Summer

"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade,"

Charles Dickens

Arya Stark thinks that her elder sister has gone mad.

In the last few moons, since she had gone screaming down the halls like a mad girl she most likely is, Arya had noticed that there had been a serious shift in Winterfell itself. Winterfell was always the same. Arya thinks it had been the same for near all the time it had been standing, housing Starks and their people in summer and winter and autumn and spring. Arya has lived very little, but she was a big girl that knew enough. Life in Winterfell is boring. It did not change, it did not become something else. Not unless something was terribly, terribly wrong. Since the day Sansa had been running around like a chicken without its head... Winterfell had changed.

Like a shadow had fallen on the Keep, taking away light and happiness and ease.

Servants whispered about the incident. Her few friends had started to ask what the little lady Sansa had looked like, running around screaming, instead of asking to play with her. They asked again and again whether or not Sansa had been foaming at the mouth, or if she had been speaking in tongues, or if she had done it naked, as everyone said she had. Hardly anyone had actually seen Sansa gone mad, but everyone knew it had happened enough to guess or make up how it had happened.

The people in the Keep stared at those in House Stark as if waiting for them all to go mad as well.

Guards had been placed at the end of the hallway of all their rooms, and it made it that harder to sneak away at night and just do fun things. Children did not linger in the Keep unless they had a job, and Arya had lost many friends to their parents wishing to keep them away from any child named Stark. She had also lost the rest of her friends for talking about Sansa because only Arya was allowed to say such mean things about her sister. Especially now that she was mad.

Her parents had changed.

Arya watched her parents and knew they were sad, or angry or scared for Sansa, or all three. Ayra could see it in their faces, in their actions since Sansa had gone mad.

Her Mother barely looked in Father's direction. She, for the first time that Arya could remember, was sleeping in the rooms next to her normal ones, the one meant for the Lady of Winterfell. Instead of staying with Father because she loved him so. Sometimes she would sneak into their rooms at night, and lie next to them. Robb had whined, face tight about being a near man, and having his mother watch him at night. Bran had been sweetly pleased if embarrassed because he was big as well. Rickon babbled in annoyance. Arya herself had allowed her mother to bring her close to her chest whenever she came at night. Allowed her mother to press her face into her hair and pretend not to feel her sob. Arya had wondered as her mother had run her fingertips through her hair if Sansa being mad meant that their mother was scared for all of them. She could hardly stand not being near them, reaching for Robb's thick curls, yanking Bran off the wall as he had started to climb, held little Rickon constantly on her hip. Pressed her hands on Arya's shoulders with trembling fingers. It was an odd day for her lady mother's eyes and face to not be red with stress and tears, her hands reaching out to touch any of her children, except for Sansa. Her own mother could not bring herself to touch her mad daughter.

Father was hardly better, his face like stone all the time. Her father was a serious man, and it was a rare day for him to make silly faces at them. But since Sansa had gone mad, he hadn't even smiled. It had moons. And her father did not smile. His face had lost color, fading from a soft pale to almost grey in the sunlight. His beard was growing, wild, and gnarled. And he had lost weight, cheeks sunken in slightly. He cried too, Arya knew, from hiding near the godstree one day. His weeping had scared her, his voice a wail as he had kneeled before the bleeding face and beat his chest in sorrow. She hadn't known her father could cry. She hadn't known her father could suffer so loudly, so strongly, when all her life she had known him to be still and calm like a mountain in the face of a storm.

And it was because her sister had gone mad.

Gone mad and changed most of all.

Sansa had gone quiet and still. She did not laugh. She did not smile. She did not weep as she had that day. She barely even spook. Father was like stone- Sansa had become stone. Cold and without life. She had gone from being obnoxiously giggly and beautiful smiles and all the mess that everyone praised, to nothing. As unaffected as summer snow before it touched the ground, as untouched as the stars. She was no more expressive than the statues of their kin, down in the Crypts.

