning," Sansa says, which earns her a pleasantly surprised smile. "Margaery said pancakes?"

"Go across to the dining room, San," Marg says. "We'll follow on."

The dining room has more of those beautiful, lofty ceilings, and is panelled in bright, cheery chestnut. It should be a little dated, a little old-fashioned, but it somehow just feels very classic.

"Oh! Good morning."

Margaery's eldest brother is Willas. He's got those bright Tyrell eyes, behind chic steel-frame glasses, and while last night he was scattered and cozy in worn jeans and a cableknit jumper, this morning he's immaculate, in a ceremonial suit - high-waisted trousers with a stripe of green satin down the leg, short-cut jacket with more of the green on the cuffs, and a crisp white shirt with pleated front and high, unadorned collar.

Dad's suits - Robb's suits, now - have silver satin trim. Robin's have sky blue, and Edmure's robes come in chequey river blue and warm, deep red. For ceremonial occasions, Sansa wears plain white under a silver sash and grey velvet robes, and had she married Joff, she would have kept that same silver sash under Baratheon gold robes.

She will never marry Joff. Something about being away from Petyr's schemes and Jon's schemes leaves her able to find joy in that, now.

But Willas Tyrell's trim is all green satin, and no doubt there's a green velvet robe waiting for him to put it on. The King's funeral is a ceremonial occasion, and everyone will be in full regalia. Margaery said that Arya is still in the city and will attend in Robb's place, which means that only a handful of the dukes will be in attendance - Robin, of course, since he's living in the city until he's finished college and can't really get out of it, and Lord Tywin, but otherwise it's all heirs and spares.

Interesting. Worrying, too. Perhaps the Targaryens are right to strike now, right at the tenderest moment of the turnover, when King Robert is proving unmourned and King Joffrey is known to be unloved.

"Did you sleep well?"

He's smiling just a little, teeth bright against his dark, trimmed-tight beard, and Sansa doesn't worry at all. Handsome men have worried her for years, in case it gets back to Joff that she was talking to them, but Margaery would never take her somewhere where she was unsafe, which means, by default, that Margaery's brother is safe.

"Better than I have all week," she assures him. "I can't thank you enough-"

"You've already thanked me enough," he says firmly, turning from the sideboard to reveal a heavy wooden crutch tucked under his arm. "This is- Well, it's not nothing, that would discount your terrible time, but it's the least I can do. Margaery loves you like a sister."

He looks as though he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

"Please, Sansa," he says. "Have a seat."

"The house is so beautiful," she says, because it is, and surely he knows it. "The panelling, is it-"

"Original," he says, settling into the chair at the head of the table with a wince. "Restored - a friend of mine from college turned her expertise into a functioning business, which very few of the rest of us managed. The floors, too, and any stained glass you see is the real deal, too."

10:07

"It's weird," Aster admits. "But if this works, Dad can be happy."

"You think he isn't happy?"

"He is! But it's not the same. I think it's because he knows she's out there somewhere, so he never settles to anything or anyone else."

True enough - she's a clever girl, their Az. She might be Marg's favourite person in the world, although Fred's coming for her throne.

It is strange, hearing Sansa and Willas' voices from across the hall. They're laughing about something - probably some terrible joke that's only funny to people who read dense, boring books for fun - and it all feels so familiar that Margaery wants to hope.

She wants to. She just doesn't quite dare.

"Come on, you, " she says, nudging her hip to Az's and hefting the heavier of the two trays. "Let's get this on the table."

Aster rolls her eyes, but she takes the other tray and leads the way - conversation falls off, but it kicks right back up once Will puts down his newspaper to talk to Az.

"You usually wear your hearing aids when we have guests," he says, which makes Az frown at him. He doesn't usually draw attention to her hearing aids any more than he would his own glasses, or his own hearing aid, for that matter, and Marg is tempted to smack him over the head for it. She knows how relieved he is to have Sansa safe, but she is not Awake, and she is not his. Aster is both, and Aster needs to be his priority even if Sansa does wake up.

"I'll kill you," Margaery says, smiling to take the sting out of it for Sansa's sake, but looking right into Willas' eyes so he knows to take his head out of the clouds. "Sansa speaks a little sign, so we're fine."

He takes the hint, and squeezes Az's hand when she sits down beside him.

"Where's Mum?" Az asks, which is a fair question. Tyene came in late last night, sneaking in so quietly that Margaery only heard her because her bedroom is right above the front door, and she was gone before any of them were up this morning. From what little Sansa told them last night, that has Margaery on edge - Tyene is a Martell, after all.

"Your granddad arrived late last night for the funeral," Will says, "so she picked him up from the airport, and then she went to make sure he wears his robes."

They start bickering - Az loves her grandfathers more or less equally, but Prince Oberyn is far, far more exciting than Dad - and Sansa listens, squinting a little whenever she can't follow what they're saying. Margaery makes her breakfast, and takes most of the raspberries, and she makes Az's breakfast too.

