Oh, fuck all of Father's plans. I'm going to kill that fucker, and I'm going to do it tonight.

Arya glowered at the figure offering his hand to her sister over Robb's shoulder. He was dressed in Bolton pink, and (for now, at least) he looked the part of heir to the Dreadfort – that is, not a monster. But Arya knew a little of the beast that lurked under Ramsay Snow's skin, and she could see the way that Sansa and Theon were cringing into each other.

Arya risked a glance over her shoulder – only for half a second, because any longer would give Ramsay the chance to act. Roose Bolton was watching his son with Sansa, and when Arya looked back, she could see Sansa looking in the direction of Roose Bolton and shrink in on herself slightly when she realised he was watching.

She's going to accept, realised Arya. She doesn't want to upset Bolton and upset all their plans. Good, sensible Sansa was going to let the monster of her nightmares take her hand and lead her in a dance, just so that they could have him killed the proper way.

Fuck that.

"Robb," hissed Arya. "You need to cut in with Sansa."

Robb looked over his shoulder and blanched when he was Sansa reaching out to take the hand of a man in pink. He didn't know about Ramsay, not truly, but he knew enough. "You take Theon," he ordered.

"What? I'm here for Sansa -"

"And no matter what Theon did, she cares for him and he's terrified right now, Arya," said Robb. "Look at him."

Arya looked. Theon was cringing away from Ramsay, his shoulders hunched and he stooped ever so slightly, unable to meet Ramsay's eyes. Nonetheless, he still had hold of Sansa's free hand, not quite willing to let her go. Sansa was saying something to him, trying to untangle her fingers.

"Fine," grumbled Arya.

"Thank you," said Robb, then turned and called out, "Sansa! We had a promise!"

Ramsay looked over, irritation brushing over his face. Sansa's face shone with relief that she was unable to conceal.

"I'm sorry, Lord – Ramsay, isn't it? – but my sister promised me her second dance of the night," said Robb. He had unobtrusively drawn himself up as he drew closer to Ramsay – Arya hadn't seen him stand taller, but it was obvious now that he was taller than Ramsay. Arya grabbed Theon wrist and pulled him away.

Jon caught her by her other wrist as she tried to lead Theon away. "Is everything alright?"

"That's Ramsay," she told him quickly. Jon's face darkened and he slid closer to Sansa and Robb. He found a pretty, brown-haired girl nearby who accepted his offer to dance at once, and the two swayed to the music. Jon's eyes remained firmly on the bastard of Bolton, only an arm's reach away from Sansa if he was needed.

"Robb's just made him angry," murmured Theon, barely able to be heard over the music and talking.

Arya let out a sharp hiss of air and pulled Theon into a dancing position. "Pull it together," she snapped. "You want to keep Sansa and Robb safe? Then we need to keep suspicion off you and Sansa. Now dance."

Theon's lips were still quivering, but his feet started to move in time and he nodded.

What had Ramsay done to him? It was the first time Arya had allowed herself to wonder it. The Theon Greyjoy she had left behind in Winterfell, all those years ago, had been an arrogant little shit. Even at his absolute worst, Arya couldn't imagine him cringing and quivering while taking Winterfell.

"It's going to be over soon," she found herself telling him.

"Arya -"

"I can handle it, Greyjoy," Arya said shortly.

"Be careful," said Theon. "Don't underestimate him."

"It's too late for you to start worrying about my family," said Arya. She let him spin her under his arm and when she came back to face him, she made sure to step slightly too far forwards and on to his foot. "Just because Sansa's gotten herself betrothed to you doesn't mean you're forgiven, and it's certainly not forgotten."

"I don't expect you to forget," said Theon, his voice quiet. "I never will."

"Good," said Arya. The time was coming to change partners, and Arya twirled away from Theon.

"Arya!" exclaimed Sansa. Robb was letting go of her and she grabbed on to Arya's arm, giggling. "Dance with me."

"Sansa, what -" started Arya.

"Dance with me," she said, her tone more pointed. Arya took her hand and they twirled together. Arya used the opportunity to survey the room. Ramsay wasn't watching them anymore, instead dancing with some dark-haired girl Arya didn't know. Arya pitied her, but she couldn't help the relief surging through her that he was away from Sansa.

"You can't do anything," Sansa said quietly between giggles. "He has guest right now."

"If we leave him, he might hurt someone," Arya said back, punctuating the sentence with loud laughter.

