June-early August, 305 AC

When the queen arrived at White Harbor, it was to the sound of screams.

In summer, it would have been the screaming of seagulls as they swooped over the port. But it was winter now, and the seagulls had flown south long ago. No, the screams came from amongst the crowd gathered on the wide cobbled streets, the high keening of a babe whose wails made her heart clench and her belly lurch.

Sansa hid a grimace as Ser Clarence Crabb took her by the arm. She was sick of her belly lurching. Mother's stomach had not troubled her on land, but the rolling of the sea and the constant scent of salt and fish was another matter. She murmured a prayer to both the old gods and the new, grateful that she need not step foot on another ship anytime soon.

It was risky to sail north in the first place, as Olyvar had incessantly reminded her. Winter storms were never a laughing matter, but especially not at sea. Thankfully, the narrow sea had been as calm and obliging as she expected, so much so that there were arguments as to what could cause such unseasonable weather. Big Bucket Wull attributed it to the mercy of the old gods, Septa Lyra to that of the new, and Maester Lonnel to some unknown natural cause.

But though the gods agreed with her desire to return home, an icy wind still tugged at her cloak as Sansa slowly descended the gangplank. Old Megga had raised a grey eyebrow when the queen bade the clothier bring forth her maiden cloak. The pearl snowflakes were as bright and perfect as they had been on the day of her wedding; the embroidered wolf's head shone silver against the white velvet. Another silver direwolf pinned her cloak, and upon her brow rested her weirwood crown of Valyrian steel set with garnets.

"Some might say that a queen should wear her husband's colors," Old Megga had commented dryly as Gilly fetched a looking glass.

"And I shall," Sansa replied, touching the locket which hung about her neck. "But not today."

I am in the North, she thought giddily as her boot touched the dock. She did not need to feign pleasure as Ser Wylis Manderly welcomed Queen Sansa and Princess Arya on behalf of his father Lord Wyman. The crowd cheered and shouted, wild with excitement, so loud she thought she might go deaf even before Nymeria added her howls to the chorus.

"STARK! STARK!"

"THE BOLTON'S BANE!"

"RED WOLF!"

"PRINCESS ARYA!"

"STARK! STARK! STARK!"

Beaming, Sansa waved to the smallfolk. Her departure from King's Landing had not gone nearly so well. The smallfolk who lined the streets as she made her way to her ship had wept and wailed, begging their queen not to leave them. Taken aback, Sansa had paused to make a speech. She had done her best to explain about the dire peril of the Others, about how deeply King Aegon cared for his subjects that he would venture into the frozen North to defend them. That dried some eyes, but not all, and the few cheers were halfhearted.

By contrast, the folk of White Harbor were so welcoming that Sansa almost regretted having to climb into the litter which would carry her up the hill to the New Castle. It was Lord Wyman's own litter, ornately decorated with silver mermen and hung with green damask curtains. Her sister Arya might fork a spirited grey mare, but a woman heavy with child ought not do the same. Oh, her belly was yet small enough that she could ride, but Maester Perceval strongly advised caution.

Unwilling to take any risks, Sansa had heeded him. She was in her sixth moon of pregnancy now. Her weariness was a thing of the past, as was the soreness of her breasts. True, she could no longer sleep on her back, and her nose was distressingly sharp, but what did that matter? A fortnight past she had felt the babe quicken for the first time, every few days, she felt another flutter, and if her midwife Bethany could be believed, soon the babe would begin to recognize her voice.

That was well worth Maester Perceval's grandfatherly hovering. Pregnancy was not half so bad as Sansa feared. The dreadful headaches that accompanied her monthly moonblood were long gone, and unlike some unfortunate women, she had not puffed up like a blob of lumpy dough. Her skin was clear and glowing, and though her belly continued to swell, her hands and feet remained much as they ever were.

The same could not be said for her breasts. They strained at her bodices no matter what Old Megga and her seamstresses did, drawing frequent admiring glances from men who did not seem aware of their lack of subtlety. Arya had gotten into the habit of "accidentally" tripping anyone who stared too long, though the trick did not work if her target was seated. Unfortunately, they often were. And Sansa could do without the patient smiles of lords and ladies who seemed to think that pregnancy had somehow dimmed her wits.

Granted, she was a tad absentminded of late, but she was neither deaf, blind, nor stupid. For instance, based only on their letters, she knew perfectly well that Lord Manderly disliked both her husband and Robb's wife. She knew that Elia Uller had a concerning penchant for kissing handsome grooms and stableboys, thanks to Gilly and Shirei's quiet gossip. And thanks to her skinchanging, she knew that the ongoing war between Ser Daemon Sand and Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard had escalated to a private duel whilst they were docked at Gulltown. It had ended in a draw, though only when Sansa urged Holdfast to interrupt them by barking up a storm and racing back and forth. Predictably, the knights had raced to follow the hound back to their queen's side, fearful that something was amiss.

Nothing was amiss when Sansa reached the Merman's Court. Arya had not told her how beautiful it was. Floors and walls alike were painted with lush seaweed and rolling waves, with fish and crabs and sharks and all manner of beasts that lived in deep waters. Yet lovely as it was, a pang of longing assailed her. This was not her father's hall; this was not her brother's court.

As Queen Sansa approached the dais, Lord Wyman Manderly smiled down at her from the high seat. His face was broad and wrinkled, one eye bright and keen, the other dimmed by age. He was the fattest man she had ever met, so fat she could not help thinking of seals and walruses.

Sansa set that unkind thought aside as she returned Lord Wyman's warm greeting. A thousand wonderful scents assailed her nose; her mouth watered as she thought of the feast which about to begin. Half the chairs upon the dais had been left empty for Lord Wyman's guests, and he was all affable courtesy as he bade Queen Sansa and Princess Arya take the chairs to his left and right.

"Well cushioned, I promise you," Lord Wyman told Sansa, his eyes twinkling. "Only the best for King Robb's sisters. And for his kinsman the Lord of the Eyrie, of course," he added as Sweetrobin took the seat nearest to the queen. He was careful to keep well clear of Nymeria. The direwolf had settled down on the floor near Arya, her golden eyes gleaming.

The servants are like to step on your tail if you lie there, Sansa warned the wolf. Arya certainly wouldn't bother, not when she was busy talking with Elia Uller and Ser Perwyn Truefaith. Her mistress did not even notice as Nymeria gave a low whuff, unmoved. She would lay where she wanted, and the two-leggers had best not tread on her.

If they do, it will be your own fault, Sansa returned, annoyed. And you will not bite anyone, not unless you want me to have you muzzled until we leave the city.

Nymeria bared her fangs, displeased. She thought the boy had deserved to get bitten. Who was he to interrupt the she-wolf's dinner, to toss sticks at her and point and shout? It wasn't her fault that the boy had ignored the warning growls and snaps—

"Your Grace?" Lord Wyman asked, quizzical. "Is aught amiss with the princess's direwolf?"

Sansa blushed. "No, my lord. Pray pardon me, my thoughts wandered off. It has been a long journey, and my appetite is more than ready to pay homage to the hospitality of your table."

Lord Wyman chuckled. "No doubt, no doubt. Lady Leona was always ravenous when she was carrying my granddaughters. And as for her wits, why, I daresay she could not have found them with a map, not until well after each babe was born."

With a sip of cider to cover her displeasure, the queen let the insult go unremarked. She had more important matters to attend to. As the first course arrived, hot and steaming, she asked Lord Wyman about the Merman's Court. Its splendor was the equal of all the sights she had seen across the narrow sea; might Lord Wyman indulge her with a bit of its history and that of the noble ancestors who had built it?

His lordship was quite happy to oblige. Sansa paid close attention as she listened, taking dainty bites of each dish which her host urged her to try. Whenever Lord Wyman paused to eat, the queen spoke with the sundry nobles of White Harbor who were within earshot, or with Sweetrobin, who kept staring dubiously at each unfamiliar dish.

"Everything is fish," Sweetrobin whined. "I don't like fish."

Fortunately, her cousin kept his voice low. Unfortunately, neither the Blackfish, Arya, or Sansa had yet managed to break him of the habit of crossing his arms to indulge in an all too obvious sulk.

"I know it is not what you were accustomed to at the Eyrie," Sansa said gently. "But you must be courteous nonetheless. Try the crab pies; they're less fishy than the salmon."

By the time she had nudged and wheedled Sweetrobin into doing as he was told, Lord Wyman was ready to bend her ear again. Now the subject was White Harbor, of whose prosperity he was exceptionally proud. True, the port was quieter during winter, but the Braavosi still sent ships to buy good northern timber. And there was much profit to be made from trading with the Reach, whose ships had sailed north ever since Highgarden finally threw off the Lannister yoke.

"Though only after Cersei slew Mace Tyrell and nearly slew his son and daughter." Lord Wyman bit the head off a prawn, chewed, and swallowed. "Seven forbid the Tyrells risk their delicate petals unless they have no other choice." He gave Sansa a long, searching look. "You knew Queen Margaery when you were in King's Landing during the war, if I recall aright."

