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s a n s a:

You can do this.

You must do this.

The second thought helps much more than the first. When it’s no longer a question of ability, but necessity, Sansa thinks sheer determination can get her through this. Things are different this time. Her family is still here, Jaime is Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Robert Baratheon is still king. Cersei Lannister’s power is not what it had been while she had been held captive here. Not yet.

The secret lessons with her sister and Jaime have helped – though she knows she doesn’t take to it like Arya does. But it doesn’t stop her from walking faster as she passes Ser Meryn Trant or any of the others once they are in the same room.

All she has to do is manage and soon enough it will be safe for them to leave the Capitol. To return North and to go home.

But she can’t sleep, and if she wasn’t so terrified at the thought of being poisoned Sansa would ask the Maesters for milk of the poppy. Every room in the keep holds a memory, her own memories, unlike the last time she had toured it with Septa Mordane.

The nightmares are worse here, though Sansa can’t say she’s terribly surprised. She’s always been stronger inside the walls of Winterfell, and here they’re all sleeping inside the lion’s den. She tries to stay awake, tries desperately not to let the exhaustion affect her, and more than anything tries to appear as if she’s herself.

Her father doesn’t seem to notice. Joffrey in a newfound desperation to spark the same kind of childish, puppy-like devotion she had shown him in her first life hasn’t notice. And neither has Queen Cersei, who has on more than one occasion tried to poke holes in her polite courtesy in an effort to get something more . She doesn’t know exactly what has caused the sudden spike of interest, or the push to seal the betrothal between the two family names.

Half of her wants to suspect Tywin Lannister himself, but she knows Cersei. She knows Cersei perhaps better than anyone...except her own husband.

And Cersei Lannister has never been a fool.

If she’s noticed anything between them, any looks between a silly little girl and her twin...

The thought terrifies her. What if they’ve unknowingly put themselves at risk? Put Jaime at risk?

She remains stuck in the seat next to the Queen, a great honor that’s bestowed, and does her best to smile prettily every time she hears the words little dove fall from the blonde lion’s mouth. The entire time Sansa thinks how she’d much rather be preparing for the dead to march to Winterfell.

That night she dreams of the riot, of Robb’s victory at the Battle of Oxcross and Joffrey’s displeasure. She dreams of Cersei’s advice on motherhood and love, and warnings to love no one but her own children. She dreams of the bloody mattress and how hard Shae had tried to hide the evidence—and then she feels cool hands grasp her arms.

Her eyes blink open furiously as she tries to fight off the arms with everything she has, tries to scream but her voice feels raw —and...and that’s Arya looking at her from across the room.

But then who’s hands—

Jaime.

It had taken a moment to place the second hand, and as her surroundings come to her, she slowly starts to still. She’s terrifying her sister, she’s not doing as good of a job as she thought. She’d thought no one had noticed, that she had concealed it well but Arya... Arya’s noticed.

And she’s gone for Jaime, of all people.

Her hands grip onto him so tightly that all she feels are pins and needles and she tries, tries desperately to sound composed, but she can hardly get the words out as her chin begins to tremble.

“J-just a dream. I’m a-alright.”

j a i m e:

It’s the whisper of metal on metal that wakes him, a sound so faint it takes years of war and captivity and sleeping on the side of the road with your sword tucked against your stomach to train yourself to hear when sleeping. But wake Jaime does, and he’s got the intruder shoved up against the bedpost, arm wrenched behind them, the dagger he’s slept with under his pillow since he awoke more than twenty years in the past pressing against their throat. 

“Seven bloody hells, can you teach me that?”

It doesn’t register for a moment, and then all at once, he relaxes, cursing. 

“For fuck’s sake, Arya, I could’ve killed you! What are you doing here?!” 

She scrambles to face him, and all of the keen interest from a moment ago—when he’d had his blade at her throat, the bloody menace—disappears as she grabs his wrist. “It’s Sansa, please, you have to help her!”

All the blood drains out of his face and his heart starts beating double time. Cersei’s got her, or fuck, that snivelling worm Baelish—

He throws his surcoat over his sleeping shirt, doesn’t bat an eye as he yanks on trousers—it would serve Arya well if she was mortified by the invasion of his privacy, but knowing her, she won’t even blink—and grabs his scabbard. It doesn’t take him thirty seconds and he grabs Arya by the arm and pulls her out in the hallway. “Take me to her.” 

She fills him in on the way, and he’s relieved to know Sansa’s not in any mortal danger, though the knowledge that the night terrors have taken hold of her so brutally, and while he is so utterly incapable of helping no less, leaves his stomach roiling. He can help tonight, though, even if it must be just this once. If Ned Stark finds him in his daughters’ rooms, Jaime is sure he and Varys will suddenly have much more in common to discuss next time they meet. 

They walk quickly, but it is a far walk down from the White Sword Tower and then up to the Tower of the Hand. “How did you get in my room?” He asks suddenly, bewildered, and raises an eyebrow when Arya actually blushes. She glares at him and he watches, amused, as a purely Sansa expression of superiority slides onto Arya’s features. “I picked the lock.” 

