an: i should probably mention this is not the fic for you if you like littlefinger lmao

Sansa had blood in her mouth.

It was very unlike what she was used to. After Ramsey would be done, she'd rinse her mouth out carefully, look at her own reflection in the pink water rather than look at him for a second more than she was forced to. Most of the time, whatever mocking words he said were muffled, like her ears were full of water, but if she didn't respond in some way, he'd come up behind her and-

That didn't matter now. He was dead, his dogs were dead, his father, his house, his men, his woman. They were all food for worms, now, while she was digging her claws deep into the dirt and savoring the richness of her prize. Right now, she was powerful. She could feel her muscles moving, in her hind legs and her shoulders. If she hadn't killed him before, she could do it again, now, only it would be her fangs in his throat.

She wouldn't eat a single bite of him. She'd give him to her pack. He would never be inside of her again.

When she woke up, the sensation lingered in her body; her furs and clothes felt oppressive, so she took them off and pressed her hands flat into her abdomen. Whatever was swirling inside of her seemed to be settling there. Sansa had the wild impulse to run, and she almost did-her calves tensed and her knees bent, but a hand reached out and grabbed her bed post, to keep her legs from sprinting.

What is happening to me?

When she looked in the mirror, there were red flakes stuck in her teeth.

She hesitated to call them nightmares, but sleep became difficult and strange. Her body seemed to be calling out for something, but her mind could not comprehend it; her heart seemed to burn through her skin and clothes, exposing itself to the winter air. More than anything, Sansa wanted her brother home, and the comforting feeling of Ghost's fur against her legs as he settled himself down by her feet. The direwolf seemed to always smell her stress, and knew his company eased her. And she knew that Ghost missed his sister. Maybe Lady's scent clung to her skirts? Either way, the pack in the woods kept guard, and she was up one morning, leaning over the walls, drinking in the sounds of their living. It seemed each day, her ears could hear a little farther, and her eyes a little clearer.

The rising sun almost obscured the lone figure riding towards Winterfell. Sansa's gaze caught them, though, and she watched in apprehension as the minutes brought whoever it was closer to her. The horse appeared to be straining, while the person kept their back straight and their head pointed towards her castle. Close enough now that she could see the rips and tears in their cloak, the stranger pulled back hard on the reigns and brought their mount to a halt. The tired animal stayed quiet and still as the rider dismounted.

There was no one at the gate, so Sansa called out from her post: "You approach the seat of House Stark. What business do you have here?"

Oddly, the sound of her voice seemed to make them flinch, as if they were guilty or afraid. They did not look up to meet her eyes, but instead spoke to the snow, which almost swallowed their reply. "Here you are, lady of a hold after all. I had barely any hope at all once I got back, but every settlement on the way north is talking about the new King in the North and his princess sister."

Her fingernails scrapped against the stone as her hands clenched. Something about their voice was familiar, like a noise or smell from her childhood.

"I never thought I should see these walls again. Or the snow. Or my family. But I found my way back, and I-"

"Stop," Sansa inhaled sharply, wanting irrationally to jump from her post to reach them. "You-you cannot be..."

They neglected to properly answer; finally they pulled back their hood and met Sansa's eyes. Grey, like snow after rain, or old silver. As if in affirmation, the pack in the wolfswood let out a howl, the sound stretching out over the hills and trying to push them together again. Sansa did not try to continue or wait-she turned and ran as fast as she could, her slippers getting soaked and her hair coming loose, but she reached the gate and tried desperately to lift the bar before it finally lifted and the wooden doors swung open to reveal Arya Stark standing only a few feet away from her. It struck her again, swiftly like wind, and it was like seeing Jon again for the first time. For a few seconds, Sansa was only aware of the distance between her and her sister and the cold seeping through her shoes.

Arya scoffed. "After all this time, you're still prettier than me and every other girl in Westeros."

It broke the spell, and Sansa could only let out a single sob before rushing to embrace her. Arya let out an oof as their bodies collided, and only hesitated for a second before her arms went around Sansa's shoulders. "You're alive," Sansa whispered, "gods. How did you make it through the storms? Where were you all these years? You're so skinny, have you not been eating well? Come, come inside, let's get your horse into a warm stable and feed him, he looks almost dead."