Sansa the statue was kept away as if her madness would spread amongst the Stark children. She was always with Father, always at his side, within arm's reach. Constantly with some form of parchment or scroll or book in hand, Sansa followed the Lord of Winterfell, and sometimes it's Lady and rarely talked to anyone else. She would trail after Father and Mother, and they would look back to her, frequently. Father especially seemed to be always looking at her. Looking at her perfect, pretty stone face and... And Arya knew he was looking for the girl she had been. And he would not find her. Arya had seen how often Father would look at his small shadow and watched his face fall. Looked at her, and lift a hand, as if to touch her, but drop it before it came too close. Father didn't seem to be able to touch his once-perfect Sansa either, now that she was mad.

Sansa had also been relieved of attending her lessons with Septa Mordane, which Arya thought was stupidly unfair. Septa Mordane was horribly upset at this development, of losing her star and easiest to handle pupil during what had once been their daily lessons.

It seemed to upset her more than the prospect of Sansa going mad if Arya was honest.

It had been sudden and with no explanation -at least spoke because everyone knew why- and the older woman was severely upset. She pleaded with their Mother to have Sansa return after what many in Winterfell thought to be only a severe change in her education as a noble Lady, with no luck on her part.

"Sansa is a fine young Lady, Septa," their mother had murmured, calmly, "Her education in the Seven, sewing and dancing is over for now. You have done a wonderful job with her."

Septa Mordane had insisted that Lady Catelyn come to their morning lesson, and it appeared to Arya, as she watched with clear eyes, that it had been in hopes that mother would bring Sansa along to see what she had been missing, or to see the mad girl for herself. Sansa, before she had gone mad of course, had been one of the few of the girls in the household that enjoyed her lessons with the Septa. Enjoyed the way she showered praise for breathing, more like. Septa Mordane was trying to coax the girl back, Arya knew. From a conversation overhead with Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane seemed to think that her Sansa's madness could be prayed away, or poured into her sewing and kept in check. And she was trying, she knew, to find her once charge and bring her back underneath her care. Septa Mordane could barely speak to her sister, as Sansa was constantly with her parents or politely excusing herself from most company. Septa Mordane had had enough of trying to corner Sansa alone, it seemed, and gone directly to their mother to set her ambush.

But, her mother had not come with Sansa, appearing alone, looking somewhat annoyed by the request, but trying to be courteous and disguise the fact. Septa Mordane was reaching, furrowed brows, as she actually placed down her sewing to look at Lady Catelyn seriously.

"But my Lady, surely you cannot think that Sansa is completely educated. The girl is a wonderful student, certainly, but she is still young. And from her outbreak the other day-"

Septa did not say the word mad, but Mother's face darkened, turned serious, and pinched at the mention of the day where everything had changed.

"Her father and I have decided that Sansa needs to understand how a Noble House is run from our perspective. She cannot do that here, Septa. We have decided that the best solution is to have Sansa follow us both."

"My Lady-"

"If Sansa will return, it will not be soon, Septa Mordane. Her duty is elsewhere… Now, if I am no longer needed, please excuse me, there are many things I must attend to."

Her mother had left with an even nod, but a flurry of skirts that indicated her impatience and reluctance of meeting with the Septa. Lips pursed, the older woman had turned, face blank, but jaw tight as if she was grinding her teeth, to Arya.

"Lady Arya," she stated, primly, standing to check over her needlework.

Arya had winced and lifted her gnarled mess with reluctance.

Septa Mordane had sighed.

"Your sister had this stitch down in less than two days," muttered the Septa, "Restart this mess, child."

Something curled in Arya's stomach, as the other girls tittered, and as the Septa shook her head in disapproval again, tsking as she went back to her own sewing. She did not even mention the fact that Jeyne's stitching was nearly as bad as Arya's, nor did she mention what Arya had done wrong in the stitch. Arya clenched her fists before she started to remove the cloth from her hoop.

Jeyne Poole, too, was horribly upset over the fact that Sansa had stopped talking to her in favor of her 'duties' with their parents. She begged Arya to tell Sansa to come back, and when Arya had shrugged and dismissed the girl, Jeyne had collapsed into large, messy tears. Arya did not like Jeyne. She was too eager to follow Sansa or the Sansa they had known. Too eager to laugh at Arya, because Sansa had. But she did feel sorry for her too. Sansa had been Jeyne's best friend, and now... They were nothing.

Arya had seen when Jeyne had come up to Sansa in the Great Hall only for her sister to stare at the girl as if she didn't know her:

"Sansa, you must beg your mother and father to return you to our lessons, you must!"