“You picked— seven hells,” he mutters. Her grin is utterly unrepentant. She catches his elbow before he enters the stairwell of the Tower of the Hand and pulls him to a tapestry. 

“This way, the guards won’t see us through here.” 

This… is a major breach in security, he realizes as Arya leads him into a passageway through the walls. Everyone knows that the walls have ears, and in the past two decades, they’ve often been his own, but he hadn’t been aware of this one, or any passageway that so blatantly bypassed the entries from one keep to the next. 

“Pretty neat, isn’t it?” Arya says, eager for him to share in her excitement, though he’s a bit too concerned for Sansa to do so. “Joffrey’s lucky I’m not an assassin,” she hisses, and really, he should scold her, but instead he snorts. If only she knew…

“Yes, I suspect he is.” 

Outside the girls’ chamber, Arya pauses, growing serious again. “I don’t know why you’re so special, but you make her feel better. You have to help her, please.” It rips his heart out to see Arya Stark of all people, begging him to help his wife as if he has to be convinced, especially since the Arya of old would’ve never begged anything of him. She’d have ordered him at knife point. Still, he nods and follows her inside before any Stark guards can see them, and isn’t even through the door when he hears her quiet keening. 

It’s the same noise she’s always made, stuck in her throat, the sound a rabbit makes as it dies. It’s always gutted him, since the first time he heard it, and now is no different. He crosses to her, strokes her forehead, starts murmuring to her, never grabbing her, only gentling her, like a spooked horse. “You’re safe, Sansa sweetling, I’m here, no one can hurt you. I’m here, sweetling, you’re safe,” he soothes, over and over again. She starts to thrash, and he closes his eyes for a second, before grabbing her wrists. She’d managed a solid punch to his jaw once in their last life, that had left Tyrion wondering for weeks at this new insight to his brother’s love life. The tight grip will jolt her out of the dream, it usually does, but it comes with a cost. 

No friend of Sansa’s has ever gripped her so tightly. None but him, and only when he has no other choice. Her eyes flare wide, and she fights him with everything she has—thank the gods he’s got his hand back, this is much easier with two than one. 

“ Shhhh , love, it’s me. I’ve got you,” he whispers, as she finally stills, her eyes falling on her sister. 

Her sister, who is watching him with wide eyes. Ah, fuck. 

The urge to slowly slide away from his wife builds under Arya’s flinty stare, though he doesn’t dare try to pull his arms free from Sansa’s death grip. Quite frankly, he’s not sure which Stark girl frightens him more. His gaze darts away from the little Stark back to Sansa. “It’s done now,” he says quietly, his thumbs stroking at her upper arms. The dream is done, the nightmares of their past are done. He wants to pull her to his chest, rock her until her shudders cease, but he can sense he’s already made a critical mistake this night. “It’s passed.” 

S a n s a:

She hardly hears Jaime’s voice, and her heart is thundering so loudly in her head that Sansa feels like she’s going to be sick. Her eyes flutter back shut and she takes a slow deep breath, her fingers flexing in their grip into her husband’s arms. It’s the room, the smells, or the way how she can maneuver a few things but still somehow is waiting for Cersei to move the chess piece in a way she doesn’t, or can’t, predict. It’s nauseating, and it’s hard to not miss a time where the North had their independence and she was safe within the walls of Winterfell, far from this place.

Until the dead had come. Until the dragons had come.

She can’t get sick. She won’t be sick. It’s just a dream, a horrible memory, and she’s safe.

A part of her wants to laugh, but her throat is sore, and nothing about King’s Landing is safe.

Maybe she can convince her nerves that it isn’t proper. And while Jaime’s certainly seen worse, her younger sister has not. Nothing had put that kind of worry in Arya’s face before, and the guilt crawls up her throat slowly. The point was to change things, their purpose coming before anything else. They can’t afford for her fear to slow them down, or hinder them in anyway, and Sansa has no good explanation for any of it. She’s not ready to share her nightmares, has no way of doing so without disclosing so much more which in this very moment may only serve to make things worse.

Selfishly, she wants to protect Arya from this too. It’s a past life that shouldn’t touch her any more than it has to, and only when necessary. She wants her father to leave the Red Keep with his head attached to his body instead of the pike on Traitor’s Walk. She wants her mother and brother to never make it to the Twins.

I’m going to give you a present. After I raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, I’m going to give you his head as well.

Or maybe he’ll give me yours.

Her face blanches just before she grits her teeth. It won’t happen, it won’t happen this time. She won’t allow it to.

“ Jaime ?”

Sansa wants her husband. It’s a childish thought, but it’s the thought which tries to drown out all others. Her grip on his hardly loosens, as if a part of her is somehow afraid that if she lets go she’ll be lost in between two lives that she can’t make sense of. Her body trembles as it fights to catch up with what her mind already knows, and subtly her leg, which is tucked underneath the blanket of her bed, moves forward just an inch to find him where he’s seated next to her. It’s not close enough, it’s not him, but she settles for the little touches they can have given their current audience, and pretends it’s the same as his arms wrapped around her.