Her sister looked amused but silently obeyed, taking hold of her exhausted mount's reins and leading him into the courtyard. Arya immediately stopped, however, and her eyes were jumping everywhere, noting the changes and admiring the things that stayed the same. Sansa knew what she was feeling, so she left her behind for a moment to take care of her horse. The only empty stall was next to Stranger, but the horse had grown used to her, and only seemed a little irritated by his new neighbor. "Thank you for bringing her home," the princess said lowly. "You'll have food and water in just a second-for now, rest." The creature cast a nervous eye at Stranger, but Sansa could tell it was glad to be out of the cold.

"Arya," she said, her heart bursting. Her hair was uneven and the brown of their father, but the years had changed her face-where before her lips pouted, she held them thin, and now her eyes were narrowed with observation rather than wide with curiosity. Sansa could not even imagine what her sister had had to do to survive, but she had always been resourceful and clever. She wanted to hug her again, but resisted. "Are you hungry?"

Her sister nodded in response, and even though she surely knew the way, she followed closely behind Sansa, reminding her a bit of them as children (only Arya was not tugging on her braid or calling her mean names). It was still too early for the hold to break fast, but there was always bread and butter, which Arya accepted and immediately wolfed down. Sansa grinned, glad that some parts of her had remained; she settled herself on top of a barrel and watched the younger princess eat.

She suddenly felt a strong conviction. I will not treat you like our parents did. Catelyn loved Arya, but had neglected her at times in favor of Sansa, only because of their shared femininity. She vowed in her mind to never scold her sister for not acting like a lady, because she was never meant to be one.

"We have much to discuss," Sansa said, "but I suspect it can wait until later this evening. No one is awake to set up a room for you, but I can draw you a bath in my quarters and you're more than welcome to sleep there as well. I've no idea where you came from, but I can guess it was a long journey."

"I'd really like that," Arya replied, sounding almost painfully polite.

"I've missed you." Sansa put all the longings and prayers she had uttered into her words, knowing she was not affectionate like Jon or Robb. "Jon has missed you, too. He'll be home soon, with a lot of company. You'll be quite a surprise."

Her face lit up at that. "I thought about running to Castle Black so many times. Jon was in my thoughts every day. As were you." Arya cast a glance at her feet, wiping away the crumbs on her shirt. "I'm...sorry. For all the things I did to you."

It made Sansa feel sad. "No, I am the one who must apologize. I never accepted you for who you are. I should have loved you regardless if you preferred a bow and arrow to needlework."

She grinned. "Speaking of needlework, I never showed you before, because you would have nagged me to death." She pulled a thin, short blade from under her cloak, gripping it like she had weathered it to her palm. "It's called Needle. Jon had it forged for me the day he left for the Watch. I've kept it with me this whole time. It's actually my favorite sword. Nothing feels as good to swing as this."

"It certainly looks like it was made for you," Sansa commented, admiring Mikken's work. He was dead, now, but part of him lived on. "You're right, I would have told Father and Mother. I was such a brat."

Arya snickered. "So was I. If I remember right, I would always stuff sheep shit into your mattress."

"I deserved it."

"A bath sounds good. I bet I smell like sheep shit right now."

Sansa,

Finally, the storms have calmed themselves and we're moving forward again. The dragons can melt a path for us using their fire, so thank the gods we don't have to shovel snow all day and night. Winter is settling in, and while the mornings are unforgivably cold, I open my tent and watch the North, my kingdom, glistening like an ocean, and it is beautiful. It doesn't seem right that it should belong to me, but with your help I think we'll be able to ensure freedom and security for our people.

I should let you know that several knights have approached me inquiring as to your marital status. I've deflected most of their questions, but just be prepared for more suitors. Gods, it must be a burden to be a woman.

Daenerys is a remarkable queen, Sansa. She has overcome impossible odds, and has the absolute loyalty of her men. Unlike Cersei, she is kind, especially to women. I'd be an idiot to say she wasn't beautiful, but I think she is like you, in the sense that she is not eager to marry or even...ah. I'm no good at these things, anyway. Robb was always so good at talking to women, like the gods themselves wanted him to. I'm capable of discussing military stratagems with her all day, but she'll turn the conversation towards something personal, and I'll stutter like I'm a boy with no chin-hair again. Either way, I'm eager for you two to become friends. I know you long for a female companion, ever since you lost Jeyne.

We should be home in two moons, if the weather stays complacent. I look forward to seeing my sister and Winterfell again.

