embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

19. THE RED WOLF III

CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE RED WOLF III

Sansa and Arya Stark are approached by Littlefinger with news of their brother Robb Stark. Sensing something is amiss, the wolves of Winterfell discuss the man, and talk about what should be done with him. Sansa tries to reconnect with her little sister.

---

Sansa pauses nearly the second she sees her standing there, standing before the statue of their father. For a moment, Sansa herself studies it, the slope of his nose, the firm set of his mouth, the empty grey eyes made of stone. And then, her study is disrupted by her voice echoing through the crypts that have always felt so very empty, despite the hundreds of bones that lie within their walls. "It doesn't look like him. Not truly."

Sansa might just have swallowed her tongue without knowing it, for why else could it suddenly be so hard to form words. Her mouth is dry and her eyes are not, her heart hammering a yearning tune that is far too near a scream for any comfort beneath her ribs. When she finally manages to croak the words out, when she finally manages to say much of anything, her voice is far more raspy and drawn apart than she likes. "The man who made it had not seen his face, not for some time. He did some touch-ups, using Jon as a reference, but…"

And then her little sister is turning to face her, and Sansa's heart is in her very throat, hammering even harder, making it so very hard to breathe or think or do anything. She forgets what she was going to say in an instant, and before she knows it, she's crossing the distance that remains between them at last, pulling Arya in for the tightest hug she can manage, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and cradling the back of it with one of her hands. After a brief moment, Arya reciprocates, snaking her arms around her waist and resting her head against her collarbone.

When Sansa pulls back, she can not bear to let go, so she holds Arya's arms, rubbing the fabric of her sleeves absentmindedly as she studies her face. Smiling wetly, with tears in her eyes, she says, with never-ending fondness, "You shouldn't have run from the guards."

Arya's smirk is achingly familiar as it crosses her face. It's the same one that Jon has, slightly crooked and far more than it seems, and her eyes twinkle in the same way as his, as if there is some joke that only she is privy to. "I didn't run. You need better guards," She says, and oh, but she sounds so grown, so much older than Sansa ever dared to even let herself imagine she could get. Sansa's smile softens, and after a breath, so does Arya's.

Arya glances up and down at her, something new in her eyes. "I hear you're The Lady of Winterfell, now," she says softly, and the tone that underlies her words is not one Sansa can quite decipher. She meets her eyes, and Sansa nods in agreement. She presses her lips together and nods, scanning Sansa once more, before a soft smile comes over her face. "It suits you. Being Lady Stark. Being a Princess of The North."

"With Robb as King, we both are," she reminds her sister, reflexively. Sure, plenty of the soldiers and the servants around Winterfell still only call her Lady Stark, but Sansa does not blame them. All they have known are Lords and Ladies, and most of them know little of Titles and Royalty, and she will not insist on it, not while larger issues loom on the horizon. But The Lords are a different story. They remember their king, and they all know what that makes her, Bran, and Rickon. And Jon, something whispers in the back of Sansa's mind, but she pushes that complicated web out of her way before it can take too deep of root in her mind.

Arya's smirk gets a cynical twist to it, hints of bitterness and emotions that Sansa suspects are quite old rising to the surface. Sansa presses her thumbs into Arya's arms, pausing her ministrations and smiling as kindly as she can at her sister when she looks at her. "An issue for another day. Now, you are home again. Jon, Bran, and Rickon are all here." Her sister positively brightens at that news, and Sansa's smile widens, just a little. "Jon will be so happy to see you. I remember how happy he was to see me…when he sees you, his heart will probably stop."

Again, her mind thinks, unbidden. Memories of the twin scars of a gruesome red that mar his stomach and his heart are as fresh in her mind as ever, the brutality of his end still a sharp edge in her heart. She'd have killed them all, had she come upon that sight. Fed the men who stole the last piece of her family she thought she had left to her wolves, showed them some tried and true Northern justice. Jon had died on The Wall. He'd been murdered. Even now, thinking of it like that makes her stomach twist itself into knots.

Arya's brows furrow after a beat, and she looks at Sansa searchingly. "How did Jon get off The Wall? I've been wondering about that."

Sansa purses her lips together, resuming her ministrations with her thumbs on Arya's arms, mostly to soothe herself. It is not her story to tell, neither is the truth of who Jon is, but does she trust Jon to take the initiative himself? Does she truly trust him to be able to give to Arya the one thing she so sorely deserves? She hates that the answer is not yes, but she knows him too damn well. "It is not my story to tell. None of what has happened to him is. But there is news he should share with you, Arya. Very important news."

Her sister gives her an odd look at that but says no more of it. Sansa lowers her hands to grab Arya's, squeezing them gently, and staring into her Stark grey eyes, the same ones she shares with Jon. Her eyes carry a new darkness to them, a hard edge that Sansa has only ever seen in her brother's eyes, and even then, it was only sparingly. She brushes her thumbs over Arya's gloved knuckles, studying her sister's face, and all of it that is now new and foreign to her.

Arya, after a long stretch of nothing more than silence, finally speaks again, her voice taking on a newer tone, one that is completely lost on Sansa. "They say you killed Joffrey," she says, tilting her head to regard Sansa carefully. Sansa's heart might just skip a beat, remembering that day and its wild flight and every hellish thing it has led to since. "Did you?"

"I wish I had," she says, honestly enough. Joffrey had died slowly and painfully, something Sansa once prayed for in the darkest hours of the night, during The Hour of The Wolf, deep within The Red Keep, with no one but the gods as her witness. She would feel so very wicked, sometimes, but then she would think of her father's head, and the blood that ran down the steps, and something would harden deep within her, like water turning to ice on the turn of Winter.

"Me too," Arya says, and Sansa has little doubt of it. Joffrey tore them apart, and she only perhaps wishes that it had been indeed Robb who had done the deed. Or maybe he'll bring you mine, she'd told Joffrey, on that damnable walkway, staring up at her father's head. The image will never leave her mind. Nor will the feeling of that wild and reckless fearlessness that took a hold of her, that drew her forward, that would have seen Joffrey dead there and then, had The Hound not intervened at the last moment. "I was angry when I heard someone else had done it."

Sansa regards her carefully then. Arya's expression darkens something that must be just as cold as the winds that Jon says herald the dead are. She seems to want to say something more, for just a movement, but then she shakes her head as if thinking better of it. When she sees Sansa's gaze, she glances away, and says, "Later. When you and Jon are both here."

Sansa smiles at the reminder of their brother. For that is what he is, in truth, in her heart. Nothing will undo the feeling that nearly broke her in two from its weight as she saw Jon standing there in the Courtyard of Castle Black, perfect and as if stolen right from a dream. He and the wolves, never mind Bran and Rickon, still feel half like a dream, sometimes. "He's in The Godswood, waiting for you," she tells her before Arya can ask.

And she can see it in her face, the emotions her sister is torn between. Stay or go. Stay with her sister or run to the one person Sansa knows her heart sings for, because that is just what Sansa's heart did, the whole way to The Wall. Jon is the best of them, perfect and strong and the best brother Sansa could have asked for when she needed him most. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, it is like she is there again, staring at him, their eyes locked together in perfect rhythm. No matter how many weeks pass, the memories do not fade.

Sansa glances down at Arya's side, smiling as she sees what she was looking for. "That is Needle, is it not? The blade Jon gave you before he left for The Wall and us for King's Landing?" Arya looks at her in utter confusion. Sansa laughs brightly, and the sound echoes strangely through this place, making Sansa wonder just how many times someone has laughed in this hallowed place. This is not a place for laughter. Laughter, perhaps, has no place amongst the graves of the cold Kings of Winter and the grim Lords of Winterfell. And yet, Sansa does not care.

"He told me of it when he and I were reunited upon The Wall. Largely by accident, I may add," she tells Arya, and both of them smile at each other, but it does not last long. She studies her sister's face carefully, and somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, a voice whispers for her to ask of The Hound, but she doesn't. Stories for another day. Still, she must ask, "How did you get back to Winterfell?"

Arya's eyes lose that glimmer and become hardened all over again. "It's a long story. I imagine yours is as well." Sansa nods, and so does Arya in reply, glancing aside at something, though Sansa does not follow her gaze. "I am not alone, as well. Our uncle, Brynden Tully, is only a little behind us, Nymeria in tow. He let me go ahead alone, so as to not impose, but…"

Sansa looks at her in near awe, shaking her head with a wild smile. Brynden Tully?! Arya's story must be quite the adventure, and Sansa wonders just how one Lady Brienne will react to not only the news of her arrival but of the Blackfish's as well. The man who spurned her, the man who did not come to their aid. Sansa does not fault him for that, no, and yet, it is strange to think that he does come now. Though she does suppose there are few options left to him, even with House Frey gone. The Lannisters, after all, still hold Riverrun.

With one last look at the silent statue of her father, Sansa squares her shoulders and lets go of Arya, at long last. Arya's eyes dart to hers, brows furrowing. Resisting the urge to reach up and brush some of the hairs from her sister's face, Sansa says, "Go find him." He needs you more than I do, right now, her mind thinks, but she does not speak those words aloud.

But Arya hesitates, and before Sansa knows what is happening, her sister throws herself forward, wrapping her arms around Sansa's waist with a loud exhale. Sansa reacts on instinct, holding her sister as close as she can for as long as she dares, memorising the feeling of her arms around her waist and her head resting gently on her shoulder. Fresh tears spring to her eyes, and she swallows them back, holding Arya as close as she can.

And when Arya does finally leave, leaves Sansa to the silent crypts of all their forefathers, Sansa can still feel that hug, just like how, if she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, she can still feel Jon's arms, cradling her close, can still feel how her Uncle exhaled as he held her tight in his arms. They've all been so very torn apart by this war. It's no wonder, really, why none of them can seem to let go of each other when they're in reach. When Robb comes home, she thinks he might just never be allowed to leave again, on account of them.

