"Father needs someone to run his household, and it will be good for you to practice before you go to Last Hearth."
No matter how often Robb said it, it never made more sense to Sansa. Why did she have to go to King's Landing with Father? Arya going made all the sense in the world, since she was unbetrothed and had a better chance of making a good match, with a wider selection of young men available in the city, but Sansa had Jon, and she had Last Hearth, and with Mother caring for Bran she would have all the practice she might need for Last Hearth in running Winterfell.
"Please, Sansa," Robb pleaded. "I know that you want to go - you've always wished to see court, I know you have, and Father will need you to maintain order while he is doing the King's business."
"And you think Arya incapable of such things," Sansa said, annoyed on Arya's behalf. True, she had always wanted to see court, and she did not think Arya would have the patience to run a household in faraway King's Landing, not even for Father, but she wanted to help Mother more than she wanted to see coutt, and Arya certainly had the capability to run a household, even if Robb did not realise it. Arya was much more capable than Robb ever gave her credit for being. "She is not a child anymore, Robb. She is near a woman-"
"She is three-and-ten," Robb said, "and will have your company in King's Landing. You are both to be assigned to the Princess' household, but since you will have other duties you are not expected to room in the maidenvault-"
"And neither am I," Arya said, appearing at the door with Father behind her. "Tell him, Father."
Father sighed, nudging Arya properly into the room so he could close the door behind them. None of them spoke as he settled himself in the chair nearest the fire, looking older than he ever had before.
"Arya will remain here, at Winterfell," he said. "Sansa, you will accompany me to King's Landing - Robb is right, it will stand in your favour to gain some experience in running a household, even if the Tower of the Hand is a far cry from Last Hearth. Arya needs more guidance to do the same, and so she will stay here, under your mother's care, and will learn all that you have already learned."
There was praise in there, and usually Sansa would have been thrilled by it, but now she was just annoyed.
"And the year after next, when I am to wed Jon?" she asked, folding her arms and not caring that she looked terribly petulant. "Am I to return north and leave you to run your own affairs, proving my presence in King's Landing unnecessary?"
"Father plans on bringing me south when you come north," Arya said, looking less pleased by this than by getting to stay in Winterfell for the time being. "He believes I will be more than practised enough by then."
Sansa knew from the look on Father's face that he doubted very much that Arya would be practised enough to run a household in two years time, but in two years time, Arya would be five-and-ten, and overdue a betrothal. That was the main reason she would be brought south.
She knew from the look on Arya's face that her sister knew the same, and hated it.
"I know that you wish to stay here," Father said. "I know that well, Sansa - I would rather remain at Winterfell too, but I am bound to serve the King now, and the King wants me at King's Landing. I would feel better about leaving for the capital if I had you with me." He hesitated a moment, as though weighing his words. "I would feel safer with a member of our family in my household, among all the Lannisters."
Sansa wished that she could press to remain behind still, but how could she, when Father seemed so genuinely uncomfortable at the idea of going south?
Of course he is uncomfortable, she told herself. He will be forced to walk across the room where his father and brother died whenever the King calls for him.
"Then I will be glad to accompany you, Father," Sansa said, forcing a smile, hoping it would draw Father from his worries a little. "Who else will be in our household?"
"I don't like it," Jon said, massive shoulders hunched over his plate at table that evening. "I understand Lord Stark's reasoning, of course I do, but I dislike that you'll be so far away without my protection."
"My father will be with me," Sansa reminded him, nudging against the bulk of his arm with her shoulder. "And Jory, and half the men of Winterfell - I will be safe enough, Jon. I promise."
His hair was bronze in the candlelight, his eyes the colour of honey, and Sansa wished that she could promise simply to be safe, rather than safe enough, but she was not stupid. She saw the way Prince Joffrey looked at her, even in the days since Bran's fall, never mind since the King knocked him right across Father's study with a slap to the face as punishment for his behaviour toward her.
It had chilled her a little, to see how casually violent the King was, but Father had seemed to think the thing well done, and so she had said nothing. She had been more pleased than she had liked by seeing the Prince brought low, after all, and had not felt that she had any right to say anything, since all the violence was being done in her name, in defence of her honour.
And still the Prince looked on her as though he might yet lay claim to her. Sansa held herself apart from him as much as she could, since she had to spend so much time with the Princess, but she did not trust him, and the Queen's outrage at his having been punished had made Sansa think twice of trusting in Cersei Lannister's beautiful face.
