Partially inspired by Akatsuki no Yona, this was part of my NaNoWriMo entry for 2018. Shoutout to tumblr's kithlessheir, who has consistently attempted to (and usually succeeded in) dragging my arse to hell since 2014.


When she enters her room, Sansa is panicking – from the Queen's words, from Shae's, from the screaming and queer lights outside. It is the little doll on her dresser that calms her, this last little piece of her father that no one thought to take away.

From behind her, the other side of her door, there is a slurred, "The lady is starting to panic."

She turns sharply, and finds the Hound leaning against her wall. He is bloodstained and battle-weary, and now that she is paying attention she can smell the stink of him, the reek of wine (it is not the sour Dornish that he prefers, but rather the sweeter Reach blend that is favoured at court).

"What are you doing here?" She demands of him, draws herself upright and fixes her posture as best she can. Despite his kindnesses to her, Sansa is still afraid of his angry eyes, of his horrid truths.

"I'm not here for long." He sighs. "I'm going."

Another bolt of terror lances through her – he might be scary, but Joffrey thinks so too, and has heeded the Hound somewhat when the not-a-knight has told him to leave Sansa be. She will not have his protection if he is gone!

"Someplace that isn't burning." Finally he turns his face to look at her. "North, might be. Could be."

Is this a ploy? Is this what – is it as simple as it sounds?

"What about the King?" Are they evacuating? Is she to be paraded in front of the Northern Host, to try and force Robb's hand?

"… He can die just fine on his own," He answers her, taking a swig from a winepouch. "I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell." She is frozen in place, and then he stands, and walks towards her. "I'll keep you safe… Do you want to go home?"

What a stupid question, she thinks. It's all I've wanted since they took my Father's head. She considers saying no.

"I'll be safe here," She parrots. "Stannis won't hurt me." Of course, this is speculation, which is why she does not meet his eyes when she says it. She knows he doesn't abide liars.

He steps forward, and she flinches back, holds a whimper tight between her teeth.

"Look at me!" He demands. "Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers. So you better get used to looking at them."

The knowledge strikes her then, as she stares up in to those hurt grey eyes. She knows that Sandor Clegane will do everything in his power to keep her safe – has already done so as best he could, in this thrice damned viper pit. You won't hurt me, she says, a fact.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you." He turns and walks to her door, but she stops him when she says,

"Let me pack? I'll be quick."

She grabs the cloak he gave her and a pack, some food, a waterskin, an old Northern dress that she can resew, a dagger that Shae had slipped her, a shawl, her needles and thread, some socks and paddings, a pair of gloves and a comb. She digs around to find coin and some of the jewels the Queen had lent her, and places the doll her father had given her on top.

"Will this do?" She asks, pulling on a pair of boots she'd been making for Winter. He has spent the five minutes it took her to pack staring, as though he wasn't sure if he was not dreaming.

"Aye, little bird, it'll do. Let's go."

The walk from her room to the stables is fraught with tension. Sansa is terrified that they will be spotted – by a Rat, by a Bird, by a Lion. Sansa knows that Ser Ilyn has already beheaded people for trying to steal a horse, and she knows that she doesn't have a horse of her own anymore, that desertion is treason and she knows exactly what happens to traitors. She had been calm whilst packing, and doesn't realise the extent of the panic that has besieged her heart, until the Hound has shoved her in to an alcove and grabbed her chin, forcing her face up and to his own.

"Breathe, girl!" He hisses at her. She's gasping, she realises belatedly. The Hound shoves his face down in to her own, so that all she can see is his scars and his hair and his features; all she can smell is wine, sweat, blood and smoke. Cooking meat. "You're rattling like a porcelain set, little bird." He growls at her. "Breathe, calm down. You're a wolf, aren't you? You can be brave enough for this."

"Porcelain?" She whispers, voice cracking down the middle.

"Like the maid's shitscared in front of the Lord," He adds. "A rattling teaset."

She thinks of protective Shae, she thinks of her fierce Mother and of sturdy Winterfell, and she draws in a deep breath.

"No." She answers instead. "My skin was porcelain when I came here, that's true. Joffrey was right, I was just a stupid little girl. But I've changed, and I will keep changing. I have gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. I will be a wolf once again. I'm sorry, I'll be brave. Lead on."

She lifts her head, and holds on to this new phrasing of hers, wraps I am a Stark of Winterfell around her shoulders like a cloak. Por-ce-lain, i-vo-ry, steel, she chants as they go down the stairs. Porcelain, ivory, steel marks each step she takes through the halls. Porcelain, ivory, steel is the tattoo her heart beats to. Another flare of fire through the windows causes her to skitter back a step, makes the Hound suck in a rattling gasp as his own fear seizes him. Winter is coming, she promises. No fires then shall harm you – I won't let them.

They make it to the stables, and the Hound saddles his big black beast whilst Sansa searches for something that will carry her North. She might not be the horsewoman her sister was, but she at least knew what good horseflesh looked like. She found a quiet bay mare to the back of the stables, saddled her and stole a set of saddlebags whilst she was at it, packing her things inside carefully. She grabbed a hoof pick and a hunting bow and quiver on a whim, and made her way back to where Sandor was swearing at his horse.

"Not like that," She told him, stepping in to the stall. Her moves were slow, her voice soft. "What's his name?" She murmured, moving around the stallion, and gently coaxing him in to the last of his tack.

"…Stranger." He grunted, staring. "How'd you do that?"

"I've always been good with animals," She demurred. "Horses and dogs are easy. Cats and people, once you know what they like, can be easy enough too. But birds were always my favourite. That's why I used to like it when she called me little dove. They were pretty, but could be fierce sometimes too. I thought it was perfect, for a lady Stark." She drew in a shaking breath, and whispered, "How will we get past the gates?"

"Gold or violence, whatever works." He said shortly, grabbing Stranger's bridle and leading him out of the stables. She follows him, tucked up against the shoulder of her mare, and chants porcelain, ivory, steel to calm herself. They make it to the King's Gate without incident, although there was a moment in front of one of the taverns where Sansa was certain they would be caught. Nearly all of the guards from the King's Gate had been taken to help with the siege, and so they slip through without any witnesses, and put their heels to the horses' flanks.

Sansa is grateful for the full moon, and the lights of the burning Blackwater. It would be just her luck for the mare to trip on a pothole missed in the darkness.


It is the early hours of the morning when they finally make camp, five hundred metres off of the Kingsroad, and a good distance past Castle Hayford.

"I'm not much help to you, am I?" She whispers to him over the fire, staring at the coals. He had tied up the horses, made the fire, had brought them a ground cover each, provided food. He had gotten them out of Kingslanding. "They were right. I'm just a stupid little girl, with stupid dreams, who never learns."

"Don't say that, little bird."

