A/N: Oh my goodness, you guys. I expected like maybe 2 people to still be reading this thing. I'm utterly floored by how many of you are still here from before and how many are new to the story!

Wow, guys. Just wow. I don't deserve any of you.

Sansa waited. And worried.

And then – finally – the rumors drifted in.

Green fire had fallen in Blackwater Bay, the Stark men whispered together. Fire and death… and the Chosen of the Lord of Light sailed through it. He hadn't needed a Red Woman to part the green flames, all the stories said. Not even wildfire could burn him. It exploded before he neared, clearing his path to an unguarded, burning port and victory.

Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven (Six, angry Northerners quickly corrected) Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm now ruled in King's Landing. The late King Joffrey, Prince Tommen, and Queen Regent had all died by poison, but King Stannis had their bodies burned anyway, their blackened corpses hung over the walls of the city gates.

The pyres of 34 of Stannis's own soldiers joined the blackened bodies the day after, convicted and executed for raping amidst their victory. It was an unprecedented move, everyone agreed, setting the tone for the reign to come. Debates raged, however, over whether that tone was justice or ruthlessness.

"But what of the Halfman?" Northerners asked each other. "He was Acting Hand of the King, weren't he? Half a Lannister's still half too much. I can't believe Stannis, the old lobster, would let one get away."

Over the next few weeks, Sansa could do nothing but smile. Joffrey was dead. Cersei was dead.

The North had Remembered.

. . .

The thwack of wooden blades against each other kept a steady rhythm as Sansa embroidered. She turned the fabric under a steady eye. Curves were hard to keep even, but she was up for the challenge. Always up for a challenge, where Theon was concerned–

A yelp of pain cut through her thoughts.

"You have to move your feet!" Brienne said as Arya jumped around, shaking out her hand. "I told you, if you didn't block–"

"I'd get hit! I know!" With a final growl, Arya picked her training sword back up. "Fine, I'll move my feet."

But Brienne was trying to hide her fondness under her scowl as she took the training sword from the girl, sliding both of theirs back into the barrel. "It's enough for today. Practice on your own and I'll see how much you've improved by tomorrow."

Arya gave a sullen nod. Brienne strode off, passing by Sansa. She dipped her head. "My lady."

"Brienne," Sansa said with a nod in reply. "Thank you."

A blush spread up Brienne's cheeks. With another nod, she hurried off.

With a whump, Arya threw herself onto the camp chair next to Sansa. "Training is bloody hard."

"Language," Sansa automatically said, threading another stitch. "I thought it was what you wanted most in the world."

"It is," Arya said, though it lacked her usual passion. "But Brienne's so big. I'll never be like that. Never be like her."

"No," Sansa replied, not looking up from her embroidery. "You'll be better."

Arya said nothing for a long moment. When Sansa finally looked at her, Arya was still studying her. Sansa had no idea what she saw.

"You used to be awful," Arya said.

Her standard list of excuses sprang to Sansa's tongue–

"Robb says you fought to let me learn the sword. That you're the only reason I've gotten to." Arya grinned cheekily up at her sister. "I'm glad you're not awful anymore."

Fondly, Sansa ran a hand through Arya's hair before she could stop herself. To her surprise, Arya leaned into her touch, resting her head against Sansa's shoulder. Sansa barely dared to breathe as she continued stroking her baby sister's hair. Arya had almost never let her do this even when they'd been young and then after Arya had come back from Braavos, not even the Queen in the North had been brave enough to dare.

Sansa loved her sister. But more importantly, Arya had always kept secrets of her own. Didn't that mean maybe, maybe Sansa's own secrets might be safe with her?

"Valar Morghulis," Sansa whispered against Arya's hair.

Immediately, Arya turned, wrinkling her nose up at her. "Valamor-whatis?"

A thrill of fear coursed through Sansa. "You don't know that phrase?"

Arya shook her head. "What is it?"

"Valar Morghulis," Sansa replied. "It means, 'All men must die.'"

"Valar Morghulis," Arya repeated, trying it out. "I like that. Where'd you hear it?"

"You taught it to me."

