She is ignored by nearly everyone in the run up to Joffrey's Wedding, and for that Sansa is eternally greatful.
Her unconsummated marriage to Tyrion is put on the backburner whilst the Queen dictates real pigeons are to be baked in the pie crust. Sansa is used to being on her own now Margaery has a Wedding to plan, fabrics to be sifted through and sorted on, invites to send personally signed. Sansa finds herself enjoying being in the background. Better to be ignored. She may be ignored, but the cold Queen's gaze is always on her, her lips turned upwards in joy of the torment she suffers, as if she has not suffered enough from this golden family. Tyrion tries to make it better, tries to talk to her, but Sansa makes feeble excuses and leaves in a most unladylike manner. She despises being married to a dwarf, a man part of the family that murdered her Father and her Mother and her brother. And so she sits and hides and is ignored, trying desperately to be forgotten completely.
She resides in shadows now, a ghost herself since the news of the last wedding. Red, like the only lively thing about her. Her hair, wild and loose around her like a lions mane for she is one of them now, if not quite by name just yet. How she loathes it, how she wishes she could tear her lovely hair out one strand by one until none remain. Somedays she wishes she could claw her big blue eyes out if only to stop seeing the sight of her Father's head rolling across the ground. She loathes the looks that has brought her nought but pain, and in her grief she let herself go. Her hair is only washed after her handmaiden's force her, and she is too weak to put up a fight. They wrestle the unbrushed hair into heavy braids that she tugs and pulls at throughout the day so their efforts are useless. She does not wish to flaunt herself, be pretty. There are more important things than dresses and hairstyles. Her handmaidens are Lannister loyalists and she must rebel in the little ways if not at all. She bathes in no perfume now, paints no rogue on her lips and cheeks.
Anguish is her only decoration now.
She sits perched in a window alcove whilst Margaery laughs with her cousins as they try on dresses, and how graceful she looks, how she floats across the ground to give Alla a kiss. Something inside Sansa throbs, a friendship now extinct, a love so tender now to be given to a man with no heart to nourish it. She would nourish it, Sansa would tell her brunette friend if they danced together. They used to do that, dancing together in the dark when Margaery invited her to bed when nights her cousins did not occupy it. She can still remember Margaery's soft skin, the perfume clinging to her as her rosebud mouth trailed an inch from Sansa's neck. It does no good to relieve memories however good, for nostalgia pierces her heart with a sword and twists. Just like she tries to forget Robb, dear Robb who was coming to save her and bring her Joffrey's head, and Father who's head was chopped off right in front of her-
Sansa shudders, teeth catching on her lower lip as her flesh writhes. She just wishes more than anything she was back home, that the last moons had never happened and it was a terrible dream. She wishes Margaery would not marry the Prince and instead run to her, and they would go to Highgarden and never be disturbed. She wished she could get her out of her mind, her and Joffrey both and this wedding, her wedding to the Imp- She has the same thought process nowadays. Every day in fact. Her sleepless nights lead to her mind wandering, retreading the same things over and over. The bruises under her eyes, the gaunt cheeks from the food she pokes at, hopefully thinking Tyrion will not want to get her with child in this state. She is worrying, always worrying. She will need to give him a child, and how can she when he does not look like Margaery or anybody beautiful at all and his family murdered her family-
Her knuckles clutch at the fabric in her hands and she gazes at Margaery sorrowfully, the way her curls spill over her shoulders, the spark in her eyes when she is happy, the way they change when she is determined.
"She is a beauty."
Crouched in the dark it is hard to distinguish her finger from the fabric and the needle slips. She hisses in pain as blood wells up on her finger, and turns to stare at the swarthy Dornishmen stood behind her. Leant lightly against the wall, staring down at her with an appraising look. The Red Viper.
"I- I did not see you there Ser." Sansa stutters, a flush arising on her cheeks as he languidly settles next to her.
"No." He agrees. "Too busy staring at the Tyrell girl. Not that I'm surprised. A true rose." His voice drips with sarcasm at the last words, poison of the sweetest source as he winks at her.
"I do not know what you mean." She is pleased her voice has a degree of haughtiness, happy her manners have not completely melted away in this strange ghost version of her. The Red Viper of Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell stares at her, black eyebrows settling into a face of knowing that makes her insides squirm with shame and disgust.
"In Dorne it is common for women to have lady lovers. Likewise for men."
She knows perfectly well what the Dornish do, and Sansa's throat closes up at the suggestion.
She shakes her head automatically, tongue licking dry cracked lips. "Margaery and I are friends. She proposed I marry her brother-"
"Ahh Willas. A lovely boy, although I fear the lions will never let you out of their den." His breath is hot on her face and she stiffens, staring down at her sewing.
Her fingers are trembling finely, for she does not like Margaery like that, of course not they are just friends, dear friends. She is married to the Imp and is to have his children- She supresses the urge to gag and instead stares at Oberyn. He has few lines on his face, although Sansa judges he is around middle age. Older than Tyrion, that is for sure. Still good looking, with a softness in those dark eyes as he stares at her. Dark black hair with streaks of silver grey that somehow make him more attractive. Strong features, a straight nose and square chin. High cheekbones. His eyes glitter with amusement when she realises she is staring, and she clears her throat slightly.
"I am sorry about your brother." He leans back lazily, crossing his legs. "I know what it feels like to lose a sibling." His voice is gentle, voice lulling her into serenity. For the first time Sansa thinks she may get better, that the grief will recede to a manageable level.
"Elia of Dorne." Sansa whispers, and Oberyn nods.
His handsome face twists slightly in memory. "She was beautiful, and kind and gracious. And she too died a horrible death, just like your brother." He squeezes her knee and her skin tingles where his warm hand lay. "Justice may take a long time... but it will come one day for all those who committed the murders. A sin, to take the life of an innocent."
Sansa nods. "I am so... sad." An understatement, and a bubble of hysterical laughter forces its way out of her cracked lips. "All the time. My family are all dead except Jon who is at the Wall, and we never liked each other anyway, and I am here trapped." Her eyes flicker anxiously around, for you never knew who could be listening around a corner. "I just want to leave this place." She says passionately. "And never come back."
Oberyn nods, an idea forming in his mind as he stares at the broken doll in front of him.
"The thing about being trapped," Oberyn says as he stands up. "Is that there is always a way out, if you are prepared to take it."
Sansa stares up at him confused, and thinks perhaps she could find the power to jump off the tower if Oberyn said it was okay, that he understood if she wanted to just give up and give in to the desire to see her parents again. He leaves her there, fumbling over her stiches in the dark.