"You're proving my point. A pretty little songbird in a gilded cage."

"You're a wolf."

"My wolf is dead, Sandor Clegane." He starts, and stares at her in shock. She hasn't ever referred to him by his name before now. "My father is dead, and my baby brothers are dead. My home is burnt to the ground. My sister is missing, and my mother and older brother are at war. I have nothing to my name but – but courtesies! If we find Robb, the only good I'll be to him will be as a bargaining chip. I'll be right back where I started."

"So what are you going to do?"

That pulls her up short – it is a good, logical sort of question, like the ones Maester Luwin would ask her to help figure out some of her more difficult housing sums. Sansa still thinks of home, still holds the fortifications of Winterfell around her heart. In her dreams she sees her siblings, remembers them in those last few perfect weeks before everything went wrong. Remembers her missing little sister, who could outshoot all of their brothers. Remembers the times Arya would go skip the sewing circle, and would instead practice with a stolen bow, or climb walls and fences until she found whatever it was she was after.

"Can you teach me to use a bow?" She askes him, voice even quieter. "I stole one from the stables."

"Little bird – "

"Yes or no? Will you or won't you?"

"And what's in it for me if I do?"

"I'll be able to watch your back in fights! And you won't be worried about me, because I'll be away from everything!"

"And what will your mother say when I return you with callouses on those pretty little fingers, and a weapon in those tiny hands?"

Sansa actually laughed then, a real one. "I imagine she'll be shocked, and think that I've swapped out with Arya!"

Sandor watched her, quiet, for quite some time. Sansa watched him back, and remained patient.

"Fine. I'll teach you the fucking bow. But don't come crying to me if you get in trouble for it! Now go the fuck to sleep!"

With a snarl, he picked up his cloak and flopped down on his bedroll. Sansa smiled at him, a tiny little thing, and curled up on her own roll against the mare. Within only a few moments he is snoring, as she stares up at the grey dawn lights filtering through the trees. She knows that she should sleep, she's exhausted. But Sansa somehow just can't let go enough to even doze. All she can see in her head is the faces of her family, hear the words she has tattooed on her own heart – porcelain, ivory, steel; Winter is coming.

Father, his head removed on Joffrey's orders, his trust in her (her trust in Joffrey and the Queen) so misguided. Mother, kissing her goodbye when she left for Kingslanding. Robb, waving their cart off, a summer fall riddling his curls with snow, and Grey Wind at his hip. Arya, swearing at her over breakfast when Septa wasn't looking, that last day they were all together – both girls lost and without their wolves, her Lady dead, and Arya's Nymeria run away. Bran, dear sweet Bran, who had still been sleeping when they left, only to awaken to legs that would never climb again. Baby Rickon and wild Shaggydog had tried to run behind them, had not understood that they would never return. And their half-brother, Jon Snow, and that white runt Ghost – Gods, she had been terrible to him in their childhood. What must it be like for him now, up on the Wall? Was he warm? Was he healthy? Had he made any friends?

Her thoughts slowly changed, from worrying over missing Arya and frozen Jon, to picturing that wasteland beyond the Wall. Would there be snow? She feels like there must be a lot. She… she thinks that there must be a great deal of trees, big trees like there had been in the Wolfswood at Winterfell.

Would there be wind? Yes, surely there must! Great, blustering gusts of wind, that would whip her hair around her face. And what of Jon? She could see those darks curls of his now, churned by the wind, full of snowflakes as Robb's had been, could see him in his Night's Watch uniform, his dark cloak all tousled too. Could see him surrounded by Wildlings, their cloaks and clothes made entirely of skins and furs. Could see a woman with hair as bright as Sansa's own, taunting him, calling him Crow. Could see him being dragged along through a village (was it her village? A part of her believed so, but not the part of her that was Sansa Stark), could see him being pushed in to a larger tent. The part of her that was Sansa wanted to listen, and as best she could she tried, although she didn't understand a great deal. The other part of her, the part that was Oi Dog, wanted to find somewhere warmer, wanted to find food, wanted to play with the children that were hers to defend. There were three of them, all with dark hair and light eyes, two boys and a little girl. The girl was called Aya, and the name was so close to Arya, the face as long and the hair as dark, as Sansa's own sister.

With a pang in her heart, Sansa let go of the part of her that was Oi Dog, and thought instead of Arya Stark.

Where could she be now?


It feels as though she's only just shut her eyes when the Hound is shaking her awake. He has already readied both horses, and hidden the coals of the fire. Sansa feels terrible that she hadn't been able to help, again, and resolves to get him to teach her when next they make camp.

"Up you get, Little Bird," He says softly. "Time to go."

She scrambles to her feet. "Wait! Before we go, please show me how to draw the bow. That way I can practice in the saddle."

The soft look is now appraising. "Where is it?"

She digs in her saddlebags, and pulls the bow out self-consciously.

"This isn't very powerful," He starts. "See how small it is? This is a self bow, probably belongs to one of the stablehands, someone short. These are supposed to be the same size as the archer, to get any sort of power behind it. It won't have a strong draw, since it's so much small than you, but that just means that you can build up your muscles for a greater bow. Doesn't matter what sort of bow you've got, though, you shouldn't leave any of them strung like this for too long, it fucks them up. See the string down here? You can pull it off, like this, to unstring the bow. When you want to string it though, put the strung end down your instep, like this. Pull this loose end of the string up and over, like this, into the knotch. Show me?"

He hands her back the bow, and Sansa takes three deep, steady breaths. She replays his motions over and over in her head, and then bends to perform the task herself. It is a struggle, even with such a weak bow, but she eventually gets the string on correctly. Sansa holds it up to show the Hound, before unstringing and the restringing the bow again, just to be sure. He nods approvingly, then gestures for her to return the bow.

"When you go to take a shot, you grab an arrow – you've got an arrow, don't ya?"

Sansa gives him a withering look. "I grabbed a quiver, too!" She pulls it out of the saddlebag, and grabs an arrow, which she hands to the Hound with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

He has a nasty smirk on his face when he says so you do have teeth. Before she can do anything more than blush terribly, he sobers a little and shows her how to knock the arrow on the bow, and how to draw it back, all the way to her cheek. When he passes her the bow and arrow, he doesn't let go of either immediately.

"We'll practice shooting tonight, alright? Not on the road, I'm not stopping every five metres so you can fetch a fucking arrow, and I don't want you firing behind my back just yet, anyway. Understand?"

Sansa nods seriously, finally takes the bow and arrow, and demonstrates the drawing motion. The muscles in her upper arms protest, as do the ones between her shoulder blades.

"That's it, little bird," the Hound says. "You can feel it, can't you? Here," he taps between her shoulder blades. "here is where you use all of your muscles. Are you ready now?"

"Yes. Let's go."

