Arya sits cross-legged on Sansa's bed now. She is dressed in breeches and boots and a quilted tunic; all in shades of dull gray and brown. Sansa looks her over as her maid laces her into her wool gown over a corset, shift, underskirts, stockings and smallclothes; and she wonders now if Arya may have the right idea after all. She tries to suppress a giggle now at the thought of returning to her husband wearing the same breeches and undershirts and furs he favours.

"What's so funny, Sansa? My clothes, I bet: I never could look at pretty as you anyway…"

"Nonsense, Arya: you are a beauty in your own right," she smiles at her after nodding to her maid that she could leave them. "Does Harrion like to see in you breeches?" she asks.

"He likes to see me out of my breeches, Sansa," her sister smirks.

"Arya!"

"I only dressed like this around Harrion when I was training," she concedes.

"Did Father truly find a man to teach you to fight? He told me you were at dancing lessons," she remembers. "But Mother says you call your training dancing."

"It's called water dancing, and it was taught to me by the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos: Syrio Forel. They killed him…Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard killed him when they came for me. Syrio told me to run away while he fought them off, but he only had a wooden practice sword against plate and steel…"

"I'm sorry, Arya. Can you truly fight though…with a sword and shield?"

"Just with a sword. Jon gave it to me when we left for Kings Landing; I hadn't really thought I would need it but I did. Harrion laughed at first when he found out…then I put him on his back in the training yard," she smiles.

Sansa walks over to the bed and puts her hand under Arya's chin. "And did you put him on his back in your bed?"

"Sansa!" It was Arya's turn to be shocked now.

Sansa is surprised. "Forgive me, Arya; I thought we were sharing confidences," she explains, flustered. "I understand if it is too personal."

Arya blushes to her hairline. "Oh, alright: I did try it…I liked it, but I felt a bit, well, awkward," she confesses. "I- I saw a lot of soldiers at Harrenhal…wenching, I guess you would say; so I knew a lot more than was proper…and I didn't want to think of myself being like them so…it was a bit strange…though it was nice really…at times."

Sansa smiles as she sits on the edge of her bed. "Did he like it when you-"

Arya rolls her eyes but smiles. "Harrion seems to like everything I do…especially abed. Sometimes I think I don't have to do anything but…but be there," she jests. "Have…have you done it, you know, different ways?"

Sansa cannot help have a fleeting memory of Lord Jon in the north tower, bending her over a table and snatching up her skirts to take her from behind for the first time. He had once rubbed his member back and forth between her breasts as he pushed them together with his strong hands, groaning and grimacing as he reached the peak of his pleasure. She almost shivers to remember her pleasure then and her pain now; and so she swallows hard before replying.

"Not- not at first…my lord was very careful with me, because I was still young." She looks down and examines her hands, turning them over and rubbing them together. "I expect he did not want to hurt me or frighten me but…we are closer now," she says wistfully.

"You miss him, don't you?" Arya asks quietly and Sansa closes her eyes and nods. "You've changed, Sansa," she remarks kindly. "No more songs of knights and fair maidens with flowers in their hair…you truly care for him, just the way he is." She sighs. "I want to be like you; I should try to be more wifely and happily married-"

"You will, Arya," Sansa tells her as she reaches to squeeze her hand encouragingly, "and you don't need to be like me to be happy; just give it time and…and trust Harrion. Don't hold back your heart from him and he will love you in turn, sister: how could he not?"

Arya is looking at her levelly with those serious grey eyes, so like their father's. "Is that what you did, Sansa: did you hold back your heart from the Greatjon?"

Sansa drops her eyes now and feels ashamed. "I- I thought he had married me for an alliance, or for more children; and to take me away from Winterfell…" She pauses when she feels that her voice may catch. "I never thought that he wanted my heart, or even cared about it," she says as she stands and smoothes her skirts with her hands, her face expressionless, "but I was wrong."

…..

She crosses through the yard to the godswood and even in the harsh cold of winter she can smell the earthy ground and the sulfur of the hot springs and the scent of the evergreens. She slows her steps and breathes deep until she is before the great ancient weirwood tree. She looks up into its high branches and then down to the stone where her father would sit polishing Ice. It is covered in fallen snow but she drops to her knees before it and suddenly sobs: "Oh, Father: I'm so sorry…for all I have done that was wrong. I wanted so much to be a true lady, and strong like you and Mother; and I have failed so much, not just you but…but I am trying, Father; truly I am," she whispers through her tears. "I – I have a good husband, just like you wanted for me: brave and gentle and strong, and a Northman. Lord Umber was true and loyal to you and now he is to Robb, his King. We…we have named our son for you, and our daughter for a Stark girl. I want so much for you to be proud of me, Father," she confesses, "but I find that I am still selfish: my husband must fight for our people and for the North but I want him to be with me and our children. I- I fear I will lose him, just as I lost you…" she trails off quietly before covering her face with her hands.

The godswood is still but for the faint rustling of leaves, and if she does not look out from behind her hands, she can imagine that she is at Last Hearth, and that her husband will come to find her there and he will remind her that she is strong and fierce like her wolf and that she is of the North. She even thinks she can hear his boots crunching over the snow.

"Hodor?"