"Wait, where's mine?" Willas asks when Marg leans across him to put down Az's plate. "How come she gets it and I don't?"

" You're a grown up, big brother, " Margaery reminds him. " Az is a baby, and she's going to sneak away once she's done eating."

They agreed to this, so that Az doesn't have to hear all that Sansa might have to say. They have to question her, much as Marg wishes they didn't, because while they've pieced together some of what's gone on this week there's still some blanks that need to be filled in.

If nothing else - is there a chance Joffrey might be Awake? And if he is, how much danger are they in?

They eat. It's quiet, because Az is an angel who's eating quickly to give them a decent chance to talk to Sansa before Will has to go to the funeral, and then Az kisses Will's cheek and Marg's hair, and she smiles at Sansa, and she goes.

"So," Sansa says. "So, where do I start?"

11:23

Willas excuses himself to finish dressing once Sansa's finished telling her story, and he takes advantage of the privacy afforded by being downstairs to be sick without being overheard.

Aster is in his bedroom when he finally feels as though he's brushed the taste of sick off his teeth, fiddling with her fingers the way Garlan bites his lip. She's anxious, which makes him feel sick all over - he was a prat to her, upstairs, and she deserves an apology.

"Come here, you, " he says, and she does. He holds on tight, kissing her hair over and over. When he lets her go, he says "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

She shrugs. He never loses his temper with her, but he can be thoughtless - it's just not usually Az who bears the brunt of that.

"She doesn't seem like herself," is all Aster says. "And you need to calm down. You'll scare her."

"Coming on a bit strong, am I?"

"She's not the Sansa you know, Dad. You need to acknowledge that."

Easier said than done, of course, but if Aster thinks that's what he should work on, he'll work on it.

"If you want," he says, "we can go out for dinner tonight. Just us. I've been absolutely shit since you arrived."

"You have," she agrees, but she's smiling just enough to soften it. "But you can improve. You always do."

13:20

Arya's too far away to say a word to Tyrell without being overheard, and in the high grey suede shoes Sansa bought for her for her last birthday, she doesn't trust herself not to topple sideways if she tries to lean around Edmure to get his attention.

She kicks Edmure instead.

"Kick me one more time and I'll knock you clean on your arse," he warns her. "Don't do anything rash, Arya. Not now."

Rash would be drawing any more attention to herself than she already has simply for being here - technically, they as a family were exempt from attending the King's funeral, because they're in their mourning week for Dad, but she and Robb agreed that it was best not to risk King Turd taking insult. It had taken three days and a vision from Bran to convince Mum, and even then, she'd refused to allow it unless Edmure swore up, down, and sideways to keep an eye on Arya.

She's glad of him now. Even when Joffrey is pretending to be a grieving son, Cersei has no interest in playing the grieving widow. She's staring down that imperious nose of hers like she owns the place, because she probably thinks she does. She probably thinks she has some control over Joffrey, the poor fool.

Tommen and Myrcella are on the next step down of the dais behind the bier, almost invisible behind the King's bulk and all the flowers and ornaments. Myrcella's circlet is bright with yellow topaz, Tommen's bright against his pale blonde curls, and neither one of them is taking their eyes off the King's remains.

Probably because if they do, there's no avoiding Stannis Baratheon.

Arya doesn't like Stannis - Shireen is another story, because Shireen is one of the loveliest people in the world. Shireen's father, however, is a severe, cold, mannerless man who thinks himself above everyone else in the court less because he's the King's brother and more because of stupid moral superiority. He's staring at Cella and Tommy like he wants them to join his brother on the bier, and Joffrey and Cersei too, which probably means he knows the truth.

Arya prays - mostly to the old gods and the Crone, because the others have always seemed a bit too clean-cut for her preference - that he has the sense not to launch into a tirade about Cersei's betrayal during the funeral. Knowing Stannis, though, nothing is certain.

Robin is on Arya's other side, skinny as a lat but taller than any of Arya's brothers except Rickon. He looks very well in his sky-blue robes, and Arya offers another prayer that Mum won't insist she wears heels tomorrow, too.

"Stannis looks fit to burst," Robin murmurs, because it's true.

The way they're arranged - Robin, Arya, Ed, and Rodge Greyjoy on this side, Stannis, Tyrell, Prince Oberyn and Tywin Lannister on the other, and Cersei Lannister and her children standing at the King's head - would be funny, in other circumstances, because there's been a lot of talk recently about the north-south divide within the country. In any other circumstances, Ed would be making all kinds of witty comments about how the lush valleys of the Westerlands and the fertile plains of the Reach make their people snobby, and he'd be right to do just that.

But these are not other circumstances. This is the funeral of a King of dubious legitimacy, whose direct heirs are also of dubious legitimacy, and everyone who knows that there will be a challenge to this regime looks on edge. Arya certainly is, although part of that is the shoes. She might feel a little better if she had a first hand account of how Sansa is fairing, though.

