3.

That night, Ned Stark was surprised into almost smiling by the way his daughter smiled at him, how she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She had been so silent since her mother died, so polite and sweet – that and nothing else. Just good, trying her hardest, he knew, at the same time with an air of gentle guilt about her that he could not begin to understand.

It was his own guilty feeling to know that he never understood her. He had supposed at first that it was simply because she was a girl, but then Arya had posed so little mystery to him whatsoever that he had been forced to re-evaluate. Sansa was so like her mother; Ned tried not to always make that obvious comparison, but it seemed to him that it made itself so easily.

Tonight was different though. There was a lightness in her step he had not seen before- or not in many weeks. Lightness like a sunbeam that went all the way to her eyes and when her smile flickered in that secretive way he found himself stepping back thinking by all the gods when did she grow up and how did I never notice it?

And then the little ones too had their secretive smiles – that were far less secretive than hers. Ned smiled himself to see them, thinking of their innocence yet; how small their secrets were and how big – even he remembered – these small intrigues always did seem at the time.

She was less time in the sept that night as well, and for sure the children knew the cause of it. They were good though, and never let their whisperings be overheard.

Sansa almost danced through her prayers that night and when her song lifted up, up through the arches and to the sky, she was sure that she lifted with it. That night she felt like she could fly. Little bird, he had said, and it had to be true, for she had grown a pair of wings so big and bright that she could all but see them, feel them flutter and stir up the air.

When she reached the Stranger's statue she gave him a smile that was almost a wink. She offered him all of her promises that night, every assurance that she would keep him safe and take good care of him. For the first time she understood why Arya and the boys talked so often and excitedly about becoming knights; she could see herself now, shining, donning armour to protect Him, to defend him if need be, from all the world.

She started her campaign at supper. She had never been good at subterfuge but Arya and Jeyne helped her to shift food around under the table, for which assistance she hissed fervent assurances to Jeyne that they would let her in on the secret.

When she managed to add a flagon of wine to her stash, Sansa felt sure that she would never feel more wicked than she did at that moment. Then she squirreled bandages, and just a little milk of the poppy from behind the Maester's back, and had to re-evaluate her own self ultimatum all over again in the space of a mere half hour.

Arya caught her slipping out of the side tower door, cloaked with just a lantern for the dark. Obviously it was Arya. Sansa supposed that at least she should be grateful it was not one of the adults. Arya just begged to come with her and pouted when Sansa put her foot down. She promised Arya that they could all visit The Man tomorrow and moved on, a little unsure as to quite why she was so eager to go alone – or so sure that she would be safe. Arya gave her a cheery grin as she left that told her she'd find sheep shift in her bed tonight for this, but on this particular night she could not begin to care.

The Man had been dozing, but he awoke when he heard her rustling through the trees.

"It's just me," she whispered, though he had known already. He did not know how he knew; just that he had known it would be her. His eyes followed her careful movements as she put the lantern on the ground as far away from him as she could manage. She saw the approval in his eyes and her heart swelled bigger, she supposed, than it should have.

"I had to bring it – to see my way," she offered, apologetically – "I know you don't like light."

"It's not the light –" he began, and stopped. It occurred to him that she was clearly under some misconception as to who he was, and this could only work in his favour. He supposed it might be prudent to be a little careful – let her think what she did if he could make use of it.

"You brought wine?"

"And food-" she began, holding it all out, but he was into the wine before she could go on, drinking very like a human man and a desperate one too.

"Thank fuck for that," he breathed when he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. She looked shocked and he laughed softly – "You never heard a curse before girl?"

She blushed. She remembered her stories – when the gods visited men it always had been in human guise themselves. She tried not to watch him simultaneously eat and rifle through the food; she knew she would not be able to keep the disgust from her face and it would be so rude of her not to do so. She remembered that he was hungry and in trouble and silently excused his manners.

"You come here all on your own?" he asked her finally, when everything that could be eaten had been eaten. She nodded. She never took those big wondering eyes off of him, he noticed – he was beginning to be unnerved by it. People had stared at him enough and she was looking at him like a lady to a lord. It made no sense. It was some gentle mockery perhaps, or maybe she was simple – that seemed more likely, he supposed.

"You shouldn't have."

"But I'm safe with you, aren't I?" He frowned at her, unsure how anyone could be so trusting, strangely afraid for her for being so.

"Girl –" he rasped, taking hold of her arm and yanking her towards him – "Do I look safe?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again startled, her heartbeat racing.

"No pretty answer for that, little bird? I'm not safe," he sneered – "You can get that idea out of your head right now. Look –" For the first time, obtusely, she looked away – "Look at me!" he growled, shaking her, but almost gently, she was so small, seemingly so fragile – "See this? This face? You think these hands couldn't tear you apart? and this –" he gripped her harder, gesturing his armour – "Not all of this blood is mine".

She looked back at him, her eyes wide, but the fear that flared in them was brief and there was something else there too, she maybe did not even recognise herself, something that was not fear at all and he was surprised to see something stubborn and certain settle into her lips.

"You – won't hurt me," she said. It was not even a question; even she had thought it was going to be. He grimaced at her decisiveness, wanting to shout at her, to deny it. He looked into her clear, trusting eyes and knew with gut-plummeting certainty that she was right. He let go of her suddenly, all the fight going out of him in the face of her fierce gentleness.

"Fuck," he spat, unwilling to let out the no little bird, I won't hurt you that hovered brightly on his lips and unable to argue with her either.

"Go," he sighed, tired and confused – "Fly away little bird, go on."

It came out more tenderly by far than he had meant it to. She saw it and smiled –

"I'll come back tomorrow," she said, turning, and then her light was gone and the Godswood was dark once again.

_x_

Iiit – went all Blackwater. It always goes all Blackwater. These two. God damn. :-)