"Do you want to be like the Freys?" asked Sansa. "He has guest right. Killing him now will be an offence to the gods, and we need the gods on our side if we're to have any hope. We need to do this right, Arya. All of it."

It was surprisingly easy for Arya to go through the motions of the dance beside Sansa. She had always resisted the lessons with Septa Mordane when they were children, but some part of it must have burned into her mind all the same. Maybe the skills she had learned in her last life were helping – she had trained in waterdancing, after all, and any Faceless Man needed to be lithe and co-ordinated. Why is this all I can do with my training? Arya thought bitterly. I can't even avenge my sister. What use is all that time with the Faceless Men if I can't even kill a monster?

"Arya?" called Jon, looking up the stairs of the Broken Tower. Construction work had stopped for now, with everyone in Winterfell and Winter Town busy accommodating the northern lords and selling any wares they could while the castle was filled to the brim, so the tower stood empty.

Jon started to turn around, ready to move on to search another part of the castle, but just before he could move out the door, he heard Arya's tentative voice: "Jon?"

He found her at the very top of the stairs, sitting with her knees drawn up against her chest by the window. She was watching the courtyard below, busy with activity.

"You and your sister need to keep disappearing on us," he said. "Your lady mother is frantic, what with…"

"What, with Ramsay in the castle?" asked Arya when Jon trailed off.

"With all of the strangers in the castle," amended Jon.

"Ramsay's the only one we need to be worried about," said Arya, leaning her head against the wall. "Well, him and his father, I suppose."

Jon went and sat down across from her. "What's wrong, little sister?"

Arya stared out the window, refusing to meet his eyes. "Nothing's wrong, Jon. Nothing other than the end of the world is coming, and our home is filled with men who would murder our family and take Winterfell without even blinking."

Jon leant forwards and placed his hand on her knee. "Arya."

Arya jerked her leg away from him and leapt to her feet. "I should be able to protect her, Jon! I should be able to protect all of you. What was the point of it all if I can't even do that?"

Jon hurriedly stood up. "We can protect ourselves," he reminded her.

"Bran said that I was needed to help unite Westeros," said Arya, her bottom lip quivering. "Sansa's good; she can manoeuvre her way through the Red Keep. She knows how to handle Littlefinger and Cersei and all of them, and what can I do? I can't even kill Ramsay fucking Snow or Roose Bolton, even after everything!" Arya ran her hand through her hair, untangling the bun that had undoubtedly taken the Septa or Sansa a long time to tame. "What was the point of it all, if I can't even use what skills I do have? What was the fucking point of Bran sending me back?" Arya's breathing was heavy and her eyes brimmed with tears as she finished speaking.

Kill? thought Jon. She had threatened to kill Theon all those weeks ago, so maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise. Still, the thought of his little sister killing anybody made Jon's heartache, even if it was the Boltons.

"Bran knew what he was doing," said Jon. "Have faith in that. Have faith in Bran."

Arya shook her head. "What if he only sent me back to save me? What if I don't have a place saving Westeros with Sansa?"

"Sansa's… Sansa," said Jon. She was, actually, considerably warmer to him that she had been before everything had changed. She had defended him from Catelyn and treated him the same as she treated Robb. But that wasn't what was important right now; Arya was. "She has her skills, and so do you. You can use them as well as she can to help."

Arya closed her eyes, looking pained, before she turned away from him. "And what if that's all I was sent back for?" she whispered, so that Jon could barely hear her. "What if that's all I'm meant to be? A killer?"

Jon's heart seized in his chest. He hadn't meant that. He hadn't even realised that her skillset was death. "Arya, no," he said.

"But that's all I did, Jon!" cried Arya, spinning to face him again. "You and Sansa took back Winterfell. You led the fight against the White Walkers. You were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch; you convinced Daenerys Targaryen to come North and fight them alongside us; you rallied the North. Sansa ruled the North in your stead; she made sure that Winterfell was well-supplied and that we had enough weapons forged and armour made. Bran was the Three-Eyed Raven; we never would have known the Night King's movements if not for him. And what did I do?" Arya looked down at herself, voice bitter. "I killed the Freys. That's it. That's all I did for our family and for the North."

Jon gave in, and stepped forward to wrap Arya up in a hug. She struggled against him for a moment before sagging against his chest. "It doesn't have to be," he murmured into her hair. "If that's not all you want to be, it doesn't have to be."

