"Aunt Arya."
"Anawya," Serena repeats happily.
"Old Nan has said that they speak the Old Tongue in the Far North," Arya mocks.
"Oh hush, she needs learn," Sansa scolds her sister. "Aun-t A-ry-a," she says again to her daughter.
"An-awy-a," Serena repeats and giggles.
"Gods be true, Sansa: she can't even say her own name properly," Arya mutters. "What your name, pretty little girl?" she questions her niece with a big smile.
"S'wena," she giggles again.
"See?" Arya says flatly and then lifts Serena up. She is still dressed in her breeches with her slim sword at her hip.
"Fyway," Serena says now, and Arya looks at her, puzzled.
"Yes, my little bird," Sansa exults. "Fly away!"
"Hee," Serena reached her arms out to her mother now and Sansa takes her from Arya, who looks at them curiously.
"I see the resemblance now, like Mother says: the shape of her face and your mouth…but the rest must be the Greatjon. Were his daughters pretty? I don't remember them."
Sansa thinks. "More handsome than pretty, I would say. They were tall, with good teeth and clear skin; and they were lively and kind."
"Serena will be pretty…" Arya says to her.
"Pit-ty," Serena repeats.
"…if she looks like her Mama," she finishes. "Though you don't want her too pretty up there, I imagine…with wildlings about. Another Umber girl was taken not so long ago," Arya remarks innocently.
"Before you and I were born, Arya," Sansa counters somberly, "so it was quite some time ago now."
"Do they talk about her?" Arya asks in a hushed voice.
"Never," Sansa lies flatly. "I expect it is too painful," she adds after a pause.
Arya pauses herself and then smirks. "If she were pretty…then it is just the sort of thing you once would have believed romantic: to be carried off by a-"
"There is nothing romantic about losing someone you love, Arya," Sansa cuts her off sharply. "My lord's uncle lost his wife and his sons and then his only daughter. He is a deeply unhappy man," she says tightly.
"I'm sorry, Sansa," Arya says quickly. "I forget that these aren't just stories to you anymore: you're an Umber now."
"Forgive me, Arya," she excuses herself gently now as she holds her daughter tighter. "I fear I miss them all very much, and it has made me sensitive to talk."
Arya nods awkwardly and glances over to Berena who is ready for her youngest charge to go to bed in the nursery at Winterfell. Sansa has already changed into her bedgown and fur robe, so that her maid could leave for the winter town with other servants to the Smoking Log. She is beginning to suspect that she will needs find a new maid for her return to Last Hearth as the girl is being courted by a cooper and a baker both.
"That were a kind thing to say about old Mors, milady," Berena tells Sansa. "You understand his anger, and why he drinks so much then?"
"Did he not drink before?" She is not certain which loss made him so bitter.
"Umber men have always liked their ale; but the liked and needed it more and more over the years, milady; though I expect it started with his wife. They say he loved her truly; though she'd been gone when I got there. And his girl was pretty enough; they say she'd the look of her mother. Lost to the bloody bed, that one."
"Poor man," Sansa murmurs.
"Poor man? Poor woman's more like it," Arya states firmly and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.
Both of the other women are quiet and Sansa cradles her sleepy daughter before speaking.
"Arya?" she prompts her softly.
"I don't know," her sister mutters. "I was never…on time, like it's supposed to be…so I can't be sure yet," she sounds surly and defensive and so Sansa knows that she is worried about her moon-blood not coming.
"Berena is also a midwife, Arya: she can-"
"No," Arya blurts, "not yet," she relents. "Please, just let me find out on my own if this is how it is going to be. I-" She purses her lips and blinks and Sansa wonders if she is trying not to cry. "Just leave me be…please," Arya whispers.
"If you like, milady," Berena says unconcernedly.
"Talk about something else," Arya commands them. "What about the other uncle? He drinks too, Bran said: they were both at Winterfell for the Harvest feast when Robb was fighting," she asks.
"Hother," Sansa tells her his name.
"Whoresbane," Arya counters rudely.
"He's not addressed as such at Last Hearth," Sansa corrects her, as is proper; though she has overheard some men in the garrison use the term behind his back.
"Was the whore really a man? Did he know that before he tried to rob him?" Arya taunts her and Berena with the old story of Hother's time at the Citadel in Oldtown and how he earned his crude moniker.
"Arya," Sansa warns her; but Berena interrupts smoothly.
"Aye, that'd be another unhappy man, milady: bad enough to lose a love; but imagine never having one? 'Tis a shame to live like that," she shakes her head sadly.
"Like what?" Arya asks and when she looks to Sansa, her sister ducks her head.
"You know then, milady?" Berena asks Sansa.
Sansa looks up at her now. "I…I have overheard…" she replies softly and then shrugs.
"Overheard what?" Arya persists. "Does he love men?" she laughs incredulously. "I've heard of that," she boasts.
