The halls of Winterfell were crowded and busier with people than they had been in years, so Sansa had squirrelled herself away in her chambers with Arya after she had presented Cersei with her chambers. She had met Arya back in her chambers afterwards.
"I need your help," Arya had said. Sansa had spent the past few hours dressing both herself and Arya, braiding Arya's hair back into beautiful northern braids.
Arya touched her hair hesitantly. "I can't remember the last time I had my hair done like this. Yoren cut it when he took me out of King's Landing but I can't remember if I wore my hair like a northern girl in King's Landing or not."
"I wore my hair in southern styles," said Sansa, sitting down beside Arya. "Septa Mordane called me a real southern lady for it."
Arya reached out and tangled her fingers with Sansa's. "She was wrong about that."
Sansa smiled and squeezed Arya's hand. "She was wrong about us both." A piece of hair had somehow escaped Arya's braid, and Sansa reached out and swept it out of Arya's face delicately. "If Aunt Lyanna really looked just like you, I can understand why Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen loved her."
Arya rolled her eyes, although her expression was still affectionate. "Gods, I hope not, then. That's the last thing I want."
"No, the only boy you want mooning over you is a blacksmith," said Sansa, her face perfectly straight. Arya narrowed her eyes then reached out and shoved Sansa. Sansa fell back on to her bed, laughing but still shrieking, "You're going to ruin my hair!"
Sansa's hair was piled on to the top of her hair. It wasn't quite the hairstyles that Cersei and the rest of the ladies of the Red Keep wore, but Sansa thought it was a good approximation for a girl who had supposedly never seen the south. She just hoped she wasn't laying it on too thick.
There was a knock on the door, and Sansa got up to check. She and Arya hadn't been expecting anyone else, but it was probably Catelyn checking to see if they were ready for the feast. Instead, when she opened the door, she found Theon waiting on the other side, fidgeting nervously with his fingers.
"Theon," said Sansa. She glanced quickly both ways along the hall to see if there was anyone to see them, then tugged Theon inside before anyone could stumble into the hallway.
"Did Brienne get to you, too?" asked Arya, who had now splayed herself out on the bed, stomach-down. Sansa hoped that it wouldn't wrinkle her dress.
"Yes," said Theon. "The Kingslayer?"
"I know," sighed Sansa, sitting back on her bed next to Arya. "We know that he swore an oath to our mother that he would see us back to Winterfell safely, but…"
"Now we don't know what oaths count and which ones don't," said Arya. "A servant that once promised to see us safely back to our chambers, a seamstress that said she wouldn't prick us once while getting our new dresses fitted -"
"Probably not that last one," interrupted Sansa.
"Maybe that last one," said Arya. "We don't know! What did Bran count as an oath? And was it even Bran that decided?"
Theon's eyes had been going from one sister to another throughout the exchange. "You've been arguing this one out all afternoon, haven't you?"
"Perhaps," said Sansa haughtily. (They had.)
"At least we have Gendry," sighed Arya. "I'd take him over the Kingslayer any day."
"Don't let Robb hear you say that," said Sansa, and dodged Arya's half-hearted shove. She turned back to Theon. "We didn't even know, really, if we were right about the oaths, but at least it felt like we had an idea of what had happened. But now, even if we were right, we still can't predict if there will be anyone else. Between Ramsay and Jaime Lannister, I don't know if it can be predicted."
"At least Cersei didn't," said Arya. "I expect she would have had us all murdered by now if she had."
"Small mercies," said Sansa dryly.
Theon met Sansa's eyes. "I hope Littlefinger hasn't."
Sansa smiled at him, a small, sad smile. "Jaime Lannister didn't notice anything different about him. But we'll see, I suppose." She didn't want to talk about Littlefinger, not yet. The arrival of Robert Baratheon had stolen some of her freedoms already, stolen away her ability to be entirely herself and to love her home and her family as fiercely as she wanted. Littlefinger, though; he was still weeks away. She didn't want to worry about him just yet.
"We'll know as soon as we arrive in King's Landing," said Arya, sitting up on her knees. She clasped her hands together under her cheek and fluttered her eyes at Sansa. "Oh, Cat – I mean Sansa – I mean -"
Sansa snorted and said, "We need to get going. Lord Theon, will you do us the honour of accompanying my sister and me to the feast?"
