Caitie waited until the next afternoon after she finished her duties to speak with Sansa, partially because she was too exhausted to do so that night after everything which had transpired with Arthur and then Arya, partially because she wasn't quite ready to sink to groveling yet, and she knew that the next time she saw her friend she would likely have to do quite a lot of it. She half expected to be arrested and thrown into the dungeons for her actions whenever she passed a guard in the hall; it was, therefore, a relief when the guards ignored her, save for a few bows and murmurs of "my lady."

When she arrived at the door to Sansa's office, she knocked, once, a soft rap on the wood, but there was no answer. Odd, Caitie thought. Again, she knocked, louder this time, worry gnawing at her gut.

"Come in," called Sansa, but her voice sounded strained.

Caitie twisted the handle, but the door refused to budge. Locked. Sansa had locked it, and that in itself scared Caitie. She had never known Sansa to lock the door to her office during the day, wanting those at Winterfell to know they could come to her whenever they wished, with whatever problems they might have. If she had locked her door—well, it meant something was very, very wrong.

Seconds later, the door opened from the other side, but it was not Sansa who greeted Caitie. It was Littlefinger, looking… It was difficult to say. Smug, she would have guessed, but then, he had always looked a little too pleased with himself. And there was something more to his expression; it wasn't his usual secretive, knowing smirk—though his face was neutral, his eyes were bright and full of victory, as if he'd just won a great battle.

If the idea of Sansa alone with Littlefinger in a locked office hadn't scared Caitie enough, then this certainly did.

And it was all her fault. The fight yesterday had left Sansa alone, isolated, vulnerable to Littlefinger's attacks; the exact thing which Jon had warned her about before his departure. Gods only knew what Littlefinger had told her—though, considering what Arya had said, Caitie had an inkling. Her hands balled into fists, as she strained to look over his shoulder into the office space, where Sansa stared out the window; lips pursed and eyes unfocused and so lost in thought, she hardly seemed to notice that she'd invited a new person into her office.

"Lady Norrey," Littlefinger said, and Caitie's eyes snapped back to him. He sounded as victorious as he looked. "I was unaware you were still at Winterfell."

It was then, in that split second after he spoke, that Caitie made a decision. If he wanted to isolate her friend, then fine; she would take a lesson from Sansa and let him think he had succeeded. Plastering on a twisted smile, she infused as much bitter sarcasm into her words as she possibly could. "Haven't you heard? I do as our radiant Lady of Winterfell commands."

"Mm," Littlefinger replied, arching a brow as he passed by her and out the door.

If only he wasn't Lord Arryn's uncle by law, Caitie thought. It would have been so easy to lodge her dagger into the back of his skull. But even if she could have done so without a political fiasco following it, there were more pressing matters at hand—namely, the fact that Sansa had gone unnaturally pale, her eyes wide and bright with unshed tears as she stared.

Caitie fought a grimace; she hadn't thought about what Sansa might think of what she'd said. Shutting the door, she crossed the room so that she was standing closer to the window, but still putting a respectful amount of space between them. "I'm sorry," she murmured, in case Littlefinger was listening in. "When he mentioned he knew I planned to leave, I thought it best to make him believe I was still angry with you."

Sansa stilled, watching Caitie as though she couldn't quite believe her eyes. And then she was surging forward, fists clenched, and for one moment Caitie thought she was actually going to hit her. But no, instead she crashed into Caitie and threw her arms around her. "I thought you'd gone," she said, sounding perilously close to tears. "I thought you were going north, and then you would die, and the last thing I would have said to you was an order; and even if you didn't, I thought you would hate me. I'm so, so sorry, I know should have let you go, I was only—"

"You know," Caitie said, patting her friend gently on the back to stop her rambling. "I don't think I've ever heard you say so many words all at once before."

Sansa pulled away and scowled. "This isn't funny, Caitriona."

Caitie raised her hands in surrender. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I'm not mad at you. Not anymore. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, you were right."

"I was?" Sansa asked, surprised, but she masked her confusion quicker than Caitie could respond, sounding—well—lofty, when she continued, even if her voice still shook a little. "Of course I was. I'm glad you realized it."

"Well, I don't appreciate that you ordered me to stay, and if you ever try to do so again, I'll slit your throat while you sleep," Caitie said cheerfully. "But all things considered, I'm happy I did."

Sansa grimaced. "If you still wanted to go, I would understand—"

"Sansa," Caitie said gently, "if I had wanted to go, I would have gone. I stayed because it's what I wanted, not because you made me, all right?"

