Sansa gave an annoyed huff, glaring out into the yard. Where was Arya? She always ruined everything. Even when they were little girls she was always running off, coming back with all sorts of stuff in her hair and mud splattered across her dress. Or she was out sparing with her brothers, or watching her brothers spar. Lately, however, all she seemed to do was spend time with the bastard.

At first, Sansa had seen no harm in it. They had been friends, when she and Arya had been separated during the war, and the bastard had looked after her little sister, though, Sansa had to admit, Arya hardly needed looking after. Even then, when she was nothing but a child. Arya had not been a child long.

"Children don't kill people," she had told Sansa once rather fiercely, when Sansa had reeled back in horror at hearing her younger sisters tales of the road.

She had taken that as a lesson never to call Arya a child again, even when referring to the past.

When Arya had returned, it had seemed like there was no child left in her, or even a hint that one had ever been there. There seemed to be no human there, to be perfectly honest, and it had frightened Sansa with a chill colder than the Others. The things her younger sister said and did... Once Sansa had seen her kill a man, right in front of her, his blood spilling often in her nightmares...

But it had been war then, Arya had said, and Sansa knew all too well how war created monsters. If you want to win, you have to be one, she had said to herself. But she, unlike Arya, had never succeeded. She might have pretended to be hard and cold and wrathful, but if there was a sword in her hands, she doubted very much that she would kill with the ease and lust that Arya did. Every stranger was someone to her sister. Every death was a vengeance.

Sansa knew all too well how she felt. But all the same... She had hoped that Arya would soften once the war had ended, and Stannis sat atop the throne, the last Lannister still hiding in exile. As it was, she grew even more unsettling.

And then the bastard had come. Only he wasn't just a bastard then, but a knight, though no knight that she had ever known. And he had the flag of the wolf, the sign of house Stark. When he had road into Winterfell that day, he had looked like any hero out of the songs.

He had been handsome too, Sansa remembered thinking, but he had not even noticed her. When he removed his bull helm and revealed a mane of shaggy black hair, his blue eyes looked right through her and straight to Arya.

Arya had been like a ghost that day. She walked towards him as if a dream, her eyes in far off places, no doubt remembering. Her fingers had stretched out to him, and for a moment, Sansa had wondered if this knight and Arya had been lovers. But that would have been impossible. Arya had grown up in Braavos, and then knight was no man of Essos.

Still, there was a moment of questioning, and Sansa looked to Jon, Bran, and Rickon, all who looked as clueless as she did. They could only watch, as their sister glided towards the knight atop his horse and then stopped.

He had only said too words, Sansa remembered.

"My Lady."

"Get. Out."

The viciousness of the snarl caused his horse to buckle and shy away, its eyes white with fear. Sansa felt fear too. She knew that voice, so laced with rage and wildness, and she feared, a moment, that her sister might rip the man to shreds.

"No."

Sansa gasped aloud. But the knight didn't look a lick afraid. His blue eyes rang with stubbornness. Stupid, Sansa thought. Stupid bullheaded knight.

Arya growled, but he ignored her, dismounting and walking right past her, to Sansa, who could only stand there, confused.

"My lady," he said, dropping to his knee. "I offer you and your house my services."

Sansa said nothing. Her mind whirled in confusion. Behind the knight, Arya prowled, looking wild.

"I said get out!" She shouted, but he ignored her still.

"I am not much of a knight," he had said, still kneeling. "In truth, I was only given the title by the Brotherhood. Perhaps you have heard of them?"

"I have," said Sansa, frostily. At the mention of the Brotherhood, Arya bristled.

"Then why don't you go back to them?" She shouted. "Go back to your precious Brotherhood! You are most unwelcome here."

The black haired young man ignored her completely.

"I would like to submit myself to you, my lady, and to you, my lords, as a humble blacksmith. I can see that your smithy is in need of one."

Sansa blinked in surprise. A blacksmith? But, despite her distaste, she had to admit, he had a point. The smithy was empty, in desperate need of someone adequate to fill it.

"What is your name, knight?" Jon asked, stepping forward. To Sansa's surprise, red blush ripped across the strangers face.

"Gendry," he said gruffly. "Gendry... Waters."

"You're a bastard."

Sansa hadn't meant to say it, but such was her surprise that the words had slipped from her lips. The bastards face reddened still more, from shame no doubt, and for the first time, it seemed, Arya forgot her anger.

