Being stuck in the house all day, every day, has left me with not much to do other than write. You're all probably going to be terribly spoilt by the time this is all over.
The problem with trying to talk to Theon or to Ned was that it wasn't easy to get them alone, not with a castle full of over-eager ears. Ned spent almost the entire day on the hunt, and the time he had back in Winterfell was taken up by Robert. Theon spent the morning shadowing Bran, just in case.
Sansa herself had demands on her time, too. After Robb left them, Sansa and Arya had to join Septa Mordane. Although Arya's sewing abilities had improved by leaps and bounds over the past few months – Catelyn had been a far more patient instructor than Septa Mordane, and Arya actually had a drive to learn now, her stubbornness outweighing her hatred for needles – the Septa was still begrudging about any praise that she had to give out to Arya.
"I was ill," Arya explained to Myrcella. "I missed so many lessons because of it. But Mother has been teaching me. I'm still not as good as Sansa, though."
"It's a shame I can't see any of your work, Lady Sansa," said Myrcella. "Is your wrist getting any better?"
"Slowly," said Sansa. Unable to sew herself, she had settled for playing the harp and giving advice while the others worked. "It doesn't hurt so much anymore, but Maester Luwin tells me I must still be careful with it."
"He was a terrible brute," said Jeyne, eagerly. "Ramsay Snow, I mean. It was such a relief when Lord Stark executed him. I can't understand why anyone would hurt Sansa."
Sansa smiled at her friend. She hadn't spent much time with Jeyne since returning. She had missed Jeyne, over the years, and truth was that she still did, even with Jeyne sitting right next to her. There was a gulf of experience that gaped between her and Jeyne. Jeyne was childish, resenting Arya for Sansa's new affection for her sister, wanting to gossip about the prince and Theon and a million other things.
Sansa didn't resent her for it. Jeyne was a child. But Sansa wasn't, not anymore. She wished that she had been able to keep her Jeyne, that Jeyne had grown up beside her and that they could share their secrets and their fears the way that they had done when they were children. But Sansa could never confide in this Jeyne. Sansa's world had shrunk to her family and to Theon and Brienne: the only people she could trust with the truth.
And she didn't even trust them with everything.
After finishing with Septa Mordane, she and Arya met Theon, Bran and Rickon in the library tower. Bran and Rickon had their lessons with Maester Luwin, and Arya and Theon were working on transcribing the parchments they had found in the crypts. The parchments were too fragile to handle much use, so they were working to complete at least two transcriptions of each piece: one for the libraries of Winterfell, and one for Maester Aemon in Castle Black. Sansa was still forbidden to write, so she read the parchments aloud for Theon and Arya to write down.
Afterwards came dinner, then before Sansa knew it, the halls were quieting and she found herself creeping from her chambers, single candle in her hands to light her way. Her footsteps were quiet against the stone floors, and she checked around each corner before she made her way down the corridors. There were already stories floating around her, of her opening her legs to Ramsay Snow, that she had only been betrothed to Theon because he was the only one who would take her. If anyone saw her sneaking through the halls in the middle of the night, they would only take it as confirmation.
Never mind that she actually was sneaking to Theon's chambers.
He opened the door for her, his mouth still stretched open in a yawn. He froze when he saw her. "Sansa?"
"Let me in," she hissed, and he moved aside, letting her slip in to his rooms.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I need to talk to you," said Sansa. "I promised Arya that I would talk to someone, and she and I and Robb agreed it would be best if it was you."
The fire was crackling away, and he drew her to sit in front of it. She tucked her knees against herself, drawing her loose braid across her shoulder. He sat down next to her, and she leant against him slightly.
"They want me to warn Father about Littlefinger," said Sansa, staring into the flames. "They want me to tell him what Littlefinger is. But I don't know how."
"Tell me," said Theon, his voice soft.
"He was the one that started everything, you know," said Sansa. "He had Jon Arryn murdered, both times. He betrayed Father. He has the whole economy of the Seven Kingdoms balancing on a knife's edge, and no one realises -" She broke off. Her voice deadly quiet, she whispered, "He wants me."
Theon took her hand, squeezing. "What do you mean?"