13:40

The High Septon is droning on, that terrible nasaly voice of his bouncing off the crystal windows, and Tommy is starting to sweat. Renly can see it where his golden robes rest against the back of his neck. He's probably burning up under Stannis' furious stare, which isn't even slightly fair - that temper should be reserved entirely for Cersei and Robert.

Dear Joffie doesn't have a very nice reputation, so there's no sense of optimism mixed in with the surprisingly sincere grief on the faces Renly recognises in the pews. Robert was a generally jovial sort, of course, but not the sort to make anything like true friends.

Save Ned Stark, of course, and Jon Arryn, gods rest them both.

But yes, Joffrey isn't the sort of young King who'll inspire trust and confidence as Robert had, after the coup. If only he didn't have to contend with all those nasty rumours about the suspicious nature of his father's death, and the terrible publicity of his mother refusing to allow the state coroner to autopsy Robert's body.

Whoever leaked such a story had done dreadful harm to Cersei's image. Shame.

14:01

Robin is seated right in front of Prince Oberyn for the ceremony, for some reason, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he gets a tap on the shoulder.

"Please pass on my niece's apologies to your cousin when next you see her," he whispers. No one will overhear, not during the choral prayers, but it still feels terribly risky to be saying something like this so close to so many Lannisters. "She meant no harm, but understands that she caused it regardless."

"Your Highness-"

"Your Grace," Prince Oberyn says, very softly, "please do not play stupid, and please do not emulate your father. He thought us wild and soft, and we are neither - my niece least of all."

"Then perhaps she ought to be Queen," Robin dares, which earns him a hearty clap on the shoulder - muffled, mercifully, by the thick velvet of his ceremonial robes.

"What a clever boy you are," Prince Oberyn says. "I never would have expected such good sense from someone so… Andalish."

14:20

"We'll be well clear of the city by the time they leave the sept," Marg assures her. Knowing the way Margaery drives, Sansa believes her - what she doubts is that they'll be clear of the city unseen. Even if the Lannisters didn't have eyes everywhere, Lord Varys does, and she worries how Princess Rhaenys will repay Sansa for spurning her shelter.

"Sansa," Margaery says. "Calm down."

She is calm, sort of. She feels as though she's gone right through worrying and into some sort of catastrophic relief, where no matter how bad things get, they can't shake her. She's on edge because things are going well, if anything.

The airport is out the Goldroad, Exit 3 off the M3 and follow the signs, and you're there.

But they aren't going to the airport. They're going to a private airfield, one co-owned by the seven ducal families and the Martells. There's no passport checks, because no one can get in or out without a special pass, and those passes are strictly limited to just members of the families.

Which means that the royal family can't get in.

There are a few places like this dotted around the country - the Old Keep in Winterfell is off-limits to the Crown, and she remembers Margaery saying something about the Throne Room in Highgarden, and a good two-thirds of the Eyrie are strictly forbidden to anyone who doesn't have the Duke of Arryn's permission to be there - but this one is unique for being shared. Sansa's got the Starks and the Tullys and the Arryns on side for sure, and she doesn't think Lord Mace has ever denied Marg anything, but the Martells aren't going to look kindly on her fleeing Princess Rhaenys, and surely the Lannisters and Baratheons would want her caught - Lord Tywin to avoid a scandal, if Joff's abuse ever came to light, and Lord Stannis so she can face justice for Petyr's death.

Mother's mercy. What a mess.

"I had Mum arrange for a few bits and pieces," Marg says. "She had them sent over from the house-"

So casual, as though the Tyrells city residence isn't almost as big as the palace and twice as lovely.

"-so you can have a proper wash and change into clothes that fit you properly. I'll be at the house if you need anything else, so don't hesitate to call, alright?"

That does sound nice. If only she didn't feel sick to her stomach, waiting for the sword to fall.

15:25

"Alright," Arya says, leaning on both Robin and Ed's shoulders to ease those bloody shoes of hers. "I'm off. Make excuses for me if anyone asks."

"How's She has another funeral tomorrow for an excuse?" Robin asks, winding his arm around her waist to steady her. Edmure's trying to have a conversation with Will from across the room, without it being painfully obvious that they are having a conversation, so his hands are full.

"Marg texted to say she's left the airfield," Edmure murmurs, which stops Arya and Robin's bickering. "San's having a wash and a change before the flight."

"I'll be with her in less than an hour," Arya says. "Alright, I'm really gone - text me if you hear anything bad."

"Don't text and drive," Robin says, giving her a visible squeeze before letting her go. "And tell Sansa we love her."

"You never say you love me!"

But she's smiling as she slips into the crowd.

"Alright," Edmure says. "Come on, let's find my mob."

Roslin has her striped blue-and-grey sash under her chequy robes, and bless her if the unfortunate combination doesn't look clownish even on her, the loveliest woman in Westeros. The kids are, somehow, still neat and tidy - Coren's easier to manage, because he's a baby in a chequy blanket, but Bethany is exactly like Arya was at that age.

A menace.