"Anything for my betrothed," said Theon gallantly, offering her his arm. She slid hers through his and grinned up at him.
"Ugh," said Arya.
"You're going to have to get used to it eventually," said Sansa airily. "Think of it this way: at least it isn't Joffrey."
Theon blinked. "That's such a low standard to clear that I think I've actually been insulted."
As they made their way to the Great Hall, Sansa couldn't help but miss Lady. She and Nymeria were in the kennels, because dire wolves didn't fit well with the eager girls longing to go South that she and Arya were pretending to be. Shaggydog was in the kennels, too, but that was more because of the fact he was nearly impossible to control than because Rickon was participating in any deception.
It was probably for the best, though. Nymeria had tasted Joffrey's blood once. Lady didn't need to be getting any ideas from her wild littermate.
Catelyn was waiting for them outside the Great Hall. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sansa and Arya, dressed finely and with their hair all done. Theon had let go of her arm before they had come into view so that she could better pretend that she was entranced with Joffrey, and Arya had taken his place, letting them enter as a united force. Catelyn smiled at them.
"Where's Father?" asked Arya.
"He and the King are yet to arrive," said Catelyn. Her voice was slightly frosty; things between her and Ned had been tense ever since the truth of Jon's parentage came out. Sansa hoped that her parents would have it out before Ned went south. Sansa would do whatever it took to keep Ned alive, but she knew better than to believe that everything was going to be fine. Letting an argument fester when they left could very easily mean that the argument would never be resolved.
"Were your chambers alright, your grace?" asked Sansa politely. Cersei's jaw was set, her eyes searching the courtyard for any sign of Robert.
"Perfect, little dove," said Cersei, gracing Sansa with a smile.
"I told you," said Arya, her voice somewhere between a stage whisper and an actual whisper.
"Shut up, Arya," hissed Sansa. This, at least, was familiar ground.
"Girls," said Catelyn warningly. "I'm sorry, your grace. They're usually better than this."
"I have children of my own, Lady Stark," said Cersei. "I'm well aware of how they can be." Her eyes shifted to a spot beyond Sansa, her jaw growing hard. Sansa turned to look. Robert and Ned were both approaching across the courtyard. Robert looked tired, but there was a sharpness to him that Sansa could never remember seeing before. Ned nodded, ever so slightly. Arya grabbed Sansa's hand and squeezed it. Ned had done it – they had the Iron Throne on side.
Now, they just had to keep Robert around long enough for him to make good on any promises he had made.
"Time for the feast," said Robert, clapping his hands together. "Got any good wines, Ned? The gods know that I need a drink. Or several."
"We had Arbor Gold and Dornish reds shipped in, your grace," said Ned. "We've also got the finest ale of the North available."
"You're late," said Cersei.
"I'm the King," snapped Robert. "It's my feast. It's starts when I say it does." He held his arm out to Catelyn. "Shall we, my lady?"
The rest of the party assembled themselves. Joffrey offered Sansa his arm, and Sansa took it gingerly. The blood was rushing through her ears so loudly she could barely hear what was going on around her. He's still pretending, she reminded herself. He won't hurt me. Not yet. He wasn't like Ramsay, so confident that she was already broken that he didn't fear reprisal.
"You look beautiful tonight, Lady Sansa," said Joffrey.
Sansa looked down, the few tendrils that hadn't been drawn up on to the top of her had falling forwards to partly hide her face. "Thank you, your grace." Faster, as if she was nervous, she added, "You're very handsome, too."
They reached the High Table and Sansa was grateful to sink into her seat between Theon and Arya. Being escorted into the feast by the prince was an expected piece of royal courtesy, but sitting beside a man other than her betrothed throughout it would have been unseemly. It was the first time in this life she had been able to use social norms as a shield, but she knew that it wouldn't be the last.
"Everything alright?" asked Theon under his breath.
"Fine," said Sansa, giving him a tremulous smile.
"Tommen was nice," said Arya. "I forgot how sweet he and Myrcella are." Sansa suppressed a more genuine smile. She had always said that Arya could make friends with anybody, and if Sansa ever needed to prove it, this would be the first thing she would point to.
"They were always kind to me," said Sansa quietly. "They treated me more like I was being fostered than being held hostage."
Arya sat up straighter in her chair. "Could we do that? Have them fostered here, I mean."