"He loved – or says he loves – Mother, but he wants me, because he wants to shape me into someone just like him, someone who will only help him and relies on him and needs him," said Sansa. "He took me from King's Landing, after Joffrey was killed, because then I couldn't risk leaving him, and he made me complicit in Lysa's murder, so I couldn't even trust the other Vale lords."
"He was the one who sold you to Ramsay," remembered Theon.
Sansa nodded. "He said that I would either be rescued by Stannis, or I would be Lady of Winterfell either way, so between the North and the Vale and with me as the heir to the Riverlands, he had half the continent under his control, or nearly, anyway," explained Sansa. "He didn't account for how brutal Ramsay could be."
Everything that Ramsay had ever done to her, every damn thing, was partly Littlefinger's fault. Sansa couldn't even be certain that it was a miscalculation. It probably was, because Ramsay very easily could have killed her, one day – but how could Sansa know that Littlefinger wasn't always planning on bringing the Knights of the Vale to her aid, to rescue her and further indebt her to him?
If that was the plan, he hadn't accounted for Jon, or Brienne, or even Theon. While his actions in the Battle of the Bastards had indebted her to him, he hadn't been her saviour. That honour belonged to her brother, her sworn shield, and most of all, Theon.
"He brought the Knights of the Vale to us," said Sansa. "It's the only reason we won the Battle of the Bastards. He stayed in Winterfell to advise me, but really, he just spent his days playing on each and every single one of my insecurities." She dropped her eyes to the floor. They all seemed so stupid, now that she was here, with Theon's hand in her and Littlefinger halfway across the continent. "That I would never be recognised for my efforts. That the North would always see me as Lady Lannister or Lady Bolton. That none of my brothers and sisters would ever put me first." She closed her eyes. "That Arya hated me, that she had never forgiven me for what happened in King's Landing, that she would hurt me for it." The last words came out only in a whisper. "I believed him, Theon."
"She would never have hurt you," said Theon.
Sansa shook her head. "He didn't just work on me. He spent those months after Arya came home working to convince her that what happened in King's Landing wasn't just a little girl, dazzled by dreams and songs, but was an active plot by me," she said. She hesitated. She couldn't tell him about the faces. That was her and Arya's secret, and theirs alone. Arya had yet to breathe a word about the Faceless Men, not really. She used it to threaten, when she had to, but no one but her knew what the Faceless Men were capable of, and what they did – or where the faces came from.
"I don't if she would have hurt me," said Sansa, at last. "But I think she might have wanted to, for a while there. Then Littlefinger slipped up." She gave a bitter half-smile. "He said Arya probably wanted to become Lady of Winterfell."
Theon huffed out a laugh. "The greatest schemer of Westeros, undone by Arya Underfoot."
"The thing about it all, though," said Sansa, "the reason I can't talk about him – it's because I almost did it, Theon."
He shifted so that he could look her in the face. She missed his warm shoulder against hers, but his eyes were concerned as he looked at her. "Did what?"
"He wanted me to usurp Jon," said Sansa. "He was trying to make me get rid of Arya. And Gods, Theon, I considered it. I thought it was the only way I could be safe." She buried her face in her hands. "And that's how it started with him, too. Uncle Brandon hurt him in a duel, and he spent the rest of his life building himself up so he was untouchable, fighting his way to get to the Iron Throne, so he was the one who ordered other people's death. I was so close to becoming him, Theon."
I almost hurt Arya. I almost hurt Jon. If I had taken that step, would I have ever stopped?
Theon gently pried her fingers from her face, wrapping them in his hands. "Sansa, listen to me," said Theon, slowly, carefully. "You could never have become Littlefinger."
"I could have, Theon!"
"No," said Theon. "Because when you came to Winterfell, you could have hurt me. You could have had Ramsay hurt me – he probably would have treated you better, even, if he thought you were anything like him." He leaned a little closer. "You didn't. You yelled and you cried but you never had him hurt me."
"Gods, Theon, that's just not being a complete monster," said Sansa.
"Would Littlefinger have done it?" asked Theon.
Sansa opened her mouth, but no sound came out. If Petyr had thought that it would keep the heat off of him, if he had thought that it might ingratiate himself with Ramsay – then yes, he would have.