Stay, please stay.

“You’re here.”

Later she’ll remember that she should’ve been somewhat embarrassed at the famed Ser Jaime Lannister in her room at such an hour, with her not suitably dressed, but in the moment there’s no time to fret. There’s no one who’s managed to help quite like he can, and her mind is too busy dreaming up possible ways to keep them closer without inviting even more suspicion.

Sansa tears her gaze from her younger sister, only after giving her the best smile she can muster, and turns back to Jaime and nods. He’s right – as always. The dreams are done, he’s here, and it’s the best she’s felt since arriving back South. Even with the dream just having passed.

“I’m alright,” she says again with a bit more strength behind the words, and somehow manages to blink back tears before they can fall. Sansa watches Jaime carefully, and tries to convey as much as she can without actually conveying anything at all. She can’t break now, not when she can’t hold onto Jaime like she wants to—not when he can’t stay, and will do just about anything to change that if he thinks she needs it – and Arya. “I’m okay, Arya. Just a silly little dream. See?”

Her left hand trails down Jaime’s forearm to wrap around his wrist –instead of lacing their fingers like she wants to – and discreetly wipes at her eyes with her right.

j a i m e:

“I am,” he promises, nodding, giving Arya one last glance before he gives his wife his full attention. Her fear isn’t more moving in this body, not precisely, though it’s been years and years since he had come face to face with it. But perhaps it’s seeing the strength of her fear in a body so young that puts into perspective just how frightened Sansa is. Even in his arms, she’d only ever allowed herself the smallest window of vulnerability, just enough to let him lighten the burden before she shut it all away again behind the Lady of Winterfell. He had his own nightmares, then, too, so perhaps her fear felt proportional. He’s had twenty years to learn to live with his nightmares; for her, they grow more fresh every day.  

She smiles at Arya, but it comes across as waxen, ill-suited to a face that has smiled so readily this past moon. He nudges his own leg against hers where they touch, but for layers of linen. It’s not nearly enough, not even close, and he doubts either one of them with sleep well this night. They had found their comfort in one another’s arms, before. They grounded each other, reassured each other they were both still alive, still breathing, still fighting. Not being able to give her that this night, it hurts . He should be more prepared for the ache of it, after so many years of ache, a lifetime of it, but with every new pang, it seems to strike anew. 

“You’re lying,” Arya’s voice cuts in, and Jaime looks up, caught off guard by the tone of it. It’s not the way she spoke in the last life, not truly, not yet, but it’s closer than he’s yet to hear from this child, and he swallows, looks away. 

Of course Sansa is lying. The problem is that she doesn’t have much other choice. The terrors that haunt her haven’t come to pass in this life, and won’t ever, if he can help it. But then how do they explain what plagues her? How can they make sense of the sheer terror and agony that haunts Sansa so fiercely that she screams even in sleep?

How do they explain why Jaime’s touch is the only thing to bring her peace? Why he hadn’t thought twice before offering it? 

“You’re lying, Sansa. Someone is hurting you! Just tell me who it is, and I’ll run them through with my sword! I’ll cut their balls off, make them choke on ‘em! Just tell me, Sansa. Why does he get to help you, but not me?” 

Jaime’s eyes close at that, as Arya gestures at him with the tip of her sword, which, honestly, he should’ve been paying enough attention to prevent her from picking that up. But he knows Arya won’t hurt him, not tonight at least, not while Sansa still has his wrists in a bone-breaking hold. 

They’d tried to keep the pain from her, bloody fools that they were. He should’ve known that Arya didn’t need an assassin’s training to see everything. He should’ve guessed she was born with it, because her sister had that talent, too. He looks down at his wife, assessing. They need to come up with something, something more convincing than ‘just a silly dream,’ but not tonight. Tonight, they have to focus on Sansa, and tomorrow… well, tomorrow is another day. 

“Put the sword down, Little Stark. What did I tell you about swords and close quarters?”

Arya glares at him, but responds, albeit begrudgingly, anyway. “Daggers are better suited.” 

He snorts, squeezes Sansa’s arms one more time before letting her go. He doesn’t pull away though, lets her hang on as long as she needs. “The sword, Arya,” he says pointedly. “I doubt you’re making your sister feel better.” The words do the trick and she lowers the sword, though that resentful, confused hurt in her eyes doesn’t fade. Yes, this will be a problem tomorrow. “The only threats to your sister right now, are a poor night’s sleep, and monsters that are long gone from this world,” he says quietly, trying to reassure both sisters in turn. “And should she ever meet them face to face, well, she has two very dedicated warriors who will no doubt put themselves between her and her fears.” 

Arya’s scowl doesn’t fade, but she drops her sword and comes to sit on the edge of Sansa’s bed. 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, Sansa. I promise you,” she vows quietly, with all the solemnity of the warrior she’ll one day grow to be. Then her eyes dart back to Jaime. “And I’m quicker than him, so I’ll be there first.” 