She sighed, the creases in her forehead smoothing out as she relaxed. "Thank you, truly. I know how difficult it is, for you especially." Caitie reflexively took a step back and looked away, for Sansa was treading dangerously close to something she absolutely did not want to discuss. "In any case, I'm glad you've decided to stay."

"Me too," Caitie said, relaxing. "And I'm sorry—for being so ready to leave you, and for saying what I did."

"It's okay."

"No, it isn't. I threatened you."

Sansa gave an uncharacteristic snort, full of derision, her expression darkening as she said, "Of the two I've received since yesterday, yours was certainly the less objectionable."

Caitie grimaced. "Arya's told you about the letter, then."

Sansa's eyebrows shot up. "How did you—"

"She came to me first, last night, after my daring escape attempt."

Sansa hesitated before she cleared her throat. "Did… she show you what the letter said?"

Caitie nodded. "I can't imagine how afraid you must have been when you wrote it."

"I was," she admitted softly, but the vulnerability lasted hardly a second before she was pursing her lips and scoffing. "Not that Arya sees it that way."

"I told her she should speak with you about it. I thought you two would work it out."

"Arya's incapable of such a thing. And to think I believed—" Sansa cut herself off with a shake of the head. "I don't know what to do. She still has it, and she's threatened to show it to the other lords. If they see what I wrote…"

"Then you're fucked." Sansa grimaced, and Caitie eyed the door as Littlefinger's plan fell into perfect alignment in her mind. "Sansa, you do know who gave it to her, don't you?"

"No," she said, brow puckered in confusion. "Do you?"

"She told me Littlefinger planted it for her to find."

It took a moment for Sansa to digest this piece of news, but once she did the rage that contorted her features was terrible to behold, and nothing like Caitie had ever seen—not even with Ramsay. "Are you certain?" she asked, her voice deadly quiet.

"I'm certain," Caitie said gently. "What did he want just now?"

"He… pretended that he wanted to help. With Arya. He… fuck."

Caitie burst into laughter, punching Sansa lightly on the shoulder, hoping it would make her feel a bit better. "Sansa Stark! Such unladylike behavior; I'm ashamed of you."

That won her the smallest of smiles. "It's your fault; your liberal use of such vulgar language has rubbed off on me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Sansa sighed, rubbing her forehead, all humor fading. "You were right; I need to stop placating him. I thought I could control him, but…"

"But now he's trying to control you. You see that, don't you?"

"I do." She nodded to herself, and determination replaced the rage on her face as she lifted her chin in defiance. "But he won't succeed."

"Good."

"He suggested I ask Brienne to mediate between Arya and I on the grounds that she's sworn to my sister as well as myself. But what was his intent there, if he's trying to turn my sister and I against each other? Perhaps…" Sansa mused. After a moment, she cleared her throat. "Give me a day or so. I'll think of some way to deal with him. In the meantime, you should spend some time with Arthur."

Caitie looked down at her feet, feeling much like a child caught with sweets, and mumbled, "How did you know?"

"I'm smarter than I appear," was Sansa's—predictably wry—answer. "There was only one person who you would ever choose over my brother—and that is yours."

"You're not angry?" Caitie asked, looking back up in shame.

Sansa gave a soft smile. "Of course not. If anything, I'm glad to know Jon has someone who loves him that much."

Caitie flushed from her toes to her head, and any appreciation she had towards Sansa rapidly gave way to embarrassment and indignance. Did everyone at Winterfell know about her feelings—her stupid, ridiculous, frustrating feelings—for Jon?

Sansa's smile faded as she saw the expression on her friend's face. "What is it?"

Caitie shook her head. "Nothing. I just—I should go be with Arthur, like you said."

As Sansa nodded, she headed back toward the door. "Oh, and Caitriona?" Sansa called, and she stopped in her tracks. "I'd suggest avoiding Brienne for a day or two. She's still a little…"

"Murderous?"

"That would be accurate, yes."

Caitie grimaced. Well, I can't say I don't deserve it.

As hard as it was, Caitie knew she'd made the right choice in staying at Winterfell.

Her family needed her: Arthur, and Sansa, and the girls. It was clear every time Willa smiled up at her, every time Johnna fell asleep on her shoulder after a long day of training, every time she so much as glanced at Arthur. And Caitie loved them all too much to abandon them. Her ill-advised plan to hastily leave had been one of the biggest potential mistakes of her life—and if she were willing to be completely honest with herself, she didn't think she would have made it halfway to Eastwatch before turning back around.