"What else can I do?" whispered Arya.

"You can ask Sansa to help you learn about politics," said Jon. "Or – she's still useless at numbers, you know. I've heard her asking Robb to help her with them. I know you've always been good at them, so you can take over helping Father with the logistics." He could feel some of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders, so he kept talking. "And when you learn to fight, a lot of those skills can be used for other things, too."

"Like spying," said Arya. "I told Sansa that if she went south, I'd go with her and I'd spy on the lords and ladies at court to make sure she knew what she needed to know."

"That's a good one," agreed Jon. "Little sister, I know you've been through a lot, but what happened in the other time doesn't have to define you. You can choose who you will be in this time."

Arya snuggled her face into the crook of his neck. "You know I'm actually older than you?"

Jon let go of Arya and ruffled her hair. The bun was well and truly destroyed now; her hair stuck up at all angles, but she didn't care as she smirked up at him. "You're always going to be little to me."

Arya was already over an hour late to her sewing lesson, and any other day, she wouldn't have particularly cared. Now, she came to a stop in front of the door, took a deep breath, and went inside.

"Lady Arya," greeted the Septa, disapproval tinging her voice. "I'm glad you've finally seen fit to grace us with your presence."

Sansa looked up from her conversation and raised her eyebrows at Arya. Rather than answering her directly, Arya said, "I'm sorry, Septa, but I need to speak with my sister." Sansa's eyebrows shot upwards at the show of politeness.

"Forgive me, Lady Wynafryd, Lady Wylla," Sansa said to the girls seated beside her before the Septa could respond. "We will have to continue our conversation later."

"Go," said the brown-haired girl. "Your sister needs you." Sansa smiled at her politely as she stood and followed Arya into the hallways.

"Where have you been?" hissed Sansa in a low voice when the door swung closed. "You can't just disappear on us like that. Not when…"

"I know," soothed Arya. "Jon was with me. I didn't see Ramsay even once. It was fine." Sansa pursed her lips but Arya soldiered on. "I need you to help me."

"With what?" asked Sansa, cautiously.

"I was talking to Jon about how I could help you when we're in King's Landing," explained Arya. "You're going to be the political face, I know that. I said that I'd help you by spying, remember?" When Sansa nodded, Arya said, "Well, I want to be as unremarkable as possible, then. I want, for as much as they can see, to be the most ordinary, boring noble girl you can think of."

"What are you saying?" asked Sansa.

"Well, if you're going to be Father's hand in King's Landing, then I want to be his ears," said Arya. "I don't have a whole network of spies like Varys does. I need to work with what I have, and all I have is myself. I want to be the most average girl you can think of."

Sansa nodded slowly. "I'm going to pretend to be the same as I was the first time around," she said. "Silly and sheltered and believing that life is a song, so none of them will even realise I'm pulling any strings until it's too late. Like that?"

"Exactly like that," said Arya. "I have my own skills, Sansa, but they're not the sorts of skills that would go unremarked in King's Landing. So I need you to teach me – how to sew, how to giggle and dance and act like that."

Sansa met her eyes and said seriously, "You're already going to have a hard enough time not murdering Cersei – are you sure you want to give up your swords and your trousers while we're in the south?"

Arya lifted her chin. "I'll do what it takes."

"If you're certain," said Sansa, her own voice unsure.

"When I was – in Braavos, I had to do it for a time going after an actor," said Arya. "I can do this, when I need to. The Faceless Men taught me. Let me use those skills to help."

"Fine," agreed Sansa. "But you don't have to. Remember that, okay? You can still be yourself if and when you want to be."

"I am still being myself," said Arya. "I'm protecting my family; what's more Arya Stark than that?"

"Lady Dustin," greeted Ned, ushering the woman in question into his solar. "It's been a long time, my lady. I trust that the Barrowlands have been well?"

"They are, Lord Stark," said Barbrey. She held her head high and her shoulders back, her face cold and haughty. Barbrey Dustin was not shy about her distaste for him. Ned knew that she had never forgiven him for bringing her husband's corpse back to her, leaving it buried under the Dornish sands. Ned had regretted it himself, for a long time – he had once suffered from night terrors, visions of Lyanna and his men and even the three King's Guard they had killed, lurching from the lonely outcrop where Lyanna had spent her final days, reaching for him. "You promised," they had said. "You promised."

