Cross the Line

Chapter Two

Upon her brother's and sister's return, Sansa began to feel whole again, safe. Even if there is a blood lust in Arya's eyes and emptiness in Bran's, something deep within Sansa knew a wolf would never turn on their Pack.

Perhaps that is why she did not expect Arya to confront her about the note she sent to Robb, or threaten to steal her face.

However, Arya's confrontation did allow for them to smell the plot against them by the mockingbird.

Truly, they might have missed the smell of deceit, had it not been for the Broken Wolf. Bran might have come back as something else, something older, but he still was a wolf inside. He warned them that not all was as it seemed, and one man was bent on tearing the sisters apart to leave Sansa alone, vulnerable, so that he might climb the ladder. The same man had conspired against their family more times than one might be able to count, but never again would he win, never again would he tear the Starks apart. Before, he'd separated them, had others kill them off one by one.

While wolves can kill smaller prey on their own, wolves hunt in packs to kill larger, more dangerous things.

Littlefinger, if nothing else, was dangerous.

It had been so satisfying to watch his throat be cut to the bone and watch him bleed out upon the stone.

Sansa spent the next few weeks preparing for the eventuality of all of the North seeking shelter here, within Winterfell's walls. Sansa had the kennels gutted in order to fit them for more beds, having the dogs retrained by a trusted kennel master. Once properly fed and treated with kindness, the dogs weren't as mad as Ramsey had boasted.

Sansa always did believe in second chances for abused creatures.

She often wondered about what truly was the difference between the direwolves' loyalty and Ramsey's mad dogs.

The difference, Sansa found, was that the direwolf was viewed as the Starks' equal.

A direwolf would never turn on a Stark like the mad dogs had turned on Bolton because a Stark would never starve their wolf like Ramsey had his dogs.

A direwolf was born for each Stark, as a Stark had been born for each pup. They were fated to be together, to be by each other's sides always, until death parted them.

A Stark was never meant to be without their direwolf.

Sansa had lost hers first. She'd lost herself first.

She could hear whispers, when she was forced to bear the name Bolton, about how she was no Stark; she was not wild enough, not Stark enough. She looked too much like a Fish, acted like a Lioness, bore the name of the Flayed Man, and sounded like a Mockingbird.

Lady Catelyn Stark may have smelled of fish, but no one would have ever mistaken her for anything but a wolf. Her fur had shimmered like the scales of a fish, but oh, how she howled.

Sansa could only imagine the late Lady Catelyn's disappointment in her eldest daughter, Sansa unable to prove her loyalty to even her family. Arya had doubted her. How long before Jon would, too?

Everything she'd done had been for her family and for their people, and yet her own sister believed her to be power hungry. She believed the worst in Sansa, and she couldn't blame Arya.

The horns of Winterfell sounded, calling out an ally's approach. Sansa shook herself of her melancholy self-doubts, looking to see if she could spot whoever was out there. "My Lady! They are flying a flag of peace, but no other sign of who they are," an out-of-breath squire reported, clearly having run to her. Ghost glanced up to her.