Hi! I'm writing a different, much darker GoT fic but I kept getting inspired by this ship. I decided to start a different story instead of forcing it in. The other fic is more plot centric with a bit of romance but this is without a doubt a love story. It will have a happy ending! (Or at least as happy as you can get in Westeros.)
A few things have changed from canon: -Tyrion and Sansa are betrothed but not married. This will be addressed in the fic. -Sansa is aged up a bit. -Mix of show and book canon.
This is less 'realistic' and more fan-service (or author-service, I guess), especially with the plot and revenge, so keep that in mind. Feel free to send me warm or cold fuzzies either way, though. The whole mark thing is definitely inspired by 'Bequeathed from Pale Estates'. It's a great fic, check it out.
Sansa woke to damp sheets and an ache radiating through her lower back. She hadn't slept well in a year, not since Lady was killed, but the familiar exhaustion weighed heavier this morning. Her arm itched too. Sleepily, she stretched and sat up. Her heart stopped when she threw back her covers.
There wasn't a lot of blood, but there was enough. A dark red spot that had damned her. She'd hoped against all likelihood that she wouldn't get her moonblood. Some women claimed that hard stress on the body could make it come late or even stop it altogether if it had already happened. She knew, of course, that her body was changing too. Her dresses were too short and too tight around her chest. Even her smallclothes were stretched over her widening hips. There was no way they would fit with a pad for her monthly time.
None of that mattered. All that mattered was hiding it.
She tossed the duvet onto the floor and balled the sheets into an angry mess. The naked mattress had a small, round stain too. There was no hiding that. She looked around the room for inspiration, her lips pressing into a thin line when she saw the small dagger. It was a dull thing meant for a lady's simple uses. It would have to do.
And so Shae entered to find Sansa stabbing and ripping at her mattress with wild eyes.
"My lady! What are you doing? This is completely normal-"
"Joffrey," Sansa breathed.
The handmaiden's face lost all color. She set aside the breakfast tray and ran to stand across from her lady. "We'll flip it, come on-"
A gasp sounded from the hall. Alyson, the other maid, twirled away and ran for the Queen. Shae took off without a second thought. Sansa cried with dismay and tried to lift the bed. She pushed and pushed until her nails hurt. She was weak. She didn't eat or sleep anymore. Her body couldn't handle the weight. With a sob, she collapsed onto the stone floor, leaning her head against the wooden bed frame.
She brainstormed, scratching at her cut wrist...but no, she hadn't injured herself.
No. No. No.
She stopped the sleeve of her nightgown back and had to bite back a scream.
Marks were revered, coveted. When the youngest of a pair reached adulthood, a Mark burned onto their wrists. They generally took on the look of a birthmark or bruise in the shape of a house sigil. The sigil, however, only referred to the lands that the elder of the two lived in. It was customary, and usually with great ceremony, that the family traveled to unite the soulmates. Commoners were raised to the station of their new husband or wife. Only one in a thousand had a soul mate and rarer still were they united. The poor couldn't afford to travel long distances or sometimes even recognize sigils from a faraway land.
Sometimes, if a Mate had a personal sigil, that would appear instead. It was known to take up something symbolic too. Shiera Seastar was rumored to have a birthmark shaped like a raven for her brother the Bloodraven. Sansa's Mark was as red as a welt from the Kingsguard, swollen just the slightest bit above the skin. The color, she guessed, could have been a coincidence. Sansa Stark was not a fool anymore. She took a ragged breath and traced the red viper on her wrist. It was poised to strike and its tail was wrapped around a spear. There were no details, but it was a fearsome thing.
Does he have a wolf? She wondered. Or a stag or a lion or a crown? Did he have Lady, his skin darkening and lightening with the pattern of her face?
It was no matter. She would never meet the Red Viper of Dorne. The Lannisters had taken much from her, but they would not take this.
Sansa reached for an embroidered shawl that one of the maidens had draped across the bed frame decoratively. She balled it into her mouth, biting down to test it. Then, with a small prayer, she placed the poker into the fire. She let it rest as long as she dared. Any longer and someone might find her or she would lose her courage.
She bit down on the shawl and pressed the poker flat against her wrist.
