AU: Torrhen is the eldest, then Jon, followed by Robb and Sansa and they are twins, then Arya and the youngest is Bran. Also, Rickhorns direwolf went to Torrhen.

Chapter 4

Sansa's sobs were muffled in the dim candlelight of their chambers. She pressed her fists against her eyes, as if doing so could erase the mistakes she had made.

"I'm so stupid!" she cried out, her voice thick with frustration and regret.

"Aye, you are," Robb said, his voice sharper than he intended. He sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "If you hadn't tattled to the queen, we would be safe in Riverrun by now. And Arya wouldn't be lost."

"I know, Robb. I know! I am sorry, alright?" Sansa snapped, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I am just a stupid girl whose thoughts are only filled with foolish things—fairy tales, princes, and knights."

"And those dreams of yours have turned into nightmares," Robb shot back. His voice was less accusing this time, though no less weary. "This place is nothing like the songs, Sansa. There is no honor in King's Landing, no dignity. The people here are as foul as the air they breathe—especially the king."

"Robb, hush," Sansa whispered, glancing fearfully at the heavy wooden door that separated them from the rest of the Red Keep. "The guards might hear you. If they tell the queen, she'll be cruel. She'll punish you."

Robb scoffed, his jaw clenching. "I assure you, Sansa, the queen already knows exactly what I think of her and her son. The guards will not be reporting anything she doesn't already expect."

Silence stretched between them, the weight of their situation pressing heavily on their shoulders.

"What do you think happened to Arya?" Sansa asked after a long pause, her voice small.

Robb exhaled. "I think she's still here in King's Landing. Arya may be small, but she isn't weak. She's probably hiding somewhere, keeping herself safe."

"Shouldn't we look for her?"

"We should," Robb admitted, "but we can't. We're being watched too closely. We may not be in the dungeons, but we are still prisoners."

Sansa bit her lip. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't spoken to the queen, then maybe—"

"It isn't your fault, Sansa," Robb interrupted firmly. He moved closer and took her trembling hands in his. "None of this is our fault. The blame lies solely with the queen and the king. The Lannisters were supposed to be our allies, yet they betrayed us."

Sansa didn't respond. She stared down at their joined hands, her lips quivering.

"Do you understand?" Robb prompted gently.

"Yes, Robb," she whispered, blinking away her tears.

Robb squeezed her hands reassuringly. "These are trying times for our family. We need to be strong. You are not weak, Sansa. You are the daughter of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. The blood of the First Men runs through you. You have the wolf's blood, just like the rest of us."

Sansa sniffled. "Then what should we do?"

"For now, we observe. We listen. Doing anything rash could put Torrhen's campaign in jeopardy. We stay under their thumb, but we keep our ears open and our eyes sharp. We gather information."

Sansa nodded, a determined glint in her eyes. "I can do that. My maids and escorts are always talking. Perhaps they'll say something useful."

Robb smirked. "That's the spirit."

"The guards and trainers, however, don't talk much," she added, furrowing her brow. "All they speak of is their shifts and duties—nothing more."

"Then we wait," Robb said. "Eventually, something useful will slip through."

"I cannot believe that you left that bastard in charge of Winterfell."

Catelyn Stark's voice was sharp as a blade, her disapproval thick in the air. She stood rigid in the dimly lit war tent, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Torrhen met her gaze without flinching, his own stance just as unyielding.

"Be careful, Mother," Torrhen warned, his tone calm but firm. "That bastard you speak of is my brother."

Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. "A bastard is still a bastard," she said coldly. "What were you thinking, Torrhen?"

"I was thinking that Bran is not fit to rule yet," Torrhen replied evenly.

"And the bastard is?" Catelyn cut him off, her voice rising.

"Yes," Torrhen answered without hesitation. "Jon was raised alongside me. He was trained in the ways of lordship under Father's tutelage. He knows what it means to lead."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed. "The one thing you should have learned from history, Torrhen, is that bastards will always seek to overthrow the trueborn sons."

"Southern history is riddled with such betrayals," Torrhen countered, his voice steady. "The Starks do not share that history. If anything, our bastard brothers have been among our most loyal men."

Catelyn's nostrils flared. "Jon Snow is not a Stark. He is a Snow."

Torrhen exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. "He is a Stark in all but name."

Catelyn's expression twisted with frustration. "I don't understand why you always take his side. He is just your bastard-brother. Why do you insist on treating him as your equal?"

"Because it is an unreasonable and unfair request to do otherwise," Torrhen said, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. "What would you have me do, Mother? Have Bran, who is still recovering from his fall, rule Winterfell alone? That would only invite disaster upon our house."

Catelyn straightened her posture. "Then I shall ride for Winterfell myself. I will aid Bran in ruling."

"You will not," Torrhen said firmly, his voice brooking no argument.

Catelyn's eyes widened slightly at his tone, but she said nothing. Torrhen took a steadying breath and looked her in the eye. "I need you to trust me, Mother. We are at war. We are facing a formidable enemy. Father is still imprisoned. Robb, Sansa, and Arya are hostages. We have precious few people we can trust."

He let that sink in before continuing. "Jon may be a bastard in name, but he is our blood. He can be trusted. And right now, we need every Stark, trueborn or not, to stand together."

Catelyn remained silent for a long moment. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the tent, leaving Torrhen alone with his thoughts.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He knew his mother's wounds ran deep, but there was no time for old grudges now. The North needed its strength. The Starks needed unity.

And as long as he drew breath, Torrhen would ensure that unity endured.