Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

"Sure she's okay?!" Robb asked urgently. He took up the stairs two at a time, his brother close behind.

"I think so, it didn't look too bad!" said Jon as they reached the fourth floor, jogging through the grey corridors of the Great Keep. "Maester Luwin was nearby, he's checking her now."

"What happened?" said Robb. He tried to still his heart after the sudden panic and the mad dash up the stairs. Jon wouldn't be so calm if the accident had been truly bad.

"I'm not sure, I think she just tripped. She'd been squabbling with Arya near the Septa's study and then they tumbled down the stairs," said his half-brother.

Gods, they could have broken their necks. Couldn't they get along for a day without trying to kill each other?!

They reached a cluster of chambermaids and the odd guard, milling about the end of the staircase that led to the Septa's study. "Give them some space, get back to your duties," Robb heard Maester Luwin's voice. It was commanding, but not overly worried.

Robb sighed as he squeezed past the servants before they could make way for him. They departed quickly once they saw him, bowing their heads. "Everything alright, Tomard?" he asked the big-bellied guard gently shoving the servants away.

"Just a fall M'lord, more ugly than bad. Best if you see for yourself," he said, standing aside and shooing the last chambermaid away. Robb saw both Arya and Sansa on the floor, the former sitting up with a scowl and a broken lip while the latter was attended by Maester Luwin. Sansa's wound looked a little more serious; a trickle of blood ran down her forehead.

"You two alright? What happened?" Robb asked them.

"Stupid Sansa fumbled the steps and brought me down with her!" said Arya, almost skewering him with those sharp grey eyes. Sansa said nothing, Luwin still examining the wound.

"Mother told you two to stop fighting, she'll have a fit now..."

"It's not my fault!" cried Arya, crossing her arms and wincing as her lower lip twitched. She took one of Maester Luwin's towels and wiped the bit of blood under it, "She'd been prattling the whole way from the Septa's study and then got angry and tried to chase me…"

"Now now Arya, you should tell the whole story. Tomard says you pulled her hair," said Jon. Two years ago he would have been kneeling by Arya or Sansa's side. Now he stood at a 'respectful' distance…

Robb hated that.

She harrumphed, looking away.

"Arya, Robb, tone it down for a second," said Maester Luwin, still cleaning Sansa's wound. He felt guilty as he nodded, standing back a bit and letting the Maester work in silence.

"I'm fine Maester Luwin, really," said Sansa, gently guiding his hands away.

"That's for me to decide, young lady," said the Maester. "Do you recall what date it is?"

Blue eyes regarded Luwin intensely, "The twenty-seventh of the second month."

Luwin shook his head slightly, "It's the twenty-eighth."

"What?" She seemed shocked.

"Don't worry Sansa, things like this happen after a bad fall. It'll all clear up soon, I promise," said the Maester.

"It's just a day… one day… we made it," she said slowly, her face growing lax as if she'd been in pain before.

"Do you recall what you were doing a moment ago?" asked the Maester.

Sansa looked at him again, eyes uncertain before her whole demeanor changed. She stilled her features before smiling at the Maester, standing up smoothly before he could get out another word.

"I'm quite alright. Thank you for the assistance, Maester Luwin," she said, nodding at the Maester.

Had she just dismissed Maester Luwin? Robb swore she had sounded like Mother for a second, and Luwin obviously thought so too; he'd reared back from sheer instinct.

"I- lady Sansa-"

Luwin didn't manage another word before she turned with a sigh, "If you must know I was arguing with my sister before we tumbled down the stairs like two sacks of cabbages. Maester Luwin, I feel fine. If that changes I'll search for you in the tower. That will be all," she said, blue eyes centered on his.

"Very well my lady," Luwin muttered, hiding a frown as he took up his things. "Make sure to come to me tonight, both of you. I'll have to clean your wounds again."

"Of course," said Sansa. Arya simply nodded as she looked at her sister, lips thin.

Robb's gaze followed the Maester as he left. "You two shouldn't fight near stairs. It's dangerous," he said, distracted.

Jon walked towards Arya when Luwin was gone, likely to help her up. Sansa got there first though.

"Arya," she said, a strange smile on her lips. "I'm sorry, are you alright?" she asked, holding her hand out. Arya slapped it away, scoffing as she stood up by herself.

