When Grand Maester Pycelle's examination ended in the usual milk of the poppy for the physical pain and essence of nightshade for the emotional trauma, Sansa and Arya sat together in the window seat of the latter's bedchamber; Sansa watching with concern as her younger sister downed four glasses of Dornish red in quick succession and showed no sign of stopping.

'I thought you didn't like the taste of wine,' Sansa remarked.

'I'm not drinking it for the taste,' Arya mumbled in reply, and laid her head against the windowpane, her wine glass balancing precariously on her knee.

Through the window, Sansa saw the sun as it blazed harsh and crimson against the towers of the Red Keep; the heavy glass like a shield, a map, an entire country; a journey from South to North and from heat to cold; to Winterfell; where Bran and Rickon lay dead in the ruins, their bodies so charred that they barely looked human. She naively considered asking her sister if she thought their brothers had suffered for long; if the fire had taken them quickly and painlessly; if they had already been dead when Theon had fed them to the flames. But then she remembered the look that had rippled over Father's face each time he had entered the throne room; a subtle whisper and a scream that he thought no one could see, and she decided to hold her tongue. Death by fire could not be painless, and she didn't want to fight with Arya now. So she drained the cup of water in her hand and jumped as a complement of guards marched right past the door, their boots ringing like siege missiles against the flagstone floors, and she expected the Kingsguard to burst through the door at any moment and take her away to be beaten.

'The Queen Regent has forbidden you to see your sister,' Ser Boros or Ser Meryn would grunt, 'come with us. King Joffrey will enjoy this.'

Or 'Come along, little bird,' the Hound would say, 'let's take you back to your cage before your master sees you're gone.'

'I should go,' Sansa murmured, 'if they find me here – '

Arya instantly took her hand, restraining her.

'Please,' she begged softly, 'please.'

As Sansa contemplated Arya's large and pleading grey eyes; her tear-stained alabaster skin and her boyish, crow's nest head of thick, dark hair; she realised that at some point during their separation, her sister had become beautiful. And yet she was not a beauty; not in the conventional sense; but there was something in her that drew the eye and made it return to her again and again, just as Father had always said there would be. Sansa had laughed at him each time he had said it, calling her Arya Horseface and screeching when her sister chased after her and tried to pull her hair.

Seeing the truth of Father's words staring out at her made Sansa feel like he was in the room with them, and when she squeezed Arya's hand, she imagined squeezing his as well; telling him, wherever he was, that he had been right all along.

'Thank you,' Arya murmured, smiling weakly when Sansa nodded her agreement to stay, 'and seven hells will you please stop worrying about Cersei and her orders. I suspect that her days of giving them are numbered after today, the stupid bitch.'

'Arya!' Sansa half-shrieked, dropping her sister's hand as though it were scalding hot, 'your language!'

Arya poured herself another glass of wine and swallowed it eagerly, her cheeks flushing a deep Lannister crimson as she once again looked out of the window and into the heat.

'I'll get out of the habit of swearing soon enough,' Arya remarked, 'so don't let it trouble you. Every day I wear one of those stupid gowns, I feel myself changing. The way I walk, the way I talk, the way I look at people and think of people. Soon I'll be pissing lavender.'

'That is called being a lady, sister,' Sansa replied, demurely ignoring that previous comment, 'it's what your life should be.'

The words tasted wrong as she spoke them, and she expected Arya to shout at her, or at the very least to protest. But her sister did neither, her head resting limply against the window, her wine glass clutched in her hand, and the air around her beginning to smell of alcohol.

'Maybe it is what my life should be,' Arya stated blandly, with an unexpected resignation and hopelessness that troubled Sansa deeply, 'but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Look at Cersei. Cersei is a lady. The epitome of ladylikeness and courtesies and bullshit, and yet she's all spite and low cunning and arrogance. Why in seven hells would I want to end up like that?'

'I wish you wouldn't call her by her first name, Arya,' Sansa scolded, prudently choosing not to answer the question, 'it's not decent.'

'And why shouldn't I call her by her first name?' Arya spat abruptly, 'she's my sweet fucking sister now, after all. Lady Arya and Lady Cersei and their two broken brothers, one big happy family.'

'You could have said no, Arya,' Sansa said, remembering the anger and betrayal she had felt when news of the adoption had reached King's Landing, 'you could simply have said no.'

'If I had, I would be dead,' Arya exclaimed enthusiastically, rolling her eyes and beginning to slur her words, 'and a couple of very happy fish at the bottom of the Trident would have made a spectacular meal from my corpse. Would you prefer me to be dead?'

'Of course I wouldn't prefer you to be dead,' Sansa sighed disapprovingly, 'though I would prefer for you not to be drunk.'

Arya shrugged unconcernedly and looked out of the window again.

'What vicious, cruel, ironic shits the gods are.'

'For making you one of them?' Sansa asked.

