Chapter Two

Sansa slept fitfully. The hot wine had made her mouth dry, and her body still hurt from everything she had been through, and the featherbed was lumpy and uneven. When she could take it no longer, she slipped out of bed. Jon Snow's cloak still lay discarded on a chair, and for want of a dressing gown, she pulled that on for modesty, before knocking on the door.

"Jon Snow?" she called through the wood.

The door unlocked and opened, revealing the handsome man who had been wearing the powdered wig. He wasn't wearing the wig now, and without it he looked more of a rogue warrior, like Jon Snow, and less like the slightly ridiculous courtier who had been standing in the parlor. He was dressed for riding and had a sword sheathed at his hip.

"Jon Snow's shift ended, my lady," he said. "He's sleeping. But I can serve your needs. My name is Daario." There was something insinuating in his voice that made her skin crawl.

"I wanted some water," she said. His deep blue eyes lingered on Jon Snow's cloak that she clutched around her shoulders.

"Of course, my lady. I will send for some."

He left, locking the door, and Sansa ripped off Jon Snow's cloak and cast it on a light blue velvet chaise, where it seemed to taunt her. She went to the window, staring out at the unfamiliar land. She could not even pick out what direction was north, with all this rain and snow.

She squared her shoulders. There was no need to panic. She would likely be gone by this evening. Surely the Tarlys would not stand for this.

Never mind the tiny, creeping voice in her head: just like you thought Father would not stand for your captivity. Just like you thought Robb would not stand for it. You kept the faith for years...and no one ever came.

The knock came and the door opened. Sansa hastily snatched up Jon Snow's cloak once more to cover herself as Daario entered, bearing a cup of water.

"My lady, your water," he said with a flourish, his blue eyes lingering a little too long on her form. She held the cloak tighter and took the cup from him.

"Has there been word from my husband?"

"You have no husband…yet," Daario teased. "And I doubt we'll hear anything from Lord Tarly for a week at least. You would do best to settle in, my lady."

"Of course," she said lightly, and she turned away from him. A week.

"You seem rather carefree for a woman who has just been abducted."

"Lord Tarly and his son fought hard for my hand," she said, still facing away from Daario, her back burning with his gaze. "They won't be so quick to give me up."

"Three thousand gold dragons is quite a lot of money. I wonder if the Tarlys have so much as that."

"They will find a way."

"Maybe. Maybe not." He paused. "Is that Snow's cloak?" There was a creeping interest in his voice.

"I-I am not sure." Sansa turned back to him. "It was given to me on the way here."

"It is Snow's cloak," Daario realized. "What a complicated man he is. He'd give you the cloak off his back even as he steals you from your beloved fiancé."

A memory surfaced, of Jon Snow handing the fish he'd caught to her little brother Bran, as Bran cried over the empty hook on the end of his own fishing line. Sansa felt a stab of rage, but she did not know where it had come from. What did it matter that he had once given her little brother a fish? That hardly canceled out abducting her on behalf of a pretender to the throne.

"Yes, he is very thoughtful and generous," she said, her tone polite, though she felt nothing but anger and acid. Daario's brows arched in amusement.

"Careful now, Lady Stark. You'll find more of a kind heart in Snow than in the rest of us—even in sweet Princess Daenerys. And who knows—you might be here long enough that you'll find need of a kind heart after all."

Sansa held her chin up. She would not be cowed by this ridiculous man.

"My Lord husband will come for me."

"Or perhaps we'll have to come for him."

Daario left her there, with Snow's cloak and the silver goblet of water. Sansa drank from it with a shaking hand and trembling lips.

What if…

No. She couldn't think like that. This wasn't like King's Landing, where she had been an unwilling captive for so many years. Things were different now, and Dickon loved her. He would move mountains to save her.

But why should he love me? We barely know each other.

"No," she breathed, shaking her head, pacing once more. She couldn't doubt him, couldn't doubt his love for her.

If she didn't have his love, then she had nothing else.

You actually are as stupid as you seem, Cersei's voice echoed in her head. You stupid girl, Joffrey had shrieked, laughing at her.