Pain seared up her arm. She screamed, the sound muffled by the fabric. The smell was the worst. It was a haunting scent that she knew she would never forget. Still, she rolled the poker over. The singed skin hissed and ripped and bubbled. Her stomach lurched and she choked on the shawl.
One more roll, she told herself.
No sooner than she did it, the world spun and an ugly, scarred face screamed down at her.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Clegane shouted. "HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!"
She couldn't think to answer. Her head was muddled by the pain. It hurt so bad and gods did it reek. His big hand ripped the fabric out of her mouth. Sansa gasped, her back coming off the floor.
"FUCKING STUPID!" He was snarling.
He was afraid. His eyes were wide and kept glancing to the poker that he'd thrown clear across her chamber. Tiredly, she lifted her hand to the scars on his face.
"Sorry," she said. She was crying. She hadn't realized she was crying.
He cringed and pulled back from her caress. Gently, he pulled her to her feet. She was dizzy and sick and in pain, but she was glad. She smiled down at her mottled, bleeding wrist. The Queen couldn't take him from her. He would be safe. From this, anyway.
"Bloody mad. Mad! Come on, girl. I've got to take you to the queen."
She drug her feet after him, the tears flowing for a better reason.
The Queen was livid. She gave a little speech in between insults and screeches. Sansa almost fainted when Cersei pulled on her burnt arm.
"What was it you foul thing?" She demanded. Her pretty lips were pulled back over her teeth and her eyes were wild. Sansa realized the Queen wasn't just hateful and evil, she was mad. Joffrey's insanity might not have come from the incest at all, just his mother.
"What. Was it." She ground out.
"I don't know, Your Grace."
"You don't know!" Sansa thought she was going to hit her. She blanched, but experience had her steeling herself for the blow. "You don't know!"
Cersei began pacing and muttering. Sansa occupied herself by massaging her arm just below the elbow. It helped a bit, but not much.
"We could say it's Clegane, but it would have been a burnt dog, not just a burn."
Sansa was surprised to find that she wouldn't have minded the Hound. He was hateful and wretched but he was never cruel.
"No. We'll just have to hide it."
And hide it, they did. All of her gowns were modified to have tight sleeves and Lord Baelish brought over a paste to cover it whenever necessary. Sansa used the extra fabric from the long sleeves to let out her dresses as much as she could. Since her lessons had stopped when her father died, she snuck off to read books about Dorne and the Martells whenever she could. She got books on other houses and lands to throw off the spies that were surely watching.
Two years passed. It felt like ten. The Red Viper became her savior of sorts. When the beatings and the humiliation became unbearable, she imagined what he was doing. She escaped into a story she told herself. She imagined him with an alchemy set in the Citadel, training sellswords in the East, or sailing across the seas with his own ship. His daughters became hers. He taught them to read and fight. They had golden skin and auburn hair. She would have liked to have so many daughters.
Her own life went on. She was betrothed. Her family died. The Lannisters won the war. She grew thinner by the hour. Her only source of solace was the burn on her wrist. Her soulmate was out there, wild and free and laughing across the sand.
Only a handful knew. Her husband, Shae, the Queen, and the Hound. They never told Joffrey, not even when he set her aside. It was the only kindness she would ever see in the Capital.
Sansa was hiding behind a forgotten statue of Baelor the Blessed when she heard that Dorne was coming to the Royal Wedding. It took every bit of iron in her to calm her stomach.
Margaery was yapping away about her final dress fitting. Sansa and one of the Tyrell cousins were on each of Margery's arm as the three girls strolled through the gardens. They would be sectioned off soon for the wedding preparations. Margaery wanted to take advantage of the attention she could get between the hedges and fountains. Sansa wanted nothing more than to excuse her self to lie against the heart tree in the godswood.
"...as Sansa's," the future queen was saying.
She had absolutely no idea what she was speaking of.
"You are too kind, my lady," she chirped obediently.
Like a little bird, she thought to herself. She hoped Sandor Clegane was well, wherever he might be.
"Nonsense! The embroidery, the detail! It was the finest dress I've ever seen. And Margaery, please, Sansa."
