2. Sansa Stark
"My lady, there's been a raven. From Sunspear, if remember rightly."
Dark wings, dark words, flashed in Sansa's mind before she dismissed the thought abruptly. If it was from Sunspear, it was likely good tidings. There is no reason this winter should be as bleak as the last.
The head of the Queens' household guards stood in the doorway. Koscha Rivers bowed his head in her presence, as always, wearing an impeccable face of respect and honor. He was dressed simply in grey roughspun, wearing a modest layer of boiled leather and light mail, the Stark direwolf emblazoned on his breast.
After years at the receiving end of his service, Sansa Stark had come to respect Koscha just as much as he seemed to respect her. And why not? The young man was bested only by her Sandor in the practice yard, and he had always gotten along so well with the children. So what if he was a bastard-born of the Riverlands, not a northman by birth? All honest people were welcome in Winterfell, regardless of what they were running from.
Of course, because Koscha wouldn't speak a word about the identity of his parents, Sansa half suspected he was a Frey bastard, but even then it wouldn't matter, she reminded herself. Koscha had proved himself trustworthy and would always be welcome in Winterfell. At least he doesn't carry the Frey looks; it would be painful to have that in my sight every day if that was the case.
"Thank you, Koscha. I'm sure Lady Jeyne will be pleased." In Winterfell, there was Lady Jeyne and there was Queen Jeyne, and if the post was what she thought it was, it was Lady Jeyne her childhood friend that would be most interested.
Now, if you happen to see my Sandor in the practice yard, send him up my direction, would you?"
"Of course, my lady."
"Oh, and the ladies and I are going out with our girls tomorrow. I'd like you to join us—we'll leave at four past the hour of the wolf for a long trek into the Wolfswood. An early departure is necessary to take advantage of the winter sun. Could you saddle horses for five plus yourself?"
"I'll be happy to join you and the girls. See you in the morn, Lady Stark."
"And you as well, Koscha Rivers. Rest well, we'll have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Koscha handed her the note and a small vial that had come with the raven, then, bowing once again, turned and left the room, his longsword swaying comfortably from his swordbelt.
I can see why Catie fancies him; he is the perfect image of a proper knight in everything but name. Too bad he does not come from a noble family, as there is a man I would be comfortable with bedding my niece.
After everything she had gone through to get to where she was—the deaths of her parents and her brother Robb, her first marriage into the foul Lannister clan, all the long days she spent living as a bastard under Petyr Baelish—it seemed to Sansa such a relief that her chief concern now was finding suitable marriages for the royal children.
Winter is here again, but this time the realm is at peace and we are well-stocked for food. Peace has been forged to the north, and the just Queen Daenerys rules to the south. I am married to the man I love and have three precious children to carry on my blood. The wolves have returned to Winterfell. What more could I ask for?
Perhaps I'd ask for a little more freedom to let our children marry whomever they want.
Sansa's eldest was thirteen; little Edon who looked so much like Robb, so she knew that at least she had a few years to prepare yet before finding an adequate suitor for her little boy. He will always be a babe in my eyes—how is he growing up so quickly? The thoughtof Edon taking up the responsibility of marriage scared her to the bone; the thought of him in battle was even worse. I can now understand some of what Cersei told me about motherhood.
And so far, Edon still entertained dreams of knighthood and even working his way into Daenerys's Queensguard in King's Landing, an idea that made her husband Sandor Clegane visibly cringe. Perhaps a marriage wouldn't even be necessary. Her second son, Kupor—who had inherited the Clegane looks—was only 11 yet, and her youngest, Brenda, was only four. Young souls with their entire lives ahead of them, living in a time of peace.
Sansa felt sorry for Jeyne Westerling; her Catie was fourteen now, approaching fifteen, and as Catie was the heir to Winterfell, Jeyne was being pressured from all directions to find her a good match. Through the course of the past several months, Jeyne had received serious offers from a Dornish princeling, Tomnem Lannister's son, Greatjohn Umber's grandson, the heir to house Farwynd of the Lonely Light, a Manderly, a Tarly, even some Summer Islander prince; basically marriage offers were coming in from everywhere, houses great and small from all over Westeros, and beyond. Some sent bribes, some sent love letters, some sent offers of soldiers or weaponry, others sent threats. It all made Sansa want to vomit, to see all the proud men fighting over her niece's claim like animals over a scrap of meat. She should be able to marry who she wants, to marry for love like I did, but making a solid political match is so important for maintaining the peace…
At least Catie will remain at Winterfell. The husband must join our household. We can protect her better than I was protected.