A menace with Roslin's smile, and a knack for getting glitter all over every item of clothing Edmure owns.

"Hello, silverfish," he says, sweeping her up and praying he got all the glitter off when he washed her hands before they left the house. "Kisses?"

"Kisses for Robin," she says, which delights poor Robin until he realises he's got two very slightly damp handprints on his face now, and that they're very slightly twinkly. "And one kiss for you, Daddy."

"And what about me?"

"Will!"

Bethany knows better than to throw herself at Will the way she would Robb or Renly, but she still seizes him in a headlock until she's satisfied that he's had enough kisses. Edmure takes advantage of her distraction to steal some kisses from Roslin and Coren.

"I'll never understand how a six year old can be so bloody strong," Robin says, but he still puts out his arms to take Bethany. She goes gleefully, the little traitor. "All good, Willas?"

"Seems so, thank the gods," Will says, but his prayer beads are running a mile a minute through his free hand. He does that whenever he's anxious or upset, has done since they were kids, and it always worries Edmure to see it. "Arya got away alright?"

"Seems so."

Renly arrives out of absolutely nowhere, sneaking up on Roslin and Coren in just the right way to make them both scream - except he charms them into not screaming, the slick bastard, and somehow has Ros under his arm and Coren in the crook of his elbow before either of them can get upset by the change.

"Poor Ed," Renly says. "Whole family prefers the arms of another."

"Cad," Roslin says, and she moves to take Edmure's hand. That's better. "Don't you have more important places to be? Taking sympathies, that sort of thing?"

"Apparently not," Renly says. "Seems that the tradition is for only the next eldest sibling to take sympathies, if there's spouse and spawn. Stannis has to shake hands and make nice for now, so here I am."

"Oh, Renly," Roslin sighs, patting his arm. "I wish this wasn't all so… political. For your sake."

"Believe me, Ros," he says. "I much prefer to do whatever mourning needs doing behind closed doors - this wouldn't suit me one bit."

That's probably true. Renly's always been very careful about how much of himself he shares with the public, probably because he was storing up as much good credit with the masses as he could before coming out. That had gone better than anyone could have hoped, except with his kingly brother, and it had played a large role in the rearrangement of the Crown titles - Robert had named Stannis Duke of Blackwater, intending to have the capital surrounded by not one Baratheon duchy but two, but Renly had been trying to abdicate Storm's End to Stannis since he was fifteen. His being gay was what had convinced Robert to allow it, and so the royal duchy was returned to the Prince of Dragonstone, and sweet little Joffrey gained an island.

"So…?" Renly says, bouncing a little and teasing Coren, tugging at his little nose. He's a jolly baby, and Renly's a jolly man, so they get along famously. "Any news?"

"All seems to be moving as expected," Will says, prayer beads still moving in sharp clicks. " Seems."

16:02

Sansa feels properly clean for the first time since Dad's death.

Murder.

Well, yes. His murder, because someone shot him in the head, and shooting all of his guards made it quite clear that they did it on purpose. So there's no need for the little voice to correct her, really.

She does feel clean, though. Lady Alerie sent clothes that Sansa left behind the last time her and Margaery used the Tyrells' house after a night out, so she's dressed the way she likes to dress, in soft, baggy-bum jeans and a soft jumper and her comfy old runners. Her hair smells like flowers, which is what she likes, and she's got her perfume. She feels like herself. She feels calmer than she has all week.

Which is why she doesn't scream when the passenger lounge's automatic doors quietly swoosh open to reveal not Arya, complaining that her feet hurt because of the shoes Sansa bought her for her birthday last, because she'll definitely be wearing them - she doesn't own any other heels.

Instead of her sister, and confirmation that she's on her way home, Sansa get Joff. She gets Joff, and she gets Joff's two most loyal goons.

"I would have expected you to still be taking sympathies," she says, standing up and wiping her hands on her jeans. She's been a mess of nerves all day, but not now. Now, at least, she knows what's coming. "Small crowd?"

"A King need not attending his predecessor's funeral at all," Joff says, looking very handsome indeed in his mourning blacks, under his golden robes and chains. She wants to claw his handsome face raw, but that would achieve nothing except to make him angrier. "I stayed for the ceremony. Ducked out as soon as Renly and your uncle looked away."

"Subtle. I didn't expect that of you."

"I'm full of surprises," he says. His hands are warm through her jumper when he takes her by the shoulders. His grip is firm - never hard. Joff's too lazy to hurt her for the sake of it, and too mean not to punish every tiny infraction. It's a strange balance, but she's gotten used to it.

This past week is far from a tiny infraction.

"I'm sorry Baelish got to you, sweetheart," he says, and she'd almost forgotten how wonderful a liar he is. His brilliantly green eyes look almost sincere. "That was never part of the plan. Your father wasn't supposed to die until he'd dropped you off."

"... Joff-"

"Change is coming, Sansa," he says. "You had to see that your father would get in my way. He and Jon Arryn held my father back for decades. I have plans, Sansa. Plans that don't involve Parliament stymying me at every turn."