S a n s a:

Don’t go.

She can’t ask him tonight, she can’t no matter how many times she’s asked him before. He’s never denied her before, and she can’t ask him to jeopardize himself now.

So she nods, and silently promises to find time with him later.

She doesn’t know how Arya’s managed to figure out that Jaime was the best person to bring. Either her ability to keep things hidden has gotten worse, or her sister’s skills are far better than she ever remembered them being prior to their reunion at Winterfell. If it’s the latter...A part of Sansa wonders exactly how much her sister will be able to piece together if they’re not careful. There’s no good way to explain this without sounding mad , and they’re lucky enough that Sansa’s screams haven’t garnered more attention than they already have.

Only Arya and Jaime know how they managed to sneak into the bedroom so quickly, but if the Stark guards suspect something and storm in, Sansa can’t imagine the kind of excuse that would be necessary to get them out of that particular bind. She’s barely managing to come up with a decent reason for a nightmare so bad that her sister felt compelled to find the knight who’s been giving them lessons. Who also happens to be her husband, which her sister should have no inclination of.

Given how desperately Sansa clings to Jaime now that he’s here, it might get increasingly more difficult to excuse away.

Had it been their previous life, Sansa would’ve rolled her eyes. She knows that tone, knows Arya when she chooses to be combative...But this is different too. Whether she’s managed to scare Arya or not, something else is going on, and so Sansa keeps the typical remark to herself and instead watches her sister carefully.

She’s a child. Still truly a young girl, and Sansa’s been trying so hard to make things better between them, not worse.

“Arya!” The thought shouldn’t be warming , so instead Sansa manages a gasp that’s part disbelief and part amusement. “You can’t just...go cutting people’s balls off . ” Though...on second thought, she’s not too sure if there’s anything her sister can’t do.

“You do help me,” Sansa insists quietly, not for a moment bothered that Jaime is here for this either. He’s family, Arya just doesn’t know it yet. But still, she lowers her voice for her sister’s sake, so she doesn’t feel like she has to share this moment too. “You help me more than anyone. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Jaime lets go, and Sansa swallows the panic that bubbles up her throat. She’s not ready, it’s too soon , and they still have to talk privately – though she imagines that’s not happening tonight. So instead, Sansa’s grip remains firm on the one wrist she has. Not yet. He doesn’t get to leave her yet.

Monsters that are long gone.

But they’re not exactly long gone, are they? Joffrey follows her, tries to charm her. He’s not the same Joffrey, but there’s something there that makes her nervous, makes her hesitate. Cersei is the same, if not more attentive because she doesn’t have her twin. The same members of the Kingsguard who all but stripped her down to nothing before beating her—

Her fingers flex around Jaime’s wrist. It won’t happen again. Not this time.

It’s her sister’s vow which brings fresh tears to her eyes, but this time they’re accompanied by a soft smile. “I won’t let anyone hurt you either,” Sansa promises softly in return, her free hand reaching out to find Arya’s. The difference between the relationship between her husband and her sister is already noticeable. Her sister might be annoyed with Jaime, upset, but there’s respect there too. An admiration.

“Would you spend the night here with me?” She asks Arya, her thumb brushing on the inside of Jaime’s wrist. He can’t stay, she knows it logically no matter how much she wants it, and...maybe Arya needs it too. 

j a i m e:

It hurts, that he can’t offer her anything more than reassurances, that he can’t be her champion in this. These enemies are in her mind, the only place he cannot follow her. Even more than that, no matter how many fights he’d take up on her behalf, how many battle charges he would lead, he can’t. Not yet, not in the Red Keep, not under the watchful eyes of his covetous sister. 

He has exactly one skill, and it is useless here. He is useless, here. 

Yet even as Arya makes her vows, Sansa’s grip tightens on his wrist, refuses to let him go, despite how it might look to her sister. Cersei didn’t do this. She’d never compromised, never suffered moments of weakness, never let her guard down without punishing him for it later. She took her comfort in him, but rarely offered him his own, and she never held onto him unless it was to urge harder, faster, or hide, damn it! 

Right now, Sansa needs to hold onto him more than they need to hide from her sister, and that shakes Jaime. 

He doesn’t return his free hand to her arm, but instead places it on his thigh, close enough that his pinky—out of Arya’s line of sight—can stroke her knee. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. 

He stays quiet as the sisters promise each other, though he watches them unabashedly. Arya’s eyes gleam with tears, and Sansa’s with a tired and strained relief. He wonders as he watches them, if this moment might not have a greater impact on the course of history than all of the many changes he has tried to set into motion over the years. With these two fighting for one another from the very start instead of against, he can’t imagine anything capable of stopping them. 

Suddenly, Arya’s gaze flicks up to his, and she narrows her eyes as she takes his measure. It’s unnerving to see the gaze of the assassin he knew in the face of an eleven year old, but he’s not quite surprised either. Then she speaks. 

“Aye, I’ll stay. Jaime, too.”

