Inspired by The Lone Traveller, Standing Strong and So Far from Being Free over on AO3. Both are excellent and I'm infinitely indebted to their cleverness.

I know notes by ravens exist, but humor me and pretend slightly longer letters do, too. It's an AU, right? ;)

Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, woke in her bedchambers. With the coronation yesterday, there was still plenty to do rebuilding the North. As she slid out of bed, she ran through the list of items left undone. Workers needed to be sent to Moat Cailin to shore up defenses, she needed to…

Her feet hadn't hit the ground.

Odd. Sansa stretched her legs, surprised that her bed was this big. She slid the rest of the way off the bed, then looked around in surprise. This was the room she'd lived in as a girl, not the chamber she'd been using as her own. Had she walked in her sleep? Unusual, to develop such a habit at her age.

A realization hit her and she looked down at her feet again. It… wasn't her body. It was a girl's, not a woman's. Desperately, she searched for a mirror. With shock, she realized that all her things were here. All her things from childhood, toys and dresses that had burned long ago.

Stifling a rising panic, she reached for the mirror she'd kept as a child. It was exactly where she'd left it. With even more confusion and panic, she looked. Though her face was warped and distorted, it was definitely her own.

Her own from when she was thirteen.

Sansa screamed.

Running feet pounded down the stone hall. Her door slammed open. "Sansa–" Catelyn Stark stood in the doorway, fright on her face as she stared at her daughter. "Heavens, child, what could be the matter?"

Sansa stared at her mother, her mother who had been dead for half a decade, who she hadn't seen for eight years. "Mother?" she whispered, feeling her whole body going numb with shock.

Catelyn smiled. "Yes, child. What is it?"

Sansa ran to her mother, hugging her tight. If this were a dream, it was the best one she'd ever had. Her mother felt so real and warm and– Sansa pinched herself. It hurt. But how could this not be a dream?

Squeezing her eyes shut, breathing in her mother's scent, Sansa let herself hope; just this once. A blind, fool's hope that her other life had been the dream, every horrible moment with Ramsay, every death she'd had to face. If the gods were good and this were the real one, she'd have time to plan, time to stop the King from coming north, to stop her father from becoming his Hand, to never set foot in the South as long as she lived.

She was a child. She had time.

Catelyn cooed reassuringly, petting her hair. "There, there, love, it was just a nightmare. I'll be down to visit you in King's Landing before you know it."

King's Landing.

Sansa jerked away. "I don't want to go."

Her mother laughed. "After all the fuss you made about becoming queen! About how beautiful Joffrey was, how gallant–"

Joffrey.

Violently, Sansa shook her head, willing this to not be true. "I won't marry him. You can't make me, I won't go!"

"Sansa." Her mother looked sternly down at her. "This is a fine time to be pulling antics. You'll do as you're told, little lady, or you'll be made to!"

Sansa's head felt like it had been filled to bursting. If this was her chance to do things over, maybe the royal party hadn't arrived in Winterfell yet, maybe she had time to plan. She could find a way to keep Jon from going to the Wall, keep Bran from climbing the tower–

Septa Mordane rushed into the room, sweeping past Lady Catelyn. "Now, I've packed your dresses, but you need to make a decision about which one you want to wear in the carriage with the Queen. I think the red one, here, would be a bold choice."

"She's decided she doesn't want to go," Catelyn said to the septa, sounding amused.

Septa Mordane was horrified. "Now? On today, of all days?!"

Sansa dreaded the answer. "What day is today?"

Mordane put her hands on her hips, glaring down at her. "The day you leave for King's Landing! Get dressed or they'll leave you behind!"

Still in her nightgown, Sansa bolted past and fled down the hallway.

She ran through Winterfell, hearing her mother's and septa's exasperated calls behind her. She kept running. Maybe if she acted badly enough they would leave her behind. It was all she could hope for. Anything to keep her family together, to get one more moment with them.

Her feet had carried her to Bran's room. Slowly, she pushed the door open. There he lay, asleep in his bed. His direwolf perked an ear at Sansa before dropping back to sleep atop his feet.

