"Good night, Mother."
Young Eddard sits in his bed in the chamber that he has been given. He is all alone and, though his has his own chamber at Last Hearth, Sansa can see very clearly that her son is lonely and uncomfortable in his new surroundings. She sits on the edge of his bed now and smiles gently at him.
"Eddard, I want to tell you how very good you have been on our trip and here in Winterfell. Your father would be so proud of you: you have been very courteous, and very brave."
He scrunches up his nose at her words. "There is nothing to be brave about; we are safe here, Mother."
"Mayhaps, Eddard…but you had never left your home before, and you did not want to leave home to come here," she prompts him.
He drops his eyes. "No," he admits quietly, "but…Father said we must."
"Yes, he did," Sansa agrees, "and we must obey your father. Children must obey their parents, wives must obey their husband, smallfolk must obey their lord, and we must all obey the king."
"Yes, Mother."
She reaches now to brush back his hair, so like her own thick auburn hair, and cups a soft hand around his cheek to raise his eyes back to her. "Eddard, there will be things in your life that you will needs do that you may not like, or that do not make you happy, because it will be your duty. How well you bear that will depend solely and entirely on you. If you bear it well: that can be brave," she finishes as she leans now to kiss his forehead.
"Was Grandfather Eddard brave?" he asks her now.
"Yes," Sansa replies after a short pause and her voice catches. "My father was very brave…though he needed to do things that he did not like, because it was his duty." She takes his hand now and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I never fought alongside my father of course; but your father did. Mayhaps he will tell you stories one day, it you ask him," she smiles again.
Her son's mouth turns down now. "When will he see him again?"
Sansa's smile fades as well. "I do not know, Eddard. I pray it will not be very long. Shall we go to the godswood tomorrow and pray together, as your father taught you? Good," she says when he nods. "Sleep now, my brave boy. Berena will wake you in the morning."
Eddard lies back and she pulls the furs of the bed up to his neck and tucks them around his shoulders. Her smile returns when he looks up at her.
"You grandmother is right, Eddard: you have the look of your father."
After checking on Eddard and seeing Serena in the nursery with Berena and the younger princess and her nurse, Sansa retires to her own chamber: the one that had been hers since she had stopped sharing with Arya when they were girls.
She feels oddly forlorn because she remembers that she once wanted nothing so much as to return to this chamber in Winterfell and be a girl again; and, now that she is here, she wants nothing so much as to return to Last Hearth.
The gods must be laughing at me again: for I always seem to get it wrong somehow.
Once her maid has undressed her and brushed her hair, Sansa settles in the featherbed alone to find sleep elusive and she wonders if she should sent for wine.
Wine is not what you need, she tells herself, nor what you want.
She misses her husband, now in the most physical way. Sansa closes her eyes and tries to imagine that he is in her room with her, that he is shedding his furs and turning towards the bed naked. She remembers how she used to look away when he undressed, and how she was overwhelmed by his enormous size, his hairiness and, most especially, how she was embarrassed by the sight of his large member; for even when it was not hard and poking straight up, as it was when he wanted her, it seemed unnaturally long and heavy. It had always seemed to her a strange and almost animalistic part of a man, and of marriage, that this thing should needs to become part of her. But this night, she finds that she misses that part of him and their marriage too.
No, I miss all of him. I want his strong hands and his deep kisses and his warmth and his weight on me. I want his tender words and his gentle caresses. I want our breaths to mingle and our hearts to pound until they nearly burst.
She bites her lip and remembers how it is to feel breathless and tingly and full of yearning, to feel the deliciously dizzying surrender of his hard manhood slipping slowly inside her and making her open and yield to him as he filled her-
She jumps now at a soft knocking at her door. "Sansa? Are you awake? It's Arya…"
"Come in, Arya," she calls, a little hoarsely. "What is wrong? Has there been a raven?"
"No," she begins hesitantly. "I just…I wanted to say I was sorry…about the Greatjon: I didn't realize…I heard you say that you love him. I didn't know, Sansa. I thought you were just being the perfect wife, just like you're the perfect mother."
"I am far from perfect, Arya," Sansa assure her humbly and sincerely. I have been the worst possible failure: a perfect failure. "You know that well. I- I'm grateful that you have forgiven me…if only for Father's sake."
"You didn't kill Mycah; and telling the truth would not have saved him…or Lady."
"I know," Sansa says quietly. "I am happy for you that you have Nymeria. I have dreamed of Lady sometimes too, that we are running through the godswood together."
Arya comes to sit on the edge of the bed now and looks at her hesitantly. "Sansa, there is something that you do not understand…when I talk about dreaming of Nymeria…I'm not with her, Sansa; I am her. I see through her eyes, I smell what she smells, I taste what she tastes…I even think what she thinks."
"How is that possible, Arya? Surely you must be imagining it-"
"Bran and Rickon do it too, with their direwolves; I think Robb and Jon may as well but they don't talk about it or understand it. It's called warging, Sansa-"
"That is just one of Old Nan's-"
"No," Arya tells her firmly. "No, Sansa, it's true…you know it's true."
Somehow, she did know but did not want to believe it; she did not want to know how much she had lost when she lost Lady. She feels the tears behind her eyes, and starts to sniffle. Sometimes, she felt so empty and alone; it would come upon her suddenly, even when she had been happy at Last Hearth. A part of her was missing always, and she could not reach it: it was though it was dead and buried somewhere, and the sadness was unbearable. She had thought it was just missing her family; but now she sees that it is more.
"Lady," she whispers tearfully.
Arya reaches to put her arms around her. "I'm sorry, Sansa; I'm so sorry."
Sansa nods now and composes herself. "Thank you, Arya. You will take Nymeria to Karhold with you, won't you?"