That night is awful, with her Mother and Robb's screams mixing with hers as they row up to get executed. Bran and Rickon and Arya first, with an unknown executioner who is merely a shadow. They kill them a hundred times in different ways, drowning, hanging, burnt alive. The scent singes her nostrils, and her hair seems on fire too. Poor Rickon, only a baby with tears down his face as hands throttle him- She cries out but has lost her voice, her tongue slashed and blood dripping through her hands. Their heads on spikes, they watch with unseeing eyes as Father is shoved to his knees and this was real- Ser Ilyn Payne delivers the sentence, and Queen Cersei with madness in her eyes gleefully laughs as she swoops Mothers off with one blow, and Joffrey hacks and hacks and hacks at Robb, blood flying everywhere and coating Sansa, flying into her mouth until she struggles to breathe-
She wakes up with her face pressed into the pillow. She pushes back her covers with sweaty legs and discovers her moonblood has arrived. She can taste blood in the back of her throat, her tongue bitten as she hobbles over to her washbasin. Tears glimmer in her eyes at the dream and the pain in her stomach. Pain, pain, everything was pain nowadays. She takes a sip of water, nausea and dizziness engulfing her as she staggers to bed and gingerly climbs back in, curling up into a ball and staring blankly at the wall opposite.
Justice, Oberyn Martell's words float into her mind foggy with sleep. Justice will come one day.
When she wakes she knows justice is not going to come that day. She has no desire to get of bed, a fogginess making her mind heavy. Her limbs will not co-operate, and she could easily lie forever in her own sweat. She did not care about making an appearance, for who should notice her absence? She could not even get excited about Margaery who promised to squeeze in a talk in between measurements and flower decorating. So instead she lay there and reminisced about WInterfell, and Arya and Bran and everyone from her Father to the nameless scullery maids she seldom saw. She entertained her thoughts dully on how Robb and her Mother had died, and that there were rumours his direwolf Grey Wind had been slaughtered too and defouled in a most awful way. She missed her direwolf Lady, but she was dead too. Never coming back, her skeleton dust now. Tears welled too easily nowadays, and she sobs into her pillow for a while forgetting the world.
When her handmaiden Shae tentatively knocks on the door and slips her a letter, Sansa wipes swollen eyes and focuses on the unfamiliar handwriting.
I missed you today.
She stares out and realises it is dark already, that another day has crept by without notice. She sighs and sinks back into her pillows, staring at the note reading it this way and that wondering why the Prince of Dorne would ever want to write to her.
She thinks it is a shame to sit out in the godswood and ruin a perfect place. The raincloud that follows her dullens her every sense and makes everything twisted. Every raindrop on her skin is another wound. You're the only one left, sting. You're nothing but a traitors daughter, stab. What was it Joffrey had said? Beat her bloody. Claws raking her chest. Who would ever want to marry a mongeral like you? A slap that makes her head spin and she sits down abruptly on a seat and stares out across the green landscape. It is so hard to breathe. The simple act tires her so these days, and she pulls in an lungful of air and exhales with a tight chest, knuckles pressed into her lap as she sat in front of the huge weirwood.
"Talking to the flowers?" She blinks and stares up at the woman walking towards her.
Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell's paramour, and she does not walk, she floats more effortlessly than Margaery. She wears leather sandals as shoes, her dress a myriad of colourful silk that wafts loosely with the breeze. She is beautiful in a exotic way, not like Margaery who is cute, all dimpled cheeks and shy smiles. She can not imagine this woman doing anything shyly. Sansa wants to ask how she does it, how she can walk like that even as people call her bastard. She used to be the same, before Robb died and Mother died and she had given up foolish hopes for the future.
"The tree." Sansa says, words falling so slow and heavy from her lips.
"And is it a good listener?" Ellaria's lips curve into a smile.
"No." Sansa whispers, fingers trailing across the rough bark of the weirwood tree, the red sap sticking to her fingers like blood. Tainted, and she wipes it on her dress without a thought ruining the fabric.
"It may not talk back but it doesn't mean it's not listening. The Gods work in strange ways." Ellaria squeezes her shoulder just like her lover had done two days previously. A Motherly gesture, and the pain in Sansa's chest-
"Oberyn wrote to me." She blurts, without stopping to think it may hurt her. But Ellaria shrugs one slim shoulder unconcerned.
"Oberyn likes making friends. As do I, as it happens. We outcasts need to stick together hmm?" And she smiles beautifully, and a small answering one trembles on Sansa's lips.
He calls for her that next morning, and Sansa is slick with sweat from nightmares, her eyes bloodshot and hair a mess. Still, he waits without complaint while Shae prepares a bath Sansa for the first time in a while uses productively, scrubbing at her skin till it was like to fall off, rubbing scents into her hair and perfuming her underarms. She picks her best dress, somehow managing to do up the buttons without giving up half way with her arms aching, a chain weighing them down. When she finally opens the door Oberyn stands up and kisses her hand in a way that makes her stomach twist.
"Beautiful." He proclaims, and Sansa feels her cheeks warm. Tears threaten to fall from the simple compliment and she drops into a curtsey. "I thought perhaps the lady Sansa would like to go for a walk?" He asks, looking as handsome as ever in his bright Dornish garb, the spear and sun sigil catching the light splendidly.
"That would be lovely." Sansa agrees, pathetically eager for her escape. He wraps a protective arm around Sansa's as they set off, his arm strong and comforting. They meet Ellaria on the way, and Sansa does not protest when she winds her arm through Sansa's other.
"Oh look!" Joffrey says with delight. "The Dornish can always sniff out whores."
Sansa trembles and their grips tighten.
"Your Grace." Oberyn says, nodding his head. "A pleasure to see you. I gather you have had your turn of Lady Sansa." He strokes her hair and she shivers. "Now she wants someone who knows how to pleasure a woman."
Joffrey's cheeks turn red, but he dare not say something to a visiting Prince of Dorne. Instead he huffs, and mentions something about not caring away and goes off to see how his seventy seven course meals are coming on.
Sansa sighs raggedly as he disappears, and Ellaria pats her hand, Oberyn kissing her hair.
"Take no notice." Ellaria advises. "It is much better to live that way. Their words are merely words. If you build up the armour around you strong they will never break in."
They walk around the Rose garden, and as Ellaria fondles a rose with two slim fingers Sansa's mind slips to Margaery. Her sigil was a rose, her words Growing Strong. Sansa wished she could grow strong. Mayhaps with Ellaria and Oberyn's help, she could. The Dornish words were Unbowed Unbent Unbroken, and that is what she shall aspire to be. Ellaria makes a small utterance of surprise as her finger nicks a thorn and her finger starts to bleed, and Oberyn with a delicate tenderness lifts his paramours hand and gently sucks the blood away. A tender, passionate, private moment that makes Sansa stare awkwardly at the two. She is stricken that Oberyn cares so much for his lady who is not even his wife or of noble birth, she is embarrassed to be watching such a display of love she could only ever hope of gaining and she is jealous that in those few moments she was forgotten once more, fading into the background. It wounds her more than she can say, and she clears her throat painfully and hurries away. Silly, she scolds herself. For of course he would have no feelings for you, and you are married to a Lannister anyway.
"Ellaria does not mind."
"Truly?"
He catches her arm one day when she is aimlessly walking around the Red Keep and turns her around, greeting her with a smile and wink and following her on her way to nowhere. It turns into a daily thing, and they have quiet conversations about matters of no importance, and it motivates Sansa to get out of bed on the bad days.
