AN: Between assessment and a new internship, there hasn't been a whole lot of time for me to write, but it's Camp NaNo this month and I'm trying to catch up, I swear!

"Where's Arya?" asked Ned, glancing around Sansa's chambers like Arya was hiding in there somewhere.

"She missing already?" asked Sansa. "Isn't there meant to be a feast tonight?"

Ned nodded. "Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

Sansa sighed and shook her head. There was the blacksmith, but she wasn't going to mention that to her father – knowing Robb, he had probably already warned Ned to keep an eye out. What had happened between Arya and Gendry was their business, and had happened when they were both fully grown. Their family, for all that they knew technically that Sansa and Arya had both grown into women, still couldn't always comprehend that, and she suspected that news of what Arya had gotten up to with Gendry would probably provoke some protective instincts in Ned.

"I'm sure she'll be back," said Sansa. "You know that she wants to be as inconspicuous as possible. She won't mess with that by missing our welcoming feast."

There was a scuffle from down the hall, then Arya calling, "Sansa? Father?"

"There she is," said Sansa. "I told you she wouldn't be gone too long." She stood up and followed her father out into the main quarters.

Arya was standing next to a young man, with Nymeria shuffling around his feet and sniffing at him curiously. His posture was awkward, his shoulders hunched slightly, glancing around the room warily. His clothes were dirty and rough, and his hands were chapped and covered with black dirt. Sansa had never actually met Gendry Waters, but he was unmistakable. Arya herself was in clothes that Sansa hadn't even realised that Arya owned: a cap that covered her hair, and a boy's tunic, roughly spun and plain. She was still too clean to truly pass as a street urchin, but she wouldn't warrant a second look wandering Fleabottom.

So much for not mentioning him, thought Sansa, suppressing another sigh.

"Who is this?" asked Ned.

"This is Gendry," said Arya, grinning. "He's one of us."

Ned's eyes flicked to Gendry. "The blacksmith."

Gendry nodded, bowing his head. "Aye, Lord Stark."

"We have to get you ready for the feast, Arya," said Sansa, stepping forward to grab her sister's arm. "Would you like to come with us, Gendry? It will be good to hear what you know."

Ned frowned, but Arya didn't give him a chance to protest. "Come on, Gendry."

"But -" spluttered Gendry.

Arya rolled her eyes. "There's a screen in there. You won't see anything, and Sansa is there as chaperone." She turned to Sansa and added, "Chances are he'll be gone by morning, so we should talk to him now."

"I'll make sure nothing happens," said Sansa firmly, and pulled Arya back towards their chambers. Arya – just like Sansa had known she would – grabbed Gendry's hand and tugged him along with her. In Arya's chambers, Sansa sent Arya to change safely behind the screens and turned to Gendry. "Lord Tyrion says that you weren't willing to lie to protect Joffrey."

Gendry blinked, shifting his weight. "No, m'lady. Joffrey was a monster."

"Good," said Sansa, at the same time as Arya stuck her head out from behind the screen and called, "Just call her Sansa!"

Gendry looked between Sansa and Arya, looking more and more like a cornered animal. Sansa smiled and said, "You saved my sister and are very dear to her. I think that more than earns you the right to use my first name."

"Sansa," said Gendry, trying out the name hesitantly, like a word from a foreign language. Arya had gone back behind the screen, but the smugness still emanated from her general direction. "Tyrion Lannister said that lying for Joffrey would keep the peace. I thought you would agree with him."

Sansa shook her head. "No. Joffrey was mad and cruel, and I suspect that the two of us know that better than most. Lord Tyrion, I think, wanted more to protect Myrcella and Tommen: exposing Cersei and Joffrey will harm them just as much as it harms Joffrey. But you were right that Joffrey will bring war, no matter what. He is uncontrollable and he is a monster. Someone will rebel eventually, or they will flock to Daenerys when she comes. Either way, war will come."

"Sansa?" said Arya, waddling out from behind the screen. Gendry looked away as Sansa began lacing up the back of Arya's dress. "The Red Priests think that Gendry's Azor Ahai."

Sansa remembered the story of Azor Ahai only distantly, that Melissandre had declared first Stannis and had then been undecided between Jon and Daenerys. She glanced back at Gendry, who was inspecting the roof as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. "What do the smallfolk think of that?" she asked.

"Most people think it's bollocks," said Gendry. "Most keep to the Seven. But times are hard, and some people are looking for other answers."

"Enough for your master to throw you out?" said Arya.