Arya stared at her, confused.

'Who? The gods?'

'The Lannisters, Arya.'

Arya snorted in response and poured herself another glass of wine.

'I will never be one of them,' she declared, 'no matter what it says on a stupid piece of paper. I can't ever be one of them because they're not my family, and because they're my enemies and I want them all dead.'

That last statement seemed to confuse her, and Sansa watched bemusedly as Arya blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, as though to steady herself.

'The gods are cruel, and…and stupid…' she continued, 'for giving a daughter like Cersei to a man like that; to such a…to someone so…'

Sansa did not much care for all this affectionate talk about Tywin Lannister. He was the one who had torched the Riverlands and murdered all those thousands of people; the one who had kept Robb so busy for such a long time that he hadn't even come close to avenging their father; her father, Arya's father; her real father; Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, not the cruel old man who was destroying their family and their people. Nobody could ever take their Father's place.

I only wish I'd realised that before Joffrey cut his head off. I only wish I hadn't been so beastly to him; that I had told him I loved him more; that I had… I wish…

Arya's eyes were shining with suppressed intoxication, and with something like compassion, and Sansa could tell that her sister knew what she was thinking.

'Tywin wasn't my father,' Arya said softly, 'he could never be my father. Nothing can ever change that, nothing. But he was…extraordinary, and he saved me from…from myself; from the things that I had inside my head. And my heart broke when he died, it broke, it broke. But I didn't love him, or his stupid House like I love Father. I didn't.'

'I'm delighted to hear it, Arya,' Sansa replied imperiously, not remotely convinced, 'because Robb is going to destroy Casterly Rock, and when he's finished doing that, his knights and his troops will rally behind him with all the might of the North, and he'll march on this city, tear down the walls, and kill every Lannister he can get his hands on.'

'I don't care if he does,' Arya declared ferociously, 'I hope he does. I'll help him do it.'

'Will you?'

'Yes. Swords straight across their throats, knives in their bellies, anything he wants.'

'I take it you'd have no objection to killing Ser Jaime, then.'

Sansa watched the words die on Arya's tongue; just as they had outside the throne room the moment that Arya's eyes had met his. She remembered how terrified she had been for her sister when she had seen her face up close; and how guilty she had felt at the memory of Joffrey's orders to the Kingsguard to beat Arya in the face – 'This one is so ugly,' he had said, 'that making her uglier won't make any difference.' Arya's face had felt hot with pain beneath Sansa's concerned fingers, but Arya had shrugged away from her; just like a Stark and just like a Northman; loudly declaring that it was nothing and that Kingsguard couldn't punch properly; protecting her stupid older sister from having to worry about her.

But the moment Ser Jaime had found her, Arya's words had disappeared and the tears had come, and Sansa had been astonished; dumbfounded, even; firstly by their familiarity (she hadn't even known they were on speaking terms); and secondly by the tenderness with which he had treated her; by the way his fingers had supported her head and the way he had kissed her as he let her go. She no longer believed that knights or soldiers were capable of such things. She had learned her lesson. And yet there it had been right in front of her; present in a man so much taller and larger than Arya that her head barely reached his chest.

'Every time I look at him, it hurts a little more,' Arya mumbled, looking thoroughly drunk, but sounding reasonably lucid, 'it's like bits of me are left behind inside him every time we meet. All we ever do is fight, but when we do I can't think; it's like thinking doesn't exist anymore and the only thing happening is a kind of hammering, in here,' she touched her chest, 'and all I can feel or see is my own blood doing whatever it wants, like my mind doesn't exist anymore, like my conscience is gone. I'm so…tired, Sansa. It makes me so tired, just…feeling and feeling and feeling and nothing else, and I can't hide any of the bad things anymore because he can see them; I don't know how, but he can. It's like he's destroyed what I was; like he's destroyed the lie; like I can't lie anymore, because he knows me, he knows everything in me, he is in me, because he knows…he knows…he knows what it means to lose...'

'To lose what?' Sansa asked, loathe to interrupt, but curious, 'do you mean his hand, or is it - '

'No,' Arya interrupted rudely, waving dismissively like a consummate drunk, 'I mean long before that, a long time ago.'

'Alright, you've had quite enough now,' Sansa said firmly, confiscating the pitcher of wine.

Arya ignored her completely and continued to speak.

'It was probably while he served the Mad King…probably then…I know because I can see it. Because I'm…I'm in him, like he's in me.'

'Dear gods; you're in love with him,' Sansa exclaimed.

'That's not true; I am not in love with him,' Arya snapped, with a determination that was rather frightening.

Arya sat glaring at her for a few minutes; her arms folded in rather a comical fashion; but then her face softened, and suddenly she no longer looked angry, but guilty. She took Sansa's hand again. Her palm was wet with perspiration.

'I'm sorry,' Arya murmured, 'for complaining about having a friend when you've been here on your own for all this time.'

