Sansa had a new gown for the feast.
She had sewn it herself, of course, just as she had sewn the silk flowers onto Arya's gown as a gift, and embroidered Robb's fine white doublet, and she was proud of it - she knew she was skilled with a needle, a skill that Arya belittled and misliked as useless and too fiddly, but Sansa knew otherwise. She had sewn up more than one cut from a misplaced blade of live steel on the practice yard so Mother need not know that Robb and the others had been disregarding Ser Rodrick's rules, or gashes in Bran's hands and feet from jagged stones and splintered beams, so Mother would not know that he had been climbing.
The others bemoaned Mother's worrying, but Sansa understood - Robb was the heir to Winterfell, too valuable to Father and to the North to risk himself playing at swordsmanship when blunted tourney swords would serve the same purpose as shining live steel, and Bran was Mother's special favourite, something they all knew to be true despite Mother's denials, and she would be lost should anything happen to him. Mother only worried because they needed to be worried for, just as she only fretted over Arya's wild behaviour because she knew that Arya needed a place in the world the same as her own, or the place that would be Sansa's once she married her Jon.
Jon had complimented her on her gown - he had told her that the pretty blue ribbons she had woven through the neckline brought out the colour of her eyes, and that the pale silvery-white showed up her hair beautifully, and then he had kissed her hand and winked just right to make her blush. He took as much pride in her as she did in him, her fine betrothed, who had dressed his beard for the feast just because he knew she preferred it shorter than he usually wore it.
"I feel for Arya," he murmured as they entered the hall, behind Father and the Queen, and Mother and the King, and Robb and Princess Myrcella, and Prince Joffrey and Arya. "Had it not been for my presence here, she would have been spared the walk with the Prince."
Sansa shushed him, but she feared that he was not wrong - the Prince had loudly found fault in everything since the arrival of the royal family earlier that afternoon, and was even know scowling in open displeasure. Princess Myrcella, by contrast, was chatting brightly with Robb, who was smiling as he only did at particularly pretty girls, and Prince Tommen seemed to be getting along well enough with Bran and Rickon, who seemed awfully skinny beside him.
"I am glad that you are here," Sansa assured Jon, smiling as he handed her down into her seat before taking his own at her side. "I fear we do not see one another nearly enough."
"The distance between Last Hearth and Winterfell is longer than I would like, I admit," he said, pouring a cup of sweetened milk for her, "but I will do my best to visit more often, my lady, if that would please you."
"It would please me enormously," Sansa assured him, resting her hand over his on the table and smiling as wide as she dared, here before all of Winterfell and all of court - it would be unseemly for her to show the true depth of her happiness at having Jon beside her, if only because it would seem as though she cared more for his visit than the King's. She did not know if that was true, for she had always so longed to see the southron court of King's Landing, but most of her pleasure tonight did come from Jon's company, rather than that of any of their other visitors. "I am glad you could come for this, though, and I know that my lord father is pleased at your presence as well. He likes having you here while there are so many strange men about."
Jon grinned, his teeth blindingly white against the dark tawny-brown of his beard, and turned his hand under hers to squeeze her fingers.
"I am pleased indeed to be here, then," he promised her, "for I would never wish to see another man putting himself forward as a suitor to you, my lady."
Sansa flushed and shushed him, and turned in her seat as the first course of the feast was served. She was the second lady of Winterfell, and with Mother preoccupied by the Queen, it would fall at least in part to Sansa to ensure that the feast went well - she did not mean to fail in her duty.
She was laughing when she left Jon's arms, her arms above her head as the dance demanded, laughing and smiling as she expected to turn into Robb's hold, but instead found herself with Prince Joffrey's hands too tight and too low on her waist.
"You are a rare flower, to bloom this far from court," he said, catching her hand and stepping smoothly into the next set. He was handsome enough, she supposed, fine-boned and lovely in an almost girlish way, especially with the tumble of silky blonde curls around his bright green eyes, but there was something sharp in his face that she did not like, something greedy in the way his gaze strayed too often to the slight swell of her bosom that made her uncomfortable. "How is it that you were never sent to court? My mother would have welcomed one such as you in her household."
