A longer chapter with a last third that made people cry, so tissues on standby, people.

BRAN

"Why am I not surprised?" Bran told Jon as they stood on the gallery overlooking the training yard and watched Arya and Sandor try and beat each other. Arya was slightly faster and it kept her out of Sandor's reach for the most part. The blows either of them managed to land were insignificant as far as winning the bout went. Bran suppressed the twinge of envy at seeing his sister and goodbrother do something he would never be able to do.

"They are more alike than they would admit," Jon agreed, his eyes on the combatants. "Fighting helps them deal with the things beyond their control, like warging helps you."

"What will help Sansa to deal, I wonder."

Jon looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"It is quite possible that Sansa might never regain her memory," Bran said. "We can tell her things, fill in most of the blanks but to her it will be like a story. Yes, it is a story about her life but because she does not remember living through it, she will never feel connected to those events."

"Are you worried she will not be able to handle it?" Jon asked, turning to face his cousin fully. "That she will... break... under the strain of trying to cope?"

"It is possible," Bran admitted, feeling bad just for saying it. Sansa was his older sister, after all and if he could, he would make her better immediately. "I hope it is not the case but we must prepare for it nonetheless."

He looked down into the yard where Sandor was currently having the upper hand and Arya was furiously trying to break away from his onslaught. Bran might not have been a regular visitor recently but he knew his sister's bond with the large man was strong.

"Sandor is a good man. He will support her but only if she lets him."

Jon nodded just as a shout from the yard announced Arya's loss of a weapon. Sandor said something to her which neither of the men caught but it earned him a furious growl and an attempted kick that he easily evaded. He gathered both of the training swords and took them back to the armoury, emerging a moment later. Arya was sulking at her loss but he ignored her as he climbed the steps to the gallery.

"When did you arrive?" he asked them directly.

"About two hours ago," Bran replied and Sandor glanced at Jon.

"That beast of yours?"

"Left outside as usual. He's too big to fit into any of the yards."

"Good," he said and rubbed the unscarred side of his face tiredly. "The servants will take care of you."

Bran kept silent but Jon didn't have that much restraint. Then again, Jon had had the least contact with Sandor out of all of the Starks.

"Sandor, if there's anything either of us can do-"

"There's nothing," Sandor cut him off brusquely. "So piss off with your pity, Targaryen."

Bran winced. When Sandor called someone in the family by their House name, it meant he was angry. And only he could make a title or a name sound like an insult. Jon flinched at the rebuke before he straightened up, glaring at the older and taller man.

"I only meant to offer my sympathies and any help I could provide as the Prince of the Realm. Sansa is my family, too."

The two men held their gazes for several moments, long enough for Arya to join them. She purposefully bumped into Sandor as she passed him and slapped Jon upside the back of his head, breaking the tension immediately.

"If you look at his ugly face for too long, you'll go blind," she admonished Jon. Sandor snorted and Arya stuck out her tongue at him. Bran sighed inwardly. It seemed he was the only mature person in the group, even if he was the youngest there.

"Dinner will be served shortly," he announced to no one in particular. "So if we are done here..."

His reminder was heeded but the dinner was a solemn affair, Sansa's empty chair at the dais reminding them all about the reason for all of the remaining Stark siblings to be gathered in Winterfell again.

Bran ate little, observing his family instead. Sandor was the hardest to read, his face void of any emotion as he ignored everything around him. Arya was still looking guilty. She was blaming herself for Sansa's accident from what Rickon had told him. Jon looked contemplative, his face serious as he most likely thought on how best to handle the situation. And Rickon was unusually serious as well, looking in turns at Sandor, Arya, Jon and Bran. He had been the baby of the family for so long that he automatically sought reassurance from his elders.

Bran finished eating first and pushed himself away from the table. He had grown too big to be carried around by Hodor years ago. It was Lord Tyrion who had once again come through for him. The small man had designed a kind of a chair on wheels that served Bran well enough and made it easier for him to move around. He left his siblings at the table and had a servant push him down the corridor to Sansa's room. Arya had said their sister had planned on resting but Bran saw no harm in checking on her.

He found her still awake. She was trying to sleep but was obviously failing and Bran could see she was glad for his interruption.

"Brandon?" she asked softly and he nodded, hating how her eyes went to his legs before looking at him with pity. He had gone through the process once before and didn't mean to suffer through it again.

"I'm glad to be alive," he told her, watching as she flushed at being caught. "It has been years and I adapted. Starks are hard people, we can endure anything."

Sansa brushed her hair away from her face as she sat up straighter in the bed. She resembled their mother greatly at that moment although Bran wasn't sure if it wasn't merely his mind replacing his mother's face with Sansa's in his memories. He would have to look back at his mother later to make sure.

"I heard about your work at the Wall," she said. "You will be as famous as Brandon the Builder."