“Little Stark, I don’t think—”

“Just until she falls asleep, Kingslayer. You make her feel safer,” she observes, voice steely. Ah. Yes, they are indeed in trouble. He looks back down at his wife and raises an eyebrow, flips the wrist caught in her hand so that he can stroke her wrist, as well. Every little bit counts. 

“What say you—” wife, he’s about to say before he bites his tongue. “—sweetling?” He settles for, no matter how inappropriate it must seem to Arya. If his words are the only way he has of showing her affection, he’ll become a damn wordsmith. 

s a n s a:

It should no longer surprise her that her husband is capable of reading and anticipating what she needs from him before she can even figure out how to put it into words. He stays, despite the fact that they’re now orchestrating a dangerous dance. Sansa’s mind whirls. Now that she’s conscious, now that she can think about what’s happened and why she’s dreamed about what she has, she knows they need to do something. They need to be more careful. 

Tomorrow. She’ll have to find a moment to steal with her husband when she’s not under Cersei’s watchful eye. Their changes are causing ripples, and they need to be careful they don’t end up washed under the undertow. 

Jaime finds a new way, another way to comfort her and Sansa, not for the first time since they’ve been married, wants to destroy the public perception around the blasted nomenclature. She’s not sure if there’s something that exists that would stop Ser Jaime Lannister doing what he needs to for the people that he loves. 

They don’t realize that the man they whisper about behind his back is the best of them all, whether he chooses to share it or not. 

She can’t say the words, not yet. Sansa imagines she’ll have to have a conversation with Arya at some point outside of the little japes her sister has started to toss her way about what she’s noticed so far as an unrequited crush. So instead the elder Stark traces one word into the delicate skin of the inside of his wrist with her pointer finger. 

Love. 

And she does feel better now, sitting between her husband and her sister. She may be stronger within the walls of Winterfell, but she’s not alone here this time. She has friends, she has family and she’s not a captive. 

Not yet, whisper the monsters from her memories, and Sansa swallows back her fear and puts it aside for now. She’s frightened them enough for one night, she thinks. 

She doesn’t let go of Arya’s hand either, though her head tilts as she studies the look that the younger girl levels her—yet to be known—good brother. She may not have her memories from their past life, she may have very well never lived it, but Sansa wonders if they’ve all been left with something from the echoes of that time. She’s seen that look before, has seen men whither under it before battle. 

Sansa almost laughs, almost, before she realizes that will just be another thing she has to explain, and she hides it by clearing her throat. 

Aye. 

She can’t hide the smile this time. And her sister gifts them both something she had been trying to figure out a way to ask for without getting them in anymore trouble. Though, considering the look her sister had given, she doesn’t envy her husband in this. 

“His name is Jaime, Arya,” she corrects sleepily, knowing he’ll ignore it. She too once had used the name to describe him, but Brienne had been right.

Come to think of it, Sansa isn’t sure she can name a time when the knight had been wrong. 

She misses her. 

“Please stay. She’s right.” Though her husband knows this already.  “You both do.” 

j a i m e:

The small quirk of his lips is just for Sansa as she begins tracing letters into his skin. He’d forgotten that little game of hers, but he figures out quickly enough what she’s spelling. He starts tracing his own word in return. 

Wife. 

He has to believe they’ll be okay. That they’ll make it through this, make it out of King’s Landing, through the Long Night alive. Why else would they’ve been sent back? He knows it won’t be easy, none of this has been easy from the moment he woke up, but even if they can’t be together , they’re together, they’re close enough to touch and that’s more than he ever thought he’d have again. 

He squeezes her wrist when she comes to his defense and may her Old Gods save him, he can’t help himself. 

He brings her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I cannot protect you from your nightmares, my Lady, but I can protect you from everything else, at least this night.” 

He sits by her bedside and holds on as his wife falls asleep, studiously avoiding Arya’s unwavering glower. Finally, he sighs and looks her way. “ You asked me for my help, Little Stark,” he says tiredly.

“I didn’t expect you to be any good at it! It was just my last option! I shook her and yelled at her and hugged her and nothing woke her up. I didn’t know what else to do…” Arya looks so frustrated with herself in that moment that Jaime sighs, runs a hand through his hair. 

“You did the right thing, getting me. I have...dealt with these kinds of night terrors in the past. They are never easy to navigate.” It’s difficult to talk about, he finds. Because he’s not just speaking about his prior experience with Sansa’s night terrors, but his own as well, after the Battle of Winterfell, after Aerys…after Sansa’s death.

“Have you dealt with Sansa’s night terrors before?” She asks quietly, those disconcerting eyes locked on him. He won’t lie to her, not about this, but it’s not the time or place for this discussion either. 

“I have had my own,” he says instead, gazing locking on a cracked stone in the wall. 

“You called her sweetling.” You called her love.

“Old habit, I suppose.” True . “I used to soothe away my little brother’s nightmares once upon a time. I called him sweetling, too.” Also true. “Is there a reason for the interrogation, Arya?” 