But Theon was right. She had thought about hurting him for what she had thought he had done to Bran and Rickon. She had said that she would have done the same to him as Ramsay had done. But she had had the perfect opportunity to inflict harm, and she had never done it.
Theon leant all the way forwards, resting his forehead against hers. "You aren't Littlefinger, Sansa."
"And you're not Reek," breathed Sansa.
"When I went to Pyke again, I felt that I was too Stark to be a Greyjoy, but too Greyjoy to be a Stark," said Theon. "I threw myself into being a Greyjoy entirely. After everything – after Ramsay and after Euron – I returned to Dragonstone, and you know, I think Jon would have killed me, if it weren't for you. He told me that I was a Stark and a Greyjoy." His blue eyes gazed into hers. "You're a sum of every person you've known, Sansa. You have a little of Littlefinger, and a little of Cersei Lannister – but most of all, you're Ned and Catelyn's daughter, you're the sister of Arya and Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon." He hesitated, so Sansa finished it for him.
"I'm your betrothed," she said, and kissed him. She dug her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer to her. His lips were chapped, but still soft under hers. Kissing Theon was still a marvel to Sansa; he was gentle and sweet and never took more than she gave. His hand rested on the small of her back, warm against her shift, and she pressed a little closer, wanting his warmth, wanting him. His other hand went to her waist, and –
And she couldn't risk it. She was riding for King's Landing soon, and regardless of what her heart felt, her body was still too young. With reluctance, she pulled away. Her eyes still closed, she rested her forehead against his, breathing heavily. "Can I stay?" she asked. "Tonight? Not to do anything, just." To be with you, before I can't anymore.
"You're going to come back," reminded Theon.
Sansa swallowed hard. "I know," she whispered.
"You are," said Theon.
She opened her eyes. "Too Greyjoy to be a Stark, too Stark to be a Greyjoy," mused Sansa. "When we get married, what if we have our own keep, on the sea – or on a river at least – so that we can trade?"
"On the west coast," said Theon. "Between Pyke and Winterfell."
"We can trade Dornish silks and Arbor golds for the wood of the North," said Sansa. "We'll get so rich from it that all our children will be as plump as Tommen." Theon laughed, throwing his head back.
It was a good dream. But the north winds were still blowing, and they both knew who came with the storm.
Jon had been able to see the Wall from leagues away, standing blue and white against the steely grey clouds that had been rolling over them for days. Castle Black had taken a little longer to spot, but its dark walls contrasted the Wall as well as the Wall did the sky.
He tried to imagine what it would have been like, for the other him, riding through the castle gates for the first time. Away from his brothers and sisters, not knowing the truth, pledging his life to a brotherhood that would have seen him dead.
The castle was busy when they arrived, but there were two men waiting to greet them. The elder man was dressed in Maester robes, his barely-there hair bleached white with age, while the other was a chubby boy of the same age as Jon, dressed in the black of the Night's Watch. Jeor Mormont dismounted his horse before them.
"You received the raven?" asked Mormont.
"Indeed," said the Maester. "Dark words, Commander. Dark words indeed."
Jon dismounted his own horse, coming to stand by Benjen. The boy in black stared at Ghost nervously, shifting his weight away from the dire wolf. "This is Ghost," said Jon. "He won't hurt anyone unless I command it."
"A dire wolf?" asked the boy.
Jon nodded. "A symbol of House Stark. One for me, and one for each of my trueborn siblings." He smiled. "I'm Jon Snow."
"Samwell Tarly, of Horn Hill – or, well, I was of Horn Hill," said the boy. Jon blinked. The name was familiar. It had to have been Sansa or Arya who mentioned it, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember if it had been words of warning or of honor. "I've been helping Maester Aemon since the letters came in from Winterfell." He hesitated, then asked, "Is it – is it true?"
Jon nodded. "I'm afraid it is."
Dacey Mormont stepped up beside him. "Do they still tell stories of the Others in the south?"
"Oh, yes," said Sam, nodding. "It's just that – well, we all thought that they were just stories."
"We all wish that were true," said Jon.