"She thinks you are a very lonely girl Sansa." Oberyn sighs. "As do I."
He turns to look at her, dark eyes watching closely and seeing too much of her then she'd like. He's growing stubble on his chin, and he is so beautiful in an exotic rugged way that mayhaps Sansa does not mind when he laments how unhappy she is and how he wants to change it. She knows why, thinks that most likely he is doing this for her since he could never for his sister, but Sansa is happy for the friendship anyway. She will gladly spend time with the Prince with a Dornish lilt, a man whose breeches cling to his legs sinfully and whose fine clothes make him the envy of every Knight. In some ways he reminds her of her Father, how when he walks next to her his gaze will follow any man nearby as if he is a guard, how he has wisdom in his eyes and tenderness in his voice. He is looking out for her, looking after her, and it has been so long since she felt it Sansa has almost forgotten the feeling. But then he looks at her with passion and anger in those eyes and her stomach flips and she's unsure of everything.
They make up a childish game, a jape to wile the time in between Oberyn's council meetings and Sansa's uneventful only awkward meals with Tyrion. Sansa believes she is a child no longer, but will indulge herself as much as she can with the person that will spoil her. A simple game, only having to name things they would rather do, created after Oberyn told her of the horror of being asked to take Cersei's hand in marriage.
"I would choose a bed of scorpions over her." He had declared, and Sansa had let out a nervous laugh at that, for the little birds had eyes and ears everywhere and who knew where the former Queen lurked.
"Why we wouldn't be family then!" She had giggled, for the first time in a long while. The noise had seemed strange at first, flying from her lips as it did, but as she laughed more and Oberyn joined in happiness bloomed like a flower in the pit of her belly. Now they make up ridiculous things, Oberyn inquiring if Sansa would rather live in Essos or Dorne (Dorne, because then I should see you and Ellaria.) and Sansa asks if he would rather kill Joffrey or the Mountain (No question about it sweetling), and Oberyn purrs would the lovely charming Sansa rather come to his bedchamber or have lunch with her hideous husband?
"You." Sansa says breathlessly, skirts sweeping around her ankles in the middle of the corridor as she turns to gaze into his eyes. "Always you."
And Oberyn strokes her hand and kisses her forehead and tells her to hurry along now lest someone might spy them.
He invades her dreams, slithering like the snake he is into them. She can almost feel the kisses he rains on her skin, the way his strong arms defend her from any insults that threaten to erode her. He banishes them all, his words turning the poison to water that trickles down her face like raindrops. Crying, she is crying, but from happiness or sadness she cannot tell. All she knows is that he tells her it is okay, and everything will work out, and he kisses her until she believes it and is begging for more. She wakes up hot, flustered and the memory of his phantom lips at the forefront of her mind. She knows that after Joffrey she will never be a girl in a story waiting for a knight in shining armour again, but Oberyn was no knight and she was a girl no longer.
They go riding, Oberyn on his huge stallion black as night with a scarlet tail and mane. Sansa prefers a more quieter mare, a pretty grey with a soft dished muzzle and long eyelashes. She noses the palm of her hand as she strokes her, and Oberyn helps her into the saddle himself, waving away his squire Daemon Sand who is accompanying them as a precaution.
"Not that anything will go wrong at all my lady." Oberyn told her, teeth gleaming beautifully in his brown face. "But it would be quite unfortunate if in the event something were to happen you were unprotected."
"You would protect me." Sansa says smoothly, without even thinking about it as she was completely confident in his ability to disarm any would be attacker. "You're not called the Red Viper for nothing."
And she gently nudges her horse into a jaunty trot and clatters out of the courtyard, Oberyn hard on her heels with an amused laugh tumbling from his lips.
They hack up Rhaeny's hill, Sansa's dress flowing behind her and the wind whipping her hair back. She feels alive for the first time in forever. They race, Sansa's heart thumping and her cheeks flushing, the rocking motion of her horse only spurring her on further and faster, reins slick in her hands. Sansa laughs happily, spirited and care-free. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks warm. She feels like a child again, excitement making her shiver, lips all atremble. They slow to a walk as they go through the woods, dappled sunlight shining golden through the forest leaves, and Sansa sighs in relaxation, closing her eyes and feeling the lukewarm autumn sun on her face.
"It's so beautiful here." Sansa murmurs. Away from the Red Keep with Cersei and Joffrey and Tyrion... "What's it like in Dorne?"
"More beautiful." Oberyn chuckles. "Much hotter. You could never wear your fancy velvet dresses there. You would be decked in silk and nothing else. You would love the Water Gardens I think. Orange and lemon trees-"
"I love lemons." Sansa agrees dreamily, envisioning a place of warm happiness that feels like the pit of her stomach. "It sounds lovely."
"It is, but I've heard many delightful tales of the North. Tell me of your Winterfell."
Her Winterfell. Hers now, and hers alone.
She pushes away the sadness and regales only fond memories of her brothers and Arya, of her Mother and Father. Her direwolf Lady, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole and- Nostalgia stabs her, and she goes mute with despair. She stares at the autumn flowers unfurling, the sweet smell of fruits soon ripe for the plucking. The hazy bees buzzing around, the birds chirping happily secret songs as they flutter from one branch to another helping to calm her jangled nerves. The hand slipping into hers almost certainly improves her spirits, and when he suggest they go off the trail with a mischeavous and wholly persuasive smile she does not hesitate. They slosh through the ebbing river, and Sansa's dress gets flecked with water, not that she or Oberyn mind. There are two of Oberyn's guards behind them but they are far enough behind to forget and it makes Sansa feel secure and safe, like Cersei isn't going to find out this is happening and haul her back before Joffrey and cut off her- Sansa clears her throat. "
How is Lady Ellaria?"
"Don't let her hear you call her Lady." Oberyn warns. "She's a fierce fighter." A smile flashes on his face, a chuckle rolls off his tongue. "And she is doing quite well. She has an eye for one of the stable boys, so I imagine she is quite pleased we have gone out so she can... entertain him."
So strange, how he can be so care free about his lover and her antics. "And you are not jealous?" She inquires.
"Why not? I had women before her, and women after, just like she with her merry men. Why, us both have had men and women. If I and Ellaria only gave ourselves to each other, I fear our love would be very dull and stale."
"Like I and Tyrion's." Sansa says hesitantly.
"No, your marriage to that Lannister has no love at all." Oberyn kicks his horse on as they scramble up the other bank out of the stream. "And that's the sad truth."
"Would you rather be married to a dwarf or married to a Lannister?" Sansa asks hollowly, the joy of the ride evaporating from her as she gurgles out a despairing laugh. "
Oh sweetling, you forget about your handsome Dornish friend." Oberyn tuts, and Sansa turns to look at him, a slow smile creeping across her lips.
He first kisses her under a small brick archway, ivy tangling around the cracks of the stone and rain dripping off the leaves.