"Save it for mother," she said, storming off.

She sighed, massaging the side of her head as Robb grabbed her arm, "You sure you're okay?" he asked before cursing inside the privacy of his own mind. Sansa had taken to emulating Mother these past few years, and hated being seen like a child.

She shook her head, startled for a moment. "Robb," she said as she raised a hand to his face, her voice a twisted knot of emotion. "It's good seeing you like this..." she whispered, pressing a hand over his visage. Robb smiled, placing his own hand over Sansa's and bringing it down.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Hale. Happy," she said almost absentmindedly, her eyes a million leagues away, "You have a beautiful smile, brother. Never hide it."

"I'll try not to," he said, raising an eyebrow at Jon she turned towards him.

"Jon," she said, seemingly at a loss for words. It was different from how it usually was. She did not stutter, did not blush, and certainly did not scowl… though the last one was far more likely if Mother was around. She seemed at a genuine loss for words for a moment, before grabbing Jon's hand gently. "Brother," she said after a moment, her eyes thick with unspoken words. "Thanks for the help," she managed, squeezing his hand gratefully before walking away.

Sending Master Luwin away had been a mistake. She had definitely hit her head too hard.

-: PD :-

Things hadn't been too different after the fall, at first. His sister had kept to her routine as she always had; embroidering sigils with the Septa, going to her singing lessons with the other maidens of Winterfell, sharing gossip and whatnot... Slowly though, the whole routine had started to fray. Robb started finding her sister staring off into the distance by the windows, eyes closed as the wind caressed her hair, her lessons for the day forgotten. She'd started drifting away from the previously tight-knit group of girls; Jeyne and the others bewildered as Sansa barely seemed to pay them any mind. Where before listening to the Septa had been a favored activity, Sansa now scoffed lightly and did every task as if it were a silly chore. It was as if she were growing tired of upholding a façade, harnessing her will towards it and failing all the same.

Or at least she had.

"The fights with Arya marked a turning point," he said out loud.

Jon grunted. They were standing atop the Great Keep, watching over the horizon to the north. They'd climbed here to spar without Ser Rodrik's supervision, as they'd sometimes done when they'd been little. In truth though, they hadn't even touched the swords.

"Yeah…" muttered Jon. His half-brother was by his side, leaning on the crenellations. "They were so weird… even without the abrupt change in behavior."

Robb agreed.

One had been in the dining hall. Arya had placed a lemoncake on Sansa's seat, which squelched rather loudly once her sister sat on it without realizing it. Arya had burst out giggling, unafraid of mother's blandishments, but Sansa… Sansa had smiled. A sad, nostalgic smile as she stood up and regarded the squashed lemoncake remains over her seat. Like a mother finding her child hiding under the bed sheets and plotting a scare. She'd looked at Arya, and then the entire Stark table –including Theon who'd actually arrived in time that afternoon- with a hesitating expression. By then, Old Sansa would have been demanding Arya's head on a platter, and probably pulling her sister's hair silly until it split at the base.

The abrupt lack of a reaction had somehow set the whole table on edge. Either the harshest tantrum of all was upon them, or their sister had fallen gravely ill. She'd noticed the uncanny stares, and had subsequently turned to a sort of reluctant outrage at Arya, chastising her like Rickon would a misguided puppy… that is to say, not a chastisement at all really.

It had been eerie. She'd excused herself shortly thereafter.

The second was by far stranger. The first fight had left an impression on everyone; Mother had been making sharp inquiries into what exactly any of the Stark children had done to leave Sansa so seemingly… off-character. Theon had been laughing about her hit to the head leaving more than just a bruise, though he'd shut up about it after a good talking-to by Robb's fist. Nevertheless, Sansa had been near the kitchens then, and she'd heard that remark… it had just made her seem more uncomfortable, shuffling away with an apologetic smile.

… Next day, she'd started a fight with Arya over some misplaced ink wells, and it had been… supremely uncanny. Robb had heard it all, as he'd been in the library as well, writing out an essay about Old Valyria for Maester Luwin.

It had seemed like an academical dissection of one of their fights. There had been nothing new in terms of concepts; the usual stuff about horse faces and underfoot scamps… but the delivery… Sansa had been clear and methodical, laying out on Arya verbally until his sister had broken down completely, not even responding any longer to the barrage as she cried her eyes out. He'd stepped in then, feeling like a belated fool as he rushed to hug Arya and stop the sheer carnage. He'd been about to let Sansa know a piece of his mind then but… but then he'd seen her eyes.