Her gaze falters, finally , and the eleven year old girl emerges from behind that impenetrable mask. “I’m going to sleep,” she say, crawling into bed next to her sister.” When you leave, use the passageway.” 

He doesn’t leave for a long time.

S a n s a:

They always will find a way to communicate. The tension in her shoulders slowly starts to slip away at his reply. They may be getting careless when it comes to time shared with Arya, but this goes missed for now, just as it had in their previous life too. This belongs to them and only them, and Sansa finds that she’s not too keen on sharing it just yet. 

And she should admonish him for the brush of his lips across her fingertips. But it is gallant and the touch is imbued with so much more that Sansa can’t stop the corner of her mouth tugging upwards into the very smile that had always belonged to him back before the Battle of Winterfell. 

“I trust you with this always, Ser,” she manages softly before she shifts in the bed to get comfortable. It’s more difficult than usual, because she refuses to let go of him. Sansa twists into her usual spot, leaving a very prominent Jaime filled hole that’s been present ever since she woke up in this life. 

And she has every intention of staying awake and listening to the conversation that she knows is about to transpire. Curiosity fills her mind, and really… there’s always been something amusing about the Lord Commander’s hesitance when it comes to Arya Stark, no matter how necessary it might be at times, but the moment her head hits the pillow it’s hard to fight it back. With her hand still tightly clasping onto her husband’s, the room feels that much safer, and the exhaustion that she’s been battling ever since arriving at King’s Landing finally wins, and her breath slowly evens out as she drifts off to sleep. 

She wakes up the next morning early, a little bit groggy, but otherwise well rested . Sansa doesn’t know how long Jaime stayed, but it must’ve been long enough to chase off the demons of her mind, while Arya’s small frame next to her kept guard. 

What she doesn’t expect is a similar look on her sister’s face, who’s just as awake as she is, when Sansa turns to find her. 

She doesn’t say anything at first. She can’t brush it off, pretend like it didn’t happen, especially not after Arya’s reaction to everything that had happened. 

It must’ve been bad. Worse than usual. It’s not surprising, she’s missing two very large sources of her usual strength. 

So she shifts closer to her sister, and gives her a small hesitant smile. “It’s early.” 

a r y a: 

Arya is fairly certain she didn’t sleep at all last, though she must’ve because she doesn’t remember the Kingslayer leaving. She’s known for a while something is off, but it had taken last night for her to truly grasp just how off things are. 

Something is wrong with Sansa. 

It’s not just the night terrors, not even her weirdly affectionate relationship with the Kingslayer. Things had gotten strange even before the King had come to Winterfell. One evening Sansa was ripping her hairbrush through Arya’s snarls, muttering about savages and ingratitude, and the next morning Sansa has passed out cold at the breakfast table, and then she’d gotten all, all nice. 

Arya hadn’t believed it at first, she thought it was another of Sansa and Jeyne’s cruel games, but no matter how much she poked and prodded at Sansa’s change of heart, she never wavered. She even sewed Arya a pair of breeches . 

And now she’s pretty sure someone is torturing her sister. Only, she’s been following her sister. She’s gotten pretty good at it too, only having to fake running into Sansa twice in the last two sennights. There’s nothing going on that she can see, no one approaching her that shouldn’t be, there are no bruises when Arya has been helping her get dressed lately—purely a reconnaissance strategy—she doesn't even talk in her sleep to give up any hints. She just makes these noises, horrible noises like someone is cutting into her but she has to be quiet. 

Those noises alone have given Arya her own share of nightmares. 

But normally she can shake her sister out of them, normally she can “accidentally” kick her and wake her up just enough to push the nightmares away. Not last night though. Last night, had been something different. For a moment, when Arya had woken up, she’d thought there was actually someone in the room with them, hurting Sansa, and nothing she could do seemed to make any difference. 

She’d almost gotten their father, but at the last moment, she’d redirected, remembering how Jaime had soothed Sansa when she’d fallen from her horse on the ride down and twisted her ankle. He always made time for their practice and kept an eye on them whenever he could while they rode south. Jaime Lannister cared about them, and he made things better. That had been good enough for Arya.

Only apparently he cared about Sansa more than Arya thought. 

“I think the Kingslayer is in love with you,” she says abruptly, almost accusatory. 

s a n s a:

The light shines through the window, but it’s early enough where they don’t have to worry about being interrupted by Septa Mordane. Small mercies, Sansa thinks as she watches her sister. She’s not foolish enough to think that everything that had happened last night will be easily brushed away. Not when she can still see the different emotions that had been etched into her Arya’s face as she had finally come to enough to recognize her surroundings. Arya might be young again, impossibly younger than Sansa remembers, but she’s smart. Quick. And last night they had been vulnerable and had let more show than they ever had before in front of her. 

Another small mercy. It’ll be easier to explain to Arya than their father. Than guards if they end up posted at their door based on what their father learns. 

She wants to tell her everything. To share what she knows and have Arya’s help. The other part of her wars against it. Sansa wants to fight for Arya’s childhood, the one that had been robbed from them when Joffrey had defined his mercy as cutting off their father’s head. 