Sansa's heart fell. She was too late. Too late to save Bran, too late to stop her betrothal, too late.

"Come to say goodbye?" She hadn't seen Robb, from his chair next to the door, but now he stood to greet her. At the sound of his voice, she instantly burst into tears, transported back to this same day as it had occurred eight years ago.

"Robb!" she cried, latching him into a hug. "Oh, Robb, you're not dead."

"Of course I'm not, silly," he laughed, hugging her back. "I heard you scream, earlier. Bad dream?"

"The worst," she said, her face pressed against his shirt, trying to memorize his smell, his feel, the sound of his laugh. "I dreamt that you'd gotten betrothed to a Frey girl and then broken it and the Freys all murdered you at Uncle Edmure's wedding."

"Well that's rightfully horrifying," Robb said. "But I'm alright. I'm here. No weddings, I promise."

"Promise me," she said, drawing back to fix him with a serious glare. "Promise me you won't break your betrothal to a Frey."

"I'll do no such thing!" he said, laughing again. "Sansa, you can't let dreams–"

"It wasn't a dream," she insisted. "Promise me, Robb."

He smiled his most patronizing smile at his little sister. "I'll be fine, Sansa. It's just nerves before your big trip."

But in the hallway, Sansa could hear her mother's voice calling for her. If Robb wasn't going to listen, she had other siblings to warn.

Again, Sansa bolted down the hallway. Turning a corner, she ran smack into Jon.

"Sansa?" Jon said, grabbing her arms to steady her. "What are you running around for?"

"Jon!" Sansa beamed up at him. "Oh thank goodness, I was worried you'd already left!"

He let go of her arms, taking a step back. "And why would you be worried?"

"Because I need to talk to you!" she said. "I know of all my brothers, you'll believe me and help tell the others. We're all in danger, terrible danger! We have to convince Father not to go South–"

But Jon continued backing away, shaking his head at her. "I don't know what game you're playing at, Sansa. Why today, of all days?"

"What?" Sansa said, confused.

"Calling me 'brother,'" Jon replied. "Acting as if you like me."

"I do like you!" she said. "I do, I'm sorry I never said it earlier, I just–"

With a final shake of his head, Jon walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Sansa stood, still in her nightdress, wondering how she could have ruined her best chance at being believed so thoroughly. If only she'd been nicer to Jon, if only–

But she hadn't been. She'd sowed distrust with him for her entire life. It was only fair that she reaped her due.

Squaring her shoulders, Sansa went in search of her final sibling.

"Arya!" Sansa called later, seeing her sister perched in a tree in the courtyard. "Arya, come here, I need your help!"

Arya stuck out her tongue. Dropping from the tree into the bushes, she vanished into the woods.

"What's this racket you've been making, Sansa?"

Her back to him, Sansa paused, letting the sound of her father's voice wash over her. By the time she'd been crowned, Sansa had thought that she'd forgotten what his voice sounded like. Yet hearing it again, she could never mistake it for anything else in the world.

Sansa turned to him. "Father, I–"

Ned Stark stood before her, furs draped around his shoulders and as strong and unmovable as the stone walls surrounding them. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight.

"You've upset your mother something fierce," he continued, as if nothing were wrong. "Go apologize, Sansa. You won't see her again for a long while, once we're in King's Landing."

"I don't want to go," Sansa whispered. "We can't. We'll all die down there. They'll cut off your head and–"

He pulled his daughter to him. "So that's what's worrying you. It's alright, love. I won't let them. The King won't let them. We're old friends, Robert and I."

Her face pressed against his tunic, Sansa shook her head. "He'll die. And then Joffrey will be king–"

"And you'll be his queen," her father said.

"And Joffrey will kill you! He's a bastard, he's–"

Ned clapped a hand over her mouth. "Watch what you say, little lady. He is Robert's son and they are guests in this house. You will give them your respect."

Tears welled in Sansa's eyes. How could he not see, how could she convince him?