There were few things to do, however, beyond waiting for news of Jon's survival, and Caitie had never been good at patience. Days passed, yet she felt as though a lifetime had gone by. She checked in with Bran every morning before breakfast and every night after supper—and each time he greeted her with the same blank stare and assurance that Jon was, in fact, still alive, but still north of the Wall. As was Tormund, who, of course, had agreed to join in his mission—and the dozen others who'd accompanied them, though Caitie couldn't muster enough energy to worry about them. It was agonizing enough worrying about her two friends; if she thought about the nameless, faceless people she had sent north, then she'd think about how she was responsible if they died, and if she thought about that, then she would be a blubbering, self-loathing mess. Suppressing it was the only way to get through her day.

Distraction worked, too. She threw herself into her duties, spending longer hours in the training yard with whomever was willing to be her student for the day, or hunting to ensure that Winterfell had enough dried meats and furs at its disposal, or writing letters to Norwood with orders and supply numbers. In an effort to help relieve Sansa's workload, she'd even begun fielding some of the less important petitions; petty squabbles between lords over their borders, disputes between the smallfolk in Wintertown—including a particularly memorable one, all over the ownership of a single chicken—and it was more than surprising that they actually listened to her when she rendered her judgment.

Appreciative of her willingness to stay, and apparently understanding the sacrifice she had made to do so, Arthur worked hard to keep her distracted during their allotted free time. He took walks with her and Willa in the glass gardens, chattering away with the younger girl about all the vegetables they had planted together as Caitie watched them fondly; he stayed in the training yard far longer than he usually would, and he helped her research White Walkers in Winterfell's library with renewed vigor. If it hadn't been for her brother, she didn't think she would have survived. Johnna, who spent most of her free time either studying needlework with Sansa or warging with Bran, was nowhere to be seen until after supper at the earliest, but she did what she could; with her powers growing rapidly under her new instructor, she'd taken to warging into crows and sending them north of the Wall, searching on her own for the Army of the Dead—and by extension, Jon and Tormund.

She hadn't found their whereabouts yet, but it was something.

At last, early in the morning, whilst they were all eating breakfast in Caitie's chambers, a messenger arrived at her door. "Lady Stark wishes to see you in the great hall," he said, before giving a curt nod and hurrying away. Everyone was hurrying these days.

"You'd better go," Arthur said as he picked at his mutton.

"Will you be all right without me?"

He nodded. "I'll be fine. Johnna's going to help me translate some of Winterfell's books today."

"Oh?"

Johnna shrugged. "The Old Tongue isn't what I'm used to, but I think I can do it," she said.

"I know you can do it," Arthur told her. She rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile, and he turned back to Caitie. "You go help Lady Sansa. Just… come back for supper."

"Your wish is my command."

Flurries of snow were beating against the great hall's windows when she arrived. Scrolls and ledgers were scattered across the great table, and behind it the large fireplace glowed gold, providing the hall with extra warmth. Caitie expected to find Sansa in her usual seat, ready to inform her of a plan to deal with Littlefinger, but she was not; instead, she stood facing the fireplace on the opposite side of the table, hunched over as she read something, whilst Brienne watched.

Caitie cleared her throat. "You sent for me?"

Both women turned, and Caitie tried not to cringe away from Brienne's steely gaze. She knew she'd firmly put a nail in the coffin of any potential goodwill between them. Indeed, they had hardly spent a moment in the same vicinity since their… altercation, which was honestly a relief. She didn't think she could stand the looks Brienne threw at her—though perhaps not undeserved—as if trying to parse out the best way to kill her without it looking like murder. And it wasn't that she feared Brienne—they were evenly matched after all—but she hated that Brienne had seen her at her worst. She hated herself for losing control so easily in the first place.

As it went, Caitie left a good twenty feet between them.

"Yes," Sansa said. "I've had a raven from King's Landing. There's going to be a peace summit."

A weight lifted off Caitie's shoulders. In all honesty, she didn't particularly believe any summit with a Targaryen and a Lannister was likely to end in peace, but that didn't matter. Whatever she thought of King's Landing or Cersei Lannister or even Daenerys Targaryen didn't matter, either. What mattered was that Bran could see what he claimed, and, therefore, the likelihood of Jon making it out of the north alive went up.

She just hoped the same applied to Tormund.