Sansa turns to her. "I do not think it is an easy life, Arya," Sansa tells her seriously, "they have to keep it hidden or…or others mock them, or hurt them." She thinks of the whisperings and sly remarks about Ser Loras and King Renly when she was still in Kings Landing; and the crude names soldiers called the big woman from Tarth who served on Renly's Rainbow Guard.
"I thought it only happened in the South," Arya states, "in the Reach…and Dorne; not here."
"That's enough, Arya," Sansa chides her though not harshly. "Be kind…everyone wants to be loved," she cannot help saying wistfully. Though her lord's uncle has spoken crudely of her, Sansa thinks it is because he does not know love himself.
A loud thumping and the creak of wooden floorboards can be heard in the hallway, and they all turn their heads to the door when Hodor appears.
"Hodor!" he implores them.
"H'dor," Serena smiles sleepily.
"Hodor," Hodor whispers back to her with a grin.
"What's wrong, Hodor?" Arya asks. "Is it Bran?"
"Hodor," he nods.
"I'll go," Arya says as she springs from the window seat where she had folded herself.
"I will follow," Sansa offers as she hands her daughter to Berena and kisses her child's head.
"He must have had another nightmare," Arya says off-handedly to Sansa over her shoulder.
"But it is early yet; has he to bed already?" she asks.
"Bran often retires early so he can wake at night and look at the stars with Maester Luwin's far-eye," she explains. "I have gone with him; it can be quite beautiful on a clear night like this night."
When they arrive at Bran's room, he is hanging onto a bar above his bed and breathing heavily. One look at his pale face tells Sansa that he woke in a sweat. His eyes meet hers now and she sees that he is afraid.
"What is it, Bran?" she asks tremulously. "Did you see beyond the Wall?"
He shakes his head now and swallows before finding his voice. "Winterfell," he whispers hoarsely, "water flooding through the gate and streaming through the halls where…where it turned to blood," he tells them.
Sansa and Arya exchange glances of foreboding.
"We would have ample warning before any threat came to Winterfell from beyond the Wall, Bran," Arya assures him.
"Unless he dreamt of a message from beyond the Wall," Sansa tells her sadly.
"Dark wings, dark words," Arya said after an uncomfortable pause, "but ravens don't ride on a wave."
"And wights do not bleed, nor do the Others," Sansa mourns. "It would needs be the blood of a man, or men."
"Can you remember anything else, Bran?"
Bran lifts his eyes to her. "A man…a man screaming, out of a wide open mouth," he tells them reluctantly.
"How horrible for you, Bran," Sansa commiserates. "But…but could it just be a- a dream; or is it one of your green dreams?"
"It…it was real," he says softly.
"Bran," comes the voice of the master from the doorway, "you must not let such notions trouble you. Have I not told you such magic does not exist?"
"You told me the White Walkers were all dead," Bran counters to him, "you even said they may not have existed at all. How can you be sure about magic and greenseeing now?"
"I have dreamed many things in my life, Bran, and few of them came true."
"I saw Father die," Bran insists, "and so did Rickon. You don't have the sight, or a direwolf."
"You speak of warging again," Maester Luwin said with patient skepticism.
"We have all of us felt it," Arya tells him.
The master looks to Sansa now, and she drops her eyes.
"Surely you do not believe this, Sansa?"
She looks at her folded hands. "I have not felt what the others have, Maester Luwin; but I have felt…an emptiness, for which I cannot account. I know it's Lady; I cannot explain why…it is something I feel very strongly."
"Sansa, sweet girl: you lost a child. Many women have spoken of what you feel now," he says sympathetically.
She shakes her head vigorously, even as her eyes fill with tears. "No," she insists, "I have felt it for years, whether I am happy or sad…it is there-"
"It's here!" Bran exclaims suddenly. "It's here!"
All at once shouting can be heard from the yard, and then the clash of steel. They hear horses whiny and running footsteps echoing within the castle.
"Hide," Maester Luwin tells them. "I'll stay with Hodor and Bran; we'll get him to safety."
Sansa rushes to the door.
"Sansa!" Arya calls.
"My children!" she cries as she runs into the hallway and down the winding stairs. Once she reaches the nursery, it is deserted. She cries out in dismay. In the darkness, she sees the blanket from Serena's bed is gone. "Gods of my father: protect my children," she whispers as she turns to leave and search for them.
But the doorway is barred by a shadowy figure is a dark cloak. Sansa gasps suddenly and the man steps forward into the light thrown by the torch on the wall.
"Lady Umber," Theon Greyjoy greets her smugly. His sword is in his gloved hand, and he looks her over in her fur robe and bedgown. "You looks very inviting, Sansa; but you'll need to go and dress warmly: you and your children. You'll be coming with me to Pyke."