Possibilities stretched out before Sansa in an instant. Having Tommen or Myrcella or both fostered in Winterfell would mean they had a ready-made hostage if it came to it. And when the time came to reveal Cersei, having the two younger children cloistered away in Winterfell would keep them sheltered from Robert's rage. They would have time to organise a new path for them, one that kept them away from Robert and away from the gallows.
"Later," murmured Sansa. It would take too long to organise now, not in this hall full of eager ears and poisonous people.
Her eyes drifted across to Tyrion Lannister, seated next to his brother. Tyrion noticed her looking but didn't acknowledge it, simply meeting her eyes for half a moment before her turned back to his conversation. Of all the people she would have guessed to have remembered, it would have been Tyrion. They had been wed once, after all. Perhaps it was the annulment, or Sansa making marriage oaths to someone else, that had seen him overlooked. It would have been more useful for him to have remembered than his brother – Tyrion knew the Dragon Queen in a way that no one else remembered did, and he knew the inner workings of the Lannister family intimately. So did Jaime, but Tyrion had proven in their last lives he could be convinced to work against his sister, and Sansa was uncertain that Jaime could be convinced to do the same.
Her eyes drifted further, to Brienne. She was seated with the rest of House Stark's trusted guard, alongside Jory and Ser Rodrik. At least they had her.
A maid leant down beside Sansa and said, "Excuse me, my lady, but her grace would like to speak with you." Sansa met Arya's eyes for only a heartbeat before she nodded to the maid, gathered her skirts and stood up.
"Good luck," whispered Arya.
Sansa didn't reply, focusing on getting herself back into character, sweet and doe-eyed. Catelyn was seated next to Cersei, so at least she wouldn't be alone. The two women were quiet as Sansa approached, exchanging only a few words despite the cacophony of noise around them.
Sansa bobbed into a curtsey when she approached. "Your grace," she said. "Mother."
"Little dove," said Cersei warmly. "Will you be dancing tonight? Surely you won't be cooped up all night."
"I will, your grace," said Sansa. "Lord Theon and Robb, my brother, will both probably ask me to dance."
"You must take a turn with Joffrey," said Cersei. "He seemed quite charmed with you earlier."
Sansa flushed. "If you wish, your grace."
"Sansa is an excellent dancer," said Catelyn fondly. "I'm afraid that her brothers couldn't quite keep up with her as children."
"She'll be spoilt for partners in the Red Keep," said Cersei. "I'm sure they'll be tripping over themselves to dance a turn with her. But Sansa, sweetling, whatever happened to your wrist?"
Sansa startled. She had laced her hands together in front of her, and hadn't realised that the bandage was peaking out from under the sleeve of her dress. Her wrist still hadn't healed completely from Ramsay breaking it, and while she was able to get through the day without much concern now, she still wouldn't be able to ride by the time that they left. "It was Ramsay Snow, your grace," said Sansa hesitantly. She didn't know how much had reached the royal family on the road north. "The Bolton bastard. He accompanied his father to Winterfell for the harvest festival, but he went quite mad and attacked me."
"I had heard of that," said Cersei, leaning forward in her seat. "A dreadful thing. I didn't realise you had been hurt." Her words were laced with disapproval and concern. Sansa wished she could roll her eyes. Cersei had never cared when Joffrey had had Sansa beaten.
"It's fine, your grace," said Sansa. "He's gone now." And Joffrey will be soon, she promised. "Maester Luwin promised that if I don't hurt it any more on the road south, it will be healed by the time we reach King's Landing."
"Excellent," said Cersei. She sat back in her chair and smiled up at Sansa. "That is all, little dove." Catelyn gave her an encouraging smile as Sansa turned and made her way back to Arya and Theon.
"What?" asked Arya as Sansa sat down.
"She wanted to know about Ramsay," said Sansa. She was certain of it. She smiled at Arya and Theon and said, "It's over now." She was saying that a lot tonight. It's fine now. He's gone. She's finished talking to me. I'm not with him anymore. She wondered how many more times she would have to say it before the dawn.
Most of the food had been cleared away, but few people had left the Hall yet. Arya kept an eye on Brienne and Jaime Lannister, but neither had slipped away to the Broken Tower yet, so she stayed put for the moment being.
Beside her, Sansa was watching the dancing couples longingly. "Oh, hurry up and dance a round," grumbled Arya. "Just pretend your arm's sore if you're worried about Joffrey."
