Sansa had cried when she embraced her mother for the last time before Robb helped her onto her horse for the journey to her new home.
Everyone she knew and loved would be naught but memories. She had hugged everyone that early morning in Winterfell, even Arya.
Silent tears rolled down Sansa's unusually splotchy cheeks as she stared out the window at the courtyard splattered with fields of melting snow. It was only the afternoon yet it was as quiet as the tomb. Sansa shuddered. At Winterfell she hated her sister Arya's constant whining of her hatred of sewing; now she missed it. She longed to hear her old septa reprimand Arya for her crooked stitches and wanted Arya to shout in her ear for being stupid. Sansa sniffled and wiped away her tears. She wanted to go home.
All highborn ladies must leave for their husbands' homes one day. Her mother's soothing words echoed in her head. I left my childhood home for Winterfell just as your aunt Lysa left for the Eyrie. It is now your turn Sansa. Sansa drew her furred cloak around her tighter. In the schoolroom she learnt about alliance-making and she played come-into-my-castle with her friends a countless number of times. In the rare feasts, she heard songs about beautiful maidens forced to wed on their fathers' orders – she never thought she would too.
Sansa often dreamed about marrying a handsome knight or prince and giving him sweet babies one day. Never would she have guessed Father selecting her a husband from the dreaded House Bolton of the Dreadfort. "Lord Bolton is a good man," Father had tried to explain to her, "a loyal man. Even loyal men need to be rewarded, especially a lord as powerful as the Lord of the Dreadfort In the past, our Houses have not always seen matters eye to eye and your marriage to Lord Bolton's heir will bury the matter and cement a stronger north."
Her mother tried to reassure her. "At least you wouldn't leave the North," she said as she cried against her chest. "Once you and Domeric are married, you can visit us as many times as you want – wouldn't that be nice?"
Robb and Arya attempted to make it sound exciting. "You'll be going to a new place," her elder brother Robb pointed out. "Honestly Sansa, you are lucky to be going somewhere new in the North. Besides, Father had sent ravens to all of his bannermen, telling them of your betrothal feast. You're even more fortunate that Father will be escorting you to the Dreadfort after the feast. On the way, you will be welcomed in every castle like a queen. Isn't that what you always wanted? To be showered with praise and treated like a maiden from one of your songs?"
Thinking of Robb made Sansa's heart ache.
The door creaked open. Sansa glanced at it and hastily stood up as she caught sight of her future good-mother Lady Bolton standing quietly in front of her with her thin hands clasped together and a smile on her face.
"Lady Bolton." Sansa couldn't even recognise her own wobbly voice.
"Sansa," said Lady Bolton warmly. "My poor child, you look ill. Did you have a difficult journey, dear child?"
"I am tired, nothing more." When Sansa heard that the cold Lord Bolton had a wife, she feared the Lady of the Dreadfort would be as icy as her husband. "I was up and riding at dawn."
"At dawn! You must be tired from riding all day."
"My legs are sore," Sansa admitted. Lady Bolton stepped towards her. Garbed in a plain grey gown lined with dark grey fur, she looked as bleak as the grey sky outside. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Domeric loves riding," she remarked, looking at her intently. Sansa shifted uncomfortably. Was there something about her that displeased Lady Bolton? Was it her auburn hair? She had no time to comb it till it shone this morning. "He would ride all day if he could," said Lady Bolton fondly. Sansa nodded politely. She hoped Lady Bolton wouldn't force her to ride all day tomorrow with her betrothed.
"How many brothers and sisters do you have?" asked Lady Bolton.
"Four," said Sansa promptly. "Five if you include my half-brother." On the day of her departure, she even hugged Jon Snow, her father's bastard.
"Your half-brother," repeated Lady Bolton. "Ah…the honourable Lord Stark's bastard." She continued to stare at Sansa. "You're a beautiful girl Sansa. Blue eyes and that auburn hair…you look more Tully than Stark." It sounded almost like an accusation. "All the Boltons have dark hair," she went on as if she was speaking to herself than to Sansa, "even when they were Red Kings. Do you think you will have children with dark hair or red?" Before Sansa could say a word, Lady Bolton answered her own question. "Dark of course. Perhaps one or two with red hair though eh?" She smiled at her again. This time it seemed…malicious. Rather than sparkling with happiness, her eyes glittered coldly like onyxes. She reached out and squeezed Sansa's hand. "You will be my daughter soon enough," Lady Bolton told her. "I always wanted a daughter you see. A son yes, but also a daughter. The old gods deemed it fit not to give me a little daughter, but they compensated by granting me the most perfect son I could ever want."