There had been sheer horror in them, both hands covering her mouth as her eyes watered, as if she couldn't believe what it had all come to. She'd rushed out... and after that…

"There she is," muttered Jon, pointing an inconspicuous finger at the northern wall. Robb shuffled under his furs, frowning at the unusually cold wind that seemed so prevalent as of late, before gazing at his sister.

"Hm… She's not peering south," Robb said.

"Obviously. She's peering north," said Jon.

"Don't be dense, brother. Just because she's looking north, that doesn't mean she's peering north," he pointed out. "Right now she's looking pretty west to me." She was walking slowly, her eyes closed and a serious smile on her lips.

Jon grunted, "True. But it's often the case."

"Yesterday she was leaning on the west wall and yet she was peering south, I'm sure of it," said Robb, "She was all happy, almost skipping over the stones."

Jon's silence turned reluctant. He agreed.

They called it 'peering' between the two of them; when their sister took a walk around the walls and battlements for a bit of 'fresh air'. She'd get oddly focused gazing in a determined direction, and though the usual emotions associated with each direction could vary, they usually correlated with each other. When glimpsing south she seemed somehow lighter, her fingers brushing the crenellations as she walked; her smile like a radiant sun, somehow brighter than when she'd been praised by the Septa in what seemed like months ago instead of days. West was more reserved; she'd frown and sometimes smirk, her pace measured and determined. Sometimes she'd even move her mouth, as if speaking with someone.

North was the worst, it often left Robb with goosebumps. She'd just brace against the crenellations, as if she were about to be blown away by a storm. No movement, only a statue like the ones in Winterfell's crypt, somehow seeing beyond the grey clouds of the northern horizon. She peered in that direction only sporadically, and afterwards she'd always excused herself for the rest of the day; retiring to her chambers with cramped shoulders and haunted eyes, shaken by something.

He didn't know who Sansa had been trying to kid when they'd asked what was going on. They were family for Gods' sake, of course they'd realized something was wrong.

Though granted, after her second fight with Arya she'd seemed to… well, it had seemed as if she'd given up on holding the façade of… herself. She'd calmly refused to attend any more classes under the Septa or Maester Luwin, claiming her knowledge was sufficient. She'd answered the tests that followed almost like a trained Maester, at least from what Jon had heard Luwin tell Father. She'd passed the Septa's test as well, leaving Mother with no arguments to restrict her free hours. She never fought Arya again, and gave up any and all semblance of respect for the castle's gossip mill.

From one day to the other she'd ripped the veil asunder, spending more and more time in the library, riding off into Wintertown, or writing letter after letter to mysterious correspondents only Maester Luwin really knew about. Well, him and Father at least.

"She's walking away, doesn't seem too shaken… maybe thoughtful," said Jon.

"It was probably west," said Robb. He wondered what her sister was really doing when she got like this. Theon's hypothesis sounded far too simple and… convenient for something so ominous. There was something about Winterfell that had changed with her fall. Something tense. As if Robb had found a string tied to his waist, taut but slightly frayed, holding him over something…

He watched her walk over the north wall; even her stride had changed. Whereas before she'd walked awkwardly in a half stride half rush, Sansa had by now given up all pretense of normality; she now glided through the corridors at a stately pace that was both quick and dignified; her back straight and her hands clasped in front, her pace determined and undiminished by the streamlined dress she'd sewn herself, combining northern pelts and green fabrics from the south… and she didn't seem to put any conscious effort into it.

Robb had later realized that she'd been putting effort into not walking like that.

She stopped abruptly, turning to gaze at them.

Robb and Jon immediately ducked under the crenellations, staying still.

They peeked up after a few minutes, finding Sansa in the same spot; arms crossed, her smile an exasperated one. Robb smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head good naturedly before walking into the northwestern tower.

Yep, still Sansa. A different kind of Sansa though…

Gods, he needed a drink. Maybe Theon would have some.

"Fancy something stiff? This whole riddle is worse than one of Luwin's valyrian poems," he said.