"I did, my lord." Sansa took a sip of cider. "We passed perhaps half a year together before I was wed, though I did not see her often."

"That is more than I ever saw of her." Lord Wyman shook his head. "I am too old and frail to travel far, even for a king's wedding. I have not left White Harbor in nigh on three years. All I know of Queen Margaery comes from letters from my Wynafryd and my Wylla. Wylla writes far more of her betrothed Prince Rickon than of her future goodsister, and Wynafryd praises her to the skies as if she were a besotted maid."

Lord Wyman snorted. "There was a time when lords and ladies praised Cersei Lannister to the skies. Including myself, I fear. She was charming beyond measure, and the most beautiful woman I had ever seen." He paused, eyeing Sansa for a moment. "Your mother was almost her equal. Someday you shall surpass them both, I think, once you look more the woman and less the maid."

Sansa barely kept herself from scowling indignantly. How dare he say she looked like a maid? He could hardly miss the sight of her belly bumping into the table. She was a woman wed, not a mere girl like Arya.

"What do you wish to know about Queen Margaery?" Sansa asked, keeping her voice light and innocent.

"I want to know what you thought when you took her measure. Is Margaery all she seems? Or is she another Cersei, a viper nursed on the same venom?"

"I don't know," Sansa said slowly, putting a hand to her neck. "But she gave me this."

Lord Wyman blinked in confusion when she drew forth the silver locket. Carefully, she opened it. Her father looked up at her, his gaze as steady as ever. Her heart clenching, she turned the locket.

"It is a true likeness," Lord Wyman finally said, his eyes still fixed on the miniature of Lord Eddard Stark. "A wedding gift?"

"Yes," Sansa told him. "Given to me on the morning of my wedding, even though the night before I had declined her grandmother's offer to have me spirited away to Highgarden."

Lord Wyman's brow furrowed. "You refused a chance to escape King's Landing? I should think being a hostage of the Tyrells would be far better than being forced to marry the Red Viper's bastard." He paused. "Unless... no, I cannot think that Aegon Targaryen was foolish enough to reveal his true name to a captive maid."

Sansa's temper stirred. "He did, soon after we were wed." There was no need for Lord Manderly to know that Olyvar had blurted the secret out by accident. "I was not sure what to make of Ser Olyvar Sand, but he had slain the Mountain for my sake. Should he have proved cruel, I meant to run away once he had taken me from the city."

"You took a great risk," Lord Wyman said. He shook his head. "You are fortunate he was not truly the Red Viper's son. Oberyn Martell is a dangerous man. When he jousted in the tourney at Harrenhal, he killed a man in his first tilt. Some knight from the Westerlands, whose only crime was being heard to say that Princess Elia of Dorne looked so frail he doubted she would outlast the year. And when Prince Rhaegar passed over Elia to crown your aunt Lyanna as his queen of love and beauty, it is rumored that the Red Viper poisoned the prince's favorite horse before leaving in a fury."

Disconcerted, it took Sansa a moment to find her words. "I had not heard such tales before, but I can assure you my lord husband is a man of honor."

"Is he?" Lord Wyman asked. "Death by wildfire is no fit end for a maid, not even a bastard born of incest. Though no doubt his grandfather Aerys would have been proud. He would not have hesitated to slay Myrcella, nevermind that she was a child and a prisoner in his care."

"Myrcella was in my care," Sansa flared, shoving down a pang of guilt. "King Aegon was leagues away at Duskendale when Trystane Martell helped her flee her cell at Dragonstone. When my men hunted them down, they tried to hide themselves beneath an enchanted golden veil which Queen Cersei had sent her daughter. Myrcella did not know that the veil had been soaked in wildfire and bespelled by pyromancers. When it burst into flame, both she and Trystane perished in an instant. There was nothing left to bury, only ashes."

Annoyed by Lord Wyman's look of doubt, she continued.

"At his trial, Qyburn testified as to how he helped make the veil. Queen Cersei meant for Myrcella to don it if Dragonstone fell, and use it to slay herself and King Aegon. You may ask Lord Wull if you do not believe me; he and a dozen other northmen were present at Qyburn's trial."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Wyman said. "I shall."

After that, the conversation took a more pleasant turn. Talk of the Others could wait until the morrow. Instead, they spoke of King Robb and of Prince Rickon. Sansa listened, greedy. Interrogating Arya was not enough; she wanted to soak up every precious scrap of the long years she had missed, even though it made her heart ache.

But heartache was nothing compared to the dread the queen felt the next day once Lord Wyman apprised her and her lords of the state of the war against the Others. When Sansa left King's Landing some twenty days ago, she had thought the Wall was holding strong. Robb had never lost a battle, after all, and Jon Snow would not have sought to become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch unless he knew that he could do it.

Those comforting thoughts were soon dashed to pieces. The Shadow Tower, fallen. Castle Black, abandoned. Eastwatch, barely holding against a horde of wights. King Aegon and Lord Snow had flown south on dragonback to raise a host; meanwhile the King in the North and his host were marching down the kingsroad, pulling back to Winterfell. All the northmen between Winterfell and the Wall were being warned to shelter in their keeps and holdfasts, to ration their food and firewood and burn their dead as soon as they drew their last breath.

Not everyone had the sense to listen. Some folk were fleeing south in a panic, even though the roads were a mess of ice and snow. If they did not freeze to death, they were apt to starve.

"Either way," Lord Wyman grimaced, "they might as well offer themselves to the Others on a silver platter. Who knows how many of them are roaming across the Gift, or how soon they shall venture further south."

"It doesn't matter." Big Bucket Wull slapped his chest. "We'll put an end to the buggers, sure as sunrise."

"Perhaps," Ser Clarence Crabb said. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard scratched at his chin. "Did King Aegon's raven say how long he intends to ferry Lord Snow across the south?"

When Lord Wyman shook his head, Sansa's stomach dropped. Arya looked unhappy too. Her face was closed, her hands queerly still.

"Viserion is very fast, isn't she?" Arya asked later, once they were alone. She fiddled with Needle's hilt as she paced back and forth, ignoring Gilly's huffs of frustration when she got in between the maid and the tidying that she was doing.

"She is," Sansa agreed. "But I do not know how many lords Olyvar means to visit, or how long he might stay at each keep."

She rested a hand on her belly, feeling cross. It was good of Olyvar to send her a raven from Winterfell, knowing that she would soon reach White Harbor. But the sealed letter which Lord Wyman's maester had given her was so hastily scrawled she could barely read it, the words full of sweet nothings and empty of any hint as to when her love would return to her side.

In the meantime, she had a journey of her own.

With the roads covered in snow, the queen rode forth from White Harbor in an enclosed winter sledge. The walls were of carved wood, the narrow windows of thick glass. Plush velvet covered the seats; there were pillows for her back and furs for her lap, and a brazier kept full of hot coals. Maester Perceval was aghast at the very thought of Sansa catching a chill, nevermind that the cold barely troubled either her or Arya.

Her host were less fortunate. They bundled themselves in layer after layer of fur and wool, cloaks and gloves, hats and scarves. The lords and knights rode on horseback; their men-at-arms and servants went afoot, save for those charged with driving the wayns. There were dozens and dozens of them, filled with all the supplies required to support a queen and her retinue.

And what a retinue it was, even with the Mootons and their men gone to reinforce Eastwatch. Now that her household was in order, Sansa felt as though she were swimming in servants. A queen must have her own septa and maester, her own steward and herald, a jeweller and a clothier and a master of horse, a larder and a pantler, a butler and a spicer and a cook, and a veritable army of serving men and maids to help them carry out their work.

And then there were the Kingsguard, the lords and knights, the squires and pages, all with households of their own. Not to mention the ladies-in-waiting. As was only proper, they kept the queen company in her sledge, the leagues passing by slowly as they talked or sang or stitched. With her own wardrobe in good condition, Sansa had set her seamstresses to making mittens, which she and her ladies embroidered with weirwood leaves.

Oh, but it was good to be back in the North. Every keep along the long leagues of road had a godswood, and every godswood had a weirwood at its heart. Sansa prayed to them all, accompanied by the lord of the keep, by Arya, and by the northmen who had followed her sister south.

But the queen's ladies were southron, and they followed the Seven. Each morning Septa Lyra led the queen and her ladies in prayers to the Crone, at noon they prayed to the Mother, and at midafternoon they prayed to the Maiden. Sansa asked the Crone for wisdom, the Mother for a healthy pregnancy, and the Maiden to help the maidens in her retinue stay chaste.

There were four maidens amongst her ladies. Gael Celtigar was sixteen, with stars in her eyes and far too much fire in her blood. She blushed prettily every time a man glanced her way, bribed singers to play bawdy songs, and, if Sansa was not mistaken, had a few books in her possession the sight of which would have given old Lady Celtigar a shaking fit.

And while Elia Uller had the sense to steal kisses in private, Gael was not so prudent. Whilst in White Harbor, the queen had sent little Samrik to fetch her from Lord Wyman's gardens. The boy had found Gael with her mouth on Ser Walys Mooton's neck, her hand in his breeches, and Ser Walys's hand up her skirts.