"They've asked me to come."

Now that, Caitie had not expected. She shifted from foot to foot, unease settling in the pit of her stomach. "That seems…"

"Dangerous?" Sansa supplied. "I agree. Which is why I'm sending Brienne and Podrick in my stead."

Brienne's eyebrows shot up into her hairline as she gaped, trying and failing to grasp for words to convey her displeasure in a respectful manner. Sansa hardly noticed her sworn sword's reaction; her eyes dropped back down to the letter in her hands, rereading it with a glower that reminded Caitie painfully of Jon.

"My lady," Brienne began at length, "you are the Lady of Winterfell—"

Sansa looked back up, a hint of annoyance on her face at the pushback. "I am," she said, "and you and you will represent my interests at this gathering as you see them."

"They invited you. They want you there."

Sansa scoffed, turning from Brienne to walk around the great table and towards the hearth. "I will not set foot in King's Landing while Cersei Lannister is queen. If they want another Stark prisoner, they can come and take me. Until then, I'll remain where I belong." She threw the parchment into the fire, burning away the remnant of King's Landing. "I have work to do here."

Work, Caitie thought, was an understatement. With the Army of the Dead on the march, Sansa had doubled the speed of preparations. She worked longer hours than anyone else in the castle, writing orders, organizing rations and soldiers and supplies, calculating the costs of strengthening Winterfell's infrastructure, and Gods only knew what else. The toll it took was evident; Caitie knew that Sansa's tutors had taught her the basics of running a household, but not for many years, and certainly not in wartime. Every day she looked a little more worn down by it, her poise and fortitude slipping with each report she struggled to understand, even with her advisors' help. But Sansa never complained, even when Caitie knew she must be drowning.

"It's not safe," Brienne insisted, eyeing Caitie with disgust as she did so.

Sansa turned to face her, hair lit as bright as the fire behind her, brow furrowed in confusion. "Ser Jaime will be there. You said he treated you honorably before."

"I'm not worried about me!" Brienne cried. "It's not safe leaving you with Littlefinger."

Sansa huffed. "I have many guards who would happily imprison or behead him, whether or not you're here."

"And you trust their loyalty? You trust he hasn't been speaking to them all behind your back?"

It was a good point, and even though they didn't always see eye to eye, even though not having Brienne around glaring every time they were near each other would be liberating, it seemed like a terrible risk in the long run to send her away. "Sansa," Caitie said, "Brienne has a point. We already know Littlefinger is up to something; maybe it's best if—"

"I don't need you to defend me," Brienne snapped. Sighing, Caitie raised her arms in surrender and let the stubborn woman continue uninterrupted. "Let me leave Podrick behind to watch over you. He has become a competent swordsman—"

Sansa spun on her heel, snarling in her frustration, "I do not need to be watched over or minded or cared for. I'm not a child; I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I am home. This is the safest place for me." She took her seat at the great table and looked back down to the scrolls in front of her, all argument over.

"My lady," Brienne persisted, "I swore an oath to protect you and your sister. If I abandon you now—"

"The trip to King's Landing is long, Lady Brienne, and you won't be traveling on summer roads," Sansa said, her voice as cold as her expression. Even Brienne was taken aback by it. "The sooner you leave, the better your chances of making it on time."

If Caitie had been a more vindictive person, it might have pleased her to watch as Brienne struggled with an order. Hell, if she had been a more vindictive person, she might have enjoyed the idea that it was now Brienne facing such a dilemma—especially after judging Caitie for her poor reaction to the same thing. But she was trying very hard not to be a vindictive person, and so she merely threw Brienne a look that she hoped was sympathetic, that conveyed her apology, and that said she would do anything to protect Sansa, no matter what.

If Brienne noticed, she didn't show it. She swept out of the hall with her head held high and shoulders stiff with tension.

Caitie couldn't blame her. She just hoped Sansa had a good reason for her actions.

When Brienne had disappeared out the door, she opened her mouth, but Sansa held up one hand to stop the question she was about to ask. "Not here," she said. "Help me with these."

Though she didn't like it, Caitie obliged, scooping up as many of the scrolls as she could carry. Sansa gathered the rest in her arms and started towards the door. When Caitie followed, she shook her head. "Wait until I've gone, then take the back route and meet me in my office."

"Sansa—"

"Do it, Caitriona."

