Win or Die
Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Snow fell lightly, sticking to the ground. Hoof-beats shook the ground, as something approached. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining brightly even as the snow fell. But down in Marius Honorius' dungeons, there was no way of knowing that.
The first prisoner, a young boy by the name of Lucan, shivered from inside a minuscule concrete pit, clutching his broken arm close to his side, not that he could move more than a few inches. The second, a young Woad woman, Guinevere, occupied a cell. She glared hard at the priests that walked back and forth. Black and blue bruises covered her body, and she gingerly flexed her broken fingers, before wincing.
The last living prisoner, another young woman, was being dragged back to her own cell, her legs trailing behind her, the sound of her shackles scraping following her. This woman had been there longer than any of the prisoners, and yet the priests tortured her with never-ending vigor.
She was referred to as the 'Saxon spy'. From what Guinevere could figure out, the other woman had been captured by Roman guards, and was labeled a spy due to her obvious heritage. Guinevere sincerely doubted that the woman was a spy, or guilty of any crime. She never spoke a word to the priests or Romans, never divulged her name. The only sounds the priests were treated to were her screams.
Sometimes she spoke, to her fellow prisoners, inquiring after them. She never answered their queries about her. "Guin'ver," a throaty, heavily accented voice came. Guinevere shifted, as the Saxon woman called to her. "Hurt?" She questioned. They could not see each other; unless one or the other was outside their cell. Solid brick walls separated them, but Guinevere could still hear her loud and clear.
"I will be fine. And you, Saxon? Are you hurt?" Guinevere asked in reply. There was nothing else the Woad woman could call her by, no other name had been given. And Guinevere did not force the information from her, and she did not seem to mind the nick-name.
She heard a heavy sigh, but no answer was given. "Saxon?" Guinevere ventured. The Saxon woman liked to pretend she didn't understand at times; but Guinevere knew full well she did.
A sigh echoed again. "Guin'ver. Don't worry about me." She said, firmly, her voice slightly slurred. Guinevere opened her mouth to object, when a loud noise echoed throughout the dungeon.
"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" One priest's voice shouted from the entrance.
"Out of the way." Arthur Castus ordered, shoving the priest aside. His most trusted knight, Lancelot, a tall man with dark eyes and dark curls peered at their surroundings with disgust.
"This is the work of your god? Is this how he answers your prayers?" Lancelot scoffed. Arthur glared at his friend.
"See if there's any still alive," he ordered.
"By the smell, they're all dead," Lancelot retorted, but went ahead, peering into the cage-like cells low to the ground. Dagonet found a boy, and Arthur a young woman. Lancelot stared at the body of a woman, unable to determine if she was live or dead- she was so still. He drew back in shock, when her eyes opened, revealing mismatching eyes of blue and green, resting on him.
Lancelot drew back, to swing his sword against the chains that held the cell closed, the heavy metal grate crashing to the ground with a loud boom. Lancelot reached in, taking hold of the woman, gently, and pulling her out. She let out a moan of pain at this, before Lancelot set her atop a table, so he could see her condition.
Her long, blonde hair was dirty and matted, touched with an unmistakable red tint. Lancelot had no doubt where it was from. She was far too thin, and boasted a sickly pallor. Bruises littered her body, and unhealed marks wept on her back. The clothes that covered her meager form were torn to mere rags, barely covering her most private parts. There were shackles on both her wrists and ankles, cutting into the tender flesh there.
"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" a priest shouted, moving to yank the woman from Lancelot. Lancelot swung the sword at the priest, ending his life swiftly.
"That was a man of god!" Arthur exclaimed in outrage.
"Not my god!" Lancelot retorted, snatching keys from the hip of the fallen priest, to free the woman from her shackles. As the shackles fell from her limbs, she made a sound akin to pain, the metal leaving dark, indented marks behind. Lancelot stared at this, with poorly concealed rage. He turned to Arthur, who held the Woad woman. "Even your god must have laws against such monstrosities as this, Arthur," He said, with a sneer.
Lancelot turned to the woman, who had not taken her eyes off of him, for even a moment. "Can you walk?" he asked her, gently. She shook her head, lowering her gaze. Lancelot let his eyes wander to her bare legs- they trembled as they merely hung off the table.
"They need water, and to get out of here," Dagonet announced, as he headed to the entrance. Lancelot followed suit, carrying the woman outside, where Galahad handed him a water-skin which Lancelot immediately raised to the woman's lips. Her hands raised, tentatively, guiding it to her lips, as the precious liquid ran down her parched throat.