She packs the quiver back into the pack, swings herself up on to the mare and unstrings the bow. The Hound sets them off at a quick trot that is fast enough to cover ground, but not so fast as to wear the horses out unnecessarily. Sansa gives it a few minutes to familiarise herself with the motion of her mare, and to study the saddle layout. She eventually decides that the same principal applies whether she sits or stands, and so begins to string the bow. She unstrings and restrings it a few times, just to get the feel of how her mare's gait and the act of working the bow go together. Once she is comfortable with drawing, she starts a phantom motion, pretending that she has an arrow in her hand and adding that aspect to her routine, and decides to leave practicing with the actual arrow until after lunch.

Hours pass in mostly comfortable silence; string, draw, sight, ease the pressure off of the bow, unstring, repeat. Occasionally the Hound will make a comment about her technique: lift your elbow; all the way to your cheek, girl; try drawing as you're lifting to sight, to save time. They stop for lunch a little less than halfway between Hayford Castle and the town of Brindlewood, and Sansa stretches out her arms, rotates her shoulders, shakes out her fingers and walks around in tight circles. She loosens the saddle for her mare, and ties her beneath a tree in easy distance of some sweet summer grass.

"You're a lot more dedicated than I thought you would be." The Hound says around a mouthful of bread once she sits down beside him.

"Dedication is the trick to mastery," She smiles down at her own bread and cheese. "My mother told me that when I was small – that's why I'm so good at my stitches. I knew that a Lady was supposed to be good at it, so I practiced and practiced until my stitches matched the samplers my Septa showed me. I watched my brothers practicing with their swords with our Master at Arms, so I knew that they drilled each movement until they knew it in their sleep, and then did the same with my stitches. The bow is just another skill, so I thought that the same lessons would apply."

She looks up at him then, and her smile drops. He doesn't – he looks – he looks like someone has just bludgeoned him over the head. "What – ?" she begins hesitatingly.

"Never let anyone call you stupid again, girl." He says gruffly. Hauling himself to his feet, the Hound stalks off in to the neighbouring trees. "Don't look, I'm gonna p – make water."

Blushing scarlet, Sansa looks back down at her lunch, a small smile twitching the corners of her mouth and humming to herself so she won't hear anything. She had shocked him with her dedication, and what he had said – there was a warm worm Sansa's tummy, the likes of which she had almost forgotten the feeling of, after a year and a half of Joffrey. It was pride. She had impressed the Hound!

Feeling giddy, Sansa got up again and began to move in another circle, humming softly and dancing the tune. Old Northern reels, Robb's favourite for their speed and simplicity, had an easy enough song to sing, and an easy enough dance to match. Kicking, twisting and twirling, Sansa moved her arms and legs enough that she hoped desperately that she would not be too stiff when they next made camp.

"The hell are you doing?"

Sansa froze with one hand in the air and the other holding out her skirt, one leg flung out to the side and the other planted firmly on her heel, ready for the next spin. Swallowing with difficulty, Sansa drew herself back up in to the straight-backed posture of Kings Landing. "Sorry, I was just – it was just dancing, to loosen everything for the ride, and – "

"Was it a Northern dance?" Sansa's hesitation is all the answer he needs. "Homesick, girl?"

Still worrying over what he might say, Sansa snaps a quick, I need to go too, and runs off in to the bushes herself. She needs to change her padding, but isn't really sure how to clean the cloth when they aren't near any extra water. In the end she buries the cloth, and hopes that she might be able to stock up on more later. How long is this supposed to last again? The Queen didn't exactly give her a lot of information about her moontime – Shae was far more helpful, getting her cloths and showing her how to get the blood out of the sheets. She had said that this varied from woman to woman, which wasn't any help at all, but had added that the moontime was usually between three and seven days, and that if she paid attention to the moon cycle, it would warn her when her next blood would come.

Sansa misses Shae already, and it hasn't even been a full day yet.


They stop just outside of Brindlewood two hours after nightfall, hidden at the bottom of a gully amongst some heather. Sansa has been practicing with the bow all afternoon, but had decided to stop once the sun had set, and had gone to stretching for perhaps ten minutes after that. After rubbing down her mare, a quick dinner and another trip in to the bushes to make water and change her cloth once again, Sansa asks the Hound to show her exactly how to aim and fire her bow.

She doesn't hit anything she aims for, and the string of the bow slaps against the flesh of her lower arm with every release. It is only thanks to Joffrey's tortures that keep her from flinching from the pain.

She decides to take this as encouragement – she can draw quickly, automatically, so now she knows what to concentrate on tomorrow. She is almost grateful to her court torments, for now Sansa pays no mind to any of her aches or pains. She dedicates another half-hour to practicing with real arrows and collecting her missed shots, and then pulls her cloak back on and rolls out the bedding the Hound had brought for her.

Sleep does not come to her tonight any easier than it had that morning, her family's faces swimming behind her eyelids.

Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Jon.

She knows that Mother is with Robb, and she misses them both terribly. What would they think of her taking up the bow? Mother, of course, would just be happy to have Sansa back, and Robb would no doubt laugh himself sick to see how unladylike she had become. But would learning the bow be enough to let her keep her freedom? No, not likely. Even the Mormont women were not spared marriages, for all their battle-ready ways.

(they were spared such things because it was said that they were wargs who used bears to father their children. no one dared say anything to the contrary to the Lady Maege or her five daughters.)

Robb was a King now, so Sansa turned over in her mind the positions that a King needed filled, concentrating on the Small Council in particular to see if there weren't a role that she could fill. Hand of the King, Master of Coin, Master of Laws, Master of Ships, Grandmaester, Master of Whispers, Commander of the City Watch and, traditionally, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Sansa was only just starting out on the bow, so there was no chance of her joining the Kingsguard – if Robb even had one, outside of Grey Wind! – or any City Watch. She knew nothing of Ships, so that was out too. Whilst she was a well-read lady, Master of Laws wasn't exactly a position she could see herself filling – who would take notice of a girl, nearly five-and-ten, when it came to exacting Laws? Who was the correct heir, how much coin was owed for which discretion – no, that was more up Jon's or Arya's skillset, than Sansa's. The same must be said for Master of Coin – Sansa had no true head for numbers, and had to fight for understanding every lesson. As a girl, she could never take the role of Grandmaester, and so that left her with Master of Whispers.

Her mind turned over what she knew of the position, and of Lord Varys the Spider.

(she pretends this is one of Luwin's puzzles, one of Septa Mordane's quizzes)

Lord Varys gathered Whispers, gathered intelligence. He knew who was doing what (or whom, a dirty little voice that sounded suspiciously like Shae, drawled) just about everywhere in Westeros, and in most places in Essos. He knew names and numbers, faces and every sordid detail. He passed on information to the crown, or to other interested parties, to allow enemies of the Crown to fight amongst themselves over a dispute that might have initially set them against the King. He had a legion of people from all walks of life, who told him whatever they heard, and their thoughts on the matter. He knew what was happening, often before it even happened.