Their stroll through the gardens had been abruptly cut short and left them fleeing for cover. Sansa shrieking, tugging Oberyn along like a child for shelter. Sansa shivers in her wet dress, and Oberyn settles his arm around her waist dragging her flush against him. She stares up at him, chin tilted upwards and eyes half closed in want. When they kiss his lips are wet from rain, and she doesn't know how to kiss, mouth moving awkwardly against his. He sucks on her bottom lip and she gasps into his mouth, head lolling backwards. She shouldn't be doing this, she knows she shouldn't be doing this, but her knees are weak and her head is dizzy and his hands are so achingly warm as he strokes her spine that she finds it hard to find a reason why she shouldn't enjoy it. He pushes her back so her spine is pushed against the wall and a small giggle escapes her puffed lips.
"Strange." He breathes, black eyes roaming over her face, the lines in his face somehow turning lighter as he smiles softly, indulging in this madness, liking her wide-eyed gleefulness at being kissed properly, and by someone who knew how. "Nobody has ever laughed at my kisses before."
Then they are kissing again ravenously, all messy limbs and hot touches that make Sansa quake and quiver. She doubts anyone but a servant could see them in this small corner of the large rolling gardens, but all the same she wonders what were to happen if Tyrion could see her. When she can barely look her lord husband in the eye yet is easily giving out kisses to the irresistible Dornish Prince...
"I shouldn't be doing this." She says a while later, breath heavy as she tries to tame her hair. The rolling grey clouds have disappeared, fat raindrops dripping off flower buds.
"Give me a good reason why not." Oberyn murmurs. "And I shall leave."
She clutches at his shirt desperately, eyes flicking up to gaze at him in desperation. "You can't leave me. You're not like everyone else. You understand why I hate them so, you help make me happy. You help make me happy." She breathes and reaches on her tiptoes to press her lips against his.
They stay there for a while in silence, not kissing but basking in each others company and brewing on the revenge they seek.
"Ellaria." Sansa smiles at the Dornish woman whom she passes.
"Sansa." The woman's red lips tilt up invitingly, and with no qualms she tucks Sansa under her arm and guides her to her bedchamber where they share a glass of the best Dornish Wine.
"So how was it?" Ellaria asks, lazily falling into a chair with her long brown legs angled over a foot stool.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't play the innocent." Ellaria wags a finger, so surprisingly casual about the whole affair. "The Gods know Oberyn has a way with his tongue."
"I-" Sansa splutters on the sweet wine. "He is a good kisser." Red faced she retreats back to her cup.
"You needn't look so scared sweetling. I am giving you permission, straight from the whore's mouth." She winks like it is a grand joke, and Sansa can only stare. Dornish people are strange.
"He said you have a stable boy." As if that settles the matter, and Sansa takes another gulp of the wine and sits back in her chair with her head slightly spinning.
Ellaria laughs loudly at that, golden earrings jingling and eyes shining. "I suppose that makes us even then. I just want everyone to be happy, my dear."
"He makes me very happy." Sansa admits humbly. "As do you Ellaria. Thank you for the wine."
"Thank you for the delightful company. Mayhaps I can join you and Oberyn next time."
"That would be lovely." "I can see the disgust in your face." Ellaria's laugh is positively wicked. "It was merely a jape."
He buys her little gifts. A necklace, some earrings. She wears them with pride and feigns confusion at Tyrion's comments on where they were from, because could he not remember she had had these for a while now, had worn them once or twice before?
Tyrion can tell she is sure, from the way he looks at her when she walks in with her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, a smile quick on her face as she drifts to her room, but he says nothing. She is thankful for that at least. Oberyn reassures her that she is a young wife stuck in a marriage that neither participant wanted and she should be allowed to have fun after everything she's been through. So, day by day she slowly starts to feel the truth of the smile budding on her lips. When Oberyn looks at her sometimes with old eyes and she can tell he is recognising how young she is she squeezes his hand and tells him she is a woman grown now and old enough to make her own decisions and she would appreciate it if he wouldn't look at her so. Then he smiles and kisses her forehead or strokes her cheek and everything is okay.
Everything is okay.
His lips scrape against the tender skin of her neck and shivers with delight before he sucks-
Her head lolls backwards and a sigh escapes her lips. She should feel depraved, deviant, disgusted with herself. She's not. Her marriage to Tyrion is not true, a cruel folly that nobody takes seriously. Tyrion has his whores, and Sansa has Oberyn and when they sleep together they sleep at opposite sides of the bed and everything is as it should. Oberyn's hand slips down the front of her, down to the middle of her legs. Obscene, so utterly unladylike as she leans against him gasping for breath, shuddering and whimpering with her dress all creased and ruffled up around her hips. #
"Do you like that?" He breathes in her ear, and it tickles and she nods unable to speak, twisting around and kissing him deeply, frantically. Nails digging into his flesh to hold him closer, and he grunts slightly cupping her face and peeling her off him.
"Scurry back now little wolf." He says, and she gazes at him dewy-eyed before she leaves, the last image of him sprawled across that big bed of his before she shuts the door and tiptoes away, his dismissal only making her want him more.
"You have a bruise on your neck." Her handmaiden Shae says, when she slips into her bedchamber and Sansa's cheeks burn in embarrassment, her hand flying up to cover it.
"From your husband?" Shae purrs, helping her get dressed for bed.
Sansa's smile is shaky. "Who else would it be?"
Shae smiles sourly and departs, and Sansa lies awake thinking of someone most definitely not her husband.
They meet at the wolves hour in the godswood.
"Please." Sansa begs, hands gripping his. "I want you, only you. I don't want him. He's one of them I thought you understood-" He stops her pleads with a kiss, hand gripping her face pulling her closer.
She moans, lust surging with her as she knots her fingers in his hair, knee digging into his lap as she surges upwards into him. He unclasps her cloak with expert hands, and it falls away to crumple beneath them. Goosebumps rise on her skin milky white in the moonlight. He kisses them away, and Sansa's head rolls backwards, eyelashes fluttering in ecstasy. His chuckle reverberates on her skin, making every pore thrum and throb with painful want and need, and her silky red hair flows between his fingers as he slides his hands to rest on her corset.
"Do you want me to stop?" He asks idly, playing with a strand of her hair.
"No." She mouths, for she is so wanton and wicked to admit she wants him. One thing in the mind, but to say it out loud- "No." She says firmly. "Don't stop - please-" She nods, eyes dark in the night and face half in shadow.
Viper eyes, wolf eyes, dark and deadly with lust.