"Come," said Benjen. He and Mormont had finished speaking with Maester Aemon, and he grasped Jon's shoulder. "It's time to tell the men."
Sam accompanied Jon into the halls, telling him about the scrolls he had been reading and the things he had been researching. As they passed a group of men, one of them jeered, "Sir Piggy!" Sam flinched, and Ghost growled, low in his throat.
"Who was that?" asked Jon.
"Ser Alliser," said Sam. "He's the Master of Arms here. He – he wasn't pleased that I began helping Maester Aemon instead." The understatement was obvious, and Jon glanced over his shoulder. So that was Aliser Thorne, the man Sansa had warned him about by name: a master of arms who spent his time bullying recruits and masterminding assassinations.
Jon and the heirs were seated at the High Table or in the few tables closest. As the crowd before them quieted, Mormont got to his feet. "I've no doubt that you've all heard the rumours," said Mormont. "The Wildlings are no longer the greatest threat beyond the Wall. The White Walkers are on the march again, for the first time in thousands of years."
The room erupted into a roar. Mormont slammed his mug against the table repeatedly. "Quiet!" he roared. "I will have quiet! These are strange times. We have the sworn support of the Starks of Winterfell and of the North." He swept his arm out to encompass the heirs. "We will be riding out soon enough."
"To do what?" called a voice.
"To treat with Mance Rayder," said Mormont, unapologetically. He stared defiantly out at the room as it erupted once more, louder and more violently than it had before.
"We have fought the Wildlings for thousands of years!" protested Thorne, rising to his feet.
"We have fought beside them before," said Jon, his voice cutting over the uproar. Thorne narrowed his eyes at him, and Jon glared back. You'd have killed me, even if I was your brother, he thought. I will not cower. Mormont stepped back, gesturing for Jon to rise. Jon got to his feet. "I am Jon Snow of Winterfell," he said to the room at large. "I speak on behalf of House Stark. The Wildlings have fought alongside the Night's Watch and House Stark before. The Night's King -"
"Was a fairy tale," sneered Thorne.
"So were the Wildlings, a year ago," said Jon calmly. "Joramun, the King Beyond the Wall, allied with Brandon the Breaker to free the Night's Watch. The songs say all men stood against the White Walkers." He stared out around the room, his tone turning pointed. "I know your vows. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. The Wildlings are men, same as you and me. The Night's Watch and the Wildlings have fought for thousands of years, yes – but so did House Stark and House Bolton, who now live in peace. Blackwood and Bracken. Velaryon and Hightower. There is far more at stake here than there ever was for any of those Houses."
The heirs to the North had enough sense to not point out how Roose Bolton had stormed from Winterfell after the death of his bastard. That was something, at least.
"Jon Snow is right," said Mormont. "The Wildlings will be dispersed across the North, and – if the King is willing – across the Seven Kingdoms. It will leave the Night's Watch able to focus on the true threat."
"The Wildlings are a threat!" cried someone in the back.
"Will it matter," snapped Mormont, "when dead things hunt in the night and the snow falls heavy enough to choke, that Wildlings are south of the Wall? Will it matter when your eyes turn blue and your hands turn against your brothers? Will it matter when the Others themselves reach the Wall, with giants and monsters beyond remembrance reanimated in their army?"
The room fell silent, with the brothers of the Night's Watch staring at Mormont with wide eyes.
"I have spent much of my life fighting the Wildlings at every turn," said Mormont. "I thought that it would be my task to put down another King beyond the Wall. And I say, right now, that it is over. The Wildlings are human, and can be dealt with like any other man. We have bigger threats to think of. If we leave the Wildlings north of the Wall, then the Others will swell their army by the hundreds of thousands, and we will have failed in our duty to protect the realms of men, because it would be difficult enough, holding off an army of that size when they were living, let alone when they are dead men who do not feel pain and can only be put to rest through fire.
"We ride in two days' time to treat with Mance Rayder," finished Mormont. "Anyone who has a problem with it with have me to answer to."
It had been a long-held ambition of Tyrion's to see all the nine wonders of the world. It was an impossible one, he had always known: reaching the Five Forts of Yi Ti was difficult for any Westerosi, even the son of the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms. Most of the other Essosi sites would be just as difficult. Still, he had always thought he would have a chance to see the Wall.