Her sister had stopped, looked at Jeyne with a furrowed brow, face not falling into idiotic delight at the sight of her best friend. She had only looked at the other girl, the smallest of a puzzled expression on her face for a fraction of a second before her face turned smooth as polished stone. When Jeyne had rushed forward, to hang on Sansa's arm as she always had, Sansa had paled, alarmingly so, dodging out of the way with a quickness that had Jeyne sprawled on the floor.

Jeyne had cried out, crying at her scraped knees and ruined stockings…

But Arya had been looking at Sansa.

Her face, still smooth as stone, had lost more color. And her chest had been heaving, quickly as if she struggled for breath. Jon had rushed forward from his place at the High Table. Jumped over it in his rush, stumbling in his boots as he came over to Sansa. He was slow then, made sure that Sansa saw him, before placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. His grey eyes had searched Sansa's face, and when she had looked at Jon, Sansa had just shaken her head once. As if confused, her brow furrowing just a little. Jon had blinked, frowned, and leaned forward to press his forehead against Sansa's. Arya had never seen Jon show such affection to their often prissy sister, and never had seen Sansa take such comfort from such affection at all.

"Jeyne just misses you, Sansa," murmured Jon, seriously, looking at their sister with concern.

Sansa blinked before she nodded slowly. Her hand, came up, pressed against his cheek softly. With an easy affection that Arya had only seen Sansa show their Mother, and maybe baby Rickon. It was a soft, easy motion. As pretty as a dance, the way Sansa moved. She leaned into Jon's forehead, eyes closing slightly as her fast breath eased. She then stepped back, hand still holding Jon's cheek. She looked back at Jeyne, staring at the crying girl for a moment. Then, finally, understanding dawned on Sansa's face.

"Jeyne... Jeyne Poole… Jeyne, I'm sorry. You startled me. I apologize for the reaction… It's been so long since we've spoken, hasn't it?" her voice had been clear, soft, and sweet.

Arya, from her place at the head table noticed this, brows furrowing at the strange reaction on her sister's part. She went over, gliding in that new walk of her's, better than mother's prime walk, and helped Jeyne from the floor. She had smiled at Jeyne… But Arya had thought that the smile didn't quite meet her eyes.

Arya's brothers' lessons with Maester Luwin had increased, as had her's, to a stupid amount, and Arya wonders if Sansa going mad is the reason. Maybe her mother and father thought if their children were bored to pieces, they would not go mad themselves. Her own lessons with the Septa had decreased, much to her pleasure, because they were horrible. They went from being every day after a horrible day to only being only twice a week, cut even further from nearly three hours to only one. But she was expected to have more with Maester Luwin instead, three a day, sparsed throughout the day, seven hours total. Seven hours of lessons every day! Even eight when I have to go to the Septa! She liked Maester Luwin better then Septa Mordane- He didn't favor anyone, not even Robb, as the heir. And he didn't frown at her so much, even when she fidgeted so much. Nearly every day she was sitting in with the boys and was forced to learn much more than before. Arya did like how different the lessons were- she was no longer just limited to learning dances and specific stitches with a few lessons with Maester Luwin.

But if she was forced to recite the entirety of the houses of the Seven Kingdoms again she was kicking the snickering Robb in his shin, and Jon couldn't block it this time.

"Focus, Lord Robb," said Maester Luwin, voice creaking, but steady, "Now if you please, tell me what the best diplomatic solution."

Robb's red brows furrowed. He absently picked at a spot on his chin. Arya thought they were funny, and part of her had hoped that Sansa's spots were worse than Robb's, at least she had before her sister had stopped being... Herself.

"I don't understand. Why would it not just be best to storm the Keep? The proposed army has better numbers, better arms. It would be easy to overwhelm them, wouldn't it?"

Arya own brows furrowed, as she stared at the map and the pieces in front of her. She thought Robb was right. But from Maester Luwin's expression, her eldest brother had gotten it wrong. The old man sighed and gave a small shake of his head.

Arya was frustrated, at the fact that what she had thought was wrong. This isn't better than my lady's lessons. Why can't I just be good at something?