She returns to the outside world before long, the cool Winter air hitting her face the second she steps outside. Time and life alike both seem to freeze to a halt when in the crypts, surrounded by generations of history and bones, surrounded by men who have guided their house through it all. They are, at least in some part, her strength. Their memories guide her through all that she does, and even as she steps back out into the real world as she leaves the crypts, they linger with her, like ever-present ghosts, as whispers in the back of her mind, repeating the same phrases over and over.

The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack Survives. You are a Stark of Winterfell. Winter is Coming. The blood of the First Men runs through your veins. I am a Stark of Winterfell; I guard our words. The North Remembers. Winter is Coming.

And it is no different, even as she draws to a stop, watching a man dismount his horse. He is dressed in black armour, half hidden by a long and worn cloak, and though his hair is run through with grey, there is no mistaking the red tint to it. Her heart leaps into her chest, and her feet draw her to a stop as she simply stares at the man, the last piece of her mother's family left to any of them. She thinks of her poor Aunt Lysa and feels a rush of emotion course through her.

Just as she finally manages to regain herself and keep walking forward, he seems to notice her. She can see the exact moment in which his mind must trick him, the exact moment in which, for just a breath, he sees her late mother walking to him. And so, she also sees the moment when realisation sets back in, and he registers who she must be in truth. Lady may not be at her heels, off in the woods with Summer, she believes, but there is no mistaking the red-haired woman who stands tall and wears the snarling direwolf upon her breast.

"Lady Sansa," he says, voice rough with emotion, as she draws up to him. He rests his hand over his heart and gives a slight brow. "I come to you to offer my services in The Wars to come. I presume your sister warned you of my presence?"

"She did, Uncle," she says, her voice as kind as she can make it while still staying formal. His eyes brighten with emotion, and she gives her most gentle smile, resisting the urge to wring her hands before her. "You are most welcome in Winterfell, good Ser. I will have chambers prepared for you. Have you been offered bread and salt?" He shakes her head, and she nods, squaring her shoulders. "Then, let us see to that."

He offers his arm without another word and an easy smile, and she takes it, though she is the one who guides him inside. His eyes trace the stones in silent contemplation, and then her. His lips press together, his eyes filling with a well of emotion, and she knows he must be seeing his beloved niece in her. But he does not say what so many have always said to her, likely well aware that is more a wound than a compliment. But she can still hear it, in the back of her mind, like a whisper of wind that brings ill tidings. You look like your mother.

She knows many of the lords sometimes mistake her for the late Lady Catelyn, just as many mistake Jon for the man they all believe to be his father, noble and long-dead Eddard Stark. She knows that for many of the men who lie in this keep, seeing Jon and her walk side by side is like seeing two ghosts roam the hall. But she cannot see the illusion, not anymore, not with the truth hanging dark and heavy over her. She glances at The Blackfish.

Will Jon have told Arya, when she sees them both again? Will he tell the man whose arm she is on? She cannot tell Jon what to do, but she can hope, and she can damn well pray for good fortune. And if he does tell her Great Uncle, what will come of it? He is all that is truly left of House Tully, with their Uncle Edmure so very lost to them all, and thus, the only one who can carry on the bitterness of her mother's shame. A shame built on a lie whose necessity far outweighs anything else, even honour and duty to one's wife.

Sansa thinks, had her mother known, perhaps she would have changed her tune about Jon. But that could just be the foolish hope of a girl who wishes things could have been easier, who wishes that this all had not happened as it had. She squeezes Ser Brynden's arm slightly, and he glances at her, worry in his eyes, a worry she dismisses with a simple smile and a promise of her being alright. He doesn't look like he fully believes her, and yet, he says nothing to it.

Winter is Coming, she thinks, hardening her heart. Jon will come clean eventually. And then…who knows what will happen?

—

It is after Arya reveals all that she has become to her and Jon that Baelish, true to form, comes slinking around to speak to her. And judging by the expression on his face when he registers that Sansa is not only accompanied by someone but that her companion is her sister, he had hoped to find her alone. It's something she thinks he likes doing–finding her alone, where no one but them can know in truth what is being said. Just as he tried to speak to Jon, before…

"Lord Baelish," she greets cooly, and his eyes dart once to Arya, a careful consideration burning within them, before he nods at the both, and bows low. There is a lecherous smile on his face, and out of the corner of her eye, Sansa can see the tight expression on her little sister's face. "Is something the matter?"

"No," he says, that same damnable glimmer in his eyes that makes her heart clench in her chest and her jaw tick, ever so slightly. But her face, she knows, remains impassive and unreadable to most anyone. Anyone who isn't one of her siblings really, meaning the nuance is largely lost on one Petyr Baelish. "I have simply heard some whispers about our King that I seek to share. May we speak in private?"

She nods, and moves to go to her solar. Baelish falls into line right next to her, and she does not miss the expression that briefly flits across his face when he realises that Arya is coming along as well, an unassuming as a shadow and silent as a ghost. The blade that Bran had gifted her glints at her hip. The knife that Baelish had first given Bran, as if he had much use of it. Sansa herself is glad that it is now in the hands of someone who can make good use of it. Jon, for his part, just seems glad that one more person has Valyrian Steel on hand at all times.

They all enter her late father's solar–her solar, now, she supposes, with Robb away and her father's bones lying silently under Winterfell–and she sits at the desk with a sweep of her skirts. Baelish takes the seat across from her instantly, and Arya draws away, closer to the fire, standing there with her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes turned away, but that does little to make it seem like she is not listening in. In the flickering light of the fire, the hilts of her blades glitter in fiery shades.

"What news do you have of my brother, Lord Baelish?" She asks, and he smiles like there is some grand jest that only he is aware of, sitting back in his chair, and interlacing his fingers together before him.

"Robb Stark has sent a letter northwards, my spies on Dragonstone report," he begins, and Sansa resists the urge to curl her fingers into a fist at his bold admission of spies. Should The Dragon Queen discover those spies, it could serve to start undoing whatever peace Robb has managed to make in an instant. But Petyr Baelish, she suspects, cares little about that. She narrows her eyes imperceptibly at the man across from her, a sudden suspicion bubbling up in her gut, though she does not dare to name it. "A letter addressed to The Wall and its Lord Commander."

"Our Uncle Benjen," she says flatly, drumming her fingers against the desk. His eyes dart to them briefly, and an odd expression crosses his face for the single space of a heartbeat before it is stamped out with brutal efficiency on his count. "What of it? The Lords of Winterfell and Kings of Winter alike have long since communicated with the men who hold The Wall. And with Winter coming, it is no wonder he would want reports straight from the source."

He pauses for a moment, as if pretending to consider his words, though she knows damn well that he has rehearsed this half a hundred times already. "The reports coming from Dragonstone are…interesting, if you will. Our king seems to be chafing against this Dragon Queen, and she seems discontented with the fact that he refuses to bend the knee. There is perhaps a crisis in the making there, a crisis I think we would all like to see avoided."

She leans back in her chair, her eyes narrowing openly now. What game are you playing? She thinks to herself, feeling Arya glance at her, though she knows her sister will not say anything here. She has little love in her heart for the man they call Littlefinger, and Sansa heavily suspects there is far more to it all than she is saying. But that will be a story for a time when they both know the only ears hearing her words are the ears that are meant to hear it.

"Robb will do what is best for The North, and if Daenerys Targaryen wants The Iron Throne, she would be wise to understand that. Our knees are unlikely to bend again, this you know. So, I ask you again, Lord Baelish, what of it?"

"To speak plainly," he says, laying his hands flat upon the desk as his green eyes meet her blue, a wild light dancing within them. "We cannot trust this Dragon Queen. She is surrounded by enemies. Chiefly: Tyrion Lannister, Varys, The Martells, Greyjoys, and Tyrells. Many of them you have your own history with, no?" He sends her a weighty look, and she keeps her expression forcibly neutral, mulling over his words in silent contemplation.

"We?" Arya finally cuts in, and she and Baelish both glance at her little sister. There is a sort of fear in his eyes everytime he looks at Arya, one Sansa suspects is not helped by Jon's display from only the day prior to this one, deep within the crypts of Winterfell. She'd pulled that story out of him at dinner that night, and it had been odd to watch how all of her sibling's eyes, even little Rickon's, seemed to grow flinty and cold as he repeated what the man had dared to say to him. "Is that what this is? A we?"

"I do not mean to impose," he says quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture and nodding deeply at her. Arya's eyes meet Sansa's, and her expression loses some of its edge when Sansa gives her a very intentional look. They need Littlefinger, for better or for worse, to fulfil his role. It does not mean that the thought of him makes her stomach curl any less, memories of all that he has done at the forefront of her mind every time she sees him. "I am but a servant of The North and of Winterfell, seeking to share what I know."

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," she says, her voice tight enough that he must notice it, if the smile on his face is anything to go by. "If I have any more use of your spies, I will let you know. But for now, I recommend focusing on making sure The Vale is prepared for Winter. Should Robb bring The Dragon Queen and her armies North, we will all need to be ready and willing to fight with strangers, with those who were once our enemies. People cannot only fight under banners of wolves, dragons, falcons, or even lions."

"Our King means to bring her North?" He asks, sounding politely curious, though she knows his mind is spinning half a hundred miles an hour. She silently curses herself for saying that, knowing he will now work this into all his schemes, but perhaps she herself can use this as well in her own way. She smiles at him, a perfectly coy smile that doubtless fits perfectly into his misconstrued conception of who exactly she is. He remembers her, chiefly, as the dreamer she once was. She does not know if he has fully managed to recognise what she has truly become.

"Jon and I impressed the need for allies onto him when we wrote to him," she replies. "This doom does not belong only to The North, as you know, Lord Baelish. If she wishes to have The Iron Throne, and to rule over the people of Westeros, perhaps she should also fight for their future. If she refuses us her aid, then what right does she have to rule a people she would not protect?" That, and we need her dragonglass. And the Dragons would be quite the benefit to our side.