Jaime had already forbidden Tyrion from visiting it. Tyrion had pointed out that it the assault on the Wall was still years off, but Jaime hadn't softened. Tyrion would likely have ignored him and gone on anyway, but Sansa had mentioned that the Night's Watch was riding out to treat with the Wildlings. The Night's Watch had enough on their plate without having Tyrion in their hair.
Cersei made a face at him as he sat down at breakfast. "Isn't there a brothel you're meant to be ransacking?"
"I'd hardly call it ransacking," said Tyrion, helping himself to some bread. "But no, dearest sister. I'm spending the day in the Library Tower." Joffrey snorted in disgust, and Tyrion briefly raised his eyebrows at his nephew, before he turned to Tommen and started pulling faces until Tommen was giggling.
"Tommen will be remaining here when we depart," said Cersei, her voice icy. "His grace wants Tommen to foster with the Stark boys, like he did with Eddard Stark." Her voice sneered the name.
"Brandon and Rickon will likely be taking lessons with the Maester in the library," said Tyrion. "Would you like to come and get to know your foster brothers, Tommen?"
Before Tommen could respond, Cersei said, "He'll be spending what little time he has left with his true brother and sister." Neither Tommen nor Joffrey looked pleased at that.
"We have practice, anyway," said Tommen, quietly. "I'll see Bran and Rickon there."
"I'll take you out to the training yards," offered Tyrion. "It's on the way, anyway."
Joffrey was not pleased to have his dwarf uncle following them to the training yards, but Tommen was, chattering to Tyrion along the way about what his life would be like in Winterfell. The boy was disappointed to leave Myrcella – and Joffrey, he always hastened to add – but he liked Bran and Rickon well enough, and Robert had been full of stories about fostering in the Vale. It was probably the most attention Robert had ever paid Tommen, regaling stories of his youth.
Sansa and Arya Stark were seated in the stands by the training yard, watching their brothers warm up. Brienne of Tarth was seated just behind them, watching the boys with a critical eye. Tyrion decided that the library could wait another minute and climbed up to sit beside them.
"Lord Tyrion," said Sansa politely, inclining her head in greeting. Arya eyed him warily.
"Don't mind me," said Tyrion, waving them off. "I'm just here to make sure my nephew's training will be up to scratch when we leave him here."
"Ser Rodrik is one of the best," promised Sansa. She nodded at Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, who were just beginning to spar. The two hardly looked like fearsome warriors: Robb was laughing at something Theon had said, and Theon was so pleased with himself that he missed Robb's thrust and was hit on his upper-left arm. Sheepishly, Sansa added, "Theon's more of an archer."
"More of an idiot, more like," muttered Arya, smirking as Sansa elbowed her.
"Robert wanted you married to Joffrey, not to the heir of a rebellious pirate," said Tyrion, watching Theon. "I don't suppose you know anything about that."
"Of course I didn't," said Sansa, the picture of innocence. "What reason could I possibly have for not wanting to marry the heir to the Seven Kingdoms?"
Tyrion's eyes shifted to Joffrey, who was complaining loudly to the Hound about Ser Rodrik not allowing him to use live steel. "I haven't the faintest idea, Lady Sansa." Sansa and Arya both had matching, barely-suppressed smirks on their faces. "Don't get too excited," said Tyrion. "He's thinking of marrying you off to Tommen, Lady Arya."
Arya rolled her eyes. "Father won't allow any betrothal for me for another few years yet."
"Your parents have been tardy in betrothing you all," mused Tyrion. "I believe Robb is still unattached, is he not?" At Sansa's nod, he added, "I'm sure you have plans for that. A daughter of one of the Great Houses, I should imagine, to lend you swords when the Night King comes."
"The North wouldn't wish to see Robb married to a southern woman, not when he keeps the new gods as much as he does the old ones, and when Father married a Tully," said Sansa. "Besides, who would we betroth him to? Shireen Baratheon is too young. The Tyrells would hardly marry Margaery to the North when the Stormlands, the Riverlands, Dorne and Westeros itself are all still up for grabs." She considered for a moment. "Well, perhaps they would prefer the North to Dorne."
