AN: Hi peoples, before anyone gets confused, I do have this fic on another platform but fell off the writing wagon ages ago. After so long, I'm a little rusty about my initial idea and need to read my own work before continuing to write. I'll post each chapter here after personally having the time to edit out any plotholes, hopefully falling back in love with my story as I go.

AN 2: This is a slow burn fic with lots of twists and turns. Emphasis on slow, because there'll be no years-long time jumps.

AN 3: I'm in the process of making Sansa 11 and Cat's twin. All correct chapters will be on ffnet.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

SANSA STARK

Day 24, 8th Moon, 312 AC

In what was home these days, Sansa finished the more delicate embroidery she was known for among her fellow dressmakers. The gown complete, she hung it up for collection tomorrow. The Westerosi rubbed her calloused fingers, hardened from years of daily needlepoint.

Turning to the sewing room's window, she frowned. There were only Braavos's busy streets and its port, instead of the Northern snows she missed. Somewhere in the city, Arya earned coin with her skills, while Sansa created gowns commissioned by Braavosi families. It's what ensured they would have both food and a safe roof over their heads.

Only Sansa and Arya now; the last Starks of Winterfell.

Winterfell. Riverrun. The Eyrie. Casterly Rock. Highgarden. Storm's End. Dragonstone. Sunspear. It didn't matter what part of Westeros came to mind of a Westerosi in Braavos or Pentos; they would never see it in its splendour again. The Others had overrun the kingdoms of Westeros, but thankfully couldn't swim.

Neither could they sail, considering Daenerys Targaryen burnt every unused Westerosi vessel long ago. Shortly after, she'd fled to Mereen with her remaining dragons; Drogon and Rhaegal.

Sansa last saw an Other seven years ago. The silhouette of one. Arya, on Winterfell's battlements with her, had spotted it as well. Afterwards, Arya attempted begging Jon to let her fight, her emotions plain on her face. All to no avail.

The last time they saw Winterfell, or Jon with clear sight.

Sansa, barely able to open her eyes or use her mind, had awoken to Jon kneeling beside a sleeping Arya in a rocking cabin. Jon held an uncorked vial near Arya's mouth. His other stroked her throat as though to coax it to swallow reflexively. After a minute, Jon tucked into his pocket the emptied vial.

Arya hadn't stirred at all through the whole thing. A forced sleep, for she'd have woken and created a fuss otherwise.

He turned and came over to her. "Sansa," he said. "I'm not proud about doing this, but you know Arya would never have left Winterfell if I asked her to. She'll hate that I've done this. That I won't let her fight." He took a breath. "But our odds against the Others are poor, so I'm sending you both where the Others can't go. To Braavos."

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows because she couldn't do much else. Why Braavos instead of an island in the Bite?

Jon took her fingers. "The Others can't swim in the sea, and Arya knows how to live in Braavos. It's my best chance. You're my sisters, and I'll be damned if I risk your lives in Winterfell because I want you close. It would be folly," he said and straightened his back. "If Westeros wins this fight, defeats the Others, I'll come and get you both and Arya's wrath myself. I swear it, Sansa."

Despite the situation, her lips twitched at Jon's comment about Arya's displeasure.

A squeeze of her fingers made her lift her gaze back to Jon's face. "I'll need a promise from you too." Sansa stared at him. "Swear that you and Arya will wait in Braavos. That you won't go searching in Westeros for me yourselves," he said. "Will you swear it? One blink for no, two for yes."

She quickly blinked twice.

Jon gave a weak smile and exhaled. "Thank you." He lifted into her sight a filled vial. "Arya will blame you if I don't give you this too. If we win, the first thing I'll do is bring you both back to Winterfell. It's our home." He brought the vial to her lips, and she swallowed the concoction without help.

Jon's face faded into darkness; the liquid pulled her back into oblivion.

Days turned into weeks, moons, and stretched into years without a word of news. Which could only have meant that the Others had won. And Jon killed.

After the first year, Arya closed herself off towards people. The presumed loss of Jon. Painful as it was for Sansa that Arya had faded into a silent husk, she would never turn her back on her sister.

Recently, Arya failed to return before sunset. Days ago now. Inside Sansa, fear built with each day that passed.

A clamour of Low Valyrian cheers outside drew forth curiosity, so she went to the docks to sate it. Men, with one or two obsidian tipped arrows in their quivers, left a ship. Arrows for killing the Others on Westeros like a mere hunt. She went back inside and read her work instructions in the far corner of the room; embroidery of an elegant wedding dress.