He un-plucks the laces of her corset, pulling them one by one until she is squirming with anticipation. When the corset slips down she breathes a sigh of relief and he looks at her with amused fondness for they've only just begun. She thought she knew what the Dornish did, but she was wrong. Ohh she was so wrong. He has eight bastard daughters, so Sansa wasn't entirely sure why she hadn't thought too much about what he was like, but she knew innately that she would never have had this with her husband. But those thoughts were unbidden and distracting, and she casts them away with as much fevor as Oberyn rips her dress. She squeals, her soft giggles hushed by his lips on her breasts, sliding down to her arching stomach that trembles, rising and dipping below him. Her sharp hips, digging up into him. He takes her maidenhead there beside the tree, the crimson blood slipping down her thighs to drip and spot the roots speckled red, soaking deep into the roots forevermore. It stings at first, but after the initial pain it fades somewhat and she closes her eyes in pleasure. They are sweaty, her breath panting, soft bursts of white mist in the air. Her hair is mussed, her lips swollen, and she has never felt more scandalous. Oberyn hadn't even bothered to remove all his clothes, staring at her with such reverence in her eyes she felt like a wild goddess of the night. She hums happily under her breath as he gently laces her back up, hesitating to re-clip the muddied and bloodied cloak around her neck before removing it once more.
"I'll get Ellaria to wash it." Sansa stares at him, a guilt starting to throb at her insides at the thought of his paramour.
But Sansa has such little opportunity for delights, and Sansa knows Ellaria is with one of the stable-boys, and Oberyn is just so- so Oberyn she can push the guilt away bit by bit. She does not regret it all, and she watches Oberyn stride away across the snow hugging herself with happiness that seems evergrowingly familiar and welcome.
"I'm not going now." She tells Dontos the night after. Her cloak pulled tight around her lithe body as the wind rustles the leaves of the huge weir wood, hair tangled and messy from the kisses Oberyn bestowed on her before she slipped away.
"Oh but we have to!" He cries, eyes wide with terror, and she tugs away from his hand and smoothes her dress with a frown.
"I'm happy. I don't need to leave now. I already have my Florian and he is not you."
She leaves the fool there beneath the tree she had blessed with Oberyn and doesn't look back.
"I do not think we should see each other any longer." Her thoughts trickle down to fall out of her lips like raindrops. It dampens the mood ever so slightly.
"Hmm..." Oberyn hums against her bare skin, freshly oiled and scented. "Why is that?" He peppers kisses on her.
"Because..." She hesitates, guilt swarming her features as she sits up, hair shining copper in the candlelight. "Because it is wrong. I am a married woman, and Ellaria is your lover and we never should have done what we did beneath that tree." Her tone so scandalised, and Oberyn laughs.
She swings her head to look at him with cold fury. "I am not laughing at you." He promises, dark eyes glittering, his long hair a mess from her nails raking through it. "I am merely thinking that Ellaria will not care and you... you deserve better." He says, cupping her cheek with a warm familiar hand. "When I first saw you I saw a young girl utterly broken, married into the family that killed hers, to a dwarf no less, a girl who had been beaten and abused and had no life in those beautiful blue eyes. The one person she loved engaged to a monster-"
"I don't love her." Sansa says feebly, and Oberyn shoots her a knowing look. Despite her guilt a smile blooms on Sansa's kissed lips.
"And I saw this girl, and I needed to protect her. So I've protected her when the King seeks her out for his sick amusement, and helped make her happier. Haven't I?"
She nods slowly, unwillingly. "Yet you are leaving me anyway to stay here, married to Tyrion."
"You may be in a miserable marriage, but you can look to me for your delights. And in time... perhaps you will grow to love your droll little fellow. But for now sweetling forget it all..." His hands slip down her back and she shivers, burying her head in his shoulder.
"Shhsh." He massages the knots from her back and she stares up at him glassy-eyed.
"I will never love him like I love you." He doesn't answer, except to offer a trip to Dorne in a few months time, and Sansa's head rolls back as he kisses her neck and she tries to push the future from her mind and live in the delicious present that slips through her fingers far too quickly.
She sits cross-legged, in nothing but her nightgown as he brushes out her long thick hair.
"Your best feature." He compliments and Sansa's lips twitch upwards into a smile. "Or perhaps the blush across your face." He winks and she only feels her face grow hotter.
"There are people more beautiful than me." She says, ducking her head self-consciously. Women not so sad and grief stricken. Women not so guilty and untrustworthy, sneaking around like a common whore. "Like Ellaria."
"She is as beautiful as you." Oberyn agrees.
"What of your daughter's Mothers?" Sansa asks curiously, as he strokes the nape of neck. "What were they like?"
She knows all about his Sand Snakes, four by Ellaria and four by others.
"Obara, my eldest, her Mother was a whore from Oldtown. She was buxom and bawdy with a fierce temper." He chuckles. "My daughter has inherited that."
He tells her about all of them, weaves deliciously dark tales about the mother of Lady Nymeria, a Volantis woman seductive and sultry. A contrast to Tyene's mother, who was a devout Septa who never strayed to temptation until she met him and he sang her sweet songs and looked at her in that way of his until she fell unresistant into his arms.
"The horror." Oberyn teased, mouthing the words on her neck as she squirms in delight, stocking clad legs kicking out against him.
"What about Sarella?" Sansa says raggedly, hands trailing down his back and foot entangling with his.
"She was a Captain of a ship called the Feathered Kiss." Oberyn plants kisses on her skin and Sansa rises up to him with her nightgown ruffling upwards.
"Give me a feathered kiss." She meets his eyes, and Oberyn so proud of her spirit, her growing confidence complies to her demands.
He pushes her down on the bed and gives kisses and more to her, hips thrusting and she tries so hard to be quiet, lips a bitten ruin and heavy moans swallowed by a hand over her mouth. She grows more confident, and she remembers something Queen Cersei once told her about a weapon being between her legs, and she hooks her leg around Oberyn's waist wanting him closer. His hands splay across her back, and she arches in his grip, lips gasping for breath ghosting by his ear. He catches her leg this time and flips until she is on top and her hands move across his chest with tingling fingertips. Their eyes meet, and she trembles as fire runs through her veins, and mayhaps she is feeling what her Father once called was wolves blood, and as stars dance behind her closed eyes she is the happiest she has ever been.
She sits heavily on the chair after, quilt across her knees and skin rosy from the fire crackling in the grate. The quilt is warm and heavy against her naked
skin, and her lips are swollen with too many kisses she was sure. Oberyn whispers her name like it is a prayer across the darkened room, rising up from the bed with the coverlets falling down to leave him naked as his name day. He was the Red Viper, poised and lethal, dangerous and deadly. Not to her though, never to her or Ellaria. Snakes infect people with poison, but maybe the poison in the right hands could become a healing salve.
"Come back to bed." His voice is husky with sleep.
"I can't sleep." She stares at the flickering flames slowly dying out. She is exhausted, sure of bruises on her body from Oberyn's lovemaking, but she cannot let her frazzled mind be at ease.
"What if someone finds out…" She picks at the skin of her thumbnail anxiously, imagining Joffrey and the Queen flinging her in the dungeons before dragging her out to behead her. She envisions her head on a spike and nausea swirls in her gullet.
"People are allowed to have affairs Sansa, it is not a crime. The Queen herself had affairs behind the King's back with her brother no less, and you are merely married to a Lannister dwarf. People may look at you with derision true, but they already do."