Whatever she had been expecting her sister to start with—it isn’t that. 

Sansa feels warm at the admission, but also feels as if someone’s dumped a bucket of water over her head in a bath that’s gone too cold. 

“Jaime. Ser Jaime. I think he’s earned at least that from us,” she admonishes gently,  so unlike the way she used to with so much impatience, and bite. 

Perhaps she would have been better suited to deny the accusation before correcting her. 

But he is, and even if it is a rather bold thought to have, it’s one Sansa knows she truly believes. She has to bite on the inside of her cheek harshly to avoid a smile, and she looks to her lap to buy a little time, and to try and say something that’s not such a blatant lie . 

Telling her sister of one and ten that he’s been her husband for nearly the past two decades of his life and that he was the best of them will only demand more questions. 

“He cares for us.” It’s not a lie, and while Arya has correctly deduced one portion of it, she’s forgotten herself from the equation. “He’s honorable. And good.” It’s meant to sound matter of factual, but Sansa misses the mark of hiding the emotion behind it. “This place, it can be dangerous, Arya. Ser Jaime…” she trails off, unsure of how to phrase it.

“He’s a knight. He protects the innocent.” 

It sounds like something she would’ve once said. She hopes. 

a r y a:

She watches closely to Sansa’s reaction. It’s harder now to predict her sister. Just a few moons ago, Arya would’ve been able to recite what Sansa would say and how she would say it, before she had said anything at all. Now, it’s like she barely knows the girl in her sister’s body, never has any inkling what Sansa’s reaction will be, except for the hesitant, yet growing understanding that it’ll probably be something Arya likes. 

Not now though. Because Sansa doesn’t hiss at her to shut up, or quit embarrassing her, or scream at how she’s ruining everything. She just blushes, averts her gaze, strokes the sheet on their bed like it’s fur, as if it can help her get out of this. Arya’s brows skyrocket. 

It’s on the tip of her tongue to demand what else she thinks Ser Jaime has earned when Sansa continues. Something about the way she includes Arya in her statement both soothes and riles the deepest of Arya’s fear. “He’s never called me sweetling.” It’s meant to be an accusation, but it comes out more like a confession, and Arya knows she should be trying to soothe her sister, especially after the terror she had experienced last night, but she can’t do it with this ache inside her chest. Everyone has always liked Sansa better than her, always, everyone but Jon. Jaime is the only person she ever felt like they were able to share between them, and now Sansa’s stolen him, too. 

“I’m not innocent. I want to kill Joffrey.” Maybe that makes her unlovable. Maybe she’s too dark to be worthy of a knight like the Kingslayer who protects the innocent, innocent girls like Sansa, who never hurt anyone and never talk back and never get their precious dresses dirty. 

Though that’s not true anymore, is it? Sansa’s gotten more than a few of her dresses dirty during their practice, and she never seems to blink about it. 

“You never denied it,” she points out after a minute, her stomach rolling. What does it mean? Are they going to get married and have babies and forget about practice time with her? But they can’t, can they? He’s a kingsguard, he can’t have a wife or kids. “You love him, too, don’t you? How come he knows how to help you from your nightmares? How come he could help, and I couldn’t?” She doesn’t mean to panic, but she can’t quite help it. She wants to be the one who helps Sansa, and the one Jaime is proud of when she does a maneuver correctly. She wants them to choose her, not each other. 

s a n s a:

“Sweetling?” There’s no faking the confusion in Sansa’s voice as she looks up from the fabric to look at her sister. Had he? It’s hard to swallow her own laughter at herself, because she had been so certain he had said wife . It must be echoes of what she’s used to, the drawling tease of his voice. Though she supposes that if a nickname had to of been used – if she had truly been that bad – sweetling was the more appropriate of the two.

Gods. Sansa can’t even begin to fathom what this conversation with Arya would be like if he had.

  And the truth? For a brief moment Sansa is overwhelmed with the desire to just tell her sister everything. To try and explain whatever this is, the Gods giving them a second chance to get things right , but it sounds too much like a song even to her. The last thing she needs is to tell Arya the truth when she isn’t ready to hear it, and only make her sister more upset with perceived lies because the truth is just a little too difficult to comprehend.

Though she’s tempted to offer up the most valuable items she has if she could’ve made it possible for her husband to be a fly on the wall for this particular conversation.

Probably because he’s terrified that if he tried you’d run him through.

“Do you want him to?” She asks instead, no teasing in sight. But she’s never seen her sister look more vulnerable than in this moment, and if it were possible to erase the night that she’s put Arya though, she would. They’re going to have to be more careful, and make sure that they don’t let the younger Stark feel excluded.

It’s such a far cry from their previous life, but maybe it’s for the better.

“Arya!” Her heart rate jumps up faster than ever before, and without thinking Sansa slides across the bed to sit closer – her hand reaching out to grab her sister’s tightly. “That’s treason .” The walls have ears, they’ve always had ears, and the wrong person can’t hear that. Not out of Arya Stark’s mouth. “You must never say that aloud,” her voice drops suddenly, seriously. “Promise me. Not ever – especially where you can be overheard. No matter how true or right it is.”

