SANSA

"I want the hives," said Lady Blackwood.

Lady Bracken scowled. "The hives are ours."

"They are now. But they were stolen from us, as you stole everything else."

"I have a royal writ—"

"From a Lannister king. Signed by Tywin Lannister. The hives of Honeysuckle were payment for your betrayal of King Robb."

"King Robb was dead. We did not betray him. We acted in sense, rather than wasting our men's lives in futility."

"You acted solely in your own interests, and betrayed him."

"We did not."

"Then who gave you those hives? Look me in the eye, my lady, and tell me it was not Lord Tywin who bestowed them upon your lord husband."

"You are a fool if you think you can demand anything of us," said Lady Bracken haughtily. "You see, Lady Stark, they are entirely too proud. We came here to make a firm and final peace for the greater good of the Riverlands. Yet here we are, no nearer to any agreement thanks to her stubbornness. You are a mule, my lady."

"And you are an ass—"

Brynden Blackfish had had enough. "Be quiet!" he snapped. "Or else the only order Lady Sansa will give will be to have you both dragged to some septry in the mountains. In chains. Together." It was the last part that silenced them.

In the quiet, their eyes drifted to Sansa. She knew she had to say something, and at the same time she knew that whatever pleased one of them would anger the other. But in the end a clearer course had to prevail. So she chose: "In the interest of keeping to the principles and laws of my brother Robb, I am inclined to give the hives back to House Blackwood, and restore the boundaries of your lands to as they were before the War of the Five Kings. However, we do not have the time – I do not have the time – to manage your border dispute, and I do not trust the pair of you to resolve it peacefully, so until the war is over, your boundaries will remain as they were under Stannis's rule."

Lady Blackwood started. "My husband was petitioning King Stannis, and the king was inclined to agree—"

"Oh, both of your husbands were party to that cock-measuring contest, no doubt," said the Blackfish. "A pity their efforts were for naught. Stannis is dead, and so are they. Now, if the pair of you had any sense, you would be doing your very best to please Lady Sansa, in the hope that she might turn her ear to your case."

The two ladies settled back, glowering at one another. There was a pause. "My lady," said Lady Blackwood, then, "if it please you—"

"It does not please me," Sansa said. "Not tonight, at least. You should go. Both of you."

It was not a suggestion. She might be in Lady Blackwood's home, but she was the representative of the King in the North (nonexistent though that king was) in Raventree, and a Stark besides, and it was not in the interests of sycophants to argue against their betters.

When they were gone Sansa turned to the Blackfish. "I think this is going to prove impossible."

"That depends on what you want. If you want their loyalty, you have that already. Their men… well, that will be more difficult, as they will not give us everything, but if Edmure and Patrek Mallister deliver—"

"Have you seen Edmure's letter? He makes no mention of sending us soldiers—"

"That letter was written in Maester Vyman's hand, not in Edmure's. And even if Edmure transcribed it… well, he might not want Vyman to know everything. Maesters are untrustworthy at the best of times. But I digress: if anything, you should take it as a good sign; if Edmure is busy, it is possible that he did not have time to pen the letter himself."

"I wish I felt so optimistic."

"Edmure is your family. He would not withhold—"

"Uncle Edmure is unreliable at the best of times—"

"He will come, Sansa. I promise you—"

"Don't do that." She looked away. "Don't make promises you cannot keep." Promises like I will protect you, I will rescue you, I will keep you away from the monsters.

The Blackfish understood that, at least. He bowed his head.

Sansa continued, "There has been another letter. From Lord Royce. At the Gates of the Moon. Robert is… recovering quite well, he says."

"You know," said Ser Brynden. "The Vale does not lack for soldiers. You could do worse than to appeal to your cousin for support—"

Sansa shook her head. "No. He needs time to rest." That, and she did not think she could look Robert in the eye ever again. "We have had another letter from Daenerys Targaryen too," she said, quickly changing the subject. "More of the same. Let all true men declare their loyalty, and such."

The Blackfish looked uneasy. "Sansa," he probed, "do you ever think it might be wiser to… to consider the affairs of the south before turning our gaze north? If what has been said of Daenerys is true, she may prove a worse foe than these Others – or she may prove our greatest ally. And the Others are still north of the Wall, Lord Commander Snow and your brother Bran both agree—"

"The dead are marching. It is as simple as that. They are marching in the North, and they are marching in the Westerlands, unless Eleyna Westerling lied to her sister. There is a reason Lord Manderly has closed off White Harbor. And Rickon… in these dreams he has, he has seen it. This coming war will be bigger than anything that has come before. We need all the allies we can find. We need to set aside our differences where we can. Even… even…"

"Even the Lannisters," said the Blackfish. "That is what you are thinking, isn't it?"