"You murdered my father- "

"Technically, it was Baelish," Joff says, drawing her in and fitting her under his chin. He's so tall. She'd sort of forgotten that, too. "But I'm not sorry it happened, and it did happen with my go-ahead. As I say, you weren't supposed to be affected - I wanted you to see, because that would improve the optics, but that debacle in Ormund Square? No. That wasn't what I wanted at all. I'm sorry for that, and I'm sorry for whatever Baelish did to you."

Does Joff think Petyr raped her? Probably - and that means that his sorrow over Petyr squirelling her away is genuine, because he truly, completely hates sexual violence.

Has he touched you yet? Sansa has seen Cersei on the mornings after Robert visited her during the night. Joff adores his mother, so maybe that one single hard limit of his isn't so surprising.

"Come along now, sweetheart," he says. "We have an errand to run, and then we have to balance your ledger. If you're good, I'll fly you to Winterfell first thing in the morning."

If you're good. That means if she doesn't need medical attention after her punishment, usually, but he has to know that if she gets to Winterfell now she'll never leave it again. That means that she's going to miss Dad's funeral.

Again.

And it might very well mean he's so angry, under the control and the delusion and the gentle words, that she won't need medical attention at all. She's been missing for a week already - if she's never found, who's going to say a word?

16:41

"The whole point of this place is that you can refuse entry to the King!" Arya shouts, shaking the chief of security by the lapels. "How did he get in?! Where did they go?!"

"I'm sorry, Lady Arya, I truly am!" the poor man says, holding her by the wrists to stop her from shaking him again. "But he had the Earl of Lannisport's tags-"

"The fucking- Alright, alright. I need to see the footage. I need to see everything you have. Did you record the registration plates? Well, I'll need those, too. I need everything. "

She marches on ahead of him into the management office, doing an admirable job in her stupid high shoes, and takes out her phone.

"Neddie? Arya. Please tell me you're near a powerful Wifi connection."

"I'm still in the sept, what's wrong?"

"Get out of the fucking sept, Edric, and get to a powerful Wifi connection," she says, "because my sister has disappeared with Joffrey fucking Baratheon."

16:53

No one noticed the change of guards in the palace. Who ever looks at a guard's face? They're neatly dressed men of roughly similar build, with the same short haircut, and the same black suits and white shirts.

No one noticed that these guards were wearing scarlet ties instead of crimson, but it's such an easy thing to miss.

17:11

"Now don't hit the roof," Robb says, having dragged Mum into the off-limits-to-guests drawing room, where hopefully no one will hear her hitting the roof. "But Arya's just been on, and there's been a hiccup."

"Robb-"

"Someone sold us out," he says, "and Joffrey has Sansa."

Mum, as predicted, hits the roof. Robb can't say he blames her.

17:38

Willas and Aster are deciding where to go for dinner when his phone starts ringing.

"Ty? Whatever-"

"I need you to know that I didn't know anything about it," she says. "But I also need you to come up to the palace first thing in the morning, so you can swear in on your father's behalf."

"What in the world is going on?"

"I set up a news feed on your phone specifically for times like this, Will!" she snaps. "Just be here! Ten o'clock sharp!"

True enough, when he hangs up he has half a dozen news alerts.

"Oh, gods preserve us," he says, and then, to Aster, " I think we might order in tonight, Az."

INSIDE JOB? PALACE TAKEN DURING ROYAL FUNERAL.

" Well," Az says. " That's not ideal, is it?"

17:57

"Neddie, if you don't-"

"I'm working as fast as I can, Arya," he says, sharp as he only gets when he's working. "Trys and I have been up to our oxters all day, I don't need you giving me shit when I'm already six rounds of paracetamol deep, alright?"

Up to their oxters in a fucking coup is where they've been, but she isn't going to say that. If it gets Joffrey off the throne, it's not entirely a bad thing. Probably.

"It's a restoration, before you say it," he says. "We looked up the legality of it - it's classed as a restoration, because so far it's been successfull."

"Is this why your famously gifted detecting minds have failed me so completely in finding Sansa this week?" she asks. "Because it seems to me as though the Spiders and the Vipers are working together, but you two made it seem as though the Spiders weren't to be trusted, and that we had no way of possibly working with them-"

"Sometimes, Arya, the picture is bigger than you can see," he says. "We knew your sister was safe-"

"No she fucking was not, you smug, self-righteous little-"

"Not helping Arya. You need to get back into the city - they're after coming in Lionsgate Street, probably heading for the Dragonstone Ferry. Get on it."

"Shouldn't you be selling them out to your side?"

Jon's Val has texted twice, and it's not until Arya gets a moment to check the texts, while Neddie's busily tapping away at his tablet (sound on, so she can hear it through the phone, the wankbag), that she realises why the Targaryens were so keen on keeping a close eye on Sansa.