Jon shook his head, "We're riding off to see to that deserter tomorrow morning, remember? Father won't like it if we turn up smelling of Theon's cheap swill," he said.

"Shit, you're right," said Robb, though he was secretly pleased he'd stopped calling Father 'Lord Stark', at least when they were in private like this. Jon was to be his right hand man, not one of the keep's servants. Why couldn't everyone see it that way?

He shook his head, "Best we get down then. Be sure to stay with Bran, it'll be his first time," he said.

Jon nodded as if it had been obvious. Of course he'd been about to do it without prompting; his thick headed brother was thoughtful, at least where little Bran and Arya were concerned.

They climbed down for dinner, and he sent Sansa another sheepish smile over the table. She accepted the apology with a roll of her eyes, listening to Father's conversation with Mother and even laughing when Rickon attacked her with a spoonful of tart… though she grimaced when Arya sat at the other end of the table from her.

Robb sighed, turning his attention to Bran. I just hope you don't get nervous tomorrow… he thought, startled by a sudden caw in the distance.

Bloody ravens…

-: PD :-

The morning was overcast, the horizon covered by a grey blanket. Robb realized his hand was fidgeting of its own will, in tempo with the errant gusts of wind which crawled over this patch of green highland north of Winterfell. He stilled his hand, looking at Sansa again as the couple of Stark guardsmen brought the deserter up the hill.

She was an unexpected addition to the party, though you wouldn't notice it by her dress. She'd stormed out of Winterfell's gates almost twenty minutes after the main party had departed, wearing tight riding leathers covered by furs like any one of Robb or Jon's garments, except hers had been crowned in white by her neck. A white wolf's pelt.

The dozen or so Stark guardsmen around the small hill looked grim, knowing what was to come. Father shot Robb a glance as the two guards manhandled the deserter halfway up the hill, and Robb nodded. He moved towards Sansa, stepping past Bran and Jon. His half-brother was talking slowly, a calming hand on Bran's shoulder.

Unlike Bran, Sansa didn't shuffle as the time of the execution arrived. She seemed to be gazing north; at the grey horizon which looked like one great formless cloud. Robb suppressed a shiver of unease as he leaned on her, gently grabbing her elbow. "You don't need to prove anything Sansa. Whatever happened between you and Arya, or Mother…" he trailed off awkwardly, like a blind man grasping at reeds. Just what was the deal with her?

"I assure you this has nothing to do with them, brother," she said, eyes still distant. Gods, when had she grown so quiet? Sansa should have been gossiping with Jeyne and the other girls in Winterfell, not standing here witnessing an execution.

"Father then? … Me?" he added hesitantly.

"Not at all."

"Why then? Sansa, you almost fainted last year when old Nib killed that hog… and this will be far worse."

"I know."

"If you make a scene here, it'll reflect badly on Father," he said, trying for another angle.

"I won't make a scene."

"Mother will be mad with you," he added.

"Let her."

"Sansa, what's gotten into to you?" he said, his grip tightening.

She finally turned to look at him. Once –in what felt like months, not days ago- she would have wilted under Robb's demanding, older-brother gaze. He was the one who shuffled instead, letting drop her elbow. He felt those blue eyes piercing him for a moment, before the faraway glint disappeared and she really gazed at him. "Bran is younger than me, and yet Father took him against Mother's wishes. Why?" she said.

"… Bran will be lord of his own keep one day. He needs to learn," he said, trying to repeat what Father often said but mangling the whole thing.

"And me? Don't I need to learn our customs too?"

"Your future husband will see to it," he said awkwardly. He'd never much cared for that far distant future, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Sansa frowned, tilting her head. "And when my husband goes to war? What then Robb? What when winter sows hunger and anarchy? What when the enemy is at the gates and we stand besieged? Should I hide in the knitting room, hoping for someone else to carry out the duties of my House?"

Robb opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He licked his lips, "I-"

"No," she said, returning her eyes to the northern horizon, hands clasped in front of her, "The blood of the Starks runs through my veins too. It was high time I started acting like one."

"… Why?" he said after a quiet moment.

"Because we won't be children forever, Robb. The cold wind is picking up, and the south rides North. We must be strong if our House is to survive the trials ahead," she whispered almost too low to hear, the air of prophecy hanging around her words. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," she said as Robb strained to hear.