Over the years, similar cheers came from daring Braavosi men. Each time tore at her heart. Her homeland now but a hunting ground for wealthy men when they came of age. They called it the Wasteland of Westeros.

She wiped away a stray tear, pushing herself to focus on the dress. Listened to the soft sounds of her fellow dressmakers to keep her to the task. One seated beside her on a creaking bench, while another two sat in front of the adjacent wall.

"Sansa?" said her best friend next to her. "You're the most skilled at needlepoint in this house. Mistress Talea isn't about to dismiss you for being distracted for a few days," she said in Low Valyrian, the language of the Free Cities. It varied from city to city. Greater distance between cities meant harder interpretation.

A tear escaped when she placed the silk aside. "There's been no trace of her. Arya," she replied in the same tongue. A knowing nod came her way. "I trust she can take care of herself. She told me never to seek her out. But I fear the worst. She's never failed to return by day's end before. Her haunts were unvisited. It's been four days."

With all she'd lost, optimism no longer existed, especially in Braavos. Arya once told her to never leave their shared chambers without carrying a blade. There couldn't be a clearer sign of danger.

Sansa endured the wait for Arya. A wait worse than Cersei's cruel words, Joffrey's brutal Kingsguard, or Littlefinger's manipulations moulding her until she barely recognised herself. Arya; her sister. She hoped she still lived, and to hear word about her. Anything.

A knock on the door broke her from her thought, and she hurried over. Outside, a stranger held a note and Needle with traces of fresh blood. "Valar Morghulis," he greeted with a bow. "A message for Sansa Stark," said the man in Low Valyrian.

It had taken time to learn the language of the Free Cities, but a necessity since Westeros's demise. "Valar Dohaeris." She accepted both from his hands. "I am Sansa," she said, opening the note first.

Sansa,

Valar morghulis,

Arya

-Look after Needle.

"No..." She shook her head and backed a step. "No..."

The message clear, but Sansa didn't want to believe it and turned back to the man. "Who sent this? What did they look like?"

Her emotions must have shone through her eyes, for the stranger looked at her with pity; Arya always said her eyes sometimes gave too much away. "High as your shoulders, brown hair cut short, tunic and breeches. She asked I delivered these if her wound festered. I'm sorry."

No.

Sansa dropped all pretence of calm. Needle held close, she curled against the door and sobbed. Something unyielding sliced her side. However, she didn't care.

Arya was gone.

The last Stark slipped into darkness.

A pounding headache; the first thing that registered. Her closed eyes heavy as though she hadn't slept for days.

Familiar hardness beneath her back while gentle strokes of damp linen ran across her forehead. Someone tending to her. Stirring in the quiet chamber, she flinched when linen touched her closed eyes. After a breath, she opened them. Beside her bed sat a stranger, a young woman roughly sixteen or seventeen.

"What happened?" she asked, inside a familiar bedchamber with a few differences, such as no second bed. However, propped against the wall stood Needle. What happened bubbled up within her. "Arya…"

The woman grown, just out of girlhood, frowned from beside the bed. "Did you dream of home?"

"No." Sansa sat up, a little shaky. "Family. I dreamt of family."

Another woman, years older than the maiden beside her, entered her bedchamber. "Meralyn, I heard voices. Has she awoken?"

Meralyn turned demure and lowered her eyes. "Yes, Mistress Talea."

Sansa did a double-take of the second woman. She looked nothing near the age of the business owner she knew. With a careful stare, she took in the woman's facial features. The same yet simply younger. It made no sense at all, and she knew nothing about Meralyn.

"Good," Mistress Talea said, waving Meralyn away. "Sansa, you won't be assisting with sales for two weeks. Instead, full dedication to creating and completing a wedding order I received this morning," she instructed and turned towards the sound of approaching steps. Another woman roughly Meralyn's age. "Tell the girls to gather everything for the square. I want our pavilion readied in a half-hour."

"Yes, Mistress Talea," the new stranger said meekly.

"And Sansa." Mistress Talea glanced her way. "Put that sword away. You won't be leaving the house any time soon."

Following Meralyn's and the other employee's lead, she replied in the same manner. Mistress Talea left without looking back and closed the door. Sansa sat for a moment. That woman's mannerisms and name; all identical to the older business owner she'd worked under for years.

On her feet, she dressed into a two-piece fake gown. Significant differences to her body; slight and scar-free— little more than a child, and one-and-ten at most. Gripping the wall for stability, she stiffly opened her wardrobe door; every piece of clothing sized for a child. The size of her now.