Sansa would have dragged them to the Sept of the Snows then and there, were Ser Walys not already betrothed to a lady of House Hawick. Thank the gods that Ser Walys was to sail for Eastwatch the next day. As for Gael, she had started weeping almost as soon as the queen began her thorough chastening, and had remained subdued ever since. The queen might have promised to allow Gael a second chance, but even so, her reputation could be destroyed at any moment should a certain five-year-old boy forget to keep his mouth shut.

She could only pray that Elaine Lydden would prove less troublesome when she arrived from the westerlands. Lord Lydden's daughter was only fifteen; she would be the youngest of Sansa's ladies. Anya Waynwood and Roelle Cafferen were twenty, ready for marriage but not yet betrothed. Anya had the misfortune to be homely, with a strong jaw and a face even longer than Arya's.

As for Roelle, she was determined to wed no man save Red Ronnet Connington of Griffin's Roost. Alas, not only did her father Lord Cafferen despise Red Ronnet, but Red Ronnet was the sort of knave to toy with Roelle's heart whilst doing nothing to secure her hand. Sansa wished Jeyne Poole were here. She would have come up with a clever, cutting name for Ser Ronnet, one so amusing that it dissuaded Roelle from her course.

Sansa had trouble not giggling whenever she remembered the name Jeyne had come up with for the oldest of her ladies. Denyse Hightower was a woman in her forties, sister to Lord Baelor Hightower and widow of Ser Desmond Redwyne. She was a learned and respectable woman, all agreed, a fine choice to serve the queen. She was also short and squat, so much so that Jeyne had promptly dubbed her Denyse Lowtower.

Jeyne had not dared come up with such a name for Valena Toland. Lady Valena was the heir to Ghost Hill, tall and fierce, with hair even redder than Sansa's. Some of it was starting to grey, even though Lady Valena was not quite thirty. While her mother Lady Nymella attended Sansa in Meereen, Valena had borne two children and lost her husband to a burst belly. Now she and her mother had swapped places. Her four-year-old son she had left in Dorne; her two year-old daughter had come with her, being only recently weaned. Cassella was a quiet child, content so long as she could cling to her mother or her nursemaid. Queerly, she was also fond of Yoren Yronwood, who played children's games with her despite the mockery of the other squires.

Ser Loras Tyrell had charge of the king's squires and pages while Olyvar was away. There were five of them at present, and there would be a sixth when young Lord Robert Brax arrived from Lannisport. No doubt there would be some confusion having two Roberts, but Sansa could hardly encourage all and sundry to call her cousin Sweetrobin as she and Arya did.

Myranda Royce called him Sweetrobin too. She had joined them at Gulltown, along with proper household assembled by Lord Nestor Royce to tend the little Lord of the Eyrie's every need. He had sent his own daughter to serve as matron and run the household. It was a task at which Lady Myranda seemed quite adept, despite being twice-widowed and childless.

"I served my father by ruling the Gates of the Moon, and Lord Nestor served Jon Arryn by ruling the Vale," Myranda had told her. "If only my lord father were better at picking husbands. The first was so old he died while bedding me, can you imagine? And the second was so busy drinking and chasing after whores that I didn't notice he was missing from our bed until one of the servants came to tell me that they'd found him dead drunk in a snowdrift. A few hours later, he was just dead."

"How awful," Denyse had tsked.

"Ah, well," Myranda shrugged. "I am glad Her Grace has had far better luck with her husband. Young, comely, and faithful. Though perhaps a tad oblivious," she added, her smile oddly sly.

Sansa was not sure what that meant, but it was reason enough to change her mind about inviting Myranda to share her sledge. There was not enough room without making one of her ladies ride instead. No, she would let them stay warm, and let Myranda share a wayn with Sweetrobin and Mya Stone as was her wont.

They were almost halfway to Winterfell when Arya finally convinced Sweetrobin to try riding in the cold and snow. Much like Elia Uller, who was used to much warmer climes, he was deeply unhappy about it. Dacey Mormont laughed at both of them, well used to northern winter. She reserved her pity for Ser Perwyn Truefaith, who shivered terribly every time he rode away from Arya to speak to his brother Lord Olyvar Rosby.

"Perwyn is riding with you today," Arya announced one morning as she stomped into Sansa's pavilion. Holdfast perked up; Buttons, skittish as any cat, ran away and took refuge by leaping onto what was left of Sansa's lap. "And don't fuss at me about not having room. I barely had to ask before Gael agreed she wouldn't mind a day on horseback. The sledge gets stuffy, she said."

The queen frowned. "Fine, but make sure she stays with you and Elia." Gods forbid there was some handsome knight Gael wished to flirt with; better to help her resist the temptation.

"I'll have Nymeria herd her back if she tries to wander off," Arya agreed. "By the by, Ser Daemon and Ser Loras quarreled. Again. Ser Clarence is making them fast on bread and water for a week to atone for their behavior."

"As he should," Sansa muttered, annoyed. "Did Ser Godric get pulled in this time?"

Arya snorted. "No, but Loras blacked his eye after he said that dealing with the pair of them was worse than growing up at Saltsister."

Sansa winced as she scratched Buttons' chin. Ser Godric Sunderland was the newest member of the Kingsguard, a knight from the Three Sisters whose skill had been honed training with his six brothers. He had joined them at Gulltown, as had two of his brothers, whom Myranda had taken as household knights for Sweetrobin.

"What were his brothers' names again?" Sansa asked, watching the cat as he butted his head against her belly and began to purr. Cats didn't need to trouble with such things. There were so many new people about her, so many faces and names and titles to remember. Usually it was almost as easy as breathing, but not of late. The other day she had inadvertently called one of her hosts Lord Helman instead of Lord Harmond more than once before he gently corrected her. Her face had burned hot with shame; she would have happily melted through the floor rather than endure such embarrassment.

"Sansa? Sansa, are you listening?"

Sansa looked up from the cat. "Yes," she said, waspish.

Arya narrowed her eyes. "What are the names of Ser Godric's brothers?"

"I don't know," she huffed. "I was waiting for you to tell me."

"I just did. Twice. While you were staring at the cat."

The queen scowled. "You did not." She might have been distracted, but she was not deaf.

"Did too. Didn't I, Gilly?"

"She did, Your Grace," Gilly said, not even bothering to look up from the cider she was mulling over a brazier.

"Steffon and Mord!" Samrik piped up, eager to help.

Sansa glared at Arya. Her sister smirked back, unrepentant. "If you need a quiet day in the sledge, you could just take one. You're the queen, stupid."

"I'm fine," Sansa lied, "and don't call me stupid."

"Are you sure? I'll tell all your ladies to bugger off so you don't have to."

"Don't you dare! Gilly and Shirei are perfectly capable of informing them I wish for some privacy today."

"Oh, very well." Arya glanced at the maids. "Go on then, you heard Her Grace."

It was not until Sansa was sitting in her sledge with Ser Perwyn that she realized how thoroughly her sister had outflanked her. Worse, it was nice to have only one companion to attend to rather than six, all of them crammed close together.

"Brat," she muttered, both pleased and annoyed.

"Your sister, or Lady Elia?" Ser Perwyn asked, amused.

"My sis- oh, no, what has Elia done now?"

"Nothing of note," Ser Perwyn assured her. "The snow is too deep and the cold too bitter for her to risk her horse attempting any foolishness. When we reach Winterfell, however... gods, and I thought your sister was a handful."

Sansa smiled. Ser Perwyn might be devoted to her sister, but he was not above sharing stories about her. A little prodding and he was off, recounting the time Arya had accidentally gotten drunk and tried to duel Greatjon Umber. Even the babe seemed to like it, judging by the soft flutters in her belly.

The babe did not like the stink of dragon when Viserion abruptly descended from the sky a few days later, just after the start of seventh moon. Sansa was hard-pressed not to vomit as she walked to her husband as quickly as she could; she would have run if not for her belly. Olyvar greeted her with a kiss and a warm embrace, but she had no time to enjoy either before he took her by the arm and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

"Her neck is hurting her again. Can you heal it, my love?"

She could, but it was not pleasant. Viserion barely fit into the barn which they found close by, and at the first whiff of the festering wound on her throat, Sansa retched. She retched thrice more before she finished her healing song. The wound still looked raw and ugly, but at least the rot was gone.

A long bath whilst Olyvar met with his bannermen did much to restore her good humor. On a whim, she had Gilly fetch one of the dragon eggs from the jeweller. Sansa had brought all of them north for safekeeping, locked in a heavy chest which took four men to carry. But Gilly was perfectly capable of carrying a single egg, though with an escort of guards, of course.

Sansa cradled the egg to her breasts. Most of the egg was gold, save for the scales which were speckled with every color of the rainbow. It was beautiful, just like Viserion. But Drogon had been beautiful too, dreadful as he was. Her babe must not have such a dragon; she would not allow it. This dragon would feast on sheep and pigs, on fish and deer. Not children, never children.