"There's Myrcella," pointed out Tyrion. He didn't particularly want Myrcella shipped off to spend her life in the North, on the frontlines of the war against the Others, but it was a reasonable match for the Starks to make, particularly when Robert was pushing so hard to join their Houses.
"Myrcella is too young for Robb," said Arya.
"And everything I said about the North still stands," said Sansa. "Even if they were of an age, we can't risk upsetting the Northern lords too greatly, not with what's coming."
They were all very reasonable excuses, but Tyrion still couldn't help but suspect they were exactly that: excuses. The Starks just had no wish to marry one of their children to a bastard of incest. He had no doubt, from what Jaime had told him, that the Starks knew exactly what Cersei and Jaime had been up to over the years.
Sansa had spoken well, the other night. She had made it clear that Littlefinger was her top priority. But that didn't mean Littlefinger was her only priority.
Sansa was watching him. "You might want to look into marrying Myrcella to Dorne," said Sansa. "Daenerys Stormborn will come eventually, and the Baratheons will need to do whatever they can to appease the Martells before they have a chance to raise their banners for her."
Myrcella in Dorne, and Tommen in the North – because Tyrion no longer had any doubt where that suggestion had originated – the Starks were being very careful in removing Myrcella and Tommen from King's Landing. If they were looking to unroot Cersei, then they were looking to minimise collateral damage.
"What are your thoughts, Lady Brienne?" asked Tyrion, turning to look at the woman in question. She blinked, startled at the question. "You are the heir to a southern House. You must have some thoughts on the matter."
After a moment's hesitation, Brienne said, "I agree with Lady Sansa. Trystane Martell is closest in age to Myrcella of any of the heirs to the Great Houses, and it would go a long way in smoothing tensions between the Iron Throne and Sunspear." Sansa tilted her head, smiling at her sworn sword.
"My brother has had much to say about you," said Tyrion. "All good, you needn't worry," he added, as Brienne's face creased into a frown. "He says you saved him quite a few times."
"Ser Jaime also saved me more than once," said Brienne, her voice just a tad tighter than it had been before.
"I'm glad," said Tyrion. "It sounds to me as if you have done much to appeal to my brother's better natures."
"He's an honourable man," said Brienne, softly.
"You would be one of the first to see it," said Tyrion, not missing the way Arya's lips thinned, doubt showing in her eyes.
"Oh, good work, Bran!" exclaimed Sansa, startling them all. Bran had been working on his archery, and had hit the centre of the target at long last. Arya let out an encouraging whoop. Bran turned to his sisters and gave them a deep, flourishing bow, earning laughter from his siblings.
"You can't be a showman in the battlefield," teased Theon.
"Oh, like you've never flirted with Sansa in the middle of practice," said Robb, ruffling Bran's hair. "Excellent shot, Bran."
Tyrion stood. "I'm afraid I still have to get to the library," he said. "Thank you for accommodating me, Ladies Stark, Lady Brienne."
"It was good speaking with you, Lord Tyrion," said Sansa. She was far cleverer than she would have one believe, mused Tyrion – far cleverer than she had seemed, gazing at Joffrey with empty adoration and tripping over herself to welcome Cersei to Winterfell. She clearly had a thorough knowledge of Westerosi politics and had already manoeuvred herself to be removed from Joffrey's grasp.
Arya, though. Arya was something different. He had no doubt that Arya was clever like her sister – the girls seemed to work too closely for anything else – but she was dangerous in a way that Sansa wasn't. Sansa didn't like Jaime, but she trusted Brienne's judgement and withheld what she could. Arya seemed far more cynical, far more wild, and if what she had said the other night was true, then she was one of the deadliest people in all of Westeros – not that you would know it to look at her. She had kept herself well in check over the past few days, befriending Myrcella and being nothing but polite to Cersei. Still. Tyrion was going to have to watch her.
The clock was running short now, the seconds before they left for King's Landing slipping away from Ned before he could even hope to catch them. He dreaded leaving for the Red Keep, the games and the politics, Cersei Lannister ready to trip him if he made the slightest misstep. He dreaded leaving Robb and Bran and Rickon, and – perhaps most of all – Cat.