"If you give Sansa to the Targaryens to be married off to Aegon," Arya says, right on the verge of reaching through the phone to strangle Neddie, "then I will personally see your shiny new regime brought to its knees, Edric. Make that well fucking known."

18:19

"Get upstairs," Willas says, one eye still on his phone. "Get into the crawl space, turn off the vibrate on your phone, and text Margaery and Loras. Keep texting them and Renly and Rodge and anyone else whose number you have until someone comes and lets you out."

"But Dad-"

"Look at me, Aster," he says, signing but also speaking aloud to emphasise his point - she can hear a bit, with her hearing aids in, but it's so much easier for her to sign. That's how she knows he's serious - he and Ty make a point of only speaking aloud to her when it's really, really serious. "You need to hide. Lyria's Neddie thinks some dangerous people are coming here-"

"Then you hide too!"

"Won't work, kiddo," he says, shrugging helplessly. "You know that. Please, Az. Hide. For me."

She looks upset. Willas hates upsetting Aster more than he hates anything else in the world, but this is the one time he doesn't feel even a little guilty for it. If Az can get into the crawl space, she'll be safe.

The crawl space is the panic room Ty insisted he install after the first time some unhappy Ghiscari art dealers had chased him home when he discovered that the "newly discovered" First Tokari Period marbles they had tried to sell to him were actually less "newly discovered" and more "recently stolen" from the Imperial Museum of Astapor. The IMA hadn't been particularly thrilled to have them back, and he'd discovered why when an envelope of surveillance photographs were delivered by hand to his house. They'd been arrested and the whole thing had died off, but it had been a scary few months. Hence the increased security measures, and the panic room.

Crawl space sounds less threatening than panic room, though.

" Please."

She wraps herself tight around him for a long, long moment, and he holds on as hard as he can.

"Go, sweetheart," he says. "Now - hurry."

18:20

"If he is going to Willas' house," Tyene says, with the front of Aegon's shirt balled up in her fist, "then my daughter is in danger. So you are going to send someone-"

"Put him down, Ty," Arianne says, tugging on her wrist. "Your father is gone-"

"If Joffrey fucking Baratheon is on his way to Willas' house," Tyene says, grabbing Arianne's beautiful red silk dress with her free hand so she has a cousin to her right and a cousin to her left, both being unhelpful. "If he gets there unmolested, and harms a single hair on my Aster's head, I'll string you up by your toes, Aegon."

"I've dispatched agents," Rhaenys says, putting her hands firm on Tyene's shoulders. "For your sake, and for Arya Stark's. She seems to think we want to leave her sister to her fate, and I want everyone to know that that is not how we do business. Not anymore."

The crown would have sat very heavy on Aegon's head - he's smart and sharp, and has confidence enough for ten men, but he's not strong in the right way. Rhaenys is level and smooth, though, and she remembers what it was like after her grandfather was deposed. She remembers their father, and that's made her hungry for this. She'll make an excellent Queen, once Parliament accepts her.

18:28

Az texted down three and a half minutes ago to assure him that she was in the crawl space. He deleted the text, just in case, and put his phone onto the little knick-knack shelf beside the kitchen, recording sound.

Then he sat down at the table to wait. Trys texted him, too. Joffrey Baratheon should be here any minute, with Sansa, and with two of his goons - the Hound, if Willas is any judge, because Sandor Clegane is never bright enough to get away from Joffrey Baratheon until it's too late for it to mean anything, and probably Meryn Trant, because Meryn Trant enjoys the suffering of others.

And Sansa. If the gods are merciful, Joffrey will consider punishing Willas enough, and he'll let Sansa go.

The gods are never merciful.

18:30

"What are we doing here?"

Willas Tyrell's beautiful pale green house looks deserted, aside from the light showing through the servants' door. He can't manage the stairs to the stained-glass panelled front door, he told Sansa just this morning at breakfast, so he had the servants' door refitted with a similarly beautiful lunette glazed with golden Highgarden roses against a deep green field.

It's after six - it has to be, for the sun to have set so far - and the downstairs lights are on. Is Marg's niece still here? Oh, gods, she's only a kid, younger than Rickon! She can't be here - it's bad enough that he's here!

"I did tell you that we had some errands to run, sweetheart," Joff reminds her. "Now get out of the car."

"Joff, please-"

"Get out of the car, Sansa," he says. "Don't make things any worse than they have to be."

She gets out of the car. Sandor and Trant do as well, and then Joff.

"These jeans," he says. "We'll get rid of these, won't we?"

Of all the things to complain about right now!

Trant knocks on the door - the servants' door, with its beautiful lunette window, between the planters with the bright white roses. Sansa prays that no one answers.

But Margaery's brother does. He opens the door, looking resigned.

"I don't suppose you've heard the news?" he asks, taking off his glasses and putting them down on the little sidetable inside the door. "From the Hill?"

"My father has been dead a week, Tyrell," Joff sneers, which makes Willas smile a little. He looks like Loras, sort of, the way Loras looks when he sees someone slice a serve during a tight match.

