Warnings: References to Sansa's traumatic past and to past infidelity. Tyrion is also talked about (not by Sansa) in an extremely rude and discriminatory way.

Sansa doesn't waste time. The moment Joffrey's party is out of sight, she applies for a formal audience with the Small Council.

She hasn't gone near the books since, well, her last attempt to consult them. In retrospect, she doesn't think that's the best strategy to approach Lord Tywin.

Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys both seem to have an uncanny ability to sit back and look mysterious and all-knowing-well, with a certain, inevitable amount of talking on Lord Tyrion's part-and magically the other person babbles all their secrets, or arrives at their way of thinking on their own.

Sansa highly doubts she could pull that off. Probably she would just look clueless and silly.

But Lord Varys, at least, understands her situation, though she's not sure how much she can consider him an ally. And, reluctant as she is to admit it, Lord Tyrion has been… cooperative, and is available-and alone-every evening when Sansa goes to his chambers.

So he, tentatively, has some respect for his role as father to their future heirs, even if he has no respect for Sansa herself.

She may have been repeatedly bludgeoned over the head with the lesson that she must take and maintain control over her life if she wishes to eke any safety or contentment out of it, but that is not the same as throwing away perfectly serviceable tools, so long as she is the one holding them.

It's time to let the two twistiest men in the capital apply some of that twistiness for her benefit.

She may not be able to see a way to convince Lord Tywin to let her go North, but perhaps they can do it for her.

She doesn't have much time to second-guess herself, because either the Small Council has nothing to do now that the King has departed (unlikely), or Lord Tywin is curious what she wants. There's no prohibition against bringing issues before the Small Council, particularly now that the King is absent and they are managing the realm in his absence, but it exclusively deals with matters of state or the security of the realm.

It's difficult to see how Sansa, orphaned daughter of traitors and unwanted wife of a younger son, could be involved in either.

Little do they know.

Sansa is both surprised and not to find herself in the same room as her previous meetings with the Lannister family. This must be the Small Council's official meeting room. She supposes she could have guessed that Lord Tywin would want to discipline his family in a place he has significant power, and the Office of the Hand is not very large.

She recognizes some faces and not others, but the three that truly matter are present, looking surprised to see her but hiding it well.

She puzzles over that for a moment, because Lord Varys surely must have some notion, but sets it aside as irrelevant. This is exactly the sort of expertise she's counting on here.

"My lords," she says, curtsying.

"You have business for the Small Council, Lady Sansa of House Lannister?"

"I do, my Lord Hand," she says, taking the cue to be formal.

"You may speak."

She takes a breath, unnecessarily smoothing her skirts. "Wonderful news, my Lord Hand. I am with child."

There's a charged silence, where everyone looks at Lord Tyrion while trying not to look at Lord Tyrion. He didn't know and is too surprised to hide it.

Good. She hopes he takes his ignorance of vital matters considering his own marriage and chokes on it.

Lord Tywin, of course, doesn't even blink. "And it's been confirmed?"

"It has," Lord Varys says.

Sansa bows her head so she doesn't have to control her expression. She sees another flurry of looks out of the corner of her eye, as everyone receives the message that Lord Varys had known.

"And you didn't care to share this information?" Lord Tywin asks.

Sansa steps in. "I have been very vigilant, my lord Hand, and I became suspicious while it was still early. In the North, it's very bad luck to make a public announcement before the second month."

He doesn't say anything, but his mouth looks tense.

"And now I can also tell you that it's a boy, my lord Hand. The child sits low." Sansa heard her mother mention this once. Of course, at the time she was explaining that the belief was pure nonsense, but it had to have come from somewhere.

There's some, almost imperceptible softening in Lord Tywin's expression, and she breathes again.

"How timely," Lord Tywin says.

Sansa blinks. What?

"I have already begun preparations for your journey North."

Sansa is pretty sure her jaw drops, but Lord Tyrion audibly gasps, so she can't feel too silly for being so completely blind-sided.

All this time, all this scheming, and Lord Tywin had intended to send her North the whole time.

She considers being angry with him, but he is giving her everything she wants, so she decides it would be a waste of energy.

"M-my lord?" she stammers.

"You are the key to the North, it's about time you made yourself useful and opened a few doors for me."

Well. That certainly puts her in her place.