Gendry's mouth twisted. "Apparently." He paused for a moment then said, "I don't like it, but it's gotten more people to listen to me about what's coming."

Sansa blinked. "You've been telling people?"

Gendry frowned. "You haven't?"

"No, I…" Sansa trailed off. "I've just been focusing on keeping our armies as strong as we can and making sure that the Iron Throne takes us seriously."

"The people deserve to know," said Gendry. "If they have time to prepare, then they have a better chance of making it, or of saving enough coin to book passage out of Westeros, or something. Something that can save them."

"Sit," ordered Sansa, shoving Arya towards the chair. Arya obediently sat. She had already learnt not to argue when Sansa was getting her ready back in Winterfell. Gendry cautiously peeked to see if all was clear, and relaxed at the sight of Sansa braiding Arya's hair back.

"You're right," said Sansa. "I just hadn't thought of it like that, though I suppose most of Winterfell, if not the entire North, knows about what's coming after the lords heard at the Harvest feast and the heirs riding for the Wall."

"That's still a lot of Westeros who don't," murmured Arya. Sansa twisted the next strand of braid particularly tightly, and Arya winced and cried, "Sansa!"

"Stop moving and we won't have this problem," said Sansa sternly.

"You look like a proper princess," said Gendry, an odd note to his voice. Sansa glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, not able to place it.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me. I'm in hiding."

"In hiding?" repeated Gendry.

"Well, when I met you, I had to be Arry to be safe," said Arya. "Now I've got to be Lady Arya to keep everyone else safe." Her voice went high-pitched and posh at the words Lady Arya. Sansa narrowed her eyes at her sister in the mirror, because it had sounded suspiciously close to Sansa's own voice.

"Then you better do a better job than you did as Arry," said Gendry. Arya twisted in her chair, this time ignoring the pain she had to be feeling after practically ripping herself out Sansa's grip, to glare at Gendry.

"I did a brilliant job as Arry," hissed Arya.

"I caught you in the first week," scoffed Gendry.

Arya huffed, flinging herself back against the chair. "Only because you were the only there who wasn't a complete idiot."

"You'll do fine," soothed Sansa. "You've fooled worse."

Arya brightened. "I have. Did I ever tell you that I served Tywin Lannister wine and he never caught on? I would have had him poisoned, but things got in the way." The last part was kept low with a furtive glance at the walls.

"You told me that you served Jaime Lannister wine and he didn't catch you," said Sansa. "You've already fooled half the Lannister clan, and out of those who are left, one of them is already on our side. Well, mostly."

Arya looked over at Gendry and said, "Robert's still half in love with Aunt Lyanna. If I pretend to be not like her at all, maybe he won't be so quick to try to betroth me to Tommen or – Gods forbid – Joffrey."

Gendry's face tightened. "He'd do that?"

"Father won't allow it," said Arya certainly. "Not when I'm so young." She gave herself a dubious look in the mirror before continuing. "Not just that, though. If all the Lannisters think that I'm just a naïve, sheltered little girl, then they're more likely to let things slip around me. They won't think I'm a threat."

"They'd be fools to think that," said Gendry, his voice low, like Arya being dangerous was one of the simplest, most basic facts of the universe.

"Done," said Sansa, putting the last pin into the bun that she had braided half of Arya's hair into. "We should probably go back out, before Father has a heart attack."

Arya laughed. She got to her feet and grabbed Gendry by the hand. "Don't worry," said Arya, leading him towards the door. "He'll like you."

"Well, probably not right now," said Sansa. "But he'll come round."

"I'm still ten years old in his head," said Arya, looking down at herself. "I'm not even ten anymore physically, let alone mentally, but I think he forgets, sometimes."

"He doesn't forget," said Sansa. "It's just a bit hard to understand."

Brienne hated dresses.

It wasn't that they were particularly uncomfortable – they weren't any worse than armour, really – or that there was even anything wrong with them. Dresses just held more than one unpleasant memory for her: a bear pit, her Septa, a million small cuts of not being good enough.

When she met Sansa and Arya in the audience chamber, Arya grimaced at her in solidarity, tugging at her own dress in irritation. Sansa looked lovely, dressed in a lilac gown and her hair braided like a crown, red tresses flowing down her back. Even Arya, who Brienne had never seen in a dress before the King's party had arrived in Winterfell, was pretty – though uncomfortable – in her light grey dress and Northern braids.