"What is the meaning of this! Put them back, now!" Marius Honorius exclaimed. Lancelot raised his head to glare at the Roman, as the woman's fingers curled into his shirt, her eyes widening in fear of him. Lancelot placed a hand against her back protectively.
"They are pagans in this land!" Marius shouted.
"So are we," Gawain retorted, his hair whipping in the wind.
Marius turned to Arthur. "You are Roman. You understand," he said, confidently. "These people refuse to follow the life I-God has set for them. They must pay for their sins."
"You mean these people refuse to be your serfs," Arthur retorted.
Lancelot refused to hear another word, turning his back, and lifting the woman into his saddle, before swinging up behind her.
Marius widened at the sight of the blonde woman, eyes filling with rage. "You! You are still alive! How! Artorius, that is a Saxon spy!" He ranted.
All the knights looked at each other, and to the woman in front of Lancelot, skeptically. "If she's a spy, I'm the bloody Queen of Britain," Lancelot spewed, as he wrapped his cloak around the girl's shivering form.
Marius looked so offended that he looked as if he'd actually strike Lancelot if he could, but he wasn't stupid. His wife, Fulcinia, put a hand on his shoulder, to murmur to him. But he turned his rage to her, slapping her with force enough to send her sprawling. "You kept them alive!" He shouted, as if that explained everything.
Arthur abandoned the Woad woman to smash his fist into Marius' face as punishment. "We're leaving," Arthur said, through a twisted grimace. "You will either pack your things now, or we will drag you behind the caravan,"
The woman twisted in front of Lancelot, curling against him, seeking the heat he radiated through his armor. Lancelot adjusted his cloak, pulling it around her to cover her, leaving only her head to the cold air.
The caravan began to move, and the knights set off. Galahad and Gawain rode on either side of Lancelot, curious glances directed at the woman in his arms. Lancelot rolled his eyes, as he steered his horse one-handed, the other against the woman's back.
"I bet you're a pretty little thing underneath all that dirt," Gawain said, kindly. "All you need is a hot bath, warm meal, and some sunshine," he mused, grinning at the woman. She just stared at him, before lifting her eyes to Lancelot's face.
"Is this anytime to be flirting, Gawain?" Galahad teased, the men laughing, and the woman saw a smile tug at her dark knight's lips.
"Why does she not speak?" Galahad asked, curiously, turning serious.
Lancelot looked down at her with a furrowed eyebrow, as if he hadn't considered it before. He'd assumed she'd been just too traumatized to say anything. But as he looked down at her, from where she curled into his lap, clutching his sleeve in her fingers, her mismatched eyes were much too calm for that. "Did they hurt you so you could not speak?" Lancelot questioned, barely able to contain his rage at the thought of it. She shook her head, slowly. "Then why do you not speak?" He asked, curiously.
The Woad woman looked up. "She doesn't speak Latin well," Guinevere called back to them, at which the woman gave a confirming nod.
"Oh?" Lancelot prompted.
"She understands it well enough, but she speaks it poorly- her accent is heavy." Guinevere explained, further.
Lancelot turned his attention to the woman in his arms. "What is your native language?" He asked.
She lifted her eyes to him, seeming rather reluctant to answer. "Saxon," she answered, slowly, her heavy accent making the 'x' sound more like an 's'.
"And your name, Saxon?" Lancelot inquired, an eyebrow lifted at her.
She took a heavy breath, before answering, "Sansa," she spoke, looking to gage their reactions, as if waiting for someone to recognize the name.
Lancelot smiled. "Sounds like you," he said, which made her smile, though it looked painful, with dried, cracked lips.
"So it is the beautiful Lady Sansa who joins us on our journey," Galahad piped up. The two knights seemed to make it their mission to put a smile on her face.
To their credit, Sansa giggled, lightly. She flapped her hand at him. "Not a lady," she insisted. She pointed her finger to herself, "Sansa. No..." She then went on, before trailing off, as if searching for the right word.
"No title?" Gawain volunteered, to which Sansa nodded, vigorously.
"I am just Sansa," she supplemented.
"Well, just Sansa, my name is Gawain," the knight with long, dark blond hair remarked.
"And I am Galahad," said the other knight, the youngest looking one, with a short beard and brown curls.