"My love, why are you whispering to the egg?"

Rather than answer, Sansa rose from her bath. King Aegon did not need to dismiss her maids; they were already scurrying out of the queen's pavilion by the time Olyvar found his tongue. The next moment he was holding her, kissing her. Sansa could have almost wept from joy; they had been parted for far too long.

Their lovemaking was passionate, though awkward. Her belly was a hindrance, as was her decreased flexibility. By the time they had things sorted out to their satisfaction, they were both starving. They took a quiet dinner together, glad for a respite from their court. Sansa kissed him after every sip of cider just because she could, and Olyvar fed her the choicest morsels from his dagger.

And while they ate, they talked of all that had happened. Sansa went first, as she had far less to say. Her journey had been relatively uneventful; the worst calamity was Gael Celtigar's indiscretion and the childish idiocy which had earned Owen Costayne a bite from Nymeria.

Then it was Olyvar's turn. He told her of his meeting with her brothers, of the arguing that had ensued and of the decisions which had been made. Her heart fluttered as he spoke of Robb and Bran, even her half brother Jon. And when he spoke of Winterfell, Sansa's heart almost burst from jealousy. It was not fair that he got to see all her brothers and her home before she did. Sometimes Winterfell almost felt like some sweet dream, the kind which was forgotten when one awoke. She was glad when he began to speak of Riverrun instead.

"If we win this war, I do not know what Edmure Tully will do," Olyvar said. "From the way he spoke, he means to follow King Robb to the bitter end. But with the Riverlands trapped between the North and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms... Lord Tully cares about his people, and they love him for it."

Little though she knew her uncle, Sansa felt a surge of pride. Family, duty, honor. She felt even prouder of her husband as Olyvar recounted the rest of his travels. Between the wight heads, Septon Josua's painting, and Lord Commander Snow's testimony, even some of the more skeptical lords had been moved to act. At this very moment hosts of men were being gathered and equipped, and fleets of ships were being readied to carry them north from various ports.

"And the small council has given their blessing my plans, thanks to Jon Snow." Olyvar ran a hand through his hair. "Poor fellow. I know you said he was a sullen child, but I've seen more cheerful gravediggers. He didn't laugh at any of my japes, or even groan like Arya does. But," Olyvar said with a weary smile, "by the time I left him at Winterfell, he was calling me Olyvar in private. I'll take that victory, small though it is."

Olyvar was in much better spirits as he told her of the family he had seen whilst he was away. At Oldtown he had seen his sister Sarella. She was well, almost glowing with pride over all the links she had forged. Alas, she was still afflicted with a lingering cough, and the burn scars she had taken would last the rest of her life. At Sunspear he had seen Nym and Tyene, and tried to offer cousin Arianne some comfort for the loss of her daughter.

He had not had time to see Mother Ellaria. She was at the Hellholt, accompanied by her daughters Loree and Doree and by Obara, who served as captain of her household guard. All of them eagerly awaited Oberyn, who was on his way to frighten off the Uller cousins who were so bold as to challenge her claim.

When he reached King's Landing, Olyvar had found his lady mother in good health. Princess Elia remained focused on her sept and on spoiling her niece. Her goodmother much preferred Obella's company to that of Elia Uller, a compliment which both pleased Obella and offended her on her elder sister's behalf.

"And how is your elder sister?" Sansa asked, playful.

Olyvar grimaced.

"Insufferable, actually."

Sansa listened sympathetically as Olyvar poured forth his woes. He had fought with Rhaenys for almost the entirety of his visit. Rhaenys was willing to grant the necessity of fighting the Others, but she was beside herself at the result of his negotiations with Robb. Was Olyvar a simpleton? Now was the time to force the North and Riverlands to kneel, now, when their very survival hung in the balance, and only King Aegon could save them! There would never be a better chance to reunite the Seven Kingdoms; how could Olyvar let it slip through his fingers? Must Rhaenys warn him yet again how much blood and coin would be lost if he must take the Riverlands by force?

"I'm sorry, love," Sansa said once he was done. She was glad that she had not been there to argue with Rhaenys; it would not have ended well.

"I'd rather have sparred with Father for an entire day than endure another hour of her lecturing," Olyvar grumbled. "Rhaenys has a tongue sharper than his spear, I swear, and she always aims between the ribs."

Sansa hesitated. "Lord Manderly told me something odd. He said at the tourney of Harrenhal, Prince Oberyn slew a man for daring to say Princess Elia looked sickly, and that he poisoned Rhaegar's favorite horse after- after-"

"After Rhaegar slighted my lady mother before all the lords of the realm," Olyvar finished for her. "I don't doubt he did. What of it?"

She blinked, momentarily stunned. How could Olyvar say such a thing? Her gooduncle had been nothing but gallant ever since they first met. "But- Prince Oberyn is so, so honorable, so kind."

Olyvar snorted. "Oberyn is kind to family, and to those who he deems worthy. You wouldn't like to hear what he did to Obara's mother. And as for his honor... well, his notion of honor is known to him alone. I could never make sense of it. I may love him as a father, but I cannot deny he has a streak of cruelty, one he gave to my three eldest sisters."

"Lord Manderly thinks you have it too," Sansa told him unhappily. "He asked if you slew Myrcella. I explained what happened, but... what if other lords think the same?"

Her husband stared at her, appalled. "He thinks I killed that poor girl? And my own cousin with her? Gods be good." Olyvar buried his head in his hands, groaning. "As if I could ever- I wouldn't- oh, no, how many people—"

Sansa clasped his hands. "I'm so sorry, my love."

"Don't be," Olyvar sighed. He pressed a kiss to her brow. "Perhaps... perhaps it is for the best. We have declared the truth, but let them keep their doubts. If men think me capable of slaughtering a mere girl, that may give them pause. I never want to have to make another example like that of Lord Wylde." He shuddered.

Sansa's skin prickled. Lord Eddard would have been horrified by the very existence of such a rumor. His sense of honor would not have endured such a vile accusation, nor would his honesty have allowed him to sit in silence and profit from a false tale. Her father would have proved his innocence before the realm rather than be thought a murderer of children. How could the man she married do any less?

Her marriage was often on her mind as they continued toward Winterfell. Olyvar's return should have helped her sleep like a babe, yet Sansa found herself fretting even as he dozed beside her. Robb had not welcomed King Aegon; would he give her the same cold courtesy? And what of Bran and Rickon? She could not even picture their faces; her memory of the solstice was all a blur.

She might have asked Olyvar to describe Robb and Bran and Jon, yet she did not. He had too much on his mind, too many duties to attend to. Sometimes it felt as though she could only make Olyvar smile when they were alone, or when the babe fluttered in her belly.

Besides, it was more fun to try and imagine her brothers on her own. Sansa imagined Robb with a kingly beard, looking down at her as he always had. Bran must be plump from always sitting down; Rickon must be much bigger now that he was no longer three.

It was over seven years and two months since Sansa had parted from her brothers. Or so Arya said. She had done the sums after Sansa snapped a quill in half, upset by her own inability to properly count the days. Her nerves had never felt so ragged, not even before her trial. What if her brothers were strangers? What if they hated her for being gone so long?

As they drew closer to Winterfell, Sansa found her yearning growing more painful by the day. She began to have nightmares, terrible nightmares that seemed real until she woke. Bran never awoke from his fall. Arya was caught by the goldcloaks rather than by Bel. Rickon vanished into the wilderness, never to be seen again. Robb died at the Red Wedding; Jon was slaughtered by wildlings. And all she could do was watch, screaming and sobbing, until she woke with her blood thundering in her ears.

Then, a morning came when she woke to Arya shaking her by the shoulder.

"Get up, get up," her sister hissed, careful not to wake Olyvar. There was a scowl on her face and a ruslight in her hand. "I'm dressed already, how can you lie abed?"

Sansa blinked, bleary-eyed. She might be accustomed to rising early, but it was still hours before dawn. Not that her bladder cared. It wanted to be emptied, just as her belly wanted to be fed. She might not be able to eat large portions in one sitting anymore, but the babe was always hungry. Sansa yawned as she eyed her sister's clothes. Why, that's the same tunic and breeches she had on yesterday.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Did you even sleep?"

"I couldn't," Arya admitted. "Now come on, you said I could wake you, and I'm waking you. Gilly has hot water and a washcloth ready, and breakfast is on the fire."

King Aegon and the rest of the host would not leave for hours yet, but neither Queen Sansa nor Princess Arya could wait so long. When dawn crested over the horizon, Sansa's sledge was ready to go. Olyvar bid her farewell with a kiss, a lingering embrace, and a caution not to let her nerves overwhelm her.

Sansa made no promises, but she did bring Maester Perceval, just in case. Gilly and Samrik came too, as did Shirei. They were not strangers like her ladies; she could trust them to attend her on this, of all days. For her escort she had Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Perwyn Truefaith, and Lord Olyvar Rosby, along with a goodly number of knights and men-at-arms and a single fierce direwolf.

