Late March- early April, 299 AC

"Why didn't someone stop the Mountain?" Arya asked.

"The Kingsguard weren't with Princess Elia and her children," Ned said heavily. "Any other guards were slain."

"But where were the Kingsguard?" Sansa asked, her face buried in her father's robe.

The sun shone down upon dusty red mountains. Three knights stood before a tower, their white cloaks flapping in the wind.

The first knight was old and broad of shoulder, a tower upon his shield. The second knight wore a grim smile, well matched to the bat upon his helm. The last knight was tall and fair, his skin tawny, his eyes amethyst.

Ser Arthur Dayne drew his greatsword. It was pale as his cloak, sunlight shimmering off the blade. A young man with dark hair faced him, his grey eyes full of sorrow. She knew those eyes.

"And now it begins," the Sword of Morning said.

"No," Ned Stark said sadly. "Now it ends."

Sansa awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth. No matter how much water she drank, the coppery tang lingered. To be a direwolf was to be a hunter, despite her squeamishness. You slew a king, girl, surely even a little bird can slay rabbits, Sandor Clegane's voice mocked.

Sansa had been able to avoid hunting at first. As she followed the outlaws through the yellow wood she'd found a dying cow and gorged herself. She hadn't needed to hunt for days as she trailed the outlaws across the fields, careful to keep out of sight.

But at last hunger had defeated her and she'd slain an entire nest of rabbits after hearing them in their burrow. The hot blood tasted finer than wine, the flesh raw and tender as she ripped it from their bones. When she finished eating she resisted the urge to crack the bones and lick out the marrow, but it was a close thing. She buried the bones instead, saying a prayer of thanks and of regret.

She had much to be grateful for. Every day Sansa thanked the old gods for her keen ears. If not for them, she'd have been captured too.

Sansa was returning from planting a weirwood when she heard footsteps in the distance. To her horror she heard Arya creep out of the thicket and wander straight toward the steps. Yet Sansa had frozen, her heart thumping as fast as a rabbit's. She should have called out, she should have warned Arya- but she'd hoped they would walk past Arya in the darkness.

They hadn't.

As the men drew their swords Sansa had fallen to the ground beside the weirwood sprout, the transformation quicker and easier though still painful. Sansa the direwolf crept close, watching the men surround Arya. Gendry came at them, swinging his sword, only to have it knocked from his hand by one man as another punched him.

And yet, she could not bring herself to attack. They had let Arya shout at them, with no attempt to knock Needle from her hand. They had disarmed Gendry, but never tried to stab him. And so she'd followed, listening and watching and waiting and hating herself for her cowardice.

Everywhere the outlaws went they were warmly welcomed. A strange village in the trees gave them shelter. A group of begging brothers shared their bread and beer. A septon shared word that Lord Beric had been slain by Ser Burton Crakehall, and wept with joy when the outlaws told him the lightning lord still lived. Better still, he'd lured Crakehall into a trap and killed him and all his raiders.

"The smallfolk help us because Lord Beric fights for the realm," Sansa heard Lem explain one evening. "'Twas the Hand who sent us out, but we went under the king's banner, and it's the king's people we serve, not the Young Wolf or the Little Lion."

That night the outlaws slept at High Heart. The ghostly woman frightened Sansa with her prophecies, but something about her felt safe, like Old Nan. Still Sansa hesitated. To return to her true skin would leave her naked and defenseless. Best to learn more before she made herself so vulnerable.

She was tempted again at Acorn Hall. Sansa heard Lady Smallwood, and she yearned to reveal herself. Lady Smallwood would know Sansa was a lady. She would dress Sansa in pretty gowns, and let Sansa sew, and dance, and sleep in a featherbed. She was so tired of lumpy earth and mattresses of leaves.

Sansa was staring longingly at the gates when a voice dry as fallen leaves echoed in her head. You came to seek your lord, but your lady has found you. Weirwood child, wolf child, the Queen and her sworn sword. She couldn't serve the outlaws as their lady if someone made her stay safe within castle walls. Sansa might be happy, but she would be abandoning her duty.

