Sansa hasn't woken up in her room in Winterfell in a long time, so for a moment, it doesn't feel entirely real.
It was snowing when they landed - not unusual, this far north, and the pilot is more than capable of dealing with it - and there's a little slope of powder leaning against Sansa's window. Her windowsill is hidden under a windowbox, overflowing with hardy winter flowers, and those are peeking bravely through the snow.
Jeyne, curled up on the daybed, snuffles in her sleep. It feels like their sleepovers, when Sansa came home from Duskendale on the weekends and Vayon and Marya let Jeyne stay Friday and Saturday nights. Those sleepovers had thinned out some when Joffrey came on the scene, because Jeyne would never have allowed Sansa to hide the bruises.
Maybe if Sansa had been braver about her bruises, Jeyne would never have lost her fingers.
She lets Jeyne sleep on - uninterrupted sleep is still a luxury for her, even years after escaping Ramsay, and Sansa does her best to encourage it wherever she can. She curls up on the windowseat instead, wrapped in the big fluffy dressing gown Granny Min gave her for her last birthday, and she tries to clear her mind.
Hard, when it's been swimming with more memories than a single lifetime can possibly hold since yesterday night.
Now that she knows, at least as far as she can with so little time to really process everything, she just feels weighed down. All she wanted was to get away from Joff and away from Petyr so she could come to Dad's funeral. She just wanted to get home so that she could mourn Dad, and now Joff's ruined even that - just like he's ruined everything.
Petyr still has her engagement ring, and her purse, and her phone. She has the little pay-as-you go phone Val gave her, which doesn't even have a camera it's so old, and she has whatever is in the bag Jeyne packed for her, and that's it.
And she has her memories. So very many memories. She's never been this old and unmarried before.
Sansa shambles downstairs with her hair in a big, ugly bun a little after seven, with Jeynie yawning and stretching behind her. Theon's been down for twenty minutes already, helping Robb wrestle the electric juicer into submission, and Arya's been more than happy to leave them to it while she gets the breakfast going.
"What needs doing?" Sansa asks, because that's what Sansa does. "Where can I start?"
"Slice some bread there, Sanny," Robb says, nodding at the beautiful crusty cobb Alys and Sig left over last night. "Let's get everything done before Mum gets up, yeah?"
"Impossible," Rickon says, leaning over Sansa's shoulder to kiss her cheek and then bending down to do the same to Arya. She'll kill him someday, for the huge deal he makes of how much smaller she is than everyone else. "Mum would never allow it."
Arya's been up since six, too wired and overwhelmed to sleep in, so her hair is already mostly dry. She's got a small mountain of sausages in a warming dish in the oven, and there are eggs in ramekins for baking and more ready for frying, and there'll be rashers and pudding rounds and fried mushrooms and onions and tomatoes and bread, and it'll be fine.
Today will be the worst day of their lives so far, but it will be fine.
Arya will make certain of it.
Sansa's hands are shaking pretty badly, so Edmure takes over on the bread, and Jeynie - bless her, she and Sansa were bloody awful to Arya when they were kids but she's healed into the kindest person Arya knows - settles Sansa beside her at the table, folding napkins.
Those are for the wake. Arya hasn't really thought that far ahead. Roslin's done a lot of that over the phone, and Alys and Sig have been wonderful, according to Robb. Everyone's really chipped in, which has made this whole stupid week easier to handle.
Robb cheers everyone up by calling Myrcella babe when she arrives into the kitchen, because it makes him sound like an absolute berk. That helps, too.
By the time Mum comes down - dressed, with her hair brushed out and ready for braiding - they've got the breakfast ready, and even their huge kitchen table is struggling to sit everyone who's appeared to help. Mum sits down beside Sansa, in the last chair before the gap for Bran's wheelchair, and presses her hands flat to the table.
"Well," she says. "We're all set, are we?"
Arya and Sansa are braiding Mum's hair between them in the sitting room when Ed catches Robb by the elbow and drags him outside.
"Don't dare light up," Ed warns him. "Now, your sister."
"She seems better than expected," Robb hedges, because he knows that face. That face means Ed's about to tell him something horrible. Ricky makes the same one when he knows he's going to get into trouble for doing something he was explicitly told not to do.
"She's in shock, I think," he says, which is bad enough, but then he says "because Will woke her up last night," which is worse.
"He did what-"
"He was incredibly concussed at the time," Edmure says testily, folding his arms over his chest just the way Arya does when she's on the defensive. "And he was in the middle of taking a beating for Sansa's sake - leave him alone. He meant no harm."