Bran's leg was jiggling up and down in impatience, and his eyes were glazed over as he looked out the window. He wouldn't answer, she knew. He liked stories and lessons about knights, more than these theoretical lessons of battles. He would barely listen when it came to these things. Arya liked them well enough, but Maester Luwin never asked her any questions. Only to the boys. She thought much as he didn't scold her, and didn't favor one of them over the other, he didn't think she would know. She was behind her brothers and Theon after all. Theon was picking absently at a thread on his breaches, clenching and unclenching his spare fist. Jon was staring at the map, dark eyebrows scrunched together in concentration.

"Robb's right," said Theon, absently, "The invading army even has enough ships to surround them on their left side by the sea. Wouldn't take long to conquer the place. Ships conquer everything."

Maester Luwin sighed, his mouth quirking in slight distaste. Arya frowned. She had never noticed that the Maester did not like Theon. She didn't like him much either, he was annoying, but she didn't understand how set Maester Luwin was against the eldest boy in the room. She wondered who else did not like Theon.

"But the Keep has rations for up to five years," said Jon, softly, "The invading army has two, with their larger numbers, as they have the same amount of rations. Their walls are tall, well built. Even from the sea's side. The invading army has little to no access to any easy points to get into the Keep. Not to mention their escape and merchant routes are tied off. Diplomacy may be the best option."

Robb straightened, blinking.

"Well said, Jon," said Maester Luwin, lips twitching, "Now, Lord Robb, what is the best solution?"

"A parely?" he said, sheepishly, "Possibly a treaty?"

Maester Luwin nods.

"Good. Never underestimate relations between Houses. They can make or break someone's rule in war. Now, what terms should be negotiated?"

Jon had changed as well. He had not changed much- but it did not matter how little he changed. What mattered most was that Jon no longer looked at Arya, and instead looked to mad Sansa. Sansa had taken Jon. She had taken her favorite brother.

He was quieter than before, something Arya had not expected to be possible. He didn't smile as often either, something Arya blamed on Sansa's madness. Jon, unlike Robb, Bran, Ricken, and Arya, was not pulled away from Sansa. Jon was allowed to go near her. He was expected to be with her if the look on Father's face was any indication. Because whenever he looked at Jon and Sansa together, he seemed to breathe easier. His shoulders would drop, relax, when Jon's hand clasped Sansa's, or when Sansa would send the smallest smile to Jon. Even her Mother did not seem to think it odd to see Jon and Sansa side by side. Because the Lady of Winterfell looked at Jon Snow and Sansa together, and she did not blink, she did not scowl, as she would have before. She only looked on with a furrowed brow, and sometimes with eyes that seemed to held tears, but said not a word. Robb, Bran, Arya, Theon, and even little Rickon were kept apart from Sansa. But Jon Snow was Sansa's shadow, as she was father's. Jon walked with Sansa when he was not in the training yard or in their shared lessons. Jon obviously was very uneased with all the ways Sansa seemed to attach herself to him. But still, he stayed with her. He reached out to hold her hand, to whisper in her ear, and to walk with her. He hardly looked away from Sansa, grey eyes unwavering, sad, and... Determined. He had no time to play. He had nothing to do but follow after Sansa.

And their secret archery lessons at night had stopped as well. Jon was constantly 'busy'. Because of mad Sansa.

"But you promised!" she begged, already dressed in her cloak and boots. She stared at Jon, as he carefully combed his unruly curls. He pulled it back, careful to tie it back in a small bun with a silver ribbon.

Grooming himself to be with Sansa, Arya knew. He took care of his usually unruly hair, now, combed it more often than not. She remembered the day Sansa had looked at him, given the softest laugh that had not been heard in the Keep for nearly four moons, and touched a wayward curl that had been sticking straight up. Sansa had reached out, and pushed back his curls, brought a sliver ribbon from her own hair, and pulled it back from Jon's red face. She had smiled small, so small she barely upturned her lips. And Jon had smiled back as if she had given him something impossible and brilliant, instead of a shadow of something that had once been so commonplace, his grey eyes shining.

His grey eyes looked at her now, not shinning, not happy. Annoyance was in those eyes, she saw, and in the smile he gave. That smile was small, tight. It was forced. Not the easy smile that Jon would have given Arya before. His smiles were hard to come by, and more often given to the little mad lady of Winterfell. Even with Sansa not in the room, she took Jon away.