Uncertainty clouded Sansa's head like the dense, dark rainclouds of a northern thunderstorm, as she draped her white hare fur cloak over her shoulders, unable to stop thinking about the justness and necessity of unsavory political child marriages. Jeyne Poole's chambers were below her own, but the halls in the new Queen's Tower were cold and damp from the winter chill.
Sansa was just reaching for the elaborately carved doorhandle when the door suddenly swung open of its own accord, nearly making her jump out of her skin. Gods! The woman standing outside was bundled up in a thick black cloak and a heavy shawl over her head, and though her face was not very well visible, Sansa immediately recognized her old friend Jeyne, and could tell straightaway that she was upset. Queens do not cry; no one must see us shed tears. Better to hide behind a shawl than show our pain on our faces and prove the weakness of our sex.
"The raven came," said Sansa, allowing herself a quiet smile as she led Jeyne into her own chamber and invited her to sit. "We have good friends in Dorne, and if I'm told rightly, the Dornishmen are as renowned at creating medicines as they are with creating poisons. There's still hope."
Jeyne sniffled and smiled back, but the smile looked forced, as if she's already given up hope long ago, or had dismissed rumors of its very existence. Her makeup was streaked with obvious tear-treads. Even without the ugly mark on her nose she would never be beautiful, not like Sansa or Jeyne Westerling.
"He's getting worse though, Sansa. If you really knew him you'd understand. He's suffered enough, you know, and part of me feels it would be better just to give him mercy with a knife through the heart than to watch him slowly fade away, and in pain." Her voice was high pitched and whiney, grating unpleasantly on Sansa's ears.
Stop talking about death, it doesn't suit you, she thought. Sansa hunted for the right words to say.
"He's a fighter though, and I think Theon deserves more than for us to give up on him just yet, wouldn't you agree?"
Jeyne broke down into a fresh volley of tears at her words.
Sansa could remember all too well the broken man that Theon Greyjoy had been all those years ago when they had been reunited after her return to the north. Unrecognizable. Mentally, he had been a total, unstable ruin, and physically he had been barely more than a slight wisp of flesh looped around some bones. Recovery had been slow and painful, and Sansa didn't think it had ever really been truly complete.
Sansa remembered she had cried, unbidden and openly, when, after receiving her pardon for his role in the sack of Winterfell, he had dragged his weak frame over towards her, and, kneeling and prostrate, had kissed her feet. She had cried again when the not-quite-as-broken Kraken prince draped his cloak of protection over Lady Jeyne's shoulders, but this time the tears were tears of happiness.
Jeyne had bounced back so much more quickly from her sufferings than Theon had, despite the swollen pregnant belly Ramsay Bolton had left her as a cruel parting gift. If it had been Sansa in Jeyne's place, she would have found it difficult not to drown Ramsay's child, or feed it to the wolves as soon as it was born.
No, Jeyne has strength in her too. Sansa must remember that.
Things had improved after winter's end.
Jeyne Westerling invited Jeyne Poole to share their crown, understanding the truth behind Theon's betrayal and that Theon and Robb used to be like brothers. Theon spent hour after hour in the practice yard trying to regain some measure of prowess with the bow (the weakness in his arms—and his lack of confidence—had proven to be more problematic than the missing fingers). One of Theon's bastard children from the coast had even been brought back to Winterfell to be raised among the wolves, providing a sibling figure for the Bolton girl.
Everything had been going so much better until Theon had come down deathly ill three or four moons ago, with an illness no one had been able to confidently diagnose, and the maesters had found no success trying to treat. Now he lay weak and bedridden, slipping in and out of coherence; when he was awake, he didn't seem to know where he was or what was happening.
"He wakes up screaming all the time, Sansa!" Jeyne managed to spit, amid her sobs. "At least once a night, sometimes more…calling for Robb, or apologizing, or begging Ramsay not to cut him. I just can't, Sansa… It's too much; I can't take it. It's breaking my heart into a million tiny pieces! I'd rather him be dead than reliving that every night, you understand?"
Sansa understood. Theon had gone through torture no man should ever be forced through. But to give up hope and wish him dead instead of suffering, I don't know if I could ever wish that. Not on a man I love.