"He might have done harm all the same," Robb says, folding his own arms as much because it's far too bloody cold to be out in just his shirtsleeves as anything else. "Hasn't she enough to deal with, without that?"
"I'm not saying it was right of him," Edmure says, "but it's the reality we're dealing with, and I felt it best that you be prepared. Arya knows, of course, but I didn't think she'd had a chance to tell you last night."
"Anything else?"
"Meryn Trant isn't going to die. Prince Oberyn shot him before he could stamp on Will's head, but he's going to live. No criminal charges because Prince Oberyn has diplomatic immunity and because Trant was in the course of an attempted murder, of course, but there may still be some stir about it."
"Good gods, Edmure-"
"And Littlefinger was arrested this morning," he adds. "Seems Joffrey repaid his information with the beating of a lifetime, which is no harm. Unlawful imprisonment of Sansa, conspiracy to commit murder, and suspected treason, if anyone can figure out the cypher he uses on his accounts."
"Is treason still punishable by death?"
"Not as of this morning. Royal edict. Seems the new Queen is very modern."
"Or she's spent enough time overseas to know that we need to catch up with everyone else's penal codes. Could be that, either."
Robb takes a very deep breath. It's bloody freezing, so that helps clear his head somewhat. Dad used to always say that he could think better at home than in King's Landing, and Robb's starting to see what he meant. There's a clarity in the cold that's completely absent in the hubbub of the city.
"What about Joffrey?"
"Conspiracy to commit murder - two counts, Will and your father - and, well, he's a deposed monarch, Robb. He's never going to see freedom again, if he survives this."
"You think the Targaryens will kill him?"
"I think your father was a lot more popular than you realise," Edmure says. "People don't like the crown very much anymore, not with all these true democracies springing up around Essos. Ned was the most republican, egalitarian monarchists I've ever met. More people than you think read parliamentary reports."
"Edmure-"
"Your father," Edmure says firmly, "was more popular than you realise. Keep that in mind."
He sighs.
"Oh, bugger this," he says. "Have you a smoke? I'll blame it on you and you can blame it on me."
Margaery brings a change of clothes and some wipes for Az, and she brings pyjamas for Will, and she brings her phone. Renly passed her number onto Myrcella, and Cella's been keeping her up to date on goings-on in Winterfell.
" Hey," Az says, looking up from her book when Marg flicks the lights. "What's up?"
"Nothing much. Did you sleep at all?"
Az shrugs. Sometimes, she's ridiculously like Mum.
"Garlan's on his way up," Marg says, shrugging the smaller bag off her shoulder so she can pass it to Az. "Called him last night, once all the excitement was done. Merry insisted on coming with, so expect company."
Az's smile is brighter for the promise of Meredith's company - anyone would be, because Merry lives up to her name - and Marg can't deny that she's looking forward to having Garlan here. He's furious with them for not telling him about it all sooner, of course, but Garlan's probably the only one of the four of them with a real share of common sense. Will's always much better off when Gar's about, anyway.
Well. That's when Gar's not giving out to them for leaving him out of things, that is.
"Should be here by lunchtime," Marg promises. "Your mum about?"
"Her and Granddad are on their way here," Az says, which is a mixed blessing. Marg likes Tyene, and she's fond of Prince Oberyn in small doses, but Ty still gets weirdly proprietary about Will. It's not as though they've been split up for the better part of fifteen years, and Ty's been with Allyria for ten - except that's exactly how it is.
Still. They'll cheer Az up no end.
Will looks like shit, with a nasal cannula and a drip and a lot of bandages and monitors and things. He's breathing, though, slow and even, and he looks more asleep than unconscious. That's good.
"Don't you have work?"
" I have assistants," Marg says, taking out the lip balm Granny texted to recommend. Will's mouth does look sore and flaky, and his poor nose is in bits, so maybe Granny was onto something. She usually is. "And I fly out the day after tomorrow. Jade Isle."
Az nods, watching Marg's hands as she does what little she can for Will.
"Loras texted," Az says. "Him and Renly are on their way, too. We should have a party."
"Maybe we will, when Gar's finished shouting at us."
Az laughs, bright and loud, and Will stirs.
"Do I have my hearing aids in?" he asks, slurring his words a little - sleep and painkillers, by Marg's guess. "Does Az?"
Aster very carefully puts Willas' spare hearing aid, the big ugly thing that wraps over his ear, in place. He blinks his eyes open slowly, and squints at Az.
She puts his glasses on. He very thoughtfully left them on the sideboard before letting Joffrey and his gorillas into the house, so they survived the attack even though his good hearing aid didn't.