"Are you sure?" asked Sansa.
"Yes," said Arya firmly. Theon took Sansa's hand and led her away, Sansa shooting Arya a grateful smile over her shoulder. Taking their place amongst the dancers, Theon bent and offered his hand to Sansa. Sansa took it, a genuine smile working its way on to her face.
Arya hated to admit it, but getting betrothed to Theon had been one of Sansa's better calls. She was anxious and withdrawn enough with Joffrey around: Arya couldn't imagine how much worse it would be for her if she wasn't already betrothed. And more than that, Theon and Sansa were good at drawing each other out of their shells, at reminding each other that they weren't alone. Arya hadn't ever particularly wanted to get married, but Sansa and Theon would work well together.
All that was because they already knew each other, though. Arya would likely be married off to someone who would help them in the war effort. She would do it if she had to – if that was what it would take to win the war and bring the dawn again – but she envied Sansa for the friendship she was able to have with Theon, well before they were married.
"She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me," sang the bard, his voice clear and deep. "I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass. But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass."
Arya knew what she wanted. If she was to fall in love, she didn't want to be the precious lady of the castle, locked away to sew silken dresses and pop out heirs. She would be like the maiden of the tree: no featherbed for me.
Despite what she had told Sansa, she knew what had brought Gendry back with them. She hadn't meant it – well, she had, but when she had said it, she had thought she would die before the night was out. "You're mine," she had told Gendry. "Till the end of this, you're mine."
"I'm yours," he had agreed. "As you're mine. Till the end."
That wasn't something she was going to tell Sansa about anytime soon. She wasn't going to tell anybody about it, at least not until she could get hold of Gendry herself. She had tried to ignore it for months until Jaime fucking Lannister had to tear down all her carefully maintained walls. Because the truth was that she had meant it.
And that fucking terrified Arya.
She had bundled everything that she was so close to her chest, hiding the sight of it from the waif and from every other Faceless Man. Even before that, she had kept everything that made her Arya of House Stark, daughter of Winterfell, to herself. The idea that she had been willing to give a part of herself to somebody else, even if that somebody was Gendry –
It just wasn't her, that was all. Not anymore.
"Are you jealous?"
Arya turned to look as Myrcella Baratheon took Sansa's seat. She watched Sansa and Theon dancing for a moment before she gave Arya a sheepish smile. "You were about to stare a hole into them," she explained.
"Jealous?" echoed Arya. "What – of Sansa marrying Theon? Oh, Gods no." She made a face, screwing up her nose and mouth at the thought. "Theon's the worst." That might have been going a little far, but Arya had her taste to defend.
Myrcella giggled and said, "Your sister seems very taken with him." She tilted her head to the side as she studied them. Theon dipped Sansa in time with the music, and Arya could see her grinning. "He is handsome," said Myrcella.
"I've seen better," said Arya before she could stop herself. She didn't want to turn this into a gossip session or something. She tried to remember everything she could about Myrcella Baratheon: she knew that Myrcella had been dead before Arya had even gotten back to Westeros, though she couldn't remember how or why for the life of her. Myrcella had been betrothed to a Martell boy, she remembered that much, and she had been good to Tommen – and to Sansa, apparently, even when Sansa was just a traitor's daughter.
"Are you enjoying the North?" asked Arya, before Myrcella had a chance to do anything more than send her a curious look.
"It's nice," said Myrcella. "It's very cold. I didn't believe Mother or the septas when they made such thick dresses for me to wear here, but now I'm not sure the dresses are warm enough."
Arya smiled wanly. "Just wait until winter comes."
Myrcella shuddered. "I dread to think." She hesitated and added, "I like Winterfell, though. It's very warm inside."
Arya leant towards Myrcella eagerly. Winterfell was a topic she could talk about for hours. "It's because the keep is built atop hot springs, which we have piped through the walls to warm the castle. It's the best castle in the North for weathering the winters. Even in the very depths of winter, the springs are still warm."
Myrcella blinked. "You haven't lived through a winter, have you?"
Arya sat back, bitterness on her tongue. "No," she said. "They tell us stories, though. Old Nan told us all the stories about the Long Night."