Three thousand gold dragons was quite a lot of money.

And what if Dickon didn't even know where she was? Jon Snow and his men had lost them all too easily. How could he storm the holdfast, if he didn't know where it was?

A week.

Perhaps Daario was simply trying to upset her. She'd seen such tactics before. Perhaps he was simply trying to break her spirit, to guarantee she would not attempt escape. Cersei had done it to her, ten years before, and it had worked all too well. She had been such an obedient little captive.

A week.

She had thought she'd only be captive in King's Landing for a week, once upon a time. That week had turned into weeks, to months, to years, to forever, somehow.

...She needed a plan.

"We're meeting the Tarlys in neutral territory, near Moat Cailin." Tyrion poured himself more wine from a Dornish bottle. Dany was reclining on a pink silk chaise, having her calves massaged by Jorah who knelt at her feet. She'd been riding that morning, on her silver horse. Jon thought of her sliding her hands down his body mere hours earlier, and turned away. He felt like a fool, though he was not quite sure why.

"Moat Cailin isn't neutral territory," he said, staring out at the rain. All they did was make empty plans and watch the rain and drink wine. "If the Tarlys know anything—"

"—They'll bring the Boltons, yes," Tyrion said dryly. He took a long swig of wine. Jon wondered how much of their three thousand gold dragons—if they ever got them—would exclusively be used to fund Tyrion's wine habit. "Which is why we're bringing you. You wear the honorable Lord Eddard Stark's face…if not his name."

"I also just kidnapped his daughter," Jon pointed out tersely, finally turning around. Tyrion chose to ignore him.

"Lord Tarly won't send his beloved beautiful boy. I imagine they'll be using this as an opportunity to track us back to this holdfast. Jon and Daario will mislead them in the opposite direction after we have had our negotiations."

"They won't negotiate. Lord Tarly—" Jon began stubbornly, but Tyrion cut him off.

"—Lord Tarly has been given the terms. If he wants Sansa Stark back—"

"—But he won't want her back. I told you. They've already got Winterfell."

"They'll never keep Winterfell without a Stark," Dany reasoned. "No matter what, they will want Sansa Stark back."

Jon turned back to look at the rain. Daario pushed himself off the wall.

"We've got six days. Might be we should practice our swordsmanship, Jon Snow?"

Daario unsheathed his sword, the blade glinting in the candlelight. He was looking at Jorah.

"Yes," Jon said, eager to get out, eager to do something, anything.

Jon changed into his leathers and met Daario in the courtyard by the stables. The rain had lightened to a fine drizzle. It was warmer than yesterday, but no less miserable. He turned to face Daario.

"Lady Stark is rather confident that her prince will come storm our holdfast," Daario remarked as both men drew their swords.

She had always been a daydreamer, a naïve and sweet little girl. Jon shook his head.

"He might." Clang. The first clash of swords. Daario was a good opponent, though Jorah was probably the best at dueling. Grey Worm was talented at fighting to kill, not fighting for sport. "The Tarlys are proud. He'll be insulted that we took her." He was just repeating Tyrion's reasoning, bleating helplessly like a sheep. He swung harder.

Jon and Daario had been the only ones to be skeptical of Tyrion and Dany's plan to take Sansa Stark hostage—Jon because he knew the ways of lords, and Daario because he knew the ways of men.

"Is it hard, having a Stark in the house?" Clang. Jon's steps were careful, methodical, as he remembered his training. They were moving through the forms easily enough.

"No." Clang. He spun in place, and hit Daario's blade with the flat of his.

"Do you think the Lannisters will come looking for us?" Clang.

"Yes." Clang. They were moving faster now. Clang. Clang.

"I wonder who will find us first: Jaime Lannister, or Dickon Tarly."

"Couldn't say." Clang. "We're well hidden here. They might never find us." Clang.

"I hope they both find us at once. I'd love a good fight." Clang. "And barring that, a good fuck." Clang. "It's been weeks."