It was a long time ago. Ned had not suffered that nightmare in years. The world spun on, and even if the absence of his sister and the loss of those companions continued to ache, Ned had to move forward. He had had to keep his eyes fixed on the present.

Now, he had to keep them fixed on the future.

"I was glad that you agreed to ride for Winterfell," said Ned. "You have missed several of the harvest feasts over the years."

Barbrey gave him a cold smile. "Without any other Dustins to oversee the harvest feast at Barrowton, I could not afford to leave the keep too frequently."

A reasonable excuse, but still an excuse nonetheless. "Of course," said Ned. "Still, if there was ever a time for you to ride for Winterfell, it was for the meeting tomorrow. It will change the course of the North for good."

"I did assume that it wasn't just to announce your daughter's betrothal to the Greyjoy boy," said Barbrey. Ned offered her a glass of wine, and she took it, taking a tiny, thoughtful sip. "The North has been wondering for years when you would finally arrange a marriage for your children. I almost thought that you might marry Lady Sansa to my nephew, before."

There. An opening. Ned set his own cup of wine down, full though it was, and said, "The issue of Domeric is potentially the most important reason for you to have come to Winterfell, Lady Dustin."

Something in Barbrey's face hardened, and she tilted her head slightly, inspecting him. "Why?" she demanded.

"I have reason to believe Domeric Bolton did not die of natural causes," said Ned. Barbrey's lips moved, pressing together ever so slightly, before her face smoothed out again. This wasn't new information he was offering her.

"The Dreadfort's Maester declared it a sickness of the bowels," said Lady Dustin. "What right have you to question the Maester's judgement?"

"Several," said Ned. "My own Maester, Luwin, disagrees with Maester Uthor's findings. It occurred immediately after the arrival of his bastard brother, Ramsay, who is now directly in line to inherit the Dreadfort. I have also been told that even within the Dreadfort, there are some that believe Domeric was poisoned."

Barbrey took another slow sip from her glass. When she had finished, she asked, "What is it that you want from me?"

"I know that we have had our differences, Lady Dustin," said Ned. "I wish to amend them. Ramsay Snow is a murderer. The rumours I have heard about him have made me concerned about what would happen to the North should he take the Dreadfort, as it should make the entirety of the North. Unfortunately, Domeric's murder means that Ramsay is the only heir available to Lord Bolton."

Barbrey nodded to herself. "And as Lord Roose's good-sister, you would have me soothe things over, the best I can."

"Your nephew was murdered," pressed Ned, though he kept his voice gentle. "None of my siblings were able to raise children, but if I had only one piece of them left, and that child was ripped from me – I would do what I had to in order to pursue justice, Lady Dustin. Surely, we can agree on that."

Barbrey pressed her glass to her lips, half-hiding her expression. "Reminding me of the things I have lost may not be your best strategy, Lord Stark."

"I should have done more to bring your husband's body home to you," agreed Ned. Confronted with the knowledge that he, his wife and his eldest son would have faced their death far from Winterfell, and their bodies likely never having been returned home to rest, Ned knew that he should have done more. But he and Howland had been faced with a squalling baby and nine bodies, and they'd been forced to make decisions. He had given the dead the honours that he could, and left the tower with a babe in arms and his sister's corpse in tow.

If Catelyn had died, far from his side, and her body never returned to him or to the Riverlands, Ned would not be able to rest. He could understand Barbrey's pain.

"You should have," said Barbrey, her voice icy. "House Stark uses its bannermen and the people of the North and tosses us aside like trash when they no longer have need of us. Why, precisely, should I help you to deprive my good-brother of his only heir? Why should I trust that your intentions are honourable?"

"Because Ramsay Snow is a monster," said Ned. "He murdered your nephew, Lady Dustin, but that is not where his crimes began or where they have ended. If he remains as the Bolton heir, the Dreadfort will not have a lord after the death of Lord Roose, but a butcher. Winterfell stands between the Dreadfort, and Barrowton and the Rills, and should it come to it, we will continue to stand between them. But your relative isolation from the Dreadfort will not prevent either from the effects of war."

"If you are so interested in war, you would not be provoking Roose Bolton," said Barbrey.

