The Maiden in the Tower

by simplyprologue

There's a story that the smallfolk tell about Sansa Stark and the night she threw herself from the Eyrie. Westeros is six years into winter... and two unlikely people find their way to the Vale, where they find out an unlikely truth about the night that Sansa Stark was supposed to have died, and the light that can be still be seen shining from the Eyrie. WIP.

1. Prologue

A/N: Well, this was developed from my relatively crack interpretations of several prophecies and desire to reinterpet a lot of the tropes in sansan fic of just how exactly Sandor and co rescue Sansa from the Vale. Not entirely sure how long this will run, but it will be a more run-on fic than what I've published previously, hopefully updating at least once a week.

Warnings: Suicide, and canon sexual abuse. If this changes, I will post new warnings at the beginning of that chapter and then go back and edit the ones listed here. If you feel that I have ever missed a trigger warning, please do not hesitate to let me know.

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PROLOGUE

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She climbs the steps in haste. I must get away, I must get out, her mind screams. But there is no escape from here, from Petyr's ambitions and his games. Her bridal cloak slips heavily from her shoulders and for the first time in years she feels weightless, climbing the steps to the tower with mighty abandon, ignoring the shouts coming from behind her.

I must get out.

She still feels the Septa's stare, the shake of her head, Anya Waynwood's maid rushing from the room to inform her mistress. Not a maid. The cloak means nothing now. She is not a Stark. She is the wife of Tyrion Lannister.

I must get out of this place of shadows and lies.

She orchestrated it this way, but never factored in Petyr's heavy blows. She had tampered with his plan, taken her life, her freedom, her fate, into her own hands.

Sansa Stark, at last and alone, flings open the heavy wooden door to the tower. The windows are tall, the panes made to be opened.

"I am Sansa Stark, the heir of Winterfell," she mumbles, rubbing at the silver silk covering her arms. "I am Sansa Stark." The words Petyr had practiced with her, for her to say in front of the crowds as she appeared in silver and grey dappled silks, heavy white velvet and fine white furs, a direwolf emblazoned on her bridal cloak.

"I am Sansa Stark."

She opens the window, and faces herself to the snowy night air, the shouts growing louder and footsteps closing in.

"I am Sansa Sta-!"

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Reviews are very much appreciated.