Hands tracing down his body, a wet mouth on his skin. Jon screwed up his face and hit harder. He felt sick to his stomach. Clang. Clang.

"We'll be south soon enough," Jon said.

"I've never fucked a northern lady." Clang. "Have you?"

"No." Clang.

"Ah. I would've liked to hear a comparison. Pity."

They didn't speak as their forms sped up and the clangs turned into wild clashes, a storm of noise filling the courtyard. His muscles burned and his lungs ached, but it felt good. Jon thought he might lose his mind, cooped up in this bloody holdfast.

I hope they find us too, he realized. It was a darker impulse. They'd spent so many years on the run, just barely dodging danger. Let the worst happen. Let the other shoe drop, finally.

"Snow."

They dropped their swords, both men's chests heaving, breaths clouding, as they looked at the door leading to the courtyard. Rainwater blurred Jon's vision and he wiped at his eyes. It was Davos. "It's your shift," he said. "I need some food and a nap." The older man went back inside, and Jon looked up to the window on the second storey. The Stark girl's window. A pale shadow moved away from the window.

She'd been watching them.

"I think you're afraid of her, Snow," Daario remarked. "I wonder why."

"I think you talk too much." Jon sheathed Longclaw and wiped his forehead, and went inside, leaving Daario standing in the rain.

There were low voices outside her door, and Sansa crept to the door, pressing her ear against it to listen.

"…Until supper. I wonder if we should tell the girl?" That was Davos.

"It's unnecessary," Jon Snow replied shortly. "It doesn't change anything."

Davos' heavier footfalls disappeared down the hall, and the floor creaked with a man's weight. Jon Snow was stationed outside her door again.

She'd watched him in the courtyard. Sansa had spent her life watching men with swords, men with dirks, men with guns. She knew what a good killer looked like. Even when they had been children, her father had often spoken of Jon Snow's skill with a sword. Watching him earlier had filled her with dread. He wears no fine waistcoats and has no manners but he knows how to kill. She was not sure that Dickon knew how to kill.

A soft knock startled her. Sansa hastily combed at her hair and straightened her dress.

"Come in," she said as levelly, and with as much dignity as she could muster. The knob turned, revealing Jon Snow in riding leathers, still soaked from training outside.

"Princess Daenerys will dine with you tonight." His expression was stony.

Oh, will she? Another stab of fury. Sansa turned away quickly, before he could see her feelings on her face. She could not seem to draw a full breath. He might as well have said that Queen Cersei would dine with her.

"Shall I receive her here?" Sarcasm leaked from her voice, and she felt her face grow hot. She heard a soft scoff, and she looked back at him.

"I will escort you to her rooms when it is time."

"Thank you," she said stiffly. A sudden madness seized her. She ought to have kept quiet. "…What did Davos wish to tell me?"

She swallowed over a lump in her throat, and turned to fully face him. His eyes were cast down, and she watched his fist tighten, briefly. When he looked at her again, however, his eyes were soft. He pitied her.

"He ...wanted to tell you that we'll be meeting with Lord Tarly in six nights' time. To negotiate your release."

There was a funny swooping sensation in her belly, and she gripped the edge of the table next to the window. Her legs had gone weak, silly things.

"S-six days?"

A week, nearly.

Daario hadn't been lying.

She hated the pity in his eyes. "Why six days?" she blurted desperately, her eyes stinging. Six days in captivity, with nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait…

"I couldn't say. I have little experience with ransoms."

There was some ice in his voice. Perhaps the Targaryens offered a ransom, and Father never paid it? she wondered, studying him. She wondered how long he'd waited for the Starks to rescue him, wondered when he'd given up hope and let himself become a Targaryen.

"W-well," she blustered, smoothing her skirts, "I'm sure it must take time to amass so much gold."

"Yes, I'm sure." Jon Snow rested his hands on his belt, and looked down again, biting his soft lower lip. It was easier, in this light, to see the scars on his face. How had he gotten them? He'd been such a green, gentle boy when he'd left them. Or rather, taken, she mentally corrected. He wouldn't look at her now. Her legs felt numb again. He doesn't think they'll pay, she realized, the knowledge ringing clear as a bell.