"Sansa!" she said sharply, as if to reprimand her sister, and then, as if remembering herself, pulled back her frosty appearance. "You're absolutely right. We've got no place for bastards here."

"Shall I be off then?" Jon growled, and Sansa gave a start. Sometimes, for a moment, she would forget that Jon was a bastard and not her true born brother. He must have been just as offended as the false knight before them.

There was a prickling silence, and Arya had the good grace to look ashamed.

"You can stay on," Jon said angrily, glaring at both his half sisters. "The gods know we need a good man in the forge."

"But-"

Jon's glare was so fierce, it even snapped Arya's lips shut. A stunning thing to do indeed.

And that had settled that matter. Arya had been furious, of course, and wouldn't answer any of Sansa questions. Who was he? Nobody. What was he to her? Nothing. And so on and so forth until Sansa just stopped asking.

"He's a bastard from the south," Jon had said when she had asked him.

"I would have thought that would have been obvious," Sansa had retorted, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt. Jon gave her a reprehending look.

"He says he met Arya after father died, while traveling with the Knight's Watch," he said, frowning. "He says they were friends."

"So what happened to make her so angry?" Sansa pressed.

"He joined the Brotherhood," Jon said, and even he looked angry at the bastard blacksmith for leaving their little sister. "And Arya ran away."

"She can't be angry if she was the one who ran," Sansa said reasonably, but Jon just shook his head.

It seemed that Arya could be angry, and was. She barely spoke to the blacksmith the first half year, and then suddenly she was speaking to him, but it wasn't really speaking so much as shouting. Half of Westeros could hear their yelling. Sansa often thought that the blacksmith was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to shout back when her sister was shouting at him, but if there was one thing she cared to know about him, it was that he was stubborn.

"I don't understand it," Sansa and sighed to Bran. "She hates him. They fight constantly. He obviously hurt her very much. Why on earth would we let him stay? Surely there's another smith around who has as much skill and merit that he does."

"He's quite the smith," Bran had said absently as they gazed over the yard at the forge, where Arya and the blacksmith were at it again, arguing.

"Yes, but look at them! I'm surprised she hasn't ripped his throat off," Sansa complained. "And I hate to see her so upset."

"Give it time," Bran had said after a long pause, and that, it would seem, settled the matter and no amount of Sansa's reasoning could let anyone see sense.

And then, the fighting began to die down. And, when the year was over, it seemed like their fighting was only for show, and suddenly, a rare thing began to happen. Arya started to smile again.

Sansa had walked by the forge one day, and had spotted Arya there, talking to the blacksmith. At first she had been seriously annoyed, because noble girls really ought not to spend their time in smelly forges, but then she had paused. And there it was. A smile on Arya's lips.

After that, it was hard to refuse Arya the company of the bastard blacksmith. After all, if he made her happy, when happiness had seemed near impossible for her little sister, how could Sansa keep them apart? She was full of propriety, but she wasn't cruel.

She wasn't stupid either.

She began to notice the glances even before Arya noticed them herself. There was one time, when she caught them coming back from a ride, and Arya was rolling her eyes at something the blacksmith had said, and then she looked at him.

And Sansa knew, in the back of her mind, in that moment, that that look was trouble. Arya seemed to know it too, for the next day she was off, on one of her long rides, off and away. And when she returned, there was no hint of the look on her face again for some time.

And then... Something changed. Sansa didn't know exactly when, but suddenly there was a shift in the way Arya and the blacksmith acting around each other. Hidden looks, and a whole different atmosphere. Arya had left only once then, but she had come back swiftly.

"I just couldn't stay away," she said with a shrug, and it wasn't the first time that Sansa was suspicious that she was missing something.

She didn't miss it for long. One day, she caught Arya being sick and had called for a maester, despite her sister's feverish protests.

And she had found out that her sister was not ill, oh no, she was pregnant.

"I'll string that bastard blacksmith!" Sansa had howled when Arya finally relented who had done the deed.

"You'll do no such thing," Jon had said warily, giving Arya a long, almost disappointed look. "Gendry's a good sort and I like him."

"Well, I've heard tales of women who know how to cleanse a mother of an unwanted child, perhaps we could find one," Sansa had relented, but even that was shot down.