Unlike Nymeria, who loped through the snow, Arya kept her company inside the sledge. Though not without much grumbling; in the end, Sansa had to insist. She did not trust her sister not to bolt ahead and risk laming her horse in the snow. It was what Sansa would have done, were she not far too pregnant to ride. Instead she stared out of the sledge's narrow windows, half blinded by the snow, desperate for the first glimpse of grey walls.

When it came, Sansa's eyes welled with tears, so overcome that she could scarce catch her breath. How could she think herself a stranger here? She knew those towers, just as she knew the banners that flapped above them, just as she knew the old song of summer that Olyvar Rosby was singing at the top of his lungs.

By the time he finished, Sansa had dried her eyes and donned her weirwood crown. Arya's bronze circlet was slightly askew; she barely sat still long enough for Sansa to straighten it. Gilly was too distracted, busy staring out the window. "There are so many people," she gasped.

The maid was not wrong. The Wintertown was bigger than Sansa remembered, and packed to bursting. Outside the Wintertown was a sprawling encampment, with banners flying proudly above countless tents.

But Sansa did not care about the camp or the Wintertown. She cared about the main gatehouse, which drew closer with every heartbeat. Her heart felt as if it might burst as they rode into the courtyard, the same courtyard where they had said their farewells so long ago.

Yet when the sledge stopped, Sansa froze, motionless, one hand on her swollen belly. The babe fluttered, just like the butterflies in her stomach. She was not ready, how could she be ready? She ought to have worn a different gown; she ought to have prepared what she would say—

"Your Grace?" Gilly asked, confused.

What was she doing? Only girls panicked, never queens.

"If you would assist me?" Queen Sansa said. It was a miracle Arya had not leapt out of the sledge already.

Nymeria was not constrained by two-legger formalities. As Ser Loras Tyrell handed Sansa out of the sledge, she could feel the she-wolf racing ahead, howling her joy to the skies. A chorus of howls echoed back, one, two, three voices, the voices of her brothers. They burst across the yard, two grey blurs and one black, all wagging their tails like pups as they pounced on their sister. Sansa watched them, wishing she dared join their play. It was so tempting to slip her skin, to become one with the pack—

"Sansa?"

She turned to see three strangers. One was a man, one was a youth, and one was a boy, but all of them shared her hair and eyes. The boy was wide-eyed and wary, the youth pimpled and petulant as he looked down at her from atop a dappled horse. Between the boy and the youth stood the man, a king with a crown of bronze and iron upon his head. Sansa could have sworn she saw a look of shock pass over the king's face before it vanished, replaced by a countenance of stern command.

Sansa's mouth felt dry as dust. "Your Grace."

Behind her, Arya made a noise of dismay.

"I- I-"

Sansa hesitated, fighting with herself. She stood here as a queen, not as a sister, and certain courtesies must be observed. But how was she to do her duty? She could not curtsy to the King in the North, not with her swollen belly, and she certainly could not run to her brothers like a giddy girl, so what—

Then Robb was striding toward her. He pulled her close as if she had never left, and Sansa hugged back, relief washing over her like a wave. Arya made for Bran, who muttered a greeting, only for Rickon to interrupt by shouting so loudly they could have heard him in Dorne.

"You came back!"

"I promised, didn't I?" Arya replied.

With a wild grin, she swept Rickon up in her arms. He must have been heavier than Arya remembered. With a yelp, she plummeted backwards into the snow. She landed with a soft thud, spluttered curses echoing over the yard as Arya swore at the top of her lungs.

Bran and Rickon laughed, but Sansa did not. She was too busy holding onto Robb, sure that he was the only thing that could keep her on her feet. Sansa was proved wrong when he abruptly ended the embrace, turning his attention to Arya.

The rejection stung like a slap. Was she so terrible a sister? She must be, for Robb to abandon her for no better reason than to scold Arya for making a spectacle with her foul tongue. Part of Sansa wanted to weep; another part wanted to hide in her sledge.

But she could not do that. And so, fearful of the reception which awaited her, Sansa approached her younger brothers. Bran was fifteen now, and he looked it. There were pimples all over his face, and thin whiskers on his upper lip and jaw. As for Rickon, gone was the little boy who only came up to her waist. Now the top of his head was as high as her chest; his mouth was a jumble of baby teeth and adult teeth half grown in.

"You're Sansa," Rickon said, hesitant. "Arya told me."

She had not realized her heart could sink even further than it already had. "I am," Sansa replied. "Don't you remember me?"

"A little?" Rickon said, doubtful. "You used to be shorter. And skinnier."

"She's with child, not fat." Bran's voice was much too deep, too distant.

"I know that." Rickon scowled, the expression painfully familiar. "You don't know everything."

"Mayhaps I do, mayhaps I don't, but I definitely know more than you."

When they were little, Bran would have finished by sticking his tongue out. Instead, he turned to look at Sansa. For a long while he was silent, his eyes unreadable.

At last, Bran spoke. "You are taller." He glanced over at Robb, his mouth quirked.

Sansa did not know what to say. Tears stung at her eyes, but she brushed them away. Queens should not weep like babies. She had a thousand questions, and none of them were the sort to ask out in the yard.

"I brought gifts," she said, working hard to keep her voice steady. "For all the name days we missed whilst we were apart."

Rickon tilted his head, curious. "Gifts?"

"Yes," Sansa said, trying not to sound too hopeful. "I brought you a unicorn horn, all the way from Skagos—"

Arya's voice echoed across the yard, loud and sharp. "What do you mean, Jon isn't with his men? Where is he?"

"In his old room," Robb said, his face solemn. "But Arya—"

Too late. Nothing could have stopped Arya from bolting for the Great Keep, not even the King in the North. Ser Perwyn did not even try, too busy making sure Olyvar Rosby did not interrupt the king and his siblings. That seemed to amuse Ser Loras, who stood guard by the sledge. He was less amused by the direwolves. He visibly relaxed when Grey Wind turned and fled, making for the godswood with the rest of the direwolves following close behind.

Sansa wanted to run with them, not just watch them go. The pack was a part of her; she itched to slip away, to don her wolfskin and forget her troubles. But she dared not, not with a babe in her belly and so many eyes to see.

That was what made Sansa come back to her senses. She was a queen, a queen standing in an open yard crammed full of onlookers. She must not shame herself, nor her lord husband or her kingly brother. Desperate, the queen tried to regain her composure, half a heartbeat away from bursting into tears.

"Your Grace?"

Robb stood beside her, offering his arm. Sansa meant to take it, only to stop and stare when she realized she was looking down at Robb, not up. I'm taller than Robb. Only by a scant few inches, but taller nonetheless. How could she be taller than her elder brother? Had the world gone mad?

"Give me your arm," Robb said. His voice was low, but he held his head high, his shoulders straight, every inch a king. A stranger. "My scar may be ugly, but staring is unseemly."

"That wasn't- forgive me, Your Grace." Sansa took his arm obediently, her face burning hot. The scar was ugly. She had not noticed it before, too busy burying her face in his shoulder. Now she saw it. The scar was impossible to ignore, a great slash that cut across Robb's cheek. It made him look older, as did the dark circles under his eyes and the grey hairs at his temples. You can't have grey hair, Sansa wanted to wail. You're only one-and-twenty.

But she could not make such a display. Sansa was a queen, one with a Kingsguard and men-at-arms following at her heels. The king and the princes had an escort too, men-at-arms in the grey and white livery of Winterfell. They were not alone, and she must not show how small and lost she felt in her brothers' company.

"How is your lady wife?" Sansa asked.

"Queen Margaery is in confinement," Robb said curtly. "The babe is expected soon. She bade me pass along her warmest welcome—"

On and on he went, saying nothing of note. Behind them, she could hear Bran and Rickon arguing, their voices low. When had Rickon had learned to whisper? And who was this king who spoke in empty pleasantries, as if she were some foreign envoy and not his own blood?

It seemed an age before they halted at the steps of the Great Keep. Bran's horse could hardly climb the steps of the northwest tower. With brisk efficiency Bran undid the straps binding his legs to the saddle. His lips tightened as a pair of Winterfell men approached. Carefully, they lifted Bran down from the saddle. His shriveled legs dangled as if he sat in an ungainly chair, the men's arms under his knees and his arms over their shoulders.

Once the prince was ready, the king led the way into the Great Keep. Sansa leaned on his arm as they began to climb the northwest tower. They went slowly and carefully, both for Bran's sake and for hers. She could not see her feet, not with her belly in the way, and gods help the babe if she fell. Sansa tried not to think about that, focusing instead on listening.

They were halfway up when Robb finally ran out of courtesies. Bran said nothing, not a word, and after a few questions about his gift, Rickon fell silent too. There was no sound but that of footsteps on stone, that and the soft clink of Ser Loras's armor. All the other guards had been left behind at the base of the tower, but the Kingsguard refused to neglect his duty.

Her nerves fraying more with every second, Sansa could not help but ask the question which had worried at her since Arya ran off.

"What happened to Jon?"