"Please leave me," she demanded, turning away quickly. She felt like she could not breathe. "I-I must be alone."

"Yes, Lady Stark."

He didn't move right away. She felt his presence like a fire at her back, and she gripped the windowsill, willing herself not to cry. Courtesy is a lady's armor. Dignity is her sword.

At long last she heard the door click shut, and she was left alone, as she had requested. She couldn't breathe. Six days. Her wedding was in thirteen days. Would it even happen, now? Even if they did indeed return her in six days, the Tarlys would be out three thousand gold dragons. Weddings were costly, of course. She didn't know if they even had three thousand gold dragons.

The Tarlys were rich. But how rich? Were they rich enough to buy her back?

No.

...No.

She had not suffered for so many years, biding her time, only to trade one captor for another. She had waited too long. Perhaps the Tarlys had bought her for her name and for the lands that came with her, but she knew Dickon could love her.

Even if he didn't yet, he could come to love her.

If she didn't have that, then she'd have nothing.

She would not let this ridiculous Beggar Princess take love, a wedding, her happiness, away from her.

A strange calm settled over her, and she stood straight once again, still staring into the rain. The rage melted away.

They were mere hours of riding from Winterfell. Even if she didn't know precisely where she was, she knew enough of the land to be able to find her way to someone who could help her. She needed to leave, and what was more, she needed to leave soon...just in case Dickon was planning to storm the holdfast; just in case they really were trying to amass the gold. She needed to get back to Dickon before he tried to save her, through steel or through gold.

And if she could do that, perhaps he'd love her even more.

But beside all of that, she could not help but think of the swordsmanship she had seen in the courtyard just now.

It wouldn't take so many disciplined men to storm this holdfast. But it would take only one man to kill Dickon.

And she had just witnessed one man who clearly knew how to kill.

"If only it had been more difficult to track them. I would have liked a challenge," Lord Baelish sighed, rolling up the map of the north. "I've informed Lord Tarly, and he is doing his part as we speak." Varys sighed behind him, shaking his head.

"Your brother was supposed to be the clever one, too," the eunuch said sorrowfully. He turned to Jaime with a questioning, curious look. "I wonder, will it be hard to march on your beloved brother's holdfast and tear down his dreams of a Targaryen restoration?"

Jaime didn't bother to respond to Varys' question. The eunuch reeked of lavender and it made his head spin.

"I'll be glad when this is over," he finally said.

He had forbid them from inviting Cersei to this little chat. As far as most knew, Tyrion had died years ago. It was best for Cersei if she believed Tyrion dead.

"You'll want to attack in five days' time, at dawn. They're low on food, and they won't go hunting or sneak into town until Friday, on Winter Town's market day. They'll be hungry and weak. A sellsword named Daario does the dawn watch, and he's usually drunk or asleep," Varys informed them.

"Bloody sellswords," Bronn said with heavy irony, but Jaime couldn't bring himself to laugh.

"We'll have to leave in two days," Jaime said, thinking of the map. It would take more than a day and a half of fast riding to get to the holdfast, and he'd need to bring a large force to ensure they took the holdfast quickly and efficiently. If he wanted to be ready to leave by Monday, he'd have to begin making preparations at once. "Bronn, let's go."

"You seem tense. I've never known you to dread a battle," Bronn remarked, following Jaime out of Lord Baelish's study. One of Baelish's maids, a pretty dark-eyed thing, handed them their cloaks and hats, and then they were on the street. The palace loomed large ahead of them, a glittering thing in the sun. The streets around them shimmered and stank with heat and rot. It was too hot for their cloaks, but Bronn had told him it would be prudent to hide their fine silk waistcoats, to dress plainly and anonymously, when visiting Lord Baelish.

"This will be no battle." They fell into step together, walking back towards the palace. Around them, the ruin of King's Landing was only too evident. Jaime felt the vitriol of the people all too well, and he was grateful that his Lannister hair and silks were hidden from view.