"If you even let such a woman near the gates of Winterfell, I'll rip her teeth off!" Arya had shouted from her place on the bed. "And there is no 'we' Sansa! This child is in my womb, not yours!"

"Every child deserves to live," Jon had said stonily. "Even a bastard."

Sansa gave a loud, angry huff. Honestly, she thought, if she hadn't suggested it, Arya probably would have gotten rid of the child herself. But she was so stubborn! Just like her blacksmith.

"This will ruin the name of Stark," she tried to reason with Arya, but by now her sister looked very near tears. A rare thing indeed.

"Father had Jon," she said in a wobbly voice, "and he did not disgrace the name of house Stark."

"That was different," Sansa explained gently. "He was a man-"

"DAMN MEN!" Arya shrieked, leaping from her bed in nothing but her thin nightgown. Jon looked away hastily, his cheeks inflamed. "And damn you!"

And with that she had marched from the room, tears of fury trailing down her face as she went, no doubt off to see her blacksmith again. She was always with that damned blacksmith.

And then it would have been absolutely impossible for Sansa to change Arya's mind. The blacksmith had been fiercely protective, so protective that, in some moments, he seemed more wolf than bull. Arya, of course, hated it, and they fought to no end. More often then not, however, the blacksmith got his way.

Sansa remembered one time that he had told her not to go riding, and so... Well Arya wouldn't be Arya if she didn't disobey rules. She hated being told what to do, even when it was for her own good, and so off she marched. She had even mounted the horse by the time Jon and Rickon had joined the blacksmith and successfully pulled her off, shouting as she went. Sometimes... Sansa often wondered if there was no child left in Arya, but there were times like those when she was reminded what a child her little sister could be.

And now, it would seem, Arya had fled again, when she was supposed to be there with Sansa. Sansa had told her a million times that the bannermen's daughters and wives were coming in for stitching and luncheon, and that Arya was to be there alongside her sister, assisting the young girls and the like. But, of course, like with every time Sansa tried to coerce her sister in courtly life, Arya slipped from her fingers like smoke.

But there she was! And there was someone with her.

The little bastard girl. Her daughter.

As Sansa all but ran down to them, taking the stairs as quickly as she could, she couldn't help but think, despite appearing frosty, that she really did like the little girl. She looked very much like the blacksmith, all black hair and sparkling blue eyes, but she had Arya's long face, a serious face, even though she couldn't be more than six years old. And though she was full of wolf and bull, the little girl had a little bit of lady in her yet. At least she didn't run around brandishing a sword and sticking it in all sorts of things like a little heathen. At least... Not yet.

"Arya!" She shouted, crossing the yard in unladylike haste. "ARYA!"

Arya gave a guilty start, and when she turned around, her grin was sheepish. Sansa hoped her glare was as murderous as she felt.

The little girl whose hand was in Arya's, gave a start, and she looked horrified. She's terrified of me, Sansa thought with a frown, and the thought made her sad. She didn't want the little girl to be frightened of her. Never that. Perhaps she had been a bit too harsh.

"Arya, where have you been?" This time, her tone was a bit kinder.

"Out for a walk," Arya said. "With Gendry and Lawna."

The little girl dared not meet Sansa's eyes, but she sent Sansa a frightened look, and caught them all the same. When she did, she gasped aloud.

"You were supposed to be getting ready," Sansa sighed, annoyed, looking over Arya's skirts, which were soaked from the snow. "For the bannermen girls, do you remember? Sewing?"

Arya scowled.

"I hate sewing," she said with disgust.

"Yes I know," Sansa said, frustrated, "but the duty of a lady-"

"Yes, yes," Arya snapped, waving her off. "Fine. I'll go. But I'll bring Lawna with me."

Sansa glared, but Arya stared right back at her, as defiant as ever. Really, Arya could be so difficult sometimes, and she knew she was only doing this to make Sansa furious. But honestly! The child had probably never held a needle in her life!

"Arya-"

"It is high time Lawna learned to hold a needle, I should think," Arya said in a perfect imitation of Sansa's tone, and Sansa really could have given her a slap for being so rude. As it was, she was disinclined to with the little girl looking so frightened.

"Fine," Sansa snarled, "but you must look after her."

"Of course," Arya said indignantly.

Sansa stole another look at the little girl, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. She looked quite dumbstruck, but Jon had said she had inherited some of Arya's quick wit, and was not insipid. Sansa hoped that was all she had inherited, but it was highly doubtful.