She wants to too. She almost had once – right in front of their father’s head. He would’ve fallen, her with him, but it would have ended .

It’s the subtlest way she can think to let Arya know her thoughts too.

“I can’t presume to believe I’m capable of reading Ser Jaime’s mind.” It’s not exactly a lie, but she’s good at guessing. Without much warning Sansa’s arms reach out and wrap themselves around the small frame of her sister, into a warm hug. They never had done much of this the first time around and maybe they should have.

She also knows who’s to blame for that too.

“I do care for Ser Jaime,” she admits, knowing anything other than that would almost come across as an insult. “I...I think he has nightmares too, Arya.” She plays with her sister’s hair gently, taking her own comfort from their closeness. “And I told you last night. You do help me. You knew to get him when it got too bad. You stayed with me all night, not anyone else.”

“One day I hope to be as strong as you are.”

a r y a:

It’s an uncomfortable question, and one that catches Arya completely off-guard. Her gut reaction is ew, gross, but there’s a blush spreading across her cheeks. She’s quiet for probably too long before she heaves one shoulder in an inelegant shrug, avoiding her sister’s gaze. 

“I don’t know. No. Maybe?” She rolls her eyes and scoffs, trying to hide her mortification. “Not like how he called you it. He’s old .” Now she’s the one stroking the sheets in an effort to delay. “I like it when Jon calls me that. And father. I like that Jaime treats me like I’m not dumb. Like I can be a knight one day, too, even if I can’t.” The words tumble out, more honesty than she’s probably given Sansa in the last ten years of their lives. And she’s only eleven. 

She jerks back when Sansa grabs her, and Arya’s eyes narrow when she realizes Sansa has the same fear in her eyes right now as she had when she’d woken up last night. What has Joffrey done to her?

“What do you mean, overheard? There’s no one here but us!” She protests, but then she realizes what Sansa said. “You…” she lowers her voice. “Right?” she asks, her heart suddenly leaping into her throat. Sansa wants him dead, too. Sansa wants to kill him, too. Arya squeezes Sansa’s hand back, relief rolling through her in waves. If Sansa wants it, too, then it can’t be bad or wrong. It doesn’t make her unloveable, because she might even love Sansa a little more after knowing this. 

Sansa’s confession isn’t surprising, really. She’s always wanted a golden knight from the songs to sweep her away. But this doesn’t feel like one of her silly songs. This feels… real. The way she talks, it feels careful, and maybe a little dangerous. What happens if a kingsguard falls in love? She thinks of Aemon the Dragon Knight, and frowns. She always thought it was a stupid story. Everyone had seemed so unhappy. Of course, Sansa had thought it terribly romantic. 

“He does have nightmares. He told me so, last night,” she admits, though she frowns when she realizes he never actually answered her questions. She yanks her hair out of Sansa’s grasp on reflex, then stills. 

“You think I’m strong?”

S a n s a:

Old. Even if she could tell Arya everything, Sansa doesn’t have the heart to tell her that her husband is currently nearly a decade younger than he had been when they married. She also makes a mental note to not tease Jaime about any of this, if only for the fact that as soon as he can manage maneuvering what she wants to, she’s sure Tyrion will take up that mantle happily.

It should worry her that her sister can decipher the very different way in which Jaime already talks to her, but she tries to not let it stir up any paranoia. They’re different when it’s just them, or just them and Arya. They’re careful, and it’s been innocent enough so far.

It’s also nice to think that they can avoid the war between their families. That this time around, Arya is already looking forward towards a relationship with Jaime, even while unaware that he’s already her brother. In the ways that matter, at least. “Why? Because you’re a lady?” She asks, smiling slightly at her re-introduction to Ser Brienne. “You know, I think Ser Jaime doesn’t think that knights can’t be knights just because they’re ladies.”

Brienne. She gets an idea, one that will help all of them – Arya, Jaime, and herself.

How does she explain the Red Keep without terrifying her? “This is the Prince’s home, Arya. You never know who is listening, who will use any information they can find to get favor, or power in Court. Not every battle is won with swords or daggers. We must be careful. Promise me.” She needs it, she needs to keep Arya safe while she’s here too. She will never know what it’s like to be a captive in King’s Landing. Not while she’s here.

“Right,” she solidifies.

Her small confession seems to satisfy Arya for now, and for that Sansa is grateful. She’s not sure how much half-truths and information she’s capable of giving before her sister starts to piece things together and read between the lines.

“It’s like practicing with the daggers. The more experience with something, the better you are at dealing with it,” Sansa tells her softly, her heart yearning to find her husband. For them to find the comfort like they once had, and to bring each other the true rest they needed.

Soon.

Her hand drops from Arya’s head and rests on her back before Sansa gives her one last squeeze.

“The strongest person I know, Arya.  I mean it. Sometimes I think there’s nothing you can’t do.”