And so when the outlaws left Acorn Hall riding north, the red direwolf followed.


Sansa watched the hollow hill, waiting for the outlaws to leave. As she waited she reached out, listening to the trees and streams and stones. To her relief, she sensed wolves nearby. Once they overcame their surprise, the pack leaders listened to her offer. Help me, and I'll make sure the two-leggers in the hill never attack you again.

There were two packs of wolves within range. The hill pack had made their dens inside the hollow hill, before the two-leggers drove them out. Fleetfoot, the mother of the pack, was easily persuaded to accept Sansa's offer. Her mate Brokefang had been slain by an arrow when the two-leggers claimed the hill.

The stream pack was a little further off, across the clear brook from which they took their name. Their leaders were Sharp Nose and Biter, a mated pair. Game was plentiful, and their pack had grown with each new litter. Over the last year alone they'd had a dozen pups, a number that amazed Sansa. What wonders could she do with just half as many healthy children?

After a day and a night of watching Sansa's patience was finally rewarded. A group of nearly a dozen outlaws departed the hollow hill, swords at their hips. She recognized four of them, men whose voices she'd heard as she followed her sister.

Her sister and the rest of her pack were left behind, left to be protected like Bran and Rickon were left at Winterfell. But Bran had helped her find herself again, and he was just eight. Arya was ten now, fierce and clever, and Sansa was twelve, practically grown up. It was only right that Sansa and Arya serve their people.


Sansa's nerves trembled as she prepared to reveal herself. I must be brave. I must make it like a song.

Arya awaited within, ready to play her part. Thank the old gods that Sansa had been able to speak to her, after hours of trying and a severe headache. For some reason speaking wolf to girl was much, much harder than speaking to animals when Sansa was in her own skin.

Enough stalling, Arya grumbled. I'm ready when you are.

Her nerves tingling, Sansa threw her head back and howled. The wolves panted softly, a few of the youngest pups wagging their tails. The wolves sat in a crescent about her. Before each wolf was a fresh kill, gifts for the people of the hollow hill.

Arya was the first to appear at the mouth of the cave, Jeyne and Meri and Gendry close behind. Slowly others followed, hollow eyed children and women and elders. Sansa forced herself to keep still, even though part of her wanted to flee. They've not turned Lord Beric over to the Lannisters, they'll not betray us either.

There were only a few men left to guard the hollow hil. There was Anguy with his bow, a sallow man with a spear, and a handsome young man with a brown beard- it was Alyn, Alyn of Winterfell! Sansa's heart soared, and she nearly ran to him- then she saw the terror in his eyes and remembered that she was a direwolf.

Arya approached slowly, a cloak in her hands. Sansa nearly wept when she saw the grey wool trimmed with white satin- where had she found a Stark cloak? Arya draped it over Sansa's furry shoulders and down her back, and all of Sansa's fears slipped away.

Sansa took a deep breath, and thought of all that made her Sansa. She thought of graceful fingers embroidering, of light feet following the steps of a dance. She thought of reading tales and singing songs and writing poetry.

Slowly Sansa's limbs began to shift. Her muzzle shrank, and vivid colors returned to her vision. Soft red fur gave way to smooth white skin. Four sturdy paws gave way to two delicate hands and two dainty feet. Sansa crouched on the ground on all fours, the cloak draped over her. Her thick hair fell to the ground about her face, shining like flame.

Carefully Sansa rose to her feet, the cloak clutched in her hands to preserve her modesty. Everyone was staring, mouths agape. Alyn went down on one knee, and slowly the rest followed.

"Wha- who-" An old man stammered.

"'Ere, that's t' Hand's daughter," a grandmother replied, her wrinkled face familiar. Sansa gave the grandmother a smile, and found her voice.

"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, sister to the King in the North."

"But- but- why not go to Riverrun?" Alyn asked. His limbs trembled, and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

"That was my intention, at first," Sansa admitted. "I am a young lady, not made for fighting battles. But I am not the Young Wolf. I am the Red Wolf, and I have a duty to my people too."