"Lady Bolton," said Sansa nervously. "You are frightening me…"
Lady Bolton laughed. "It is good to be frightened, little wolf. We can't have you a weak little Northerner now can we?"
Sansa's mind buzzed with confusion. As if sensing her bewilderment, Bethany Bolton patted her hand. "Don't worry little Sansa," she murmured. "When you go back to Winterfell, you will be a Bolton and stronger – much stronger."
When one of the Bolton servants knocked on Sansa's door to inform her that it was dinner time, her tears had dried up and her initial fears gone. However, her heart still thudded like a stone sitting at the bottom of the small, black, cold pool in Winterfell's godswood.
"Ten minutes if you will!" Sansa called. Taking a deep breath, she opened her trunk and dug around for a suitable gown. She discarded her favourite light blue gown as she thought it wise to dress in Stark colours rather than Tully; the black dress was casted aside as it didn't match her complexion particularly well; and a grey gown was just…plain. Her heart pounded faster as she hunted for a suitable gown. She never realised how difficult it was choosing the right dress for her first dinner with the Boltons.
"Lady Sansa?"
With a sigh, Sansa grabbed the plain grey gown and hastily changed from her stained riding attire. She quickly combed her hair, dropping the comb on her bed in the most unladylike fashion and rushed out. She murmured an apology to the waiting servant and followed him into the Great Hall.
Winterfell's Great Hall was vast; outside it was enclosed with grey stone and covered with banners and with wide doors made of oak and iron opening to the castle yard. Inside the Great Hall, it held eight long rows of trestle tables, four to each side of the central aisle and could seat up to a little more or less than five hundred people. Upon entering the Dreadfort's Great Hall, the first thing she had noticed were the rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the wall. The hall had a vaulted ceiling and the wooden rafters had turned black from smoke. Sansa shuddered.
"This way Lady Sansa."
The servant led Sansa past the rows of long tables decked with dust and to the dais where Lord and Lady Bolton were already seated. "Lady Sansa," Lord Bolton acknowledged in a whisper. "How good of you to join us."
"Lord Bolton." Sansa dipped her head. "Lady Bolton."
Lady Bolton nodded and smiled. "Little wolf…" Uneasily, Sansa sat beside her and glanced around. In Winterfell, the Great Hall was never empty.
The doors opened and a tall young man with dark hair and ice blue eyes came in. He was pale – not as pasty white as Lord Bolton though – and donned a black tunic with something glittering pinned to his breast.
My betrothed.
"Domeric." Lord Bolton nodded at his son and heir. "I hope you have not spent the whole day riding."
"Father." Domeric Bolton sat down on his left. "Mother. Lady Sansa." His eyes briefly met Sansa's. She looked at him and smiled weakly. Domeric Bolton looked the same age as Robb, if not a little older. I suppose I can love him, she thought as he gave her a slight smile. Thank the gods he is not an old man. She suppressed a shiver as she remembered her mother telling her about poor Aunt Lysa who was forced to marry the Hand of the King, old Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie.
"Are you cold Lady Sansa?" inquired Lady Bolton.
Sansa shook her head. "Not in the slightest Lady Bolton." She felt another pair of eyes upon her. She glanced up. Lord Bolton was staring back at her with his eerie eyes as pale and strange as two white moons. Sansa looked away. Luckily she was spared from speaking to him as four servants walked up to them, their heads bowed low as they brought plates of supper.
"I hope you like venison stew Lady Sansa," commented Lord Bolton. "It is one of our…specialties." A ghostly smile appeared on his face. It was unfortunate that Sansa greatly disliked venison stew. She once went on a hunting trip with Robb and their father's ward, the heir of Pyke Theon Greyjoy, and watched in horror as Theon shot down a running dear with a cocky crow of victory. Sansa was seconds away from fainting, but that was not the worst part. At dinner, the cooks served them venison stew, cooked from the very deer Theon killed that day.
Sansa's stomach turned as the horrible smell of venison stew wafted towards her. With Lord Bolton's strange eyes still upon her, Sansa spooned up a portion of stew and forced it into her mouth. Repressing a shudder, she swallowed it and smiled wanly at Lord Bolton. "This is delicious Lord Bolton."
Across from her, Domeric seemed to be refraining himself from laughter. With a slight frown, Sansa arched an eyebrow. "Lord Domeric," she found herself saying. "Is there something that amuses her?" Both Lord and Lady Bolton turned and stared at their son. Domeric's expression immediately transformed to one of impassivity. "None at all my lady," he responded quietly. He broke a piece of his bread and offered it to her. "Would you care for some bread Lady Sansa?"