He frowned, shuffling uneasily once more as the guards reached Father and Ser Rodrik. The wind felt unusually cold against Robb's furs, seeping past their protection and chilling his bones as the deserter from the Night's Watch looked at him with wide, still eyes. Father looked at him as well, and Robb shook his head. Sansa herself had somehow weathered Father's icy reprimand, standing her ground without flinching as she explained her position like Maester Luwin would, argument after argument piling up into a conclusion so undeniable Father would have been a hypocrite to deny her presence today. Robb's own intervention had been Father's last recourse.

Eddard sighed, and turned towards the mumbling deserter. His black coat seemed parched and frayed, his sunken face pale and haunted. "I saw what I saw. I saw White Walkers." The words drifted down with the wind, and Sansa stilled.

"People need to know… bring word to my family… tell them I'm no coward… tell them I'm sorry…" he whispered.

Father gazed at the deserter for a long moment, before nodding at the two guards. They made him kneel, placing his chest against the worn stone by their side. Father withdrew Ice from its sheath, Theon bowing his head reverently as he stepped back with the empty scabbard. Father began to pass judgment as Jon whispered in Bran's ear quickly.

"-I Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and-"

"Father, a moment please!" said Sansa, striding forward.

Father's head turned towards her like a whip, his eyes thunderous behind the lordly demeanor. He shook his head as if he'd knew this would happen, turning to Jory Cassel. "Jory, take Lady Sansa down to the horses and await there for our return," he commanded sternly.

"Right away Lord Stark," Jory said as he made for Sansa, who had reached the stone and the kneeling, mumbling deserter. She'd left her hair untied today, letting it curl down her back as the winds willed it.

Hells, Robb thought, barely a step behind Jory. Father had had a quiet word with Robb, and he'd entrusted Sansa to him for the journey… now he'd failed at keeping to the solemnity of the occasion.

Jory reached her first though, "Come now little lady, you've had your fill of fresh air-"

"That won't be necessary," she said, taking a knee by the deserter's side. The command was so self-assured Jory hesitated for a second, a second Sansa used to look up at Father. "His words, he believes what he says."

Jory looked at Father questioningly, and Robb was surprised to see the icy expression melt by a tiny bit. "I'm sure he believes so, Sansa. But that does not take away what he did," he said as if explaining it to a child. The two guards behind the deserter looked at each other.

Robb made to pull Sansa back. "I know he has to die," she said, making him flinch. "He's a deserter to the Night's Watch, and we can't make even a single exception or the whole institution could crumble," she said, still gazing at Father like a wolf, "That must not happen… But every man should have a right to a few last words. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her words left Father no other choice but to nod in assent. His expression promised retribution back at Winterfell though, for all that confusion marred it. Robb sighed, shrugging when Theon shot him a bewildered look.

"Tell me, what did you see?" Sansa whispered gently, the two guards shuffling when her face neared the deserter's by a handspan.

"I saw… I saw White Walkers…" the man said.

"Do you remember where?"

He hesitated, closing his eyes uncomfortably and making silent expressions. "I… I saw what I saw. They were there. Blue eyes mind. Moonshadow dawn… I saw white walkers…" he mumbled.

Sansa placed both her knees on the ground, her face level with the deserter's as she placed a hand on his cheek. Robb moved to intervene but a look from Father stilled him.

"What's your name, Watcher on the Wall?" she whispered. Robb could barely hear her.

His eyes seemed to focus on Sansa for the first time, and he blinked slowly as he opened his mouth. "Will," he said, almost a squeak.

"I believe you, Brother Will. Where did you see them? Where did you see our ancient enemy?" she said, breathing deeply as Will froze. The winds seemed to grow lax, losing strength as her blue eyes bored on the deserter's.

"What's your report, Brother Will? Where did our enemy return?" she whispered, the Stark banner on Alyn's spear drooping as the wind ceased to be. Will stared at his sister's eyes like a madman staring at the sun, blinking slowly as his face relaxed.

"The Haunted Forest," whispered Sansa.

"Yes," said Will.

"How many of them did you see?"

Will moved his mouth slowly, chewing nothing but air.

"Two?" whispered Sansa.

Silence.

"Five," she said slowly.

"Yes," Will squeaked.