Could I do that?

But how? How could Sansa Stark even start a network, let alone gather information, whilst on the run?!

The Starks of Old were wargs, you know, Old Nan's voice drifted to her from the depths of her memories – the end of her first Winter, when Mother was pregnant with Arya and the little hellion had yet to arrive. Old Nan had told scary stories to Sansa, Robb and Jon, until all three were huddled together and shaking with fright. They could slip beneath the skin of their direwolves. Beyond the Wall, it is said that the Wildlings can slip in to the skin of all sorts of creatures – dogs and wolves, cats and foxes, crows and eagles and all sorts of birds besides.

Crows. Ravens! If the Starks of old were wargs, as the Mormont woman were still said to be, was there any chance that Sansa might be one too? And if so, could she call ravens to her? If she could read ravenscrolls, then she would know what the nobles, at least, were up to. Would that be enough? Could she win her freedom this way? Yes. Sansa was confident that she could. And if the Mormont women could warg bears to become their husbands, then surely Sansa could do the same to start off her own information network!

The important question, though, was how. How did one become a warg? How did one call down a raven? Well, it was said that Bael the Bard could sing the birds out of the trees. That would be a start.

Carefully, quietly, she sits up and creeps away from their camp. The Hound started snoring almost as soon as he was horizontal, but Sansa doesn't know how light of a sleeper he is. He always mocked her for her singing, before – it's part of why he calls her Little Bird, she thinks – so she doesn't want him to hear her. She doesn't go very far from their camp, just enough that if she sings quietly, he shouldn't wake.

But what song to sing? There were many that she once knew by rote, but she has since locked them all away in a corner in the back of her mind. Did she ever know any about… yes, she thinks that she has it. Gathering her thoughts, making sure she remembers both lyrics and tune, Sansa begins to sing.

There were three ravens, sat on a tree,

Down a down, hay down, hay down,

There were three ravens sat on tree,

with a down,

There were three ravens sat on a tree,

They were as black as they might be,

With a down, derrie, derrie, derrie, down, down.

The one of them said to his mate,

Where shall we our breakfast take?

Down in yonder green field,

There lies a Knight slain under his shield,

His hound they lie down at his feet,

So well they can their master keep.

His hawkes they fly so eagerly,

There's no fowl dare him come nie,

Down there comes a fallow Doe,

As great with young as she might goe,

She lift up his bloody head,

And kissed his wounds that were so red

She got him up upon her back,

And carried him to earthern lake,

She buried him before the prime,

She was dead herself 'ere even-song time.

God send every gentleman,

Such hawkes, such hounds,, and such leman.

There were three ravens, sat on a tree,

Down a down, hay down, hay down,

There were three ravens sat on tree,

with a down,

There were three ravens sat on a tree,

They were as black as they might be,

With a down, derrie, derrie, derrie, down, down.

The song was old even in Westerosi, older still in the First Tongue, and Sansa had never liked it as a child. But it had a haunting melody, and she had found that if she sung it just so, she would catch the attention of everyone in the room, could raise goosebumps on the men and cause tears in the women. As she sung it now, she concentrated on that particular melody, thought only on ravens and the song itself. She kept her eyes closed, the better to concentrate, and by the end of the song had actually forgotten that she was supposed to be quiet.

(she hoped the Hound was a heavy sleeper)

But on that last, warbling note, she heard a rustling above her head, and spotted three castle-bred ravens staring down at her with those horrible, beady eyes. She had done it!

Three caws greeted her once the song was finished. Barely breathing in an attempt not to scare them away, Sansa studied the scrolls carefully, grateful of the still mostly-full moon's light. One had the Lamb and Chalice of House Stokeworth, the second the Twin Towers of House Frey, and the third was the Lion of House Lannister. Drawing in a ragged breath, Sansa reached first for the Frey scroll of the middle raven, and very carefully popped the seal.

(Maester Luwin had shown her and Arya this trick. not all Maesters could be trusted, he said, and sometimes not all husbands were as kind or respectful as their Father. Sansa was grateful for his lessons now.)

My beloved brother,

The family of my husband had turned against you for the favour of the Young Wolf. He has now spurned my goodfather, and brought shame to House Frey. Send a rider to Lord Walder to better discuss the issues of their alliance.

All my love,

Genna Lannister

Sansa shivered. Lord Tywin's sister had married Lord Walder's second son, and the pair lived still at Casterly Rock in the Westerlands. This was… this was terrible. This was treason against Robb Stark – by law the King of Lord Emmon Frey, and by extent his wife – and it was treason against their leigelord Hoster Tully. If this wasn't handled very carefully, this could be the end of her brother, of their House. And, this was hardly the sort of thing that Sansa could convince Robb of without any proof! If she kept the note, then she would have the proof that she would need to protect her brother, but she would also prove to the Freys that they should only rely on riders instead of ravens. Oh, if only she had any skill in forgery! If she could only take a copy of the message for Robb, and send a copy on to the capital, then certainly she could keep her freedom and her brother's life!

With a shaking hand, Sansa takes the missive from the Stokeworths (asking after their Lady, who Sansa knows to have broken her hip when she tried to flee Maegor's Holdfast after Cersei had run. It is unlikely that Lady Tanda will survive such an injury, which means that either her first daughter, Lady Falyse, or else her second daughter, Lady Lollys, would inherit. The first is barren and the second simple and with a rape-born bastard – like as not the castle wishes to keep Lady Tanda with them for another while longer, yet.), and then the dispatch from the Lannisters (Lord Tywin writing to say that he sends his infantry back to Kings Landing for help in the Battle – an old letter? Either a misdirected letter or else a very lost raven.)

The Lannister letter keeps her eye, however. She's not sure what it is yet, but she knows that there is something familiar in the letter. What was different about it from the others? Not the quality of the parchment, though there were less grubby fingerprints over it compared to the terrible Frey letter. Was it how it was tied to the raven? Yes, that was it! The first two had been tied by someone right-handed, and the Lannister letter was tied by someone left-handed – the knot was the same as the one Arya, of all of them, had used to tie. But, it was more than that. Sansa decided to let the matter stew in the back of her head for a while; it would come to her.

Offering her arms, Sansa allowed the birds to settle, one to each shoulder and the last on her head. Quickly as she could without dislodging the birds, Sansa returned to their campfire, and placed the birds on lowhanging branches. Turning back to the second letter, Sansa carefully refolded the parchment, and used the embers on the end of one of the sticks to melt the wax just enough to reattach it properly. Replacing Castle Stokeworth's letter, Sansa thanked the bird quietly, and gave it a tentative smile. Facing the Lannister bird, Sansa chewed on her lip as her mother and sister were wont to. Deciding that no one would miss such a late bird anyway, she used some cooled charcoal to quickly scribe a letter for Robb.