Baelish nods along, and she can all but see his mind mulling over all that she has said. She exchanges another look with Arya, and her sister's grey eyes are unreadable, as hard and as cold as steel left out in the snow. Sansa purses her lips, and stands up, quickly followed by Baelish. "Thank you for your information, my Lord. Should I have further need of it, I will contact you."

He seems surprised by the curt and indirect dismissal, but regains himself quickly, bowing at both her and Arya, saying, "Princesses." He is gone after just a moment, the door closing softly behind him. Sansa breathes heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose as Arya comes to stand beside the desk, glaring daggers into the wood of the door, as if it is the cause of all her issues in life.

"What does he seek to gain, saying those things?" Arya spits out after a moment.

"Chaos," Sansa says, her lip curling in distaste. She knows what he wants, more than anything, and she thinks she knows, better than most, exactly what lengths he will go to in order to get that. "Discord. So, when we are all at one another's throats, as the lions, wolves, and dragons tear one another apart, he can sweep in and at last steal The Iron Throne for himself. His loyalty is not true. It has never been true, no matter what oaths he mutters." He pushed our Aunt Lysa through the Moon Door. He said he loved her. But all he loved was Catelyn.

Arya makes a low noise in the back of her throat, gripping her dagger with a murderous look in her eyes that makes Sansa's stomach twist. Sighing heavily, she runs a hand over her hair and sits back down at the desk, staring at the crackling flames, mind troubled. He seems to be making more moves now, pushing more buttons, revealing sharper edges.

What good reason, after all, would he have to encounter Jon in the crypts of Winterfell, and say, clear as day, what he said? I love your sister, Jon had muttered, voice cold beyond measure, and his eyes burning with a fury whose origins Sansa has to wonder at. The secret is known by many more now, and with Baelish skulking around, who knows how long it will be until he opens that grave and it all comes crashing down? She trusts the Lords, but what of the rest of the keep? What of the servants and the soldiers and all the strangers that now lie in these walls?

And though she holds true to the fact that they will need to be able to overcome their differences, should Robb come North with Daenerys Targaryen and all her lords, soldiers, and dragons, fear still settles deep within her heart at the thought of the Dragon Queen. Robb had said he was no prisoner, but it all still nags at the back of her mind. If he was not a prisoner, then why did Daenerys Targaryen not send him straight back home? What reason does she have for holding him?

She thinks of Tyrion then, now serving a different monarch, his back turned at last from his family. She does not regret leaving him and leaving King's Landing, and yet, something tugs at her heart as she thinks of that flight. She does not know what it will be like, to see the man who was once her husband only in name again, here in her home, in her lands, with her name resting upon her shoulders. She wonders if he knows of the fate of Ramsay and if it is making him feel any shade of fear at the thought of the reunion that seems to loom on the horizon.

But she pushes thoughts of Tyrion away with a sigh, glaring at the flames. "We cannot kill him. He has The Vale in hand, and we need The Vale. We need them beside us when The Long Night comes, just as we need any and all swords we can get. He is the key to The Vale, the key to this all." And as much as she hates it, as much as she wishes they could have taken this all back without him, she knows those are fruitless dreams. He is not wrong to say the battle would have been lost without his men. She just wishes he wasn't so damn arrogant about it, as if The Northmen did not also fight to the very end. As if they were not the first and last to die on that field of blood.

Arya seems to consider something for a moment, a strange look beginning to bloom deep within her eyes. Sansa turns to look at her with an expectant look. Arya sucks on her teeth for a beat, before finally saying, almost blurting, really, "What if we find a way to take The Vale from him? Lord Royce seems to have little love for him. And our cousin is still young and half a fool…he could be turned away from Littlefinger with the right words."

Sansa considers it, thinking heavily on their little cousin, Robin Arryn. He had not come North, though she supposes he is getting to the age where it would be expected of him to be on war councils, as he is rightful Lord of The Vale and Warden of The East. But thinking of her strange little cousin, and all his foolish and childish delights makes something tear in her heart. Again, she taps the fingers of one of her hands on the desk and uses the other to hold her chin as she thinks.

"Perhaps," she finally agrees. "But our cousin is no Stark. He is a childish fool, susceptible to gilded words and flights of fancy. He is no soldier. He will drive half the men mad and make the other half want to throw him in the Wolfswood for a week, just to teach him a lesson. And he will drive Jon up the wall, especially. I do not know if it will be worth it."

"We need him on our side, and our side alone if we hope to oust Littlefinger from Winterfell," Arya says, dropping her voice with a suspicious look around. Their words, while not necessarily treason, will harden many hearts against them within The Vale. Petyr Baelish has his loyal supporters, after all, and no matter how he got them to him, they are a danger. Sansa purses her lips.

"When Robb, hopefully, sends word that he is coming North, I will write to him and request his presence, as Lord of The Vale. His presence, along with every Northern Lord who is not with Robb. It will look as if we are simply calling all our banners to one place, which I suppose is not untrue," she finally says, cocking her head at the last thought. "But if I can determine the loyalty of Lord Royce, perhaps we can do something more to it. He has no love for Littlefinger. He will aid us if we make it worth it to him."

Arya nods, opening her mouth to say something, only to be cut off by a knock at the door. "Come in!" They both call in tandem, both tense as they wait for the knocker to reveal themselves. But the tension bleeds away as Jon comes in, wheeling Bran in with him. Only Summer is with them, along with Jon's strange raven, who seems to never want to part from his company now. Sansa pulls on her connection with Lady, feeling her heart settle a little more as she senses her wolf in the very back of her mind. She must be out hunting, something the wolves have seemed to do far more often now, as Winter settles deep over The North.

They all move to the fireplace, where Jon has parked Bran, without even a word being traded between them. Summer curls up at the fireplace, and the Raven goes to the windowsill, crying for corn the whole way over. The four of them have met often ever since Arya's return home just about a week prior, speaking of their lords and the truth that has been revealed and a whole host of things. Rickon and The Blackfish accompany them on occasion, the latter with more regularity, but he is absent this time.

Sansa glances at Jon, tracing his profile with an admitted knot in his stomach. There seems to be a spark missing in her older brother, that familiar wild and boundless passion dimmed by the truth that weighs heavily upon his shoulders. It is not easy to see him, so bent low with his confusion and fear alike. And she knows however hard it is for her to wrap her head around the truth, it is only infinitely harder for him.

But she cannot think of Jon as anything other than her brother, and, in fact, flat out refuses to. He is the brother she ran to, he is the brother who would have done anything for her, he is the brother who she came upon in the courtyard that lies just outside the windows of this room, bent over her rapist husband landing blow after blow into his face. She spent so many long years only thinking of him as the bastard and her half-brother, and she refuses to go back on the conviction that came over her the longer she spent from them all.

Jon Snow, Jon Stark, Jaehaerys Targaryen, will always be her brother in blood, love, and truth, no matter what name and fate he chooses for himself. He will always be a Stark to her, always be one of hers, always be a crucial part of her heart that no one will be allowed to take from her. Whether they be plotting Lords of The South or Queens with three Dragons behind her, there is no one she will allow to take him from her, not after all the time she has spent ripped from those who matter most.

He smiles at her when he catches her looking, looking half worried, but she waves his concerns off. That, however, only makes him look more concerned, his brows drawing together as he says, voice carrying a new edge to it, "What is it?"

"Baelish," she says, just as he did when he came from the crypts, looking like a furious storm. That storm comes back, in some part, as she says that, and she glances at Arya to see a similar expression on her face. "He was saying something about Robb, and how he'd sent a letter North to The Wall, and that there seemed to be tension between him and The Dragon Queen. I don't know what he hopes to achieve from it, beyond the obvious, but…" she rolls her eyes with a heavy breath.

She expects Jon to say something snide, or for Arya to comment something dark under her breath, but not for Bran to say, in a voice that is not fully his own and his eyes miles away, "He wants to tear us apart." All of their eyes snap to him, and she sees something in his eyes, something that does not belong fully to her little brother. The Three-Eyed Raven, she thinks, her fingers curling into a loose fist as the room seems to gather a sudden chill.

"Corn!" The Raven cries from the corner.

"He spent many long years playing with our mother and Aunt Lysa, picking them apart to serve his ends," Bran says, looking away, his eyes distant and almost sad. Sansa sometimes cannot tell where her brother ends and the ancient entity that lies within him begins, and every time she realises how blurry the line can be, a cold spark of fear burns in her heart. They are all changed, this she knows, but that does not make it any easier to understand those changes sometimes. She glances, briefly, at Arya.

"Lysa loved him," she agrees, shaking her head as she remembers their Aunt's final moments. Pausing, she realises that she had only shared it briefly with Jon, and though Bran has likely seen it himself, Arya might now know the true fate that befell him. "He killed her. Said, right before he pushed her from The Moon Door: I have only loved one woman…one woman, my entire life. Your sister. He killed her and lied to them all, all The Lords. And I went along with it." Her mouth twists in bitterness.

Arya makes a noise and when Sansa glances at her, there is a wild sort of humour on her sister's face, strangely enough. She does not provide an explanation for it though, simply runs her thumb over Needle's hilt and says, voice cold as ice, "I would not regret it if I were you, Sansa. From all I have heard, she was a troubled woman, and she didn't help Robb or Mother when they needed it. And what good would it have done you, spilling all in that moment?"

"I know that," she says softly, but her heart pangs for her poor aunt, forever in greater shadows, married to a man she did not love. "But I do not disparage our Aunt for any of it. She was a woman poisoned by her fears and her jealousy, and not all of it was of her own making. She loved Littlefinger. She would have done anything–"

She pauses, remembering something her Aunt had said, about her former husband. Tears of Lys. The memory rocks through her body like an arrow, and while Jon and Arya look at her in confusion, her eyes snap to Bran. Their eyes meet, twin eyes of Tully blue, and he nods after a moment, like he knows exactly what she has remembered. "By the Gods," she says, and the pieces begin to draw together after that. Her heart is a drum in her chest, and at the foot of the fire, Summer perks up, as if sensing her distress.

"What?" Jon asks, sounding worried.