"And it will help the realm," Bran replied. "What about you, Sansa? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She looked down at her covers and then to a small dress on the side table.

"Can you restore my memories?"

He had to shake his head no and Sansa smiled sadly at him.

"Then, no. There is nothing you can do."

"When will you talk to your husband?" Bran asked, watching carefully for her reaction. Sansa's fingers clenched in the covers and she let her hair slip past her face as if to better hide herself. "You cannot hide forever. Sooner or later you will have to face him."

"I know!" she burst out, looking straight at Bran. "I know," she repeated more softly. "But I cannot, not yet. He is the Hound and the last thing I remember about him is how afraid of him I was."

"Sandor," Bran pronounced carefully, "Has not been the Hound for years. The Sansa I know would not be hiding from him."

"But I am not that Sansa anymore. Stop thinking like that," she insisted and he grinned at her widely.

"Are you sure? Because I do not think that the Sansa you were at eleven would be shouting at her crippled brother like you are."

It was almost satisfying seeing the red flush spread across her face. He was telling the truth, of course. Sansa as she had been at eleven had been unfailingly polite, Arya being the only one capable of making her lose her composure. The older Sansa, the one that had had to deal with the war and winter and bannermen and dragons, well, that Sansa knew that there was a limit to how polite one could be and that sometimes losing one's temper helped accomplish things faster.

"I do not expect you to throw yourself into his arms at once," Bran spoke finally. "But maybe you could just try and talk to him. I think it would help both of you."

"But what if I flinch away from him?" she asked in a small voice. "Wouldn't that hurt him?"

She had a good point, Bran realized. If only she could be shown that Sandor was not someone she should fear. And that was when he remembered the servants' talk he had overheard earlier.

"Are you strong enough to walk?" he asked and when she nodded he continued. "Then dress quickly. We are going to the sept."

Bran didn't answer any of Sansa's questions as they hurried to the little sept that served the family needs. He hoped that they arrived soon enough to be able to hide and observe what was happening. They were in luck as the sept was empty when they arrived and Bran directed Sansa towards a little niche in the back, half-hidden behind the Stranger's statue.

"Bran?"

"Just a few moments," he replied, waiting anxiously and hoping he had been right. A couple of tense minutes later, the door opened again and Bran felt Sansa clutch at his arm when a small girl of five entered with several candles in her hands, Sandor following behind her. He stayed by the door while the girl went straight for the Mother's altar, carefully putting the candle in a holder.

"Please, watch over my mother because she is a good mother to us," she said in a clear voice as she bowed and moved over to the Maiden's altar, "Please, watch over my mother because she is as pretty as you," the Crone's altar, "Please, guide my mother back to us," the Smith's, "Please, give her strength to come back."

At that moment, she faltered, looking back to Sandor.

"Who should I pray to next?"

"It doesn't matter," he told his daughter in a voice more gentle than Bran had ever heard. "They all hear you no matter which one you call on. Just put the candles in place and bow."

The girl obeyed and stepped back until she stood with her back against her father's legs.

"When will she get better?" she asked.

"Soon, Magpie, don't worry."

The girl looked down, fidgeting with her now empty hands.

"Lina said that mother forgot about us."

"It won't last."

Catelyn sniffled a bit.

"She doesn't love us anymore. You remember people you love and she doesn't remember us so she doesn't love us."

Bran was the one holding Sansa's hand this time. It might have been wrong to intrude on this scene but Sansa needed to see for herself the man that Sandor had become. He might have been brusque and even impolite at times but when it came to his wife and children, he was nothing but gentle. Like at this very moment when he knelt down and turned his daughter around to face him.

"Magpie, look at me," he said as he grasped her chin softly and tilted her head up. "Your mother still loves you, never doubt that."

"But-" Catelyn was about to protest but he shushed her.

"She forgot because she hit her head, right?" the girl nodded and he continued. "Her head was hurt and her mind forgot us, yes, but tell me, do you love her?" there was a vigorous nod. "Do you love her with your head?"

"No," Catelyn frowned as she tried to work it out. "You love with your heart, not your head."

"And did she hurt her heart?" he asked leadingly and Catelyn's face brightened as she hugged her father tightly, shaking her head in response. He lifted her up as if she weighed nothing and she snuggled into him contentedly though not before planting a big kiss on his scarred cheek.

"I love you, father," she whispered but in the silence of the sept, the words echoed to every corner.

Bran didn't hear if Sandor replied anything back. He might have as he was walking out but Bran turned his attention to Sansa who was silently shaking, one hand pressed against her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Don't be afraid to talk to him," he advised her again. "For your own peace of mind, if nothing else."

She looked at him and nodded before she walked over to the Mother's altar and sank down to her knees, her lips moving in silent prayer. Bran leaned back in his chair, content to wait until Sansa was ready to go back.