Robb tensed. "Your husband happened to Jon," he said coldly, ignoring Sansa's gasp of startled outrage. "King Aegon was supposed to return Jon to the host upon the kingsroad. Instead, he left him here. That same night, Jon took a horse and galloped north, right into the teeth of a blizzard. Lord Howland Reed went after him the next morning. He found Jon at dusk, lying at the bottom of a ravine beside his frozen horse."

"He should have died of frostbite." Bran's voice was queer, as was the look he gave Sansa.

"The old gods spared him that," Robb said grimly. "Even so, Jon was out of his senses with fever when Lord Reed brought him back. For days he would not sleep, he would not eat or drink—"

"I made him eat," Rickon interrupted. "Once Maester Luwin let me in."

"Falsehoods are unbecoming of a prince," Robb said. He paused at a landing, his disapproval so thick it could have withstood a battering ram. "Try again."

Rickon crossed his arms, scowling. "Maester Luwin did let me in, I just had to threaten the guards with Shaggydog to make him. And I made Gage give me all the pynonyade he could find, and I made Jon eat it until his mouth was so sweet and sticky he was begging for water."

"Jon started eating again after that." With a heavy sigh, Robb resumed climbing the stone stairs. They were worn and weathered, the centers worn down from being trodden underfoot for centuries. "Not that it has helped much. The fever comes and goes, his lungs are weak as a newborn kitten, and his foot—"

Then Sansa stumbled over an uneven step, and the air erupted with shouts of alarm. It took but a moment for her to regain her balance, but it was already too late. Robb grabbed her with a grip like iron; Ser Loras lunged past Rickon as if he meant to catch his queen in his arms. Sansa ought to have appreciated their concern, but somehow it upset her more than the fright of missing her footing. Worse, Robb refused to say another word about Jon, lest she be distracted by whatever news her mishap had interrupted.

Sansa's temper was as sorely tested as the muscles in her legs. Unused to such toil after weeks in a sledge, her legs were cramping and complaining by the time they reached the chamber near the top of the tower. She did not have to inform Ser Loras that he was no longer welcome; he was already taking up a post outside the door as the guard opened it wide to let them in.

The first thing she saw was Ghost. One could hardly miss the sight of a direwolf the size of a horse. He lay beside the window, his head resting on his paws. Ghost's eyes shone against his pale fur, red on white, as if he were a weirwood rather than a wolf.

Like the direwolf, Sansa watched in silence as Arya climbed down from the featherbed. Her sister's face was pink, her nose runny, her grey eyes filled with tears. When she saw the man lying in the bed, Sansa understood why. Jon Snow looked like Father, but much older, worn and weary and pale. He leaned against a pillow, crying as Arya did but seemingly unaware of it. He did not try to rub at his eyes; his tears ran freely down his gaunt cheeks, vanishing into an unkempt brown beard.

The featherbed was enormous, so large it might have held a king and his entire family. There was plenty of room for Bran, whom the men-at-arms settled by Jon's side. The men's eyes darted hither and yon as they helped prop him up, fussing and fiddling with the pillows and blankets as if they were concerned about his comfort, not merely lingering to see what happened next.

Then Robb's voice cracked like a whip. "Prince Bran has no more need of you. Out!"

The men bowed, then fled. Sansa could not blame them; the look on the king's face would have made a monster quail. He seemed taut as a bowstring, a storm ready to break as soon as there was no one to overhear his fury. Sansa drew herself up, grasping her composure by a thread. Her blood pounded in her ears as she anticipated her brother's reproach, unsure whether she would meet it with a plea for mercy or a howl of defiance.

The door thudded shut. Breathless, motionless, Sansa waited. Her siblings waited too, transfixed, five statues all staring at their brother and king.

When Robb turned to face them, he looked different. The look of anger was gone, replaced by a relief so palpable it nearly broke her heart. "I feared this day would never come." His voice was soft and uncertain, that of a boy, not a king. "Yet now that it is here, I feel as if I have wandered into some distant dream. If I have, I never want to wake."

And then Robb lunged, fast as his direwolf. In the blink of an eye he had grabbed Rickon and tossed him on the bed; another blink, and Arya was cursing and laughing as he flung her too. That left only Sansa. Surely he wouldn't dare—

Sansa yelped in surprise as Robb scooped her up, one arm under her knees and the other against her back. How had she forgotten how strong he was? "You got heavy, little sister," he teased, "but not too heavy for me."

One moment Robb was gently putting her down between Arya and Rickon; the next he was climbing up himself. Tears streamed down his face as he embraced first Sansa, then Arya, then Jon. He squeaked like a startled mouse before returning the embrace, one arm around Robb, the other around Bran.

With a shrug and a watery smile Bran shook himself free. Cords of thick muscle strained at the sleeves of his tunic as he dragged himself across the bed, flinging his arms around Sansa and Arya and nearly squashing Rickon in the process. Rickon yelped with outrage as he elbowed Bran out of the way, determined not to be left out.

Sansa hugged both her little brothers back as best she could, laughing and sobbing at the same time. Everyone else was crying too, but it didn't matter, not even a little. Seven years, two months, nine days, and at last, at long last they were together, and nothing would ever come between them again.

Then Jon cried out in pain, and the laughter died in an instant.

"Sorry, sorry," Rickon babbled, horrorstruck. "I didn't mean to bump it!"

"Bump what?" Sansa asked, her belly tight with fear.

And finally, Robb resumed the tale he had been telling her, his eyes as hollow as his voice.

When the horse had stumbled into the ravine, blinded by the snow, it had crushed Jon's foot in its fall. The maester had cut off his boot to find a mangled, swollen foot, with toes already showing signs of festering. Some of the toes had mostly healed, but others had proved stubborn against the maester's remedies. Maester Luwin had been forced to amputate first the little toe, then the one beside it. Yet still the rot lingered, threatening to creep up the foot.

"If it gets any worse, Maester Luwin fears he will have to take it at the ankle." Jon's face was as bleak as a night without stars. "Then I shall be truly useless, not that I was much use before."

"You're not useless." Robb stared at Jon, seemingly confused by the very idea. "So what if you lose a foot? We'll have a false one made."

"And at least you'll walk," Bran said bitterly. He gestured at his shriveled legs. "I'm the broken one, not you."

"Neither of you are broken," Robb said fiercely, almost shaking with outrage. "You are whole, you are my brothers, and I will love you until the day I die, no matter how many limbs you lose."

And with that, Robb hugged them again. Bran gave a squawk of dismay; for a moment Jon protested, his voice plaintive. But Robb would not be resisted, not by his younger brothers. Bran gave in first, his face crumpling as he buried his face in Robb's tunic. Jon yielded soon after, letting Robb hold him as he spoke of Maester Luwin and milk of the poppy and carpenters.

Sansa shifted, her heart racing as she nodded at Arya's look of mute appeal.

"No one is losing any limbs."

Whilst Arya fetched what she would need, Sansa explained herself to their brothers. She began with the Isle of Faces, with the children of the forest who had healed the slash to her chest and the green men who had taught her songs. She showed them her scars, the slim silver lines faint against her skin. She told them of Olyvar's crushed arm, of Bel's broken fingers, of Brienne's wounded knee, and of what her singing had done for them. Sansa said nothing of Viserion; she would not have them doubt either her skill or Olyvar's strength.

All of her brothers watched as Arya gently pulled back the sheets. Jon leaned back against his pillows, resigned. Robb bit his lip, his brow furrowed. Bran leaned close, his face intent. Rickon stared, his head cocked, his eyes wide and curious.

The babe fluttered in her belly as Sansa examined the bandaged foot. She frowned when she caught the dim smell of rot, a smell which only grew worse as she carefully unwound the layers of linen. Not that anyone else seemed to notice; she almost pitied their dull noses.

The foot was a swollen lump, bruised and ugly. The first three toes were knobbly but whole; the last two were missing. The cut had been sure and clean, the stitches small and dainty, but the rot was there nonetheless, lingering in the blood. Sansa eyed Jon, noting the beads of sweat upon his brow, the lack of response when she pressed lightly on his foot. Perhaps numbness was better than screams of pain, but not by much.

A cup of cool water, a few bites of pynonyade, and Sansa was ready to set to work. The song came easily to her, her voice sweet and clear as the rot yielded to her like snow beneath a summer sun. Once she was certain that every trace was gone, Arya helped her bathe the foot with soap and water. There was no more need for the stitches; it was child's play for Sansa to remove them with the help of her fingers and a small sharp knife. Rather than take any chances, she anointed the scar with honey, then bandaged the foot once more.

"I don't know how to set the bones," Sansa admitted as she wound the strips of linen. "Maester Luwin will have to do that once the swelling goes down. After the bones are set, I can help knit the fractures and pull the loose splinters back to their rightful place."

"Jon's foot doesn't look any different," Rickon said, disappointed.

"Don't be stupid," Arya said, rolling her eyes. "It takes time."

"No doubt," Bran agreed, his voice strange.