"Even so," Jon said, turning to face her, "I'd rather be with you myself. I know it's impossible, but at least I'd sleep better knowing I was only a room away from you, rather than a realm."
She dared to lean up and press a kiss to his cheek, above his beard where he blushed, and settled back into her seat before anyone noticed - Arya was grinning across the way, though, and would doubtless tease her relentlessly for it, but Sansa didn't care. Sometimes Jon was so unbearably sweet that she couldn't help but kiss him, and since she could not kiss him properly at dinner in the great hall, well, a kiss on the cheek would have to suffice.
"Your father will have my head if you don't stop, Stark," he warned her with a grin. "Because if you don't stop, I'll get started, and we both know that it's best we don't do that where we might get caught, don't we?"
When Jon got started, he always ended up kissing her and kissing her and kissing her, sometimes for what felt like hours, holding her firm against one of the moss-softened trees deep in the godswood, so big and powerful that she never felt anything but safe in his arms.
She knew, after all, that he'd never press further than kissing her, not before they were wed, or at least, not before she was a little older, and even if she sometimes wished he would do more, she was glad of it.
"Well," she said, blushing so hard her cheeks felt as though they were burning right away, "I suppose I'd best restrain myself, then, Lord Umber."
Jon's laughter boomed to the ceiling, drawing looks from all about the hall, and Sansa didn't care at all, she didn't, because come the end of the week it would be the better part of two years before she heard him laugh again, and she was sure that this was what heartbreak felt like.
Bran hadn't woken yet, not nearly two weeks since his fall, and Sansa was beginning to doubt that he ever would.
She hadn't dared to say as much to anyone, not even to Jon or to Arya, but she thought it, worried over it at night while Lady snuffled on the foot of her bed, turned it over in her mind while she sewed new shirts for Rickon or a fine doublet for Father to wear at court. There was always sewing to be done, after all, so much sewing, and it was easier to simply do it between herself and Arya and Jeyne and Beth than to send to the winter town every time Rickon outgrew his sleeves.
Mother would never forgive her for doubting Bran, Sansa knew, and Father would likely feel much the same, but she could not help but worry. He was so still and small and frail, kept alive only by the honey water and goat's milk Mother and Old Nan dribbled through his lips, and Sansa couldn't believe that so little would be enough to support him for as long as he might need to wake up.
"Father and I are leaving in the morning," she told his pale face. Mother had been convinced to sleep a while, but only if one of them sat with Bran while she was away. Sansa had offered gladly, thankful for any opportunity to help Mother before her departure, and had taken her sewing and some honeyed milk with her into Bran's room.
Lady and Bran's wolf lay quietly under the window, blinking bright golden eyes at her from the shadows, and Sansa wondered if Jon had remembered just how dangerous Lady could be, if anyone in King's Landing threatened her - sweet nature or not, Lady was a direwolf, and would kill anyone who dared to harm Sansa.
Bran did not stir, though, and his wolf simply blinked slowly when Sansa spoke, so she sighed, and tried again.
"We're to be in King's Landing for as long as the King wants Father as his Hand," she said. "We might return for Robb's wedding to the Princess, but I'm not sure - it might be years before Father sees Winterfell again. Don't you think you ought to be awake to see him off, Bran?"
It seemed so strange, for Bran to be so still. He was always the worst of them at sitting still, even worse than Arya. Mother had despaired of them both sometimes, while they were at prayers in the sept, or at lessons with Maester Luwin, or even just sitting through some formal thing or other of Father's. Bran was always moving, even if it was just one knee bouncing under the table, or his fingers tapping against the bench, or that he was worrying at his lip because he wanted to be away.
"Even if you don't think Father would like to see you awake," she said, setting aside her sewing so that she could concentrate, so that she could look at Bran and see him, "surely you must see that you're breaking Mother's heart by sleeping so long. She hardly sleeps, Bran, she's so worried for you, and Rickon is making himself sick because he's afraid that everyone is wrong and that you won't wake up."
"It's not Bran's fault that he isn't awake, Sansa."
Jon - not her Jon, not Jon Umber, but Jon Snow - was standing in the door of Bran's room, obviously taking advantage of Mother's rare absence to check on their brother. He looked dismayed, whether by her presence or her words she didn't know, but she was mortified either way.
"I know that," she snipped back, pursing her mouth and looking away from him again, back to Bran. "But I wish he would wake up, all the same."