"The King in the North is dead," he says, watching her carefully for any reaction.

But she has been menaced by Joffrey, been paraded before her father's severed head, and she raises her eyes to meet his calmly. "Is my lord husband to take the title of Warden of the North?"

Lord Tywin nods once. "In trust, until the child comes of age."

She curtsies. "Then I shall be at his side, and we will hold the North for its rightful lord, the Crown." She allows a pained expression to briefly cross her face. "I am weary of death, my lord."

"Hmph," he says. "I will speed up the preparations. You will have to depart before your health prevents travel."

Sansa certainly doesn't want to deliver her child within a hundred miles of Joffrey, so she has no objections.

The North.

Home.

Things wrap up fairly quickly after that, and she makes a point of not so much as glancing at Lord Tyrion as she exits the room.

That night, she doesn't go to Lord Tyrion's chambers, and if she still isn't ready to be happy, she is temporarily satisfied.

She avoids Lord Tyrion for three days, and she wavers between annoyance and a grudging appreciation that he does not attempt to approach her.

Eventually, she knows it is time to set aside her childish fit of temper and face a few unpleasant truths. Or, more accurately, force him to face them.

She sends him a note to meet her in her rooms that afternoon.

Her small table is set with an assortment of cakes and drinks-she makes a point to forget the wine-and she dismisses her handmaiden until supper. There's facing reality and then there's unnecessarily tormenting herself, and if she has any say in the matter Lord Tyrion and Wynn won't ever meet.

She makes sure to be settled at the table and nibbling a sweet cake when Lord Tyrion arrives.

"My lord," she says, gesturing for him to take a seat.

He looks tense.

She gives him a big smile.

Warily, he sits down across from her. He doesn't move to serve himself. "So."

She takes a bite of cake

"You're going to have a baby."

Nod.

"We're going to have a baby."

She frowns at him. Is he implying…

He raises a hand. "That's not… I meant no offense. I'm just… surprised."

She's not sure what to make of that. "It's a natural consequence of our… activities."

"Well. Yes. I know that. It's just that I never thought I would be a father."

Sansa had thought all men were preoccupied with the idea-well, except Joffrey, and actually, she doesn't want to dwell on that train of thought. Plenty of other painful topics to choose from. "And… you're not?"

"Oh no," he says, sounding very certain. "I'm always careful."

Sansa doesn't know what that means, and doesn't want to reveal her ignorance by asking. It doesn't really matter, anyway. Either there will be bastards or there won't be. "I wished to have words with you before we go North."

He straightens in his chair. "Of course."

"Winterfell is very different from King's Landing," she says.

He hesitates. "I… have been to Winterfell before, my lady."

She'd forgotten about that. He was there when Bran had his accident, before she and Arya and her father went South, before, well, everything.

He looks like he sorely regrets mentioning it. "I've been to the Wall as well," he adds, before she can say anything.

"Really?"

"Yes, I accompanied your brother when he went to join the Night's Watch."

"Why?"

"Curiosity? A desire to know something about a critical part of this country's defense? Because it annoyed your brother?"

"I didn't know anyone in the capital took notice of the North."

He frowns. "I do actually care about the safety of this realm," he says. "The lord commander asked me to make their situation known to the King."

Sansa hadn't known that. "And did you?"

"Oh, well… no. I was, er, kidnapped on the road back-"

By her mother, Sansa remembers hearing, though the details of that incident were never explained to her.

"-and then I was a bit preoccupied."

She knows she must look confused as she feels.

"Stannis," he clarifies. "The siege."

"Should you speak to the King now?" she asks. She considers how likely Joffrey is to care. "Or the Hand?"

He shifts uncomfortably.

"What?"

"I… may have mentioned something to my father. He doesn't think much of, er, 'northern superstitions' he called it. I'd say he believes the Wall has outlived its usefulness."

Even thinking such a thing is nearly a capital offense in the North. Sansa suppresses her kneejerk reaction. "And you, my lord?"

"I knew the Wall was built for a reason, and I felt I had to see it for myself. Do I think it's all that stands between us and eternal winter, ushered in by an army of the undead?" He shudders. "Let's just say that, having stood atop the Wall and looked beyond it-I hope there's no truth to the stories."