"I had half forgotten this, but Lysa said that Littlefinger gave her Tears of Lys and that she used it to poison Jon Arryn. Despite that, she still wrote to mother and father saying that The Lannisters had killed him and that she'd done so at Littlefinger's urging. He started it all," She whispers the final words, and her horror is quickly completely washed out by a sudden rush of fury. She rushes to her feet and begins to pace in front of the fire as Jon swears softly, and Arya stiffens, putting it all together herself.

"Tears!" The Raven screeches, and she glares at it, heart hammering in her chest. "Corn!" Jon is looking at it with an odd and troubled expression, his voice shadowed and deathly serious. She can hardly believe she'd forgotten this, but she supposes it makes sense, with all that came so soon after her Aunt's death and their departure from The Eyrie.

"There is more to it," Bran says, voice soft, and they all turn to look at him. He leans forward ever so slightly, his eyes catching in the light, making them look strange and otherworldly. Sansa stops her pacing to look at him as he clears his throat, and begins to spin his story. "He was the one who betrayed our father to his death. He was the one who spun the webs that ensnared us. For he has always wanted one thing." All of them turn to look at Sansa, and Jon's story echoes in the back of her mind. I love Sansa, as I loved her mother.

"He told our mother that the knife Arya now carries belonged to Tyrion Lannister. But it did not. It was his. He sent the assassin after me, and he pitted us against The Lannisters, fabricating the whole of the conflict so that he could use it to his advantage. And in King's Landing, he pretended to help our father. But it was outside his brothel that Jory was killed and our father was attacked. And when Father came to The Throne Room, that fateful day, it was he who pressed that very knife to his throat and said 'I did not warn you not to trust me.' "

Arya is on her feet in an instant, eyes like burning flames. She is shaking in her boots, shaking in fury, the same fury that fills the room. Sansa barely hears the raven's calls. Corn. Corn. Corn. Trust. Corn. Corn. Corn. Sansa meets her eyes, and then Jon's, and that is the true terror, the sight that greets her as she looks at her older brother.

Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin, her mind supplies. His face is blank, devoid of all expression, but that is an expression of outright fury in and of itself. He is holding the arm of his chair in a white-knuckled grip, and slowly, a distinctly unfamiliar sneer comes over his face. The face he is making is not one from his mother's House, Sansa thinks. It is one that comes from The House of his Father, from the Blood of The Dragon that flows in tandem with The Wolf's blood in his veins.

"He wants us divided when Winter comes, and when Robb returns," Bran continues on, seemingly ignoring the fury that burns in the room around him. His eyes turn to look into the flames properly. "He will wait, of course, until the dead are defeated to begin in earnest, but our enemies already move. Cersei will not wait for The Dead to pass. And he is counting on that. He hopes to tear us apart, just as he tore our mother and aunt apart."

Slowly, Sansa looks to Arya and sees a familiar look settle over her features. Her sister raises her chin, folds her arms behind her back, and says, "Then let him try. It will take more than a simpering Lord of The South to turn me against my House." She looks again at Sansa, and the look in her eyes is as serious as anything. "To turn me against my blood. Against my sister."

Sansa says nothing for a very long moment, weighing her words. If they want their vengeance, they will have to play Baelish's game, in some regard, so that he does not see the wolves circling him until it is far too late for him. If they want their vengeance, they have to let him think that he is succeeding in driving a wedge between them, succeeding in making them question one another, so that when the time is right and all is behind them, he can set the scales perfectly in their favour.

"He thinks me to be his puppet," she finally says. "He thinks of me as no more than a tool, a pretty face to place on a board. When I saw him, after Jon and I left The Gift, I told him the truth he hoped I was too dumb to know. That all that had happened to me at Ramsay's hands was his fault. And now, he thinks because we have let him into Winterfell and because I host him here, that blood has been washed away. But it has not. I will not let him use me once more, I will not let him tear all that I have from me again."

Arya nods along, her expression tightening. "I saw him once, you know," she says, looking in fury at the flames. "At Harrenhal, when I was Tywin's cupbearer. I imagine he recognised me, in some part. But of course, he told no one, for it served him no purpose, not then." Jon and she both straighten and Arya's lip curls, her teeth bared like a snarling wolf. "He could have brought me home. Told Robb where I was. Done something good by the woman he claimed to love. But he did not. He loves no one but himself, and fears nothing."

"He feared Brandon," Jon corrects, standing as well, and running a hand over his face, exhaling noisily. "And he sees our uncle in me, so he will not include me in his schemes until he thinks me properly torn away from you all. But that does not remove either of you from his equation. And all he sees when he looks at you is either the woman he lost or…perhaps my mother. Perhaps the echo of my father." Both he and Arya grin at the notion, but his is rimmed with sadness.

He keeps going down to the crypts, Sansa knows, to visit the bones of his mother. It is a sad and lonely thought, to think that all her brother has of his mother are a pile of bones and ghosts, but she supposes it is not too different from her now. Though, she got to meet her parents, got to know their love and the sound of their voices and the feeling of their lips upon their brow. All Jon will ever know are imparted memories and silent stone. Her heart aches for him, as it has since the day that Bran turned it all inside out.

"We have to make him pay," Sansa finally says, after the silence hangs long in the room, cold and bitter. Pay! She thinks she hears the raven say, but her mind is miles away, spinning with plots and plans as to what web she should spin. Littlefinger, she will admit, has taught her much. And she does not think he would ever be the type to expect those lessons to be used against him. "The North Remembers. The blood of our father lies on his hands. The blood of thousands of innocents."

"So we play his game," she continues, resuming her pacing, feeling the eyes of her siblings track her as she moves. "Let him think he is winning, let him think he has us all right where he wants us. But turn Royce to us properly, and perhaps our cousin against him. Let Robb know of it, as well, and that Dragon Queen, if she can be trusted. Leave him nowhere to run when the noose closes in on him."

"And then?" Jon asks. "Who will swing the sword?"

Sansa has no answer to that, but she does glance, briefly, at the blade that lies on Arya's hip, the Valyrian steel hidden by the sheathe. But Sansa can still picture it in her mind's eye, picture how it glimmers and the sharp edge of it. To think that one blade was the undoing of it all. Her mind dwells on it for a long moment, that and Jon's words, and then she remembers something else, something Brienne had whispered to her just that morning.

"Jon," she says, and his eyes meet hers. "I know where half of Ice is. I was speaking to Brienne about swords and numbers, and she recalled something about her blade. It is made of the same steel that made Ice and was given to her by Jaime Lannister, along with her arms and armour. She had thought I had known, but I suppose it all got lost in the confusion of our rescue and arrival upon The Wall. She told me that she will offer it to Robb when he returns home, for the steel is not hers to have."

Jon nods, but it is Arya who asks the other question, sounding like she already knows the answer and does not like it, not one bit. "And the other half?"

"In the hands of The Kingslayer."

Arya makes a noise in the back of her throat. Sansa glances at Bran and sees him smile slightly, though he has nothing to contribute. So, she looks at Jon, who seems troubled but not surprised. "It is not my place to decide who gets what blade, when it all comes down to it. But it's not like we have someone who can reforge Valyrian Steel on standby, and we don't even have half of Ice. And, Brienne is one of our most talented fighters. I do not want her without Valyrian Steel." He rests his hand on the pommel of his own blade, looking troubled, though he says nothing more on it.

Sansa looks around at her siblings, hard-eyed with vengeance in the very set of their expressions. She thinks of all that Bran has said, all the ill-begotten secrets and the plots that have led them all here. And to think that Littlefinger was the heart of it all. To think that the worst day of her life, the image that has never left her mind, and the end of her world were all caused by his actions. All because of a duel from so many long years ago, a love he could never let go of, and a grudge that never faded.

Brandon won that duel. Ned did what honour demanded. And still, Baelish simpered and schemed and seethed and hated with every fibre of his being. He did everything he could do to get Catelyn Tully in his bed, to have her as his own, and it ended with her death. His actions killed her. She hopes she gets to tell him that one day. So he can see his face fall and break with the words he has never allowed himself to think.

Catelyn was lost to him, lost by his own actions, killed because of the webs he spun and the noose he tied. She was not, though. And so he has done everything he can to steal her, to take the echo of the woman he claimed to love as his own. Their marriage would not be a happy one. Less painful than her one with Ramsay, but no less cold for it. And she knows that if that were to be her reality, all of her House would be gone, with her the Last of The Starks. And she does not think he has ever truly seen a Stark when he looks at her. He sees the Tully girl he loved.

But she is not the Last of The Starks, not now, and she has no plans to ever be. She looks around at her sister and two of her brothers, and the absence of the rest of their family settles deep within her and makes her heart harden further. Robb will come to Winterfell, and that, she decides to herself, is when they will spring the trap. Both to prevent Littlefinger from spinning his webs should Daenaerys Targaryen come North, but also to show all of them what The Justice of The North entails. To show them what they do to those who seek to harm them, and to those who have aided in their ruin.

A silent understanding comes over the four of them as they exchange silent glances. Rickon is but a boy. Robb is their king. Winterfell is their home and surrounds them on all sides. Their ghosts are ever in their mind, and their memories are long. All of them have the wolf's blood within them, and it runs hot and thick in their veins. Winter is Coming, she thinks.

—

Sansa draws to a stop as she hears the clashing steel, thinking, for a moment, that she will finally find Jon after nearly an hour of trying to find her brother. But the sight that greets her, while not entirely new to her, is far more interesting. Pushing aside thoughts of Jon for a moment, she leans against the railing and looks down at the courtyard, just like her father used to do with the boys when they were training swords and shields with Ser Rodrick.

Arya is dancing around two or so knights, and though it's not the all-out duel that her fight with Brienne was a few days ago, it is no less impressive. Arya seems to be trying out something to do with knifework, a training knife in her hand, and her actual knife simply glimmering at her side. The knights are red-faced and wheezing but look almost exhilarated by the fight. Sansa feels a slight grin come over her face, and she interlaces her fingers on her stomach, watching as Arya dodges a slash.