Arya grinned at Brienne, and tugged up the hem of her dress, showing the leggings she had on under it. "Sansa wouldn't let me wear my boots," lamented Arya, glaring at the slippers she was wearing. Brienne smiled, and sheepishly tugged up on her own dress to show her leggings. Arya laughed as Sansa smiled and shook her head in exasperation.

Brienne had only been to a feast in King's Landing once before: Joffrey and Margaery's wedding feast. She had only just returned Jaime to King's Landing, and they had only just heard of what had happened in the Twins. Sansa had slipped out from under Brienne's nose, spirited out of the city by Littlefinger.

Walking into the feast felt like being thrown into the bear pit again. Jaime was there, and Sansa and Arya and the Stark men – but so was Joffrey Baratheon, cruel and vindictive and no doubt eager to get a strike in, and Cersei Lannister, who was yet to notice Brienne's connection to Jaime but would rush to lay her claim as quickly as she had last time, and –

And Renly Baratheon.

All members of the Small Council were there, and the Starks were introduced to each in turn. Ned already knew most of them, but Sansa and Arya curtseyed in turn to each of them, charming and clever and lovely. It didn't surprise Brienne at all to see Sansa so fluent in the ways of the Red Keep, the way she glided through the crowds as easily as a duck through water – though she could still see the tightness in Sansa's smile. Arya was more of a surprise: Brienne remembered the girl again who had returned to Winterfell looking more like her half-brother than her mother or sister, the glee Arya had shown in being able to fence with another woman. That Arya Stark – the real Arya Stark – was nowhere in sight, smiling at lords and flushing shyly when she was paid too much attention.

Brienne hated court.

But it was a necessary evil, and she just had to hope that she and both of the Stark sisters would make it through unscathed. Brienne could protect them against physical threats, but there was nothing she could do about the ghosts that haunted Sansa, or the wall that Arya built up between her and the world.

"Renly!" exclaimed Ned. "You look well."

"And you look tired," said Renly. "Drink! Eat! We'll see you hearty soon enough." He turned to Sansa and Arya. "You must be Lady Sansa and Lady Arya – and?"

He was looking at her. Brienne's heart froze, unable to think of anything other than a shadow with a face close behind Renly, the flames going out with a sudden rush of air, Renly collapsing under the weight of a phantom knife –

"This is Lady Brienne of Tarth," said Sansa. "She has sworn her services to my sister and I. We are very lucky to have her."

"Brienne of Tarth," repeated Renly. "I've heard of you from your father. He tells me that you are a talented warrior."

"One of the best," broke in Arya. "She has embarrassed our brothers more than once."

A flush crept through Brienne's cheeks. "I wouldn't say embarrassed, Lady Arya -"

"Nonsense," said Sansa. "You needn't be shy; it was good for them."

Renly laughed. "Perhaps one day, I'll have the chance to see you embarrass some knights myself, Lady Brienne."

When they moved on, Sansa caught her by the arm and said quietly, "Brienne, I'm so sorry. I entirely forgot -"

"It's fine," said Brienne.

"It's not fine," said Sansa. "I should have remembered."

"Lady Sansa," said Brienne, gently. "It was fine. It was – good, even, to see him."

Sansa and Arya both blinked up at her, concern on both their faces. They both understood, though, she could see it in their eyes: they knew more than anyone what it was like to come face to face with someone you had failed to save.

In the time they had taken to share just those few words, the crowd had shifted. Sansa turned to greet the man her father had begun speaking with, and went utterly rigid.

"From collar to navel," Petyr Baelish was saying, gesturing down his torso. "But these must be your daughters, Lord Stark." He smiled at Sansa and Arya, and Brienne's hand felt for a sword that she did not have. "You look just like your mother, Lady Sansa."

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," said Sansa. She hesitated then added in a rush, "You are Lord Baelish, aren't you? Mother just mentioned that she had a friend at court, and when you said -"

"I am Lord Baelish," said Petyr. He was only smiling, but somehow his lips seemed to stretch too wide, and his teeth seemed too sharp, every feature distorted, a face from her nightmares brought back to life in the firelight of the Red Keep. "But you may call me Petyr, as your lady mother did, if you like."

"Lord Petyr," said Sansa, settling on the middle-ground: personal, but not improper. Acquiescing to his request too quickly would only arise suspicion, or at best, simply cause whispers about the nature of her relationship around court (and what a best case scenario that was). "This is my sister, Arya, and our sworn sword, Brienne."

Petyr's eyes widened at Brienne. "Forgive me, I didn't expect -"

"She has been a part of our household for a long time now," said Ned. "We could not have asked for a better protector for our daughters."