Grey Wind,

Lady ran away. Have not seen Nymeria since the alpha's slaughter. Beware the Rat King you spurned.

All my love and prayers,

Winter is Coming.

The code is a simple one, but hopefully her brother would understand it! He had the Kingslayer, so she prayed that neither he nor mother had tried to ransom the knight for either Arya or herself. Using that ember from before, Sansa reattached the wax of House Lannister, and fiddled with it until it looked less like lion, and more like a rearing, dancing direwolf, and strokes the head of the third bird.

"In the morning, would you take this to Riverrun?" Sansa whispers to the creature, picturing in her head all the tales her mother had told of her own childhood home. It bobs its head a few times and gives a soft croak, which Sansa hopes means the same in raven as it does in human. "Thank you."

Finally, she looks to that first letter. She takes a few moments to draw in deep, even breaths, and whispers to herself what strength she can (Winter is coming; porcelain, ivory, steel; in winter, we must protect ourselves – look after one another; the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives).

She has always prided herself on her pretty handwriting. Septa and Mother both used to coo over it, but Arya had always glowered – Septa used to rap Arya's knuckles for her chicken-scratch handwriting . Sansa's handwriting is the same as her sewing, as her archery, a constant state of practice practice practice. Her handwriting had once been as terrible as Arya's, but she had kept at it and at it and at it until her handwriting had matched what she could see in the books. So maybe, if she employs that same tactic here, she can copy – can forge – the writing of House Frey, and take it to Robb. Sansa breathes deeply, carefully, for a few minutes longer, draws herself up with the iron wrath of her mother and the strength of Winterfell's walls, and starts to dig through her saddlebags for a bit of parchment. Hopefully, hopefully, she had packed – yes! And it was almost the same quality of the Frey letter, too! But had she packed an inkwell? No, but she did have charcoal and water, wouldn't that do?

The next hour is spent grinding and mixing until she has the right consistency to match the Frey's ink, and then practicing until she can write the horrible letter out perfectly, down to each bloody ink splatter. She's lucky that she had a loose quill in her bag before she packed the other night, else she might have had to beg a feather off of one of the ravens. Once she is happy with her attempts at forgery, Sansa seals up the missive too, and keeps the original message to show to Robb and his host. With her task finally finished, Sansa thanks the birds and slip down on her bedding, tugging the cloak around her as she does so.

It isn't until the next morning that she realises that the snoring had stopped when she was singing.


The muscles of Sansa's arms and shoulders are killing her, and her thighs are just as painful. When she tries to get up at sunrise, all she can do is hiss her breath in through her teeth, and try to stretch out the cramps in her muscles. Her smallclothes feel wet and uncomfortable, so she tries to right herself as quickly as she can to change her padding once again. She is not looking forward to today, and if she never has to ride on her moonblood again, it will be far too soon. The only good thing so far is that the ravens have left.

The Hound is awake and watching her, when she returns. This is when she realises that he was snoring when she went to take care of herself, and when she first went to try and call down ravens, but was not snoring when she was reading the correspondence and beginning her new career as Robb's Master (Mistress?) of Whispers.

"What happened last night, Little Bird?" He asks her, voice soft and perhaps even more terrifying for it.

"I want to make myself useful," She whispers. She begins by looking at her feet, but realises that, if she makes it back to Robb, she'll have to look great Lords in the eye, from friendly Lord Manderly to scary Lord Bolton; so, she looks him in the eye, instead. "Robb is a king. Kings have Small Councils, and so I went through all of the traditional positions on the Council to try and figure out what I could do. And then I remembered the Old Stark stories, and I thought – maybe I could be Robb's Master of Whispers. So I called ravens to me, and read their messages, and copied down what I could so that I can prove what I know to him."

The Hound stares at her for a while longer.

"Could – could you teach me how to break camp, please? I want to be more helpful."

"Bird, you were practicing the bow all yesterday, and you were up late last night with your singing. It's fine."

"No," Sansa says firmly. "We are at war, and I cannot afford to show any weakness. If there is one thing I know I can do, it is act fine whilst in pain. Please, Sandor Clegane. I need to know."

He stares at her for another long, drawn out moment (Nan was right, names do have power!), and then nods once, and begins the slow process of How To Break Camp. He walks her through how to douse the fire and hide the evidence of it, how to spread debris across their campsite to mask their tracks, and how to bury the horses' mess and disguise their passage. They have cheese and apples for breakfast in the saddle, and once she has finished, Sansa returns to her archery practice. This time her routine is string, draw, aim, ease tension, unstring, repeat. At lunch they make the Ivy Inn, but neither Sansa nor the Hound are willing to be spotted so early in their travels; their lunch is eaten in the surrounding woods. Sansa shakes out her limbs, relieves herself and changes her padding once again, and then practices actually shooting five of her arrows – just enough to get the general feel of everything, without having to spend too long looking for her missed shots. She has a bit more of an idea as to how much draw is required for particular distances, and managed to get one in five shots to land on her tree targets.

She's feeling a good deal lighter, as they make their way along the Kingsroad, so she is humming to herself as she practices. The Hound thinks that they should hit the next village by nightfall – and of course by that, he means they should be able to camp in the area around the village. This time they will not have a fire, but the nights are still warm yet, by Northern reckoning, so Sansa doesn't mind too much. It is just the cricks in her back that she resents.

"Bugger it all, Bird, what are you humming that song for? I thought you liked them bright and happy!" The Hound exclaims. They still have a few hours of travelling time to go, and Sansa is jolted out of her rhythm by the noise.

"I – what?" She hadn't even noticed what she was humming, if she is honest. The Three Ravens had never been a favourite of hers anyway. "Sorry, I'll try to think of something else."

He goes to snap something at her, but they both freeze when a black feather floats between their horses. It is soon followed by two ravens, who land on Sansa's mare and caw at her in greeting.

"What witchery is this?" The Hound whispers, pale under his scars.

Sansa swallows hard, and whispers back, "Warg. It's called warging. The Starks of Old could do it and, it looks like I can too." Pulling her mare off to the side of the road and tying the dear up, Sansa offered each arm to the ravens. One is another Lannister message from Harrenhall, and the other is a mockingbird, of all things. Sansa is sure that she has seen that sigil around the castle somewhere – but where? Taking a shuddering breath, Sansa reaches for the Lannister letter first. Using Maester Luwin's trick, she peels back the wax, and lets out a cry.

"What is it?" The Hound is behind her, Stranger tied up on a separate tree to the mare. He takes the parchment from her, and scans the letter quickly, taking in the infantry report from Lord Tywin.