She's a terrific fighter, Arya, and Sansa is glad for it, glad that her little sister can protect herself. Nymeria is sitting on the edges of the yard, gnawing at a bone, and she is a comfort in her own way, as well. A reminder that even if Arya loses those blades of hers, she will always have a wolf the size of a horse in her shadow, a wolf who would do anything to protect her girl. At Sansa's own side, Lady is resting her head on the railing, watching with Sansa, perfectly poised like the lady she is.

Sansa pets Lady's fur absentmindedly, inhaling sharply when one of the men's blades almost catches Arya. As if hearing it, Arya's eyes dart up to her, and she gives her a crooked grin that does only a little to calm Sansa's racing heart, before diving back into the fray. She's like a dancer down there, lithe and dangerous, as light on her feet as any dancer or acrobat. And to think that Arya was the one who used to hate dancing with a passion!

Sansa smiles fondly as the men and Arya let up, one of them clapping her on her back and saying something that makes her laugh heartily. Arya glances up at Sansa, beaming when Sansa nods at her. The knights fade away, and Arya starts to mill around, but she does not leave. She is just about to wonder why when a few Wildling women come up to her and start talking with her.

Sansa smiles. Leave it to Arya to be friends with both Knights and Wildling Spearwives alike! The women all form up, and before long, Arya is training again, though she's using both her Braavos blade and blunt knife now. Sansa knows that she needs to go soon, but a part of her just wants to stand here and watch her little sister and all her talent. She does need to find Jon, but perhaps…perhaps she can forgive herself this one indulgence.

But then, she hears footsteps to her right, a familiar footfall that has her expression shifting into a cooler mask and her heart thudding dully in her chest. Lady tenses beside her, and she rubs circles between her ears to calm her as best she can, though she knows Lady will only be truly calm if Sansa is as well. And with him coming to stand beside her, that is a tall order.

"She is quite the fighter," Petyr Baelish says, also watching Arya as she ducks under the swing from one of the Spearwives. Sansa just nods in mute reply, wishing that the man beside her had any capability of understanding when he is not welcome. She has half the mind to throw him out of Winterfell or have Jon take his head tonight, but she knows that she cannot do so until the time is right, and everything has been perfectly laid before him.

Not yet, but hopefully soon. That is some comfort to her, at least, and she curls her fingers into a fist as Baelish continues, taking her silence in whatever way he needs to. "And that blade of hers. Your half-brother gave that to her, no?" Sansa nods mutely, having some sense of where this is going already and already half furious as a result. Lady makes a noise, and Sansa shushes her with further pets and consoling rubs. "They were quite close in their youth, I hear. Still, I wonder what reason he had for giving her that blade at her young age?"

"Jon knew long before us all that Arya was never going to be a lady," Sansa finally says, voice flat and cold, though she knows it will do little to deter the man who stands next to her. He wants something, and he always wants something. Jon and Arya both stand in the way of it. Sansa knows what he said to Jon in the crypts, how his arrogance guided him to foolish endeavours. She knows why Baelish has been so suspiciously absent whenever Jon is around, now. "He saw what she could become before anyone else."

And what else could Jon have given her but the tools to defend herself, bastard as he was? All he could really do, at least back then, was give her something useful, something he knew she wanted, something that would always remind her of her big brother, a thousand leagues away at The Wall. And even their own father saw that in the end, giving Arya her lessons with that Braavosi man, allowing Arya to be what she wanted to be, not what everyone kept telling her to be.

"And what was that?"

"A fighter," Sansa says with a slight smile. It is perhaps an understatement to call Arya Stark a fighter, but it's the best word Sansa has for it. Arya has always had a relentless streak of passion and fire, much like their mother. It is that fire that has kept her alive, kept her going, that has allowed her to finally come home, at long last. "Even when we were girls, Arya was far more suited to bows and swords than even Bran. When Father found the sword, he hired a teacher for her." Her lip curls into a frown, and she sends a cold look towards Baelish. "Do you want to know what happened to him?"

Baelish smiles like he already knows, or can, at least, make an educated guess as to what the answer is. "Arya says he was killed with the rest of our Household. Like Jory. Like Septa Mordane. Like our guards and our men." She presses her lips together and makes an angry noise that seems to surprise the man beside her. Good, she thinks. He is getting too comfortable here in Winterfell, and she hopes to show him, before the end, that Winterfell is twice as dangerous to Southern fools as The Red Keep has proven to be for Starks and their men.

Too many Stark men have died in The South. Rickard and Brandon and the men who followed them both. Lyanna in the Tower of Joy, with only a babe, Howland Reed, and her father the survivors of the day. Her mother, her throat slit by the bannermen of her own father. Her father, his sword gleaming in the noonday light, his head bowed and his neck revealed to the open air. Sansa, standing there and screaming, begging for her father's life, much like her own Uncle Brandon must have begged for his.

When Rickard Stark went south for his eldest son and his companions, their fathers behind him, they all died. The Red Keep is a grave for far too many Starks, but they have a dangerous and far older keep of their own. Perhaps Winterfell will become Petyr Baelish's grave. She continues on after a moment, pushing the thoughts of The Red Keep aside.

"Like our father. It was a massacre, you know? Guards and innocents, butchered for a crime that was not their own," she slants her eyes towards him, towards his perfectly neutral expression. She wants to smile, but she manages to keep it off her face, thinking of all that Bran has seen. She swallows tightly, hoping that playing into his game will be worth it in the end. "It has hardened my sister. I did not see what she was until she came home. I fear I hardly know her."

And certainly, she does not fully know who Arya has become, but that does not strike fear into her heart. It strikes regret and lonesome thoughts of all that she could have done, all that she wishes she did do, in the end. Arya needed a sister, and all she had for far too long was a dreamer. So many died for both of them, died in their service, died in their names, and Sansa doesn't know how to repay those debts that have been needed to be cashed in since the day it all burned down.

I did warn you not to trust me. Arya is still fighting down there, and for a moment, when Sansa glances down at her, their eyes meet, and something sparks between them. Her companion has been noted, Sansa knows, and she keeps her face cool as she meets Arya's eyes and the fire that burns in them. She turns back to Littlefinger and sees that he is smiling ever so slightly as if he finally has her right where he wants her to be.

Littlefinger, Sansa thinks, has little idea of the true danger of a free Stark in their own home. The first Stark he met was Brandon, bold and brash, and then Eddard, quiet and as far as he knew, noble to a fault and naïve beyond measure. And he's known her for years, but never as she is now, never as a Stark in Winterfell, never as one of the heads of the cold and unforgiving North. For a man who is so used to knowing everything, it must be hard to recognise when you don't know something. When something lies beyond you.

"The Princess, Arya, is very talented, I'd say, though I do not have an eye for Braavosi water dancing," he says, his smile curling into almost a grin as he watches Sansa's expression. She sighs, and nods. He pulls closer, close enough to touch, and Sansa thinks of Jon for the briefest moment, the flame that burned in his eyes when he told her what this man had said to him in the crypts. "Who knows how she got so good, with all those long years she was missing?"

You saw her at Harrenhal, Sansa thinks, fury burning low in her. Did you recognise her then, Lord Baelish? Did you recognise the wolf who lay there, the wolf hidden amongst the sheep? If he did recognise her, it is yet another thing that Sansa cannot forgive him for. He seems to think that his delivery of The Vale and his council has warmed her heart, and has set him back in her good graces, but that's only because he doesn't know of what she has learned from all her siblings.

"War makes soldiers of us all," she says, voice cold. Petyr nods after a moment, and the silence hangs, tension thick in the air between them. Finally, when he likely surmises that the conversation is over, he bows his head at her with a single 'Princess', and then turns and leaves with only a single glance back at her. The look in his eyes is the same one he had that day in the Eyrie before he kissed her, and the reminder makes her stomach twist into knots. She breathes deeply and heavily, calming her racing heart.

Something tugs on the back of her mind, and after a brief moment in which she closes her eyes in order to recentre herself, she looks down at the courtyard to see what she'd been so subconsciously picking up on.

Arya is watching her. She nods in her best approximation of reassurance, and Arya nods back after a brief hesitation, turning away to finish up. Sansa watches her go with a pit in her stomach, trying to imagine being torn away from this all. Being torn away from her family. Being once again ripped from her home, and having that home in unworthy hands.

Littlefinger wants to sew chaos and dissent between them all, Sansa thinks, wants to see them divided and Sansa once again left alone. And she knows that will never happen, not while she lies in Winterfell, but still, it makes her afraid. Here is a man who has gotten everything he wanted with enough patience, cutthroats, and betrayals, and he seems to think this will be no different. And what if he is right? What if they are doomed to fall apart as well?

He's been so very confident in his pursuits. Coming up to Jon in the crypts, as if he had any right to be there. Parking himself on the very edge of The Gift and requesting her presence like she waits on his very hand and feet. Parading himself around Winterfell, standing in shadows and watching the world move on and on like everyone he sees is no more than pawns. Like they're not even people.

But so far, in all his pursuits, he's been true in what he's ascertained. Their father's nobleness did indeed run so deep in him that it could be made to be his undoing. There was a true animosity between her mother and her aunt, jealousy and slights, long before he began to spin his web. The Lannisters and The Starks already had blood that ran thick between them. If he is good at anything, it is seeing the strain that already lies there. But he has made a mistake, here and now, with her family.

Perhaps they are not perfect. There are wounds and griefs that the others can neither fully mend or truly understand. They're all damaged in their own ways, changed by what they've seen. Jon, especially, comes to her mind. Jon, whose entire life has been turned on its head, who was so very recently told that everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie made to protect him, for his existence is the most dangerous secret in possibly the whole world.

But all that does not mean that they cannot stand together, that they cannot overcome all that lies between them. She sobbed into Jon's arms like they'd always been close, that day on The Wall. He allowed her to stand beside him as they courted the Lords of The North, where she always should have stood, despite her coldness to him in their youth. He told those same Lords, a truth that many would try to bury forever, because that is who he is.