"I know about Lyanna," Sansa said. "I know about Jon and—"

Ned yanked her into the closest room. He slammed the door shut, yanking the bar across the door. He bent down to stare her in the eyes. "Who told you?" he demanded in a whisper, more serious than she'd ever seen him. "Where did you hear that?"

Bran, but she couldn't start with that. "The Three-Eyed Raven," Sansa replied. "He saw what's coming, he told me. We cannot go south!"

Ned straightened. "Children's tales," he said with relief.

"Then how do I know?" Sansa said, wanting to scream with frustration. "How do I know about Jon if it's just a children's tale?"

Her father grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I don't know what you overheard. But if you ever breathe word of this to a soul, I'll make sure you regret it every day for the rest of your life. You understand me?"

"Father, I—"

"Do you understand me?!"

Shakily, Sansa nodded.

Ned gave a nod in reply. "Good. That's settled, then. Go and say your goodbyes. We leave in the hour."

. . .

Sansa sat in the Godswood, tears streaming down her face. She'd failed. The gods had given her one chance to save her family and she'd failed all of them.

Whatever horrors she'd lived before, this was certainly the nightmare. Now she would have to watch them die all over again.

Theon strode around the corner, a sauntering spring in his step. "Alright. You've yelled at everyone else. Figured it's my turn." He plopped down next to her. "What'll it be this time? More grumpkins to scare me with?"

A flash of resolve tore through her. She was done looking sane. Sansa grabbed Theon's hands, making sure he listened. "They're going to kill Father. He's going to discover all Cersei's children are the Kingslayer's bastards and after they kill King Robert, they'll kill Father, too."

A crooked grin stretched across Theon's face. "Who will?"

"The Lannisters," Sansa said, desperate to get it all out. "Then the North declares independence and Robb marches South to kill them for what they did."

"Sansa, no one's done anything yet–"

"Focus, Theon!" she snapped. In the distance, she could hear her mother calling for her. "Don't you dare forget a word."

He focused. "Go on."

"Robb agrees to marry a Frey girl for his army. Then he marries someone else, instead, and the Freys and Boltons kill him, Mother, his wife and unborn child, at Edmure Tully's wedding."

"Tully?" Theon recoiled. "When did the Tullys get into all this?"

Sansa took a moment to think, knowing she was getting it all out of order. If only she'd had time, if only she could have prepared– No. It was what it was. She had to make the most of it.

"The important thing," Sansa said, finally calm. "Is that Robb sends you to Pyke, to your father, to gather support."

Theon's eyes lit up.

"You betray Robb."

Theon yanked away. "I would never–!"

"It doesn't matter!" Sansa said, without an ounce of accusation. "You've already done it! You need to know–"

"How dare you," Theon sneered down at her. "Robb trusts me and I–"

"AND YOU FAIL!" Sansa yelled. "You take Winterfell, kill Ser Roderick, kill two boys instead of Bran and Rickon, and for nothing! You end up captured by Ramsay Bolton – Ramsay Snow – the only person more sadistic than Joffrey. He kills Rickon – for sport. He mutilates you, Theon," Sansa said, her heart breaking for the Theon she left behind. Reek, who had risked his life to save her, to atone for his many sins. Seeing Theon staring down at her in disgust was a thousand times worse than Jon. His dislike she had well-earned. Theon had been her friend, her shield, the only one she depended on during the worst parts of her life.

Sansa looked away, unable to keep the tears from falling. "The Night King will come for all of us. But not until there's no one left standing to face him."

Her mother rounded the corner, sighing with exasperation at the sight of her daughter. "There you are, you willful child! They'll leave any minute! You can't keep the Queen waiting!"

Theon took another step backward, his face clouded with distrust.

"Go," Sansa said to him, empty of all her emotion. "I doubt I'll see you again in this lifetime."

With that ominous farewell, Theon went.

. . .

Sansa stared out the window of the carriage, trying to memorize every crag and hillock and mountain of her homeland. Thankfully, Cersei had appreciated her silence, far preferring to chatter with her own children and leave the strange Stark girl to her sulking.