"Princess Myrcella still owes me her life. They say 'A Lannister always pays her debts.' If I offered her safe passage—"

"You are naïve if you think she will accept. Even if she has been absolved of Robert's murder, Edmure will not have a Lannister army marching through his lands."

"What Edmure wants doesn't matter," Sansa said, flaring with sudden temper. "It is his unwillingness to play his part that has led me to consider looking for allies among the Lannisters."

"Edmure is your uncle, Sansa—"

"So you keep telling me. He might be my uncle, but right now he is failing me. Failing House Stark, failing the realms of men—"

"You cannot hold Edmure's desire to protect the Riverlands against him. The recent wars—"

"—have affected us all. Yet this one will affect us even more. If Jon and Bran are right, the time has come to set aside our petty rivalries, uncle."

"Petty?" The Blackfish shook his head. "Niece, it is not just Edmure who will object to a Lannister army marching through his lands. It is every one of your bannermen who lost friends and family at the Red Wedding. The North Remembers, Sansa. They will remember if you betray them, too. You saw what disagreements Lady Bracken and Lady Blackwood had. Invite the Lannisters here, and they will become a thousand times worse."

"Fine," said Sansa. "Not the Lannisters, then. There are others, though, who might be persuaded to help us."

"Such as—?"

Sansa gave him a tired look. She knew that whatever she said, the Blackfish would refute it, so there was no point in saying anything. "Perhaps," she said, "we should bring this to an end for tonight, ser uncle. It is getting late."

Ser Brynden shrugged. "As you wish, Sansa. I will see you at breakfast come the morrow, then."

"Come the morrow," she repeated. The Blackfish knelt to give her a leathery kiss, turned towards the stairs, and was gone.

Sansa stood and walked to the window. It was the hour of the cat, not as late as she had thought. Not too late to make a visit to a certain person. She took her cloak down from its peg, brought the hood up over her face, and pulled on her thick leather boots. Six inches of snow had fallen in the yard over the last couple of weeks, so she would need them.

Jeyne's chambers were at the top of the spiral stairs. Marya Seaworth told her she must be quiet going in; Roban was fast asleep, and once woken, it could be difficult to calm him again. Jeyne herself was sitting by the hearth fire, looking like a mouse under a mountain of blankets.

"I am sorry to interrupt," Sansa began.

"Are you?"

The sharpness of the reply took her aback a little. "I only came—"

"—to ask if I had changed my mind about leaving Raventree. Well, I have not. Roban and I will stay here, and that is my final decision. As a mother, and as a queen, if you push me further."

"I have no intention of forcing you to go," said Sansa. "But Roban is Robb's son. Some might say he is the rightful lord of Winterfell, and the King in the North."

Jeyne chewed her lip. "If you were his mother," she said, "knowing how frail he is, would you let him travel north? On the kingsroad, through the Neck, now that winter is here?"

"I would do whatever I had to do for my family."

"Then we should be thankful that you are not his mother."

The air suddenly became very cold. "Do not presume to tell me—"

"I will presume whatever I want, as Roban's mother. And yet… I do not want to quarrel with you, Sansa. Leave me in peace, and I will do the same for you. And I will not be dissuaded."

There was, Sansa decided, no point in this. Jeyne had made no suggestion that she ever intended to be anything other than Robb's widow, nor that Roban would ever claim to be lord of Winterfell. When the wars were over, she might head back to the Westerlands and live out the rest of her days there.

She was no threat to Sansa Stark. It would be wrong to assume anything else.

And yet there were so many others that were.

Back in her chambers, she sent for Podrick Payne to bring her quill and ink, her wax seal, and a cup of hot wine. Pod hovered by her side, looking gangly as ever. "Is there aught else, my lady?"

"Not at all, Podrick." She heated the wax in its pan, watching as the solid surface split and grey bubbles issued forth. But Pod did not move to leave. His lips spilled open suddenly and clumsily. "I watched her. Your sister. Lady Arya. Like you asked, my lady."

"And?"

"She noticed me, I think."

"You think?"

