Chapter 1

There was an icy breeze kissing the air as Sansa Stark stood alone in the clearing. Her black velvet hooded cloak swept about her as if the wind was trying to dance with it. She didn't mind; it reminded her of the way her mother's skirts had swished together when she walked the halls of Winterfell, back before the old hand of the King had died, before King Robert had come north and left again for the South, dragging half her family with him and leaving the rest a tattered, scattered ruin in his wake. And now here she was, alone with the wind edging its way further up her body in woods a million miles from anywhere. Winterfell had been burned, the Boltons holding it with their cursed iron hands and King's Landing was no doubt looking for her this very moment to drag her back into the path of Cersei's twisted rage. No longer Joffrey's, thankfully. Despite the awful images she saw of him in her dreams, she was still glad he was gone. And Lord Baelish. When she thought of him, how he had kissed her in the garden of the Eyrie, and even how her heart had raced for a split second, she was filled with a shameful rage. It only angered her to think of that wretched boy Robert, her sweetrobin who was the most spoiled, insufferable brat she had ever met. He was just as bad as Joffrey. Maybe even worse. His mother hadn't seen how terrible he was. Catelyn's sister.

At the thought of her own mother Sansa's grief swelled up inside her afresh. She could feel her hands trembling. She hadn't had the chance to say goodbye, to tell her she was sorry for every time she had been disobedient, all the arguments with Arya and the boys, everything. She couldn't even find her now, to tell her how sorry she was, how much she loved her, how much she had wanted to be like Catelyn.

All the while she was in the Eyrie, she thought that part of her had died at the Red Wedding. But on her descent from the Vale of Arryn, there came a breath of fresh air, a ray of light with an enormous bulking body and stunning eyes.

"More wood for the fire, lady Sansa." Brienne, maid of Tarth, came through the trees. Sansa turned to look at her with a warmth she suspected the she-knight would never know. Sitting down and wrapping herself tighter in her cloak, she quietly said,

"Do you have any idea what will happen now?"

Brienne turned to her, but could stare at her for a moment. She came at sat next to her. Brienne the beauty, Sansa thought. How could anyone be so cruel to someone so selfless?

"I'm afraid not, my lady," Said Brienne, "All we can do for now is stay out of sight and hope no one recognises either of us, should we cross paths with anyone."

"Who's there?" A shrill, harsh voice suddenly came through the clearing. Brienne leapt to her feet, surprisingly fast for someone of her bulk. Within a heartbeat she drew her sword, standing with her body shielding Sansa. The sound of pounding hooves could be heard, and their own horses began to whine. Sansa stood, coming close to Brienne, her hands clenching the folds of her cloak, voicing a silent prayer that their attackers were friends to the Winterfell of old.

In answer to her prayer, a small brown horse came through the trees, astride it a filthy, brown haired, scrawny boy. What a sight, she thought, staring in repulsion up at him. Brienne did not lower her sword.

"Who are you, boy?" She growled, and lurched for him, dragging him to the ground, but not before he had pulled a blade to defend himself. Like a squirming puppy he twisted in her grip, slashing at her until she pulled the knife away, and said louder into his, no- her face –

"Who are you?"

At that point, another horse, much bigger and black in colour, charged into sight with a man as big as Brienne atop it, but Sansa was uninterested. She ran for Brienne, and the girl in her grasp.

"Let her go!" She pleaded the big woman, and from Brienne's grip she pulled, yes, it was Arya. From under the greasy tufts of hair Arya looked up in shock, and their eyes met. Could this really be her little sister? But then again, somehow dressed in boy's breeches with a sword at her hip was just how Arya looked. As the sisters stared at each other, in still silence, Brienne between them, the reality hit Sansa. It was as raw and real as the icy wind, as the deep breathing of the black horse a few feet away. She's alive. She escaped from King's Landing when Father was executed. She's been alive this whole time. She's still alive. A voice in Sansa's head kept saying it over and over again, as if she didn't say it enough Arya would vanish and melt back into the woods, a child of the forest. But the children of the forest were long gone, a story told to the girls by Old Nan. Arya was real, she was alive, she was here. It would seem the seven had deemed this prayer one of the few they would actually answer.

Arya had still said nothing. Sansa suddenly needed to hear her voice, and with a childish demand said,

"Well say something!"

"Sansa." Arya's voice was lower than she remembered. But that didn't stop the pair from throwing their arms around each other. Arya was covered in dirt, she smelled of mud and no doubt it was all leaving its mark on Sansa's gown, but then she told herself to grow up. She's your sister. You have believed her dead all this time. Surely she is more important than your stupid dress. At that, the memory of Arya throwing an orange at her at the table with Father in King's Landing came back to her, and she began to cry. She heard a few sniffles, and Arya was weeping as well. They sank to their knees, and Sansa felt the dirt seep through her clothes and onto her skin. She was now more aware of the earth beneath her, the wind around her, and the black sky above her. It's because of my sister. She's a wolf. So am I. We are stronger with our pack.

"But…" Sansa said, bringing her sister back to look her in the face, "How did you…"

Arya's stare moved behind Sansa. She heard the drawing of a sword, Brienne making an angry shout,

"My lady, stay back!" And then another voice, rasping and hoarse which chilled Sansa still,

"Why bother, you big brute of a bitch? I haven't hurt the little wolf and I don't bloody want to hurt the little bird, either."

"You STAY BACK!"

"BRIENNE DON'T!" Sansa rushed round and with every strength grabbed Brienne's arms to stop her sword striking that of Sandor Clegane's. She turned, and there he was. Some nights she would raise her fingers to her lips to remember the kiss beneath a sky filled with green smoke and the stench of death. And yes, there were the burns. His eyes were fixed on her, those eyes which had been white with a terrifying anger the night of the Blackwater, never moving, impossible to see the feelings beneath.

"Little bird." His voice was trembling. His mouth twitched. The kiss came to Sansa again. She couldn't say why, but it kept repeating itself in her head like a song, a gentle tune that made her palms sweat. She was unbelievably glad to see him. Much more than she knew.