"The Lady and the Lord of Winterfell have asked me to come to see them tonight, Arya," he said calmly in return, adjusting his clothes.

They were nicer than anything Arya has ever seen Jon wear. This doublet embroidered finely, meticulously showing a snarling white direwolf against a dark grey, with gleaming red eyes made from what Arya thought to be glass beads. It was a nicely made doublet of velvet and silk, and usually, Jon would not have bothered with such things. Arya knew he was given his own allowance, just as she was, and that the older Stark children were all responsible for managing their own clothing. She knew Sansa constantly spent her allowance on bolts of silk and finner velvet, delicate thread, instead of the hard spun and more practical wool. Jon saved his money for good things, like sweets or a knife or more arrows. Jon had not bought this silly velvet, so fine and gleaming even in the dim light of the fire. This fine and complex embroidery, which she knew were beyond the seamstress' of the Keep's old hands, was not something he would have thought or cared to do. It was the most beautiful thing Arya had ever seen, better than Mother's nicer gowns, and not what Jon would have chosen for himself.

She had also seen candlelight underneath Sansa's door each night she had come see Jon and been sent away. Arya wondered when her sister given him the doublet. Septa was wrong to think that sewing would take the madness away, for Sansa is still not Sansa. She has surpassed herself in skill completely, and she is still mad.

"Jon?" came a quiet voice, soft and cool.

Sansa walked in without knocking, a cloak around her shoulders. It was a dark thing, too large for Sansa's slight frame. Worn and used. It was a contrast to the finery that Jon wore. Arya wondered why she had stolen that cloak from father. And why Father had not taken it back. She keeps taking things and no one says a thing. It wasn't even cold, inside the Keep, but Sansa always wore that cloak, swam in it. Arya thought it was strange, to see her sister who had once been effortlessly, stupidly pretty, hide in colors she had refused to wear before. Black cloak, with a grey fur that swallowed her shoulders and made her red hair stand out even more. Arya hadn't seen what Sansa wore underneath their father's cloak, but she knew from the hem that would peak out of it sometimes that it was usually a dress that Sansa had outgrown, too dark and drab for the girl who wished to shine bright in the dark halls of the Keep, no matter how impractical and bothersome. No matter how easily the clothes could tare and rip, or get ruined in rain and snow.

"Oh," Sansa said, calmly, turning to stare at Arya. Her face was still, even, as it always was these days. Something about it always made Arya uneasy. She felt small, and unsure in the wake of the statue her sister had become. It wasn't like looking at someone's face, it was too still, to hard to find what she was thinking. It wasn't Sansa.

Sansa always smiled, always laughed, and constantly and easily fell into tears. Not anymore. The madness had taken that away, Arya was sure. Taken her perfect, full smiles. Taken her red face that came with annoyance, taken away the way she had shinned so prettily. Arya had hated Sansa for it at times, but she would take her stupid older sister, with all her prissiness and boring airs, her annoying perfectness, if only it meant that Winterfell would go back to normal. If only she would have her sister back.

"Arya, it's late. Do you not have lessons in the morning?" Sansa said, and she made no mention of how Arya was dressed in Robb's and Jon's old clothes. The old Sansa would have made an enormous fuss.

But the new, mad Sansa didn't even blink. Arya pushed down a scowl, at the fact that Sansa was scolding her, even as she came to take Jon.

"Jon… Jon and I were going to play in the Godswood… He promised," she lied, frowning.

Delicate red brows drew together. And Arya was surprised to see Sansa look at Jon with a frown. She looked at Jon and shook her head slightly.

"Jon, go with Arya."

"But-"

"I'll make your excuses, go. Arya needs some time with you."

Something gave than, in Sansa's newly stilled face. Something sweet and soft and so pretty that made Arya want to cry. And she wanted to cry harder still in confusion in the fact that Sansa was trying to get Jon to be with her. She hated that it felt as if she was giving him order, that firm way she said it as if it was only by Sansa's choice that Jon would go with Arya now. But then that soft thing in Sansa's face was gone, as quickly as it'd come. And the statue came back, stone polished and without a crack. It was ugly and Arya hated it.

"No. The Lady and Lord of Winterfell asked me to be there. It's important. Arya, tomorrow."