"You alright?" he manages, because some of his fingers are swollen and a bit stiff, but Az doesn't comment on it - a real sign that she's worried, because she never usually misses a chance to tease him. "Did you sleep?"
" Couple of hours," she says. "Got through a fair bit of my physics revision, though."
"Every little helps."
They hold hands for a minute, and Marg feels intrusive - Will used say the same, whenever her and Dad would sit close on the couch, and she never understood it until Will had Az, and then Garlan and Leo had their girls.
"Go get freshened up," he says at last. "Get something to eat - ask Aunty M for money, because I have no idea where my things are."
Az kisses his cheek, and she looks all over his face from behind steel-frame glasses that are almost as ugly as Will's, and for a moment, even with the blonde hair and the Martell nose, she really is the image of him.
Marg digs a tenner out of her bag and is rewarded with a pat on the bum, which makes Will laugh until it makes him groan in discomfort.
"Ribs?" Marg asks, offering him the lidded cup with the straw. It probably had ice chips in it at some point, but now it's just lukewarm water. Still, it'll do the job. "Anything else sore?"
He does her the grave, Granny-esque indignity of looking at her over his glasses. That's a real sign that Garlan's on the way - Will does his very best to be the nice one, when Gar's at home and they're all in the capital, but as soon as Gar appears Will remembers that he's just as sarky as Marg and Loras at heart, and leaves poor Gar to be nice enough for all of them.
"Gar texted that he's coming, and Mal called last night," he says. "Well. Videocalled, so Az could follow along. She had a clear Seeing."
That's enough to give anyone pause. Mal's Seeings are sporadic at the best of times, rapid and uneven but so common that she seems mad, if you aren't patient with her. Margaery can remember one other time she had a clear Seeing, and that was to tell them that Will'd done his leg while visiting with Ty and her family.
He's always been her favourite.
"Good news?"
"Your damned wedding," he says, grinning, because while Marg and Fred are steady enough for Fred to risk her car in Margaery's hands, there have been visits to neither Highgarden nor White Harbour just yet. "And me in a wedding ring."
"Well of course you get married first," Marg says. "It isn't fully legal for me yet."
She sits on the side of his bed and takes his hand.
"She's okay," she says. "I've got a spy in the camp. She's doing alright. Free to go to the funeral, and afterwards, Arya's going to bring her to the hospital in Winterfell right after."
"Are Mum and Dad furious?"
"Oh, absolutely incandescent," Margaery says cheerfully. It's such a rare treat for Mum to be mad with Will that they all savour it, just a little. The boys do the same on the extremely isolated occasions when Dad loses the rag with her, after all. "Dad's been Awake since Robert died - of course it's an opportunity for political advancement that wakes him, bless him - but you know Mum."
A near-death experience for any one of the four of them wakes Mum up. It's usually Loras, who hasn't the sense the gods gave a cat and who gets a thrill out of putting himself in danger. Mum works out the frustrations of waking up by shouting at him, but she won't be able to do that to Will, because he's Will, so she's probably shouting at Dad.
It'll do him no harm.
"I'll have to call her, in that case. She'll give Dad a stroke otherwise."
He sips some more of the water.
"I thought about what you said," he says. "About not knowing her this time around."
"Oh?"
"You're right, mostly. If I could've gotten out of there without waking her, I would have."
"I hear a but, Will."
"But, " he says, looking a little embarrassed, and a little haunted. "I do know her well enough to read her at least a bit. The last time I saw her look like that, I found her at the top of the Peony Tower."
Oh, gods be good. Margaery remembers that. They'd gotten Sansa away from King's Landing and married to Willas before anyone could do a thing to stop them, that time, and she'd been crippled by the guilt of surviving while the rest of her family died one by one. Will dragged her off a high windowsill, the highest in Highgarden.
That was a very long time ago, maybe half a dozen turns of the wheel back. Margaery doesn't dwell on her own pasts, but she doesn't spend as much time alone as Will does. She doesn't live as much in her own head as Will does.
"When she's- when you think it won't do more harm," he says. "I want to apologise. She might have been better off without the past coming down on her on top of everything else."
They waited seven days for Dad's funeral because that's the standard. It's what Septists do, seven days for the seven gods, and Dad was always respectful of Septist tradition and ceremony for Mum's sake.
And besides - the old gods don't mind how long you wait, so long as you're waked in front of the heart tree.
True weirwoods were almost extinct before Sansa's great-grandmother started a reseeding programme. They're still fairly rare, but the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood is the oldest known in the whole of the North. Even beyond the wall, they aren't sure if they have anything to compare because they won't let their trees be tested.