"Rather handy that it's the Stark girl being held captive," Bronn said lightly. "Can't help but wonder how that happened." He had given voice to Jaime's exact thoughts. "Can't help but think that's all rather convenient for Littlefinger. Wasn't he the one who sold her to Tarly in the first place?"

If he were as clever as Tyrion, he'd devise a way to find out Baelish and Varys' real motives. And if he were as ruthless as his father, he'd find a way to double-cross them and seize it all for himself. Alas, he might be ruthless, but he had no plans. Daenerys Targaryen had been a problem for too long, and it was his task to solve that problem before it threatened the king's life.

As long as Cersei and Tywin didn't know about Tyrion, he could still handle it on his own, the way he wanted to.

Sansa took care to make herself lovely as she could for her supper with the Beggar Princess. She had to keep up appearances. She wore the blue gown, and pinched her cheeks to bring out the color. She needed to look innocent.

She needed to be able to extract information from them tonight, during this meal.

It would be easier if Tyrion did not dine with them. The man was too clever by half; she had learned as much during her captivity in King's Landing. Even the wrong word, the wrong tone, might alert him to her plans, and then she'd be watched even more closely.

The knock came, and Jon Snow appeared to escort her to supper.

"Is it still raining? I couldn't tell; it's so dark," she said by way of greeting as she rose from the little vanity table, pretending she had merely been brushing her hair. Jon Snow was clad in his dark waistcoat, looking more like a man and less like a warrior, and for some reason, it irritated her. You're no lord, she thought furiously.

"I've been standing here for hours, Lady Stark. I can see outside no better than you can," he reminded her, as she shut the door behind herself and joined him in the hall. The house was filled with the scent of roast capon, and she could hear men's voices downstairs.

"Of course. I wonder if it will turn back to snow again," she replied lightly. They fell into step as they walked down the hall. Silver tapers had been lit, casting the hall in a ghostly glow. In the dim light it was harder to see just how shabby this place was. Sansa covertly peered around. She could find no house banners or heraldry in sight, save for the Targaryen dragons. Who had this place belonged to?

Jon Snow said nothing. He'd never been much of a conversationalist. "So, how long have you been in this...house?" she tried again politely.

"A fortnight."

He gestured for her to descend the stairs ahead of him.

"And where were you before that?"

"South."

Downstairs the scent of roast capon and mushrooms was stronger, and her stomach growled. A few men clad in shabby uniforms came from the kitchens and peered at her with interest. Their skin was dark, which meant they were from across the Narrow Sea. The rumor was that Daenerys had stolen an army, but she had yet to see enough men for an army. They must all sleep in the stables, she decided.

That would make things harder for her. If they were all in the stables, it'd be that much harder to get a horse, and without a horse she'd never make it back to Winterfell.

They paused outside of the dining room, with Jon Snow's hand on the doorknob. For the moment, they were alone in the hall. He faced Sansa, studying her carefully. She saw him swallow, watched his Adam's apple move above the silk of his collar. He looked about to speak, but the door opened, shoving him back. Daario appeared, in his ridiculous light blue wig and a splendid blue jacquard waistcoat.

"Why, are you intending to make Lady Stark starve out here, Snow?" Daario stepped aside and gestured for Sansa to enter. "Come, dine with us. The wine is already flowing."

The dining room was just as dimly lit. Princess Daenerys was seated at the head of the table, in an opulent silver dress that was a year or two out of fashion. Tyrion sat at her right, Jorah Mormont at the other end of the table next to Daavos, and Missandei next to Tyrion.

"Lady Stark," Daenerys said. "Please, have a seat and dine with me and my bloodriders." Bloodriders. That was a Dothraki term, Sansa knew. She gave a curtsey—Jorah, Daario, Davos, and Tyrion all rose from their seats and, all looking rather amused by this show of manners, bowed back to her. Missandei gave a smooth curtsey.