"Oh – with the White Walkers?" asked Myrcella tentatively. "We've heard those stories, too, sometimes, but usually Mother tells us of Lann the Clever and our septas told us about Durran Godsgrief and Elenei." Her voice softened on the last two names, the same way Sansa's used to when she mentioned Florian and Jonquil. "Northern stories are always so scary."
"They're true," said Arya. "They're scary because they're true."
Myrcella shrunk back, a worried crease to her forehead. Arya felt bad for scaring the girl, but she couldn't lie about it. "Is it true you have dire wolves?" asked Myrcella.
Arya nodded. "Mother said it wouldn't be proper to have them here tonight." Catelyn had said that, but she had said it more as if it was a bonus after they had already made the decision, in case Nymeria or Lady reacted to Joffrey the same way they had reacted to Ramsay.
"Dire wolves," whispered Myrcella. Arya remembered now – Myrcella had been scared of the dire wolves, last time round. She could see the anxiety in Myrcella now, a mixture of awe and terror.
"I can introduce you to Nymeria," offered Arya, before she could stop herself. "That's my dire wolf. And Sansa will let you meet Lady, of course, and Lady would never hurt a fly."
Myrcella looked like she doubted that very much, and she hesitated. She glanced at Robert, then to her mother. Myrcella bit her lip then nodded. "Do you promise it'll be safe?"
"I do," said Arya. "You won't have to worry about a thing."
Sansa and Theon returned to the table, the song winding down. Myrcella jumped to her feet. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean -"
"It's alright, Princess," said Sansa, smiling. "We didn't mean to interrupt you."
"Is your wrist hurting?" asked Arya. Sansa was cradling her arm against her stomach. It wasn't obvious – Sansa reached for her drink with her other hand, and to everyone else it wouldn't look out of place. But Arya knew her sister, and she was definitely moving gingerly.
"A little," said Sansa, still smiling. "I think Lord Theon and I were a little too optimistic today." Arya shot Theon a look, and he at least had the decency to look sheepish. "It's not his fault," said Sansa. "I wanted to dance, Arya."
"I best get back to my seat," said Myrcella, shifting out of the chair. "You should rest, Lady Sansa."
"Thank you, Princess," said Sansa. When Myrcella was gone, she leaned down and whispered, "Brienne and the Kingslayer are gone." Arya looked over, and it was true: Brienne and Jaime were no where to be seen. As Arya watched, Tyrion Lannister was melting from the hall, unnoticed by most.
Arya grinned. "I have the perfect way to get us out of here." Sansa recognised her tone and narrowed her eyes, opening her mouth to question Arya further, but it was too late: Arya had already loaded up her spoon and flung it at Sansa.
"Arya!" shrieked Sansa. Beside her, Theon had burst into a startled laugh. Just like Arya remembered, Robb was on her a second later, sweeping her up and carrying her from the hall. Sansa and Theon followed, Sansa complaining loudly until they were safely outside. Sansa huffed. "Was that really necessary?"
"Completely," said Arya, straight-faced.
Sansa rolled her eyes, turning and marching to the Broken Tower. "She's going to kill you for that," said Robb.
"I know," said Arya, finally smirking. She, Robb, and Theon followed.
Brienne, Jaime and Tyrion were already waiting in the empty Broken Tower. Jaime's gaze was caught on the window as they entered. "Remembering how you almost murdered my brother?" snapped Arya.
Jaime startled, turning to look at the new arrivals. "Arya," said Brienne softly.
Arya crossed the room and stared up at Jaime. "Do you know where I was, those years?" she asked. "Where I hid from your family?" Jaime glanced at Brienne out of the corner of his eye, do you know where she's going with this? written all over his face. "Bravos," continued Arya. "Not just anywhere in Bravos. The House of Black and White. If you ever fuck with my family again, I will put those skills to use. Do you understand me, Kingslayer?"
"Perfectly," said Jaime.
"Good," said Arya, and stepped back, her glare still firmly fixed on the Jaime.
"Now that that's dealt with," said Tyrion, "I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to?"
"Lord Tyrion," said Sansa. "It is good to meet you again. How much has Ser Jaime told you?"
"I'm told we were married," said Tyrion, inspecting Sansa. Arya grit her teeth. "Though I am sure that was well over by the time you and your brother declared an independent North."
"It never began," said Sansa. "It was never consummated."