Dad's covered in an old-fashioned standard. It's white, brilliant Stark white against the softer white of the snow and the dully shining white of the heart tree, with a splendid grey direwolf racing across that icy field. Usually, the head is left uncovered, but there wasn't much of Dad's head left-
Sansa sobs. Just once. Arya takes her hand, their fingers thick and clumsy with their gloves, and they hold on tight.
There are no formal prayers for the wake. Everyone says their own prayers, offers their own hopes and well wishes for the deceased in the privacy of their own hearts, for only the gods to hear. Later, when they get back into the house, there'll be singing. But for now there's only the wake, and then they'll carry him in slings to the crypt, Robb and Ricky, Uncle Ben and Aunty Lya's Wendel, who converted when they got married, and then-
Well, it would have been Jory and Hollis, but they're to be laid to rest tomorrow and the day after. They'd been part of Dad's personal guard since he was younger than Sansa, and it's impossible to spend that much time with anyone without becoming close to them.
Maybe it'll be the Greatjon. Him and maybe Bartie Glover.
Arya holds on tight. Sansa holds on tighter. To Sansa's right, Robb's got Mum under his arm, both of them wet-faced and silent. To Arya's left, Bran's got his arm up around Ricky's waist, both of them trying to be brave.
Granny's standing directly across from Sansa - Edmure and Bryn are facing Mum and Robb, and Roslin and the kids are on Granny's other side - and she gives a thumbs up. Sansa's barely had a chance to see Mum since she arrived home, never mind any of their visitors, and she'd very much like to curl up and have Granny Min sing to her for twenty minutes.
The bell on the sept rings one o'clock. That means their hour is done, and the men step forward - Robb and Ricky, Ben and Wen, and the Smalljon and Harry Karstark.
The part of Sansa that's come to terms with all her other memories thinks Yes, that's about right. Smalljon catches her eye and gives her a small, tight smile, and she nods in response.
The bier parts. Platform and flowers and banner remain behind, and Dad, wrapped in the old-fashioned Stark standard, sways gently in the black silk slings.
Mum leads the crowd that follows after, and Sansa walks with her. Arya and Bran follow close behind, with Aunty Lya and Willam and then all the Tullys, and then the lords of the North in somber, black-sashed procession.
They opened the castle gates for this. That's the standard custom for a ducal funeral, to let the town in, with a neat path cut through any gathered crowd from godswood gate to crypt. Sansa has seen photos of her grandfather's funeral, but that was nothing compared to this.
"Oh, Ned ," Mum says, her voice low and thick with tears. "He would never have believed this."
The yard is jammed. There are people standing on the curtain wall, and on the steps, and pouring out the gates onto the top of Castle Street. She doesn't think she's ever seen so many people gathered together in Winterfell, except at Fell matches.
"They loved him, too," she says, tugging Mum just a little closer. "They saw the good in him, even if he never saw it himself."
"So let me get this straight," Garlan says, sitting on the foot of Will's hospital bed. He's got his back to where Az and Merry are hanging out, so he can't see Az teaching eight-year-old Merry curse words in sign. Renly's got two good nieces and a good nephew (well, sort of), but he's also got a Joffrey - Loras, though, has Aster, who's been cooler than Willas since she was three, and he's got Merry and Marry, who are somehow even sweeter than Gar and Leo, and MJ, six months old and already the image of his grandfather.
Garlan and Leonette make the most insanely cherubic kids. It'd be sickening, if they weren't adorable.
Garlan, though, does not look even slightly cherubic. He looks pissed off.
"You thought that you'd just… get through this without any trouble?" he asks, somehow managing to cow even Willas into abject foolishness. Loras and Marg look petulant, with their arms folded and their chins tucked against their chests, but Will's going for pathetic, and by the gods he looks every inch of it. The black eye is really helping. "Whatever about Will, I expect better of the two of you! You're usually so sensible, both of you!"
Renly gives the girls the nod, and the three of them sneak away to the canteen while the Tyrells bicker. Merry chatters away merrily, signing at least half of what she's saying for Az's sake, and then she goes into rapt silence when presented with the display fridge full of cakes.
Truly Loras' niece.
"Alright?" he asks Az, taking advantage of Merry's distraction.
Az shrugs. Bad sign. Renly is her godfather, and probably knows her better than any adult outside her parents and Lyria. He used to babysit her more than anyone else did because it gave him an excuse to hang out with Loras, in the six months when Loras did his shoulder and was at home in Highgarden recovering, after he lost what would have been his fourth Qohorik Open on the trot.