"I forgot what it was like to be around a true lady," Tyrion said wryly when they had all seated themselves again. Jon Snow took his time to sit. Sansa did not miss how Daenerys' lovely violet eyes followed his movements hungrily...the way a lady's eyes might follow her husband's form. She had heard the rumors of the Targaryens, but part of her hadn't wanted to believe such horrific tales. To bed one's own blood...

"Is your Princess not the finest example of a lady?" Sansa asked him as Tyrion poured her wine. Jon Snow sat next to her. She wished she could move her chair. Daario snorted into his glass of wine.

"Yes, no lady quite like the princess," he sniggered, looking to Daenerys with twinkling eyes. The princess flushed with pleasure.

"I'm rather too rough and wild to be a lady in the traditional sense, I'm afraid. I've always been rather bored by needlework and dancing," she said. "But I am told you are the consummate lady."

It wasn't a compliment. Sansa smoothed her features into a mask. Perhaps you should not dismiss consummate ladies so quickly, Princess. Cersei had always been filled with contempt for other women, too.

"I aim to be, your highness." She took a sip of the wine to buy herself an excuse not to speak. She couldn't help but notice that Jon Snow drank no wine. As a boy he'd hated dancing, hated parties. He had never been good at fitting in. "And as any lady, I take an interest in politics," she continued carefully, when she set her goblet down again. All eyes were on her. "I have…heard rumors that you plan to ascend the Iron Throne."

"As is my birthright," Daenerys shot back immediately. "The Usurper must answer for his theft. When I have-" she halted quickly, at a sharp look from Tyrion. Clearing her throat, she continued. "—When I arrive at King's Landing, I will offer him the chance to surrender."

Daenerys had clearly never met Joffrey. Sansa, however, knew him rather well. Too well. She smiled, enjoying the suspicion that clouded those lovely violet eyes.

"I'm sure he will relent at once, your highness."

"…The Lady Stark was once betrothed to the Usurper, if I recall," Daario remarked. "You must have gotten to know him quite well."

"Why did your betrothal break?" Daenerys cut in, looking to her sharply.

Just the memory made her sick. She did not want to speak of it.

"I—"

"Where is Grey Worm?" Jon Snow cut in suddenly, effectively saving her from answering. She wondered if it had been intentional or not, but such a motion of sensitivity and empathy seemed unlike him, to her.

"On watch duty. You know how he hates a good capon," Tyrion snorted, before taking a bite of his own.

"Watch duty?" Sansa queried, politely cutting into her capon.

"We are, technically, on the run," explained Tyrion, gesturing with his wine. "As you may have gathered, we've made just a few enemies in our quest."

"But more than half the great houses support my claim," Daenerys said feverishly. She'd barely touched her food. "They raise their goblets and toast in secret to the restoration of the Targaryen dynasty. I know it."

Sansa looked between the men at the table. Jorah was a Mormont, Tyrion a Lannister, and Jon technically a Stark. Daenerys might have had some of the great houses at her table tonight, but they were all liars, Sansa decided. No one talked of a Targaryen restoration—at least not that she had ever heard. The Targaryen reign had been madness, and no one wished its resurrection. The men at this table were either fools or liars…or, perhaps, prisoners, just like her, for she also did not speak up to contradict Daenerys' certainty.

"How did you come upon this holdfast?" Sansa asked, changing the subject before Daenerys could return to the topic of her prior betrothal to Joffrey.

"It was...donated," Tyrion interjected with a sly grin.

"It is a most generous donation." Damn. Tyrion would make sure they gave no clues as to how far from Winterfell they were, or which direction they'd ridden. He also, she noticed, would not let Daenerys speak for herself.

"And what is your plan for the Targaryen restoration?" She smiled at Daenerys. "In general terms, I mean. How do you occupy your time?"

"We've been at a standstill," Daenerys said rather stiffly. "Without more gold, we can hardly make any political moves. Even crossing the Narrow Sea was difficult. We're trying to raise supporters, and we have many who support my claim, but without an army..."

"It must be difficult," Sansa sympathized. She took a long swig of her wine. She could feel everyone studying her-particularly Tyrion and Jon Snow. "Do you travel around the country much?"

