The day wore on clear and bright, the cold white sunlight slanting sharply down on Winterfell. By noon the casle was teeming with life; the kitchens were hot and steamy, the great hall buzzing with voices, the yard ringing with the song of steel on steel.

High in the library tower, several ladies of the castle were partaking in somewhat more dignified ventures. Septa Mordane had arranged for the visiting queen and princess to join the ladies of the castle in their needlework, that they might enjoy learning some new northern stitches. Surely, she had planned the occasion with the best of intentions; however..

Cersei surveyed the room with displeasure. She noted the dirt under Arya's fingernails, the smudges of mud on her dress and, Gods, even on her cheeks. She sniffed. Clean, she was a comely enough child, but filthy she was no more fit for Myrcella's company than a stableboy.

Despite Arya's disheveled appearance, the two girls were getting along well. Arya was somewhat less sullen than she usually was when given a needle and thread, and Myrcella was plainly delighted to have another girl her own age to speak with. Currently, she was raptly listening to Arya's long-winded, rambling account of some incident involving a needle, a cat and a wolf. A welcome change from Joff's idea of a funny story, Cersei supposed.

Utterly disinterested in her sewing, Cersei's gaze turned to the window. From her high vantage point in the tower, she had an unobstructed view of the yard, where a score of men and boys were twisting and twirling with blunted swords. She spotted Joffrey striding around clutching a half-sized crossbow and shouting commands at the armourer, who seemed to be willfully ignoring him. Tommen was present too, happily clashing wooden swords with one of the younger Stark boys.

Robert was lurching around too, slashing away at his oldest friend Ned Stark. His bellowing laughter could be heard all the way up in the tower. Cersei smiled despite herself. Great drunken oaf that he was, his unsteady pivoting made for an amusing sight.

Cersei's sharp eyes roved over the yard, searching for her twin. He was never one to miss a chance to show off his prowess with a sword, especially in front of a new audience. As she searched for his golden head, her eye was caught by a dark head of curls instead. She almost laughed out loud - it was none other than the very same head that had caught her eye that very morning.

She leaned closer to the window, all thoughts of Jaime forgotten. The boy's opponent was strikingly similar to him in appearance, but with a mop of deep red-brown Tully hair instead of dark Stark hair. The other elder son, she supposed. Robb. Robb and Jon, that was it. They made a formidable pair, both looking every inch the strong young north men that one would expect of House Stark.

As she stared down, transfixed, her needlework abandoned, her mind drifted back to what she and Jaime had seen early that morning in the godswood. Sansa and Jon, brother and sister…

Across the room a door banged. Cersei jerked up, startled. Septa Mordane bustled in importantly, Sansa Stark trailing behing her.

"Good morning, girls, your Grace," announced the Septa brightly,

"Your Grace," echoed Sansa, curtsying obediently.

"Hello, Sansa, it is so charming to truly make your acquaintance," Cersei said sweetly, rising to greet her.

Sansa blushed. "Thank you, my lad-.. Your grace. It is a pleasure."

Cersei smiled at her, baring her teeth. "Please, join me by the window. I fear my needlework is growing tedious and i would welome some company." Sansa complied, as she always did. As a young lady always should.

They made idle chatter for a minute or two. Sansa dutifully trotted out all the mannerisms and remarks her septa had drummed into her, but Cersei tired of her genteel small talk quickly and cut her off.

"My, the winter village does sound charming. How quaint. I will be sure to visit." She paused. "Tell me more of your family. The Starks of Winterfell." She smiled, baring her teeth once again. "Of course, I know your lady mother well, and your lord father is never absent from Robert's great feasts. But what of your brothers and sisters?"

Sansa blinked at her, unsure. "Well, Rickon is only three. A baby really. Bran - Brandon, I mean - is eight, he wants to be a knight, and Arya -"

"Of course, of course, I know the children well, lovely boys. What of your older brothers?"

Sansa smiled insipidly at her as her lips began to form a response of their own accord, but behind the smile and the polite words she was growing suspicious. Why was the queen so eager to hear about Robb and Jon? Jon wasn't even heir.

"…so Robb is the heir to Winterfell. I'm only fifth in line, after him and Jon and Bran -"

Once more, the queen interrupted her. "Ah, how nice. It is so lovely to have brothers to look after you, I have always found.

Sansa stared at her, her mind immediately turning to the rumours she had heard in the quietest corners of the village.

Cersei continued speaking. "I have yet to make the acquaintance of the second Stark son, Jon, though he seems a charming boy." Suddenly she leaned forward. Her eyes glinted as she fixed them firmly on Sansa's. "Are you close?"

Sansa kept staring at her, at a loss for words. She tried to formulate a reply but no sound came out. The silence seemed to last minutes. Eventually, she stuttered "I - I… I am close… with all of my brothers, my lady. Your grace."

Cersei nodded curtly, sitting back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face. "How pleasant," she remarked languidly, picking up her needlework. "How pleasant."

Sansa seized her own needle and began to fiddle with it fervently. She could feel a flush creeping across her face so she kept her head ducked low, hoping the queen would not notice her sudden, acute discomfort. Her breath quickened as her mind whirred, thinking, questioning, wondering. How could the queen know about her and Jon? She couldn't. They were so seldom alone together, she could not have noticed anything amiss at the castle. And the godswood… the godswood was so remote, it was surrounded only by trees and the crumbling old keep. Sansa's distress began to subside as she reassured herself that no-one could know. We are so careful… Her cheeks returned to their usual colour and she breathed more easily and she began to stitch steadily away. Soon she was lost in her work, though her misgivings still lingered.

Across the table, Cersei was smirking to herself. Caught out, she thought. Guilty as sin. She went back to gazing out at the yard as her stitching lay neglected on her lap. She was pleased to note that Jaime had appeared. She watched him striding about, swinging his sword, moving from opponent to opponent for several minutes. The cold suits him, she thought, squinting down at his red cheeks and gleaming hair. He had made short work of his last match and was now squaring up for the next clash. Cersei leaned out the window once again and peered down at the new pairing. Oh, gods… Cersei smirked gleefully.

"Sansa, sweetling, you must look at this. My dear brother is sparring with your very own dear brother. Jon, I believe." She only barely concealed her amusement.