It was the urgency in her voice that struck fear into Caitie's heart and spurred her to listen; she gave a quick nod and watched Sansa walk away, as if no conversation of any kind had transpired between them. For how long Caitie was supposed to wait before following, she didn't know, so she paced the length of the great hall twice before finally deciding that Sansa couldn't expect her to wander about like an idiot for this long.

When she arrived at her destination, she knocked; the door swung open and before she could get a word out, Sansa pulled her inside, quickly bolting it behind them. "You certainly took long enough," she hissed.

"Well, you weren't exactly clear about what you wanted me to do. Now care to tell me why we're sneaking around like children out of bed at night?"

Sansa glared, but there were more important issues at hand, so she merely took a deep breath and moved on. "Because you and Brienne had a point about not trusting anybody," she said, taking a seat behind her desk.

Caitie furrowed her brows. "So why did you send her and Podrick away, then? Not that I'm complaining we'll be rid of her for a few weeks, but…"

"I had no choice. I can't ask her to choose between my sister and I, and if things were to... escalate, then she would be caught in the middle."

"Oh, for the love of—" Caitie groaned. "This is exactly what Littlefinger wants; you realize that, yes? For you to be isolated?"

"Of course I realize that," Sansa snapped. "I'm not an idiot."

"Right, of course not. So you're… what, then? Luring him into a false sense of security?"

"It's worked so far," she muttered, and for that singular moment, she allowed her exhaustion to show through her steely exterior.

Caitie softened; it couldn't be easy, keeping up all these different facades whilst already working to prepare an entire kingdom for the worst winter in eight-thousand years, especially when Sansa had never expected to need to do either. Gods, no wonder she was run so ragged. "All right, I'm sorry. If you think it was the right thing to do, then I believe you."

Sansa sighed. "It's not that I wanted to send her away, but Littlefinger has already made it clear that he wants her gone, and if I don't, then he'll realize something is wrong. Fortunately, your outburst has made you safe from that for the moment."

"I take it you have a plan to deal with him?"

"I do," she said. "But before that's possible, I need the full support of the North, and as long as Arya has my letter, that support is precarious. I need to retrieve it from her chambers."

Caitie shifted in her seat. "I don't think sneaking around behind her back is likely to repair the relationship between you two."

"No, it's not," Sansa sighed, her steely expression faltering. "But what choice do I have?"

"Well, you could talk to her."

She dismissed the suggestion with a scoff. "I already tried that. The problem is that Arya never listens. She's set on hating me, just like she always has."

Yes, Arya had seemed quite convinced of Sansa's betrayal; it was why Caitie had told her to speak with Sansa in the first place. But now that they had spoken, she didn't understand the problem. Not unless there was something more to this feud that she didn't know. "What exactly did you two say to each other when she confronted you about the letter?"

"She accused me of helping the Lannisters kill Father, then she called me a traitor and a coward, and—"

"And what did you say?"

"I defended myself."

"How?"

"What do you mean 'how?' It's not difficult to understand why I wrote that letter. You said it yourself; I was a child, and I was afraid. But that didn't matter to her. She's never seen me as a part of her family, never respected me; of course she would believe I'm a traitor. I thought after losing so much, after being apart for so long, maybe that would change, but she's too consumed by her own anger to care."

"Sansa," Caitie said gently, "do you think this might be about more than just the letter?"

Sansa blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You just told me she's never seen you as part of her family or respected you. And all your stories about her involve some form of disagreement or fighting between the two of you. I'm not saying it will solve everything, but… did you ever apologize to her?"

Sansa's nostrils flared. "I have nothing to apologize for."

"Really," Caitie said flatly, because she knew that Sansa knew it wasn't true. "Nothing?"

"I—" Sansa cut herself off, pursing her lips and looking away. "Fine, let's say I do apologize. What if it doesn't work? What then?"

"Then at least you tried."

"And why should I have to make the first concession?"

"Because one of you has to take the first step. One of you has to close the distance. And you can't shut Arya out if you want to have a relationship with her. You're not the same person she grew up with, and neither is she. You're both adults—it's time you treated each other as such."

There was a long, agonizing pause as Sansa contemplated the advice. "I… all right," she said. "I'll speak with her, I promise. Once I have that letter back."

Caitie put her face into her hands and groaned. "Did you listen to anything I just said?"

"You have my word that as soon as I have the letter, I'll try to… I'll try. But I can't trust Arya to do the right thing, and if anyone else finds out what I wrote, then Littlefinger succeeds. I'd rather die than see that happen." She stood, brushing off her skirts. "If things go wrong, I'll bear the consequences. But I have to do this."