The strange Stark girl didn't have time to talk – she had to plan. Every faded memory of this time was critical. There were few changes she could affect (as this morning with her family had made abundantly clear) and she had to be ready and waiting for each and every one.

"Are you going to miss your home?" Princess Myrcella asked, her perfect golden ringlets bouncing as the carriage jolted against a rock. She had died of poison, that perfect face forever hidden beneath a shroud.

Sansa smiled. "Very much."

. . .

The carriages stopped for the night at an inn and everyone was duly ready to stretch their legs. The moment Sansa set foot out of the carriage, a wave of dread washed over her. She remembered this inn. Why did she remember a single inn…?

"Sansa!" Arya yelled as she jumped down from her horse. In each hand was a leash. Straining at the end of each leash – was a young direwolf. "I won't take care of Lady for another second, you spoiled brat! Just because the Queen didn't want fur on her–"

Sansa ran to her, throwing herself in the mud to wrap her arms around her wolf. "Lady!" she cried, burying her face in her fur. "Oh, Lady, how I've missed you!"

"Don't be dramatic," Arya said, rolling her eyes. "It's only been a few hours."

A wet tongue licked the side of Sansa's face. Giggles rose in her, rose and threatened to never stop.

"Sansa!" Septa Mordane said with a gasp. "Your dress, girl! It's covered in mud! If your mother–"

"Hang mud," Sansa said, not removing her arms from around her wolf. She knew why she remembered this inn, now. And Sansa knew one thing more – neither Stark girl was going to lose her wolf; not if she had anything to say about it.

"Insolent girl!" the Septa cried.

Before she could continue, could punish Sansa and ruin all her plans before they had even begun, Sansa stood, sweeping a curtsey. "My apologies, Septa. I'll make sure it does not happen again."

Her Septa gave a sniff. "Be sure that you do." Then her eyes caught something across the courtyard. "Stupid girl, now your betrothed will see you like this! Shameful!"

Sansa turned. Joffrey. Even now, he was dismounting from his horse, walking toward her with that insolent smirk she wanted to knock off his face.

But the Sansa he knew didn't hate him yet. She adored him, simpering at his every word. Should she be rude? Drive him away, make him hate her?

"Sansa!" Joffrey called, striding over to her. Arya had long since run off. As he approached, he settled his hand atop the pommel of his sword. "Walk with me, my lady."

No. There was always time later to make him hate her. With her father still alive, she needed fear no little boy.

"Thank you, my lord, for the offer," Sansa said, dropping into a curtsey. "But I told my sister I'd play with her when we stopped for the night."

"That's alright," Joffrey replied. "I'll join you."

Sansa walked with him along the riverbank, her unease growing. In her last life, this had been her first mistake; now, it was her first test. Two direwolves and the life of a butcher's boy hung in the balance.

Joffrey offered her wine and it tasted like ash in her mouth. Up ahead, Arya and the butcher's boy whacked at each other with sticks. The prince smiled at Sansa. "Don't worry. You're safe with me."

He strode forward, his cocky swagger in full force. Joffrey hassled them, pressing the boy further, trying to goad him into a fight. Sansa waited. Joffrey was unstable, volatile, and she'd rarely had success controlling him, even at the best of times. She had to be perfect.

Joffrey drew his sword. "Pick up your sword, Butcher's Boy, let's see how good you are."

"Don't waste your time, my prince," Sansa said, grabbing the stick from Arya's hands. "Of course a stupid butcher's boy can't fight you properly. Fight me."

Joffrey ignored her, pressing his sword further into the boy's face. Sansa whacked Joffrey in the arm.

Horrified, he spun to face her. A growing anger lurked behind his eyes. "You hit me. Why did you hit me?"

"Because you were being dull," Sansa said. She raised her stick back into the air, facing Joffrey down. Like every Northerner, she'd received training by Jon and Brienne before the Long Night. Unlike the rest, she'd skipped most of her lessons to ensure the people were fed and clothed. Even the boy Joffrey would trounce her, if he tried, but Sansa had to risk it. With a playful smile, she rapped his sword with her stick. "Show me how it's done."