And then there is Arya. She was the one to take their revenge, to honour the blood that was spilt and the debts that needed to be paid. The Lannisters may always pay their debts, but it is The Starks and The North who remember, and who answer blood with blood. That is what they have always done, for eight thousand long and cold years. That is what they will always do, for however many they have left.

Rickon ran to Jon on the field. Bran told a hard secret because of how much he loved them. Jon promised to do something she knows broke his heart to have to promise because his love for her far outweighs anything else. Robb screamed her name in a hall full of strangers and trusted an enemy to give her some reassurance. Her father died lying because he wanted to save his girls. Her father lied to the whole realm because his family always came first for him.

Perhaps that is the crux of them all, the thing that Baelish can simply not understand. He was not raised in a loving House, not raised as she and all her siblings were. His House has not been here for eight thousand long and bloody years, they are not a House of kingmakers and breakers alike. They are not ones who have survived countless Winters, nor is it in their blood. The Wolf Blood does not lie in him, does not bind him to those he claims to love in a way far deeper than any outsider can know.

He would not lie to the whole realm out of love for a sibling. Her father lived and died with that secret, taking every slash it made against him, just to protect all that was left of his little sister, to keep her baby born amidst blood and tears alive. Promise me, Ned. That is what Bran to them Lyanna had begged of their father, and she wonders if those three words haunted her father like they haunt her, like she knows they haunt Jon. A single promise. The undoing of it all.

Rushing footsteps and someone crying out a familiar name draws her out of her thoughts. She barely has enough time to register the blur of red that is rushing straight to her before Rickon is slamming into her legs with relentless giggles. After a moment, Maester Wolkan rounds the corner, shaking his head as he sees Sansa. "Apologies, Princess," he says, and Sansa smiles kindly at him. "Someone doesn't want to hear about The Dance of Dragons, it would seem."

"Perhaps Arya can teach him," she says, right as she comes up the stairs. Arya raises a brow at them both, snickering when she sees Rickon, face half hidden in Sansa's skirts. Clingy, indeed. "She knows all about The Dance."

Wolkan smiles at her for that, and Sansa is glad that he seems to like her well enough that he hasn't flat-out resigned on account of Rickon's endless energy, which Sansa thinks many men would do. He seems happier like this, as well, surrounded by what warmth The North can give, surrounded by Lords, Princes, and Princesses who are bound together in common cause. She remembers him with The Boltons, and there is little of that man in the man who stands before her now, thankfully.

"Rickon," she says, pushing him off her for a moment. He stares up at her with his big blue eyes, and she smiles softly, brushing a stray curl from his face "Listen to Maester Wolkan. It is very rude to leave lessons because you're bored." She glances at Arya, who smiles sweetly and with so much innocence it reveals just how guilty she is. Sansa's smile widens, and gently pushes Rickon towards The Maester.

Rickon goes with him after a moment, leaving Sansa and Arya standing alone on the balcony. "What did Baelish want with you, now?" Arya asks after a moment, her voice flat with her displeasure. Sansa's jaw ticks, and she's silent for a moment, her thoughts falling back to the ones she'd been having before Rickon drew her from her reverie. Of family and blood and everything that has led her family to where they now stand.

"What he always wants," Sansa says evenly, glancing around at the keep. There are too many eyes and ears all around for her to feel comfortable. Perhaps, after she finds Jon, she can…yes, that might be a good idea. Arya nods along, glancing briefly at Sansa, studying her face carefully. Sansa raises a brow to the gaze, and Arya squares her jaw, nods, and leaves without a word, leaving Sansa alone with no one but Lady for company.

She doesn't know Arya, that much was true. There are wounds and grievances that lie between them, now, and it hurts to know that. It hurts to know that Sansa wasn't there when her baby sister needed her and knows that there are things she needs to say but has no idea how to say them. Worse still, it is hard to know that her home, the one safe place left to her, is so far teeming with strangers and whispers that if she wants to spill her heart to her, she has to do it in absolute private.

They'd schemed about it all, schemed about how to bring him down. They all have their roles to play, and once Robb is home, it will be time to spring their trap and end the rule of Littlefinger before he can play in too many bands. But that does not make it easy, does not make it easy for Sansa to whisper that she is afraid of her sister, that she is afraid of this stranger. She doesn't think Arya could ever really make her afraid. Unnerve her, certainly, but Arya will always be her little sister.

Their father had once asked them to stand together, back when Winter was still a distant dream and they were all whole. And now it is here. And now too many of them are dead, too many of them are broken. If Sansa could make peace with Jon, if they could overcome it all, she knows in her heart that she can do the same for Arya. It won't be easy. It will probably feel like she is tearing her heart out of her chest, after a while, but she would do that for Arya if need be. Jon taught her what it means to be an older sibling, what it means to honour that relationship.

If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword. She knows he would have done it, no matter how hard it would have been. He would have killed her to keep her safe, he would have died himself to keep her safe. He bled for her, bled for Rickon, bled for everything that had been taken from them. That is what it means to be an older sibling, Sansa thinks. Bleeding and creating a better world for them, in the distant hope that they can be something better than you.

Their father lied to the whole world for his little sister.

Lyanna must have been so very afraid, thousands of miles from home, dying in a pool of her own blood, a mother at an age younger than Sansa is now. And their father…she thinks she knows how he felt. His eyes were always so very sad when he spoke of the sister he lost, the sister Sansa thinks he'd probably trade the world to have back beside her. Because that's what she would have done for her own sister, back when they were still so far apart, back when she still felt like a dream that was born of better days.

Sansa wasn't the sister Arya deserved for a very long time. She was a foolish dreamer, lost in songs and stories of Summer Knights and blooming flowers. But that was never bound to be her future, that was never who she was supposed to be. She is a Stark of Winterfell, as her father said all those long years ago when Lady and Nymeria ran away on Arya's command. She was born in Winter, and her life and her future will be settled in Winter. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I guard our words.

Winter is Coming. Such simple words that herald such an endless doom. She is not a fighter, not like how Jon and Arya are, but she will do everything she can to see them safe through the darkest night. And if that means something bloody and cruel, so be it. She has to protect what family she has, and she has to keep them bound together. It's all that father wanted. It's what she will do everything to see come into fruition, no matter the cost, no matter what The Gods demand.

They will survive this Winter.

—

Arya seems confused as she comes up to Sansa in the courtyard, holding the note she'd had Maester Wolkan send along in her hand. It looks slightly crumpled, as if Arya has been clenching it tightly between her fingers as if she distrusts the words written within it. Sansa nods at her as she comes up to her, tightening the straps on the saddle of her horse, before jerking her head towards the other horse standing nearby.

"That's your horse, right?" She asks her sister, who nods mutely, her lips pressed together. Sansa smiles a little, and pets the nose of her own horse, the same one that bore her to The Wall and to Winterfell and ever since. She doesn't know if the mare has a name and is yet to think of one herself, but she is sure she will find an answer. The horse is a good one and likes and is used to Lady, which is a necessity. Sansa will not part from her wolf ever again if she has any say in it.

Arya hesitates for a moment before beginning to tack up her own horse, which is dark brown in colour, bordering on being almost black. Next to Sansa's pale white horse, they are like night and day, which Sansa supposes is fitting. That has always seemed to be the case for her and her own sister, two polar opposites in appearance and character. She just wishes that the reminder of all their differences didn't make her heart hurt so much in her chest.

She gets up on her saddle once Arya is finished up, Arya following her with only a moment of hesitation. She follows Sansa out the gates of Winterfell in uncharacteristic silence that is only broken by the clomp of horse hooves, the footsteps of the wolves, and the distant sound of the five men who will be their guard while they are out in The Wolfswood. Perhaps, once, they would have roamed free with only their direwolves, but with Cersei's proclamation having come to them and everything else that has happened since she last rode in the woods…Jon had, when she'd told him of her plans, insisted on the guard.

But they keep their distance, allowing Arya to pull up beside Sansa and look at her with a furrowed brow. "Why did you want to go on a ride with me?" She asks, sounding genuinely surprised. Sansa feels her lip quirk up just a bit at the sound of her little sister's surprise. "I'd have thought you had better things to do. Being a Lady and all that. You never used to like riding."

"I didn't," Sansa agrees softly. The last time she'd ridden out in the Godswood had been when she was perhaps ten, out with Robb and Jon, with only Jory there to make sure they didn't fall into a creek and drown. No wolves, no guards, no snow falling gently around them. A day in The Long Summer, a hundred lifetimes ago, a dream that will always be out of her reach. "I'll admit it's not my favourite pastime, even now. But it is good to get outside, and I want to speak where only our ears will be."

"You don't trust the keep?" Arya asks her, voice taking on a sharper tone that Sansa cannot quite decipher.

She looks out around at the Wolfswood, at the trees and their snow-covered branches, at the beauty of a Winter's day in the very heart of The North. "I don't trust the strangers that now reside in it," she corrects. "I don't trust the birds who sing, the knights who sharpen their swords and think of who knows what, and the Lords who I cannot guarantee the motivations of." She purses her lips together and sighs heavily. "Had I not brought The Vale, Jon and I both would have died. And yet…I will see some of those Vale Knights mulling around and feel fear take my heart. Fear and suspicion."

"You didn't use to be like that," Arya replies, and Sansa can hear the tone in her words well enough, now. There is so much that lies between them, wounds left open to the air, left to bleed with no gauze, no sutures, for years on end. At least with Jon, she left on a good note, or one that was at least relatively pleasant for the both of them, one that could be looked back on fondly. But with Arya…

She last saw her little sister in King's Landing. She was a foolish daydreamer, then. Father wasn't dead. He hadn't even been arrested. She doesn't know what she last said to Arya, but she's almost certain her last words with her had been an argument, as they were wont to do back then. She's not that girl anymore. She understands Arya more than she ever could have back then, but the Arya she understands is that little girl. Not the young woman with two fine blades at either hip and a dark look in her eye that makes her skin prickle with unease.