"Indeed," mused Littlefinger. "It is very wise, Lord Stark, to place your daughter under such protection. It will certainly keep eager foster brothers in their place." He smiled, all good humour, all a joke, but all Sansa could hear was a reference to Ramsay Ramsay Ramsay. "But of course, you're already betrothed to Theon Greyjoy, aren't you, Lady Sansa?"

"Yes, Lord Petyr," said Sansa.

"I'm sure the Iron Islands have never seen a beauty such as you," said Petyr.

"Of course they haven't," said Arya, taking the opportunity to slide her arm through Sansa's, like she was only an excited younger sister and not trying to lend Sansa her strength. Sansa covered Arya's hand with hers and squeezed lightly before letting go. Less than a day in, and she could barely believe that she had survived years in these walls without Arya at her side.

"I won't keep you," said Littlefinger to Ned. "I imagine we'll have more than enough time to speak at the Small Council meetings. I look forward to a fruitful realm under your guidance."

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," said Ned, just the slightest edge to his voice. Was that because of me, or was he always like that with Petyr? wondered Sansa. She didn't know. She couldn't remember. There were so many things she couldn't remember, stupid stupid girl –

Arya looked between Brienne and Sansa with wide eyes. "Big night," she murmured.

"Not over yet," said Sansa tightly.

"It'll get easier," promised Brienne. "Just like those first few days. You'll adjust."

Littlefinger was gone. He'd only been there for a moment. It hadn't been a small thing for Littlefinger, not if Sansa knew him – he had to have been rehearsing just how he would introduce himself to Ned ever since Robert announced he was riding north – but he left them unshaken, not a single hint of nerves in his body language. Sansa wished that she could say the same.

"Come on," said Arya. "Let's take our seats."

"But -"

"Sansa," said Arya, her voice firm. Sansa went. They were not at the High Table, and Sansa couldn't help but feel grateful as she sank into her seat. She wasn't sure if she could have faced Cersei and Joffrey after Littlefinger. Some of the small council members were seated with them, but not Petyr: the lord of the Fingers was one of the first to be shuffled down the line when there were too many guests.

Jaime took a seat next to Brienne. "Ladies Stark," he said in a voice that played at jovial but didn't quite manage it, "Lady Brienne. Is the capitol living up to your expectations so far?"

"It's incredible," said Sansa, with her big doe eyes. "Everything here is so beautiful."

"I wish they still had some of the dragon skulls out," said Arya. "Just think of it – a symbol of how the Targaryen dynasty is dead and buried." Sansa smiled, looking down at her plate. Even the lady-like Arya still found the Red Keep lacking.

"I've heard that you've made quite a stir," said Jaime, looking at Brienne.

Brienne raised her eyebrows at him. "Have I?"

"A lady – heir to her House, even – serving as a sworn sword," said Jaime. "Renly says he would like to see you in the melee." He nodded at where Renly was talking to Loras, laughing at something Loras had said. "Are you planning to embarrass Loras Tyrell? I think you might have to."

"Ser Jaime," said Brienne tightly.

"Be careful, Lady Brienne," said Jaime. "The Knight of the Flowers isn't one to take on lightly."

Sansa looked back to Renly and Loras. They were still talking, caught in their own world. A maid refilled Loras' wine. Sansa watched as Loras drank, and watched how Renly's eyes were glued to his companion.

Ah, thought Sansa. Brienne had been a part of his King's Guard, once, and had executed Stannis for his death. Sansa had always believed that Brienne's loyalty to Renly had been the same as her loyalty to Catelyn, or to Sansa and Arya themselves. Now, turning back to see Brienne and Jaime staring at each other, both daring each other to speak first, she was pretty sure that hadn't been it at all.

But she also remembered Brienne speaking for Jaime before the Dragon Queen, and the simple, palpable relief on her face when she had told Sansa that Jaime also remembered the other time. She remembered Jaime's long look back at Brienne, the way he hadn't been able to look away from her in Winterfell's courtyard.

You sure know how to pick them, Brienne, thought Sansa. A man who could never return her affections and a man who could never dream of deserving her.

"Are you quite finished, Ser Jaime?" asked Arya, pointedly. "Don't you have something better to do than to taunt Lady Brienne?"

"I'm not taunting Lady Brienne," said Jaime. "I merely wish to advise her."

Sansa cast a quick glance at the High Table and said, "Don't look now, but Cersei's watching."