"My lady," Joffrey said, advancing with a wicked gleam. "I had no idea the brutal arts intrigued you."

"Endlessly," Sansa replied. Staring at Arya's confused gaze, Sansa flicked her eyes, hoping she'd catch her meaning.

Scooting past, Arya grabbed the butcher boy's arm, pulling him away down the banks of the river. Nymeria loped happily after.

. . .

Change. It hadn't been much, but to Sansa, it meant the world. Every day in King's Landing, she stared down at Lady and Nymeria and smiled. Her father might not listen to her, her siblings might all believe her to be crazy, but nothing was written in stone. Not yet.

Sansa knew little enough of Jon's exploits, with absolutely no timeline to make sense of them, or to give him rational bits in pieces so that he wouldn't get overwhelmed. For a man destined to live twice, she figured he'd manage the only option left to her: tell him everything he needed and hope it helped when he needed it.

To my dear brother Jon,

I know you won't believe me, no matter what I say, so all I ask is that you remember this letter, thinking back on its eccentricities occasionally. One day, they will make sense.

Fire and dragonglass kill wights. You'll find some up north, but there's plenty on Dragonstone when we need it later. Valyrian steel kills White Walkers.

Oh, and congratulations on becoming Lord Commander. Our father would have been so proud.

Uncle Benjen is lost to the Far North. There's nothing you can do about it, Jon. I know it hurts and I know you miss him, but he is not your priority. He cannot be.

Mance Rayder is collecting a Wildling army, the biggest the North has ever seen. We'll need them to face the Long Night. Tormund Giantsbane is dependable and will grow to call you brother. If you let them into the North, the Night's Watch will kill you. There are ways you can come back from this death, but the events preceding it are too precarious for you to risk it blindly.

I'm sorry for every harsh word I've ever said, to you and behind your back. I wish I'd learned my errors early enough to apologize to your face, but I was a stupid, stupid girl and I beg your forgiveness. I love you, dearest brother. Take care of yourself.

Please don't show this letter to anyone. Memorize it and burn it, if you can. Write frequently and I can give more helpful advice.

Your sister,

Sansa

P.S. If I'm acting too nicely for you to believe it's me, I can always insult you until you do. Please don't make me.

Her other important act came in the form of a theft. Stealing her father's signet ring, she forged his signature on the missive to ensure it went unquestioned, even by her mother. This letter was far simpler than the one she had written to Jon. Addressed to Howland Reed, it simply invited his children, Jojen and Meera, to stay at Winterfell as companions to Bran Stark. Sansa had no idea what assistance a young Bran required on his quest to become the Three-Eyed Raven – or if such a quest was still necessary, with all the knowledge the old Bran had told to her. Regardless, if he needed any help, the Reeds would be the ones to assist him.

. . .

Her father set a package on the table. "That's for you, love."

Slowly, Sansa opened the wrapping.

"The same dollmaker makes all of Princess Myrcella's toys," Ned said. At her silence, he continued, "Don't you like it?"

When Sansa looked up at her father, it was with tears in her eyes. "I love it. Thank you, Father."

She'd remember his answering smile until the day she died.

. . .

Her letters from Winterfell were all to be expected, tales of Bran waking up, Rickon throwing tantrums, and spats among neighboring lords. Some of them Sansa remembered almost word-for-word from reading them the first time around. It gave her a strange sense of nostalgia – coupled with dread. Had she changed so little? Was all doomed to be the same, just with her direwolf to suffer alongside her and likely die at Lannister hands?

A single postscript at the end of one of Robb's letters made her pause.

What did you say to Theon? He's been skittish as a cat ever since you left. One moment, he leaps into action at a mere suggestion from me, the next he rants and blusters and thwarts my every command. I'd have no idea that it had anything to do with you, if any mention of your name didn't make him turn pale as a sheet and stalk away. Write to him, please, as he obviously won't write to you. Perhaps he won't read it, but for his sake, I would hope you'd try.

