Sansa knew her limits. She knew them well. She knew what types of situations she could not escape unharmed and unaided – and there were many of them.

But despite all of this, she had started to feel herself relax. She was home in the halls and rooms she had wandered as a child. She had protectors: Brienne and Jon – and, yes, Arya as well. She had begun to feel safe.

So much so that she felt no hesitation as she rode out through the gates on the back of Dawn that morning. The sky was gray and she was alone and the cool air made her feel like her younger self. She spurred the horse onward, southwards down the well-trodden Kingsroad. Then, on a whim, she veered off, directing Dawn into the trees. She recalled, from vague childhood memories, a clearing with a small waterfall where they had sometimes had picnics – she, Arya, their mother, and the Septa and the other ladies. As though reading her thoughts. Dawn made a slight turn and when they came through the trees, there it was. The waterfall was really just a river half-heartedly trickling down a rocky hill, but Sansa smiled anyway.

She hopped down, tying Dawn to a low-hanging branch, and made her way to the water. She sank to her knees, the hem of her dress folding around her. She pressed her hands to the cool rocky ground and closed her eyes. The forest sounded the same as it did then – as it likely had sounded for centuries. All that was missing was her mother's low voice, speaking quietly with the Septa, or another lady, and Arya off causing mischief or bickering with her. Her own voice was missing too – haughty and childlike. Gods, she had been insufferable.

This clearing had played a major role in her romantic imaginings as a child. She dreamt about meeting a suitor here in secret, about dancing under the moonlight and maybe sharing a kiss to the sound of the running water – nothing more of course. She tried to daydream once again, tried to picture some tall handsome knight or prince to sweep her off her feet like in the songs, but found the innocence of the activity slightly out of her reach.

Then a twig snapped, suddenly more real and louder than anything from the past. Sansa's eyes flew open to see a man entering the clearing from the other side.

He was not tall, but quite broad, which Sansa had learnt from watching Jon meant more. She rose quickly, resisting the urge to look back to where she knew Dawn still stood. Sher heart climbed up her chest into her throat.

"Milady," the man said, but his gaze held none of the respect implied by that greeting.

"Good morning," Sansa said. She brushed her hands clean on her skirts, gathering the fabric in her fists in the same motion. Before the man made another step into the clearing, she spun around and began to run.

What she had not counted on was the second man. He held Dawn's bridle and greeted her with the same superficial "Milady."

If it had been her childhood horse – Beauty – she could have called and, no matter who held her or what stood between, she would have come to her. But, as lovely as she was, Dawn was not Beauty.

But Sansa kept running as fast as the uneven ground let her until the man let go of the bridle in preparation for grabbing her. Then she turned abruptly, flinging herself at Dawn's saddle with a cry she hoped the horse would obey. Dawn began to move as Sansa scrabbled at the saddle, trying to pull herself further into it. She had just gotten a foot into the stirrup when she felt a hand close around her other ankle.

She was wrenched back so quickly that her foot caught in the stirrup for a moment, twisting her knee painfully to the side. When it came loose, she did not have time to put her arms up before she hit the ground face-first. She cried out as the pain of the impact arced through her skull. But despite her throbbing head, the scrapes of the rocks on her skin and her aching knee, the thing that nearly froze her in fear was the feeling of the hem of her dress sliding down the leg still held up by the man.

In a sudden burst of strength, Sansa wrenched her ankle from his grip and scrambled away, nearly blind from the pain and the blood pouring from her forehead into her eyes.

Her knee screamed as she crawled, and her head was filled with fog except for one thought: Not again. Never again.

She felt the rough trunk of the first tree with her fingers with relief, even though she knew she could not outrun them. Without Dawn, she did not stand a chance.

Gripping the tree, she pulled herself to her feet, wincing when she put weight on her left leg. She could not outrun them, but for some reason, she wanted to stand. She refused to look up at them from her knees.

"Do you–" Her voice came out weak and soft, so she stopped and took a breath. She wiped her face, and her sleeves came away bloody. She could feel the blood continue to trickle down her face and over her lips. She held tight to the tree behind her and watched as the two men approached. "Do you know who I am?" she asked, channelling her former haughty self, and relieved to hear that her voice was steady.

"One of the ladies of Winterfell," the first man said.

"I am the Lady of Winterfell," Sansa said, blood flowing into her mouth as she spoke, still not certain where this courage was coming from. "My brother is Jon Snow. I am Sansa Stark."

She thought she saw some hesitation in their expressions, but then the second man stepped forward. He reached out a hand and she flinched away. He ran his fingers over her auburn hair. Sansa closed her eyes and took another breath.