"She… she…" He coloured, going nearly the same colour as his wine, blushing to the roots of his hair. "She threatened me. She pointed her sword at me. She… said that if she saw me watching her again, she'd… it wasn't pleasant, my lady."

Sansa frowned. "When was this?"

"Earlier this morning, my lady."

"I see." Beneath the table, Sansa's fingers twisted tightly together. "Well, then. If you mean to keep all your parts intact, I think you had best stay away from her, don't you, Podrick?"

Pod shrugged. "Yes, my lady. Has she… has she…— nevermind." His voice faded to a squeak.

"Has she what, Pod?"

"Has she always been wild?"

"Always," said Sansa. But wild was not the word she would have used to describe the new Arya. Wild meant hot anger, and rage, and fury. Arya was cold as ice.

"When I saw her first, I thought she might be a bit like Lady Brienne," Pod admitted. "But I was wrong. It's only because they both carry swords."

Sansa could not disagree with that.

Pod stammered out a question. "Have you heard anything from Lady Brienne?"

"Not since her letter from Pinkmaiden." And even that had been brief, nothing more than a confirmation that the lady knight was still alive. A week had gone by since then. She might be dead by now. "But if I hear anything, I'll be sure to tell you, Podrick."

"I think I should have gone with her."

Sansa was surprised by the strength of the usually timid squire's outburst. "Why do you think that?"

Pod stepped back. "It doesn't matter, my lady. I shouldn't have said that. It just came out—" He stepped back further, and further still. Sansa decided she would let him go. She had few friends to begin with, and besides, she already knew his reasons. Pod felt useless here, no doubt, little more than a glorified pageboy. She had that in common with him.

All her life she had been at the mercy of others. Littlefinger, the Lannisters, even her own mother and father, if she was being realistic and not kind. That was starting to haunt her recently. I had no qualms about going south to marry Joffrey, back then. I thought he was all I could ever want. But if I had not wanted that marriage, would Mother and Father have allowed me to refuse him? She thought they would have. But she could never be sure.

That was just one of the dozens of little uncertainties that seemed to be everywhere in her life now. She was free: she had escaped her gilded cage, as Sandor Clegane would say. But beyond that cage was all the great wide world, and, frankly, there was too much of it for her. Littlefinger had been a puppetmaster for so long, playing the game of thrones while they danced and dangled like marionettes. Now Sansa had taken up those strings, but she had found them more like reins. She was sitting in the back of a chariot pulled by four horses, none of whom wanted to obey her. And the horses had names like Arya and Rickon and Uncle Edmure.

The hours slipped by without her ever really noticing. At one point she slept. The next she knew, it was dawn. A dim and rainy dawn, at that, not warm enough for sun, but not cold enough for snow, either. Everything was grey.

She knew she would not be getting back to sleep in the hour before Arya and Rickon arrived for breakfast. There would be no point in even trying. So instead she sent for her maid to run a bath, and sat in it for a long while, staring up pointlessly at the ceiling.

She wondered if heading north was the right choice at all. Yes, it was her duty to help Bran – both as his sister, and as the last representative of House Stark in the south – but at the same time, when she had reunited with Rickon, she had sworn to herself that she would keep him safe. And in the North, that was not something she could guarantee. If her uncle Edmure was not being quite so apathetic about things, she might have sent Rickon to Riverrun as his ward. Or maybe she could dispatch him to the Gates of the Moon, to stay under the watchful eye of Bronze Yohn Royce. No, she decided, changing her mind abruptly. Not that. If they find out about Robert, who knows what they might do to Rickon. The Vale was placated, not tamed. It was important not to forget that.

Seagard, then? Lord Mallister might even be honoured to keep Rickon in his company. Yes, that would work. So long as Rickon was amenable to it. Which, given his association with the increasingly wilful Arya, was looking unlikely.

Protecting her younger siblings had never been her intended role in life. Sometimes it was still strange to think about it, to look back, and reflect on just how she had gotten here. She had been the prince's betrothed, a rebel traitor's daughter, the Imp's wife, Littlefinger's supposed daughter, the lady of Highgarden (however briefly – though, she reflected, maybe she still was). And now…

All her life Sansa had belonged to somebody else. Both her sex and her age meant that all the important decisions were made for her by another, whether they be malevolent or otherwise. It was not that she did not know what she was doing. Among his 'lessons', Littlefinger had given her an adroit understanding of money and economies, of lawmaking and lawbreaking. She understood the Riverlords' desire for peace, and the necessity of buying in salt for grain storage from Gulltown, and the impacts the winter was having on trade. She even understood war – not the specifics, but the general ebb and flow of it. And yet, despite all the deference they were showing her, she felt that she was lost, floating in a sea of confusion. The planned march to Winterfell had been an obvious conclusion, but after that: then what?