Sansa glanced up at her elder brothers. Jon's eyes were shut, his breaths shallow. He would sleep for a good long while, and wake hungry. As for Robb, he looked gobsmacked, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

Whatever he meant to say, Sansa would never know, for a knock came at the door, sharp and insistent.

"What is it?" Robb called, kingly once more.

"Your Grace! King Aegon is approaching!"

There were many more reunions over the next several hours. Maester Luwin might be part of the retinue meant to welcome King Aegon to Winterfell, but the old maester had eyes only for Sansa. She greeted him as warmly as courtesy allowed, conscious of the crown upon her head and the crowd that packed the yard.

Ser Rodrik Cassel was stout and bewhiskered, just as she remembered, but his daughter Beth was another matter. Gone was the tiny girl who trailed after Sansa and Jeyne Poole. In her place stood a young lady, one with the same dark curls and dreamy eyes. Cley Cerwyn was a lord now, but as friendly as ever as he introduced his wife, Alys Karstark. Arya promptly stole her away to meet Elia Uller, an interruption as predictable as it was irritating.

A queen could not steal away so easily. Long hours passed before she could let Rickon lead her to the Servant's Keep, where Old Nan yet presided over her little hearth. The old wet nurse had grown bald and blind, but Sansa would have known her anywhere.

Alas, the same could not be said for Old Nan.

"Sansa Stark?" she tsked. "Don't toy with me, Rickard. Who is this you've brought to see me? Not Lord Cregan's granddaughter; she died when I was but a wee girl."

"I should have known better," Rickon said, his shoulders drooping. "This morning, she asked one of the maids to lend her a pretty gown so she would look her best for Ser Duncan."

"Ser Duncan," Old Nan sighed, her smile almost girlish. "Ah, now there's a man. Seven feet if he's an inch, and comely too. Even the widows agree, not that they agree on aught else."

Ser Duncan the Tall? Sansa nearly blurted. Then she thought better of it. Wherever Old Nan's aged mind had wandered, it would not be kind to pry her from her dreams. Besides, no tale could wash away the bitter taste of being forgotten.

Her heart felt even heavier the next day as she walked down into the crypts. Olyvar was her only company, come to carry a lantern and to lend her the support of his arm. Sansa needed his support; she could not face so many steps alone, nor bear the sight of her father's tomb.

The last time she had seen Father, his head had been mounted on a spike above the Red Keep. Now Lord Eddard's bones lay at rest, entombed beneath a statue which bore his likeness. Every tomb had a statue, whether it be that of a Lord of Winterfell or a King in the North, but only her father's tomb held two sets of bones. By Robb's decree, Lady Catelyn's bones had been brought from the Twins and laid to rest with those of her husband, reunited in death if not in life.

Once the tears came, they would not stop. Olyvar held her as she wept, his silent comfort all that kept her from falling to her knees. Sansa was not sure whether she cried harder out of grief for her lost father and mother, or out of love for the brother who could not bear to keep them apart.

Her eyes were dry when Queen Sansa paid her respects to Queen Margaery that afternoon. Margaery was little changed, save for the puffiness of her face and the frighteningly large bulge at her middle. Would Sansa grow so large when she reached her ninth moon of pregnancy? She hoped not; it did not look comfortable.

Nor did Margaery's chambers, which were kept dim and quiet so the expectant mother might rest. All the windows had been shut up; all the fires had been lit, even though they made the room stifling hot. Sansa bit her tongue, resisting the urge to scold Margaery's maids for wasting firewood when hot water flowed through the walls of Winterfell.

Thankfully, Sansa need not endure the heat for long. One last month of freedom remained before her own confinement, and she meant to enjoy it. Within a day she had settled into her old chambers in the northwest tower, though to her dismay Olyvar refused to share them. King Aegon and his court had been put in the Guest House, and there he meant to stay. Mercifully, Olyvar still came to her each night, to cuddle her to sleep before returning to his own affairs.

King Aegon had much to do. A dozen ravens already awaited him when he arrived, and most of them required prompt attention. Lord Rowan had sent news from the small council; Lord Morrigen had agreed to serve as master of whisperers; the Citadel had at last chosen a new Grand Maester, Maester Cosgrove, and wished to know whether to send him to the king or to the small council.

Sansa hoped the small council would not give her husband any cause to worry whilst he was away. Lord Rowan was staid and stolid; some Hands of the King might improvise or act without leave, or panic at the first hint of crisis, but never him. The other lords of the small council were just as capable, each well chosen for his office. Should arguments arise amongst them, Princess Rhaenys was more than capable of keeping the peace. After years of dealing with Cersei Lannister, Rhaenys claimed that gathering whispers and managing the nobility was practically child's play by comparison.

Managing Elia Uller was not. Olyvar nearly had a fit when he caught his sister swimming naked in the godswood, unable to resist the lure of the hot pools. Viserion liked them too, so much so that she had dug a burrow between two of them, taken it for her den, and refused to leave it since. At least the she-dragon's presence meant that no one else had been wandering around to see Elia in her name day gown.

Sansa was glad not to have to share the godswood with half the North. She spent much of her time there, drinking in the fresh air while she still could whilst the direwolves romped and played beneath the heart tree. What did it matter if she could not slip into her wolfskin? Sansa was drunk with joy, delirious with happiness. Each day she awoke knowing her brothers and sister were only a few steps away, in the same chambers they had had before she left. Save Robb, who had taken Father's chambers, just as Margaery had taken those that had belonged to Mother. As for Robb's old room, it was a nursery now, ready to welcome the king's heir as soon as the babe came.

It was strange to think of Robb as a father. The thought often crossed her mind as Sansa sat beneath the heart tree. Some of the roots were large enough to make a decent seat, though only after she had Gilly cover them in furs. Bran shared them, leaning his back against the trunk as she did. Pregnant and crippled, they could not spar in the mud like Arya and Rickon.

Not that Sansa wanted to. Bran did, judging by how greedily he watched. He was surprisingly quick with the queer trestle he used to pull himself around his chambers, but it was no match for a godswood covered in snow and mud. Bran was much more excited about the rolling chair being built by Jon's command than by the gift Sansa had brought. He did not seem to care that it had taken months for Sansa to write down all the stories she had gathered in Meereen, and almost as many months for a scribe to make a second copy.

At least Rickon loved his unicorn horn. He had wanted one for years, and was apparently extremely vexed when his nursemaid Osha returned from Skagos without bringing him one. Robb liked his gift too, although Sansa was not sure if he would still appreciate the scepter when he realized the pearls and silver wolves suited only a King in the North, not a King of the Trident. Even so, her lord husband had not been pleased. He did wince in sympathy when she presented Jon's gift, a luxurious black fur cloak with matching fur-lined boots.

As Jon was still stuck in his sickbed, Sansa and her siblings spent most of their time there, when not in the godswood. Robb might be busy with his duties, but Sansa's could wait. Her steward had things well in hand; she would have plenty of time during her confinement to attend to her household and to her ladies. And to Jeyne Poole, of course, whose raven she expected any day. As for Arya, she needed no encouragement to stick to Jon like a burr, Bran seemed to mislike being in anyone else's company, and Rickon was always happy to be excused from his lessons.

With Jon's foot now set in a plaster cast, Sansa carefully began trying to nudge the bones back together. Unfortunately, the process proved both difficult for her and painful for Jon. A sensible man would have taken milk of the poppy, but her half brother was not sensible. It took both Arya and Rickon to hold him down so she could work without her concentration being ruined by his thrashing. Bran just sat and listened, watching as vigilantly as his direwolf watched over Theon Greyjoy. Sansa was glad Olyvar had warned her of his survival; she had not been ready to see the traitor walk into the Great Hall amongst a group of black brothers, looking almost wistful as he tried and failed to catch King Robb's eye.

Well, Theon did not deserve her brother's attention. That belonged to his brothers and sisters, whom Robb joined for dinner in Jon's chambers almost every night. As they ate they traded stories, sharing what they could of the years passed apart. Rickon spoke of his foster brothers and his wildling friends; Arya spoke of water dancing lessons and the night she had slain Bolton's bastard; Sansa spoke of King's Landing and Sunspear and Meereen.

But though Bran was eager to hear Sansa talk of the Isle of Faces, he would tell them almost nothing of his own time amongst the singers. Nor would he speak of the last greenseer who had nearly killed them all, save to explain what Lord Brynden had taught him of the Others. Sansa's belly curdled with fear as he spoke of their power, of their implacable will, of the strange magic which bound them together. Bran did not know what the Others would do when the solstice came to end the year with its longest night, but he knew that whatever it was, it would be terrible, more terrible than the cracking of the Wall.

"Whatever they try, they shall fail," Sansa declared, squeezing Bran's hand to reassure him. The Others might be strong, but her family was stronger. No one could take Winterfell, not when every Stark was here to defend it. Not to mention her husband and his dragon, and all the men and supplies coming from the south.