"I know that provoking Lord Bolton will inflame tensions in the North," said Ned. In the end, it didn't really matter what Ned did; he knew Roose Bolton was already planning on breaking faith with House Stark if he ever was given the opportunity. He could not win Roose Bolton to his side, but he could prevent the havoc Ramsay might wreck on the North. "I also believe that allowing Ramsay Snow to ascend to lord of the Dreadfort is more likely still to cause war in the North. We have both lost family members to war, Lady Dustin. Must we lose more?"

Barbrey narrowed her eyes at him. She turned to face the fire and took a long, deep sip from her wine. "I'll not interfere," said Barbrey. "I will not tell Lord Roose and I will not encourage him in any notions of revenge. Similarly, I will prevent both House Dustin and House Ryswell from siding with him if he wishes to avenge Ramsay. Judge Domeric's murderer and find him guilty; I shall be grateful for that. But I will also not throw in my lot with House Stark. Your family has taken too much from me to ally with you so closely against my sister's husband. That is the most you can expect from me, Lord Stark."

It wasn't as much as he would have liked, but it was better than it might have been. As it was now, if Roose Bolton wished to act, it would be House Bolton against the North, with no allies or friends. Roose Bolton was a patient man, Ned knew; he would bide his time rather than provoke open warfare. With Sansa and Theon's knowledge of the inner workings of House Bolton, Ned hoped that they could avoid whatever Roose cooked up for House Stark.

"Thank you, Lady Dustin," said Ned, inclining his head. "I will see you shown to your rooms now." Lady Dustin nodded at him stiffly as he summoned a maid into the solar. Barbrey followed the maid out and to her chambers. Ned watched her go before he slumped into his chair.

The Starks were as safe as they could be to move against Ramsay. Now, he only had to convince the Northern lords that the Others existed and were assembling north of the Wall. This has probably been the easiest meeting of the day, reflected Ned wryly, before he bent back over his desk and got to work.

"Grey Wind, Shaggydog, sit!" exclaimed Arya, trying to balance the pieces of meat she had brought out for the direwolves in one hand and push her brothers' wolves down with the other. Nymeria nudged at her littermates with a barely-formed growl deep in her throat and the two direwolves slid back down into standing on all fours.

Smiling proudly, Arya threw the first piece of meat for Nymeria, who snapped it out of the air nimbly. She fed the next piece to Lady as the best behaved of the direwolves, to the silent and patient Ghost, and then to the as-yet-unnamed Summer, before finally turning to look severely at Grey Wind and Shaggydog. The two looked up at her eagerly and she relented, throwing the last two bits of meat for them.

She slid her hands through Nymeria's rough fur. "Did I tell you that I'm going to learn how to sew?" she told Nymeria quietly. "Properly, at least. Needle hasn't been made yet, so I have to learn to use some needle. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway." Nymeria bumped her head against Arya's side and she couldn't help but smile. Arya looked over at Lady, and said, "I think I'm going to teach Sansa how to use a dagger in exchange, you know. Only a little one because she's never going to be a warrior, but something she can stick Ramsay or Joffrey with if she needs to."

Maybe I should talk to Robb and Jon about upping Bran and Rickon's training, Arya thought. Bran and Rickon shouldn't be in danger, safe in Winterfell, but – well. Arya had learnt well enough last time round that safety was never guaranteed. "At least we have you," she whispered to Nymeria and the other direwolf cubs surrounding her.

Footsteps sounded outside the kennels. Lady shuffled towards the door, her tail wagging.

Then, the voice muffled and clearly coming from a distance away, someone called, "Reek!"

Arya froze, and so did the footsteps outside. Lady's tail stopped wagging, baring her teeth and a low, rumbling growl sounding in her throat. The other direwolves crowded behind her, hostility radiating from them.

"I knew you remembered me," continued the voice, sounding closer now. "You and my lovely wife, both. No wonder I found you by the kennels, Reek."

Arya crept towards the door and peered round. Ramsay Snow was standing right in front of Theon by now. He took Theon's wrist roughly, holding up Theon's hand to inspect it. "So much work to redo, Reek," tutted Ramsay.

Say something! Arya wanted to yell. Theon was shuddering in Ramsay's grip, his face clammy and white. She suddenly remembered the way deer sometimes froze before the crossbow. Everything about Theon seemed frozen, utterly paralysed in his fear.

"It's almost fitting that Stark wants to marry you and my dear Sansa together," continued Ramsay. "Two broken things, as it were. But I can't allow you to marry her, Reek. After all, Sansa is already married, and I can't allow her to continue her insolence."