Sansa resolved to consider this later. She rose from the bath and dried herself off on the towels. Then she sent for her maid to bring her wardrobe. Since winter had well and truly descended, most of her gowns were heavy embroidered velvet, and over those she wore a cloak of fur. Gone were the days of summer, when you could leave your arms bare. Not that she bared her arms anyway: Joffrey's tokens of affection, though faint, were still visible there. Sansa chose a dark blue today, taken from her late relative Lady Whent's massive collection at Harrenhal.

As for Harrenhal itself, she had left the castle in the command of Ser Symond Templeton. The Knight of Ninestars had wanted to be Robert's Regent, but he seemed content with Harrenhal as a consolation prize. No one actually owned the castle now – though Sansa could have claimed it if she so wished through her mother's line – but it did not really matter anymore. Harrenhal was behind her, now.

There was a knock on the outer door. She had not been expecting Rickon and the Blackfish for another five minutes or so, but it was no great hardship. But then she opened, and found not her brother and uncle but Sandor Clegane waiting on the other side. "Good morning to you, little bird," he said in a throaty, sardonic voice.

"Good morning," Sansa replied. "Except, it is plainly not." She nodded to the sky.

"Mist," said Clegane thoughtfully. "Always mist, nowadays."

"I was expecting you after breakfast."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

There was a long pause.

"Aren't you forgetting something, little bird?" he asked.

"Oh. Yes. Come in." Sansa stepped back to allow him over the threshold. "Would you like some hot wine, or—?"

"Don't trouble yourself."

He stood there for a while longer, and Sansa merely stared back at him. Then she remembered with an awkward start why she had asked him here. "Well…"

"What?"

"Have you… did she…?"

"Say what you mean, little bird."

"Arya. Has there been anything suspicious?"

"Depends what you mean by suspicious," the Hound said. "She's talked with the red priest, yes. I don't know what they said. And to that fat baker's boy, but he's no threat. And near to night-time she wanders round on her own, and it might be she speaks to the trees. But no." His voice rose to a growl. "She's been no more suspicious than you have been."

Sansa frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that before you accuse her of skulking around, you might consider your own actions."

"I'm not skulking around."

"No. You're sending me to skulk around for you. Well, I warn you, little bird, this won't last forever. There's only so much I can do for you before she notices. And when that happens, maybe she'll come after you. And your secrets." He smiled.

Sansa felt very cold. "What do you mean?"

"It took me a while to figure out, I admit," said Clegane. "Honestly, I didn't think you had it in you."

"What?" she repeated, harder now.

"Your Arryn cousin. His poisoner wasn't the Lannister girl, was it? But neither was it Littlefinger."

Sansa felt her heart quicken; she tried to keep her reaction hidden, but Clegane was smiling – he had seen enough. There was no way out. Yet…

"And what if I did?" she said.

His smile stretched hideously. "You're learning. Took you long enough."

"Well, I'm glad to see that I've lived up to your expectations."

Clegane's smile fell away. "Not quite. If you had, I'd never have known. And if I can find out… then your sister certainly can, if she cares to look. What do you think she'll do when she does? What do you think she'll tell the lords of the Vale, if the thought occurs to her?"

"Arya wouldn't—"

"She would. Or she might, at the very least. Don't you think she might?"

"I-I don't know."

The smile returned, though by now it was halfway to a grimace. "And that's what scares you most, isn't it?"

Before Sansa could answer, she was saved by a knock on the door. She stepped around Sandor Clegane and opened it to let in the Blackfish and her brother. Rickon was wearing his fur cloak, the one she had sewn to look like Father's, and despite the early hour he somehow already had mud on his cloak. "Sansa," he broke out instantly. "I had another one of the dreams."

"What dreams?"

"The wolf dreams. It was Bran. He spoke to me."

The Blackfish gave him a playful clout round the ear, and ushered Rickon over to sit at the table. "Come now. Don't go worrying your sister with these old tales again. They made sore enough hearing the first time around."