He got a husband out of all that. He also got the trust of the single most suspicious young woman in the world. Aster's got good reason to be suspicious of people, between the eternally cycling machinations of the Tyrells and Martells and the ever-changing roster of enemies outside her two families. She'd have good reason to be suspicious even if she didn't know, her whole little life.
"Talk to me, ladybug," Renly says, knocking his ankle against hers. "It goes no further, you know that."
Merry's got her nose pressed flat against the glass now, so they've got another couple of minutes.
"He always gets hurt," she says. "Every single time, he won't try anything else. It's always Sansa or bust, and he gets hurt every time."
Not untrue. Not entirely fair, either.
"It's different for some of us, Az," Renly says, because that's the bare bones of it. Sometimes, you don't have a choice. Renly's born with a greenish blotch on his back every time, and Loras has a tracing of faded black lines on his flank. Renly does try. He knows that Edmure does, too, and Arianne, and all of them who have marks - but it never works. He always circles back around to Loras, and Edmure to Roslin and Arianne to Daemon. Some things are inevitable.
"I wish he could be happy," Az says. "And safe. And- you get it, Renly."
"I do. But you know how he is."
She worms herself in under his arm, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. He lets her hold on until Merry's done, and then they have to choose cakes. Merry makes Aster show her how to fingerspell each cake, and then she tries to order for them in sign - that always goes well.
Merry eats all three cakes. Az talks a little more while Merry covers her entire face in cream.
"It's different for you and Loras," she says. "You're both Awake! You both know!"
"Roslin doesn't. Most of us don't. I thought you liked Sansa, Az."
"I do! I do, Renly. I just wish loving her didn't hurt Dad so much."
"We need to leave for the hospital," Arya says, squeezing Ricky's shoulders - only possible because he's having a bit of a sit down. Mum relented and let her switch from her high grey shoes to her boots, and she's bundled up for travelling - the hospital isn't far, but the roads are in shit condition with last night's snow and half the streets are blocked off for the funeral. "You coming along?"
"Nah," he says. "Granny's in funny old humour, so I'll stay to keep her distracted."
Bran's in the door of the music room, looking thoughtful, and when he goes in, Arya and Ricky follow. Robb's not far behind - his obnoxiously shiny boots tap on the floors even more than Mum's heels - but they all come up short.
Dad had the piano adapted for Bran, so he could play without pedals, and it would have pride of place in the music room if not for Sansa's harp.
Dad always loved listening to Sansa play the harp.
Bran arranges himself to play accompaniment, as he has since he learned his first scales, but Sansa doesn't need any help on the melancholy numbers. She never has. That's never made Arya sad before, but it does now.
"Oh," Granny says, right behind Arya, with Mum. "She played this for your father's funeral, Cat, do you remember?"
Mum nods, reaching frantically for Arya's hand. She looks like she might be sick. Arya can't blame her. The King's Lament was written for Torrhen Stark, all those many years ago, and Sansa and Bran adapted it for modern classical harp and piano for the three hundredth anniversary of the Conquest. Sansa adapted it again, with Jeynie's help, for solo harp for Pop's funeral the year before last.
It sounds a little different today. Maybe because it's not a lament for Northern independence or the lost crown of the Stark Kings of Winter. Maybe because it's not grieving for Pop, who was old and sick and suffering when finally the Crone reached out her hand and guided him to the Stranger's side.
Probably because Sansa's staring at the floor and crying harder than any of them. She doesn't stop, though. She doesn't stop when Mum sobs, loud and hard, and stamps away. She doesn't stop when Granny says "Oh, Cat," and goes after Mum. She doesn't stop when Bran does, or when Jeynie and Cley Cerwyn and Wylla Manderly, Sansa's best friends from before she went to Duskendale and got scared of everything, come in and hold onto one another. She doesn't stop, even when Robb clicks away and clicks back to wrap her up in a coat - Dad's coat, his long black coat that Mum had made for him so it hung lower than the edge of his robes for ceremonies on cold days, and Sansa in her high shoes is the only person other than Rickon who's tall enough to wear it and her good coat is still in King's Landing, they found that out this morning so she's been wearing Dad's coat all day-
She doesn't miss a single note.
"Imagine remembering all the other times you've loved Leo, Gar," Willas says. It's just the two of them - the girls are curled up asleep on the big, soft armchair, Merry in Azzie's lap, but they're both snoring so he isn't afraid of being caught out. "Imagine knowing that all those times before, you were happy together. Now imagine knowing that, having that sitting inside you, and knowing that Leo had no idea."