Sansa had been at Winterfell for a sennight when Margaery Tyrell sent Meredyth Crane to beg the honor of a visit from her goodsister. Though she had meant to pass the afternoon in the sickroom, she readily agreed, especially once she heard why Margaery wished for company to distract her. Maester Perceval had warned her of the false pangs of labor which most women suffered long before their time, and they did not sound pleasant.

Her own babe fluttered and kicked as Sansa climbed the stairs, leaning on Ser Clarence Crabb for support. The more her belly grew, the more ungainly it made her, much to her annoyance. It would not be much longer before her own confinement began, as Denyse Lowtower helpfully reminded her almost every day. Rather than sharpen her tongue on the widow, Sansa had oh so thoughtfully suggested that as Lady Alerie could not be here for her daughter, her mother's sister would no doubt be a welcome comfort. Lady Denyse was more than willing, and Sansa had not seen her since.

When Sansa and her ladies entered the queen's chambers, the bells were just tolling noon. Septa Nysterica stood before a small altar, leading a dozen kneeling ladies in prayer to the Mother. Queen Margaery was not amongst them. She lay upon the bed, her brow beaded with sweat, reciting prayers in a breathy, ragged voice.

Sansa could not sit or lie down. No, her knees ached as she knelt, assisted by Gael Celtigar and Valena Toland. Thankfully, Septa Nysterica was not as long-winded as Septa Lyra often was. Still, it was a relief when the prayers ended. Almost as soon as her ladies helped her back on her feet, Sansa made for the plush chair which awaited her by Margaery's bedside.

"How go the false pangs?" Sansa asked, full of sympathy.

"Your Grace? My niece is not suffering false pangs," Denyse Lowtower said, her brow furrowed in confusion. "The babe is coming; the midwife has gone to fetch the maester."

"Oh!" Sansa made to rise from her seat, only to stop when a hand grasped her tightly by the wrist.

"Please stay?" Margaery pleaded, her brown eyes huge.

"No," Sansa protested, aghast. "It is Robb's child, he should be here, not me."

"Absolutely not," Margaery said, her voice sharp as steel. "Are you mad? I will not have my lord husband see me weeping and screaming like—" she paused, gasping with pain. "Oh, Mother, that hurts," she whimpered. "Please, Sansa, I beg you. My lord husband does not trust me; I fear he shall blame me if aught goes amiss. But if you are here—"

Baseless though Sansa thought such fears, she had no choice but to take pity on her.

Unlike most husbands, lordly or not, Lord Eddard had always comforted Lady Catelyn during her labors. Witnessing Arya's birth had been his last act before going south to fight in the Greyjoy Rebellion, or so Mother always said. Sansa had thought she would like to have Olyvar do the same. Then, several hours into Margaery's labor, she caught the scent of nightsoil.

"That almost always happens, Your Grace," Valena Toland reassured her.

"It is only natural," Denyse Lowtower agreed. "As the babe prepares to come out, it presses against the bowels."

At that moment, Sansa decided she would rather die than have Olyvar present when she gave birth. Bad enough to have the midwife and the maester witness such an undignified sight. As a maid cleaned up the mess, Sansa remained by Margaery's head, talking in a soothing voice and helping her sip cool water.

Time passed, and the mother's pangs came faster and faster. It was late afternoon when the midwife announced the queen's womb had opened enough for the babe to pass. Margaery groaned unhappily, insisting upon more water and a spoonful of honey before she began to push.

"Please be a boy," Margaery panted, "please, oh, please."

Please, Mother, bless both of us with boys, Sansa prayed. Olyvar might want daughters of his own, but King Aegon needed an heir.

The next hour seemed to last an eternity. Margaery grunted and groaned, her face pink and streaked with sweat, her hair wild. When the midwife announced that she could see the head, Margaery cried out, whether from joy or pain Sansa did not know. But when at last the midwife lifted the newborn babe, Margaery wept, almost breathless with panic. Nothing Sansa said seemed to help; the mother only calmed once the babe, now washed and swaddled, latched onto her breast to nurse.

Whilst the babe nursed, Margaery's maids and her ladies swept into action. The afterbirth was carried away, the soiled sheets changed for new. Disheveled hair was made tidy, sweat and tears were washed away with warm water and perfumed soap, and sticks of fragrant incense were lit to cover the scent of blood and nightsoil. By the time Robb entered and everyone else went away, Margaery almost seemed herself again.

"Your Grace," Margaery said. She was as poised as if she were in court, not alone with her husband, her babe, and her goodsister.

"My lady," Robb replied, inscrutable. "I hear I have a daughter."

"Hale and hearty, as strong as her father." Despite Margaery's calm demeanor, there was an air of apprehension in her eyes as she handed the babe to her husband. "If it please you, I have found a wet nurse to tend her. The midwife says I will conceive again faster if I do not—"

But Robb was not listening. He needed only one hand to cradle the babe, her body resting against his arm, her tiny head leaning against his shoulder. The other hand reached hesitantly for a tiny pink fist, and when the babe clutched at his finger, Robb's smile was so bright it outshone the sun.

"There's my girl," he murmured, soft as a dove.

"Our girl," Margaery corrected, grumpy. "What shall we name her, Your Grace?"

"Whatever you like," Robb said, absentminded. He was far more concerned with the babe, who was blearily opening her eyes. "You did all the work, after all, and you did it well."

Something flickered in Margaery's eyes. "Do you mean it?"

"Of course," he said as the babe gave a tremendous yawn. "Will you need time to consider, or do you have a name in mind?"

Margaery's lips curled in a faint smile. "Her name," she said, sweet as honey, "is Jeyne."

If Sansa could have fled the room, she would have. Instead, she reached for the babe. Robb handed her over without argument, his face slack with shock.

"What?" he hissed, appalled. "You cannot name her Jeyne! Gods be good, woman, I may not love you, but do you think I would shame you before my entire court? Everyone will think I named her Jeyne out of spite!"

"And I shall tell them that it was my idea," Margaery replied, almost serenely calm. "From all that I have heard, Jeyne Westerling was a good woman. I see no shame in honoring her memory."

"But—" Robb faltered, looking from his lady wife to the babe fussing in Sansa's arms. Gently, carefully, he took his daughter back, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen. "You would do that?"

"I would not have offered unless I meant it," Margaery said, irritable. "It has been a very long day, and I cannot eat or sleep until the babe has been named. What say you?"

"Jeyne," Robb whispered. Tenderly, he kissed the babe's brow. "Jeyne Stark."

And with that, he handed the babe back to his wife. "You will excuse me," he said, almost choking on the words. "Sansa, if you would?"

Though Robb's chambers were a scant few steps away, he dragged Sansa there with unseemly haste. One moment the door was thudding shut; the next her brother was clinging to her like a drowning man.

"I miss Jeyne so much," he sobbed into her shoulder. "Why are the gods so cruel, that sweet memory fades whilst bitter pain endures?"

"I don't know," Sansa said, helpless. She stroked his hair, smoothing out the auburn waves, as if that would do anything to mend his broken heart. Poor Robb. They had both lost their parents, but he had lost a wife as well. How could he bear it? If she lost Olyvar...

The babe kicked, interrupting her thoughts. No, she told herself firmly. Sansa could not think of that, nor of the war for the dawn. Another war awaited her first, and she could only pray that she survived it unscathed.

REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOOOOOD!!!! Our babies finally get to be together again!!!!!! I cannot wait to see y'all scream in the comments Just 20 chapters and the epilogue left!

As usual, you can find me on tumblr @redwolf17. And if you're interested in chatting about ASoiaF fanfic with other fans, there's a discord for that.

Whilst working on this chapter, tumblr was so kind as to introduce me to the greatest grilled cheese I have ever had. Here's the recipe!

Up Next

171: Arya III

172: Bel II

173: Jon IV

174: Olyvar IV

NOTES

1) Did I pull a little bullshit re: being able to travel by sea in winter? Yes, yes I did, and I regret nothing. Sometimes, there's just no way to get around an issue with the setting. If you've been paying attention to the references to the sea and the Others in prior Jon and Bran chapters, I did somewhat justify it.

2) Direwolves are not dogs, as Owen Costayne found out. And even a dog will bite if you interrupt its meal and try to force it to play fetch by whacking it with a stick.

3) Pregnancy is a wild and life altering experience that often gets reduced down to "vomiting and then big belly and then baby". Which is a shame, because every pregnancy is different. Even the same person can have completely different experiences for each child; there is no universal standard where every person goes through the exact same symptoms. Yes, some symptoms and side effects are more common, but it varies. The same goes for labor.

4) Sansa's sledge was inspired by this royal winter sleigh from Russia.

Although the sledge is from 1732, several hundred years too late for the medieval era, I thought a simpler version of the same concept was plausible, especially since Cersei has an enormous "wheelhouse" in AGOT.

5) Royal pregnancies have always been a big event, but the medieval era was next level. Amongst other things, a period of confinement was a common practice, as was the use of holy relics to encourage a safe labor and a healthy mother and child.

6) I've previously mentioned using crocodiles as a basis for dragon behavior, and as it turns out, crocodiles do in fact like to burrow. Viserion would hibernate until winter ended if she could, lol.