At first, she gasps. A sudden sharp draw of breath into her lungs when she fears she's been found. But a glance upwards assures her that it's only Jon; a second thunder of her heart reminds her that she is happy to see him. Easily, she surrenders the pistol. And obediently, she takes the balloon.

"Snowballs," she repeats -- chirrups his advice, as if saying it in her own voice makes it more solid. More believable. But then Sansa is passing the balloon from palm to palm and remembering that he isn't wrong. During summer snows, she'd been known to play just as slyly as the rest of them. Today, that girl comes back to life -- if just for an afternoon.

Emulating her half-brother, she peeks over the shrub's edge and -- oh! A target. Her eyes catch Jon's before she dares throw. "Now?" She whispers, asking his permission before she lets loose the water-drops of war.