She had come to his bed chambers again the night before. "What can I do?" he had asked.
"Oh, Ned," she had said sadly, resting her hand against his cheek. "The only thing that can fix this is time." And we're running terribly short on that. The words had echoed through the room without either of them needing to say it aloud.
He wanted more time, to mentor Robb, to watch over Bran, to see Rickon grow from baby to boy. He would do what he could to come home, and he knew Arya and Sansa would do the same, but with every moment he felt more painfully aware than ever that once upon a time, he had not.
"Father?" asked a voice, muffled by the door. He got to his feet and let Sansa in.
"Aren't you meant to be with your Septa?" asked Ned.
"Arya's handling it," said Sansa, wringing her hands. Ned wasn't sure who he pitied more: the Septa or Arya. "I needed to talk to you before we leave, without anyone to overhead, and we're running out of time."
"What's wrong?" said Ned, his eyes catching on how pale her face was, the nervous hitch to her breathing. Sansa sat down in front of his desk, placing her hands primly on her knees. Ned sat down across from her and waited for Sansa to speak.
"I haven't been entirely honest with you," said Sansa. "Arya's never approved, you know, but she was willing to let me have my way until two days ago, when she and Robb convinced me to speak the truth."
The last time Sansa had admitted she hadn't been entirely honest, it had been to protect Theon from the truth of his betrayal. "What?" asked Ned warily.
"I do know who had Jon Arryn killed," said Sansa. "He had him poisoned last time, and this time he set things into motion to have him exiled for treason. I'm not sure if it was him or Cersei that had Arryn killed before he reached here. He doesn't like to get his own hands dirty, you see. He uses other people, twists them into his web so they have no choice other than to do what he wants them to do, whether because they have to or because he's turned them upside down so many times that they don't know which way is up anymore." She took a deep breath, then whispered, "It's Petyr."
"Petyr?" repeated Ned. He only knew of the one Petyr in the Red Keep, but he needed the confirmation.
"Petyr Baelish," said Sansa. She pressed her lips together for a moment before she continued, "Lysa is in love with him. She poisoned Arryn last time because she thought that Arryn would foster out Sweetrobin, and because she wanted to marry Petyr after. This time, I expect she had the same motives."
"How do you know all of this?" he asked gently.
"Because she said," said Sansa. "She said to him that she had killed Jon Arryn for him, that she had written to Mother to blame the Lannisters, all for him." She swallowed hard. "Then he told her that he had loved only one woman in his life."
"He did all of this for her love?"
"Only one," said Sansa. "Only Cat." She was echoing him. Her eyes had grown distant, haunted. "And then he pushed her out the Moon Door."
Ned sat back in his chair, trying to process the new information. "You're saying that…"
"I'm saying the Petyr caused the entire war," said Sansa. "I'm saying that he had Jon Arryn murdered to start tension between our family and the Lannisters; that he betrayed you to Cersei and caused your death."
But Ned's mind had gone elsewhere. "You said that Lysa married you to Ramsay."
Sansa's jaw set. She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I have never met anyone else like him, Father. He had us all dancing to his tune without us even knowing it. He'll do it from the moment that we step foot in King's Landing. He's actually very honest that he isn't trustworthy, but that's a trick in and of itself: it makes you lower your guard, because you think so long as you know that he's dishonest, he can't get the drop on you." She smiled bitterly, a deep, distant regret burning in her eyes. "He can, and he will."
"Sansa," said Ned quietly, "what did he do to you?"
"It doesn't matter," said Sansa.
"It matters to me," said Ned.
"So you can, what?" said Sansa. "Arrest him on sight for something he hasn't done? Arrest him for something that wasn't actually illegal?" The words flew out of her as sharp as a knife. "He controls the economy of the Seven Kingdoms. He has the Vale through Lysa and Robin. If you kill him now, you will bring war down on all our heads, and you will bring economic ruin to all of us."
"There must be something that I can do," said Ned, reaching across the table. She wrenched her hands away.
"You leave him to me," said Sansa, her eyes burning and her voice deadly.