"True," he agrees. "But Parliament is sitting right now to accept Rhaenys Targaryen as Queen, so where does that leave you?"

18:32

"We're fifteen minutes out," Arya says, thankful beyond reason for Alla - Alla, who met her at the first traffic blockade, intended to keep the Lannisters in and their allies out , with a car and her good boots - and her freakish stunt driving capabilities, which are new and fascinating to Arya. "You?"

"Less than," Loras Tyrell says, sounding right about as frantic as Arya feels. " That's if Renly puts his fucking foot down-"

"Drive now, argue later," Arya suggests. "And the others?"

"Greyjoys grabbed Marg and are on their way there," Loras says. "They'll be maybe five minutes behind us, and Ty says her father is on his way with Quent and some of her sisters."

Useful. Obara Martell is terrifying, always. Oberyn even more so.

"Get there A-S-A-P," Loras advises. "Or else there won't be much of Joffrey left."

18:34

"When we get there," Asha says, leaning over the centre console to look Marg hard in the eye, "stay back."

"Like absolute hells I will!" Margaery snaps. "He's my brother! I'm-"

"Unarmed," Asha points out. "Believe me, Miss Margaery - that's not something Rodrik and I have to worry about."

18:39

"Lord Littlefinger told me the funniest story," Joff says, his arm loose around Sansa's waist and his hand firm around her throat. "He seemed to think I'd believe that Sansa wanted to fuck him. Can you believe that? Imagine thinking that a woman of this calibre would want anything to do with a worm like him."

One of the things that terrifies Sansa most about Joffrey is that she thinks he might actually love her, as best he's able. To think that he can do all he does to her to someone he routinely hails as the best of women to anyone who'll listen is genuinely bone-chilling.

"Now I knew better than that," Joffrey says, tipping her head back slightly and waiting until she looks sideways, to catch his eye. "I know Sansa better than anyone else in the world, don't I, sweetheart? Yes, I do. I knew she wouldn't want anything to do with Baelish unless he forced the issue. I got so, so angry when he came to me - I almost killed him, my darling. Have I told you that? I lost my temper with him, and I added a nice little collection to the nasty bump you left on his head."

Petyr's alive. Sansa isn't a murderer! She didn't- oh, gods be good, she'd dance for joy at that news if it didn't amount to no good at all, since Joff has her.

"Any man who'd force a woman doesn't deserve a woman," Joff says, gaze fixed on hers. "Especially not a woman like you."

He turns her head a little further, as if expecting a kiss, but she remains as placid as she can. That angers him - everything will anger him, for the next good long while - but in this, if nothing else, he's true to his word. He won't force even a kiss on her, if she doesn't want it.

"You, though," he says, turning to look at Willas, where he's pinned into a chair with Sandor's hands and Trant's gun holding him in place. "You're another story, aren't you, Tyrell?"

Joffrey's always hated all their peers - well, peers in terms of rank, at least. Robb and Robin, Edmure and Renly, any Martell or Greyjoy or Tyrell who crossed his path, he's had a knife in all of them. Whether it's jealousy or resentment or what, Sansa's never known, but it's persistent and it's infuriating and right now, it might cost Margaery her eldest brother.

"I know all about you," Joff says, his arm tightening around Sansa's waist. "All about all your studying, and your beautiful collection of classical art, and the way you're looking at my fiancée. The way you think about her."

Sansa can all but hear something click into place for Willas, and he sighs.

"You're awake, then."

"I am," Joff says, as though that statement made any sense whatsoever. "And you're going to do me the favour of waking her up - do it quickly, and we'll go easy on you."

18:43

"Renly, if Trant is with Joffrey-"

"We'll get there, Loras. I promise. We're not losing him this time."

18:43

"Fucking roadworks!" Rodge fumes. "In fucking Waterside!"

18:43

"If you break my jaw," Willas says, already a little slurred - he's bitten his tongue at least three times. "How am I supposed to wake her up?"

18:44

"We're five minutes away, tops," Arya says. "Where's your uncle?"

"He should be there by now," Trys promises. "Ned and me aren't far behind. Ty's with us."

18:45

"Look at me, Sansa," Willas says, and she almost does. She's crying, struggling against Joffrey and so out of her mind with guilt that he can see it plain on her face. But this isn't her fault.

It's never, ever her fault.

"Sansa," he says again, once he's stopped coughing. Trant's got a mean right arm, made meaner by the heavy knuckledusters he loves, and Clegane's got a kick like a mule even without the steel toecaps. " Look at me."

She does, this time.

"This is not your fault," he says, as clearly as he can. "Not your father's death, and not this. None of this is your fault."

Her eyes - they look so blue when they're red with crying - cloud over for a moment, and then snap suddenly, brilliantly clear.

Clegane's knee catches Willas' jaw before he can see anything more.