"It is unsafe for me to show my face much yet," Daenerys admitted, shooting a scowl at Jorah. This was, evidently, a rather sore point. "My bloodriders have been seeking out supporters each day."

So then Daenerys herself was here at the holdfast often, but it seemed that the others might leave during the day. She doubted Tyrion would leave-most of the country thought him dead, and besides, he had been hated by so many, and was so easily recognized-but the others, particularly Jorah and Daario, would be likely to lead such searches. Jon Snow might as well, as he had Northern blood and looked strikingly like a Stark. The Northern houses might welcome a face so like that of Eddard Stark.

"Every day? All of you go from house to house?" Sansa feigned shock. "That sounds exhausting."

"Yes, but it will be worth it when we have enough gold for our army," Jorah said now. Sansa took another long swig of her wine. Thank you, Jorah Mormont, she thought. Now I know that you all leave the house for long hours during the day.

"I've heard you already have an army. Rumors do circulate in the capital."

"I have the Unsullied, from my time across the Narrow Sea, but we've lost so many men," Daenerys confessed. "Many fell ill on the voyage across the Narrow Sea."

"Do they all stay here?"

"You're a curious little bird, aren't you?" Tyrion interjected, marveling at her over his goblet of wine, his mismatched eyes glittering. "I would suggest caution, my princess. Lady Sansa Stark is far cleverer than she lets on."

"Clever?" Sansa laughed. "Lord Lannister, I have spent the past fifteen years doing little more than needlework and dancing. I would sooner call your horses clever before I would describe myself with such a flattering term."

"You fooled my sister," Tyrion mused, still studying her. "For a time, at least."

She was moving into dangerous waters. She needed to tread far more carefully.

"I would never dream of attempting to fool Cersei Lannister," she said quietly, setting down her fork and looking down miserably at her plate. All eyes were on her.

She had learned enough from her time in King's Landing to know that often you dug your own grave when you spoke too much. Better to keep silent.

"I see you are traumatized, as anyone would be, from spending so many years with my sweet sister," Tyrion said. Sansa flicked her gaze up to him, then quickly back down. "I apologize; I am sure I have stirred unpleasant memories." Tyrion poured her more wine. "Let us ignore politics for a while, Lady Stark. It has truly been far too long since we had a real lady in our midst; we might as well enjoy it while you're here."

The rest of the supper passed innocently enough. Daenerys was far more talkative when talk of horses came up, and Sansa was able to learn that the other men didn't sleep in the stables, as she had originally guessed, but rather in an old granary behind the house. The stables were packed with horses, she learned, and Daenerys went riding whenever they thought it safe enough-often early in the mornings, near dawn.

Jon Snow hardly spoke a word, but Sansa saw that Daenerys' gaze was constantly drawn back helplessly to him, enraptured by him.

The passion, she also saw, seemed to only flow in one direction. Jon Snow hardly looked at her; in fact, he hardly looked up from his food, though he ate little.

At last, near midnight, with her head buzzing with all of the wine, he escorted her back to her room. The halls were silent; as they walked, Sansa tried to memorize the layout of the house from what she could glean. She would likely have to leave through the window, but if she had the opportunity, leaving through the house might be safer.

The tapers had all blown out; the only light was the thin slats of moonlight coming in from the window at the end of the hall adjacent to her room.

"Your princess is very kind," Sansa said politely in the dark as they paused outside of her door. "And quite beautiful."

Jon Snow did not react to her words.

"Davos will be taking the watch tonight," he said instead. He opened the door for her. "Good night, Lady Stark."

"Good night, Jon Snow," she replied politely.

She waited for hours, until her eyes burned with exhaustion and she knew that Davos was relaxed-perhaps even nodding off outside her door.

And then she set to work.

Dany was waiting in his room when he opened the door, and he had to quickly shut the door and lock it. She was waiting on his bed, naked.

"You did not have much to say tonight," she remarked. Jon ignored her and went to his wardrobe, where he shrugged off his waistcoat and hung it on a hook inside. It was the only item of clothing not meant for fighting or riding that he owned.