Hmm. This is an entirely unexpected development. Sansa had had visions of being forced to beg for every concession for her home and her people, but if the new Warden of the North can be made to understand the Northern heart…

Speaking of hearts, she is getting distracted.

Lord Tyrion senses her change in mood and tenses.

"Life is hard in the North," she says. "And its people must be hard, as well. But one man cannot hold back the snow, as we say. It is only through cooperation that we prosper. Unity."

"That makes sense," he says, when it's clear some response is required.

"Yes. The North is fractured, divided. It will be no small task to set it in order. And reaffirm loyalty to the Crown, of course. And winter is coming, and we must be prepared."

"Of course. I know it won't be an easy."

"And so, I believe we need to come to an understanding."

"I agree."

"I believe our… difficulties… are due to differing expectations. You envisioned our marriage as it has been these last few days, with me pregnant and out of your way, and I… didn't."

"That is not-" He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. "I'll accept that's how you feel. I assume you had an alternative in mind?"

"I'm not a silly child," she says, with more heat than she intended. "We can both behave like adults. If this is how you want it to be, living separate lives except to conceive children, then I can accept that. I just want to know that that's what we're doing."

He is speechless, which is a first.

She has a sudden flash of inspiration. "Like King Robert and Queen Cersei." Stories of the King's… indulgences had reached as far as Winterfell, and even her father hadn't tried to defend his friend. But they'd still managed to have three children, and, well, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella are pleasant enough.

Lord Tyrion suffers a coughing fit. "Yes, truly an example to aspire to," he manages.

She waits for him to calm, meets his eyes. "Or we can make the best of what we have. I am your wife. I will be the mother of your children. We will be together the rest of our lives. Is it so impossible to see a… mutual consideration, in our future?"

He does her the courtesy of considering her words gravely. "Not impossible, my lady."

"Some things will need to change. I will not be one of an endless parade of women. Either I am your wife in truth, or we will have our separate lives, brought together only by duty."

"That sounds… very reasonable, my lady." He looks at the table, the window, anywhere but her face. "I… do not say this to defend my actions, my lady. I have wronged you, and I do not deny it."

Sansa braces herself.

"There has not been an, er, 'endless parade of woman'. Only Shae. We were together before my father arranged the marriage, and…" His words trail off.

She isn't sure if that makes it better or worse. While they're sharing, however, she wants something settled. "It was you who made her my handmaiden." It isn't a question.

He winces. "Er. Yes. That was… in poor taste. I apologize."

It's the first time he's apologized for any part of that incident. She finds it's not terribly mollifying. Nor does she particularly care to confirm any of the other details she'd wondered about, now that it comes down to it. "You thought you would have us both."

He seems to realize that any response would damn him, and doesn't reply.

It doesn't matter, she knows she's right. "You cannot," she says. "I will, of course, fulfill my duty either way. But for anything more, you can have me, or everyone else."

She regrets her phrasing; it doesn't seem like much of a bargain, and reminds her why she's in this position in the first place. She is not not clever or sophisticated or a great beauty, and her only real asset is a destroyed Keep in a contested territory, cold and barren and entirely unwelcoming of Lannisters.

Perhaps she ought to have gone with her first plan, to remind him that she only needs to have a word with Lord Tywin and Shae won't be going near them (or, likely, anywhere at all), ever again. But her words that day were more true than she'd realized. There are any number of women in the world, and Shae is a symptom, not the root of the problem. She needs Lord Tyrion to make this decision.

She straightens her shoulders and tries to look more confident than she feels. "So. Will Shae be going North?"

He looks to be holding his breath; she certainly is. "No, my lady. You're right; you are my wife, and I have an example to set for our son."

It's a start.

After the...agreement Sansa comes to with her husband, it isn't a surprise for her to receive an invitation to dine with him in his chambers. Well, to dine with him and others. She trusts, given the tone of their last conversation, that the others will not include Shae.

Wynn helps Sansa into a looser gown, her body beginning to change as it makes room for the child inside her. She'll need much looser gowns by the time this is done, and she wonders how that will work when packing her bags for Winterfell. She will need a full wardrobe for after she has given birth, but she'll also need an ever forgiving wardrobe in order to accommodate her growing stomach.

Forget needing a carriage to carry her, they're going to need a second for all of her clothes.