Looking at the Queen, Sansa was not so sure of that - the Queen had made it quite plain that she found everything about the North objectionable, and Sansa was of the North, no matter how much she looked like her lady mother. It was rude to disagree with a Prince on such matters, though, so rather than argue, she smiled.
"I am to wed further north yet, your highness," she said brightly. "I am betrothed to Lord Jon Umber the younger, of Last Hearth-"
"I know that," the Prince said, rolling his eyes and pouting. "But just because you are to wed another man does not mean that you could not come to court. There have been many women who spent time at court without their husbands or betrotheds, over the years."
She was not sure, but surely he could not be-
"Just think of all the women Aegon the Unworthy kept about his court," Prince Joffrey said, leering and staring directly down her gown. "You are at least pretty enough for that, even if my mother would never allow us to be wed. You are far too northern for that."
How dare he! How dare he proposition her, particularly so blatantly! Particularly in her own home, with her father and brothers and betrothed looking on! Oh, how would she hide this from Jon? He would challenge the Prince for her honour, and surely the Prince would not fight himself - what if he elected the Kingslayer as his champion? Jon would die, and Sansa would not be able to bear it!
"I would rather not come to court at all, if it bears resemblance to that of Aegon the Fourth," Sansa said carefully. "Tales are told of how unsafe and unwholesome a place that was for maidens of all births, and I will remain here instead, where there are those who I might trust to protect my virtue."
The Prince laughed aloud at that, tipping back his hair in a tumble of bright curls and cruel eyes.
"Everyone knows you Northern girls are half-wild," he said, tugging her a little closer. "Surely you would not object to being shown such favour?"
"She might object very much," Robb said, his voice stern as he slipped his arm between Sansa and the Prince and pushed her carefully behind himself. "My sister is in need of some rest, your highness - forgive us, but we will leave the dance for a time. Please, do enjoy yourself."
Sansa let Robb guide her away to where Bran was sitting with Arya, locked in a fierce discussion over something that was doubtless unimportant, and it was not until they stopped arguing that Sansa noticed her hands were shaking.
"No man has ever spoken to me like that," she whispered to Robb, who was crouched before her with a cup of sweetened milk held out to her. "Why did the Prince...?"
"Myrcella says he is often uncouth in such a manner," Robb said, frowning as grimly as Father ever had. "She believes that he meant no true harm-"
"He all but asked me to be his mistress," Sansa hissed, angry rather than upset. "I ought to tell Father, he will go to the King-"
"And cause a terrible fuss," Robb pointed out. "Come now, Sansa, surely we can do without causing such an upset?"
Sansa was hurt that he did not think her honour worthy of causing an upset, but she understood him all the same. It would not do to spoil the visit of the royal family so soon into their time at Winterfell by causing a fight with the Prince, after all, and he had not overtly insulted her to such a degree that she could not forgive him, if only for the sake of peace.
"Why are you calling the Princess by her name?" Bran asked, leaning over Arya's shoulder with a grin. "Isn't that terribly improper?"
Robb's face faded from serious to mortified, his ears pinkening and his eyes more than a little panicked. At least one of us is getting along well with the royal family, Sansa thought, casting a glance over her shoulder to the high table. Mother and Father looked equally bored, albeit for different reasons - the King was as boisterous and drunk as the Queen was icily sober. Prince Joffrey was dancing with some court girl that Sansa did not recognise, a fair-haired girl who might have been pretty if her mouth hadn't been so pinched, and a gown too summer-light for Winterfell, Prince Tommen sitting with another fat little blonde boy, and Princess Myrcella...
Was dancing with the Kingslayer, in all his Lannister crimson, laughing at some jape of his. She, at least, looked happy, looked as though she was enjoying the feast rather than just the wine, and had seemed happy while dancing with Robb, too.
"The Princess insisted I call her by her name," Robb said, surging to his feet and folding his arms. "She is... Quite lovely."