"This is different, Will," Garlan says, with that firm, unwavering gentleness that he inherited from Mum. "She remembers it all, but the way she woke up, Will… Don't. Don't push her."
"Everyone keeps saying that," he says. "Az told me not to get weird. So did M, for that matter. Now it's you. I'm not a monster, Gar. I wouldn't- I have never-"
"I know," Garlan assures him. Garlan's holding tight to his hand, the one that isn't a mess of swollen knuckles. That's the only thing keeping him from crying. "But Will, maybe you need to rethink things. Maybe you need to-"
"I've already rethought a lot of things. I start teaching in September, did you know that? And Az is coming to live with me. Full time. I have a life, Gar. I don't just sit around pining for Sansa."
"But she's always been the endgame," Gar says. "Life with her has always been the point for you. I can see that, now I'm Awake."
"Maybe somewhat," Will admits. "The house, of course. But I've been a father since I was eighteen, Gar. Aster is the point. Why else would I sink so much money into a house on the million mile, if not to tempt her into coming to live with me? I- Aster is what matters most, Gar. Not some hypothetical family that I might have with Sansa. Fuck, Gar, until this week I never-"
He takes a deep breath.
"I don't care about being alone," he says. "I'm not alone - I've got Az, and I'm not without friends. Even if I was, M and Loras never leave me alone for a moment, do they?"
"Will."
"I lost my head this week," he says. "I know that, but it just- it piles on. Years and years of everything proceeding as normal, and then everything happens in a week."
"You're in love with her, though."
"Not yet," Will says. "I could be, if she gives me a chance. But I'm not. Ty and I talked about it already, so I'll tell you what I told her. If what's best for Sansa is that she go home, then I want her to go home."
"Even now? Even knowing she's Awake? I've never known you to let her go before."
He's chased her in the past, of course he has, but that was in times when a courtship by pursuit was expected. He'd never dare such a thing now, when the best thing he can offer Sansa is not the peace of Highgarden's cloisters and groves, but rather the chance to speak to someone who can help her.
She's never had a chance to heal unfettered before. If he has ever loved her, then he must give her that chance, until or unless she chooses to come to him.
"Even now," he says. "I've never hurt her before, Gar. I'm not going to start now."
Robb eventually finds Jon in the godswood.
"Good of you to stay out of the way," he says, as conversationally as he can manage. "Mum would've killed you if you'd tried to line up in the procession. She still might, if she comes across you."
"You know I would never let Sansa be hurt," Jon says. "Nor any of you."
He has just enough sense not to shove Jon back into the heart tree. No need to be profane when exacting justice. The bark of the sentinel pine cracks behind Jon's back, and he squirms against the press of Robb's forearm to his throat.
"You knew," he says, still carefully neutral. "You knew exactly where my sister was, and you knew that she was not safe. You knew that she'd been taken by the man who has done her more harm than anyone else ever has, and you left her there. I want to know why."
"She was safe," Jon says. "We had people-"
"Baelish would have raped her if she hadn't brained him with a fucking lamp, but we're supposed to be fine with that because what? Mya Stone and the Mad fucking Mouse were keeping an eye on her? What use were they when Baelish was-"
"We would never have allowed-"
"And then Val tells me," Robb says, "Val! Your brilliant, beautiful wife, who I like a great deal more than I like you, Val tells me that you and your sister were planning on seeing Sansa married off to your brother?"
If it wouldn't cause a diplomatic incident, Robb would kill Jon right now. He's spent lifetimes defending Jon from Mum's suspicion and the disdain of highborn twits who didn't like his bastard name. Always, always , in every lifetime, Robb has done his best to protect Jon from everything that might have come his way for being illegitimate, for being a threat to Robb's own position when that was something to worry about.
Had Robb thought Jon was capable of being a threat to the girls? Or to Bran and Ricky? He would have drowned him in the hot springs when they were kids.
"When Sansa's ready," he says. "When she's healed , after everything she's gone through - don't speak," he says firmly, when Jon opens his mouth. "Don't fucking dare speak. When Sansa's gotten to a point where she can see past everything she's endured, made worse by Baelish having her, you'll have a chance to apologise to her. It had better be the most sincere apology the world has ever seen."
Arya clears her throat from the other side of the heart tree clearing. She's back in her high grey shoes, the ones she hates that Sansa bought for her, and Robb can guess why.
"My turn?" she asks, and Robb steps away. Jon is heaving for breath when Arya takes him by the shoulders, shoves him down a little, and drives her knee into his dick.
He hits the floor. Good.