Wynn accompanies Sansa to Lord Tyrion's chambers, and gives Sansa a moment to take a deep breath before knocking and opening the door.

Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime, and Lady Brienne all rise when Sansa enters and, after a nudge from Tyrion, Bronn rises as well.

"Good evening, my lords, my lady," Sansa hesitates over Bronn. "Ser."

Bronn grins. "Good evening. I hear I have you and whatever you've got in your stomach to thank for finally getting us out of the capital."

Lord Tyrion sighs. "I apologize in advance for his behavior, both now and when we're traveling."

Podrick hurries over to pull Sansa's chair out for her and she smiles. "Thank you, Podrick." She looks over at Bronn. "I too am thankful for the child I'm carrying, and I trust you'll do everything in your power to protect his or her life."

"I do what I'm paid to do," Bronn says.

Sell-swords, Sansa thinks with disgust. She keeps the smile on her face. "I trust you are well, Lady Brienne?"

"I am," the woman says, though she's still uncomfortable as Podrick and Wynn begin to serve them; uncomfortable in a way only those used to serving themselves can be.

Having checked in with everyone she cares to, Sansa turns her attention to more important matters. "I have been thinking of what we must bring with us to Winterfell."

"A cart of lemons?" Ser Jaime suggests, a bit of mockery in his tone. "For all the cakes you will need."

Sansa ignores him. "Is there any word on what remains of the Keep after Theon Greyjoy's betrayal?"

"Very little," Lord Tyrion says. "He killed all the ravens so no one could send word of what he'd done, but there are other ways to send a message. Not any fast ones, though, so reports are sparse."

"So we'll have to bring new ravens with us," Sansa says.

"I suppose we shall. I hadn't thought of that."

"It is a good thing we are a team then," Sansa says.

She smiles at the discomfort of everyone at the table and fills her mouth with a bite of the roast quail. She will miss the food of King's Landing while they're on the road, but at least she'll have the food of home to look forward to.

"You'll also need guards," Ser Jaime says, appearing to be helpful. Sansa is immediately wary.

"We're bringing a small contingent of Lannister men," she says. "With no sigils in case we encounter loyal Northerners during our trip. Disloyal Northerners, rather."

"So many men," Ser Jaime says. "It's a good thing my brother is a not a jealous man. But I was thinking a more personal guard for you, sister."

Sansa narrows her eyes.

"I, of course, cannot go, because the North does not hold me in very high regard, but I know someone willing and even eager to accompany you."

"Oh?" Sansa asks. She's not sure she trusts any friend of Ser Jaime's.

Ser Jaime looks across the table at Lady Brienne. "A Lannister always pays his debts. And," he looks slightly discomfited, "this Lannister is committed to keeping his word. You may fulfill our bargain with Lady Catelyn and return Sansa to Winterfell."

Sansa isn't sure who is more shocked, her or Lady Brienne.

"Ser," Lady Brienne begins, overwhelmed. She settles for a heartfelt, "Thank you. I will keep our word."

"I'll have to arrange for armor to be made for you," Ser Jaime says, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Sansa expects he doesn't often receive gratitude, mostly because he doesn't often do anything to deserve it. "You can't go traipsing around the North in that. And you'll need a good sword. I'm sure you'll have many occasions to use it."

"I will serve you honorably and faithfully," Lady Brienne promises Sansa. "No harm will come to you as I fight by your side."

"You're giving me indigestion," Bronn says.

Lady Brienne glares at him. "Some people have honor. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two on this journey."

"People with honor are the first to die," Bronn says. "I learned that lesson long ago. I don't need to relearn it."

Sansa thinks of her father and brother, and she cannot deny what Bronn says. Still, there is no need for this talk at the table. "Lord Tyrion, how fare your preparations for the trip?"

"It has been quite a relief to hand over my duties as Master of Coin. A rather thankless position."

"But useful," Sansa says. "I'm sure we'll need your knowledge of finances in Winterfell. It has been much damaged by the war."

"You seem to know a lot about Winterfell for someone who's been living in the capital," Bronn says.

Sansa doesn't miss the sharp looks directed his way or the curious ones that come hers. She meets his gaze evenly. "The King finds it prudent to keep me advised of the state of my former home."

Now the table is uncomfortably quiet. Even Bronn has the shame to look away from her after the reminder of Joffrey's treatment of her.