Sansa could hear nothing but the beats of her heart as Arya stared. Her sister hadn't yet pulled away, still wrapped in Sansa's arm, but her face looked like that of a startled animal, deciding whether to trust or bite.

Sansa swallowed. They were alone, in a corner of the camp where they could see anyone who approached, and there was nothing like the truth for garnering trust.

"I've lived this before," Sansa softly replied. "For some reason, the gods gave me another chance. I'm trying to fix my mistakes."

Still studying her, an abrupt grin broke over Arya's face. "That makes sense."

"It– what?" Sansa could barely breathe.

Arya leaned away, swinging her legs merrily from atop the too-tall chair. "I knew you couldn't have gotten this nice for no reason. And you seemed…" She wrinkled her nose again, searching for the words. "Older. Not like you spent time away, but that you're more like Robb, now. Like how he always treated me. More like Mother."

Sansa's throat clenched. She hadn't even noticed, but it was absolutely true. Arya had gone from her younger sister to her far younger sister in the space of a day.

"So how old are you, then?" Arya said, taking this all too casually for Sansa's tastes. "In your head. Since you still look like you're only fourteen."

"I was twenty the day I started over. I suppose that makes me twenty one, now," Sansa mechanically replied. It was the strangest conversation she'd ever had. At least Theon had been properly skeptical, properly shocked. Arya was just… Arya.

The younger girl laughed. "So now you're older than Robb! What a riot. I can't wait till he–"

"You can't tell him," Sansa immediately said, grabbing Arya's shoulders to force her to be serious. Arya stopped, watching her sister carefully. "I've tried and it's gone poorly. I've been telling him pieces, but he thinks I just have spies everywhere."

"You have to tell him," Arya said. "I'll go with you, I'll–"

Sansa shook her head. "Please, Arya, you can't tell anyone. If Robb starts thinking I'm crazy, he'll stop listening entirely. I can't risk that. Maybe I'll tell him eventually, but for now, it's fine with him not knowing."

"So then why did you tell me?" Arya said, looking skeptical.

Sansa took a deep breath. Honesty. Arya could take most things if she were told them straight; she'd never forgive Sansa for lying. "Because I wanted to ask you some things I think you'd rather I not know and I didn't think you'd like it if I hadn't shared my own secrets, first."

Arya watched her carefully. "Seems like some time in your past life you did get to know me. Alright. Ask."

"The Faceless Men?" Sansa asked. Arya stared blankly. "I think his name was… Hagir? Hagre? You once told me you met him on the road to Harrenhal."

Arya's eyes widened. "Jaqen H'ghar? I told you about him?!"

Sansa paused. "Only after…" You'd shown me your faces. "...we'd been through a lot." Arya had displayed no knowledge of the Faceless Men so far. The last thing Sansa would do would be to tell her she'd been one of them before Arya even knew what they were.

"What I want to know," Sansa continued softly. "Is what went differently with him this time?"

"What happened last time?" Arya asked.

"You never told me all the details," Sansa started. "But I know you helped Jaqen and he gave you… names? You used them to get all your friends out of Harrenhal before Tywin abandoned it to the Mountain. And then he taught you the phrase and told you to meet him in Braavos if you wanted training."

Arya stared down at her feet. "That didn't happen," she whispered. "He gave me three names, but I used one on a man who saw me with a letter. And when two guards went out to hunt Nymeria, I gave Jaqen the final two names. I didn't know a third guard had seen me with her, too." Scowling, Arya kicked at the legs of her chair. "The Lannister men caught me and I didn't have any names left. I screamed and screamed for Jaqen – and he just winked and walked away. I hate him."

"He was a…" Sansa wasn't sure how to break the news. "A Faceless Man. Able to change his face to a new one whenever he wanted."

Arya screwed up her face, looking up at Sansa. "Jaqen showed me that, before?"

Sansa nodded.

"He trained me?"

Sansa nodded again.

"Did I… become one?"

Sansa hesitated. "Yes. But you had to lose yourself to do it. I'm not quite sure how you found yourself again, after."

Arya frowned, looking down at Needle in her belt. "But I can't now, can I?"

"I don't think so, not if this Jaqen never offered," Sansa whispered. "But in the end, after all that work, you abandoned taking faces."