Sansa wondered, sometimes, if she ought to have made it her business to be kinder to Jon, since he had no mother and no name, but it felt disloyal to Mother to think such things. She'd spoken about it with her Jon, once or twice, and Jon had helped her see the difference between Jon Snow and his own half-brother, Aron, who was near old enough to have fathered Jon - her Jon, gods but it was confusing to think of the two of them at once - himself.
"The way I see it," Jon Umber had said, rolling his shoulders thoughtfully, the third time he'd visited Winterfell after they were betrothed, "my lord father sired Aron as a youth of six-and-ten - younger than I am now, sweetling, and without even a betrothal to speak of, much less a wife. But your lord father sired Jon Snow while your lady mother was carrying your Robb in her belly, after they'd been wed. It makes it harder for anyone to accept Jon Snow, I think, but especially your mother, and I can't blame her for that. He's more a threat to your Robb than if he'd been sired when your father was barely more than a lad - a more likely Daemon Blackfyre than any woman could like to see in her home."
Sansa had liked the image of her mother as the saintly Queen Naerys more than she liked to admit, and had liked Jon showing that he knew his history as well as she did, despite Robb's teasing that a wild Umber likely wouldn't be educated enough to please her, enormously, so his words had lingered in her mind long past Jon's departure.
Jon Snow settled on the other side of Bran's bed, frowning as he so often did. He surprised her by taking Bran's hand in his own, and surprised her again when he smiled, just a little.
"I haven't told anyone else this yet, Bran, except for Arya," he said, voice hushed and teasing, "but you'd best wake up in a hurry, else it'll be a long time before you see me again - longer even than it'll be before you see Sansa and Father."
Bran remained as he was, still and pale and small, and Jon kept speaking.
"I'm leaving with Uncle Benjen the day after tomorrow," Jon said, "and I'll be taking the black, to serve as a brother of the Night's Watch, as plenty of Starks and Snows before me have. So you'd best wake before then, else you might not see me until you've children of your own to fret over. What do you say to that?"
Sansa waited a heartbeat, then two, but Bran remained as he was.
"But Jon," she said, "surely you can't really mean to join the Watch?"
His smile faded, and he shrugged.
"Arya said much the same," he said, "although she cursed more, and called me stupid."
"But Winterfell is your home!" Sansa insisted. "Robb will always have a place here for you, even after Father's day is done-"
"Robb will inherit Winterfell," Jon cut in, "and will sire a brace of fine, half-royal sons on his pretty princess. Bran, when he wakes, and Rickon, when he grows up, will be paired off with fine Northern girls, and given holdfasts to keep. You'll wed the Smalljon, and Arya will wed some southron lordling who doesn't mind her running a little wild. What place is there for me in the midst of all that, Sansa? Best I remove myself before I have a chance to resent any of it, don't you think? Before I have a chance to want it so badly I think to take it for myself, as a real bastard would."
It was snowing the following morning, and the Princess was once more in rich green, with her white furs around her slim shoulders.
Sansa's furs were silver-grey, the same colour as Lady's coat, held in place with twinned brooches as gold as Lady's eyes. Father's furs were the same colour, as were Vayon and Jeyne Poole's - good, hard-wearing furs, that kept the warmth in and the cold out.
Sansa's were shinier and softer than anyone else's, she was pleased to note, because she cared for them as she did her own hair, which was braided away from her face and hanging in three heavy plaits down her back. Jon - her Jon, not Jon Snow who had caused her such concern the evening before - had wound one of those plaits around his hand and tugged it in tease, making her laugh so hard that she hadn't even noticed him leaning in to kiss her until his whiskers brushed her face.
"You send word to me the minute you aren't safe," he said to her, holding her hands in his, hiding her between himself and her horse. "I might not be so quick to get to you as I'd like, but I will get to you, Sansa. I will always come for you."
She leaned right up on her toes and pressed another quick kiss to his warm mouth, darting a glance over her shoulder to be sure Father hadn't seen them.
"I know you will," she assured him. "I know, Jon. I know."
She wanted to tell him that she loved him, because she knew he was about to say the same thing, but Father was calling her, and the King was shouting about wanting to get on, and so she had to satisfy herself with one more fleeting kiss and the feel of his massive hands on her waist as he lifted her up into the saddle, and the sight of him waving her off when she glanced back over her shoulder.
It would keep her satisfied, until she could come home.