"That is kind of you my lord." She accepted it gratefully. At least venison stew would be more edible with bread.
"Call me Domeric my lady. You are my betrothed, Lady Sansa, not one of the maidservants or squires."
Sansa nodded. "As you wish my lo-Domeric, if you will call me Sansa." With a tilt of his head, Domeric repeated her name. "Sansa. A lovely name. Northern too I believe. My lady mother and I had a discussion about you, my lady. Mother was under the belief that Lady Stark had given you a southron name. She insisted that you bore Lady Stark's mother's name."
Sansa shook her head, wondering what could've possibly led to a discussion about her name. "My grandmother's name was Minisa. All my siblings and I were given Northern names."
"I would have named my daughter after Roose's mother or mine own," Lady Bolton remarked placidly.
"Your father named one of your brothers after me," Lord Bolton reminded his wife. "I am quite honoured by that."
"Will Aunt Barbrey visit soon?" asked Domeric, brightening up. Aunt Barbrey… Ah, Lady Bolton's sister and the Lady of Barrowton.
"Of course," answered Lady Bolton. "She is interested to meet your betrothed, Lady Sansa." She glanced at Sansa. "She will be here in a day or two. Lady Sansa, have you met my sister Barbrey before? After King Robert's war, Barbrey rarely visits Winterfell. Or so I believe," she added.
Sansa shook her head. She felt more uncomfortable conversing with her soon-to-be good-mother by the second. During her journey to the Dreadfort, she heard that Lady Bolton was a kind woman. Sansa even held hopes that Lady Bolton was like her own mother. Apparently that was not the case.
Suddenly tired, Sansa stood up. "I'm dreadfully tired," she admitted. "May I be excused?" Lady Bolton glanced hesitantly at her husband. Lord Bolton was just as silent. "Of course," Domeric spoke. He wiped his mouth with a square napkin and stood up. "Permit me to escort you to your chambers," he offered. "I wish to hear more about you Sansa."
"That is kind of you Domeric." She bade good night to Domeric's parents and followed Domeric out of the Great Hall. As she walked through the winding maze of corridors, Sansa missed the fresh air of Winterfell. The Dreadfort's Great Hall stank of smoke while the cold corridors carried a musty and stale scent. She had not embarked on a tour of the Dreadfort yet; that was for tomorrow. Morsels of bread and venison stew shifted in her stomach as she wondered if she would be shown the Dreadfort dungeons. Lord Bolton would not be pleased if she excused herself from the grand tour. Besides, as the next Lady of the Dreadfort, it was in her best interest to learn the way around her new home.
"Do you have any cousins or siblings Domeric?" Sansa asked timidly, avoiding the agonising gaze of a stone statue of a flayed man in the corner. "The Dreadfort is awfully quiet. There were not many people in the Great Hall at supper."
"The servants do not eat with us," said Domeric, staring ahead. "It is not a time of war so the soldiers are at their own homes. No Sansa, I do not have any sisters, brothers or cousins. Before I was fostered in the Vale, I spent four years as a page for my aunt Barbrey. I foolishly asked her why she did not have any children. She didn't reply." A queer expression crossed his face. "I too have recently arrived at the Dreadfort," he remarked. "I was here a mere few months before you yourself came today. The first words Father told me when I set foot in the Dreadfort was, 'Domeric, you are to be betrothed to Sansa Stark'." He chuckled. "You can say I'm almost as much a stranger to my own home as you." They turned another corner where there were a corridor full of doors that looked suspiciously like dungeon doors. "That is the door to the library," said Domeric, pointing at the largest one at the end of the corridor. "If you are ever bored, feel free to go and read a book or two. The rest of the rooms there are guest rooms. Father wanted to give you one of those chambers but my mother convinced him to give you a room closer to mine own. We are betrothed after all." They continued walking until Domeric stopped and opened a door. "Here we are," he said, smiling at her. "I will escort you to breakfast tomorrow morning Sansa."
Sansa returned a smile, more genuine than before. Maybe Mother is right, she thought as she thanked him. Perhaps there is hope I will be like the maiden in the songs and marry a handsome and kind man…even if he is a Bolton.
Sunlight streamed through the windows and showered Sansa in its warmth as she found herself seated on a chair beside the Iron Throne. She looked around and caught sight of Stark banners hanging everywhere along with the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion banners. Surrounding Sansa were the seven sworn knights of the Kingsguard, all in shining white armour with snow white cloaks billowing around them as they stood still on the dais.