Instead of reaching for them, she sought Arya's clothes in the wardrobe they'd shared, but found nothing of her sister's. Nothing but Needle.

Stifling a sob and eyes on the chamber door, she endured the clawing at her heart. Her sister gone. Again.

Despite her missing appetite, she ate the delivered meal regardless. When Sansa's eyes fell on Needle, shaky hands pulled the skinny sword into her lap and traced its hilt. Arya had spent much time training to master wielding this sword, until it had become an extension of her.

The message of Arya's note stayed with Sansa; Look after Needle. And so she would, but Needle was Arya's; learning how to wield her sister's blade would amount to a great disservice. They were different people.

Sansa took the sheathed skinny sword over to the wardrobe and rested it on the shelf, but left the door open. From where she stood, she wept into her hands. Eyes closed, flashes of Arya sparring in Winterfell with admirable prowess against Jon sprung forth. Those two had enjoyed sparring as much as Sansa had worried about the future. Their fluidity hadn't been enough for either of them in the end.

Opening her eyes, a glance over at the looking glass reflected a tear-stained face.

With light steps, she went to the handbasin in the corner and wiped her face, until the only trace of her grief were reddened eyes. Taking a breath and turning to the door to find it closed, Sansa, a woman grown in a girl's body, tidied her chamber to Mistress Talea's typical liking.

Downstairs she found an identical sewing room; two walls with benches, a table in the centre, and the corner had a stand with an instruction book for each seamstress. Nobody here. Except for fabric bolts, threads and sewing kits.

If matters were the same now, it would mean she needed to continue making gowns. Sansa had the weakness of a child now, and no dragonglass knives for protection. Arya long ago taught her how to handle them, but they were gone. She'll need to keep earning her room here. At least for now.

Inside Sansa's order book she found explicit details of a wedding dress; fabric, embroidery and measurements. Gathering the silk, the last Stark fell into routine. Habit and memory took over. Marking, cutting, sewing seams. Step by step until the daylight faded to night.

Sansa retired to the kitchen for a quick meal, and in her bedchamber took a goblet of diluted Essence of Nightshade. A concoction that sent the drinker into a dreamless sleep. Sansa needed it, especially dreamless rest in this situation. Abed, she soon sank into oblivion.

The next day everything repeated itself. Working and eating, working and eating. She lost sense of time by throwing herself into the only thing that mattered. The wedding dress. Sansa couldn't afford to fail. Days became weeks, and eventually, the chatter, bartering and haggling of the upper Braavosi market square surrounded her.

At Mistress Talea's pavilion, a fine-dressed and amethyst jewelled woman called 'Lady Daena' consented to measurements for a dress. When Lady Daena insisted that Sansa served her, it made wariness stir within, but Sansa acted at ease. She kept a careful watch all the same.

Why did she insist on my service specifically?

Lady Daena wore numerous amethysts, including one that hung low from her right ear. Her dark hair had a notable widow's peak and styled to her left, woven and resting upon that breast. Whoever she was, Lady Daena's appearance implied wealth. The olive skin suggested Lady Daena came from one of the Free Cities to the south. Tyrosh, Myr, mayhaps Pentos. One of those, but not Lys and its fair-skinned people.

Behind a screen and Sansa writing down the numbers, Lady Daena broke the silence. "Dear girl." Sansa looked up from the notes. "I'm glad you're making gowns for me again. Truth is." Lady Daena leaned close. "The other girls make gowns. But, you sweetling, make pieces of art."

Courtesy is a lady's armour, she thought. "That's a kind thing for you to say, my lady."

Lady Daena placed a gentle finger under Sansa's chin and smiled. "I say what I mean, young girl. I'd make my orders with another business otherwise. Your embroidery and styling is the envy of every dressmaker, I should think."

Flattered and a little proud, warmth gathered within her. She curtsied. "I'm honoured, my lady. Your order shall be complete in a week."

"No one can rush true art. Do make sure you rest, sweetling."

While the woman left, a Dornishman in his twenties, or almost, wandered the market square. He gazed at the displayed gowns with critique, until his eyes rested on one appropriate for warmer weather. His black eyes left the dress and landed on Mistress Talea.

Curious but maintaining her role as a seamstress, Sansa approached the order book to add Lady Daena's purchase.

He entered the pavilion's shade and approached Mistress. From the corner of Sansa's eye, she took in his appearance. A weak urge to curtsy stirred within her. His features somewhat familiar but younger as well.