"Taking them?" Arya said. "Like…?"

"Peeling them off of corpses and preserving them to wear on your own," Sansa explained as factually as she could. "You showed me your collection, once. It was…"

There weren't quite words to do it justice.

"It sounds horrible," Arya said.

"Yes," Sansa replied.

Arya was silent for a long while. Even her feet were still. "If I still wanted to try, to become a Faceless Man… would you let me?"

"Let you?" Sansa pulled her sister into a hug. "Whatever you choose to do, I'll help you. You're the only one who knows what you need. All I know is that you'll be phenomenal."

Arya grinned up at her. "Phenomenal? Does that mean I did something important?"

Sansa hesitated. "Yes. But this world is already a different one. I can't imagine you'll end up doing the same things."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Whatever I did is so big that you think I'm better off not knowing?"

Killing the Night King and ending the Long Night should qualify. "Yes," Sansa merely said.

Arya shrugged, looking away. "Alright. I trust you." But she snuck a glance back at Sansa. "Did people know my name throughout the lands?"

"Arya!" Sansa admonished. "Asking about it is the same as telling!"

Arya grinned. "It was worth a shot."

A figure was striding through the camp towards them. Sansa and Arya stared. Then, the figure was running.

Arya flung herself out of her chair. "Mother!"

And suddenly she and Sansa were running, too, colliding with Catelyn in a breathless huddle of hugs and kisses and laughter.

"My girls," Catelyn cried, kissing each of them. "Oh, my precious girls!"

"It's barely been more than a week, Mother," Arya said, squirming and blushing under Catelyn's kisses. "We're fine!"

Catelyn pulled back, holding Arya at arms' length. "And what's this I've heard about Lady Brienne teaching you the sword?"

"Well…" Arya immediately faltered under her mother's glare. "I… She's good, and…"

"It's what Father wanted," Sansa cut in. "He hired a swordsman from Braavos to teach Arya when we were down in King's Landing."

Catelyn still stared at Arya, as if making sure her daughter hadn't been replaced while she hadn't been watching. "Did he really?"

Arya nodded at her mother, her eyes wide with seriousness.

With a laugh, Catelyn pressed a final kiss to Arya's forehead. "Then how in the world could I stop you? Go on, bruise every bone in your body making a fool of yourself."

Arya grinned, grabbing her wooden sword and scampering away to practice.

Only Sansa remained with her mother, who looked less-than pleased. "You've had an eventful time while I've been gone. Lady Mormont told me all about your plan."

"Plan?" Sansa said, only half-feigning her confusion. Margaery had said she'd see if Loras could help and then the Lannisters hadn't made it to King's Landing in time, so Sansa had been able to guess, but it had still only been a guess.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow. "Delaying Tywin with Tyrell forces? Sabotaging his supplies, burning every bridge on the Kingsroad?"

"That was the Tyrells," Sansa replied. "They did that. I just…"

Catelyn gave that same motherly stare that always threatened to see right through her. "They just listened to you. Robb told me how you'd fought for it. You control armies, now. Ones without blood ties, no less."

Sansa felt heat flooding to her face. It was awful, having her close relationship with her mother replaced with skepticism and distance. "Joffrey is dead." Sansa had to focus to speak evenly. "Are you telling me that you're upset about that? That you think I… betrayed the family, or something, by allying with the Tyrells? Robb's betrothed–?"

Her mother cut her off, pulling her into another hug. "Sansa, no, sweetling. I'm impressed. I could never have done even half the things you've managed while I've been away. You're clever, Sansa. Far too clever to waste in a war camp."

Sansa pulled away. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." Catelyn smiled. "There'll be plenty of time to talk about it later. The embroidery in your hoop looks marvelous! Your stitches are so even–"

"Mother," Sansa said, as dread clenched its cold fingers around her heart. "What do you mean, 'too clever to waste in a war camp?'"

Smiling, Catelyn tucked a stray strand of hair back behind Sansa's ear. "I've found you a suitable match."

Sansa jerked away. "You can't seriously mean–"

"Robin Arryn," Catelyn said, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Lysa has offered their support in exchange for your hand. Won't that be wonderful? Robb will get 15,000 men for his war effort – knights and pikemen – and you'll get to remain with family."