"He'll kill you," she whispered, wiping the blood from her face again. She looked up at him, eyes furious. "And I shall ask him if I may watch."

Slightly disconcerted, he pulled back his hand. He looked back at the other man, but he had evidently gathered up what little bravery he possessed.

He sneered at Sansa. "Where is your precious bastard brother now?" He pushed the other man out of the way and stood so close to Sansa that she could smell his horrible breath. "Maybe if you scream, he'll be able to hear you."

She felt her mind try to drag her back to a distant throne room, but she refused to let it. She was here. This was now. She had to stay here.

So when he reached down to grab her skirt and pull it up, she twisted and writhed her body. She raised her hands and plunged her nails into the soft skin of his cheeks. He yelped and brought his hands up and away from her skirt to grab her wrists. He shoved her body hard against the trunk of the tree, increasing her pain tenfold when the back of her head slammed into the bark.

Sansa's vision began to swim. She felt her body sway to the side. When her knees buckled, the man released her wrists and let her fall to the ground. She groaned and blinked slowly. She saw the men's faces over her, wobbling and undulating to the point that it made her feel ill. One of them pulled out a knife from his belt and brandished it at her chest. For a dazed moment, she thought he was going to stab her in the heart. Perhaps they prefer a dead woman, her addled mind mused.

Instead, he used the blade to cut open her cloak and then the top part of her dress. The cold air on the bare skin of her chest was oddly soothing and Sansa felt herself slipping away.

But before her mind went dark, she heard hoofbeats and a familiar voice shout, "Get off her!"

The Warrior stands before the foe,
protecting us where e'er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow,
he guards the little children.

The Maiden dances through the sky,
she lives in every lover's sigh.
Her smiles teach the birds to fly,
and gives dreams to little children.

Sansa's favourite verses of the Song of the Seven were the ones about the Warrior and the Maiden. Her mother still insisted on singing them all as she tucked her into bed, but at the end would repeat her favourites until Sansa fell asleep. She always imagined the Warrior and the Maiden as lovers when religious lessons grew tedious.

Her mother's low singing still rang in Sansa's ears when she came back to herself. Her lips were sticky when she opened them to take a breath.

"Thank the gods," Jon's voice said from far away and she felt a hand on the side of her face. She almost flinched away but opened her eyes to see Jon's dark eyes and mass of black hair above her. "Sansa?" he said, voice strangely tight.

"Jon?" her voice scraped roughly, and the way it echoed sent her head pounding again. She winced and closed her eyes.

"Did they hurt you anywhere else than your head?" he asked.

It all came back to Sansa like a punch to the gut. She whimpered. She smelled the foul breath and felt the groping hands all over again.

"Sansa?" Jon said again.

"Just my leg, my left leg," she managed to get out in barely a whisper. "Twisted when I tried to mount Dawn."

She opened her eyes in time to see his focus flick towards her legs. He reached out a hand for her skirt, then stopped and looked at her. "Can I–?"

Sansa nodded.

He still hesitated, glanced around to make sure no one was around to see, then carefully lifted her skirt to take a look at her leg. His eyebrows moved slightly closer together, which for Jon meant that he was extremely concerned.

"You'll be alright," he said, looking back at her. He brushed her hair out of her face and for some reason, the tenderness of his touch made her lip quiver. Tears pricked at her eyes.

She scrunched her eyes closed tightly and took a shaky breath. When she opened her eyes, she looked beyond him to the rest of the clearing. The men lay bloody on the ground, clearly dead. Satisfaction bloomed in her chest. She was safe. She would live. Jon was here.

Then why did she feel the urge to weep? She reached out a hand and grabbed the fabric of Jon's tunic, using it to pull herself up to a sitting position. His hands moved to her back to support her, and she pressed her face to his shoulder. Only then did she let herself cry, muffled and hidden. He held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring comforting words that she did not hear but appreciated, nonetheless.

When she trusted her voice again, she lifted her head slightly. "I thought– I thought they would…" she whispered, trailing off.

"I know," he said.

"But they didn't," she said firmly, more to herself than to him.

Jon nodded. "Good."

Sansa nodded in agreement. "Yes," she said. "Good."

After some time, she pulled away entirely. He kept a hand on her back to keep her stable and offered a small smile. "I think your horse ran off," he said.

"I do like Dawn," Sansa said, mirroring the smile as best she could. "But she's no Beauty."

Jon fully smiled. "Ah, Beauty!" he said. "I'd forgotten about her."

"A true treasure of a horse."

They exchanged a look then; one they often did when speaking about their past lives at Winterfell. A wistful, melancholic look no words needed to accompany.

"I suppose you'll have to ride Tempest then," Jon said finally and lifted her into his arms.