"I want to go home." A tired cry of a babe, the gurgling and cracking of a voice trying not to weep, and he pads across the room to hold her close as she lays a tired head on his chest. "I want it all to be over. Tyrion, and Joffrey…"
"You can do whatever you want." He tells her, stroking one creamy cheek. "And nobody can tell you what not to do. Isn't that right? You're the Imps wife. You can have whatever you desire little one. The Lannisters take what they get-"
"I am not a Lannister." Sansa hisses savagely, her lips curling upwards in a snarl as she looks up with cold eyes. "I am a Stark, of Winterfell."
"And what are you going to do about it?" Oberyn asks.
"I'm going to make them regret ever chopping my Lord Fathers' head off."
She will go back home, she will.
She will.
"You think the whole Red Keep don't know you're fucking Oberyn Martell?" Shae sneers.
It was bound to be noticed by someone eventually, in the days when she resided in his company and the nights she slipped into his chambers. But everyone, the whole Red Keep… Sansa's cheeks warm, but she refuses to rise to the bait. Fucking, it was such an obscene word for the beautiful stuff she and Oberyn did together.
"You are my handmaiden." Sansa says coolly. "My affairs are naught to do with you. Fetch me some hot water for a bath."
Shae scowls but leaves anyway, and Sansa sinks onto her bed worrying the necklace at her throat.
Did Tyrion truly know? Or was Shae just being Shae? If Joffrey and Queen Cersei know- She bites her lip hard as tears make her vision blurry and stands up. She has to go see him.
"People know." Her lips quiver against his ear and he looks up at her amused. Amused.
"Then let them talk. People have done far worse than partake in idle gossip."
"But Tyrion-" Sansa says desperately.
"If your dwarf wanted to harm you, he would have done so by now." Oberyn is so convinced, but even he cannot calm Sansa's nerves. "Have you not thought that perhaps he is doing the same as you, little wolf?"
And Sansa thinks of Shae's hostility, and wonders.
Tyrion is a laughing stock of the Red Keep, Sansa knows, because their marriage bed remains firmly clean. No bloodied sheets are taken from their room despite their shared bed, and with every passing day as she spends more time with her Prince and less with her husband the titters increase in volume. Sansa would feel sorry for Tyrion, if she could feel sorry for a Lannister at all. She half expects a twisted repeat of her Wedding night whenever she comes in, Tyrion demanding her to strip while he took what is his due as her husband and lord. It's not that he's a bad husband, but Sansa would prefer not to have a husband at all.
Sansa plays with the pease on her fork, chasing them around her plate. Their meals were always silent, a few sentences of greeting and goodbye at the beginning and end and that was that.
"Sansa." Tyrion begins, when Sansa finally pushes her plate away and declares herself full and asks to leave.
"Yes?"
He sighs wearily. "Try to be discreet."
"Like you, my Lord?"
She enjoys the savage pleasure that thrums in her as his black and green eyes widen, staring at her with his wine cup frozen in mid air halfway to his lips. She pushes her chair back and rises, exiting their room without looking back.
"I was waiting for you."
"So you were." He says amused, coming forward. She walks up to meet him with her blue eyes bold.
She had been naked before court members before, as Joffrey stripped her bare for her brother's 'crimes', she had even been naked on her Wedding night to Tyrion, but this was different. Oberyn was more than a court member or undesirable Husband, he was a friend, an ally, a lover, a Prince. Sansa captures his lips with her own passionately, a sound of content purring from her as Oberyn trails fingers up her spine, teases a curl that falls in front of her face. She lowers herself down onto his lap, hands around his neck. He buries his head in her hair and groans and she sighs, body quivering. Her hair fans out across the pillows as he twists her around, her gasps echoing around them as he ravishes her. She could do this forever, their bodies twisted together, him whispering into her ear and kissing her smile.
Afterwards he rolls off the bed and saunters over to pour wine, his back muscles rippling. Sansa licks her lips and props herself up with one elbow to observe him.
She doesn't even know what posses her to throw a pillow at him.
He easily dodges, of course he does, and she can't resist her laugh when he stares at her incredulously. She squeals as he tickles her, lunging across the huge bed that was a playground of blankets and plump pillows. She throws them at him but he drags her by the ankle and her laughter is muffled, and he flips her around and stares at her with those dark eyes, so lustful and playful and caring. His stubble scratches her neck and his lips suck the tender skin.
"Stop it!" Sansa kicks out and he obediently stops, fingers sliding to entwine with hers. She sways their interlocked hands back and forth in the air lazily, warm and content, tiredness seeping into her pores making her smile widely.
"I think you've poisoned me." She murmurs. "I can't get you out of my mind."
She snuggles up to his chest, listening to his heart thrum. Comfortingly familiar, and her fingers play with the ends of his hair as she drifts off to sleep.
"I want her Pod. I desire her, yet she is not mine." Tyrion sighs, swilling the last dregs of wine in his goblet. "I desire her and despise her for being so... so virtuous. Only thirteen and yet I... but he can." A dark bitter laugh and Sansa leans flat against the wall like one of the Spiders' birds herself, ears straining to listen.
"M-my Lord they're only r-rumours."
"You haven't watched her." A drunken slur. "You think I don't know the sign of a good fuck?" Bitter and disgusted and resigned to the fact his Father hated him for not getting her with child, securing the power the Lannisters strove for. "If she gets with child everyone will think its a Dornish bastard anyhow unless it came out looking like me, who would ever-" A hysterical laugh, and Sansa flees to her only safe place, the only person she trusts in this den of lions - the snake, that slithers in unawares and sinks his fangs into all those giant beasts.
When she knocks on his doors he is not there, but Ellaria takes one look at her face and draws her in, hugging her tightly and cooing as only a Mother can- Tears prickle Sansa's eyes but she dare not cry and instead takes a huffed breath of composure and straightens her spine.
"Here sit down." Ellaria pets, wiping her watery eyes and calling for some hot spiced wine, pressing a lemon cake into her hand and sitting beside her.
"You must think me so stupid." Sansa says angrily, finishing the lemon cake and brushing away the crumbs.
"I think," Ellaria's fingers graze Sansa's cheeks comfortingly. "That you're a remarkably strong girl, a smart girl. No matter what your husband says he hasn't forced himself upon you, and is willing to suffer for it. And you, you are merely doing everything you can to survive in this place." She sighs delicately. "Obviously Oberyn has complicated that, but he has a way of doing that for everything."
They share indulgent smiles, able to relate on that level. Everyone knew the Red Viper wanted for nothing, did whatever he pleased despite the consequences.
"You really should come to Dorne. It's beautiful there, and you'll be a lot happier with girls your own age. I can't guarantee you'll not miss home, for you always will, but perhaps you will not be so haunted. You'll certainly fare better away from those awful Lannisters." Her voice grows tight with rage. "Stripping young girls in court for nothing-"
"I can't leave here." Sansa says. "The Queen would never let me leave."
"You can do anything you want sweetling." Ellaria tells. "Now tell me, is it true the rumour about the scorpions in the pie?"