Arya grabbed the lock and pulled it open, so hard that it broke in her hand. Shoving the door to the kennels open, she allowed the direwolves to stream out in front of her. Lady leapt for Ramsay, slamming him to the ground.

"Lady," called Arya sharply. As much as she would love to see the Bolton bastard's throat torn out, he deserved to see justice served, best they could when only five people alive knew the full extent of his crimes. Lady did not retreat from where she loomed over Ramsay, but she did not go for his neck. Arya strolled over to kneel beside Ramsay, glaring down at him. "My name is Arya Stark," she told him, her voice deadly calm. "If you lay a hand on my sister, or anyone in this castle, I will – well, what was it that Sansa did to you? Fed you to your own dogs, wasn't it?" She smiled coldly at him, and beckoned Nymeria to her side. Nymeria took her place by Ramsay's head, snarling down at the Bolton bastard. Between the two sister direwolves, wet patches dropped on to Ramsay's face. "She did that with only Jon to back her up. Now she has an entire pack, and if you touch her, any one of us would feed you to our direwolves." Arya stood up. "I think you'll find any one of them more savage then your dogs were, if you so much as dare to lay a finger on someone under our protection."

"Bitch," spat Ramsay.

Arya cocked her head. "Not terribly imaginative, are you?" she asked, before he could continue. She turned to Theon and took his arm. "Let's go, Theon."

Theon's arm shook under her grip as she led him away from the kennels. Ghost and Grey Wind peeled off from the rest of the pack to accompany them, but the other direwolves continued to circle Ramsay, snarling and growling. Shaggydog snapped at Ramsay's face, and he only barely flinched out of the way.

"I was looking for Sansa," said Theon, his voice rough and hoarse. "I thought that she might have been with Lady…"

Arya shook her head. "I expect she'll be with Mother or with the Manderly girls." It gave Ramsay less chance to approach her, when she was surrounded by other people. Arya was almost surprised that Theon hadn't taken the same approach, but –

Well, there weren't many people for Theon to spend any of his spare time with, these days. Robb barely looked at him, and Jon only glared and hovered ominously whenever any of his younger siblings were around. Bran and Rickon were too young. Sansa was the only one who spent time with him, these days.

Arya bit her lip. "I'll talk to Robb."

"What?" asked Theon.

"I'll make sure you've got someone around you until Ramsay's dealt with," said Arya. "You won't have to deal with him alone."

"Arya," said Theon, his voice thick. Arya glanced back at him and immediately regretted it; his eyes were filled with tears. Fuck's sake. She didn't need to pity him even more than she already did. He still attacked Winterfell, she reminded herself.

"Come on," said Arya shortly. "We're going to find Sansa. She needs to know."

Sansa was not with Catelyn, or with Wynafryd and Wylla. She was in her chambers, with Brienne seated by the door, knife in hand – just in case. She had fled back to them as soon as her session with Septa Mordane had finished, and couldn't imagine a reason she was going to leave anytime soon.

"Wynafryd was angling for a betrothal to Robb," Sansa said. "I'm not sure what I should tell Mother and Father."

"The Manderlys are a rich House, aren't they?" asked Brienne.

Sansa nodded. "The richest in the North. It's only that I've been wondering if I should organise to betroth Robb to a daughter of a powerful southern House, to give us more allies in the south, should the worst happen. Margaery Tyrell, perhaps. The Manderlys will be loyal to House Stark, no matter what."

Brienne nodded thoughtfully. "Lady Margaery married only kings, in our last life."

"That's the problem," said Sansa. "I don't know if the Tyrells would betroth Margaery to Robb when Renly and Joffrey are both still unmarried. A Baratheon is better than a Stark. And the North might not be pleased with Robb marrying a southern maid, when Father did the same. Perhaps Bran or Rickon, or even Arya – though the only person I can imagine her marrying willingly is that Baratheon bastard blacksmith. Perhaps we could see about getting him legitimised after we expose Cersei…" Sansa shook her head, getting herself back on task. "If the Boltons had a daughter, I might try to marry Robb to her, just so we have something to hold over Roose Bolton."

"Do any of the Houses that supported the Boltons have daughters?" asked Brienne.