Caitie threw her head back, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Gods, fine. But I never want anyone to talk about how stubborn I am ever again. And I'm coming with you to keep watch."

"That isn't necessary."

"Yes, it is. I promised Jon I would watch over you, and you might not like it, but right now, I think you need some watching over."

The scowl Caitie received would have sent the Night King scurrying away back into the Lands of Always Winter, but she stood her ground, because there was no way in hell that she was letting Sansa walk into the unknown without her. Arya might have been her sister, and Caitie might have wanted them to get along for Jon's sake more than anything else, but that didn't change the fact that Arya was dangerous.

At last, Sansa huffed. "All right. But only if you bring Ghost."

Caitie grinned. "You read my mind."

From the moment Arya stepped foot into Winterfell, her daily routine never changed. She ate breakfast in the great hall, then spent the better part of the morning training in the courtyard. At midday, she would break for a meal, after which she would disappear to points unknown. Whether she was resting in her chambers, or—as Sansa put it—lurking around the castle, Caitie had no idea; regardless, the window of opportunity would only last until midday, so they swiftly put their plan into action. She retrieved Ghost from his hunt with Johnna, Arthur, and Dim, and met Sansa at the rendezvous point, just outside the corridor to Arya's chambers.

"Are you sure?" Caitie asked for what felt like the millionth time.

Sansa nodded, producing from her sleeve the key to Arya's chambers. As the Lady of Winterfell, she had access to every single door in the entire castle, something which Caitie always tried her best not to think too much about. Together, they set off down the corridor, Ghost in tow, until they arrived at the right door, set into the wall a little ways, allowing them cover from any unwanted onlookers. Sansa looked over her shoulder, and when she was certain they were alone, she inserted the key into the lock. She looked over her shoulder one last time and disappeared behind the door.

And Caitie didn't know what it was, exactly, but the moment the door closed, the alarm bells started ringing in her head. Perhaps it was only nerves, but still… her instincts had never been wrong before, and ignoring them had always turned out terribly. I don't like this. She looked down at Ghost, who had stretched out on the floor beside her. "What do you think?"

He merely stared up at her with his big red eyes, licked her palm as she scratched under his ears, and went back to resting his head on his paws.

"Well," she sighed, "I suppose that's something."

For a little while, Caitie's stint as Sansa's lookout was uneventful. The only sound was Sansa's footsteps, and the opening of drawers as she searched her sister's room. But then all noise ceased, and a deafening silence took its place, followed by a click—and that was the moment that Caitie knew she and Sansa had walked into a trap.

Damn it, I should have known, she thought as her heart thudded in her chest. How did I not see it when Arya did the exact same thing to me? She twisted the doorknob and pushed with all her might, but it refused to budge. And Sansa had taken the key, so Caitie had no other way of opening the door without a lock pick or brute force; the first of which would take too long—between finding one and then using it—and the second of which required strength she wasn't sure she possessed.

The only thing that kept Caitie from completely panicking was Ghost, whose eyes were open but relaxed as he lay beside her, licking at his paws. He was more attuned to emotions than any human she had ever met, especially to those of his pack. So if he wasn't worried about the two Stark sisters trying to tear each other apart, then she wouldn't either. Yet.

"Not what you're looking for?" Arya's voice sounded, and judging by the volume, she was right across from Caitie on the other side of the door.

"I have hundreds of men here at Winterfell, all loyal to me," Sansa said quickly, and she had to have spoken without thinking, for how else could she have managed to say the worst thing possible?

"They're not here now."

Sansa ignored her. "What are these?"

"My faces."

Caitie had no idea what Arya meant by her "faces," but whatever it was, it didn't sound good. Caitie twisted the doorknob once more, though she knew it was futile.

"Where did you get them?"

"In Braavos, while I was training to be a Faceless Man."

Every nerve in Caitie's body went on high alert. She'd heard of the Faceless Men, only once, when she had asked Melisandre about the origins of the phrase Valar Morghulis. Her description of them had been enough to scare Caitie; an assassin's guild based in the House of Black and White in Braavos, the Faceless Men claimed to worship the God of Death, also known as the Many-faced God, for he had iterations in almost every single religion across both continents. Legend—one which, according to Melisandre, was true—told that the Faceless Men cut the faces off their marks and then used magic to turn themselves into that person. And even after facing the White Walkers, the idea of men who could use magic to impersonate another was singularly terrifying.