"This information is old," He murmurs reassuringly. "Your brother is fine, they won this battle."

"This is not Lord Tywin's handwriting, is it?" Sansa askes him.

"No, Bird – must be a scribe."

She took the letter back carefully, and points at the writing. "See how the letters slant to the left? And the ink splatter, see how it's more smudged on the lower ends of the letters? This was written by someone left-handed. And when it was tied to the raven, it had been tied by a lefthanded person as well – so was the old note from last night."

"And?" The Hound growled, confused.

"But the knots on these two notes, and this handwriting – this is Arya's. This is my sister's handwriting! She's been missing since our household were executed, but how on earth did she end up at Harrenhal? Even for Arya, that is …"

"Lots of lefthanded people out there, Bird," He said softly. "If Tywin had her, Joffrey and Cersei would have made sure you knew it."

"Not if they didn't know it was her!" Sansa exclaimed. "Tywin has never met my sister, and only knew our father in passing – he might not have recognised her! And no one ever picks Arya as a lady, anyway – you saw what she was like, when we came down from Winterfell! And this explains why these messages are late – Arya would do everything in her power to help Robb without selling herself out too."

"Alright, say that your sister wrote this," He said patiently. "What are we going to do? Storm the castle?"

Sansa's joy evaporated at that. It was a good question, unfortunately, and one that she didn't have an answer to.

Folding up the first note, Sansa tucked it in to her saddlebags (no need for the Crown to have any information on the Northern Host, no matter if it is out of date or not.) and reached for the second letter. "Who has a mockingbird as their crest?" She asks numbly, carefully popping the wax.

"Littlefinger," It is not a human noise that Clegane makes here – it is truly a Hound's growl of hatred. "Slimey, slippery cunt. What does he say?"

"He's to marry my Aunt Lysa! But this letter … it is very informal. Did they know each other well?"

"Oh, aye. He was fostered at Riverrun, grew up with your mother and her brother and sister. Court gossip has it that he took your mother's maidenhead."

Sansa's head jerked up then, face blushing. "He did not! How did that even come up?!"

"You know what the Capitol is like," Clegane shrugs, then scoffs. "What, did you think your parents were both pure for each other when they were first wed?"

"Mother was intended for Father's older brother, my uncle Brandon, and Father was a second son," Sansa says with careful emphasis. "And I am not talking about my mother's maidenhead with you!"

He barks out a laugh, and then makes a motion for Sansa to show him this letter, too.

Dearest Lysa,

I write with good tidings! I have been awarded Harrenhal for my services to the Crown – Lord Tywin himself has arranged for a marriage between us. I sail for the Eyrie within only a few short weeks. Patience, my dear, and we shall have everything we desire.

Petyr

He hums, and asks her, "Do you know what this means?"

"Aunt Lysa hasn't declared for any King yet," Sansa answers promptly. "The Vale is the only neutral Kingdoms right now. Lord Baelish is loyal to the Lannisters, so by having her married to him, it will bring the Vale under the Lannister banner." She gnaws on a thumbnail, thinking. "What do you know about him? Lord Baelish?"

"He runs the best-off brothel in Kings Landing," He says promptly, causing her to blush brighter than her hair. "He gives the Spider a run for his money, when it comes to spies. Littlefinger has his fingers in lots of pies, girl. He was Master of Coin, but if he's about to become the Lord Protector of the Vale, then I suppose some other poor cunt will have to fill that position." He stares at her levelly, and quietly finishes. "He's the reason your father is dead, and not at the Wall."

Sansa feels the blood drain from her face, her hands drop to her side.

"… What? But – Joffrey, he – !" She feels… hollow.

"The Queen and the Spider were going to send him to the Wall. Your father had found out that Cersei's children were by her brother, so she wanted him far enough away that he couldn't tell anybody about it. They knew that if they killed Ned Stark, the North would rebel. Joffrey was fine with the idea, up until the night before that farce of a trial. The only person who talked with Joff that night was Littlefinger. When your father tried to have Joff and the Queen removed, Baelish had ordered the Gold Cloaks to side with the Crown, and held a blade to old Ned's throat himself."

Sansa can hear her blood roaring in her eyes, can feel her heart pounding in her chest.

"Of course," she murmured. "Joffrey was not clever enough to come up with such a thing on his own." Sansa folds the note back up again carefully, and looks at the two ravens. "Will you stay with us?" She asks politely, thinking very hard on what she meant in, hopefully, bird-friendly terms. "Rest with us awhile, and then you are welcome to fly on to your destination."

Both birds caw and nod at her, so Sansa takes that as a win. Swallowing, she turns back to Clegane to let him know she'll be a moment, and ducks off in to the bushes to change her padding again whilst she has the opportunity to. Her hands shake the whole time, and there is still a thin tremor in her clenched fingers when she returns, unties the mare, and hauls herself back up in to the saddle. She unstrings her bow, guides her horse back to the road, and kicks the mare's withers sharply, wheeling the creature North again. Both ravens sound a series of caws, like the laughter of the dying, and wheel overhead.

"Little Bird!" Clegane shouts from behind her. "Wait!"

When they were younger, Arya had always loved riding. She had loved the freedom of it, the wind blowing so hard in their ears that Arya couldn't hear if she was being scolded by their parents, or whomever was supervising the lesson. Sansa had never loved riding as her sister did, had known that a lady wasn't supposed to enjoy such things, but that a Northerner must be able to sit her mount. She had suffered through their lessons, and claimed to loathe every one.

Years later, Sansa now feels so much closer to her sister than she ever had before. All she could see in front of her crouched form was her horse's mane, and all she could hear was the wind. All she could feel was the chill of winter approaching.

For a while, she gave the mare her head and just breathed, not thinking, and trying to understand even a fragment of what she was feeling. By the time the mare had calmed back down to canter, Sansa had decided to let herself think on how to handle this new information.

Firstly, Arya. Most likely her sister was at, or around, Harrenhall. So what was Sansa going to do about that? She could send the raven straight to her sister. Something simple, like she had sent Robb, only this time she and the Hound could wait in the woods around Harrenhall for Arya to come to them. Then the two of them could go to Robb and Mother together!

Okay. That was one problem solved. Problem two.

Petyr Baelish had betrayed her father. He was going to marry her aunt, and send the Vale's forces against Robb, against Lysa's own sister and nephew. (addendum – he had also spread terrible lies about Catelyn Stark at court.)

He was going to pay for his crimes, and Sansa wanted him to know that she, Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, was responsible. So. How to achieve this? Baelish said that he was traveling by ship in a few weeks. If Sansa remembered her geography correctly, then she knew that the only way to approach the Eyrie was through the Bloody Gate, and the only way to that (for those unskilled in crossing the Vale ranges) was the High Road. The quickest way for someone taking a ship to get on to the High Road was by either docking at the Saltpans, or at the Rubyford, and the Saltpans were closer.