"Scorpions?" Sansa laughs. "No they want pigeons!"
They laugh and talk about rumours more ridiculous then the last and then it evolves into making up scandalous rumours so hilarious and shocking Sansa is wide eyed and gasping for breath, laughter choking in her windpipe until she's almost forgotten the reason she was there in the first place.
Oberyn greets her with a smile, inviting her in with an eager wave and a motion to close the door. She obediently shuts it and drifts to his side where he tinkers with the contents of various bottles, a chest by his side housing more. She picks up one of the bottle curiously and gazes at the contents, a thick black substance clinging to the glass encasing it.
"I would be careful with that."
"This is poison?" Sansa rears backwards and places the bottle down with delicate precision as Oberyn smiles, dark eyes twinkling.
"Manticore Venom. I'm going to teach you how to properly defend yourself Sansa. You won't be hurt any longer."
She stares at him uncomprehendingly. "I can't poison anyone. I'm not like you, I'm a good person."
Oberyn laughs loudly at that and Sansa glares at him, eyebrows pulling together sharply. "I am, truly!"
"I know, but it will do no harm will it?"
She curls her lip at that.
"Well it will," Oberyn concedes. "Because that is the point. If you're ever in a situation when you need a quick and painless solution you have one. Like this." He procures a small bottle that looks empty except for the faint shimmer of the liquid.
"This poison is called the Tears of Lys, it's very fast acting and difficult to tell when you're consuming it as it's odourless and tasteless. Understand?"
Sansa nods.
"This is important Sansa." He clasps her hands gently, tightly, gazing deep into her eyes.. "Let me help you."
"Okay." She whispers, sighing and picking up a bottle. "What does this one do?"
His face lights up with childish enthusiasm and he goes into deep discussion about the effects and symptoms and cures.
"Now listen closely Sansa, this here is the Strangler-"
She is not hungry at Joffrey's Wedding, has no desire to eat seventy seven courses.
Tyrion notices, of course he does, and she murmurs a half-hearted apology. After a while her husband doesn't even care, drinking deep into his cups and eyeing Shae who Sansa hadn't even noticed was coming to the Wedding. Ellaria and Oberyn are dancing together, looking so beautiful. They fit together so well, Sansa marvels, and when she recalls what she has done with Oberyn her stomach curdles with guilt. She picks at her food, stomach roiling uncomfortably. So nauseous at the horror of poor Margaery having to bed Joffrey and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat as she forces down a small bite of fish. She chokes it down like it is a horrible torture, and eyes watering she takes a sip of water.
"Lord Tyrion." Sansa jerks her head up at his voice, surprised to see him standing there so casually and at ease with her husband. Beautiful, of course how could he not be dressed up for the occasion as he was. All dark reds and burning oranges, candlelight yellows. Like a flame, lighting a desire in Sansa's belly. Her breasts tingle, and she shivers, cheeks turning pink.
"Prince Oberyn." Tyrion greets, sloshing half the contents of his cup out as he raises it in welcome. "To what do we owe the honour?" He slurs his words, and Sansa cannot blame him for getting drunk when Joffrey is ready to complain about every small slight at this wedding of his.
"May I ask your beautiful Northern rose for a dance?"
"Who am I to stand in the way of a Dornish Prince?" Tyrion grumbles, taking several gulps of his wine and gesturing for Sansa to take leave.
Sansa leaps up, beaming at Oberyn. He has outdone himself for the occasion. He takes her arms and spins her around the dance floor. She hums under her breath, staring up at him wide-eyed. In the candle light he looks so homely, his eyes warm and his lips begging to be kissed. His arms are warm on her waist, and she splays her hands across his back stroking the fine sun gold doublet, the rich hot colours only reminding her of Dorne. It would be so lovely and warm there... perhaps if she asked Oberyn would whisk her away. She wouldn't need Dontos, she doesn't need Dontos she has Oberyn. She's not so stupid to think Oberyn feels the same way, but she knows in heart he harbours some affection for her, he must or else she is back where she started with a dwarf as her husband and her family dead and all of this will have been for naught. Sansa's dress flirts around her ankles, fluttering as he twists her around, and around until she is dizzy. She laughs giddily, drunk on desire and wine, and she wants him. She must garble it, for Oberyn chuckles and places a finger over her loose lips, leans in close to her ear. His breath hot and heavy, and it tickles, and she only giggles more when he says to keep their little secret just that and if she was good he'd visit her chambers after and they'd have their own bedding.
"What about Ellaria?" Sansa points out as she watches the Dornish paramour move, her hips hypnotising. She cannot drag her eyes away, and Oberyn chuckles in that way of his that makes Sansa's every nerve end tingle.
"Mayhaps she may join us." His lithe fingers thread through her elegant ones, and she twists the Martell ring slightly, running her finger over the shiny black stone like his eyes.
"You shall never get married will you?" Sansa sighs. "You would look so lovely in wedding garb."
"But you are taken, and I could never marry my Ellaria so who else is there?" He proposes and Sansa giggles.
"You tease me so."
"You love it." She does, and she gasps shallowly as he dips her down. Head spinning, and she wants to kiss him so, wants him to throw her over his arms and take him to their own bedding- Their lips are so close, a violent urge to kiss him springing into Sansa's mind before Tyrion's hand touches her arm and she stares down at him. Foggy minded, drunk on lust and desire and she follows him back to her seat with flushed cheeks and dirty wanton thoughts. She watches him with other partners, entrancing them just the same.
"Look at him Sansa." Ellaria tuts and they share a smile. "You will come to Dorne." Ellaria says firmly.
"Truly?" Sansa says with surprised pleasure. "Oberyn said-"
"Oberyn says many things." His lover laughs. "A great deal are not wise. I would love you to visit Dorne. I'm sure you would get on well with my daughter Elia, she's your age but not yet flowered."
"That would be lovely. Only Tyrion-"
"Leave your little husband to me." Ellaria pats her arm in female solidarity and Sansa smiles widely as she drifts to reclaim her lover.
They dance together truly each other's equal, smiling and laughing and murmuring secret words and Sansa's heart warms. It's the last time she sees them both, standing there so wonderful and bronzed. Like legends from a story tale, the warrior and the Mother come to life to help tosses away such notions as soon as she conjures them, but the image of them standing there so lovestruck and strong remains with her forever.
When Joffrey starts to choke and die Sansa bolts, the image of him clawing blood from his own throat haunting her as she runs through the Godswood. All she can think of is her parents and her brothers and everyone Joffrey wanted dead is dead and now he's dead- She stumbles and slips, dirtying her dress as she leans against a tree and vomits, hacking for breath. Tears bead in her eyes hysterically and she gags, retching. Stomach hurting, and she gasps afterwards, mouth tinged with acid. Then Dontos is there seizing her hand, dragging her even though she digs her heels in, spiriting her away through the night to a boat, a harbour where Littlefinger smiles in welcome.
