With the help of her maids, Sansa climbed out of the tub and toweled herself dry. Outside, the wind was howling, chasing a drift of snow over the castle turrets. The Maesters might declare that spring has come, but here in the north it was winter yet, all white and still, without the faintest traces of stirring life. The castle grounds were thickly covered in snow. Sansa didn't care, though. She didn't go out much these days, and within the walls of Winterfell it was always warm.

In the annex where she usually took her bath, the hot water made white vapor rise in a dense cloud, which obscured the mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Which was all to the good, as far as Sansa was concerned. When she first came back to her old rooms in Winterfell, the first thing she did was take off all the mirrors. It was only after Arya's insistence, months later, that she returned two looking-glasses to their former places. She still tried to pass in front of them as quickly as possible, though, with her head bowed. It has been years, but the sight of her own face, heavily scarred by pox, still brought tears to her eyes.

It happened during her stay in the Vale with Petyr Baelish. The pox epidemic was harsh, and almost no household was wholly spared. The disease claimed lives, and so Sansa supposed she ought to feel grateful that hers was spared, but she did not. Often, she felt it would have been better for her to die than to go on living in this disfigured state. Still, at least the disease interfered with Littlefinger's schemes. Upon seeing the face of his wife-to-be, Harry the Heir didn't rest until he managed to wriggle out of the betrothal, and Littlefinger himself withdrew his disturbing attentions from Sansa. She was allowed to go on living in peace and obscurity until the end of the war, when House Targaryen reclaimed the throne and put things to right.

The ugly barbed iron chair so many pretenders fought for was discarded. Three thrones were placed instead of it, carved in the shape of dragons - a larger one in the center, for King Aegon. The two smaller thrones flanking it were for the king's wife, princess Arianne of Dorne, and his aunt, the queen Daenerys Targaryen who, as all knew, was the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

The war was over, pardons granted, families reunited. Sansa herself experienced a tearful reunion with Arya and Rickon, the latter being named Lord Stark and granted his ancestral seat of Winterfell. The Stark children went back home and began the slow work of rebuilding their life and their castle, with the help of their devoted and energetic castellan.

Sansa was now eight-and-ten. A year ago, after a furious exchange of ravens between Winterfell and King's Landing, a document was presented before her announcing the annulment of her marriage to Tyrion Lannister on grounds of coercion and non-consummation. Sansa supposed she ought to feel relieved, but she hardly did. The marriage itself seemed almost ephemeral now, after such a long time had passed since she last saw Tyrion, and thinking of it only evoked all the terrible memories of her time in King's Landing.

She was free now, and after word of that got out, she received several offers of marriage, but those were insults. They came from younger sons of minor houses, landless knights, even ambitious bastard sons - men who would never have dared to address the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, unless they knew how much her choices must be narrowed by the misfortune that befell her. She refused them all, and then wondered what she should do next. The way she was brought up, it was clear to her there were but two paths for a noble gently bred lady - marriage or holy vows. Since the possibility of marriage has turned into such disgrace, it would have to be the latter for her. She would go and become a religious apprentice, and once she is a septa, she decided, she would come home again. She could teach Arya's children, and Rickon's, and at least be respected and loved by her family if no one else.

Once she dressed, there was a knock on her door - uncharacteristically timid for Arya. Sansa saw her sister carrying ink, quill and parchment, and her heart sank. She realized what this is about.

"You must write," Arya said without preamble. "I helped Rickon form his reply, but you are the eldest Stark daughter. They are expecting to hear from you as well. This delay is really unseemly - the bird from King's Landing has lingered here for two days already, and you still haven't written. You realize, don't you, what will be thought of us if we put off confirming our attendance for very long?"

Sansa privately thought how ironic it was that Arya was teaching her social graces now, but merely sighed. "I would have written straight away if you had agreed to what I want to put in my letter."

"I will not," said Arya. Her sister, Arya Horseface, has grown up to be a fine-looking girl. She didn't have the famous beauty of her mother, the lady Catelyn, but at sixteen, she was tall, willowy and straight as a lance, and there was an engaging sparkle in her grey eyes. "You are expected at the tourney. If you write and say that you have chosen this precise moment to go and take your vows, it will be seen as an insult. Do I have to remind you that we aren't exactly in the Targaryens' good books as it is? Father fought along Robert Baratheon at the Trident."

Sansa knew it was true. They were very fortunate that Winterfell was given back to them, and that the queen Daenerys expressed gracious hope for a new era of loyalty and trust between houses Targaryen and Stark. Actually, when she thought about it, Sansa could not figure out how come the Starks were so generously pardoned, with all expressions of royal goodwill. Many houses that aided Robert Baratheon in a far less prominent way were still frowned upon by the new rulers.

Years ago, when she was still a little girl, nothing could have prevented her from going to a tourney. This was going to be a grand one, in honor of the renewal of house Targaryen, and would be held in Harrenhal in defiance to old ghosts. Lords and ladies from all corners of the realm would attend. If the Starks appeared at all neglectful in this regard, Sansa realized, it would be seen as the epitome of rudeness, unless she had an absolutely iron-clad excuse to remain behind. But she had none. She hasn't taken the holy vows yet, and the disease left no lingering weakness. She was as strong and healthy as always. It was just her face... her face, which she would give anything to hide from the world for as long as she lived.

Yet she knew she had no choice. She would have to write to the queen, and write just what was expected of her. She was going to attend the tourney of Harrenhal.

Reluctantly, she took the writing supplies from her sister's hands, settled at her desk, and dipped quill into ink. In her pretty, well-trained hand she began to compose a reply swiftly, lest she regrets. Her Grace the Queen gives us great honour and delight...

They were to be gone a week hence.