April 6th, 1917, The Stark House

The months after the Tyrell's New Years Eve party were uneventful and much less lively. Jon, Robb, and Bran went back to school, and that left Sansa, Arya, and Rickon to entertain themselves. There were fewer parties, and because of the dreary weather no one made any attempt for an impromptu tea or trip to the country. In March, Sansa celebrated her 17th birthday with her closest family and friends, and even received three lengthy letters from Bran, Robb, and Jon. Out of the gifts she received, those three letters were the best. Aside from that, there were no parties, and for that the Starks, all of them, were grateful.

Arya struggled through her lessons, but when Old Nan decided she could write to her brothers to practice her manuscript, she became much more enthusiastic. She eagerly went through her French lessons and History lessons to finally get to the couple hours she was allowed to write to Robb, Bran, and Jon. Sansa would ask her to send her regards, and from time to time Sansa would sit with Arya to write her own letter to Jon, which Arya would then tuck into her letter to Jon. These letters were few, however. Since Sansa completed finishing school she had even more responsibility. Her mother was relentless in grooming her for marriage and teaching her all she had to know in order to run a household: correspondence, balancing the checkbook, organizing and planning events. Apparently, managing Winterfell was a whole different challenge all on its own. Sansa's head spun some days with numbers and figures. She was lucky if she got even a few minutes to sit down to embroider. The way her mother fussed sometimes made Sansa nervous. She was just seventeen, but soon she would be expected to marry. She would move away from home, possibly into a brownstone house, maybe even a different city, a new wait staff with which she had no rapport, and a husband that she would have to serve and please. Maybe a few years ago it would have been dreams come true, but now the whole thing sounded terrifying. She was grateful she still had some time before she was expected to settle down, at least two years or so, but once she was eighteen suitors would start coming to the door, and she was expected to choose one. It all sounded so strange to her. She was glad she was still young enough for that not to matter.

This morning, Sansa hoped by getting up early and eating breakfast quickly she would have a bit of time before her lessons to do a bit of embroidering on a piece she hadn't touched since before Christmas. When she arrived downstairs she encountered very somber pair. Her mother had one hand over her mouth and the other was holding her father's hand. Her father was watching her mother intently. The morning paper was unfolded on the table.

"Mother?" Catelyn didn't seem to hear her daughter. She was somewhere far away. Ned squeezed her hand to bring her back to earth.

"Sansa dear," Catelyn said distractedly, "no lessons today. Excuse me." She got up from her seat and left the room. Sansa then looked at the newspaper on the table. Even upside down it was hard to miss the headline: U.S. Declares War on Germany. The dreaded war that took away her uncle was now making its way here to threaten lives closer to home. Her poor mother.

"So what does this mean for us?" Sansa asked her father indicating the paper.

"I don't know, love. We will see, I suppose." Sansa had never seen her father look so old or so tired.

"Will Uncle Benjen be returning to the military?"

"No, dear child. He will continue his work here. He no longer lives for himself. He has responsibilities now, and they are here on this side of the ocean."

"What of Robb and Jon?" Sansa heard herself asking, "do they plan to enlist?"

"I don't know." Sansa met her father's eyes. Somehow they both knew what Robb would decide. Robb would fight, and Sansa knew if anyone would follow Robb into the fray, it would be Jon. A tingling crawled up the back of Sansa's neck. She needed to sit down. She looked down at her charcoal grey frock. A few shades darker and she would be in mourning. How fortuitous.

"It's going to be alright. Robb may decide to stay here. He may not enlist." Sansa knew it was a pretty lie, something to make them both feel better. She tried to smile, but the smile wouldn't come.

For breakfast, she nibbled on some toast to appease her father. He didn't need to worry about her on top of Mother, Robb, and Jon. She opted for an herbal tea at breakfast which Old Nan supplied for her, giving her comforting words as she did. She spent the rest of the morning in her room. The embroidery she had been so excited to work on lay untouched on the seat next to her. She alternated between staring at it and staring at the empty fireplace. The world was at war, and soon Jon and Robb would be gone. They would be off to fight, and she would be here, waiting wondering. And Mother would be here, waiting, wondering. And Father and Uncle Benjen…Jon was the closest thing to a son Uncle Benjen had. What kind of toll would it take on him if he lost Jon to war?

When lunch came around, her mother knocked on her door.

"Come in," Sansa called. Catelyn entered to see her daughter staring at the unlit fireplace with a vacant expression, her embroidery abandoned.

"It's time for lunch, my sweet." Sansa looked at her mother's face. She'd been crying. Sansa wished she could cry. She'd been waiting for the tears to come. They never did.

"I'm not hungry," she stated, turning her vacant gaze back to the fireplace.

"You have to eat," Catelyn gently urged.

"I'll come down for tea," Sansa said, and idea coming to her, "but I have something I must do first."

"Alright. I'll tell Nan to put out some cucumber sandwiches to the side for you and some tea. Come down when you're ready." Sansa barely heard her mother close the door. She was busy rummaging through her desk drawer for some stationary. As she found it, she settled at her desk and began to write. Her letters weren't perfect due to how frantically she scribbled, but she figured Jon would forgive her that one shortcoming in her penmanship. She just needed him to see the earnestness of her message: Don't go. She pleaded for pages, giving him reason after reason why he couldn't go: Arya, Bran, Rickon, Uncle Benjen, and his education, anything she could think of that might convince him to stay. Robb had Mother and Father, and all of his siblings to think of, and as of New Year's Eve, Margery. Aside from Uncle Benjen, a military man at heart, Jon had no one to remind him of what he was leaving behind. So Sansa wrote. It was a long shot, but the hopeful promise of maybe kept her writing and prompted her to put it in an envelope and send it out with the day's mail.

After sending out the letter, she felt better. Her appetite hadn't fully returned, but she managed to eat a couple of cucumber sandwiches, and the warm tea settled her nerves a bit. She was on her second cup when Arya came into the room.

"Mother said you weren't feeling well this morning."

"I wasn't," Sansa assented.

'How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thank you." Arya came to sit next to her sister. She took a cheese biscuit off the plate and snapped it in half. She popped one half into her mouth offering the other half to Sansa. Sansa declined the offer. She wondered how Arya could have an appetite on a day like this. She admired the ability.

"Are you worried, Sansa?" Arya asked before starting on the other half of the biscuit.

"Yes," she answered gravely.

"It'll be alright. Robb and Jon are smart."

"We don't know that. War doesn't discriminate based on intelligence. It takes all kinds. It takes them and never gives them back." She thought of Aunt Lysa. Was this the dread she felt when her husband went to war? Sans imagined what it must have felt like when those men came to the door in their starched uniforms confirming her worst fears. It must have been unbearable.

Arya noticed the tremor in her sister's voice. She didn't know what she could say or do to remedy. She was right. War didn't discriminate. Everyone suffered in times of war, and she knew her sister would inevitably suffer, too. She hated the feeling of helplessness she felt now. She wished she could do something. Instead they both sat in silence, Sansa sipping tea from her cup.

Dinner was quiet that evening. The evening paper brought more news on the war. April 6th, 1917 was a day that would live in infamy. At least, that's what the papers said. The whole country was abuzz, but the Stark house was eerily silent. Only Rickon had things to say, and even so, not many things. Arya began to wonder if any of them would speak again. War was here, and it's first casualty was their voices.