Sansa placed her other hand on Will's cheek as well, caressing it like a mother putting her child to sleep. By now the wind's death was so complete he could hear her whisper. "They will not win," she promised him, "The might of the North shall not refuse the Starks. We'll march on them with fire and steel by right of ancient oaths. All the banners of the South will answer the call, and Winter will know the wrath of man. I, Sansa of the House Stark, swear this by the Gods of Stone and Tree," she said, the guards holding in their breaths so they could hear her voice.

Will blinked again, and Robb realized tears were falling down the man's cheeks, slipping through Sansa's thumbs and down her wrists. "Thank you," Will whispered, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

She stood up and took a place by Robb's side, the silence almost suffocating as the wind picked up again.

"I'm ready, Lord Stark," Will said after a moment, leaning his head down and exposing the nape of his neck.

Father hesitated for half a second before he took a deep breath. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

He hefted Ice with both hands, taking a step backwards. He swung the blade with force, and it sung through the air before cutting the man's head with a clean blow.

Sansa didn't even flinch; gazing at the bubbling blood from the man's severed neck. She then closed her eyes, tilting her head down in respect before turning back and walking to the horses.

Father looked at Ser Rodrik. The men shared something that Robb couldn't quite understand before the old Master-At-Arms bellowed for the guards to move out.

He accompanied Father down the hill, stopping with him as he took Bran's shoulder. "… You understand why I had to do that?"

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the blade… and if you can't find yourself to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die," said Bran, dragging his eyes from the horse's stirrups.

Father nodded, but Bran didn't stop there, "Though Sansa also said there was another possible outcome..."

"Did she?" Father said, turning to look at Robb's sister once more. She was waiting ahead, already atop her own horse, "What did she add?"

"… that if the man is guilty and you can't swing the blade, then perhaps it is the ruler who does not deserve to rule," said Bran.

Father tapped his belt thoughtfully, looking at Sansa as if lost in thought.

"Father," Bran said, startling them both, "What did she say to the deserter… to Will?"

Father hesitated, sharing a look with Robb, "She consoled him in the hour of his death. A noble deed," said Father, but Robb found the words hesitant. Even Bran seemed to notice.

"We should go, my Lord," said Ser Rodrik as he reached them, looking past his back, northwards. "Lady Catelyn will be anxious," he said.

Lady Catelyn, or you?

They rode back even more silently than before. Sansa's words kept rebounding within Robb's skull, and he found he couldn't stop staring at her back. She'd almost taken the lead, at the front with Jory and Alyn.

No one had thought to reprimand her.

Something had happened to his sister, most of the family knew that much… Something that had made her age decades in a single moment, something primal and hair-raising. She couldn't hide that, just as you couldn't hide the sun. Not from her own family.

Father had sought answers in the Heart Tree, and Mother in her Sept. Robb though… Robb suspected the answer was right in front of him, riding ahead...

Comforting a man at the gates of his own death, or whispering prophecy like the Greenseers in Old Nan's stories? Robb shook his head, chuckling at the thought. It sounded vaguely choked to his ears, the sound echoing slightly within the confines of the Wolfswood. He hadn't even realized they were crossing it.

Thin white birch trunks dotted the mass of green; spruces and pines adding a dry sweet scent to the air. Theon raised an eyebrow by his side, and Robb was about to talk to him when Jory called out a halt, sounding tense. The forest was oddly quiet, and he kept a hand over his sword's pommel as he dismounted quickly. They'd stopped over a small stone bridge with a little creek running below it.

Perfect spot for an ambush, the thought came unbidden, and he gazed around for wildlings as he made his way forward with Theon. Here half a dozen archers would be able to pin them down from both sides, turning any attempts to mount their horses risky and thus nullifying the biggest advantage Winterfell's men had over a hypothetical band of wildling raiders.

He found Father and Ser Rodrik kneeling by the side of a dead stag by the end of the small stone bridge, gazing at it quietly. He joined them quickly, followed by Jon and Theon as Alyn watched the forest instead.

Good man, he thought.

"Mountain lion?" said Theon, gazing at the stag's torn throat and belly. The guards had put hands to pommels or halberds, looking around as they picked up their liege's tension. Sansa was standing by the dead beast's side, seemingly unconcerned.

