Arya slurps her way through her bowl of brown. She has adopted the face of a carpenter, long dead, and wears the rough wool clothes of his trade. The rebuilding of Winterfell has still not been completed, and there is work for masons, carpenters, brick layers and others of their ilk, in Wintertown. She has taken a cheap room in one of the rougher parts of the town. The inn's Common room is crowded with artisans, and lively with conversation. Tomorrow, she will seek work with the overseers, and proceed with her plans from there. Her men are stationed at a village ten miles away, ready to fight off anyone who might pursue them. She will rescue Catelyn on her own. The arrival of a dozen men at the Palace would inevitably rouse suspicions. The journey itself was uneventful, a fortnight's riding in the drizzle. She finishes the broth, and drains her mug of ale, before bidding the innkeep goodnight, and retiring to her room. She laughs to herself as she imagines her sister staying in such a place. There is no bed, simply a straw mattress, infested with insects. The room itself is cold and cheerless, smelling of boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies. Still, it's certainly not the worst place she's stayed in, during her travels, not by a long way. She wraps a rough wool cloak about her, and lies down to sleep. She thinks more on what she must do. Although it is some years since she left Winterfell, she thinks it should not be hard to find her way round the Palace. She remembers the secret passages in the walls and crypts well enough, and it should be straightforward enough for her to evade the guards. No, the real problem will be persuading Catelyn to leave. No doubt Sansa will have poisoned her daughter's mind against her, accusing her of treason. She racks her brains, trying to think of a way through this problem, and drifts off to sleep, without coming up with a solution.

She wakes with a start. A man has entered the room stealthily, and she draws her dagger under her cloak, taking great care to let him think she remains asleep. As he looms over her, she springs upward, slitting his throat with ease, and leaving him choking in his blood, before running to the door. Her sister's agent, or a common thief. As she darts through the door, she cannons into a second thug, before slashing him across the face. But, even as he falls to the ground screaming, her luck runs out. She is tripped, and a third man kneels on her back, holding a dagger to her neck. "One move, and you're dead" he tells her. Another trusses her arms behind her back, before she is pulled to her feet. She is hooded, and then frog-marched down the corridor, and through the Common room. Nobody speaks. She realises that the Queen's Inquisition have captured her. No one will intervene. She can also guess where she will be taken. "Move bitch", she hears her captor order, and she walks on. She realises they have reached the Palace, when she hears the man give a password to a guard, who gives the countersign, in response. They continue walking, before they descend several flights of steps. The atmosphere grows steadily colder and damper. She senses that they have entered a dank room, smelling of human waste, and worse things. "Sit" the man commands. A chair is placed beneath her. She feels a chain being wrapped around her, before hearing the key turn in its padlock. And then, she hears her sister speak.

"Show her the instruments". Her hood is removed, and she blinks in the torchlight. Her sister stands before her, staring down grimly, surrounded by a half a dozen thugs. She wears a jerkin, and rough wool trousers, with a butcher's leather apron. Not a good sign. Set out on a table before her, is an impressive array of blades, pliers, needles, and other instruments whose purpose is horribly obscure. "I suppose you want to know how you came to be here. My Inquisition has a long reach. They have agents among the Nights Watch. That's all you need to know. I suppose that treacherous bastard put you up to this. Mother was certainly right about him!"

"He's our brother, Sansa."

"He's no brother to me. He hates me."

"And he has reason to." She sees a flicker of annoyance on Sansa's face. Then,

"Do you fuck him! Is that why you went to join him." It's unwise, but Arya can't help herself; she spits in Sansa's face. She sees her go white with fury, and reach for one of the blades. She braces herself for what is about to happen, but Sansa masters herself.

"I'd prefer not to have your blood on my hands, Arya. What I do want is a full confession. I want to know every detail of the plot, and I want to know whether Jon is in league with Yara Greyjoy. Give me every detail, and I'll spare you."

"And if I don't?"

"Then, we'll strip you and start cutting."

"I don't believe you'd do that, Sansa, despite everything. You're not that hard, however much you may pretend." For the first time, she sees a shadow of doubt in her sister's face. She continues, speaking softly "Sansa, despite everything, I've always loved you. I was so proud of you, during the fight against the Dead. I was so pleased for you, the day you were crowned. What went wrong?"

"Get out, " Sansa tells the thugs. After they leave she replies. "You ask what went wrong. The lords of the North thought I was weak. One after another, they rose against me. They left me no choice but to put them down. And, did my own family aid me? No. You were off on your adventures, and Jon blamed me for the death of his whore. And when you returned, you just turned your back on me. Your skills would have been invaluable to me, yet you chose to insult me instead. You say you love me. What love did you show me then?"

"Sansa, do you have any idea what the world thinks of us? Our family is hated by thousands, because of you. And Bran. The Stark name stinks across two continents. It never had to be like that, and still doesn't have to be like that. You can still seek exile with your fortune intact."