"The Ryswells, Dustins and Umbers don't," said Sansa, ticking them off on her fingers. "Alys Karstark is already betrothed to a Hornwood. For the other Northern Houses, there's Meera Reed and Dacey Mormont, but since Dacey Mormont hasn't married yet, I expect she's planning on going unmarried like her mother, and Wynafryd will be a more advantageous match either way. Except, of course, the Manderlys follow the Seven, not the Old Gods, so the other Northern Houses might not be any happier with that match than if Robb had married a Southerner." Sansa groaned and flopped back on to her bed. "No wonder Mother and Father took so long to betroth him. It's a nightmare, Brienne."

"Perhaps a southern House that holds to the Old Gods?" suggested Brienne. Sansa sat up, tapping at her chin thoughtfully, but before they could discuss it further, there was a knock at the door. Brienne tightened her grip on her knife. At Sansa's nod, she stood and opened the door.

Arya tugged Theon through the doorway, Ghost and Grey Wind pushing in behind her. She grabbed the door from Brienne, slamming it shut behind her and locking it. Theon staggered into the room, hunched over and tracks of tears running down his pale face. Sansa stood up, her heart hammering.

"Don't say it," she blurted out. "Oh, Gods, don't say it."

"He's back," whispered Theon. "He's back, Sansa. He's here for us." A sob ripped through his body. Sansa pressed her tremoring fingers against her lips, sinking to the floor.

The candlelight chased across everyone's faces. Their faces were garish, monstrous in the flickering light. Maybe that was Ramsay's true face, that night. The snow had bit at her skin as it fell on her face. Theon trembled beside her, and she couldn't be sure if it was contempt or apprehension she felt at the sight.

"Why?" she asked. She wasn't sure who she was addressing – someone in the room, or the Bran from their future, the one who's voice had sounded in her head that night. "Why send Ramsay back? Out of every person in the world, why did it have to be him?" You said that you were sorry that it happened to me. You said you that you were sorry it happened here in Winterfell. Why, Bran? Why?

Someone wrapped their arms around her, and Sansa tried to shrug them off until she realised it was Theon, who had collapsed next to her. She couldn't quite stifle the tears gathering in her eyes. Beside her, Theon's breath was quickening, coming in short, desperate gasps. Grey Wind brushed around them in a circle, before settling down in front of them, his muzzle wresting on Sansa's knee. Ghost took up position by the door, watching it carefully.

Arya knelt down in front of Sansa. "Can you hear me?" she asked. "Your names are Sansa, of House Stark, and Theon, of House Greyjoy. You are here in Winterfell, with me – with Arya – and Brienne. We swore to protect you, remember?"

Brienne knelt beside Arya. "I will shield your back, keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be," she recited. "I swear it by the Old Gods and the New." The words washed over Sansa. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on the words, anything other than Ramsay's here, Ramsay's here –

"Breathe with me," said Arya. "In, out, in, out, in, out."

Sansa leant against Theon, and he rested his head on hers. His breathing was slowing back to a normal pace and Sansa tangled her fingers with his.

"We left him surrounded by the direwolves," offered Arya. "If he comes near you – either of you, probably – they'll tear his throat out."

Sansa closed her eyes, burying her free hand in Grey Wind's warm fur. Her eyes still stung with tears, but they no longer felt like a tidal wave, threatening to wash her away. "Until he's dealt with, neither of us will be without a direwolf," she decided. "I'll stay with you and Nymeria, Arya, and Lady can stay with Theon."

"I can't," mumbled Theon.

"What?" asked Sansa.

"I can't take your direwolf," explained Theon, his voice a little stronger. "Lady's yours."

"You're my betrothed," said Sansa. "She'll protect you like she'd protect me. I can stay with Arya and Nymeria without a problem, and I have Brienne. You have no one. You'll take Lady."

"I can go get Lady and Nymeria now," offered Brienne, holding up the knife in her hand. "I can protect myself, and you have Ghost and Grey Wind with you right now. He won't be able to get past two direwolves."

Sansa nodded, not trusting her voice.

"We'll keep you safe," said Arya, her voice soft and gentle. Slightly reluctantly, but still resolutely, she added, "Both of you."

Sansa sat up straighter, an idea striking her. "How did you find out Ramsay came back?" she asked Theon.

"He called me Reek," replied Theon. His voice trembling, he continued, "He said that he would have to redo all of his work."

Sansa closed her eyes. She could do this. She could. "Tell Father not to arrest Ramsay at the feast tonight," she told Brienne. "I know how to catch Ramsay in a way not even Roose Bolton can argue with."