"A direwolf did this," she said, examining the wound. She seemed thoughtful for a second before closing her eyes. She smiled all of a sudden, her features relaxing as she seemed to bask in the presence of… something. She almost skipped as she turned and walked down the side of the small stone bridge, eyes still closed as she climbed down the tiny gorge made by the nameless river that was more of a trickle right now.

"Sansa wait!" said Father as he scrambled after her, unsheathing his arming sword as Robb took off after him in turn. "It's dangerous!" he bellowed.

"It's alright, Father," she called out. She had walked a little along the river bend, and Robb frowned as she kneeled near a grey bulk, uncaring of the mud. "Lady," she whispered happily as the shrub next to her jingled and a tiny wolf pup emerged from it. It made its way straight towards Sansa's lap, sniffling as it tried to climb it with tiny paws. Sansa scooped it up and pressed it against her cheek.

Robb saw tiny tears in the corners of her eyes as he walked around her. "I missed you," she whispered into the pup's ear.

Father stumbled to a stop next to her, gazing ahead at the grey bulk which Robb just now realized was the enormous body of a dead direwolf. Several pups were still shuffling by the dead mother's belly, whimpering softly.

"It's bloody huge," said Theon. Bran and Ser Rodrik brought up the rear as they crowded around the dead beast and kneeling Sansa, staring at the dead beast with wide eyes.

"Direwolves south of the Wall…" said Father, almost entranced by the great beast. He extracted an antler from the direwolf's neck, gazing at it thoughtfully.

"… South of the Wall?" Robb asked out loud. There hadn't been a sighting like this in… hundreds of years at the very least.

Something is changing, he thought, shivering lightly as his knuckles went white over the pommel of his sword.

"Five of them," said Jon as he looked at Sansa's pup. It seemed completely at ease with her, licking and whining as if she were her mother. Jon knelt to take one of them before passing it on to Bran, "Here, want to hold it?" he asked.

Bran grabbed it hesitantly, the tiny grey pup squirming for a bit as he shifted the grip. "Where will they go? Their mother's dead…" he said, looking at Father.

"With us, back to Winterfell," said Sansa as she stood up. Her pup was licking the errant tears on her cheeks. Soon, they were all gone.

Father hesitated before shaking his head, "They won't last long without their mother, better a quick death…"

"Alright, give it here," said Theon as he stepped towards Sansa with a dagger.

Her eyes snapped up from the pup, and her piercing blue gaze seemed to pin Theon in place.

She pressed the pup against her cheek once more, closing her eyes as she let out a long breath of air and she cuddled it silly. "You can't have her. Lady is mine to keep, mine to feed… and mine to slay, should fate ever call for it," she said, as sure a declaration as an oath of vassalage.

"Sansa… what do you know about this?" Father said after a long moment of silence, punctuated by the whimpering pups and the lazy crawl of the river. Robb didn't exactly know what the 'this' referred to, but he suspected it was bigger than mere pups. Even direwolf pups.

…What indeed…

She lifted her gaze at the same time as the pup, both of them looking at Father with a serious expression. Sansa seemed to consider him for a long moment, her mouth chewing silently as if she were arguing with herself. Finally though, she seemed to give up on whatever she'd been thinking. She sighed, returning her gaze to Lady as the pup looked back at her as well. "Her mother was fleeing south, carried along by ancient instincts. Her own blood knew the way towards ancient oaths; hearth for service, life for life. The wrath of winter for the joy of summer."

"It was searching for something?" Jon asked. He was often silent around her, though she didn't seem to mind the question.

"Yes. Starks," she said with slight smile as the pup yawned. She scratched the side of its head as she kept talking, "Starks of old faced fates worse than death, millennia ago. They made their own blood sing, attuned it to that which they considered the noblest of the North's beasts. Companions who would follow them in the world of the living… and make sure they stayed in the world of the dead, when the time came. Companions not unlike little Lady here," she said, her smile turning tender as the pup whimpered at the end.

Theon snorted, though he didn't move towards her again. "Sansa, don't be silly…" Robb found himself whispering.

"The sigil of our House honors them. Their mother carried them but an hour away from Winterfell and died by the side of a small road seldom used…" she paused, looking over at the mother's corpse. She sniffed, "Died and gave birth the very day we would pass through it. Does it really sound so hard to believe we were meant to have them?"

"We?" asked Bran.