"I'm afraid the King will still be on his hunt when we leave," Lord Tyrion says. "Such a shame that I won't be able to say my goodbyes personally to my dear nephew. I'll have to find some other way to convey them."

"I'll convey them for you," Ser Jaime says. "That way there's less of a chance that his next hunt is to hunt you down."

Lord Tyrion waves a hand. "Fine, fine. Spoil my fun. Podrick, another glass of wine."

"Forget a cart of lemons," Ser Jaime says. "You're going to need two carts of wine to keep your appetite whetted."

"It is the most sacred thing one can put in their body," Lord Tyrion says.

Sansa waves Podrick off when he goes to fill her glass as well. "My septa taught me that wine and pregnancy do not mix."

"Ah," Tyrion says. "Suddenly our nephew makes so much more sense."

Sansa resigns herself to a dinner where nothing productive will happen.

They are due to leave in three days, and Wynn assists Sansa with packing her bags. As she predicted, she has more clothes than probably anyone else in the company, but she doubts anyone will cross her on it. As soon as the first swell of the child was visible, people started giving her a wider berth, wary of her as if she might lose her temper at any moment.

It is a strange sort of power being pregnant gives you.

Wynn has just finished packing Sansa's formal wear when it occurs to Sansa that she hasn't spoken to Wynn of their plans to depart the capital. Yes, Sansa is going, yes Wynn has helped her prepare but Sansa doesn't know if Wynn is coming. She probably isn't. Didn't Lord Varys say the poor girl just fled the North? Sansa cannot drag her back there.

And now that Sansa has Lady Brienne accompanying her, she won't be the only woman in the party if Wynn stays behind.

Sansa clears her throat.

"Yes, m'lady?" Wynn asks.

"I fear I've been remiss in bringing something up with you," Sansa says. "Please, sit."

Wynn cautiously sits on the edge of a chair.

"You have been a good handmaiden," Sansa says. "Better than I could have hoped. You have served me well and served me faithfully."

"M'lady?" Wynn asks, worried.

"But you agreed to be my handmaiden thinking I was going to live in the capital. I'm going North now, and Lord Varys told me, when he recommended your services, that you were seeking refuge from the North. I cannot, in good conscience, force you back to a place that has brought you pain." Selfishly, she wants to. She wants to keep as many friends by her side as she can. But - "Therefore, upon the the day I leave for Winterfell, I will release you from my service."

"M'lady!" Wynn gasps, looking more upset than Sansa would've expected. "Is this - is this an order or an offer?"

"Pardon?" Sansa asks.

"If I have truly served you well, I would like to continue serving you," Wynn says. "If m'lady pleases, of course."

"I had not thought you'd wish to return to the North," Sansa says.

"The North is my home," Wynn says, "and I left because I was scared, but if I am at your side then nothing in the North will harm me. Your are Lady Lannister by marriage, but you are Lady Stark by birth, and the North remembers."

Sansa takes an instinctual step forward. "Hush," she says even though they are alone in Sansa's room. The capital has ears everywhere. "We aren't safe until we're home."

"Yes, m'lady," Wynn says.

"Very well. It seems as if you have some packing of your own to do. And I have a few more goodbyes to make. I doubt either of the next two people I am to see will surprise me by coming North."

Lord Varys is in his office when Sansa arrives, and she is reminded of when she came to him when she first thought she was pregnant. She has come a long way since then, no longer alone, no longer as afraid.

"My dear," Lord Varys says when she enters. "I hadn't thought you'd have much free time. Your departure is as imminent as it is mysterious."

In order to provide them with as much protection as possible, no Lannister sigils will decorate any of their armor or belongings, and no one knows exactly where the procession is going. The capital knows that Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa are leaving, but where exactly they're going is fuel for the gossips.

Sansa has heard that they're going to try to steal Casterly Rock from Ser Jaime, that they've been banished across the Narrow Sea, and even that they're being sent to Dorne to watch over the Princess Myrcella. No one has come close to the truth.

Lord Varys, she's sure, knows.

"I have made time for the important things," Sansa says. "You have been a good friend to me, and I don't want to leave without a goodbye. Also an apology. I'm afraid Wynn's services are irreplaceable to me, and she'll be leaving the capital with us."

"I'm glad it was a good match," Lord Varys says. "And I'm glad you will have female company on your trip. It seems a small crowd of women for so many men."