Sansa spied Clegane slipping out through the door, and did not say anything. She turned back to Rickon, "I'm sure they were just dreams."

"They weren't. He warned me—"

Then the door opened again and Arya came in. She was dressed in dark leather from head to toe, and over her shoulders and head she wore a woollen grey cowl. Her needle-thin sword hung threateningly from her belt. Sansa could not help but feel strangely vulnerable.

"Arya," she made herself say. "Good morning. I hope you are… well."

Her sister nodded her head in a strange, stiff fashion. "I am, thank you." She looked towards the table.

"Oh," Sansa said, hurried. "Please, sit." She made her way to pull out Arya's chair, not quite knowing why, then changed her mind and sat back down again. The Blackfish gave her a passing look out the corner of his eye.

Rickon saved her, offering up a hasty welcome. "Maybe we could go out in the yard again today," he said, nudging Arya's arm. "Maybe you could show me again—"

"Maybe," agreed Arya. But her eyes kept constantly flitting back to Sansa.

She knows, thought Sansa. She knows what I have done. She reached out to the wine flagon; her shaking, spasmodic hand nearly knocked the whole thing over, but the Blackfish caught it. "Easy, now," he said in a friendly way, and refilled her cup. Then passed it on to Arya. "You as well?"

Arya nodded.

"Your mother would not approve," said the Blackfish.

"Nor Father," said Arya.

"Well," Sansa replied, instinctual and too-fast. "He isn't here any more." Immediately she regretted what she had said. "No, I meant—"

"Mother probably wouldn't want me fighting with Arya either," Rickon said. "But that was back then, when it was all right not to fight. Now, though, we need to learn. Even you, Sansa. I reckon you could pick up a sword, if you had to."

"I wouldn't know where to start."

"I'd teach you. Or Arya would."

"Or Jon, once we get to the Wall," said Arya.

Sansa frowned. "We're not going to the Wall. We're going to White Harbor, and then on to Bran, in Winterfell. If we can get through the snows."

Now it was her sister's turn to scowl. "Thoros says the war is in the North. The real North. That means the Wall. There's no point fighting where the war isn't."

"It's a thousand leagues to the Wall. The men we have at Seagard won't march that far—"

"Fine," said Arya. "Let them. They don't have to. They aren't Starks."

Sansa sat upright. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we can't stop at White Harbor, no matter how tough things get. No matter how much snow falls. Bran is our brother. And after that, we have to go to the Wall. Jon is our brother too. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." She fixed her gaze on Sansa. "Or don't you believe that?"

"Of course I believe it."

"Then you know we can't settle for halfway." Arya said it very coldly, very dispassionately. And very righteously. It made Sansa oddly angry. Family? She doesn't even know what family is. "I—," she began.

"I agree with Arya," said Rickon.

Sansa turned to him. "Do you, now? So you think we should just march right past White Harbor, in the midst of a blizzard, up the Kingsroad – Seven alone knows what foes are waiting for us up there – and you suppose we'll just keep on going north, gallivanting our way up to the Wall where we'll have hot mulled wine and tea-cakes, dragging Bran all the way in his cart like it's no trouble at all, and that our ten thousand men will go all the way with us, just like that? Do you?"

She had been, in truth, absurdly grateful for Rickon's interruption. It meant she could say all she had been intending to say to Arya without having to look into those strange, unseeing eyes. And yet, seeing her little brother frozen in shock, she felt guilty too. "Look," she said, softer now. "I know you both want to help. But you have to understand that this is my role to play. I am the eldest. Now that Robb's gone… now that Mother and Father are gone, too, I have to—"

"Protect us?" said Arya. She placed her hands down on the table, palms up and pale. "And how are you going to do that?" There was a long pause. "Oh. That's right. You don't know. You're afraid."

Yes, thought Sansa. But it was not the North she was afraid of right now. Very slowly she picked up the cup of wine and took a long, nervous sip. She will not hurt me, she thought. Not while the Blackfish is here. And she will not hurt me, because she is my sister. "I have to protect us," she repeated, now knowing what she had to say. "But I can't do that alone. I can't do it without you. Or Rickon. We have to protect one another. Like Father said. The pack survives."

She knew Rickon was bursting to say something, but right now he could not interrupt this intense glance of understanding which passed between the sisters.

"Well," said Arya at last. "Maybe you are right."

Sansa nodded. Maybe, and just maybe, she was.