"If you ever do something this stupid again," she says, "I'll cut it off. Understood?"
Jeyne brought Cley and Wylla with her, when she came to relieve Arya from Sansawatch, and to do that, since all of them are useless and refuse to drive in the snow without heavy winter tyres, she enlisted Smalljon.
Jeyne and Cley and Wylla won't tell her a damn thing, but Sansa knows how quickly things turn over during a coup. Now that she has all her memories, she's seen a dozen or more - they're always fast, and they're usually bloody.
"Not very bloody, actually," Smalljon says, when he's wrapped his hand firm over Wylla's mouth to stop her telling him to shut up. Apparently, they started going out the year before last, but Sansa's been so busy pretending that no one knew what Joff was doing to her to notice.
Because of course everyone knew that Joff was abusing her. They would have helped her, if she hadn't been too afraid to ask.
"Robert Baratheon and your father," Smalljon says. "Jon Arryn too, I suppose, since his murder was part of Baelish's plan to destabilise the country. Beyond that, I have to give it to the Targaryens - they did everything in their power to keep the body count to a minimum. No one put up much of a fight beyond the Lannister loyalists, but the Targaryens had a merc army. The aunt seems to be quite the little diplomat."
Daenerys. Yes. Sansa remembers her now. Strange that she's so instrumental to Targaryen restoration even now, when the world is so very different.
"The Lannisters are all in custody," Jeyne says, surprising Sansa. Jeyne more than anyone has wanted to keep her out of the loop, just until she gets her feet under her. "And some of the papers are already breaking the, the other news online ahead of the morning editions."
"What other news?"
"That the Kingslayer and sweet Cersei have been having an affair that's illegal twice over," Wylla says, pulling Smalljon's arm down. "Imagine being Queen and not only being stupid enough to have an affair in the first place, which you know automatically makes your children illegitimate if it's discovered, but being so stupid that you have an affair with your brother. Revolting."
Poor Tommy. Poor Cella. Poor Joff, too, and Sansa hates that she pities him. She should want him dead. She should want Petyr dead. It's weak of her to want otherwise.
"So all in all," Cley says, wrapping a thick-knit blanket around Sansa's shoulders, "it seems as though justice might just be done, San."
It seems far too soon to make that call, but- maybe. Maybe this is the time they get justice for Dad without losing themselves to do it.
"Enough of that for the evening, though," Jeyne says. "I've brought Monopoly-"
"I thought you wanted to keep her stress levels down-"
"Come on Jeyne, you know that's carnage-"
"I call the thimble," Sansa says. "And I get a headstart, because I'm a trauma patient."
"How's that fair-"
"Don't play the martyr, San-"
"Whole world is changed now," Alla says, wrapping her skinny arms around Arya's waist from behind. "How are we feeling about that?"
"Just thrilled," Arya says. Truth be told, she has no idea how she feels. Grieving for Dad, relieved to have Sansa back but worried about her recovery, furious with Jon, pleasantly surprised by how completely Robb's managed to avoid becoming a berk under the weight of responsibility-
"It's alright to be pissed," Alla says quietly. "But just now, I think we might be better served to get pissed, what do you say?"
"Barbrey's already on at me to get back to training," Arya admits. "I probably shouldn't."
"If Barbrey Ryswell is so mean-spirited that she can't give you a full week-"
"I'm probably a better rider when I'm hungover anyways," Arya says, grinning. Alla's got the most insufferable knack for putting her in a good mood. "Come on. Granny's been asking for a good sit down with you for months now."
It feels like tempting fate to even think it, but this feels as close to normal as possible, without Dad.
DAY FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO
Sansa's gown and hood feel heavy in the heat, but she can tolerate that for a few hours. It's worth it, because once this is over, she has to start thinking about finding a job.
Well, unless she does a post-doc. She might do a post-doc. She's applied for a post-doc in Oldtown, and one here in UCKL, and one in Braavos, but don't tell Mum.
"Doctor Stark," Edmure says, with Coren on his shoulders and Bethy wrapped around his leg. They're all in sashes, but no robes, because the conferral of doctoral degrees from the national universities is a royal duty - this is the Queen's first such occasion.
Sansa still doesn't like Rhaenys Targaryen, but at least she seems to be doing a reasonable job. Robb is full of extremely reluctant praise for her.
"Can I have robes like yours, Sansa?" Bethy asks, which makes Roslin laugh.
"You'll need to work a great deal harder at school for that, my girl," she says, pulling Bethy off Edmure and lifting her up onto her hip. "Say congratulations to Sansa."