Arya hooted with laughter, Bran the same, but Sansa knew how that felt, that pleasure at someone's company right from the off. She had felt the same after she and Jon had first danced together, him so big and strong and tall. The Princess was near the same height as Robb, who was not so tall as they had all believed he would be, and she was more readily beautiful than the Queen, if only because she was so ready to smile.
"Tell me, Lord Robb," the Princess said, appearing suddenly at Robb's elbow with the Kingsguard knight who followed her like a pale shadow at her shoulder. "Is it the custom this far north to abandon a lady in the middle of a dance?"
Robb was bright red around the ears now, and smiling like a fool. "I must beg your pardons, your highness-"
"It is of no matter," the Princess said brightly. "Come, dance another round with me and all will be forgiven."
Robb shrugged helplessly, following the Princess out onto the floor as she dragged him by the hand.
"She has him well in hand," Arya said, obviously delighted by how sweet Robb seemed on the Princess already. "And where is your sweetling, Sansa? Is he not waiting on you hand and foot?"
Jon was across the room, laughing with Jory Cassell, and she wished suddenly for his company - had she danced with him a little more, she might have avoided Prince Joffrey and his insults, and besides, she enjoyed Jon's company, more than she ever had that of any man save sometimes Robb or Father.
"He will come to me when he has need of me," Sansa said primly, not wanting to indulge Arya's sometimes filthy sense of humour. "Or if I have need of him, I shall seek him out. Until then, I am quite fine here, and he there."
Rickon appeared before Arya could say any more, taking Sansa's hand with a determined look on his round little face as he led her out onto the dancefloor again.
"Arya won't dance with me," he said, "because she says I am too small, but you are much taller than her, Sansa. Will you dance with me?"
Rickon only just came to her breastbone, tall for his age but not so tall as she was for her age, but she smiled and settled a hand on his shoulder all the same - he struggled so hard to keep up with them all that she felt terribly as if they left him out much of the time, and tried her best to include him, when she remembered.
"I should be honoured, little brother," she assured him, nodding for him to begin dancing when the music hit the proper beat, and he beamed up at her, leading her about the floor in a more haphazard spin than was correct, but which made him so obviously pleased that she could not help but smile all the while.
The following morning, Robb was terribly quiet at breakfast, squinting against the light just enough that it drew Arya and Bran's attention - Sansa was glad of it, for it left her free to talk quietly with Jon without being teased.
"The Prince ought be punished for this," Jon said seriously, one arm around the back of her chair and the other hand in a fist by his cup. "He has insulted you most grievously, my lady-"
"I would not disturb this visit, my lord," she cut in, resting her hand over his on the table. "That the King is here, with so much of his court, implies some question of great import will be brought to my father."
"Your brother and the Princess," Jon agreed. "Sansa, I know this, but I cannot allow such an insult to your person to pass without remark!"
"And I know that," she promised him, grateful that her parents were not at table when she leaned in close enough to kiss him, or whisper a secret just between the two of them. "But I have a plan, and I need your help to see it through."
Jon's frown slid slowly into a smile, the sort of smile he usually reserved for their escapes to the godswood, and Sansa felt warm to see it, even with Arya and Bran teasing Robb behind her and Rickon half-asleep in his porridge across the table.
"I should be honoured to be in your service, my lady," he said, uncurling his fingers to lace them through hers. "Tell me of this plan of yours, then, Stark, and we shall see what can be done."
Sansa had shared some of her plan with Arya, just enough to encourage her sister to behave for the morning, and together, they convinced Septa Mordane and the Princess' septa that the antechambers overlooking the practice yard, the ones with the broad windowseats, would be brighter for sewing.
Sansa often sewed there herself, when Jeyne was away helping her father with work and Arya had slipped away to play at swords with Bran in the godswood, just so she was not quite so far away from everyone else in the sewing room, and knew that the light was reasonable enough, but it was the view she most desired this morning, and not just because her Jon would be on the yard.
Oh, that was not to say that she did not look forward to seeing Jon on the yard - she always did, if only because he was so strong compared to all the others, and moved so differently because of it - but this morning, she had other motivations.