Seven Hells—how had they even found Arya? And why would they train her to be an assassin?

"What does that mean?" Sansa asked.

"Back in Braavos," Arya said, sidestepping her sister's question, "before I got my first face, there was a game I used to play. The Game of Faces. It's simple—I ask you a question about yourself, and you try to make lies sound like the truth. If you fool me, you win. If I catch a lie, you lose. Let's play."

"I don't want to play."

Arya ignored this. "How do you feel about Jon being king? Is there someone else you think should rule the North instead of him?"

"Those faces," Sansa said, her voice clipped and shrill and altogether terrified even as she tried to mask it. "What are they?"

"You want to do the asking? Are you sure? The Game of Faces didn't turn out so well for the last person who asked me questions."

The lack of emotion in Arya's voice was one of the most quietly menacing sounds Caitie had ever heard, for it was so different from the girl who had come to her quarters not three days ago. Then, the anger and hurt which engulfed Arya then had been obvious in her voice, her expression, in the way she spoke her sister's name and insisted she was going to betray Jon. But now… there was nothing but coldness. Her anger simmered beneath the surface of her calm facade, only visible in the words she was speaking. And controlled simmering anger was just as dangerous as the chaotic, explosive kind, if not more so.

Yet, to Caitie's confusion, Ghost still didn't seem to care what was happening behind the door. He was content to keep guard as the fight escalated. And that was, well, odd, considering the threat which Arya seemed to pose. He always knew when there was danger, and if he wasn't trying to get into that room, then… maybe there wasn't any danger.

"Tell me what they are," Sansa demanded.

"We both wanted to be other people when we were younger," Arya replied. "You wanted to be a queen, to sit next to a handsome young king on the Iron Throne. I wanted to be a knight, to pick up a sword like Father and go off to battle. Neither of us got to be that other person, did we? The world doesn't just let girls decide what they're going to be. But I can, now. With the faces I can choose. I can become someone else. Speak in their voice, live in their skin. I could even become you." She let the words hang in the air for a moment before she continued, voice soft yet still menacing, the threat evident in each syllable. "I wonder what it would feel like to wear those pretty dresses… to be the lady of Winterfell. All I'd need to find out… is your face."

All right, that's it. Ghost's calm didn't matter, and neither did figuring out what the fuck was going on. What mattered was getting into that room and making sure Sansa was okay. She'd figure out what to do about everything else later. Taking a step back, Caitie readied herself for the strongest kick of her entire life, but before she could do anything more than clench her fists, the door swung open, and she came face-to-face with Arya.

For half a second, they simply stared at each other—and it was the expression which flashed across Arya's face before she quickly smothered it that made all Caitie's fear evaporate. Because she had seen that expression before, seen the pain that masqueraded as fury—pain that Arya so desperately wanted to be fury, but was something far deeper and infinitely more frustrating.

"Hello." Caitie tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

"You," Arya said, her voice like ice, and her hand grasping Needle's hilt. Only when she noticed Ghost did she relax the hold on her sword. The direwolf stood up, and padded over to stand beside Caitie; whether he was trying to protect her or comfort Arya, it was difficult to say. Further back in the room, Sansa had gone as still as a statue and just as pale, with tears welling in her eyes, and holding Arya's Valyrian steel dagger in her hand. And however terrified she looked, Caitie knew that Ghost was right; Sansa had never been in any danger.

"Me," Caitie agreed. "So… I have to ask," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "can you really become someone else? Or was it just a lie you made up to scare your sister?"

Arya blinked. "What?"

"Oh, not that I'm blaming you—I once told two of my best friends I would make their deaths so painful that they'd wish the White Walkers had killed them. To be honest, that was probably worse." She grinned to mask the way her heart was pounding against her ribcage and looked over Arya's shoulder at Sansa. "So, are you finally ready to admit that I was right and you were wrong?"

Sansa glared. "Absolutely not."

Caitie bit back a groan. "Oh for fuck's sake; you have to let this end, Sansa."

"What is she talking about?" Arya snapped, spinning on her heel to face her sister once more.

Sansa drew herself up to her full height as she remembered herself. "Well, I was going to apologize to you, but now I think I should have you thrown into the dungeons for the safety of Winterfell."

Arya scowled. "I'd like to see you try."

At the challenge, a fire raged in Sansa's eyes, replacing the fear that had been there a moment earlier. Caitie stared at her imploringly, because if she was ever to repair the relationship with her sister, she needed to break through the chasm between them, not make it worse by falling into old patterns.