"I thought we agreed you would come here less often," he said quietly. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and breeches. The mattress shifted as Dany sat up behind him, and kissed his back, along his spine.

"Are you questioning my choices?" she bristled. Jon stared out the window into the night. He thought of Sansa locked in her room.

"If anyone found out..."

"...When I am queen it will not matter," Dany said against his neck. "A man can bed whomever he wants. Why can't I?"

They had had this argument before. Jon was weary of it.

"It could cost you everything. Everything that we've worked for."

"It won't. No one knows."

Dany had only just slipped out of his room, near dawn, when there was a pounding on his door. Jon was washing himself, and startled at the noise. He immediately began to panic-Dany would wake the whole house at this point-but then his door flew open, and it was Davos and Jorah, not Dany.

"Sorry, Snow," Jorah said as they entered his room quickly, shutting the door behind them. Jon snatched his shirt and covered himself with it.

"Er-I wasn't expecting a visitor," he confessed. Jorah's gaze took in the mussed sheets, Jon's naked state, and his wild hair, but he said nothing.

"We have a problem that the princess can't know about," Davos said in a low voice. "The Stark girl is gone."

As was always the case in crisis, Jon's heart seemed to slow, and his panic ceased. That curious calm overtook him, the same calm that he got when fighting.

"When?" He moved backward, still covering himself with his shirt, and pawed through his wardrobe for his riding leathers. He would need to leave to follow her at once.

"We think she's been gone a half hour. There was a commotion in the stables, and Daario left his post at the front gate and went to check. When he returned, there were tracks from a horse, one of the horses was missing, and the gate was left open. He noticed the Stark girl's window was open, so he came to check. I heard nothing," Daavos explained, baffled.

"We need to fetch the girl without letting the Princess know," Jorah said. "You and Grey Worm-"

"-I'll go alone. It will be faster, and easier to catch her. Less noise," Jon said, pulling on his breeches.

For some reason he felt responsible for the Stark girl, like she belonged to him, like this was his fault.

Sansa had carefully led the horse round to the other side of the house, away from the stables, and tied the horse to a post in the kitchen garden with shaking hands.

She had never done anything like this before.

She'd always done as told, never rebelled, always acted the great lady. This was Arya-like behavior. This wasn't Sansa behavior.

Clad in Jon Snow's traveling cloak, she had crept back to the stables, trying to soak in the damp heat as much as possible-for the air smelled like impending snow and if she got lost she had every chance of freezing to death.

The horses kicked and whickered as she sneaked to a stack of buckets at one end of the stables, against which leaned a few pitchforks. It was this or nothing. She needed to draw Daario away from the front gate without making him raise the alarm. Just enough of a commotion to catch his attention, without catching his concern.

Her arms were still shaking from climbing down the rope-blanket she had fashioned, as she pushed the tower of buckets over. She darted out the back end of the stables. Heart pounding, she crouched around the corner behind the low wall, waiting for Daario to walk past.

And sure enough, he did. Holding a rifle, his dirk sheathed at his hip, Daario crossed the courtyard slowly, on silent feet. If she hadn't been watching for him, she would never have heard him, and she felt a prickle of fear. The odds were completely against her-she didn't even know how to ride these great big war horses.

But she couldn't think like that.

She'd spent so much of her life playing the lady. It had been how she had survived in King's Landing for so many years...playing dumb, playing innocent, playing the foolish, naive girl. It might have kept her alive but it had also kept her stuck.

She needed to save herself this time.

Once Daario disappeared into the stable, she turned and fled. She was wearing slippers but had cut up the sheets to wrap around her feet for warmth, and they made for silent footsteps as she ran. They weren't nearly warm enough but as long as she made good time to Winterfell it wouldn't matter. She went to the front gate and slowly pushed it open, then vaulted herself onto the horse, which was mistrustful of her, and with a burst of speed, barreled through the front gate, clutching desperately to the horse, praying she didn't fall off.

Winterfell wasn't more than an hour and a half away. She just needed to make it to Winterfell, and then she would be free.