"I could not ask for two better women to accompany me," Sansa says.

"I wish you the best on your journey," Lord Varys says and Sansa believes he means it. "Your life has not been easy, child, and I am sure there are yet more challenges ahead of you, but you are strong enough to meet every one of them and wise enough to seek help against those that are stronger than you."

"Kind words," Sansa tells him. "I thank you for them. Once we're settled we'll send word to you. I trust that our communication will be no less important than it is now, though it might be more infrequent."

"I will be honored to be one of your correspondents," Lord Varys says.

She finishes her goodbyes with Lord Varys and then goes to the royal chambers. She suspects this will be the most difficult goodbye for her to make, and she's glad the plans to leave are already in place so she cannot abandon them no matter how powerful Margaery's persuasion.

The Queen is in her room, impatiently waving off her handmaidens. "I'm with child, not an invalid," Margaery snaps. "I do not need you hovering."

"Your Grace," Sansa says, curtseying deep to hide her smile. She has heard that pregnancy can cause mood swings, but she has been too busy recently to allow her pregnancy to affect her. She fears what a long trip with no distractions will do to her. But that is a fear for another time.

"Ah, aunt," Margaery greets, because she possesses a strange sense of humor.

"Niece," Sansa returns with a smile. "How fares the child in your belly?"

"How fares yours?" Margaery counters. "I had so looked forward to us being pregnant and miserable together. Everyone expects me to still be happy. I am growing fat and apparently so fragile I cannot venture into the city. How is that supposed to make me happy?"

"I am not so large that I cannot kneel at the godswood so I cannot complain yet," Sansa says.

"You never complain," Margaery points out. "But enough whining. I will not have your company now, and our children will not be raised together as I had hoped either."

"It is necessary," Sansa says, carefully, because while Lord Tywin has plans for them, Margaery outranks him as Queen. If she really wanted to, she could order Sansa to stay. "Would you like to be Queen of a fractured realm?"

"I know why you must go," Margaery says, because she is one of the few who knows where they're going. Not even Lord Tywin tried to keep this particular secret from the Queen. "I just wish it could be done without you."

"It cannot," Sansa says, "but if I can help bring peace to your kingdom then maybe one day our children might be married to one another."

"Yes," Margaery says. "Have a son to inherit your lands and make sure to have several daughters and save one of them for me. You shall have a princess and perhaps, one day, even a queen."

"I would be honored," Sansa says, "but first let me make it through this pregnancy before I begin to plan others."

"You shouldn't travel such a long distance in your condition. All the bouncing cannot be good for your child."

"And staying here would be?" Sansa asks. She risks a bold statement. "The King cannot spend the whole next year hunting."

"If only he would," Margaery mutters. "Hopefully he'll have the same fear of pregnant women as most men have and want nothing to do with me when he returns and my belly is even more swollen." Margaery sighs. "I wish I did not have to lose you and my grandmother and my brother. I shall be quite alone soon."

"The people adore you," Sansa reminds her. "And Lord Tywin will protect you."

"He'll protect the prince or princess inside my body," Margaery says. She reaches a hand out to clasp Sansa's. "Please continue to pray for me. I want a son. I never want to do what I did again."

Sansa grips Margaery's hand just as tight as hers is gripped. "I will pray for a strong, healthy son for you. A King worthy of the throne."

"Thank you," Margaery says. "Anything you need when you're there, let me know. Anything in my power to give you as Queen will be yours. We must look out for each other."

"We will," Sansa promises. "Send word when you've birthed your child, and we'll celebrate for you."

Margaery pulls her in for a not-so-unexpected hug. "I shall miss you dearly."

"And I you."

There is no one to see them off when they leave.

They have already said their goodbyes, and they leave in the middle of night, like they're criminals escaping the capital.

The escape part is right at least.

Sansa allows herself to be placed in the carriage, planning to sleep for the first leg of their journey. She doesn't intend to be cooped up in the carriage for the entire journey, however. There will be a point where it's dangerous to ride, where it's too much hassle to argue that she should be allowed a horse, but that time has not yet come.

Wynn shares the carriage with her, and Sansa reaches between them to take Wynn's hand as the carriage begins to rumble down the path.

"Home," Sansa says. "We're going home."