"Sansa—"

But Sansa held up a hand to silence Caitie as she passed her by and held the Valyrian steel dagger for Arya to take. "You aren't going to hurt me," she said.

Arya's face was as stiff as a mask, but her eyes flashed. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

"That's true, I don't. But I never said you couldn't. I said you won't. Because you lied just now. You never wanted to be a lady. Caitriona was right; you're just trying to scare me, because you're angry and afraid—"

"I'm not afraid."

"Yes, you are. You're afraid of losing what's left of our family again. And for some stupid reason, you think I'm not afraid of that, too."

"Then why did you write that letter?" Arya asked, and though she tried to keep up her facade, it couldn't withstand the onslaught of emotions of the girl beneath the mask. "Why did you betray Father and Robb and—me?"

Sansa furrowed her brows. "You… oh." She looked down at her hands as some sort of realization dawned on her. "The butcher's boy."

Arya's face contorted with the rage she had been trying to hide. "Mycah. His name was Mycah, and he's dead because you lied. For Joffrey."

"I know."

"You—what?"

"I know," Sansa repeated. "You saw Joffrey for what he was, and I didn't. If I had listened to you, Mycah might be alive. Lady might be alive." Her voice cracked on the last word, and her eyes glistened with tears—and whether it was true or not, Caitie didn't know, but Sansa believed it, and Arya believed it, and that mattered more than anything else. "After they took Father away, I got down on my knees in front of the entire court and begged Joffrey for mercy. I wrote that stupid letter because I thought it could save him. You were gone; Septa Mordane was gone. Father was all I had, and he was locked up; they wouldn't even let me see him, Arya. So I did what I thought I had to do to save his life."

"Oh please," Arya spat, "you did what you had to do to be queen, to be pretty and perfect and beloved, just like you've always wanted. Just like you are now."

Caitie had never seen such frustration on Sansa's face—and she understood, of course. These were Sansa's biggest regrets, and they were being thrown back in her face. But getting angry and arguing wasn't going to solve anything. "I am not trying to be queen," she said through gritted teeth. "And I don't care about being pretty or perfect. All I'm trying to do is keep the North together, because Jon needs it to be united."

"So that's why you're here, then? To get the letter back so you can 'unite' the North?"

"I—no," Sansa said. "Not just for that. I'm here because you're my sister, and there are things I wanted to say to you. Will you please just… let me?"

Arya's lips drew a thin line, but she gave a stiff nod, and Sansa took a deep breath.

"I suffered a great deal for the mistakes I made in King's Landing. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already said to myself a hundred times. But I think you know that." Sansa eyed Caitie, who nodded encouragingly. "You're not just angry with me because of this letter. You're angry with me because… I wasn't a sister to you when you needed me to be. Maybe for a long time before that, too. And I was wrong. I'm so sorry for the things I did; the things I said. Everything. If I could go back and change it, I would."

Arya's face fell. She cast her eyes to the floor, and when she spoke again, there was only a slight amount of suspicion in her voice. "You would?"

"Of course I would. I'd give anything for it." Sansa took a deep, shaky breath. "But someone once told me that you can't change the past. You can only go forward and do better next time. And that's what I'm going to do, if you'll let me."

Caitie retreated towards the door and tried to make herself small, feeling as though she was intruding on a personal moment—which she supposed she was. "I believe you," Arya whispered at last. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry I didn't try harder to find you after the Red Wedding. Before…"

Sansa gave a small smile. "You couldn't have done anything. But I'm glad you're here now."

Caitie blew out a breath. It was time for her to leave; whatever else the sisters had to say to each other, it wasn't her place to intrude upon it. "I'll give you some privacy," she said, and both Sansa and Arya looked up at her in surprise, as if they'd forgotten she was still in the room. "Ghost can stand watch. I think he'll feel better that way." I think that I'll feel better that way.

Sansa nodded. "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything. It was all you two," Caitie said as she squeezed her shoulder and turned away.

I know I probably made Sansa stans and Arya stans very angry, but I've said it before and I'll say it again: Arya and Sansa's issues all came from the adults in their lives, not from either one being an innately terrible person. They were kids, they both reacted to their situations in stupid, and sometimes mean ways (tbf Sansa more so than Arya), but that's normal, especially with the context. Just because GRRM sucks at writing character growth doesn't mean the girls shouldn't be allowed to have it (say what you will about the Ds, but they at least tried).