Tyrion nodded, like he wasn't surprised. "I know that Robert died, the Seven Kingdoms fell to chaos, the Wall fell, and by the end of it all, Cersei was on the Iron Throne in the South, and the North and Daenerys Targaryen's forces were fending off dead men here in Winterfell." He smiled tightly. "Would you like me to go into more detail?"
"No," said Sansa. "Littlefinger has already had Jon Arryn killed, which is the first step to pushing the Seven Kingdoms to war -"
"You know it was Littlefinger?" interrupted Jaime. Robb, too, was staring at Sansa.
Sansa frowned. "Of course. I had him executed for it, at least in part, once already."
"You executed Littlefinger?" repeated Tyrion. He leaned forward slightly. "Are you sure we can't get married again?"
"No," said Sansa and Theon together. Sansa shot Theon a small, amused smile before continuing. "Stopping Littlefinger is the first priority in King's Landing." Arya knew that wasn't quite true: their first priority was stopping Cersei, and by extension, Joffrey. Sansa was choosing her targets carefully, though, well aware of her audience. "What have you done already?"
It was late by the time that Ned finally made it back to his chambers. Every flame he passed on his way, from candles in the halls to roaring fireplaces, were burning low. But it would have been rude to leave the feast before Robert, and Robert had always been one to feast deep into the night.
He froze in place when he saw Catelyn sitting on the bed. She had taken her hair out of her intricate braids and had redone her auburn locks into a long, simple braid that was sitting over her shoulder. She hadn't shared his bed since the truth had come out about Jon, and his heart ached at the sight of her.
He missed her.
"Has the King taken to his bed at last?" she asked.
It took Ned a moment longer than it should have for him to nod. "Aye," said Ned. "Cersei and her children went a while ago." Their own children was a harder question: Bran and Rickon surely were, but he hadn't seen any sign of Sansa, Arya or Robb in hours.
"Has he asked you already?" said Catelyn.
"Yes," said Ned. "I agreed. We'll be riding south in a matter of days."
Catelyn's lips thinned, and she looked away. "You should have told me about Jon."
"I didn't know you at first," said Ned. "I didn't know if I could trust you. And when I did – I wanted you as safe as possible, if it ever comes out." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. He had lied to her for years, and betrayed her trust badly. If there was to be any hope of fixing this, he had to be honest with her now, even if it meant admitting his own weaknesses. "And… the longer it went on, the harder it was to tell you, to admit that I hadn't trusted you to start with."
"So you just continued to lie?" snapped Catelyn, her voice coming out brittle. "How was that meant to fix anything?"
"It didn't," said Ned. "I'm sorry, Cat."
Catelyn stood up and walked to the fireplace. She had her back to him, so that he couldn't see her face. "Do you know what the stupidest thing is?" she asked. "There's a part of me that's relieved, because if Jon isn't your son and you lied to me, at least you never…" She trailed off, shaking her head. Her hair shone like copper where the fire lit it.
"It was only ever you, Cat," said Ned. He had once shared a dance with Ashara Dayne, but despite the rumours that had swirled about Jon's mother, that was all it had ever been. It had been Brandon who had taken Ashara to bed. For Ned, the only woman who filled his dreams had auburn hair and blue eyes and the voice of his wife.
Catelyn shook her head. Her hair slid from her shoulder and fell down her back, over her shift. "You're riding off in a few days," she said, like he hadn't spoken. "And no matter what the girls do, you might never come back." She turned to face him, and the tear tracks on her cheeks glistened in the firelight. "We should had more time, Ned," she said. "Time for all of this."
He hesitated before he stepped forward, fearing she would back away from him. But she let him take her hand, looking down at their joined fingers instead of into his eyes. "If the gods – old or new – are good, then we'll see each other again," he promised. "You'll see."
Catelyn closed her eyes, shaking her head. "Come to bed, Ned," she said. In that moment, she looked tired, a deep exhaustion that sank all the way down to her bones. She let go of his hand and crawled into the bed, settling under the thick covers.
After he was finished undressing himself, he crawled in beside her. "Do you mind?" he asked quietly. She stared at him for a long moment before nodding jerkily. Gently as he would have treated any of the children's dire wolves, he tucked her in against his side. With her beside him, he slept better than he had in weeks.
She was already gone by the time that he woke up. He pulled himself upright and sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the door she had disappeared through. Gods, he wanted to fix this, but there wasn't any time. He had to believe that he would be able to come back to her, but even so, he didn't want to ride for the Red Keep with so much hanging between them.