Your brother,

Jon

"You're telling me The Hound is your bloody sworn shield."

Three days later, Arya and Sansa were sitting in her old bedroom. Sansa had tried to give her a larger, more comfortable room, but her sister was content with the space of her younger years, and she couldn't exactly blame her for it. Sansa was forced to drag Arya here that evening after she had seen Sandor training boys in the yard, and tried to attack him. It was a little humorous, now, but Sandor seemed furious as Sansa was rushing her away. She would have to apologize for her sister later.

Now, she let out a deep sigh. "Yes, he is. Before you begin, I know all about you traveling with him, and I know that he's on your list, but-"

"He was on my list, but I thought he was dead-"

"If he was, then why did you try to kill him when you saw him?"

Arya hesitated for one second before she looked away from her sister. "One of the last things he ever said to me was how much he wanted to rape you. He was dying, stinking like blood and wine. He was an idiot and drank too much. He heard you got married and acted like the world had ended. I had to watch him sulk all evening before we got ambushed by these assholes. "Fucked you bloody," I think is what he said to me."

"I know, Arya."

"How are you so calm? That man wants to kill and rape you!"

"Arya, please. He is not the man he was before. How many years has it been? Almost ten? Give him credit-he would never be a man to stay the same all his life. Besides, he saved me. He protected me from Joff and Cersei, he wanted to bring me home. He came here to swear himself to me and Jon, to serve us as justice for crimes commited to us by the Lannisters. He-" He loves me. "-He only wants to keep me safe. There are worse men under this roof right now, and we both know it."

Arya wrinkled her nose, and did not look convinced. "I don't trust it at all. I should have killed him back then."

"I'm glad you didn't, actually."

"What, do you fancy him?"

"Arya."

"Gods, you do. You do. That's disgusting. You do know he's missing half of his face, right? Besides, I thought you preferred men who were more symmetrical."

"Give me some credit, too," Sansa replied, a little cold. "I'm not a naive little girl anymore. Besides, if I did fancy him, it wouldn't really be your business. It wouldn't be anyone's business at all." The princess took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "All I ask is that you don't try to kill him. You don't have to speak to him, or sit next to him, or anything at all, just don't charge at him while he's in the middle of a lesson. Please? He's not here just for me. Jon has invited him, too. It'd be a sour thing to come home to, his newly found sister committing murder in his keep."

Sansa was dreaming of mating, only she had shed her human skin and felt her canines as she clenched her teeth down. Another wolf's teeth were nipping at her neck, while two more paced nearby, watching with nervous eyes. Sansa's growl rumbled in her chest-she had chosen her partner, and these two dared to sneak around? She was bigger than both of them, stronger and more clever than the rest of the pack. If those pups drew too close, she'd take an ear or two.

She couldn't imagine that the sensation would be entirely similar, but regardless, it was more pleasant than her violent encounters with human men. Despite the place, her new body, her mind wandered to Sandor, and how he would feel inside of her. It wasn't as if he had never visited her bed in her dreams before, but she was a child, then. She did not know. She supposed that she still didn't, but she was a virgin no more.

Without warning, the dream switched to exactly what she was thinking of; human again, her growls became gasps and the dirt had become her own bed. She was still on her hands and knees, facing away, but she knew it was Sandor behind her, with his hands gripping her waist. Emboldened by her control, she turned and took him by surprise-she pushed him down flat on the mattress with her hands on his chest, and before he could protest at all, she sunk herself down onto him again, letting out a contented sigh. This is what she always fantasized that it would be like, late into her lonely nights in the Vale. Sandor let out a low groan when she moved her hips in a rocking motion, and he was looking up at her body and face with an expression of such awe that it made her ministrations more insistent.

He pulled her head down to him and kissed her, gently compared to her enthusiastic bouncing, and whispered against her mouth, "Is this a dream?"

"Maybe not," she replied, licking his bottom lip, feeling the burnt and smooth side. It made him shudder, which fascinated her and made her feel powerful.