Sansa looks up with a start now to see Hodor standing over her. He looks sad, and she realizes that he is concerned for her.

"Hodor," she greets him fondly. "You surprised me just now," she tells him but he still looks worried. "Forgive my tears, Hodor; but I miss my lord husband."

"Hodor," he nods and grins now, and Sansa cannot help grinning back.

"Go bathe, Hodor," Bran calls from behind them, and Sansa turns to see him in a small sledge with a padded seat in which he sits upright. "I want to talk with Sansa." He is looking at Sansa with concern as well.

"Are you not cold, Bran?" Sansa asks. He is wrapped in a fur cloak but has no hood, and his auburn hair falls to his collar in thick waves.

He shrugs. "No more than you, and I can't feel it on my legs anyway."

"I'm sorry, Bran. I would give anything if the Lannisters had never come to Winterfell."

"We can't change what's past, Sansa," he tells her after a slight pause.

"No," she agrees sadly, "we can't."

"Mother says you called Last Hearth your home when she welcomed you. She seemed hurt, but I told her that was right: you have lived there for some time now…with your lord husband and your children."

Sansa nods slightly. "Thank you, Bran, for understanding."

"Is that why you're sad…to be away from Lord Umber?"

She nods again and bites her lip.

"But…were you not sad when you were there?"

Sansa looks at him and replies carefully: "I was somewhat sad to miss Winterfell at first, and everyone here. Why- why do you ask?"

Bran seems to hesitate before answering. "I saw you there…in the godswood, Sansa: you looked very unhappy."

"Bran…" she begins and shakes her head as though she has not heard properly. "You have never been to Last Hearth. You cannot have seen me."

"I don't have to be someplace to see, Sansa; I- I have the sight. Old Nan and Maester Luwin call it greensight."

Sansa looks down and tries to hide her smile. "Those are old stories, Bran." But then she remembers Arya's tales of warging, and knows that they are true.

"But these stories are true," he insists calmly. "I have the sight, and can sometimes see through the weirwood trees. I have been learning at Greywater Watch, with Jojen Reed; he has the sight too, and he says mine is very strong. Did – did you not hear me, Sansa? I thought you heard me when I spoke to you."

She stares at him now, because she does remember. "I thought I heard you but-"

"You were with the Greatjon…forgive me, with Lord Umber, and young Eddard; and you were praying…praying that your family would not be hurt-"

"…by my failings," she finishes for him. Sansa stands before him and nervously wrings her hands together. "What else do you know, Bran? What else have you seen?"

"I thought I saw you with your husband again…you were in his arms, and he seemed to be comforting you. I wasn't trying to see; but I did." He takes a breath and speaks again. "I just want to know that everything is well with you, Sansa. I know that you fell and…and-"

"I lost a child," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Sansa."

"So am I, Bran: it…" she covers her mouth with her hand now and closes her eyes. "Forgive me. It hurts to speak of it."

Bran looks at her with his steady gaze, She looks into his deep blue eyes, Tully blue like her own; and she sees how thoughtful and serious he is. She also sees that he wants her to say more. Suddenly, she wants to confide in him: the urge to unburden herself is so overwhelming that it almost hurts.

"Oh, Bran," she whispers, "I have done such terrible things."

"Father's death was not your fault, Sansa."

She looks at him, both startled and curious. "But how-"

"I saw him…in the godswood of the Red Keep. He was talking with the queen: he told her that he knew about her children, that they weren't King Robert's; and that she should run away with them so Robert couldn't punish them. I think he was afraid they would die like the Targaryen children."

"But…but then she knew…and so she had him executed; my lord said it was Joffrey-"

"Mayhaps, Sansa; but it doesn't matter now does it? Father's gone."

His words were so final that Sansa knew he was right; but she was still upset to think of her father as being even partly responsible for his own horrible end. Surely he should not have put himself and his family at such risk over Cersei and her bastards; and she cannot help thinking of all those who died in the war that followed.

"I know you're feeling angry with him right now, Sansa; I was too when I realized what he'd done. But Father was honorable; he could not have done it differently. His honor was not his failing; it was others' lack of honor."

"Did you not try to warn him…as you tried to speak to me?"

Bran shakes his head slowly. "I saw it too late; I can see things that have happened years ago, hundreds and even thousands of years ago. I've seen the First Men in our godswood, Sansa. Sometimes…I can see in others places too. I've seen a man: the man with the burned face who was here at Winterfell-"

"You mean Sandor Clegane?" She is surprised to hear of him; she had thought him gone forever: gone and forgotten.

"He is someplace with a heart tree; or he was. There were children there: both golden haired; they say he was made sworn shield to the Lannister exiles."

"Are they safe, Bran? Tommen and Myrcella were both sweet children."

"They were safe, I guess," he says absently. "He certainly looks like he can keep them safe. Did Sandor Clegane follow the old gods?"

Sansa remembered the night on the roof of Maegor's Holdfast before the battle for King's Landing: he had laughed at her. What gods?

"Sandor Clegane did not believe in the gods," she tells him plainly, and she sees him furrow his brow quizzically. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"He looks at the heart tree sometimes; he…he talks to it," he tells her.

Sansa is nearly dumbfounded. "What does he say?"

Bran looks at her now. "He says: If you're there, watch over her."