"It's my responsibility to protect you," said Ned. He felt helpless, watching Sansa move out of his reach, a thousand demons bearing down on her and him not able to exorcise a single one.
Sansa laughed, her voice harsh and brittle. Without a word, she stood and left the room, her posture coiled as tightly as a snake.
After several long moments, Ned hauled himself to his feet. He left his solar and made his way into the crypts. They were empty, only the heavy silence and the judgement of the dead to keep him company. It was Lyanna he went to, like it so often was.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted to her statue. Promise me, Ned. "I failed you, Lya, and now whatever I do, it seems that I'm failing my daughters." Sansa was like porcelain, cracked and repaired so many times that it seemed like any tap could see her shatter. She was stronger than that, he knew: if she was going to break, there were a thousand things that would have done it to her before now. And Arya he barely knew. His younger daughter, the one who had brought him flowers and teased her brothers and was never where she was supposed to be, was a mystery. He didn't know what had happened to her in all those years between his death and her return to Winterfell.
"I just want to keep them safe," said Ned. But what could he do? All the pain they had suffered had already happened. No matter what Ned did now, in this time, could change what his girls had lived through.
On her last night in Winterfell, Sansa went back to Theon's chambers, creeping in after most fires had been doused and the household had gone to their beds. She didn't know when she would see him again, and she didn't want to waste a moment.
I should tell him, she thought, as Theon told her of how Bran had gotten away from him and Theon had tracked him down to clambering up the side of the Sept ("You said the danger was in the Broken Tower!" Bran had argued). I should tell him, she thought, as she curled into his side. I should tell him, she thought, watching as his breathing evened out and his face calmed.
Eventually, she fell asleep, and dreamed of a castle on the west coast and small children with her hair and his eyes.
Theon woke her before dawn could start to emerge on the horizon. "You're riding early," he whispered, his face hovering over hers. "The castle will be awake soon to see you all off."
Sansa yawned and stretched her shoulders. She sat up and reached out to brush his face with her hand. "I love you," she whispered. Theon froze, his blue eyes wide. Her chest seized, and she blurted out, "You don't have to -"
Stupid girl, she thought. Stupid, stupid girl, you thought that just because –
Then Theon surged forwards, so strong and fast and sure that she squeaked in surprise. He leant her back down against the bed, one hand on her hip and the other in her hair. She kissed him back, using her hand on his face to pull him closer. At last, he had to pull away, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing hard.
"Gods, Sansa," said Theon. "I love you. How could I not?" Sansa drew her back down to him, and he kissed her for another moment before he pulled away, his eyes still closed. "You still need to get up."
Sansa huffed. "You're not meant to be the morning person, Theon."
"You're rubbing off on me," said Theon carelessly, drawing further back so that she couldn't kiss him again. Sansa pouted, and Theon smiled. "If you want any more of Theon Greyjoy, you're just going to have to get King's Landing sorted all the sooner."
"You're a vicious negotiator," muttered Sansa, but she sat up properly and stretched her back. Theon laughed, pleased triumph written all over his face. Sansa took a moment to memorise his face, the way his lips curled as he smiled, the spark in his eyes, the way he threw his head back to laugh.
When Sansa finally reached the courtyard, bustling with stable hands saddling the last of the horses, Arya smirked at her. "Slept late?"
"Shut up," muttered Sansa, determinedly not blushing, just before Catelyn swept her up into a hug. Sansa could hear Arya cackling, but pointedly ignored her as she hugged her mother back.
"Be careful," said Catelyn, kissing her forehead.
"I will," promised Sansa. "I'll make sure Father and Arya are, too. Keep an eye on Bran."
"I won't let anything happen to him," said Catelyn fiercely.
She hugged Bran and then Robb, extracting a promise from Robb that he wouldn't do anything stupid and a promise from Bran that he would tell someone if he ever dreamed of a raven. Theon she had already farewelled, in the safety of his chambers, far away from prying eyes.
When the time came to climb into the wheelhouse behind Cersei, Sansa did not look back. It would not be five years until she saw her home again. It would not.
"Come back to me, Sansa Stark," Theon had said to her before she had crept out of his chambers.
Soon, she promised him. Soon.