A recurring theme.

Sansa's instincts persisted about this man. He held upright a partisan, which included two decorative gold snakes below the blade. An expensive and uncommon feature. The details screamed his identity, but she could be mistaken.

Olive skin, deep black hair, body tall and slender. All usual attributes of Salty Dornishmen. The man himself walked with graceful and confident strides. He was a presence here, not merely another man.

Watching the exchange between him and the mistress, Sansa seated herself near the display and eavesdropped with her back to them.

By reputation, this Dornishman acted on impulse and occasionally chivalry. If she correctly guessed his identity and she made herself a curiosity to him, it meant a chance of leaving.

"You must be proud of your girls, my lady," he complimented, then dropped his voice too low for Sansa's hearing. Mistress Talea followed his lead. Their quiet words were calm at first, but the more Mistress Talea spoke with the man, the more she hissed instead of whispering.

"She is my finest seamstress! Purchase a dress or leave!" Mistress Talea's snapped, attracting the attention of people passing through the square.

Now with a valid reason, she turned around and looked past the man's back to the frustration on Mistress Talea's face.

"She is a free person, is she not?" the Dornishman countered. "Should she wish it, the girl could come to Dorne and create gowns for my sister, Elia. Her craftsmanship is impeccable."

Struck with shock by the confirmation, she shot her gaze to the top of an order book.

Day 10, 9th Moon, 275 AC.

One fact dominated her mind. Westeros isn't a cold wasteland anymore.

Mistress Talea muttered darkly at him, while Sansa mentally scrambled to assemble a new identity for herself.

One way or another, she would return to Westeros. And crucially, an identity to fit herself within the era of Mother's girlhood. Her reflection in a window provided a quick answer. Her mother and Aunt Lysa were two years apart, and the date meant she was of an age with them both. Sansa took her uncanny likeness to Mother into consideration as well. An imprecise lie might serve me best.

Walking up to the pair, Sansa curtsied before the second prince of Dorne. "My Prince, it prides me to hear such words. I am Sansa of House Tully."

Prince Oberyn blinked before his eyes developed a shine. "Tully of Westeros? Daughter of Hoster Tully, no?"

Behind him, Mistress Talea grimaced like she'd lost an argument.

With rare hope her new identity could work, she continued with it. "Yes, Prince Oberyn, he is my father. Lady Minisa Whent Tully; my mother. Mother's face but Father's colouring."

The Dornish people had a reputation of impatience, but his included impulsiveness and hubris. The same hubris that once resulted in temporary exile.

He carefully stared at her, thumb running back and forth over his chin, while she stared back. "There is a likeness in you. And the Westerosi accent," he said and stepped closer. "I admit this makes me a curious man. What is a Tully girl of, I dare say, one-and-ten doing in Braavos? One would think you should be home. Family, Du-"

"-Duty, Honour," she finished with a nod.

The man's expressions were thoughtful and curious. He took a seat and watched with intensity; his eyes were piercing as though they knew all her secrets. "You know the Tully words," he said. "But you neglect them. Alone without your family," he continued and raised his index. "The first word."

She couldn't afford boldness now, and relaxed her frame into demure. "I've lived in Braavos for years, My Prince, but it's not my home. Never have I owned enough coin for a safe journey back home either."

He leaned back in his seat, eyes never leaving her. "Your voice speaks of grief," he said, a glance at Mistress Talea before returning. "Is Westeros what you desire?"

"More than anything, Prince Oberyn," she said with a solemn nod. "I remember a little of Riverrun and long to return. Would I be well-received at Riverrun? I don't know, but I miss them. I do wish to leave Essos, My Prince." Sansa would play on his earlier desire if it got her back to Westeros. "I admit I am curious about Dorne. Would I be welcome at Sunspear?" Sansa asked, baiting him. "Will I be permitted to write to my family?"

Prince Oberyn tilted his head some, and a triumphant smile emerged. "Aye, you would be welcome at Sunspear, and to our ravens, Lady Tully. Whether or not that is your name. Are you in agreement to come to Dorne and craft clothes of this quality for my House?"

A good opportunity to escape Braavos. "I am, My Prince." What she would do upon arriving in Sunspear, aside from making dresses, was a persistent question in her mind.

"Then it is settled." Prince Oberyn turned to Mistress Talea, who'd controlled her life for years, whether the woman knew or not. "This child is sailing to Westeros with me on the morrow. I shall take her to Sunspear, where she'll find a true home."