She lays in the cabin unable to sleep in the dark. Sickness roils in her stomach, and she swallows back vomit for as long as she can stand before lurching to her feet. She slumps over a night pan, hair sticking to her clammy cheeeks, her fingers trembling. She was away from Kings Landing, away from Oberyn, her mind whispers. And did she want to be here truly, with Joffrey now gone and Oberyn still there? Away from her marriage to Tyrion, away from her Dornish lover...She sighs deeply, head in her hands before leaning over the porcelain once more. Littlefinger insists she is to be his bastard daughter, a prospect that slightly alarms Sansa now she has heard so much about Oberyn's bastard daughters and the stuff they get up to. Concealed daggers and poison, disguises and spears. True fighters. Was she expected to behave like that now? If she sent a letter to Oberyn, and how she wanted to, would he think her a poor bastard for being so spineless and weak? Just like Joffrey thought her a poor noblewoman, a traitors daughter wanted only for her claim, her home- She swallows thickly, hands skirting her roiling stomach. Constantly nauseous now with fear, fear that Cersei will discover her hiding place and demand for her head, fear that she will never get back home and never see Oberyn again, fear that her Lord husband Tyrion will punish her just like his nephew. Her Aunt Lysa appears at the Fingers a few days after their arrival, and she inspects Sansa keenly.
"Are you a Maiden?"
And she shifts uncomfortably, cheeks flushed. "No." She stares down at her clasped hands quickly.
"The Imp." Lysa hisses, cold fury in her Tully eyes. "I knew it. He-"
"No." Sansa chokes. "Another."
"Rape?" She slowly shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut in fear. But to her surprise her Aunt's hand slips into her own and squeezes gently. "I understand. I was much the same myself at your age. Desiring a man my Lord Father would never permit me to marry. And are you with child?"
Sansa shakes her head again firmly. "I took moon tea Your Grace."
"You didn't want a child."
"It would be a bastard." Sansa says. "I couldn't - people would know."
Everything happens so quickly now, days slipping by like seconds. So confusing her mind spins and all she can cling to is the image of her lover standing before her, to rescue her from Littlefinger's clutches. His eyes stay trained on her body as she walks with him, but Sansa does not feel that desire in her that pooled before Oberyn's gaze. She never will.
She sits in Aunt Lysa's study, her feet curled up beneath her as she stares at the blank piece of parchment. Frost crawls across the window and snow builds up on the ledge, a chill to the room making Sansa grip her shawl tighter. Oberyn was so warm, Oberyn- Oberyn. Her hand pauses above the blank parchment, pondering her words what to say.
In the end she writes nothing, and crumples the parchment up, and when Littlefinger throws it in the flames she watches her letter curl up and wither with loathing even though she knew she would never have sent it.
"That letter-" She grits out. "It was important."
"I have more important news. The Red Viper is dead. Killed by the Mountain defending your Lord Husband's innocence no less."
Sansa's eyes widen.
"Y-you're sure?"
He nods and Littlefinger's arms are tight around her waist not letting her slip as her knees buckle dizzily.
Never letting her go.
Snow boughs the trees down, crystal icicles melting in the weak sun and dripping droplets onto Sansa's head as she glides through the snow. The air is bitingly cold and she shoves her cloak further up around her neck, the fabric tatty but warm. Her fingers tingle and swell in the frosty air, and her breath is like dragon smoke rising above her to the open skies. She cannot get used to the darkness of her hair, a muddy brown.
She shuts Sansa Stark away like a widow in mourning, lurking in the shadows with a smile quick on her brittle lips as Alayne Stone. Sansa was so stupid, a stupid girl who never learnt from Joffrey. She thought she was wise, but only got seduced by a Dornish Prince who died while she was stuck here with nothing. Not even her name remained hers. She wanted to scream, to throw things and pull out her hair. She wants Oberyn there in front of her so she can stare into those beautiful eyes of his and know she is safe, pretend that everything is going to have a happy ending. She starts to forget the exact taste of Oberyn's lips on hers, the scent of his body, the exact shade of his eyes. Her thoughts spiral, increasingly dark and she wonders who, if anyone, will save her this time now Oberyn is gone.
Perhaps she'll save herself.
Alayne fingers her knife, gliding her finger down the dull serrated edge of the blade, watching the dark haired reflection. The meal is long over, Littlefinger eating the remnants of a pomegranate Alayne cut for him. The juices stain her hands and the knife a dark purple red. He had taken her away and forced her to be his daughter, watched her suffer all that time in Kings Landing and done nothing and now he had her bestow kisses to him like they were desired. She would never think of him like that, she would never want to be with him in that way.
"You're very quiet tonight."
"Yes Father." Sansa's smile is sickly, a rotting and fetid curl of the lips, baring the gleaming teeth. Petyr wipes his hands on the napkin and turns to her.
"What are you thinking about hmm?" His hand hot and heavy on her head and she turns swiftly away to hide her disgust. "That lover that took your maidenhead?"
"How did you know?" She laughs mirthlessly, bitterly, staring at the floor.
"He left you." Littlefinger toys with a lock of her hair, and her skin prickles where his fingers brush her cheeks. "Remember that, when you think so fondly of him."
"He taught me a lot though." Sansa replies calmly, though her hands are clammy with sweat and she licks her lips nervously. Sensual for Petyr perhaps, because he leans in closer to her.
"Really?"
"I could use it on you." Sansa whispers, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
Petyr gazes at her, eyes dark with lust and mouth slightly open with shock at her words. Never in his wildest dreams did he truly think Sansa Stark would want him the way he wants her.
"Would you enjoy that?" He asks, his mint breath wafting in her face. She crinkles her nose slightly, tilting her head in contemplation.
"Would you?"
When he nods she sits on his lap. His breathing hitches and Sansa looks at him in concern, fingers fluttering around him.
"Are you okay?"
He nods. "Carry on."
She smiles, and when his hands reach out she knocks them aside and pushes herself off him. He wheezes for her to come back, come and help him because he can't breathe-
She sits and watches him with a strange fascination, wondering how Oberyn felt when he killed someone. She only feels relief at his death, that she is free and done with the mummers farce of being his daughter. She canlook after Sweetrobin now in peace and know they will both be safe. Mayhaps she will go along with his plan to reveal her true identity to the Lords Declarant, but she certainly will not be marrying Harry the Heir. Perhaps later she'll feel angry and disgusted at herself but she's remarkably calm as she calls for the Maester in a terrified and shrill voice.
Maybe Maester Coleman suspects something afoot, but if he does he's so relieved the detested man is gone he doesn't say anything.
"He just stopped breathing." Sansa says, gazing at Littlefinger's body. His corpse, mottled and grey and calm in death, eyes staring at nothing, att her, into her.
"His heart, most likely."
They stare at each other and their eyes make a promise not to reveal the truth.
It was over. Like a story the foe had been vanquished and the hero triumphant, and Sansa smiles. Tonight she'll sleep with Sweetrobin and whisper into his ear that they are safe, and she'll go to sleep dreaming of a helpful viper with dark eyes that was deadly and dangerous and loved her fiercely.