Below them were lords and ladies all in finery, jewels glistening from their skin. The herald announced something and they all bent their knees as the great oak and iron doors swung open and a young man strode in. Sansa held her breath. He was the most handsome prince – no, king – she had ever seen. Tall with shiny green eyes and a crown of gold crusted with rubies and black diamonds resting on his mop of blond curly hair, he was so handsome…
Smiling, he sat down on the Iron Throne and kissed Sansa's hand. "My queen," he murmured softly. He turned and looked at the kneeling courtiers. "My queen and I have good news to share," he announced. "It seems the Seven have finally gifted my sweet wife with a fertile womb! My queen is with child!"
The vision shifted. An agonising scream pierced the air. Her own scream. Rivets of sweat poured from her forehead and back as she pushed with all her strength…a wail of a newborn child rose.
"A boy!" came the victorious cry. "An heir! His Grace has an heir!" Sansa held out her arms and a bonny baby wrapped in a blanket was handed to her. He opened his eyes. Blue, like her own. His hair was golden, like his father's. "Lyonel," Sansa said quietly, smiling at her firstborn baby. "Lyonel Baratheon. Prince Lyonel Baratheon, the heir of the Seven Kingdoms."
Before she could celebrate, the image changed again. Sansa stood in front of a body, tears running down her cheeks. Her son…her Lyonel…dead! Cut down during the prime of his youth.
"This is your fault," said a voice behind her. Sansa turned, wiping away her tears as she saw her lord husband enter the sept. He no longer smiled at her or kissed her hand. His lips were more pouty than usual and carried an ugly scowl. "This is your fault," he repeated, his fingers curled into fists. "My son shouldn't have went on that hunting trip with your savage brother. Look what you've done!" he yelled. "My son is DEAD!" He advanced towards her. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I WILL KILL YOU!" He roared furiously and delivered a blow to her stomach. Sansa doubled over, gasping in pain. "My lord…" With another savage kick, he sent Sansa flying to the wall.
Crack.
She whimpered as her husband approached her, a malicious grin forming on his wormy lips. "Now you will die…"
Sansa's blue eyes flew wide open as she gasped in fear. "It was only a dream," she said to herself, breathing heavily. "Only a dream…" She heaved herself out of bed and slowly padded across her room to the window. She gazed out at the pale and dreary scenery of unmoving trees.
It was after dawn and she heard no bird sing; pure silence brooded inside and outside the Dreadfort. Still in her bedclothes (a cotton night robe), Sansa sat on the chair and reached for the quill and parchment on her desk. As she pondered what to write, her thoughts wandered away. She wondered what her father Lord Eddard Stark was up to. Now she wished she'd paid more attention to her family rather than her songs. If she had, she would at least have their dear memories to cherish and remember.
Already, Sansa craved to hear her father's deep, grave words; she yearned to feel her mother's comforting hand caress her cascading auburn hair; she missed listening to Arya's ridiculous notions of learning to fight with a proper sword like the boys; she wished Robb was here, relentlessly teasing her for her deep love of songs and the idea of a perfect knight; she desired to hear her brother Bran tell her about his dreams to be a knight; she wanted to ruffle little Rickon's mop of auburn hair again; and she even longed to hear Theon Greyjoy's cocky laugh and boasts and Jon's quiet words.
Give Domeric a chance, Sansa reminded herself. Father and Mother's marriage worked out. Yours will too. She stared out the window again. In Winterfell she had thought life was a song – that was clearly not the case.
Sansa took a deep breath and sighed.
There was no Jeyne Poole to giggle with, no Septa Mordane to please and no knight to dream about. I have lived in the world of songs for far too long. She had thought living in Winterfell was frugal compared to her mother's vivid stories of her childhood in Riverrun. No. It was here in the Dreadfort where life was not a song. The Boltons must see me as little more than a southroner, Sansa thought. I will show them I am as much a Northerner as they are. No more songs. No more childish dreams. No more a fragile rose.
I'm still writing The Dance of Spring but I was interested in experimenting with another ASOIAF fanfic! :) This chapter sets in 297 AC and my take on Sansa will be slightly different. There probably wouldn't be that much of a difference, but I thought to point it out early. As there isn't much information about Bethany Bolton (née Ryswell), I thought she would've been influenced by a little madness in the Dreadfort after years of marriage to Roose. I hope you enjoy reading the chapter :D