"It has to be," Sandor muttered, running both his hands down her back to grip her flesh. "You'd never let me touch you like this-"

Sansa silenced his doubts with another kiss. It seemed cruel that even in a hallucination, Sandor hated himself. He sat himself up, still holding onto her, and took the control straight from her-like her wolf mate, he bit down on her shoulder, and she let out a loud cry, not worrying that anyone would hear her. "Sandor," she whimpered, "something is going to happen-" It was like someone was pulling a knot tighter and tighter in her stomach, and it was making the backs of her knees sweat. He sped up at her words, but before it could happen, whatever it was, her eyes were open and she was alone in her room, covered in moisture and throbbing between the legs.

She immediately got out of bed, throwing open all her windows to let in the winter air, and smelled the smoke before she heard the knocking at her door. Whoever it was didn't wait for her answer, and entered-it was Arya, Needle in her hand and flecks of red on her cheekbones. "Arya?" Sansa's voice was high with confusion, and admittedly her lingering arousal. "Are you okay-?" Her sister didn't answer immediately, concentrated on locking the door behind her. Sansa took a second to assess her, and saw no flowing blood from any part of her, besides a small 'c' shaped cut on her cheek. "Arya."

"You need to get dressed, now. Someone is attacking Winterfell. Too busy killing them to see who it was, but then I remembered you up in your tower. Your sworn shield is no where to be seen. Bloody good bodyguard, he is." Arya wiped her blade on the leg of her pants to clean the blood off of it. "We need to get you out of here."

"No," Sansa cried out. "No, I will not flee! I will not be forced from my home again!"

"You can't fight, stupid," she snapped. "We need to-"

There was a commotion outside of her door, steel on steel and men yelling. Sansa's knees locked at the sound of it, so close to her, but Arya didn't seem frightened at all. In fact, she appeared to be a mixture of irritated and excited. There was a loud thump, which made Sansa scream, and to her horror, blood started to creep its way under the wood, entering her room sluggishly. She heard the lock break as whoever it was slammed their weight on the door, and if Sansa had not shrieked, "Wait!", Sandor Clegane would have ended up with a very slender blade in his throat. Arya pulled back at her sister's yell, inches away from the man's body, and he glowered at her, panting heavily and leaning on his good leg. "Sandor," Sansa whispered, wanting to run to him but knowing Arya would disapprove.

Her shield cast his gaze upon her; despite the setting, he was looking at her strangely, as if she had told him some queer secret. She remembered his eyes in her dream, and his question to her. "It's fucking Littlefinger. Your cousin is dead, and he was named Lord of the Vale. Your pretty knights started attacking just as the moon was rising."

A sheet of ice formed around her heart, and her fists clenched so hard she felt her nails bite into her palms. Who else would it be but Petyr? He had failed to turn her against Jon, and now he was taking matters into his own hands, after proposals turned down and months of idleness. She would not marry him, even if he had helped her get her home back, so he would take it from her again?

She would kill him before that happened.

Sansa lifted her chin. "Do you know where he is?"

"He's no soldier. He'll be hiding out somewhere safe until the dirty work is done."

"There is no where to hide from me. I know this castle as well as I know him. I'm the one who oversaw the restoration while he played his games behind my back." There wasn't time to properly attire herself, so she grabbed her thickest cloak and toughest boots and busied herself with that. Jon had taken the main bulk of their army with him months ago, but his best had remained behind to protect the princess and his keep. No doubt they were all busy fighting and defending the innocents who lived here; she had Sandor and Arya by her side, and did not feel afraid. This time will be different. She would not flee the chaos and disappear into the snow, nor would she watch miles away on a hill while good men died. She would be present, and brave, and strong.

Sansa resisted the urge to pinch her nose up at the smell of blood as she daintily stepped over the corpse blocking the doorway. Sandor was close behind her, a hand hovering over her back to hurry her forward. "You'll make me trip," she protested, but he maneuvered her easily through the carnage that he had created (gods, he was fierce-her eyes lingered on a man who was missing three-fourths of his head). "We have to find Petyr." Sansa considered all the places he would be, and knew there were a couple possibilities; she followed her gut, and started to run as quietly as she could towards the main hall.

"Sansa!" Arya warned, and just in time, she stopped and flattened herself against the wall as three of the knights of the Vale ran past, fresh blood on their swords. She wished ardently that she could hurt them, but she had no choice but to move on. Sandor was watching her with such intensity, she could feel his eyes following her every movement. Unwittingly, her mind flashed to their faux love-making. The way he looked at her was very akin to when she had walked in on his meeting with Jon-like he was aware, too aware for comfort. Had he felt her all those times, kneeling down in front of him as he undid his bootlaces, or reaching how to touch his back as he undressed? She shook her head under the hood of her warm cloak. Time for those thoughts later. There was a man trying to take what was hers, and she had to stop it.