If Sansa ever lost Sandor, she didn't know what she would do. How Jeyne Westerling managed to sit the throne without a man behind her was a mystery to Sansa. Sandor was her rock, her confidence, her go-to person when she needed help—though he was no king. She laughed inwardly at the irony of it all—Sandor Clegane and Theon Greyjoy were probably the only two men in all of Westeros who would turn down the kingship of Winterfell when it was offered to them.
Jeyne continued to cry as Sansa moved her chair over next to her, reaching out an arm around her friend and holding her as she rocked forwards and backwards, the tears coming harder now. Her white hare-fur cloak contrasted sharply with the black wool of Jeyne's shawl. It's alright, thought Sansa, let it all out, then you'll feel better. I'm here for you, and so is Jeyne Westerling. We are your sisters and we love you. Her own vision started to blur around the edges, and it was with surprise Sansa realized she was crying as well. It felt good to cry again.
The cool stone floor of the Queen's tower echoed with each footstep as she climbed the winding staircase back up from Jeyne's chambers, after leaving her friend with the unconscious (but still breathing) form of her husband and a vial of precious medicine from Dorne. Sansa didn't dare tell Lady Jeyne how much it had cost. It didn't matter. Life was worth more than gold. She just prayed it would work. Please, Mother, have mercy on your poor children—they've suffered enough already, Theon and Jeyne more than most.
The torches burned low, and Sansa could see the steam from her breath floating in the air before her as she walked, shivering even under her layers. The wind howled like a wailing ghost, beating on the walls of the tower, reminding her of the way Theon would call out for Robb in the middle of the night. Yes, winter had returned. As if she needed more reminders. It was still early in the season, and things were already starting to fall apart.
Her own room was at the very top of the tower—Jeyne Westerling and her daughter Catie lived in her parents old quarters— and it afforded a spectacular view of the city and the wilderness beyond, though tonight all she could see was blackness. The night was overcast, and even the stars were hidden away, leaving the sky barren. It was colder up here, and later into the winter, she might have to move to a different room in the depths of the castle, but for now, it was perfect.
Without a torch burning, the room was shrouded in such absolute darkness that at first she did not notice her husband's strong body sitting up on her bed.
"Some nerve you've got," he rasped harshly, his grating voice probably the result of damage to his throat and lungs done when his brother shoved his face into flame. "Begging me up here from the armory just to have me find an empty room. You're a wily little temptress, Lady Stark."
She hugged Sandor tight, noticing that his chest was bare under her hands, loving his warmth and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He smelled like sweat and man, just as he should.
"I'm sorry, Jeyne Poole needed me; she's losing her husband and I'm worried about her."
She felt him nodding in understanding as Sandor pulled her down onto his lap, embracing her tenderly as his muscular arms draped around her back. His lips found first her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her lips. Sansa raised one of her hands up to the scarred side of his face as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss into something fierce and passionate, erasing any distance between them until she could feel his heart pounding against her own.
With her other hand, she reached down and started unlacing his breeches, feeling his breathing hitch as she started stroking his cock with well-practiced motions, knowing the best ways to excite him. Sandor moaned at the loss when Sansa pulled away from his kiss, but quickly forgave her when she went down on him, taking his manhood in her mouth as deep as she could, bobbing her head as she teased the tip of him before taking him in deep again.
"Oh, Sansa," he gasped quickly, head tilted back. "I love you and you feel so good." His voice was breathless and ripe with pleasure.
She stayed silent, focused on the task at hand as she now began to play with his balls, feeling one of his large hands clasp tightly on the back of her head as he encouraged her to take him in deeper. She gladly obliged, becoming intensely aroused by the small pleasured noises she was drawing from him, by the way his breathing became faster and more ragged with every motion.
"Sansa," he crooned again, now with a hint of desperation in his broken voice. "Little bird." He's close.
She had meant to drive him right to the edge, winding him up without tipping him over so that he could take her properly and spill his seed in her (Sansa so badly wanted his seed to quicken in her again, wanted so badly another child). She wound him up too much, though, and he came quicker than she had expected him to, helpless and hard in her mouth, her name like honey on his lips. Surprised, she swallowed his seed the best she could, working him through his peak as she felt his grip on the back of her head soften.
Oh well, she thought slyly, the night is still young. It seems I am doomed not to get enough sleep tonight. The girls will just have to put up with me tired and grumpy tomorrow.
Still coming down from his climax, Sandor lay heavily on the bed, sighing happily as Sansa began to kiss him deeply again.