"The Queen has excellent taste, Margaery," Sansa said.
"That is something I have to disagree with," a sultry voice added. It was deep and taunting with an accent that was lyrical.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne bowed in greeting to the ladies. He was incredibly handsome. Everything about him screamed warmth and mischief. His skin was golden and his eyes were dark enough to be black without being dull. She'd never seen anything like it. His nose was hooked, but regal and his hair was greying at the temples. It only made him more attractive. Despite his allure, everything about him seemed dangerous. Though perhaps that was his allure. How could someone with such wild refinement be her equal? He seemed better suited for someone like Arya.
"...Ellaria Sand," he was saying.
Sansa's cheeks burned as she realized she'd been ogling the poor man. She and the other ladies curtsied to the couple. Ellaria was absolutely beautiful in every way opposite of Sansa. She was short and dark and smiling. This exotic woman was the wife of Sansa's soulmate in all but name. She wanted to hate the older woman but found she couldn't. Only sorrow and apathy existed for her now.
Sansa fought against the lump in her throat as the others made small talk. It was difficult to make herself listen and nod. Her attention perked when Margaery cheerfully asked if it was true that the Prince had a Mark.
"Yes, my lady," he said and pulled back ornate yellow sleeve.
It was just as she'd imagined it. The Mark was dark against the edges, the colors fading into the brown of his skin to match patterns in Lady's coat. The wolf sat calmly as Sansa had seen her do many times. Her fluffy tail curled around her paws. She loved being groomed and pampered except for her tail. She would sit on it sometimes, to try to keep it from being combed. Sansa had forgotten that.
She squeezed her nails into her palms. She wanted nothing more than to pull back her own sleeve and say, "Look! It was a Red Viper but I had to burn it away. I swear it! It was even holding a spear."
"Lady Stark, are you well?" He asked softly.
Four faces peered back at her. The pale ones were pitying and the dark ones showed worry. Sansa hurriedly wiped away the few tears that had escaped, cursing herself internally.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," she said in her flat voice. "It's been a very, long time since I've seen anything to do with a wolf. As it should be, of course. My family were all traitors and such imagery might bring out the taint in my traitor's blood."
He watched her, his dark eyes studying every inch of her face. They trailed down to her bare neck, the plain gown that was a little too short to be decent. She did not look like the Lady of Winterfell. Margaery had gifted her a necklace and a brooch before she found that Sansa had nothing to offer in return. She'd got Shae to trade them for fabric. She made the dresses herself. They were too large, but she'd grown into them and now, apparently, out of them. It was mortifying.
"I studied at the Citadel in my youth and can tell you with confidence that there is no such disease."
Sansa blinked at him, her heart thundering loud enough to deafen her thoughts. She might faint. Or vomit. Maybe both.
"Sansa darling, are you well?" Margaery asked in her sweetest voice. Tones that honeyed meant that she was annoyed. She used it on Sansa as often as she used it on Joffrey in recent days. She'd have been beaten half to death by now if it were anyone else. That truth was enough to snap her back into her role of the simpleton.
"Yes, forgive me, my lady. I was only thinking of how it was best for the Stark imagery to be forgotten, disease or no. Pardon me, Your Grace, my ladies. I should like to pray to the gods and reflect on how grateful I am for a king as forgiving and wise as Joffrey."
"The Starks have ruled for thousands of years. They can never be forgotten. The North Remembers," Oberyn drawled.
"The Starks are all dead," Sansa said flatly.
"Are you not a Stark?" Ellaria asked, studying her with a curious expression.
"She killed my direwolf on the Trident just like her-" Sansa caught herself just in time. Joffrey calling her a traitor was one thing, but criticizing Robert's defeat of Rhaegar was another. That would get her beheaded.
The Dornish looked positively delighted and Margaery's eyebrows flew up into her hair.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, my ladies. I must pray and reflect on my words. I fear the imagery of the wolf has caused a flare of my traitor's blood. I must pray that our good king will be merciful as always."
She rushed away without another glance. Sansa didn't sleep that night. She sat beside her door with an ornate candelabra clutched in her hands. It was then, looking at the moon through the gap in her drapes, that Sansa made a decision.