They were seen before Sandor could pull Sansa back; two men shouted something, Sansa could barely hear what, but she knew they would kill Sandor and take her and Arya away as ransom. No, that will never happen to us again, she knew in her mind as her shield pulled her behind him and drew his greatsword. It seemed like a spell that someone had cast. Her sister moved like she was made of water, like bone and ligament no longer existed or created any obstacle. The poor man opposite her was clumsy in comparison, and much too slow-Arya ducked under a swipe that went too high and was around and behind him before his sword arm even came down for another strike. Sansa was still quite new to this, so she watched with fascination and disgust as Arya's skinny blade effortlessly pierced the man's flesh and punctured his heart through his back. His knees buckled and Arya pulled her sword out by kicking him down. Dead, in less than a minute. It was dizzying. Sandor was slower, due to his leg and hefty weight, but he was close behind. His opponent was struggling to breath, and could no longer fully block Sandor's attacks-his sword hit the ground with a clang every time he brought it up to try to divert her shield's blows. Arya's face scrunched up in annoyance, and she was about to join when Sandor let out a shout and lobbed the man's head clean off before he could even beg for mercy. Sansa could see that the man's mouth was moving, still. Was he whispering some woman's name before his brain blinked out?

Blood was starting to soak into the hem of her cloak. She straightened her back and began to sprint. She was a wolf, faster and wiser than any of these men.

Petyr was exactly where she imagined he would be. Sitting with his knees crossed and his chin pointed slightly up, he was almost the spitting image of Joff. Gasping a little, she was going to storm up to the front of the room and confront him, but Sandor grabbed her elbow and tugged her back towards him. "This is a trap," he growled into her ear, closer than he normally might get, but it made her feel safe, now.

"It's always been a trap, at least in his eyes," she responded. "Let me try and reason with him."

"He'll take advantage of your want for peace," Sandor said. "Just let me kill him."

"I actually agree with the dog."

Sansa glared at Arya before shaking her head. "He's not yours to kill."

Sandor and Arya exchanged a confused look before Sansa broke free of her shield and made her way to stand in front of her father's seat. She was honestly surprised he was not sitting in Catelyn Tully's chair, but he was probably still hoping she would climb up and take her true place at his side. It made her stomach clench with anger that he would ever think this would be something she wanted. "I see your plans are going well," Sansa began. "Sweetrobin is dead, no doubt by your bidding. How much sweetmilk were you giving him?"

Petyr smiled his signature smile, curled on the edges like a cursive letter. "I only administered as much as the maester advised. You can hardly accuse me when the poor boy was sick his whole life. I was only trying to help him."

"Your interpretation of the idea of helping seems loose," she retorted, feeling strengthened by her two protectors at her back. "Is that what you think you're doing now as well? Helping?"

"I offered you many chances, sweetling. I wanted you at my side, not opposing me. I could have given you much more than this dusty, isolated place. But I've seen clearly what you desire," he looked from Sansa to Sandor,"and you'd rather rut with an animal than be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"You're the animal," the lady of Winterfell corrected. "Do you really think you can take the Dragon Queen down? I'm no military leader, but I know that the Vale is not enough, especially against three dragons. Or are you not as clever as you've led me to believe? Only good with whores and gold?"

"Oh, I'm quite clever, Sansa," Littlefinger sneered, leaning forward in his seat. "There are many who are unsettled by the return of the dragons, and would rather it be controlled, or destroyed. And there are many who hate Daenerys Stormborn, who want her dead. I am good with gold, and gold is a wonderful diplomat by itself. It does all the talking and compromising for me, most of the time. Volantis, Tyrosh, and Qohor have all expressed great concern over the stability of her rule."

"Cersei was better?"

"Cersei was easily replaceable."

"So, you're making a point here. Taking the North back before she can even get started. What are you going to do when my army returns?"

"There will be nothing to return to."