"There's six pups, one for each whose blood flows with the echoes of winter. Four males, two females. One each for the Starks of our generation."

"But… There's five of them, Sansa," said Jon, a bewildered frown dominating his features.

She smiled good-naturedly, "Yours is quite alike you. Silent as a ghost when it suits him," she said as her eyes drifted to his side.

Even the guards turned to look when Jon whirled towards the little nook Sansa had gazed at. Robb's heart thumped like a war drum as he saw a small white pup, barely making a sound as it stared at Jon.

"Hello little one," whispered Sansa, smiling.

"Old Gods green and wise…" whispered Jory, hand trembling despite the firm grip over the pommel of his sword.

"Why are they coming south, Sansa? Why was the mother fleeing?" asked Father, voice thick with tension.

Sansa hesitated, petting Lady absentmindedly as it licked her jaw.

"Why Sansa?" said Father.

She sighed, the sound of the wind slow against Robb's ears. "You already know the answer to that question. You can feel it in the air; how the wind seems to cut through fur like a dagger in the back," she said.

Robb shared a look with Jon, the little white ghost in his hands staying eerily still, regarding Sansa with red eyes.

"You can see it when the clouds break over the Wall and their grey remnants lay perched over Winterfell, waiting…" she said, cradling Lady against the cold. "You listen to it when the crows caw and the wolves howl, the edge of a deep anxiety hidden beneath their calls. Like blades in the dark…" Her eyes turned to Father's, her smile wan, "You can feel it when you speak with the Heart Trees. They cry red sap at what's to come. They remember," she whispered.

Robb felt as if he were being choked, his vision slowly tunneling on Sansa's face.

"You ask, but you already know the answer deep inside you. You already know the answer to that question, Father," she said.

"Winter is Coming," someone said. The voice sounded drowned, filled with dread.

Robb realized it had been his.

"Ser Rodrik!" Father commanded suddenly.

"My Lord?" Ser Rodrik responded at once.

"We ride on to Winterfell at speed, keep those pups close! Recall the patrols and double the guard on the walls tonight. I want the gatehouse closed by mid-afternoon."

"Aye my Lord!" said Ser Rodrik, immediately turning towards the small bridge where the rest of the guards were. "Alyn!" he bellowed, "Take point with Tobin and Horace, eyes peeled. We make for Winterfell at a fast trot!"

Alyn had been tense before, but the urgency in Ser Rodrik's voice seemed to jolt him into action. He turned as he gestured with the halberd, the Stark banner picking up as the wind returned with a vengeance, "You heard him men! Mount up and look sharp!" he shouted.

"Father…" said Sansa, her voice bewildered for once. "We're safe now, there's time still before-"

"That will be for me to decide," he said, checking over the great brooch that held the heavy pelt over his back. "If that is so, then the men could still use the drill. And if not…" he trailed off, sounding disbelieving as he shook his head, "I want to see you in my solar as soon as we arrive. Are we clear, Sansa?" he said, his tone brooking absolutely no disagreement.

Robb opened his mouth.

"Alone," said Father as he stared him down. Robb shut it back with a clack as the guards ahead scrambled.

Sansa gazed at Father, blue eyes clashing with grey before she sighed, nodding halfheartedly. "Come on Lady, there'll be a warm meal for you back home," she said, and the pup seemed to give a small bark of agreement. Robb felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand on edge as they moved; even Theon was unusually quiet as they grabbed the pups quickly and climbed back to the end of the little stone bridge. They mounted their horses in silence.

"Make sure the men say nothing about this," Father said to Ser Rodrik as they climbed their own horses.

"I'll tell Jory," said Ser Rodrik with a nod.

His sister was not mad, Robb was sure of it now. She had seen something, known something with a sort of visceral awareness Robb could only liken to yard-trained instinct…

"Jory, take the rear with Mortin and Dallen, make sure they all keep pace!" shouted Ser Rodrik.

"Understood!" said Jory, moving over to the back and talking lowly with the guardsmen of the rear guard.

"Let's go!" shouted Ser Rodrik.

As the group departed at a fast trot, Robb found himself looking at the overcast horizon. He didn't know what Sansa had seen there. He couldn't name it, but he could feel a sliver of it in his gut anyway.

When the cold wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, he remembered.

Had Sansa seen the Cold Wind?

-: PD :-