"No," she agrees sadly. "I didn't. And I regret that, truly. When I realised I didn't know when I last saw you, when we last spoke, I wept for hours on end. I was still in King's Landing then, and everyone was gone, and I was alone. I wished to see you, more than I had ever wished for anything in my life." She turns to meet Arya's eyes, drawing her horse to a stop, Lady pulling up beside her. Arya does much the same, Nymeria beside her as well.

And what a pair they must make. Two girls in furs and leathers, one with blades at either hip and the other with hair like flame. Once, at least Sansa would have been in silks and brocades and the furs around her shoulders would have been white as snow and light as a feather. Now, they are a deep blue and truly fall around her shoulders like a northern pelt. Arya's twin braids are gone, her loose sleeves replaced with a leather vest and quilted sleeves. They're not the girls they once were. But what does that make them, now?

"For what it is worth, Arya," she says, imbuing every ounce of emotion she's barely let herself feel into her voice, "I am sorry. I am sorry for it all. For how I acted, for my foolishness that I can never go back on. I'd have changed so much if I could. I would have run North the second Father said we were going to and never looked back. I would have taken your hand and fled the moment I knew what was happening. I would have found you. I would have kept you safe."

Arya's face is the most open it's been since she arrived, but that brings little comfort to Sansa. Her sister looks shocked, her eyes wide and brimming with their own guilt. She tries to say Sansa's name but cuts herself off before she can get too far into it. She presses her lips together, glancing away to wipe at her eyes, before turning back to Sansa with a fire in her eyes. A fire that Sansa knows well enough. A fire that Sansa dreamed of, even if it was pointed at her because it would mean her little sister was with her, that her little sister was home.

I want to go home, she'd whispered once, to Shae, tears on her cheeks and her heart breaking in two. The woman had just smiled sadly, brushed the hairs from her face, and kissed her brow, saying nothing. She thinks Arya would have liked Shae. She wishes that she survived. She wishes that she could see all that Sansa has become since it all fell apart at both their feet.

"You don't owe me an apology for any of it, Sansa," Arya finally says after a long, awful moment, in which the only sound was the wind blowing through the trees, whistling in a mournful tune. The North and Winterfell will never be the same without her father, Sansa knows. Sometimes, it seems like the very stones of The North weep for what was lost that fateful day, for what The South stole from them. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry as well. Sometimes, I imagined myself going up there, killing Payne and Joffrey and saving you and father."

"What, with that little blade of yours?" Sansa asks softly, shaking her head. "Come rushing them like a wolf, teeth bared and blade outstretched. Poke them all full of tiny holes, and run away with us all? You could not have saved either of us, Arya. I have had to come to terms with that myself. Knowing I can never go back on it, that I can never fix it. That I will never be the big sister you deserved."

Arya reels back as if burned. "Sansa," she says, carefully, her voice hoarse. "You…we were both girls, little girls at the mercy of a world we were not ready for. Perhaps you weren't perfect, perhaps it wasn't easy, but it's like Father said, after I let Lady and Nymeria go. We have to stand together. He said that I could never forget that you were my sister, no matter who you wedded, no matter what happened, because we would need one another once winter came."

Sansa smiles tightly, tilting her face up to the sky, letting a few silver tears flow freely as the snowflakes settle on her cheeks. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives," she quotes, and for a moment, it is like her father is whispering in her ear, his deep timbre rumbling in her heart and mind. Glancing at Arya, she sees a shine in her eyes as well, a glimmer of her remorse and her grief. Their father is a gaping chasm between them, and perhaps it will always be that way. Their poor, doomed father.

"Sometimes," Arya says, her voice taking on a softer, far more vulnerable tone, "When I'd dream in The House of Black and White, I'd have nightmares of that day. Sometimes, you were killed right after father was, by a knife to the back or perhaps Ice, still dripping with his blood. Sometimes, Cersei saw me on that statue and ordered me seized. Sometimes the crows pecked father's eyes out. But no matter what, I always heard you screaming. I've never forgotten that sound."

A cold shard of ice has impaled Sansa, has broken her in two. Voice shaking, she looks for final confirmation of what she's already begun to suspect. "You were there." Arya nods, and Sansa can't help the awful sound as it escapes her lips, tears flowing hot and free down her cheeks.

"A man of the Night's Watch found me, as you know. But it was there he found me. Dragged me away after it all, saving my life." Arya pulls her horse closer to Sansa, close enough she can grab Sasa's hand in a white-knuckled grip, her voice shaking ever so slightly as she continues. "When we left the city, I thought about you. A part of me wanted to run right back to you, steal you away, and run North with your hand in mine. But I couldn't. It would have just been us, two girls with a single blade between us, against the world."

"We'd have made it work," Sansa says wetly, and Arya laughs slightly, though they both know it's a foolish ideal. They would have died, out there, died or been raped by roving parties before being dragged back to King's Landing and beaten for their insolence. Neither of them would be who they are today had they done just that. But a part of Sansa holds onto that image, for just a moment.

Arya, coming in with her little Needle held aloft, her eyes wide and wild, single-handedly stealing Sansa away in the dead of night, right under the noses of the Lannisters. The nights they'd spend in the shadows, curled together for warmth, pressed to one another's sides. Sansa was raised with two older brothers, and she knows well enough now that older siblings are supposed to look out for the younger ones, and protect them with all they have. It's what Brandon did for Lyanna. It's what Robb and Jon did for her and Arya. It's what she would have done, had Arya taken her hand in hers and together, had they'd ran far, far away.

"There was a woman," Arya says suddenly, squeezing Sansa's hand tightly. "In Braavos. I was hired to kill her. I didn't. She was an actress in a play, a play about how it all started. She played Cersei. The girl who wanted her dead…well, she played you." Sansa startles at the news, brows jumping to her hairline. "She did a piss poor impression. They made you out a whore and father a bumbling idiot. I would have run them all though for it. Told that girl she isn't half the person you are. That she doesn't deserve to pretend to be you."

"But you didn't?" Sansa says, desperately hoping that it's not the case.

"I didn't, no," Arya agrees, though something tells Sansa there's a little more to it all than Arya will give away. "But the actress who played Cersei…she helped me when I ran into trouble. She told me how she came to become an actress, how transfixed she was by it all. She reminded me of you, actually, in all the best ways. I told her that, too." Arya's lips curl downwards with a frown, a glimmer in her eyes betraying her emotion.

Sansa can barely breathe around the lump in her throat, and she pulls Arya's hand closer to her, squeezing it tightly. She does not speak, not for the lack of anything to say, but because she thinks if she tries to say much of anything, she will begin to weep right here, where she and Arya sit in the middle of the woods, two horses under them. She missed Arya fiercely, whenever she dared to let her mind stray to her sister, and she's starting to think the story is much the same for her.

She thinks there are half a hundred things that they both regret that lie between them now. She never expected it to be easy, if and when she saw Arya again, but she never let that guide her. Because if Arya was in her reach, if she could hold Arya's hand like she does now, that would mean something else far beyond it all. That would mean that Arya was beside her again, where she should have always been, where Sansa should have always wanted her to be. She didn't know what she had, after all, until well after she had lost it.

And it's not like she's not so very grateful that Arya wasn't a prisoner. That she didn't have to see Sansa beat just as Sansa would have likely had to watch the same thing happen to her. She's glad that Arya found the strength to save herself, that she could take their vengeance, and that she could do what she did. But still, her father's words will forever ring in her mind, and she will never not be able to feel like their fates would have broken his heart.

All he wanted was for them to stand together, stand hand in hand, unbroken, two sister wolves who knew how to love one another. And now they have that, but he's long dead, and will never get to see his two daughters, his only daughters, be the sisters that they always should have been. She will never get to say sorry to him, she will never get to take back her cruelties, never be able to hug or see him again. He was stolen from her. He was stolen from Arya. He was stolen from all of them.

Sansa takes a deep, measured breath, the snow falling heavier around them now. Arya's hand tightens in hers, and she looks at her sister, a smile crossing her face as she looks at her. She is quite something, now, something lovely and perfect in all the ways that Sansa is now old enough to see. She would not have her any other way, she thinks–scars, bloody hands, and things that Sansa cannot know, and all.

"We're here, now," she says, her voice a little hoarse, but neither of them says anything on it. "We couldn't save each other then, but we can now. Father said the same things to us, way back when, and now it is up to us to hold to those words. With Winter coming, Robb with that Dragon Queen, and Jon…" she trails off for a moment, unable to say it out loud. But Arya knows, and squeezes her hand, giving her the strength to continue.

"The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives," she says, voice hardening right in tune with Arya's eyes. A silent understanding passes between them, shared promises and shared wounds mingling together into a single agreement. Their brothers will need them. They will need each other. Winter is Coming, and all that they need to do is stand together through it all.

They are both daughters of The Long Summer. Sansa might have been born in the last Winter, but both she and Arya, indeed, all of their siblings, had only ever truly known Summer. And they are the ones who must now guard against The Cold and The End of The World, they are the Starks who will lead them through it all. Sansa glances at the wolves, found as The Long Summer died.

The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack Survives. She squares her shoulders and takes a deep, measured breath. She is a Stark of Winterfell, and she is surrounded by her pack, surrounded by the only people she has ever truly needed. She did not need a King, or a Southern Prince, or any groom, at all. All she ever needed was wolves and brothers and a sister, all she ever needed was her family and the familiar stone and snow of the home of her youth. All she needed was the one thing she'd always been trying to run away from, back when she was a foolish little girl.

The Pack.

Sansa looks around at the woods and the snow-covered ground of her home. For a moment, she can hear Robb's voice in the back of her mind, screaming her name, and saying those three words that have beat like a drum in her heart ever since. She clears her throat, and tilts her chin up, breathing evenly, breathing deep. The air is cold and crisp, fresher than it is down South.