It was always tomorrow, never today.

Arya was upset over the changes in the household, about the changes to her stupid older sister. She wanted… She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she didn't like the way things were now. She did not things could be the same again, not with Sansa being as mad as she was. But maybe she could get something to be the same as before. Because she felt so... Small.

She felt small and unseen.

She was so far behind in comparison to where the boys were in their lessons, in the lessons she still needed to be a stupid, proper Lady, and Jon didn't talk to her as much anymore. She felt very alone, and Bran was no help, what with his books and constantly climbing to places she couldn't reach in her dresses. Rickon was a baby of course, and Robb had Theon. She didn't want to be with mad, statue Sansa, even if she was ever allowed near her sister. And Winterfell itself had been pushed into a large frenzy that Arya had never seen before. Servants rushed when once they walked. They went that way and that way, picking supplies, drying fruit, and meat. Men went to the woods, picked trees, and brought back wagons full of coal and fabrics and furs. The Keep itself was like an overturned anthill, everyone darting about in a mad scrambling. Ravens flew beats of their dark wings constant on a horizon. Men went off as messengers on horseback, so much so that it seemed as if the stables were constantly empty.

It was as if Sansa's madness had lit a fire underneath the Keep, much as she had pushed a shadow over the Starks. Smoke and fire have filled Winterfell at the madness of Sansa Stark...

It was as if Arya was standing so far apart from everyone else in the wake of that. Standing behind her brothers, her Mother, and Father, standing as they strove ahead, with no one looking back at little Arya Underfoot.

In it all, Arya had no one.

Arya had no one.

She walked into her room, after another day of hiding in the Crypts, absently trying to get the dust out of her hair, and the tangles, so her mother wouldn't notice when she came to brush her hair for the night after her bath. In her room, she noted with surprise that someone had already set up the bath, a warm thing so hot that the water steamed against the air of the already warm keep. No one ever did that for her, no ever thought ahead for Arya. She always had to go ask someone to prepare it, and watch their annoyance at the dirt on the hem of her dress, eye her wild hair and shake their head at the wild girl of House Stark. Arya blinked, walking carefully to the copper tub set in the middle of her room.

"Arya," Sansa said, smiling, sitting on Arya's bed.

The smile was small, but it was a smile, a rare thing to see on Sansa's face these days and it reached her bright blue eyes. Arya blinked, freezing at her sister. Not in the cloak, not hiding at all. Her dress was not one Arya had seen before, a soft grey dress of finely spun wool. It was so simple, with a high collar. The only decoration was a slightly shimmering sliver thread, embroidered snowflakes that was the most complex thing on it, at the collar, at the end of her sleeves, and at the hem. It was pretty. It was... Too simple. No ribbons, save for the single one keeping Sansa's hair out of her face. No pretty flowers, no pretty flare to the straight, practically skirt. It was not an ugly dress. But it wasn't Sansa.

Sansa the Mad stood elegantly and in a single movement, blue eyes intent on her. Arya stared at her mad sister, eyes squinting. Sansa's arms were full of a bundle, so she couldn't press down her skirt, leaving it wrinkled. She didn't even notice it.

"Sansa, what are you doing here?" Arya asked, suspiciously. Because she didn't want her here. She did not want to look at the girl who had changed so much. Who didn't feel like her sister anymore.

Sansa paused mid-stride, blinking. She held the bundle to her chest, something made of cloth, a dark grey so dark it was nearly black. Arya could see that it also had fur, what looked like a white fox, an expensive thing to find. Sansa had bought that before she had gone mad, Arya remembered, and stated she wanted it for a beautiful cloak made by her own hand.

"I brought you something. A present. I apologize for not being quicker, my duties with mother and father have taken much of my time," Sansa said quietly, looking at her with that clear smooth face, eyes lingering on Arya's.

Arya stared and wondered when was the last time Sansa had given her something.

"It isn't my name day."

Sansa's face stood still. Something in Arya's stomach crawled. She should be mad, she should say I'm ungrateful. But she's not even bothered.

"I know. But it's important that you have it… Especially for tomorrow."

"What's so special about tomorrow?"

Another smile, a small thing that eased that thing in Arya's stomach. She smiles at Jon... I didn't know she would smile at me.