Sansa smiled weakly and stared into her lap.

'How have you lived?' Arya continued, 'like this, every day? Knowing, and…and fearing?'

Sansa considered explaining the crushing fear from day to day; the helplessness; the anger; the frustration; the knowledge that Lord Tyrion could not always be there; the suspicion that Lord Baelish was deceiving her; the irrational, newfound fear of the colour white; the nightmares about Mother and Robb; the memory of Father's head rolling down the stairs of the Sept; and the memory of the moment that Joffrey's voice had changed, and her sweet, darling prince had become her tormentor.

'A lady's courtesies are her armour,' Sansa said eventually, 'and nobody can hurt me when I've got my armour on.'

'I know,' Arya whispered in return, and Sansa could tell from the way her sister looked intently across at her, her eyes brimming with tears, that Arya did know, and that her armour was in danger of failing her.

'You do have a friend,' Sansa comforted softly as tears began to spill down Arya's cheeks, 'you have me, and you have Ser Jaime. That's what's important.'

Arya nodded furiously, as though trying to convince herself.

'And if you had any sense at all,' Sansa continued, 'you would marry him.'

'I don't want to marry him,' Arya sniffled, staring into her lap.

Sansa almost smiled.

'Of course you don't. But consider. If you do…you could end the war.'

Arya looked up at her, then, and the sadness in her eyes was excruciating.

'You've been listening to too many songs, Sansa,' Arya said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, 'no marriage will reconcile Stark and Lannister after what has happened.'

'How will you know if you don't try?' Sansa insisted, choosing not to address the question of songs just yet.

'I don't need to,' Arya declared, 'things are too bad. Things are too – '

Arya began to cry in earnest, and Sansa gently put her arms around her, almost jumping in shock at how thin she felt.

'What about Bran?' Arya sobbed, 'how can I possibly – after what he did to Bran? How can I? What does that make me?'

'It doesn't make you –'

'Oh gods!'

Arya pulled away from her with alarming quickness and grasped Sansa's shoulders.

'Oh gods, I'm sorry,' she moaned, still weeping, 'you don't know yet, I haven't told you –'

'I do know, Arya,' Sansa said reassuringly, 'about the tower and Ser Jaime and the Queen –'

'How do you know?' Arya demanded, her tears departing as swiftly as they had come, 'it isn't common knowledge.'

'Lord Baelish told me,' Sansa said simply, colouring slightly.

Arya was not impressed.

'Why in seven hells are you discussing such things with Lord Baelish?'

Sansa was offended both by her look and by her tone.

'He's been very kind to me,' Sansa insisted, 'he said he would take me – '

No. No one. You tell no one.

'Take you where?' Arya demanded loudly, 'or on what, if that's what you mean?'

Sansa's blush deepened, and she cursed her own stupidity, trying to think of something, anything, to say; silence filling the void...and worsening her sister's temper.

'Take you where, Sansa?' Arya was insisting.

'Why do you care?' Sansa replied, hoping that rudeness would dissuade her from discussing this further.

'Because he is not to be trusted!' Arya declared.

'And who is to be trusted?' Sansa laughed, 'the Tyrells?'

'Don't you start blathering about the Tyrells!'

'Why not? What did Lady Olenna say to you when Margaery and I were picking pansies? I've always wondered.'

'Tell me what Lord Baelish said to you first.'

Arya was looking at her in utter desperation; Bran; Rickon; the Lannisters; the Dornish red; all of them gone from her mind, her face and her eyes.

'Sansa,' Arya said, with a gravity that was surprising in one who had had so much to drink, 'whatever Baelish has told you, you cannot trust him. You're not stupid, you must know that.'

'Must I?'

'It doesn't matter if he's promised you the world; he certainly doesn't intend to give it to you. Littlefinger loves Littlefinger and does Littlefinger favours. He's using you for his own advancement. You'll never be anything but a pawn to him - '

'And how do you know that, Arya? Are you an experienced player yourself?'

Arya smiled sadly at her.

'No, Sansa. But I had lessons from the very best.'

And suddenly, Sansa felt alone. Alone in a city of half a million people; a city of whispers and deceivers and liars; a city, a court and a game that she had thought she understood.

She remembered the day that Joffrey had set her aside for Margaery Tyrell; and the happiness that had burst out of her chest as her face told a story of sadness and betrayal; of a girl who had lost her one true love.

'I'll help get you home,' Lord Baelish had said, his eyes bewitching the surface of her mask, and 'King's Landing is my home now,' she had replied; hiding the lie with the softness of her voice and the innocent blue of her eyes.

And suddenly it was her sister standing in front of her, smiling at her and pitying her naivety as Joffrey led Margaery out of the hall, glancing knowingly over his shoulder at the bodice of her gown.

'Look around you,' Arya said, 'we're all liars here. And every one of us is better than you.'