If she became a good enough shot, could she and the Hound make off with Baelish, and present him to Robb? But, how would they get him from the river to Robb's camp? Where even was his camp? She'd ask Clegane, and see if he didn't have an idea.

With that, Sansa gently eased her mare down to a trot, and looked over to Stranger and Clegane.

"I'm sorry," She said. "I shouldn't have let my temper get me like that. I'll try not to let it happen again."

"S'fine, Little Bird." The man grumbled. "Just let me know before you do something like that next time, ok?"

She nods contritely, and they ride on another league in silence.


Nymeria,

We're two days fromf Harrenhal. We'll take you to Grey Wind with us.

All my love,

Lady

The raven had showed up just as Arya, Gendry and Hot Pie had decided to make camp, with a note written in a familiar pretty scrawl on the back of the original letter Arya had scribed for Lord Tywin.

"What's it say?" Hot Pie whispered, breaking their silence. Arya realised she was shaking, so sat down on a root, heavily.

"My sister is two days out of Harrenhal. She wants to take me to Robb." She draws in a ragged breath, and whispers, "But it has to be a trap. My sister was a prisoner of the Lannisters, and too stupid to get herself out of Kings Landing."

"What are you going to do?" Gendry asked, watching her face.

Arya worried at her bottom lip. "I don't know. Just keep the letter and ignore it?"

"But what if it is your sister?" Hot Pie asks. "Don't you want to see her? You told Jaqen you couldn't go with him because you had to find her, right?"

Arya glared at him. "I know what I said! But I don't want to just hand us over to the Lannisters, either – we still don't know why they wanted Gendry."

"Send something back." Gendry offered. "Get her to prove that it isn't a trap."

Arya nods slowly, churning ideas over in her head. How was she going to pull this off?

"I don't have anything to write with."

"Use a bit of charcoal from the fire," Hot Pie said. "Will that work?"

"Yeah… yeah, thanks Hot Pie. Alright, I know what to write!"


Lady,

Prove it.

Nymeria

The bird Sansa had sent to Arya was back already, and she'd only let it go yesterday. It was such an Arya letter too – terrible handwriting, straight to the point, and completely suspicious. It was written with charcoal, so quite likely Arya had managed to escape Harrenhal. Sansa was unbelievably glad of that, as one of the ravens she'd received after sending away Arya's bird had been a letter from a Lannister guard, letting Lord Tywin know that everyone at Harrenhal had been executed, as per instructions. Sansa had collapsed when she'd read that note, choking on a cry that she refused to release. Clegane had picked her up and placed her on her bedroll by the fire, and tried to coax her in to trying a bit of bread, without any luck. The return of the bird had been the return of Sansa's hope.

"She's alive," She calls to Sandor hoarsely. "Arya, she wrote me back!"

Quickly Sansa pulled out her new raven-feather quill and began the long process of making ink out of ground charcoal.

Nymeria,

Don't you dare die on me, sister, we are going home. Winter is coming. When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the Pack survives. We will get back to Grey Wind, and avenge Alpha, Shaggy and Summer, too.

Lady

It was only lunch time, so Sansa looked to the bird and asked, "Please, would you find her for me again?" She received an almost put-upon caw in return, and then the bird took flight.

"I'm glad for you, Little Bird," Sandor Clegane says softly. "Now, please eat something."

Sansa smiles at him brightly, and hooks straight in to the last of their bread and cheese. They'll need to stop at a village or holdfast soon, or else they will need to hunt. Sansa tries to shoot at least two hundred arrows every day, has worked through tight, straining muscles to improve her draw speed, and yet still does not believe that she could catch a single rabbit. She has yet to say as such to Clegane, mostly because she doesn't want to hear his spiel about monsters and killers again. Her fears are not because of the grief of taking a life – she is hungry, Clegane is hungry, and it is within her power to fix that, so she will. It is rather because she fears that a rabbit is yet too fast and small for her steadily growing accuracy.

But that is a worry for later. Right now, she is going to eat her lunch, fire twenty arrows, and then attend to the half-dozen birds that have been waiting for her to pay attention to them.

There are two letters trying to arrange marriages (one was a Lannister cousin, asking for the King's blessing, and the other was a message from a Riverland Lord to a Dornish one); one letter is from Lord Selmy of Tarth to his daughter, asking her what she was doing swearing herself to Lady Stark, and begging her to return to the Stormlands; one was from Wickenden for the Citadel, saying that their Maester had suffered a heart attack and died, and asking if a replacement could be arranged. The fifth is from Gulltown, insisting that some Fleabottom merchant or another pay his due for the import of Lorathi liqueurs; the sixth is from Lady Crakehall, making sure her son survived the siege of the Blackwater. Once Sansa has read each letter, she refolds them and reattaches the wax, and sends the birds back on their way. The letter to Brienne of Tarth begs her to let Lady Catelyn know that her daughters are safe, making their way to her, and missing her every day.

As she goes to remount her mare, Sansa pauses and then turns to Clegane.

"I should name her soon," She muses, stroking the creature's neck.

"Aye? What are you going to call this one, Queenie? Duchess?"

"Don't be mean." Sansa scolds, stroking the mare's nose and looking in to her dark eyes. "I think I'm going to call her Mercy."

"Mercy!" Clegane exclaims, derisive.

"As you called your horse Stranger, you have no room to scold. So, Mercy it is."

Sandor gives a terrible, barking laugh, and gives Stranger a sharp kick. The sooner they reach Harrenhal, the sooner they can find Arya and head North.


Arya chews on her bottom lip and glares at the letter. The raven and the two boys both watched her struggle, until finally a tentative Hot Pie asked what it said.

"I think it is Sansa. But I still don't know how she got out of Kings Landing, or who she's with. She keeps writing we."

"So ask her," Gendry grumbles.

Arya reads the letter to them, scowling still. "I'll wait to find out, I guess – just in case the letter goes to someone else. And anyway, I've said we too, so she can puzzle over that!"

Lady,

We're moving North. Get your bird to find us.

Nymeria


Harrenhal is smoking. The wind blows the acrid smoke towards them, and Sansa can smell death on the wind too. Very carefully, she and Clegane stick to the tree cover, just in case. They do not know if there are any scouts left, or perhaps even looters who have come to try their luck, and are not willing to risk their lives.

Sunset is yet another two hours away, and both Clegane and Sansa want to see if they cannot find Arya and her mysterious we's before they make camp. The sooner Arya is with them, the sooner they can get back on to the road and on to Robb and Mother. There is rather a lot of forest, however, and Arya is nothing if not difficult when she does not wish to be found.