"A surprise for you. Come, let me see if I got the fit right."

Arya walked forward, cautiously, and watched as Sansa unfolded her bundle across the bed.

It was clothes, something Arya expected as a gift from Sansa. But they were not what Sansa would have given her nonetheless.

It was a fine cloak, that dark grey material, trimmed in that fine white fur. It was meant for Sansa, not me, she used it for me? It had simple embroidery, like that of Sansa's dress, but different, square runes of the First Men, just like the one that Arya made a game of finding in the wooden beams of the Keep. There was also small, short boots of fine supple leather, trimmed with that white fur and gloves to match. That would have been expensive, Arya knew, even as she looked at the simple heel and the comfortable fit of the gloves. Arya blinked, curiously, at the doublet Sansa was spreading out, its velvet, a bright, luminous silver stitched finely with what looked like a grey direwolf, caught in a howl, similar to Jon's new one. The eyes, also made of beads, were a dark yellow. The doublet was fitted tightly and with long sleeves, with matching breeches, dark grey to match the cloak. Ribbons, stitched with simple little wolves, also grey against sliver, were set to the side.

"Well?" asked Sansa, hands twisting together, "Do you like it?"

Arya blinked.

"It… It isn't a dress?"

Sansa blinks before a smile filled her face. It was larger, softer than Arya had seen in the moons since she had gone mad. And Arya nearly did cry at the sight of it.

"No. Trust me. A dress is the wrong thing for tomorrow. This, this is perfect. Come on, you can try it on after a bath."

Reluctantly, Arya went to get her laces at the back of her dress and struggled a little. Without her asking, Sansa went to help, gently undoing the laces in the back of her dress.

"You're full of dust," she muttered, absently.

"I was in the Crypts. Playing."

"Alone?"

Arya said nothing, only tensed. Sansa's hands stilled before they resumed their work.

"Have you been alone a lot, Arya?"

Arya's lower lip trembled, and her eyes stung, but she refused to cry. Not in front of Sansa the Mad.

"Ever since you went mad. No one's around. Everything's changed."

Sansa hummed. Her hands were still gentle, still careful not to hurt Arya.

"I haven't gone mad."

"But… But you don't act like yourself. I never see you cry or laugh anymore. Before you went mad you cried and laughed at everything."

Sansa was quiet and she simply helped Arya lift her dust-filled dress over her head. She carefully arranged the dress as Arya turned to her, across her dressing screen, shaking her hand across the surface of the woolen material to clean it slightly.

"Of course you would notice," said Sansa, absently, going for Arya's dresser. She picked up her hairbrush and turned back to her, "You always see things very clearly, don't you, Arya?"

Arya squinted at Sansa, with her still face again. Suddenly her still face eased, into a smile, larger, brighter than before. It reached her eyes.

"If I told you I went mad, what would you say?"

"It's either that or you're a grumpkin, and you stole the real Sansa. If you did I want her back. She's stupid but she's my sister."

Laughter fell from Sansa's lips, bright, happy. Something of a knot that Arya didn't know she had in her heart eases, and she felt her own lips twitch slightly before she started laughing herself.

"I missed that sound. I can't remember the last time you laughed with me, Arya."

That stopped the laughter on Arya's part, and she looked to see Sansa's face had fallen into something sad, her lower lip trembling slightly.

"You have Jeyne."

Sansa shakes her head, reaching out to place a hand on Arya's face. Absently, it seemed, she rubbed at the dirt there.

"Jeyne is my… Friend. But you are my sister. That day, when I was screaming like I was mad made me realize that. Now turn around, I have to brush out those tangles before your bath. You are not trying on your new clothes that filthy."

It sounded so much like how Sansa used to be, that Arya didn't respond, only turned around. She expected Sansa's hand to be rough, as she went through her hair. Sansa used to like to finish things quickly, well done but quick. But Sansa was as patient as Mother always was, mindful of not pulling her scalp too harshly. She even helped her out of her small clothes and shift and helped scrub her hair, like they used to do when they were younger, and shared baths. When Arya had dried herself, she slipped into both small clothes and Sansa's present.