"You've been to the Vale!" Sansa hissed. "You've seen them! Lysa is insane! Delusional! Robin is barely better than Joffrey!"

Her mother sighed. "I won't lie to you. It is far from ideal, but I wouldn't have suggested this if I thought you weren't capable of handling it."

"Far from ideal?" Sansa said, trying not to scream.

"Think of it, Sansa," Catelyn said. "You can guide Robin! Who better to temper Lysa's influence on him than her clever niece?"

"She'll throw me through the moon door," Sansa replied. "She'll never let someone else stand first in Robin's affections and she's more jealous than you've any idea. She jumps at shadows, she–"

"Sansa," Catelyn said, with a stern set to her mouth. "Robb needs those men. He's already agreed to my suggestion."

Bile rose in Sansa's throat. "Your suggestion? Or Lord Baelish's?"

Catelyn's frown deepened. "Petyr and I will be accompanying you, of course. It's been so many years since all of us have been together again."

Petyr. It had been more dangerous than Sansa had ever realized, leaving her mother in the Tyrell camp with him. "Is it 'Petyr,' now? I thought Lord Baelish was the man who betrayed Father to his death?"

Her mother's eyes flashed. "What is it you accuse me of? Speak plainly, daughter."

Sansa's eyes blazed right back. "That you've grown friendly with Baelish again. That your 'little brother' has wormed his way back into your heart, that–"

Catelyn's slap knocked Sansa's vision sideways. "Do not ever speak ill of my love for your father ever again. Is that understood?"

Sansa clutched her cheek. Mutely, she nodded. Good. Keep that fire, Mother. She felt terrible for doubting her own mother, but she had to know. If Catelyn set her heels in, she could be more stubborn and implacable than a mule. Her heart would be in no danger from Baelish.

Catelyn straightened her dress. "Now. Prepare your things."

"What?" Sansa cried. "Now? But you've just got back, you–"

Catelyn bent her head to stare Sansa in the eyes. "My father passed while I was gone. You, Arya, Brienne and I will make for Riverrun. Robb–"

"He can't be spared," Sansa quickly cut in. "He can't go, the men–"

Catelyn gave her a pitying look. "I know that. And he has his betrothed to look after. But you and I and Arya must go. Afterwards, my brother Edmure will replace us here with Robb, bringing the Tully forces. And we girls will continue on to the Eyrie. It must be done, Sansa."

The whole plan reeked of Baelish. If he didn't show up at Riverrun, he would at the Vale. Perhaps not right away, but Sansa doubted he'd let Catelyn out of his sight for long. Especially not with the royal-half of his Lannister patrons currently dangling from the walls of the Red Keep.

There was only one tool left for Sansa.

She dropped bonelessly against her mother, letting the forced sound of sobs wrack her body until the real tears came. "I can't, Mother. I just can't. Joffrey– he beat me, and threatened to rape me, and I just can't get betrothed again, not so soon after–" She cut off, letting the sobs drown her words. "Please don't make me," Sansa whispered. "I couldn't bear it."

"Oh, sweetling," Catelyn said, concern flowing from her voice as she rubbed circles on her daughter's back. "You've been through so much. So many horrors. I'll never leave you again."

"I can't marry him!" Sansa said, her voice breaking. "I'll die, I'll take a knife to my face, I'll make sure no one could ever want me ever again–"

Catelyn clutched her daughter tighter. "Shhh, my precious girl. I'm so sorry he hurt you, Sansa. You'll be alright, this time. You'll see. I'll protect you, sweetling. I'll never let anyone make you afraid ever again."

No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.

Ripping from her mother's arms, Sansa raced through camp, no longer sure which of her tears were real.

. . .

The Sea Bitch sat at anchor, a pitiful thing compared to the few warships still lingering near the harbor. The thirty ironborn that comprised its crew hauled boxes of food onto the small boat heading towards it, tossing in piles of rope, and double checking the provisions for the voyage.

Theon stared up at the ship from the stone docks, not quite able to repress his swell of pride. His ship. He hadn't set foot on a proper Greyjoy ship since he was nine and now this one was his.