As per Arya's last letter, Sansa has tried asking the raven if it can lead them to her little sister, but all the birds does is shrug and caw at her. When it began to get too dark for the horses to safely carry them, the humans had dismounted and proceeded to lead the beasts behind them, searching northwards. An hour after sundown sees them making camp instead, with Sandor preparing dinner and Sansa reading through her correspondences. There is another betrothal request from two Westermen banners, another letter of abuse for a Flea Bottom trader, and a request from the Quiet Isle for linens and oils from the Septons.

Out of worry, Sansa takes up her bow after dinner. She had already shot fifty arrows at breakfast, and twenty at lunch. Instead of her remaining hundred-and-thirty shots, Sansa shoots a full two hundred arrows – most of them manage, at the very least, to hit the trees that she is aiming for.

Clegane watches her carefully, speaking only to correct her posture or style. When it looks as though she means to fire more than her expected two hundred, he rouses himself to say, "Enough, bird. We'll find her. Go to bed."

Sansa's arms are shaking from the effort, but her heart is still heavy with worry, and her head loud with all the thoughts she doesn't know how to address. But it will not do for them to exhaust themselves before they make it to Riverrun, so Sansa numbly agrees to unstring her bow and lie on her bedroll.

She cannot sleep – she is terrified that Arya will slip through her fingers and be lost to her as surely as Father.

Will Arya hate her? Hate her for thinking herself in love Joffrey, for being kept a prisoner for so long, for having the Hound as her rescuer. Perhaps Arya will rage at Sansa for hypocritically picking up the bow, after all her scolds and arguments, or maybe even for the letter she had been made to write Robb when Father yet lived.

Sansa does not know, and cannot bare the thought that her sister might not want her anymore.

She tosses and turns for what feels like hours. The raven she has been sending to Arya finally must tire of this, and flies down to land on her chest. It stares into Sansa's eyes with its own beady black until they are all that Sansa can see. In their depths, she can see her own blue eyes reflected back at her from her drawn, pale face, framed by hair the same vibrant fire as her mother's.

Something shifts. It is not so much that Sansa sees her reflection anymore, so much as she feels as though she is looking at her own body from within the raven's! She is warging for true, now!

In the back of her head, Sansa feels the Raven stir. It moved forward as she stepped back, for lack of any better description, and together they took flight. Going from tree to tree, the bird dug his claws in to the branches until a mark was left behind. She could feel the bird's ire at the slow pace – she could tell now, that the raven had been flying above the leafcover until he'd been close to Arya, and then sneaking down to her and her companions. The raven provided their faces for Sansa – a tall boy who looked eerily like Renly Baratheon, and a much smaller boy with a considerable girth and a tumble of curls.

By distances, however, they are still some way away – with this underbrush and the horses, they won't make it to Arya and her companions until after midday, Sansa doesn't think. So she thanks the raven for the distance it has already marked out – a few leagues, at least – and has it take to the wing. They fly much more quickly, without having to slow down to leave markings. Soon, Arya's campsite is within view, tucked up against an ancient ivy-riddled wall, and together Sansa and the raven spiral down through the gaps in the branches, and alight just above Arya's head.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Ser Meryn. Polliver. The Mountain. The Hound. Valar Morghulis."

Aaar, aaaar, aaar. She/the raven caws. Arya looks up at them, startled.

"Dark wings, dark words." Her little sister whispers. "Have you come to take my prayer to the Old Gods? I'm going to kill all of them, you know. I'm going to have vengeance for my family."

Aaaarrryaaaa, they caw together, half of them distraught.

The girl beneath them, with her Stark features, jolts.

"What?" She whispers, crouching and holding out an arm. "Did you just…?"

Aaaarrrrryaaaaa! The raven lands on the outstretched arm as gently as possible.

"Who are you?"

Hisssssaaaaa-hisssaaaa

"… What?"

Ssssaaaa-ssssaaaa

"Sansa?!" She exclaims, standing abruptly. "What? How?"

The raven cannot make the right sounds for warg, so they drop to the ground, and Sansa instructs the bird in how to drag his beak through the loamy soil to spell the word instead. Arya makes a choked little noise.

"It has been you sending those stupid letters?"

Stupid. It has been Arya's favourite word since she was three years old.

Sansa and the raven nod and ruffle their feathers, almost-proud.

"Are you walking?"

A shake.

"Riding? You have horses?"

A nod. Arya swallows hard, nods back, and then her eyes cut to the two boys with her.

"I don't know if they're believe me, about waiting for you. We may as well keep going North until you catch up with us – you'll take too long, otherwise."

This makes Sansa laugh – a serious of sharp arh, arh, arhs coming from their beak.

"Does this bird have a name?" A headshake. "Right. Well, have Sorrow tell you where I am and how to get to me. You'll catch up eventually."

Oh, her brave, stubborn little sister! Sansa had Sorrow – what a name! – flit on to Arya's shoulders, and gently comb their beak through the rough-sawn locks. Arya's tiny hand reaches up and strokes down the bird's back, and Sansa can feel how her little sister shakes.

Hopping back to the ground, Sansa and Sorrow etch a heart in to the soil, and look Arya expectantly.

Arya bursts in to tears and collapses to the ground, which startles Sansa and wakes the two boys as well.

"I don't hate you!" Arya sobs. "I never hated you, I just didn't like the same things you did or want to be a lady! I'm sorry I left you behind and I'm sorry Lady died!"

"Arry?!"

Aaarryaaa! Aaaryaaa! Sorrow is distressed by the crying and doesn't want to go any closer to Arya, but Sansa wants to comfort her sister more than anything, and so the two flutter around Arya's head, land on her shoulder and comb through her hair again.

"Saaansaaa!" The poor girl wailed.

"Arry, what's with the bird?!" The chubby boy asks.

"Did you have a nightmare?" The tall boy asks, haltingly and almost gently.

"My sister is the bird you idiots!" Arya howls. "She warged it!"

"Warg?" Asks the shorter boy.

"It's Northern magic," The tall one said. "Right?"

Taking big gulping breaths, Arya nods jerkily and hiccupped, "My – sister – is inside – the bird."

"Can you do that?" The shorter boy exclaims.

"Shut up, Hot Pie. Arry, is that the raven from before?"

"His name is Sorrow," Arya nods, calming down. "One is for Sorrow, you know?"

From the looks on their faces, Sansa would say that no, the boys didn't know. But they were tactful enough not to say anything, and both cuddled down next to Arya and leant their shoulders tight up against hers.

Sansa cawed at her sister worriedly, and had a hand flapped at her.

"I'm fine, Sansa. Go back to sleep. Find us tomorrow."

Sansa flies Sorrow to land at Arya's feet, taps the heart she had drawn before, and closes her eyes. She "steps back" from Sorrow in to her weary body. Finally, sleep has come for Sansa Stark. Tomorrow will bring her ever closer to her baby sister.


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