18:46

A shiny black car with Dornish plates pulls up right as Renly does, and Loras is out of the car before anyone else has even got their seatbelts off - Oberyn Martell isn't far behind him, though, and he's got a bullet in Meryn Trant before Renly's even in the house.

Loras has Sandor Clegane on the ground, stronger even than that particular beast in his blind and absolute fury, and Renly does what he can. He seizes Joffrey by the short hair at his nape and drags him, squealing, away from Sansa Stark.

18:48

Margaery goes to Willas, because Sansa might be her very dearest friend, but she's noisily alive and Willas looks a touch dead.

"He's still with us," Loras says, which means she must look just as panicked as she feels. "Ambulances are on their way - come here, M. C'mere."

She comes here, and huddles under Loras' arm, on their knees beside Willas. They'll have to try and wake Garlan now, because if they don't, he'll never forgive them for keeping all this intrigue and messing around from him, not when it ended with Willas like this.

A gun cocks, and Asha Greyjoy sighs.

"If you kill him, big brother," she says, "Pyke goes to Maron."

Rodrik Greyjoy lowers his gun. Gods be good, but they really are mad.

18:49

Rodge Greyjoy has a gun pointed at shithead when Arya crashes into Tyrell's beautiful dining room, but that's unimportant. What's important is Sansa, crying noisily, and very much not within reach of shithead.

"You look awful," Arya says, and then she holds out her arms so Sansa can fall into them. "Thank the gods you're alright, Sanny, we've been so worried."

Sansa keeps crying, her fingers digging hard into Arya's back.

"Ambulances are on their way," Loras Tyrell says, and it's only then that Arya notices Tyrell himself, bloodied and unconscious on the floor.

Well, at least he's alive - Rodge Greyjoy wouldn't have let shithead live, otherwise.

18:52

Ty's just arriving with Neddie and Trys when Prince Oberyn arrives down from upstairs with Azzie on his back.

It looks absurd. Azzie's got that gangly Tyrell build, and Prince Oberyn is not a tall man. But he's piggybacking her, and she's hiding her face against his shoulder as if she's afraid of what she might see.

Given she hasn't been able to hear anything since Will sent her upstairs, maybe that's to be expected.

Ty doesn't even give Prince Oberyn a chance to put Azzie down before she's gathering them up, and he doesn't object. Azzie unlocks one arm from around her grandfather's neck to wrap it around her mother's.

"Hey," Renly says, knocking on the top of her head with his knuckles. "He's okay. We'll make sure of it."

19:09

"Only one person in the ambulance with each of them," the very friendly paramedic says, barring entry to Loras once Margaery's climbed aboard. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tyrell, but there's limited space in these things."

Sansa's got her sister with her, and she's still in hysterics - unhurt, though, by the looks of things. That's good. That's unexpected, truth be told, because Joffrey usually can't help but hurt her. He's in the back of a cop van, along with his brutes, and for now, that's enough.

It has to be. She needs a small victory to balance against how worryingly unresponsive Willas has been.

20:15

"Mum? It's Arya. Someone here who wants to talk to you."

Sansa's hands are shaking when she reaches out for the phone.

"Hi Mum," she says, starting to cry again . Arya can't even be mad at her for being wet, just this once. "Are you okay?"

They pull into the airfield without any fuss. The fuss was twenty minutes ago, when Sansa was ready to stab a doctor for trying to stop her going home. Now, Sansa's shaky but quiet, and Arya rubs her back in slow circles until it's time to get out of the car.

The others are on the plane already - Myrcella, who's coming along as a thanks to Robb from for braving Mum with only Bran and Ricky for help, and Jeynie and Theon, who've been kept up to date on everything by Asha, who Arya sort of forgot is Theon's sister, Ed and Ros and the kiddos, and Uncle Oswell, Mum's granduncle, who's old and mean and looks very, very guilty - Granny would be here too, except she lost her patience and drove all the way to Winterfell in the Banana Mobile yesterday. Sansa lingers on the tarmac, saying a long goodbye to Mum, and she doesn't flinch when Arya pushes gently on the small of her back to urge her up the steps.

She doesn't flinch when Bethany launches herself at Sansa's knees, either, or when Jeynie and Theon push her down into the seat between them, but she does flinch a little when Uncle Oswell tries to talk to her.

Edmure has better luck, and Coren best of all, of the men. Coren's a perfect baby, though, so that's only to be expected.

"Sansa," Bethany says, leaning her chin on Sansa's knee and holding onto her legs during take off. "Why is everyone sad?"

Roslin buries her face in her hands. Unfortunately for everyone, Bethany inherited Edmure's tact, which is to say none.

20:30

Willas wakes up. That feels unexpected.

Aster is curled up in a big chair next to his bed, with her physics notebook balanced on her knees. Every part of Willas feels bruised, but so long as they didn't get near Az, so long as she was safe in the crawl space, he doesn't really mind.

He reaches out for her, and can't quite sit up to reach. She sees, though, and leans forward and tangles her fingers through his.

"I'm okay," she says, out loud, so she doesn't need to let go of his hand.