"Exile?" She hears the hate in her sister's voice, pride and anger conquering her now. "You think I'll run before my enemies, give up my throne, and rob my daughter of her birthright. You think I'd betray the memory of Father, and Mother, and Robb by fleeing like a coward?"

"You've already betrayed their memory, Sansa."

She sees the cold fury in her sister's eyes, before she responds. "I'll give you this one evening Arya, to think over what you're going to do. We'll come back in the morning. Choose wisely." She removes her leather apron, and stalks out of the room.

For several hours, sleep evades Sansa. She thought it would be easy to threaten the sister who had betrayed her. Indeed, once she was informed of the plot by her agents, she had looked forward to meeting her, proving to her that she would always be one step ahead of her. But, it isn't easy. She has watched prisoners being tortured, even participated in the torture on occasions, but her own sister! In her mind's eye, she pictures Arya naked and whimpering, her body cut with razors, and burned with hot irons, sitting in a pool of her own blood and piss. Or Arya screaming, as her back is whipped raw by her thugs. Oh gods, can't Arya see sense! She won't hurt her, if only she makes a full confession. She'll keep her under guard of course, but not in a dungeon. Her concern for Arya is not matched by any similar concern for the bastard at Castle Black. His death is long overdue. She'll instruct her agents to assassinate him. She ought to have done it years ago, but a foolish pity stayed her hand. He is a cousin, so surely the kinslayer curse won't fall on her. Cousins fight each other. They aren't close family. But a sister! She knows she won't sleep tonight. She gets up and dresses in her rough clothes again. She nods to a group of guards, and they accompany her as she descends to Arya's cell. The turnkey unlocks the door. "Wait outside" she instructs them. The dungeon is now pitch black, the torches having gone out. But, she carries a torch of her own, holding it aloft so she can look upon Arya. She is slumped in her chains, obviously unconscious. It is so strange to look upon the face of someone she never met, while still knowing that her sister sits there. She feels something she has not felt in a very long while; pity. She puts the torch in a sconce. Then, gently, she nudges Arya's shoulder, rousing her.

"You're starting early, then, Sansa" she remarks. "I thought you'd at least give me a night's sleep."

"I've come to try and make you see sense Arya. I promise, you won't be ill-treated. You'll have to stay here for the duration of the war, but there are plenty of spare chambers in the Palace. It will be like old times. We can dine and hunt together. All you have to do is tell me what I need to know. "

"I'm not giving you any information you don't have. If I'm honest Sansa, I want you to lose this war. "

"What you mean is, you want me dead!" she replies, feeling a wave of fury. "I'm trying to save your life, and that's your response!"

"You're the one who's putting my life in danger, Sansa. And, no, I don't want you dead. I want you and Catelyn to escape, and live out your days in comfortable obscurity."

"I don't think that's a realistic option, do you? Even if I were offered asylum in a foreign country, I've made far too many enemies to expect to survive. I'd spend the rest of my short life looking over my shoulder for the assassin's blade; I'd fear that every bite I took was poisoned. No, I stand or fall at Winterfell."

"What about Catelyn? You could send her out of danger. Let me take her to Castle Black."

"Never! She is a Crown Princess. She stays here with me."

"So what now? One thing I learned in the House of Black and White was how to block pain. I won't talk, but I can't prevent you from cutting me to pieces, if that's what you want. Is that really what you intend to do? Can you really live with being a kinslayer. A woman who brutally murdered her own sister?"

Sansa reflects for several minutes. "No, I can't" she replies, finally admitting defeat. "You won." She produces a key to the padlock, and unlocks it. Then, she unwinds Arya's chains, although her hands remain bound. "Swear by the old gods and the new, that you won't harm me if I cut your bonds. "

"I shouldn't have to. But, yes, Sansa, I swear by the old gods and the new that I won't harm you." Sansa picks up one of blades, walks behind the chair, and then she cuts Arya's bonds. Arya flexes her fingers, feeling a wave of tingling pain as the blood flows back into them. "So, what happens now, Sansa?"

"I suppose I can't persuade you to assassinate Yara Greyjoy?" Arya shakes her head.

"Then, you'll have to stay here for the time being. Remove your face. I want to look at my sister, once again. " Arya peels off her face. Sansa walks over and embraces her, crying now. For a time they hold each other, before Sansa recovers. "Come in" she commands, and her guards and the gaoler enter. "Take the Lady Arya to the guest chambers in Lord Creggan's tower. See to it that the is gently treated, but she is to be kept under guard at all times."

"We'll talk further, Arya. Now, I have a war to plan." She leaves the cell, feeling a wave of relief. At least she can get to sleep.

Notes:

I fear there won't be a redemption arc for Sansa, but she's not a complete monster. Not cutting your sister into pieces is a low hurdle to jump