Sansa sat staring at the letters formed in her eldest brother's hand. There it was, another sign of change. She had two direwolves and a jumpy Greyjoy. What great plots could be cast from these?

Nothing. A great, fat nothing. She'd been working on Baelish, dropping hints about how grateful they'd be for help, how quickly they'd need to betroth her away again from the awful Joffrey, how Mother always lamented that there weren't any good men from the Riverlands to give her daughters to–

"Did you know I was raised in the Riverlands, Lady Sansa?" Baelish said, with that ever-present smile.

"Oh!" Sansa feigned ignorance flawlessly. "I had no idea. What house?"

"Your mother's. I was a ward among the Tullys, raised like family."

"How intriguing! Tell me all about it, Lord Baelish."

"Please, call me Petyr."

She giggled. "Petyr. But it sounds so informal!"

He smiled, the implied, That's the idea, not escaping her for a moment. Good. Precisely what she wanted.

It was good, but… Not good enough. She'd betroth herself to Baelish in a heartbeat if it would save her father. But Baelish was far too cavalier with other people's chaos and far too little risking of his own. If he acted, it would be well after Ned died, well past any chance for Sansa to have use of him. Still, she kept him around, on as short a lead as she could manage. King's Landing left her with few tools and Baelish would be her chief instrument. Unwieldy though he was, at least Sansa knew his steps before he made them and could make herself too slippery a fish for him to ever catch.

Afterall, she had learned from the best.

. . .

Theon sat in the Great Hall, breaking his fast with Robb, Rickon and Bran. It had felt like an odd sort of male family, these last few weeks after Catelyn had left.

Maester Luwin stepped forward, depositing a stack of letters in Robb's hand. Robb flipped through them, sorting them to read later. One, a particularly slim one, caught his eye, and he held it up for closer examination. With one last frown at it, he passed the letter to Theon, face-down.

"Me?" Theon said with a laugh. "Now who could be writing to this poor ward?" He picked the letter up, wiggling the seal for Robb to see. "A wolf, no less. What does your father write that he can't want you to hear, hmm?"

Theon flipped the letter over, intending to slit it with a well-practiced flick of his knife. The writing on the front stopped him cold. To Theon Greyjoy. From Sansa Stark.

Robb's eyes never left him. With a growl, Theon slit it open, certain to not let anything seem amiss. His eyes scanned the words warily.

Theon,

I am sorry for how we parted. I was too upset to hold my tongue and laid more on you than any man should bear.

With the way things are going here in King's Landing, I shouldn't have bothered. They'll execute Father anyway, call it mercy, and force me to watch, just as before. Perhaps for all my troubles, I'll simply be executed beside him.

Who can tell?

Dismiss these as the ramblings of a morbid child, as my father most certainly does.

I wish you well,

Sansa

Theon lowered the letter with shaking hands. He'd long forgotten to hide his reaction. She spoke like a woman possessed by a devil.

"Robb," Theon started tentatively. "Is there any news about your father?"

"The Tourney for the Hand caused some excitement, last I heard," Robb replied, still watching his friend. "Nothing that was his fault, or put him in danger. Why?"

Theon nodded, still failing to make sense of it all. "And Sansa? What is she like in her letters to you?"

"Here, I've got one in front of me," Robb said, passing it over.

My dearest Robb,

Things have been going splendidly since last I wrote. The queen grows more fond of me by the day, and even brought in lemon cakes - just because I'd said I liked them!

He skimmed the rest of the letter, hoping for any sign of the terrifying girl he'd had glimpses of, but could decipher no code in her talk of weather and fashions and courtly ladies.

Theon sat back, frowning.

"Was yours not like that?" Robb reached a hand across the table. "Here, let me see."

Abruptly, Theon stuffed it away. Something was going on with Sansa and for some reason, it had only been directed at him. He wasn't about to change that until he knew why.

An idea started to form. "That day she left for King's Landing, when she was causing all the fuss," Theon said, successfully diverting from his own letter. "What did she say to you?"