One boat shoved off, carrying supplies. The first mate, Dagmer, walked over to the other one. "What do you want?" he called up to Theon.

"I'm Theon Greyjoy!" Theon called back. "I'm in command, now!"

"I know," Dagmer said, and spat into the water. "What do you want?"

"To come on board," Theon said, hating that it sounded like a question.

Dagmer motioned to the boat. "Come on, then. I'll take you."

Theon lugged his bag with him over to the boat, praying to the Drowned God that he could regain his sea legs before any of the ironborn noticed he'd ever lost them.

Two men trailed Theon, laden with bags of their own. Dagmer eyed them with distaste, taking in their coal-darkened clothes and stooped stances. "Miners? What in hell do we want with them?"

Theon grinned at Dagmer, gesturing the miners into the boat. "Found them at a mining tavern. All the other miners there said if I needed to make calculations, Ferin and Myric were who I needed."

"We're raiding fishing villages off Blazewater Bay," Dagmer said, stepping into the boat and shoving off. "We don't need to make calculations."

Theon's grin only widened. "You're right. If we were attacking fishing villages, we wouldn't need to make calculations at all. It's a good thing I've got miners, then, isn't it?"

Dagmer didn't know Theon's plan, but he knew that grin. He liked that grin. Slowly, his lips wrinkling around his scar, he returned it. "Aye, Captain."

. . .

Sansa ran through camp, flinging herself into Robb's tent.

"Seven hells, Sansa!" Robb said, jumping to his feet. Thankfully, he was alone. "What's wrong? Did someone–"

"Don't let her take me away, you can't!" Sansa said, trying to hide her panic. "Mother's threatening to take me to Riverrun, then the Eyrie, to marry Robin Arryn!"

"Oh," Robb said, sinking back into his chair. "It's only that, then."

"Robb," Sansa hissed. "Lysa Arryn is delusional, she–"

"Sansa, I don't care if she thinks she's a spotted sea monster," Robb replied. "She's offering us men. Good men, better trained than the Tyrells. We have to take it."

"But I've been helpful," Sansa said, coming around the desk to stand at Robb's shoulder. "I know things, you can't just–"

With a tender smile, Robb grasped her hand. "I know, Sansa. You've been more help than I could have ever imagined. I'll be devastated to lose you."

"Robb!" Sansa felt like she was losing her mind. "You can't send me away, I won't go! I told Mother I'd cut off my face and I wasn't lying–"

"What's this?" Margaery said, stepping into the tent. Two servants trailed her, carrying platters of food and she flicked a hand toward the table where they immediately began setting it out. Clearly, she and Robb had been planning on supping together, although it was quite an enormous amount of food for just the two of them. Once again, Margaery was showing off.

Robb walked to her, pressing the back of her hand to his mouth. "Mother has a betrothal for Sansa. It's a good match, with support and troops we need, but Sansa isn't fond of it."

Isn't fond?!

Margaery smiled coyly up at him. "And so soon after I lent you my own troops? Why, a girl could get jealous!"

Robb smiled at her. "Your support means the world, my lady, but knights and pikemen from the Vale are an offer we can't turn aside."

Margaery hummed noncommittally, sauntering away from him. "I don't see why you'd have to, then."

"My lady," Sansa started. "My aunt, she's–"

But away from where Robb could see, Margaery shot Sansa a glare. Sansa stopped, unsure what the other girl was up to.

When Margaery turned back around, a look of earnest confusion adorned her face. "Tell me, that Frey girl you were promised to before. Didn't her father send troops?"

"Well, yes," Robb said, uncomfortable with the topic. "But they've gone home, you needn't worry–"

"But you didn't marry her," Margaery replied. "You were just betrothed."

"Aye, my lady," Robb replied.

Margaery hummed again. "Haven't there been reports that your Aunt Lysa isn't quite… let's see, how can I put this delicately…"

"She isn't well," Robb said. A touch of his old anger lurked behind his words.

Margaery smiled. "Yes, precisely. And she's taken so long to support you, already. I'd think that would require an extra show of dedication before you sent away your favorite sister. Wouldn't you agree?"

Robb laughed. "Favorite? I'll not confess to that, not where Arya could hear me."