"I've had enough congratulations for a lifetime today," Sansa says, accepting what's probably a glittery kiss on the cheek from Bethy. "All I've done-"
"Is work very hard and achieve something wonderful," Mum cuts in. "Hello Roslin, baby Bethy-"
Mum gets a glittery kiss, too.
"But don't you let me hear you playing this down, Sansa Stark," she warns. "You've done a wonderful thing, and I know the others would say the same if they were here."
Arya's riding in the Rhoynar Cup today, so she's away off in Dorne. Bran's got classes of his own, and an OT appointment he can't afford to miss. Ricky's got class too, and Robb's opening the winter session of the lordsmeet in Winterfell. All the Tullys are here except Aunty Lysa, who's still refusing to believe that her dear, darling Petyr could possibly have done anything like Sansa's accusing him of - not that her ardent defence stopped Petyr from ratting Lysa out for her part in Uncle Jon's murder.
Poor Robin. He knew, but it's one thing to know that your mother was party to your father's murder, and another altogether to have it confirmed.
Robin's here somewhere, though, probably talking with the Queen - he's close to Trystane Martell, and that seems to have given him a hell of an in with the royal family. He keeps Sansa updated on how very sorry Jon is, which has been a welcome distraction when the writing of her thesis made her want to scream.
"Your dad would be so proud, sweetheart," Mum says, slipping her arm around Sansa's waist. "So proud."
Sansa should probably cry. Eighteen months ago, she would have, but now, she smiles.
She smiles so much more now than she used to.
Willas is still getting used to being on sabbatical - he was encouraged to take some time off last year, for "the good of his health," and only barely convinced the university to let him finish out the year for the sake of his students. So here he is, on a sunny October morning, waiting for Az to come home from her half-day of lectures and pretending to work on an article about pre-Unification art as nation-building propaganda.
He's supposed to be writing a book, of course. That's what academics do when they're on sabbatical, isn't it?
Aster's encouraged him to try and find some hobbies, beyond reading books about art and sneaking out to the stables in Tumbleton - although she does approve of the stables, because him and Gar have been working with the special school in the town to train up the gentlest horses on Highgarden's books as therapy animals. But she's convinced him to take up cooking, and they go cycling together whenever his knee isn't acting up.
Having her come to live with him has been ever better than he'd dared hope.
She's an unrelenting critic of his cooking, so he's going with something tried and tested today - warm chicken salad, just spicy enough to strike a balance between what he can handle and what she likes-
His phone buzzes in his pocket, which is strange. Pretty much anyone who might be calling him should be at work, or at least not available to call. Maybe it's Mum - she has a fundraising thing this afternoon, so she's probably checking in before that to make sure him and Az are still coming down to Highgarden for dinner at the weekend.
Oh. It's Marg.
"'Lo, M," he says, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can keep on slicing peppers. "What can I do for you, little sister?"
"So Sansa's graduated this morning," she says. "And Doctor Stark, , wants to know if Doctor Tyrell, , would be available for dinner some evening next week."
He goes so stupid for a second that his phone almost falls into the sink.
"Give her my number, you heathen!" he says, smiling like an idiot while Marg laughs at him. "Has she applied for any post-docs? What's her doctorate in, Marg? I'm not sure how I can help-"
"Don't be weird, Will."
"Don't you be weird. I'm the most overqualified academic any of us are ever going to meet, except Oberyn and Malora, so of course she wants to talk to me. Is she thinking of staying in King's Landing?"
"You're being extremely weird. I hope you know that."
"I just want to help, M," he says. "Even if nothing ever happens between us romantically, I will always want what's best for Sansa. How's Wynafryd, if we want to talk about being weird? Do Mum and Dad know you're engaged, M?"
"Bastard. Tell Az I love her."
She hangs up. He keeps smiling like a fool.
So. Sansa's obviously doing well. There's nowhere in the North that does a post-doc in either history or linguistics, barring the very niche School of Northern Studies in UCWH. Oberyn's Ellaria was looking for research fellows for something to do with that very complicated study she was doing on the shared roots of the near-extinct Rhoynar language, the name of which Willas can't pronounce without sounding like the uncultured idiot he is, and Andalish, but that might not be her speed. Oh! Pops mentioned something about the Citadel's history department expanding, maybe that's it?
He's being weird. He knows that, but maybe it's best to get it out of his system now, when Sansa is very much not in the room. He really does mean it when he tells Marg that he has no creepy, lecherous intentions toward Sansa, but it would be nice to have her at least somewhat in his life.
At least her mother doesn't loathe him this time around. That's a good start.
He can't stop smiling.