Win or Die
Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.
Part 1
Chapter 2
Lancelot returned to the medical wagon, approximately an hour after he'd left Sansa in Dagonet's care, carrying food for both Dagonet and Sansa.
He pushed the curtain back, ducking into the wagon, to see Dagonet look up from where he sat at Sansa's side. Sansa lay on her side, the length of her naked back covered in lash marks, which Dagonet was in the process of covering with a poultice.
Neither looked up at his entrance, as Lancelot silently shuffled in, the spaces where Guinevere and Lucan had occupied previously were empty, leaving the wagon empty except for Lancelot, Dagonet, and Sansa.
The latter lay soundlessly and unmoving on the furs, not making a single sound as Dagonet touched wounds both old and new. A new dress encased most of her figure, though it lay around her waist, waiting for the healer to be done with her back.
Lancelot settled down at the edge of the wagon, lifting a piece of bread to his mouth, chewing idly. He didn't let himself react to what he could see. The scars infuriated him, but there was little he could do about it now. What was done, was done.
Dagonet set aside the poultice, and began to press linen atop it, bandaging her back. Then he turned, giving Lancelot a very meaningful glare, which made the knight turn around, so Dagonet could help Sansa pull the rest of her dress up.
Lancelot turned back, when Dagonet took his share of the food, and left. Lancelot crept closer into the wagon, to sit beside Sansa.
She had received a bath, Lancelot noted, as her skin was now a healthy pink, marred only by scars, both old and new; her hair was long and flaxen, like cornsilk, glinting in the light. Her mismatched eyes of both green and blue were weary as they rested upon him, but still reached a hand towards him, which Lancelot took, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Here, I've brought you dinner," he remarked, moving to help the young woman sit up. Sansa grimaced, as she rested her back tentatively against the wooden side of the wagon, before accepting the food. She stared at it for a moment, as if she didn't know what to do with it, before she dug in with such ferocity that it startled Lancelot.
"Slow down, no-one's going to steal it from you," Lancelot chuckled. Sansa paused, giving Lancelot a reproachful look that meant she suspected exactly that. But she did slow her eating, glaring at Lancelot all the while.
Arthur came in, as Sansa finished her meal. At the Roman's approach, she scooted into Lancelot's side, entwining her fingers into his tunic once again.
Arthur held up his hands. "I would not harm you, Lady Sansa. And I doubt Lancelot would let me even if I wanted to. I just want to talk," he promised. Sansa looked up at the dark knight, who nodded.
"Then talk," Sansa remarked, haughtily, even though her anxiety was ripe in the air.
"I would like to know your story." Arthur requested, gently.
"I was captured on that Roman's land. That is how I came to be here," Sansa said, quickly. Arthur looked frustrated, but Lancelot began to speak.
"You looked frightened when I asked your name. As if it would mean something to us. Who are you?" Lancelot questioned her.
Sansa's grip tightened on his tunic. "I am the daughter of Cerdic. He is the man who leads his army against you," she answered, placing her gaze on the floor.
"So we have a Saxon princess among us," Lancelot said, dryly.
"Can you tell us anything about him?" Arthur asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Sansa shook her head. "No," she replied, quietly.
"No?!" Lancelot demanded, angrily, pulling away from the girl.
"No!" Sansa repeated, her eyes filling with anger. "There is nothing I can reveal that would help you! He has never been bested, he is fearless, heartless, and cruel! He places value in only things Saxon!" She hissed, turning away from him.
"You. You are Saxon." Arthur spoke, as if it was revelation. Sansa and Lancelot gave him a questioning, skeptical look. "He places value in you," Arthur explained.
Sansa's face grew cold, closing herself off from the two men. "If you think to ransom me to end the war, Roman, think upon this: my father would only respond in order to have the honor of killing me with his own hands. And then he would attack anyway," Sansa spoke.
"What do you mean? Why would he want to kill you?" Arthur questioned, heatedly.
"I've been gone for weeks. He probably thinks I betrayed him and ran away," Sansa answered, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Did you betray him?" Lancelot questioned, his eyes serious and dark.
Sansa shook her head. "I have feared him too much to dare," she replied, softly.
"Fear does nor breed loyalty," Arthur said, harshly.
"No," Sansa agreed. "But it breeds obedience," she retorted, bitterly. Both men looked chastened, their eyes sad, as the young woman stared at the hands in her lap.
"You do not have to go back, Sansa. You are welcome to stay with us," Arthur told her, gently, standing.
Sansa did not look up, her gaze intent on her hands, as she examined her fingers. Those were mere words and nothing more to her; she would have to return to her father one day, by her choice or not. Arthur sighed, and Lancelot motioned for him to go. Arthur rushed out, relievedly, as Lancelot scooted closer to Sansa, putting an arm around her, pulling her close.
Sansa offered no protest, resting her head against his chest. "I would not let him, or anyone, take you away," he promised, softly. Sansa lifted her head to look at him, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Lancelot was filled with this strange, undeniable urge to kiss her. He barely knew the woman, yet he'd fully taken her under his wing. It was entirely unlike Lancelot, who was the man-whore, the heartbreaker.
He lowered his face to Sansa's, pressing his lips gently to hers. Sansa let her eyes flutter shut, as she responded to the kiss, letting her lips move in tandem with his, as a warm feeling blossomed in her chest.
After a minute or two, Sansa placed a hand on Lancelot's chest, making him draw back. Neither spoke, to regain their breath. "Why..." Sansa began, before trailing off. "Why do you kiss me, Lance?" She asked.
"Why? Did you mind?" Lancelot joked, a hint of mischief in his dark eyes. Sansa merely cocked her head to the side, inquiringly. Lancelot sobered at the gaze. "I don't know, Sansa. It just felt right," he explained, taking her hand and entwining their fingers.
"I agree," Sansa replied, as Lancelot lowered his face to kiss her once more. This kiss wasn't as soft, as delicate; as the first was. This kiss was deeper, more heated. Sansa felt light-headed, but feverishly returned the kiss as best she could. Lancelot felt her inexperience keenly, in the tentative way she returned his kisses and caresses.
When this kiss ended, Lancelot pulled Sansa closer, settling her in his lap. He found it adorable, the way she so neatly fit underneath his chin. "I've never been with a man before, Lance," She mentioned, quietly, shifting her gaze to the floor.
Lancelot chuckled. "That I can believe. And I don't think it matters," he replied, wrapping his arms around her. Sansa merely smiled, shifting closer to the man. Lancelot closed his eyes, leaning back against the wagon's wall, letting the feeling of warmth and comfort envelope him.