None of the others looked, but Jaime said, "Ladies," and rose from his seat, heading back to his position on the wall, his white cloak trailing behind him.

Arya looked up. "Cersei's not watching us."

"No," said Sansa. "But I figured you probably didn't want to have that conversation here, Brienne, if you want to have it at all." Brienne smiled, looked down at her hands, and hesitated like she was about to say something but decided against it. Sansa reached out and took Brienne's hand in hers. "You know that you are one of the best people from Sunspear to Castle Black, right? That you deserve the entire world?"

Brienne's cheeks went bright red, and she didn't meet Sansa's eyes. "My lady -"

The words Sansa wanted to tell her were at the tip of her tongue: it's not your fault Renly doesn't want you, and it isn't his fault, either. And I don't know what there is, exactly, between you and Ser Jaime, but he better damn well treat you right or I will end him. But that wasn't safe to say in this noisy hall, surrounded by people, and she didn't want to make a promise before she knew exactly how she would keep it.

Robb was doing far better as Lord of Winterfell this time around. It made sense: this time, Bran was not on the cusp of death and Catelyn was not near-catatonic with grief. Bran was still a happy child, happily clambering all over Winterfell as if he was trying to make up for the time he had lost while the royal family had been in residence. Catelyn sat with Robb most mornings, going over what needed to be done and how to handle different lords.

All in all, Theon felt a little superfluous.

He had known what he was doing when Sansa was still in Winterfell. He had been protecting her, keeping her safe from Joffrey and from the ghosts that haunted them both. Now, though, she was halfway across the continent. He trusted that she would keep herself safe, and that between them, Sansa, Arya, Brienne and Lord Stark would all return to Winterfell safe and well. He had to.

He broke fast with the Starks each morning before helping Ser Rodrik with training Bran. Rickon was just beginning to get the very first of his lessons. Theon showed him how to grip his wooden sword and how to keep his shield up in front of him. Mostly they were getting him used to the weight; Gods willing, he wouldn't need any actual skill for years yet.

In the afternoons, as Luwin took Bran and Rickon for their lessons, Theon took over Luwin's work in transcribing the ancient letters. It was slow work. The writing had faded with age. Luwin suspected that these weren't the original copies, but they were still old enough. The writing was cramped and spidery, and spelling had evidently shifted quite a bit in the intervening years – that or the writers were only barely literate themselves. Either way, Theon spent more time staring at the crumbling parchments in bewilderment than he did actually writing. Whenever a copy was finished, Luwin sent it to Castle Black and Maester Aemon.

"I was thinking," Theon said to Robb one afternoon after watching dark wings carrying a raven up and north, "we should send a raven to my sister."

Robb blinked and turned to Theon. It stung to see the mistrust in Robb's eyes. Robb had mostly forgiven him, but nothing had been forgotten, and it was clear in Robb's eyes. "Your sister?"

"Yara," said Theon. "She's a good person, Robb. She agreed to stop the reaving last time -"

"Why not your father?" asked Robb.

"Because my father would never listen," said Theon. "If I try to broker a deal, then it's proof that I've become a greenlander. If I join him, then I'm still half greenlander. Yara, though – we could convince her. Having the Iron Fleet on side would help – troop movements would be faster, and more supply lines could be opened up."

Robb looked away then said, "You realise that this is probably the exact thing you told me last time?"

"I realise that better than you do," said Theon, smiling bitterly. "I know that I've fucked up, Robb. I know that I made terrible decisions and even in a world where I never made those decisions, their consequences are still with me. But talking to Yara is the right thing to do."

"One question, then," said Robb. "Why not you?"

Theon blinked. "Me?"

"You want to broker a deal with your sister," said Robb. "But why shouldn't we just put you forwards as ruler of the Iron Islands? Wouldn't that be easier?"

"Because it should be Yara," said Theon. "I don't – I don't want it, Robb. My father would be right if he called me half a greenlander. I don't dream of the sea anymore, just a quiet place to live with Sansa if the both of us survive everything that's coming. But Yara commands a fleet as if she was born to do it. The Ironborn respect her more than they would ever respect me. The Salt Throne should be hers."

"That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence about her character," said Robb dryly. "You know, with all the reaving and raiding."

"She agreed to end raiding when she struck a deal with the Dragon Queen," said Theon. "We can make the same deal with her if we support her claim against Euron, when the day comes."

Robb paused, thinking over what he had heard about Euron, Yara and Daenerys. Eventually, he grimaced, and said, "Send a raven – but I'll be coming with you to meet with her."