As they swept back into the castle, all as silent as mice, Sansa could feel the little girl's nervousness. When she looked back again, she saw that her little hands were grabbing Arya, her eyes wide as she took in the castle, which must have been very strange and frightening to her.

"Don't worry," Sansa heard herself saying, "the castle looks frightening at first, but it's really not. It's warm. See? Feel the walls."

Looking unsure, the little girl reached out her hand, and then cried out in delighted surprise when her hand touched the warm stone. Arya laughed.

"They are warm," the little girl said, her eyes full of wonder, and then, she seemed to remember herself with a start, "Lady Stark."

She bowed her head respectfully when addressing Sansa.

"Your father has taught you well with your manners," Sansa allowed herself to compliment the little girl. She blushed.

"Oh yes my lady. And Lord Snow has taught me how to speak properly to ladies and lords alike, so as not to cause offense," the little girl said, bowing her head again. Sansa couldn't help it, she smiled.

"Here now Arya," she said, "the little girl is more articulate than you are."

"Your humor knows no bounds," Arya said drily. "Shall we press on? I thought this was an urgent matter."

Sansa did her best not to roll her eyes as she turned around and led the way. When they had finally arrived, everyone was ready and waiting, and Sansa could really kill Arya for making them so late. No wonder they were all staring at them with open mouths. No lady should arrive late! But then, Sansa blinked, and realized that they weren't looking at her, but at Arya, and specifically the little girl.

She had shrunk behind Arya's skirts, and she must have said something, because Arya gently pulled her back into the open, saying, "don't be silly, Lady Sansa said you could be here."

Sansa felt her gut twist in guilt. This had been a very poor lapse in judgement. Of course the little girl shouldn't be here. Not because Sansa didn't want her there, but because no one would understand why she would ever be allowed. Even if there had been a war, and men had died, it didn't mean that old customs and traditions and rules had died as well.

"Erm... Shall we?" Sansa offered lamely, and Arya skirted to a corner, quickly dragging the little girl behind her.

Finally, a soft chatter began again, and Sansa fetched Arya a needle and thread and a bit of cloth for the little girl to practice on. Leaving them, she traveled around the room, doing her duty, looking over all the little girl's stitches and talking to their mothers. A lady must always show her people that their duty was important to her, and Sansa was good at that. Smiling and looking pretty and being sweet. It reminded her of her childhood.

Every so often, she would throw a look at Arya and the little girl, and it seemed as though the little girl was as skilled with a needle as her lady mother. That was to say... The bit off cloth looked like a tangled mess.

That was when Sansa heard the giggling.

She turned sharply to see a gaggle of older girls, about eleven or so, all huddled together, giggling and whispering, throwing looks over at Lawna and her stitching. Sansa caught the word 'bastard,' and then they giggled again.

The little girl looked up at the source of the giggling, and when she saw who it was, and what they were laughing at, she hung her head in shame, tears pooling in her eyes.

Sansa never had much of a temper, but this seemed to snap something within her. Without thinking, she marched over to the girls, all terror.

"Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice even, "but I would like to know, what is it that you find so funny?"

The girls looked alarmed.

"Her," Arya snarled, leaping to her feet, standing in front of the girl as if to protect her from an advancing pack of menacing dogs. "They find her funny."

"Is this true?" Sansa demanded, and the girls looked frightened. But there was one that seemed bold and she spoke up.

"Her stitching's funny," she said. "She sews like she has the hands of a blacksmith."

"I suppose you think you're funny, don't you?" Arya growled. "And as it so happens, I like the hands of a blacksmith."

Sansa closed her eyes, stifling a groan. Honestly, she thought, of all the things to say.

"You girls are of noble birth," Sansa said sternly. "You are to conduct yourselves with the upmost courtesy and kindness. Such behavior is very disappointing of high born girls such as yourselves."

The girls and their mothers shifted awkwardly in their seats.

"Arya," Sansa said, turning to her sister, "I give you leave to take the little girl and return her to her father."

Arya nodded.

"Come along Lawna," she said gently, and then she threw a murderous glare at the room, "ladies."

And with that she was gone, leaving a gaping silence behind her.

Sansa sighed. With Arya, it would seem that nothing would ever be right.

As you can see, I keep writing on this story. And as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!