"Well met, Gala'ad, Gawain," Sansa called to them, as the knights grinned at her. Sansa redirected her attention to the knight who held her, her savior. "Name?" She asked, gazing up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed knight expectantly.
"I'm Lancelot," he rumbled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The girl was far more cheerful than he would have expected.
"Lancelo'?" She posed, questioningly.
The knights around her chuckled, especially Lancelot, at the mispronunciation. "Lancelot," the dark-haired knight corrected.
Sansa tried again and again, only butchering his name even worse, making the knights burst out into giggles.
"For the gods' sake, Lancelot, just let her call you Lance," Bors grumbled from the horse in front of them.
"Lance?" Sansa piped up, questioningly.
As Lancelot glared at the other knight's back, he nodded at Sansa. "You may call me that," he said, with a dip of his head.
Sansa pointed at Bors. "Name?" She requested, seriously.
"Bors," Lancelot answered. Sansa softly repeated the name, before gesturing to the next Knight in her line of sight. "Dagonet," this one she absolutely butchered, but Lancelot found it too amusing to correct her. "And that is Tristan, our scout. Scary fellow, really," he added. At this, Tristan turned to look at them, with a raised brow.
Sansa smiled at him, raising a hand in greeting, noting with satisfaction that amusement lifted the sides of his mouth, ever so slightly, and he nodded to her in acknowledgement, before looking away.
"And him?" Sansa asked, pointing a shaking finger at the man who held Guinevere.
"Arthur," Lancelot answered, softly. "He is our commander, a great man." He told her.
"He is Roman, no?" Sansa asked, skeptically.
Lancelot nodded. "And half-Briton, too. He is a good man, Sansa. Not like most Romans. He would give his life before he'd let an innocent's be taken," He explained.
"If you say so," she murmured, settling back against Lancelot's chest, clearly unconvinced.
Apparently the Saxon woman wasn't a fan of Romans. Lancelot couldn't blame her, when he clearly wasn't a fan either. Sansa was quiet for quite a while, he could feel her chest rising and falling with every breath.
Lancelot let the silence rest, he wasn't one to fill every moment with meaningless chatter. At least, he thought so. Some of the Knights would disagree, but Lancelot found peace in this silence, with Sansa in his arms.
It started to grow dark outside, and Arthur called for them to stop for the night. Gawain came to Lancelot's horse, so Sansa could be lowered to his arms. Sansa seemed reluctant to leave Lancelot, who removed her fingers from his sleeve. "It's fine," he promised her. "We won't get down from this horse, unless Gawain helps us," Lancelot told her.
With that assurance, Sansa nodded, allowing herself to be lowered into Gawain's arms, from where Lancelot swung down beside them. Immediately, Sansa reached for Lancelot, who, after trading a look with Gawain, shrugged, and took Sansa from him, and walked off. "Where do we go?" Sansa asked, with a frown.
"To a wagon. Dagonet needs to have a look at you, see how badly hurt you are," Lancelot answered.
"I am not hurt," Sansa insisted, wriggling uncomfortably. Lancelot gave her an incredulous look.
"At the very least, you need a hot meal and some rest. You will get it there," Lancelot told her.
"Guin'ver? Lucan?" She inquired, and Lancelot chuckled, finding endless amusement from her accent, while she gave him a confused look.
"They will be there," Lancelot promised, as he ducked over to the wagon Dagonet had deemed the 'medical' wagon. Guinevere and the boy named Lucan were already inside, being looked over by the Roman lady Fulcinia, and Dagonet.
Lancelot lowered his charge onto the third pile of furs, and went to leave, when she caught hold of his cloak. "Where do you go?" She questioned, anxiety and fear in her eyes at the thought of him leaving her.
"I have to take care of my horse, Sansa," Lancelot said, exasperated. "I will be back, I promise," He told her, firmly. Sansa let go of his cloak, turning her eyes to the ceiling of the wagon. With an uneasy feeling, Lancelot left the wagon, to attend to his horse's needs, as well as his own. Sansa only waited a few minutes, before Dagonet came to her side.
"Lady Sansa, will you allow me to examine you?" the gentle giant of a knight asked, softly. Sansa nodded. At that, he began to sponge dirt from her skin, uncovering bruises and scars that rivaled that of the knights, even. "Are all of these from your imprisonment?" Dagonet asked, gently, concerned by the amount of scars he found. Sansa shook her head, slowly.
"No."