Suddenly, the room erupted with the sounds of fighting. The doors behind Sandor and Arya burst open and half a dozen knights surrounded them; Sandor cast a desperate glance at her but Sansa was already being dragged away from the hall by Petyr. The princess struggled, meeting his eyes from across the room before she was pulled around the corner. "Let go of me," Sansa snarled. "You slimey creature, you horrid man-" Littlefinger tugged particularly hard, popping her shoulder, and she cried out more in shock than in pain. He was leading her back to her quarters, almost exactly the way she had run to find him. She was married to a monster for a while, so she knew what was bouncing around in Petyr's mind right now. He was imagining this to be their wedding night.

He was not as careful as Sandor-there was blood coating the bottom of her boots that she was forced to trek over her floor. "I've already won, Sansa," he told her, calm as can be, as Sansa's eyes scanned the room fiercely for something to defend herself with. Her room was full of useless, pretty things, though. She was disappointed that some parts of her like that remained, but there was no time to feel real regret, because he was advancing on her. Not this time, she thought even as he backhanded her across her cheek, and she fell to the ground with the force of it (he was stronger than he looked, which disgusted her). "There's no use resisting it anymore," Petyr continued, letting Sansa rise to her hands and knees. He was probably enjoying the sight of her too much for her liking, so she tackled his knees before he could maintain his monologue. He was light, so he was on the floor with her too easily, and she climbed on top of him and gave him a good slap across his cheek in retaliation for earlier. He only smirked, which was much too akin to Ramsey, so she went to hit him again. "Your mother fought me, too," Littlefinger mocked, managing to grab her wrist in his hand. "But she let me between her legs, eventually. You'll stop resisting one day."

"Don't talk about my mother," Sansa hissed.

He had both her wrists locked now, and he sat up and pushed her back so hard her head cracked against the stone floor. Sansa moaned in pain, squeezing her eyes shut, only vaguely aware of Petyr fumbling with the skirt of her nightgown.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in her room anymore, but in the courtyard, her teeth buried in a knight's throat while her pack took down three more behind her. One howled in triumph, and she could hear it both as a wolf and as Sansa, and it made her so dizzy she did not resist at all when Littlefinger put his hands on her thighs and started to spread her knees apart. She didn't need to be on two legs to know her way around Winterfell; the blood dripping from her jowls left a spotted path behind her that the pack could follow, and she didn't have time to look after them.

"That's right," Petyr murmured, and she could barely hear him, could barely understand him. It didn't even sound like the Common Tongue anymore.

Another howl broke her of her reverie, and just as she felt the tip of him brush against her and her hands began to shove on him, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open in a silent scream. "What-" he began, but he disappeared. No, he was being dragged away by the biggest direworld she had ever seen. She (Sansa knew it was a female, somehow) paused to dip her head towards Sansa in some sort of gesture, before pulling the shrieking man away from her. It was all very unnatural and sudden, so the princess sat there for a long while, listening to the sudden silence, where before there was shouting and barking. After a while, she snapped herself out of it and struggled to her feet, swaying a bit before she walked back out into the cold.

It was chaos. Bodies stained the snow while a couple wolves wrestled over a particularly torn up corpse. Once they heard the crunch of her feet, they ran through the open gate and back to the wolfswood. After a few minutes, Sansa could hear the collective howl of the pack, victorious and powerful.

She called them here, didn't she? But how?

It didn't matter, now. Now, she had to find Sandor and Arya, and any other survivors.

They could never find Petyr's body. Sansa assumed rightly that the pack had devoured him whole. Their cubs were probably using his bones as toys. The vision gave her great pleasure during the days when she was scrubbing blood from the floors and lighting candles for the murdered; Jon was so close, it was best to get the castle as normal as possible before he arrived with his new company.

Only a short while after, Sandor caught Sansa in the godswood, one of the few places that hadn't been touched during Littlefinger's brief attack. It was a bright day, and the sun was shining on the pool of water, making the shallows nearly pleasant to touch. She had her fingers in the water, creating ripples and breaking her reflection apart over and over. "Needed a moment away, too?" she asked, looking up at him with a smile.

The sight seemed to make him hesitate, but he leaned against a tree close to her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Never told me how you got away," Sandor muttered, probably not wanting to admit that he had been looking for her. She smiled again, enjoying him being embarrassed.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "All that matters is that Petyr is dead, and we're safe."

That night, she buried his skull deep in the forest, digging deep with her claws. His meat had nourished her and her pups, but something about his jaw and teeth unsettled her even as an animal. So she decided to let the insects and worms become acquainted with his smirk.