The Prince stepped onto the yard long after all the others had arrived, his brutish guard haunting his every step. He was dressed in rich velvets such as Sansa thought should have been saved for special occasions, and had a sword with a heavily-jewelled pommel hanging at his hip.
She had not thought to worry that he might carry live steel - the others, Jon included, would all be practising with blunted tourney swords, and Ser Rodrick had beaten it into every boy who had passed through his tutelage that live steel had no place in a practice yard.
"Oh, dear," the Princess sighed, setting down her embroidery with a frown. "Myrielle, be a darling and carry word to my lord father that my brother has brought live steel to the practice yard again, won't you? And Rosamund, the same to my uncle Jaime, please. Be quick about it, ladies."
Both of the Princess' Lannister companions - one the pinched-face girl from the night before, and the other uncannily like the Princess save for her satiny sheet of pale blonde hair, counterpoint to the Princess' heavy curls - rose from their seats, curtsying and rushing away before the septas had even seemed to notice the disturbance.
"Is this a common occurrence, Princess?" Sansa asked, worried now - even if Jon convinced Ser Rodrick to allow him his own sword, everyone said that there was a difference between live and tourney steel, and if the Prince was practiced with a sharp blade, then he would have an advantage of skill over Jon. "That His Highness chooses to practice with a sharp blade, I mean?"
"Joffie rarely actually takes to the yard, my lady," the Princess said, peering out into the yard with a sharpness reminiscent of her mother's displeasure on her face. "But I fear he might feel the need to challenge your brother, or-"
Prince Joffrey drew his sword with a flourish, and Sansa lamented that they were too far away to hear what was being said - she could see Robb's face, though, see the irritation and concern setting his jaw and making him frown. That was not a good sign.
"Shall I run for Father?" Arya asked. "Or Jon - he might be able to help."
Sansa did not know what their half-brother might be able to do to help, but Father might be able to intercede - even a Prince of the realm could not defy the Lord of Winterfell in his own home, not without serious repercussions.
Her plan was falling apart, but provided that live steel was not drawn against her Jon, Sansa did not mind. There would be other chances to see the Prince brought down for his insult to her-
"Is that not your betrothed, Lady Sansa?" the Princess asked, and Sansa hardly noticed the clatter of her hoop as it fell from her lap - she was too busy clambering to her knees, the better to watch as the yard cleared to leave room enough for Jon and Joffrey to face one another. "He surely does not mean to challenge my brother, does he?"
It would not be much of a challenge, Sansa thought - she had seen Jon fight in the yard often enough to know that unless his opponent was particularly skilled or deathly quick, it was next to impossible for them to overcome his sheer size and strength, but a blade so sharp as the Prince's was a threat she had never seen him come up against before.
"I believe he does," Sansa said, feeling terribly stupid for having asked this of him. What if he was hurt? What if he was killed? And all for her, for the sake of her honour! "Is your brother a skilled swordsman, Your Highness?"
"Not at all," the Princess said, sounding almost grim, "and given your lack of surprise at this challenge, I must assume that this has something to do with whatever insult he dealt you last night. I only pray that my uncle will arrive before Joffie is too badly injured, for if any true harm comes to my brother, my mother's ire will be something to behold, I assure you."
Sansa had a sneaking suspicion that the Princess' ire would be quite something, too, if roused, and worried that she may have done some damage to their relationship to the King's family in pressing this matter with Jon.
"I daresay my uncle's wrath might be something to behold," the Princess said, almost to herself. "He has quite the temper, and takes insult to his family very poorly."
Sansa could not imagine how it might look, her Jon facing the Kingslayer's golden blade with only a tourney sword, but she knew how it might end - it might end with Jon's blood staining her skirts red, and something like a war which could not be allowed to pass churning its way through Winterfell.
What have I done?
A great roar of laughter from the yard drew her from her misery, and she almost fell back from the windowseat in surprise to see the Prince on his back, his fine, shining sword away from his hand, and her Jon standing over him with the point of his tourney sword to the Prince's chest.
"Oh my," the Princess said mildly. "This shall be terribly interesting, I think."