It fit her well, perfectly. Sansa brought a large mirror, the one from her room, and showed Arya what she looked like. She… Looked like a boy, almost, if it weren't for her hair, still drying in loose curls over her shoulders. But the clothes looked good on her, she looked... Different, she seemed to stand straighter in the doublet and breeches, and everything was very easy to move in. Even the boots were not as stiff as they should be, supple and smooth.

I could follow Bran!

"I had to guess with some things. The ribbons are for your hair, to pull it back. If you need help tomorrow, you can call for me and I'll braid it."

"It's…"

"Fit for Nymeria, the Warrior Queen, I bet?"

Sansa grinned at her, toothy, eyes gleaming. It was the first time in moons for Sansa's smile to be so easy, so wide. Arya's lips twitched, but she felt confused.

"What?"

"Never mind, you'll understand. I'm having the seamstress make you simpler ones of course, but this one, this one had to be special for tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

Blue eyes sparkled.

"A surprise, Arya. I cannot say. Goodnight."

Quickly, she darted forward and pecked her cheek, before she left the room. Arya carefully undressed. She was mindful of the doublet, careful to move the velvet back into place, instead of leaving it inside out as she normally would for any other clothing. She even was careful of the cotton undershirt, fingertips flowing the tight stitches. Sansa made this for me. She was thinking of me. Arya placed it across the dressing screen, tossing her dress into the basket of dirty clothes. She then fell asleep staring at the strange, nice present that her mad sister had given her.

In the morning, after she had broken her fast, she was instructed to go to one of their larger rooms, just off of the Great Hall.

Arya followed the instructions, shifting somewhat uneasily in her new boots, and the way that people stared at her. Sansa was actually walking with her, When they had actually shared lessons, they would walk together. Not touching, sometimes bickering as they went. But unlike before, she wound her arm with Arya's. She hasn't done that since Septa Mordane told her that a Lady holds herself apart from others, even when Jeyne would drag at her arm. Sansa's eyes followed everyone around them. She stared at anyone who pointed, at anyone who dared speak badly of Arya. Because of that, Arya made herself stand tall, to feel at ease in her new clothes, as she walked into one of the larger rooms off of the Great Hall. Only one person was there in the recently empty room, all the furniture had been taken away, or pushed against the wall. He was a small man, skinny like her, with the darkest skin she had ever seen. He was also bald, beardless, with a large hook nose. And he was staring at her, frowning.

Sansa let go of her arm, gave her a smile, and nodded encouragingly before she gave her a peck on the cheek again and left the room without saying a single word. Arya stared after her, brows smashed together.

"You're late, boy," said the man after a moment voice thick with an accent that Arya had never heard before.

She frowned, shifting uneasily as she turned to look at the man.

"I am not. I was to come to this room after I finished breaking my fast. I finished breaking my fast just now," she countered, lifting her chin, "And I'm not a boy. Who are you?"

Lips twitched on the man's face and he lifted a single, finely arched brow. She noted with fascination that he had an earring in his left ear that swung as he walked forward to her, hands behind his back.

"I am Syrio Forel, and I am to teach you the Water Dance."

Arya felt her heart sink. Was her surprise a dancing teacher? How very like the old Sansa to make her new clothes to make this happen. Maybe she is just mad if she thought I would like this.

"Did my father hire you?"

"Yes," said the man, carefully, circling her, "He paid quite a good amount of dragons to bring me to this cold land."

Arya followed the man with her eyes, following his movements as her brows drew together.

"Why? Septa Mordane knows all the proper dances. You don't need to teach me them."

Lips twitched in that tanned face, and large nostrils flared as he laughed. It was a rich laugh, smooth and easy.

"Oh, the Water Dance is not for a dance hall."

Suddenly, the man's legs shifted, just slightly, and his hands, lightning-quick, brought out a wooden sword from behind his back. Before Arya could even react to the 'blade', the strange man, Syrio Forel, had smacked her against her hip. Arya yelped, jumping back. The man, Syrio Forel, smiled. His dark eyes sparkled, his mouth opened into another smile.

"It is a deadly thing. Now, child, which is your sword hand?"

Arya stared at the man, who was staring at her expectantly with a smile on his deeply tanned face. Slowly, her lips pulled up into a smile of her own in response.

Now, this is a surprise.

EDIT: 27 OCTOBER 2020