There wasn't any time to brood, though. Sansa caught him on the way to Great Hall for breakfast. She fell into step beside him and smiled up at him, looking more like the thirteen year old she was meant to be than the woman she was.
"Bran and Prince Tommen are meant to be sparring today," said Sansa. "Did you and the King spar together in the Eyrie?"
Ned nodded. "Most of my training happened under Ser Rodrik, but yes, the King and I used to spar," said Ned. "Are Robb and Prince Joffrey to spar, as well?"
Sansa shrugged. "I don't know," she said. She wrinkled her nose. "Best keep Theon away from Joffrey. He'd be ever so jealous."
That comment was confirmation of what Ned had suspected from the moment Sansa had approached him: there was a risk of someone overhearing. She wasn't talking to him openly because of it. It was still easy enough to guess what she was telling him: that Tommen and Bran should have a relationship like he and Robert had once had – that Tommen should be fostered in Winterfell.
It would be a good move. Hopefully, it would make Robert less eager to marry one of his sons to one of Ned's daughters. It protected Tommen from Robert's wrath when the truth came out about his parentage. And – the pragmatic part of Ned had to admit it – it gave House Stark a hostage if it came to it.
He broke his fast with Sansa, Robb, and Arya in his solar. Arya was in a dress again. Even after spending so much time trying to convince Arya to wear a dress over the years, it felt strange to see it. She had been wearing breeches ever since she and Sansa had been returned, and seeing her hair with her hair all done and in a dress was – he wasn't sure. She reminded him more vividly of Lyanna than ever.
"The Kingslayer has returned," said Robb bluntly.
Sansa nibbled delicately on a leftover lemon cake. "He doesn't want the world ended any more than the rest of us, and he's told Tyrion, who can help me in King's Landing."
The Imp. Ned didn't know much about Tyrion Lannister – not as much as he did the other Lannister siblings, anyway – but he had rarely heard of anything good. "You trust them?" he asked.
Sansa frowned. "Trust might be going a little far. But we have the same goals, and Tyrion has little love for his sister."
"And Ser Jaime?" asked Ned, noticing the omission.
Sansa pursed her lips. "He knows that she won't do what it takes, but we should still tread carefully around him."
"Brienne trusts him," said Arya reluctantly. "She thinks he'll do the right thing."
"You said that he was the one that pushed Bran," said Ned, his voice carefully even.
Arya bit her lip. "It was during the hunt after Robert arrived here in Winterfell." Ned nodded – they were to hunt later in the day.
"Theon's going to follow Bran around all day," added Sansa. "And we've already told Bran about a thousand times that he can't climb while the royal family is here. He won't risk it."
"The Kingslayer is attending the hunt, anyway," said Ned. "I suppose he didn't, in your time?"
"Probably wanted the time alone to sneak away and fuck his sister," said Arya, her voice tight and cynical.
They finished their meal and separated for the day. Walking to join the rest of the hunting party, Ned's eyes were drawn to the sept. He knew Catelyn would be in there, likely praying to the Mother. He wanted to go to her, to find a way to make things right…
But there was a larger world out there than just him and Cat, and if that world was to have any hope, Ned needed Robert on side. He kept walking.
"Ned!" roared Robert as Ned came into view of the hunting party. "Where have you been, old man?"
"We're the same age, your grace," Ned pointed out as he took the reigns of his horse from a stable hand and mounted. The dire wolves surrounded him, prancing from foot to foot. The horses weren't pleased, but the wolves deserved the run.
Robert narrowed his eyes. "Are you calling me old?"
"I'm calling us wise," said Ned. Robert barked out a laugh.
As they rode out through the gates into the wolfswood, Jaime Lannister urged his horse forward to ride beside Ned. "I hear that we're to be neighbours," said the Kingslayer.
"Indeed," said Ned. "The King has honoured me with his offer."
Ned didn't like the look of Jaime's smile. He didn't understand how Brienne trusted him; Brienne was good, and decent, and everything that a true knight and a sworn shield should be. Jaime Lannister was… not.
"It's probably for the best your oldest daughter is already betrothed," said Jaime thoughtfully. "The Gods only know how the young men at the Red Keep would have reacted to such a beauty among them." Ned jerked his eyes up to meet Jaime's. "My brother has been eager to see Winterfell's libraries," continued Jaime, even as Ned debated if Jaime had meant a warning or a commendation. "I've no doubt he would love to question your Maester about the North and all its history. I don't suppose such a thing could be arranged?"