"My favorite, then," Margaery said, with a wink over at Sansa.

By the gods, Sansa thought, watching her. Is she actually–

Robb stared down at the map, considering. "Lysa could take Sansa and never send a single knight down to us. Or only summon half her banners, or gather them slowly, or some other show of disloyalty. She hasn't been eager to help so far."

Margaery nodded in sad agreement. "My grandmother always said, 'Watch how someone acts when it doesn't benefit them to know how they'll act when it does.'"

Robb's lips tensed into a line. "A wise woman, your grandmother. I'll see how good Lysa's word is. The moment her troops arrive, Sansa will begin her march to the Vale. Not a moment before."

Sansa dropped bonelessly into Robb's chair. By all the old gods and the new.

Margaery stepped over to Sansa, smoothing a hand across the younger girl's hair. "There now, sweet sister, you've nothing to fear. It will take at least a moon for troops to arrive from the Vale – if they ever do at all."

It took Sansa a moment to work enough water into her mouth to speak. "Grandfather's funeral. Mother still wants me to go."

"What's this?" Margaery said, turning back to Robb.

"My grandfather, Hoster Tully, died," Robb said. "Mother is heading to Riverrun for the funeral with Sansa and Arya."

"Whatever for?" Margaery replied. "We've a war on."

"Yes," Robb said with a weary smile. "But the new Lord Tully is bringing troops. We must make sure not to offend him."

"Your mother and youngest sister should be more than enough, on that score," Margaery said. She trailed her fingers down Robb's face. Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch. "Certainly you can't afford to send one of your advisors away, simply to attend a funeral."

"Mother's one of my advisors too, if you've forgotten," Robb said, catching Margaery's hand in his own.

Margaery smiled playfully up at him. "Of course I haven't. She's the one who got you betrothed to Walder Frey's daughter. It's quite hard for me to forget."

Not 'Roslin Frey,' Sansa noticed, though Margaery certainly knew the girl's name. 'Walder Frey's daughter,' to make her sound as unappealing as possible.

Right on cue, Robb grimaced.

Margaery laughed. "It's no wonder you can spare her. But Sansa? Your spymaster?"

Robb snorted at that. "Sansa overheard gossip in King's Landing. It doesn't make my baby sister into the North's own Spider."

With a sigh, Margaery turned away from him. "I have a confession to make, dearest."

"Oh?" Robb said. He already knew Margaery well enough for only amusement to hide behind his words. "And what might that be?"

Margaery turned back to face him. "That I'm an immensely selfish creature. With your mother and sisters all gone, I'll be entirely alone in this great, awful, manly camp!"

Robb's grin was full of mischief. "Not entirely, no."

With a laugh, Margaery kissed his cheek. "Oh, that's ever so kind of you to offer to help me with my hair! It's so difficult to get the braids in back to lie properly. And I'll need your advice on my embroidery before it becomes irredeemably snarled. And I'll clean lose my mind if I–"

Robb cut her off with a proper kiss. Both of them could barely manage it, they were smiling so hard. Sansa looked away, finding the tent's ceiling oh so interesting.

Eventually, Margaery drew back. "I know it's a favor I'm asking, but–"

Robb laughed. "If you need her, of course she'll stay."

Margaery broke into the broadest, most grateful smile imaginable. Robb could only kiss her again.

When they finally parted, Margaery walked back to Sansa. "Was there anything else you needed?"

Even an idiot could read Margaery's smile. While clearly triumphant, it also proclaimed, You're welcome.

Sansa could drop into a curtsey, showing Margaery the deference she desired. Instead, Sansa hugged Margaery to her. "You're the best older sister I could ever want. I'll be so glad when Robb makes it so I can properly claim you."

Margaery smiled, still pleased, even with the familiarity. "Will I be your favorite, then?"

Sansa grinned back. "Not where Arya can hear me."

Margaery and Robb laughed and Sansa paid her goodbyes, leaving them to their private supper. The moment she was outside Robb's tent, Sansa fought to remember how to breathe.

Gods, she had best hope she never had to compete against Margaery. No matter what the subject, no matter who was present, Sansa knew with a certainty deep in her bones–

She would lose.