"Littlefinger told me something, once," she says, and Arya's eyes snap to her. Well, the man has said a great many things, lessons and promises that she does not trust him to ever uphold. "Told me what motivates him. A picture of him on The Iron Throne…" her mouth curls into a smile that is really half a sneer. "With me at his side."

She does not give Arya a chance to say anything further, though, continuing on without even a breath. "And yet, when he killed our Aunt Lysa, he told her that the only woman he had ever loved was our mother." Her smile becomes a full-on sneer, her teeth bared and her anger a bright light. "And only a few days ago, he got it into his mind to tell Jon that."

"Jon might have mentioned that one," Arya says, and though there is a trace of humour in her voice, most of her voice is overcome with a cold fury that Sansa knows all too well. "So? What game is he playing?"

"The Game of Thrones," Sansa replies easily. "He wants The Iron Throne, and he wants a chance to get back what he thinks our father and our uncle stole from him. Our mother is dead, but as so many have taken the opportunity to remind me, I am very much her picture. Bringing him here was necessary, and yet, I wish I could have held to my word. I wish I could have held true."

Arya sends her a confused look, and she sighs heavily, looking away. "When Jon and I went South, he found us and offered The Knights of The Vale. I refused him then, telling him I never wanted to see him again, and yet when we were in a corner, I had to call upon them. He is not wrong that the battle would have been lost without him. He knows that Jon and I both went back on our convictions, and that makes him think he sits higher than he does in truth." She exhales noisily.

"He has meant to put me and him against each other for months now. Whispering of legitimacy and heirship and bastardy. He must know of Robb's will, by now, and will do everything it takes to see Jon and Robb both out of the picture." She manages a smile. "I believe, perhaps, he has enough sense left in him to fear the men of House Stark." She cants her eyes towards Arya, and after a moment, her sister seems to understand.

"But not the woman, aye?"

"Yes, not the women," Sansa agrees. "I am not a born fighter, and I am not a soldier. I will be little help when The Dead come, but I find it to be my duty to protect my home and my family from those who seek to harm us. It is my duty to secure my King's throne and see my family through Winter. But I cannot do it alone. I need a weapon." She meets Arya's eyes properly then. "I need your help."

Arya's grin says enough for her, but still, she speaks. "I would be honoured to help you." Her grin becomes a little lopsided, and she does her best approximation of a bow while in a saddle. "Lady Stark."

Sansa rolls her eyes with a fond laugh that makes Arya giggle as well. But their humour does not live long, and silence comes over them. Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. She wonders what it will be like for him, to have his game and his rules finally turned against him. Winter is Coming. Dragons roam Westeros. Six Starks live and breathe.

"When Robb comes home," she says, "He will need to know. And if he brings that Queen with him, she too, I suppose. Littlefinger will sniff us out eventually, most likely, but we must be ready for it." She meets Arya's eyes. "Are you prepared to do what it takes to bring him to justice?"

Arya just tilts her head at Sansa and asks, "Are you?" Sansa smiles again, for just a moment. Arya seems to smile as well for a breath, but then she bows her head and when she tilts her chin up again, her face is impassive. "Even if what he said is wrong, I don't trust that Queen. She says that Robb is no prisoner, but I don't think I'll believe her until he's back home. And if she's smart, she'd keep him close, anyway."

"Robb is smart," Sansa soothes her. "And we have to trust in him, anyway. He's our King and our brother, both–the oldest of us all. He knows what he's doing. He'll watch himself, and he will come home, once he has the dragonglass."

"You believe that?"

"I know that," Sansa corrects. "I'm not a dreamer anymore, no. But I still have faith in this world. Faith in Robb and in The North and in all of you. You and Jon especially." She smiles wanly at Arya, and that wound aches in her heart, bloody and raw as the day it was carved into her. And yet…"You are all stronger than you know. Better than you know. Robb was not made king for no reason. He will come home, and he will do what duty demands. He will lead our people through the storm."

Arya stares at Sansa for a moment, before a wide smile breaks across her face. "You're stronger than you know, as well, Sansa." Sansa reels back, and then simply smiles at Arya, surprised by it. "You survived things none of us could. I don't think I could have survived The Red Keep like you did. My tongue would have gotten away from me, eventually."

Sansa's smile grows wane, her heart beating loudly against her ribs. "Maybe. Maybe not. We will never know, in truth." And I am grateful for it, Sansa thinks, despite all the loneliness, despite all the scars, despite all the nights she spent weeping for the family she thought would all be stolen from her. Had The Lannisters won, Robb would be dead, Bran and Rickon, as well, most likely. Arya would have met the same fate as Sansa–wedded to Sansa until an heir and a few spares were produced, and then killed. And Jon…the Lannisters would have chafed at a Stark leading The Wall, eventually, and The Wall would run with blood in the massacre.

Especially if Robb's Will was revealed. The thought sends a cold chill through Sansa's spine, thinking of the wolf dream she saw, Jon dead in their uncle's arms. Their uncle had looked exhausted when Sansa saw him on The Wall, torn apart and grieving, forced to take command in the darkest hours. He'd been weeping over Jon's corpse; she remembers the tears on his cheeks, glimmering in the dim light. The snow had been as red as her hair, red with Jon's blood.

The massacre from The Lannisters would be only worse. Perhaps The Wall would be permanently stained. And if Cersei learns the truth before it's time, she can imagine what types of characters she will send after them all, send after the last living male Targaryen in the whole of Westeros. Jon's life is perhaps one of, if not the most valuable life in the world, right now. A troubling thought, no doubt, and one that makes Sansa feel close to sick.

"Our brothers will need us just as much as we will need them," she finally says, and Arya nods along. "The North needs us. They need a united House Stark. And Littlefinger needs exactly the opposite. He needs chaos. He needs hundreds, perhaps even thousands more to die. He only has an interest in defeating The Dead because perhaps the only thing on the continent that is entirely immune to his games is The Night King himself."

Though, she does suppose it would not be beyond Littlefinger to try and sit down with an ancient creature like The Night King over some drinks and hammer out some scheme that would still end with him on The Iron Throne. At the end of the day, the only thing she is certain of when it comes to the man is that he has never wanted anything as much as he has always wanted The Iron Throne, and once, one Catelyn Tully. And then she was stolen from him by two brothers. And then she died. But Sansa…

"He thinks himself the saviour of the realm," Arya says, spitting the words out from between her teeth. But Sansa simply shakes her head.

Her mind turns, briefly, to Theon. What had she said to Littlefinger when they met in that little village on the edge of The Gift? It was not you who freed me from Ramsay, it is not you who guided me through The Gift. It is not you whose arms I fell into at Castle Black, it is not you who made me feel safe for the first time since my father's head was cleaved from his body. It is not you who I ran to, after all. She'd been largely speaking of Jon, of course, and she knows that's how Baelish took it. He didn't know about Theon. He might never know what the man everyone has deemed a Turncloak did for her.

But Theon had been her saviour first. It was Theon whose life she begged of Robb. When it all comes down to it, if Jon truly makes good on his word before Arya and Sansa can spring whatever trap they make, she will not weep over his bones or beg her brother for mercy. He will die, one way or another, before Winter's end. That much she is certain of. "Not quite," she whispers.

"He thinks himself a saviour, yes, but only when it serves him. He came with such speed to Winterfell, I know that he did not simply stay at Moat Cailin. He would have come upon Winterfell and The Battle had I not written to him. I suppose I knew that. He likes to be the hero, he likes to be the saviour, but only at reward for him. Only when he thinks it will soften hearts to him and make foolish girls easier to twist."

"You're not a foolish girl."

"Perhaps not," Sansa agrees. "But does he understand that?"

Arya's smile says it all. The conversation dies from there, the two of them still astride their horses in the middle of the woods. Nymeria and Lady had gone off at some point to play in a pile of snow, and now Sansa watches the two of them with a fond smile on her face. The snow falls gently all around them, settling in their hair and upon their shoulders, crowning them both. With Robb as King, they are both, by all technicalities, Princesses, are they not?

Now, that makes Sansa laugh slightly to herself. Arya, a princess! It's an almost absurd thought, but right in its own way. She's certainly not a helpless maid, but rather, she's the type of Princess who defends her home, who cares for her people and bleeds for her country. There's a mettle in her, an iron will and a heart that beats in the rhythm of war drums.

Sansa moves her horse forward after a moment, heading over to where their guard has been patiently waiting. She whistles softly, and Lady comes bounding through the snow. For a moment, Arya seems to stay right where she is, before finally falling into step next to Sansa, making not a single noise as she does. The snow keeps falling, and Sansa raises her chin, and thinks of her father's words, from a lifetime and a half ago.

You are a Stark of Winterfell.

---

anyway. notes

-i like to think that i have many skills as a writer. many diverse skills. timelines, though, are decidedly NOT one of them. idk what it is about them, but they just make my head spin. thankfully, after the next chapter, everything will be back on one linear timeline (pretty much) and my headache will lessen at long last. so, apologies for any confusion here, it is just genuinely a really difficult thing for me to wrap my head around

-also i know i have been, admittedly, inconsistent w/ titles and how the kids are referred to, but I'm going to try and stay consistent from here on out, and will see what i can do about going back and editing...

-i feel like i have said this in like three separate fonts at this point but petyr baelish is so delulu. i don't want to do the 'sansa and arya fight' bullshit from s7 because its just not how i roll, but that doesn't mean i wont have that mf scheming his stupid head off. but as i have said before. his death will be rewarding, and as you can probably see, the steps are being laid for it to come out

-i know the brienne and ice thing is a little wonky and I am legit sorry about that. i definitely wrote myself into a corner there bc i just. keep forgetting she has half of ice? but the sword distribution system will work its magic, and every blade will end up where they need to be...eventually.

-on that, were entering the wildest section of this fic REALLY soon. like we have this chapter, the next one, and then the one after that (21) is when the gas pedal goes truly through the floor. though i am slowing down, things will likely start to just get naturally even longer, and i am so excited for whats coming next.

next up, benjen single-handedly removes an entire s7 plot point...and gets a bit of a name change, ig.