Robb laughed. "She was out of her mind, frantic about leaving home. I can't hold anything she said then against her, can I? Raving of bloody weddings and the Freys. I can't hardly remember a word of it. You?"

Clenching his jaw, Theon looked away. "No, nor I." All of it. Every word, Sansa. Just like you asked me to. Why in seven hells did you ask me to?

. . .

All too soon, Theon got his worst fears confirmed.

Robb sat in the solar, sorting through the many letters he had received. The King was dead. Ned Stark, Hand of the King, was imprisoned for treason.

And Sansa had warned Theon of all of it.

"Look at this!" Robb said, holding up a letter. He broke from his dour mood for a bit of sarcasm. "From Sansa. I'll bet Cersei even let her hold the pen."

"What does it say, Robb?" Theon asked. Dread curled around his throat, closing it tight. These tidings would be the end of her saccharine masquerade, he was sure of it.

Robb,

I write to you with a heavy heart. Our good king Robert is dead, killed from wounds he took in a boar hunt. Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert's brothers against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne.

The Lannisters are treating me very well and provide me with every comfort. I beg you and Theon: come to King's Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey and prevent any strife between the great houses of Lannister and Stark.

Robb poured over the letter, scathing each insipid line, but Theon didn't hear a word. I beg you and Theon. Joffrey didn't need Theon's loyalty. In fact, he doubted a Greyjoy ward would even be allowed into the throne room to swear it.

He ran his fingers over the creased and crumpled letter she had sent him before, knowing its words by heart.

"They're going to kill your father, Robb," Theon said, his tongue feeling like it was driven not by thought, but by leaden cogs and gears. "They're going to call it mercy and force Sansa to watch."

Robb grabbed Theon by his collar, slamming him against the wall. "Don't say that! Don't you say that!"

Theon said nothing. Robb drooped, letting go of him to lean over the desk, hiding his tears. "There's still a chance. He can take the Black; they can send him to the Wall. Father would do it. For us. He'd have to."

"They won't let him. Joffrey won't let him. He's a sadistic bastard and your father will pay for it with his life."

Robb dropped his head into his hands. "What choice do I possibly have?"

"Summon the banners. March for King's Landing. Maybe you'll get there in time to stop it."

Robb looked up at that. Theon ignored the red rim around his eyes. "You think I could stop them?"

Theon thought back on Sansa's words, so eerily coming true. Perhaps for all my troubles, I'll simply be executed beside him. "No. I don't think you'll stop them. But you have to try."

. . .

Waiting down in his cell, Baelish slipped Ned a note. It was unsigned and Ned didn't trust the man, that it came from Sansa, but the note simply read: Die with honor. They'll kill you anyway. Taking the Black was never an option. All seven of your children love you and will never stop fighting for you – and for each other. The North Remembers.

Seven? Ned paused. There were only five Stark children, six if you included Jon. Where in the gods' names did–

Theon. Ned chuckled, rereading the note. If this was from Sansa, it was more than he deserved for all the times he hadn't listened, had thought her still a child and treated her like one.

He gave a nod to Baelish. With a nod in reply, Baelish slithered back into the shadows and out of sight.

. . .

Sansa rubbed tears from her eyes, not ready to lose her father a second time. It still felt like only yesterday, she'd watched him killed the first time around.

"Letters for you, my lady," the servant said, delivering the platter.

Sansa couldn't manage a reply. The servant set down the dish and left the girl to her mourning.

Eventually, with nothing better to occupy herself, Sansa rifled through them. Too many were from nobles she knew wanted nothing but juicy gossip, others that wanted to pity her and bemoan her awful fate. Sansa had no use for either. Tidings that the North was on the move had already reached her, so another third fell into that useless pile.

One letter remained. Oddly, it was unsigned and unsealed. Most importantly, she couldn't remember receiving such a letter in her previous life. With curiosity tingling at her fingertips, she opened it.

Send me more morbid ramblings. The twins approach.

For the first time in a long time, Sansa smiled.