"Yes," and she smiles a little, "though old Rickard sniffs at her like he smells a fart. Well, he wanted a Stark bride for his heir, so with me he gets Nymeria."
"Arya! He is your lord's father; you needs be more respectful."
She rolls her eyes. "I will…when I get to Karhold." She lingers a moment longer without speaking, and Sansa senses that she wishes to talk more.
"Sister, what is it? Are you not happy with Lord Harrion?"
Arya drops her eyes again, and looks away now to try to avoid Sansa's question.
"Tell me," she insists. "I will never break confidence with you, I swear it."
"I…it's just…I don't know, Sansa: I'm not like you: sewing and singing and wearing pretty gowns. I don't know how to be married. He…Harrion is kind, and I like him and so does Nymeria, but…" she takes a deep breath, "…it seems like it all happened so fast; and now he is gone and…and I don't really want to leave Winterfell, Sansa: I never have. No one knows what is happening now, or what will happen in the future. And…and, oh seven hells: I'm afraid that I will have a child and I don't want to, not with things the way they are, Sansa. I don't," she blurts out finally.
"Oh, Arya, are…are you certain that you are…" She puts her question delicately, and Arya shake her head.
"I will know before long," Arya mumbles. "Harrion left only a fortnight ago. But mother had a child right away, and so did you; and so I thought…it seems the old gods like to bless us whether we are ready or not," she jest awkwardly.
Sansa throws back the furs that cover her so that her sister can sleep beside her. Arya smiles gratefully and slips between the linens and rests her dark head on the bolster with a contented sigh.
"Do you really love the Greatjon, Sansa?" she questions her now.
"I do, Arya," she whispers back. "He is-"
"Bigger than Hodor. Older than Father. Loud. Rough," Arya enumerates all that Sansa had once thought of her husband.
"Brave. Strong. Loyal to Robb. Northern…" she pauses and smiles to herself in the dark. "Gentle. Kind. He is so wonderful with our children, Arya. Eddard looks up to him; and Serena adores her Da."
"Did you love him from the start?" Arya asks now, and Sansa understand that Arya needs to hear the truth because she suspects that Arya does not yet love Harrion.
"No," she admits lightly but with a heavy heart, "he…he frightened me as first, for all the reasons you said; and even though he was kind to me then. And I had not wanted to leave Winterfell either…but I had to, though I did not understand the reason then. You see: there had been talk about me-"
"There still is, Sansa; or there was," Arya confesses, and Sansa turns her head to look at her. "When servants and smallfolk heard you were coming, they were making bets on who your son would look like," she explains awkwardly. "Some said Joffrey, others said Renly…some even said the Hound."
"Did they?" Sansa says dully.
"It's not true, is it, Sansa: they didn't hurt you…not that way?" She can hear the anger in Arya's voice.
"No, sister…not that way."
"I was beaten," Arya tells her now, "at Harrenhal. I worked as a servant, in the kitchens and scrubbing floors, and a man beat me. But he died, and then Lord Bolton came and made me a cupbearer. It was a little better."
"Why did you not tell him who you were? They said you were not found until men from Winterfell came and recognized you. You could have been safe; or even sent back North or to Riverrun."
"I didn't trust him, Sansa: he's…he's strange somehow: quiet and calm but…dangerous underneath. Besides, I was filthy and my hair was cut short; he probably would not have believed me. He might have had me beaten again."
Sansa is quiet to think of her sister's ordeal; and then speaks of her own. "I was beaten as well, Arya: Joffrey had his Kingsguard beat me. Once they tore my dress off in front of the whole court; but he told them to leave my face so I would still be pretty. Lord Tyrion had them stop…"
Arya reaches for her sister's hand now and holds it in both of hers. "They may have beaten us, Sansa; but they did not beat us: we are here, and they are not. They are all dead now; well, almost all…"
"Who do you mean, Arya?"
"Did the Hound never beat you?" she asks accusingly.
"No," Sansa replies simply in a soft voice.
"They say you pleaded for his life, Sansa; and so some said your son might be his. How could you ask mercy for him? He killed Mycah. He didn't deserve mercy."
"He killed the boy on the queen's orders and because of Joffrey's lies…and mine," she admits. "He had no choice, Arya: it was his duty. But he saved my life, at great risk to himself and not just one time, but twice; no one ordered him to do that, Arya...but he did."
"Oh," her sister relents. "Anyway…Mother put a stop to the talk. She asked how their king would like to hear how they were speaking of his lady sister; or how Lord Umber would like to hear them speaking of his lady wife."
"I understand why she was so quick to say my children resembled their father then. I expect she believes that it will help put false rumors to rest," Sansa remarks.
"Servants and commons love their talk, Sansa…especially about pretty high-born maidens who may not be maidens…"
"I was a maiden," Sansa tells her softly.
A silence follows before Arya speaks again. "Did it…I mean…was it painful for you? Your bedding…I mean."
Sansa rolls on her side to face her sister. "Yes, but not because he was not gentle. He tried to spare me, but I was young, even though I had flowered. And….and you, Arya?"
Arya rolls towards her now. "The same…I guess. But I was older than you were…and Harrion is not so…so big."
"Hm," Sansa breathes.
Arya lowers her voice to a raspy whisper. "Is the Greatjon truly…great?"
"Go to sleep, Arya," Sansa tries to tell her sternly; but she cannot keep the smile out of her voice.
"I see," Arya replies archly.
They sputter with giggles now, and reach out to hug each other.
"I'm so glad to came back safe, Arya; I'm sorry for everything you have suffered. I wish you only happiness now."
"I'm happy that you're happy at Last Hearth, Sansa; but I'm glad you're here now."
"Thank you," Sansa whispers, and they settle close together for warmth before sleep takes them both.