"Maester Luwin has been incredibly busy, of late," said Ned. "But perhaps Lord Tyrion could meet with Theon Greyjoy. He and Sansa have been a great help to Maester Luwin."
"I'll let him know," said Jaime. He paused. "I'm sorry about Jon Arryn, by the way. I know it was a great loss for you."
Ned had many questions for Jaime Lannister. What had he done to earn the trust of a woman like Brienne of Tarth? Why had he risked so much to bed his own sister, but abandoned her to fight for the living? Had he been taunting Ned when he mentioned Jon Arryn, or had he tried to warn Jon in King's Landing? Why was he avoiding Bran now?
A million questions, but none of them could be asked now, surrounded by riders with too many ears.
"Why didn't you mention Littlefinger?" asked Robb.
"I'm sorry?" said Sansa.
"Last night, you told the Lannisters that your primary focus in King's Landing was Littlefinger," said Robb. "You said that he killed Jon Arryn, even though you've never said that before. Why are you still hiding things?"
Arya crossed her arms and looked pointedly at Sansa. I'm not defending you. The words were written all over her face.
They had stayed in Ned's solar after he had left for the hunting party. Robb had moved to sit behind Ned's desk to give Sansa and Arya more room. He wouldn't have had many opportunities to sit there, last time, before he had marched south. Sansa had probably sat there more than he had.
"Because I don't know what Mother will do," said Sansa. "Petyr was her friend. He fostered with her at Riverrun."
Littlefinger always had an answer for everything, a plan for every eventuality. He had Lysa Arryn wrapped around his finger. Catelyn only saw him as a younger brother, harmless. She didn't know how Sansa still had nightmares about him pressing his lips to hers, or how he had dug his claws into her and made himself her only escape. They didn't know how he had tried to take her apart and rebuild her in his own image.
Not even Arya knew that. Not even Theon. No one did.
Petyr was hers to deal with. No one else's. Everyone else had fallen to him, at some point: he had turned Arya against her, once, and he had led Ned to his doom. Sansa had fallen for his tricks, when she knew him better than anybody. She couldn't trust anyone else with him, not truly.
"They'll believe you," persisted Robb.
"Sansa thinks she knows better," said Arya, with a roll of her eyes.
No one knew. No one knew that she dreaded Petyr more than she dreaded Joffrey, as much as she had dreaded Ramsay. No one knew how close Petyr had come to turning her into something other than she was, into a monster like him.
"We all need to know," said Robb. "Father especially, since he's going to King's Landing with you. You can't keep secrets from us."
She didn't want to keep secrets from them. Didn't they get it? She just couldn't tell them. She couldn't make them understand.
"We need to do this all together," continued Robb.
"Sansa?" said Arya, tilting her head. She got up from her seat and kneeled down in front of Sansa. "You're crying."
Sansa lifted her hand and touched her cheek. There were wet tear tracks on them, and she wiped at them furiously. Her movements felt jerky and sudden, and even those simple acts felt nearly impossible. "I can't," she whispered.
Arya leant forward, cupping Sansa's face with her hands. "Yes, you can, Sansa."
"You don't understand," said Sansa. "None of you do. I can't talk about him. Mother and Father can't know what happened in the Vale."
Arya's eyes were wide. Robb hovered over her shoulder. "They don't need to know," promised Robb. "But they need to know that he's dangerous, Sansa."
Arya dropped her hands to take Sansa's. "You don't have to tell anyone, not if you don't want to," she said. "If you tell me or Robb, we won't say anything, ever, but if you don't want to, then you don't have to. But you do need to warn Father, alright? He doesn't need to know everything. Just enough."
"I can't tell you," said Sansa. "You wouldn't -"
"Would Theon?" asked Robb.
Sansa hesitated. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. Yes, he would."
"Then tell him," said Arya. "I think you need to. But will you warn Father?"
Sansa swallowed past the lump her throat and whispered, "Okay."
AN: Ah, the irony that between Littlefinger and the Faceless Men, Arya and Sansa are in a better place than anyone to understand what the other went through - except that realising that would mean opening up to each other enough to see the commonalities. Ah, well. They'll get there.