4
A door has been closed behind me, and I have been made to sit, Davos' too-small hand leaving my own. A flurry of introductions are said around me, but I take no part in any of it, instead focusing my attentions on the floor boards. Wide planks of honey-colored pine, they are pitted and weathered and so smooth I want to trace a finger over them. I know these floors in a heart-breaking, intimate way. For long years I played upon them with my siblings, not knowing that we would be the last Starks permitted the frivolous luxury.
This is mother and father's bedchamber. The realization both warms and chills me, making a deep, yearning ache fill the bottom of my tummy. I am so eager to feel their presence once more, to see father pouring over letters at his desk while mother stitches embroidery by the fireside, I want to sob. They seem so real and touchable in my memory's eye, as if they will appear at any moment.
A hand falls lightly on my shoulder, making me flinch. "Lady Sansa? His Grace has addressed you." Davos is still wearing his mask of kindness, but there is now a sense of urgency pulsing through his voice as well.
I panic to recall what has been said. Words would fail me regardless, feeling sticky and heavy in my mouth, but it is important that I know. What has been asked of me? The shape of my destiny likely rests on this one interaction but I have long-forgotten my ladylike courtesies, my polite means of dispelling anger and suspicion. Yet even if I had somehow retained such ridiculous skills, I'm sure they would not help me here.
I know very little of Stannis Baratheon, except that he is stern and pragmatic to a fault, rumored to hold no regard for anyone who wastes his precious time. Beyond that, there are too many unknowns… daring to gauge or manipulate this man's mind seems beyond reckless.
He burns men… What if he has already decided to condemn me to one of his priestess' pyres? I squirm a little in my chair, curling my palms into fists.
"Did the maester forget to mention that her tongue was cut out?"
The voice is like a whip, so quick and cutting and unexpected that it pulls me back into my horrid past. I feel as if I know this voice, though I have never heard it before. This is a man who cares little for women, who is willing to discard them when they prove stupid and worthless. The voice of yet another unkind king… I feel terrified yet also strangely relieved. I can understand harshness; am almost comfortable with its cruel predictability.
"Your Grace," Davos says carefully, "I have been assured that she remains whole. I'm told it is her mind that has been damaged."
"Yes it has," intones another, farther off to my right. A woman, with a low, predatory voice. She speaks as if she knows me, has measured me, has groped around in my mind so that she may reveal all my deepest secrets.
The Red Woman. I need to pay more attention, should have actually listened when she was introduced! I feel doubly accosted now and wholly unprepared. I imagine her conjuring that strange, roiling fire, preparing to strike at me with a lash of flame. I'm not sure if I imagine a rise in temperature…
The silence following her statement stretches on, and I can feel the attention of the room upon me, weighty and crucial as they examine my cowering form. How could I ever meet their gazes under such scrutiny?
"It is her mind that we need now," the king says decidedly, speaking as if I am no longer here. "If she cannot pay attention or speak, then we cannot proceed as planned."
The sound of fabric rustling, then the creak of a chair, and I realize Stannis Baratheon has sat down, possibly behind my father's writing desk. There is too much quiet permanence behind his statement, too much finality.
"Your Grace," Davos begins carefully, "If she was maybe given a bit more time, or if we took her testimony in private-"
"We have no time. And she has no wits, just look at her. Who else is willing?"
"…There are only a few others of merit, your Grace. The Corbray boys, and maybe some of the Manderly men. But even their credibility is questionable." There is unease in Davos' voice, and a touch of frustration, as if he has been through this discussion before.
"Liars and turncloaks…" Stannis seethes, and I can hear the clench in his jaw. "We need better. There must be others."
"No, your Grace, I have been to the dungeons myself to look over the men. Most Stark loyalists died or were executed, and those few that remain have seen too much flaying and bloodshed to talk." Davos pauses, perhaps to steady himself because he inhales deeply. "I still believe Lady Sansa is our best choice. She has likely seen and experienced far more than the others. Her birthright alone would support her claims."
Stannis growls, rising to his feet, boots thudding against the floors I love. "This girl before me isn't a Stark though." I can tell he is gesturing at me now, putting me on display to make some point, "She, is a beat dog, Sir Davos; too long under the whip to bear her direwolf fangs."
He has mocked me and my family, stinging what little remains of my pride, but he has also seen me. Finally, another sees me as I truly am.
"She's the last of house Stark, your Grace." Davos replies quickly, sounding riled, and I am aghast that even he – though an advisor to his king – deems it wise to speak to Stannis Baratheon in such a way. "She holds more value than any other northern man in this castle. She should at least be allowed the opportunity to speak."
"More value?" Stannis scoffs, moving across the room. "There is little to nothing left to gain from her, except her family's lands and titles. This has been a waste… I will sentence them myself."
Again he has dismissed me. I am unworthy of some task, though I cannot guess the part I had been expected to play – excluding, perhaps, as the harsh king has made plain, my role as an heiress. Petyr Baelish saw me in a similar light, marking me as the unthreatening key to the North, the girl who would eventually bend and wither under the control of an ambitious husband.
Curiosity and dread prickle my conscience. What purpose was meant for me and what have I failed to accomplish? Does my inability mean my doom? I struggle against my compulsions, willing myself to raise my head, to raise my eyes... to save myself with my ability to speak and prove useful once more.
But it is all for naught. I shouldn't even try. I cannot bring myself to disregard my punishments so quickly. The ghost of Ramsay is still controlling my behaviors, demanding my strict submission. Stannis is alone in his measurement of me. Perhaps now that their flaming king has proclaimed it with such vicious objectivity, the new occupants of Winterfell will finally acknowledge what has become of me.
"There is another way, my king." The Red Woman makes the offer quietly, knowingly, swishing out from her corner of the room. "A way which uses Lady Stark as you intend, yet requires little exertion from the Lady herself."
She has always intended to shape the course of whatever decision is being made, I realize. The turmoil of the masculine debate was her cue to offer advice. Ambitious women are smart to make men believe they are in charge.
"And what would you advise?" Stannis says quietly, the edge in his voice biting my ears. "And don't dare suggest her blood. The King in the North was no true king."
"No, my king, he was not." The Red Woman speaks softly, reverently, building upon something, though I'm not sure what. "You alone I have seen triumphant in the flames; you're legitimacy is beyond question. You are Azor Ahai reborn."
Her words hold value; her opinion matters. I can feel it in the way the room waits for her to continue, uncharacteristically quiet for a woman.
"What I suggest, my king, is quite simple. The Lady will not face her tormentors, not as you and I would face one another. Fear clouds her mind, binding her against decision. We need simply remove her from the court's view: veil her, behind a screen perhaps. None need know that she is there."
Davos has shifted, fidgeting beside me. "I never thought I'd say it, your Grace, but I agree with the Lady Melisandre. It could work."
"But what of her voice?" Stannis barks, walking about the room, pacing I guess. "She is no good without the ability to speak."
"Easily solved as well, my king." The Red Lady moves, her gown wisping like silk.
Why would she wear something so frivolous in winter? But then I realize, in the way the air warms around me, in how close she comes to stand before me. She is warmth; she is radiating heat. I both yearn to lean closer and cringe away. Only strange, volatile magic could create such a unique aura, I am sure. This woman is beyond any danger I have yet to encounter… if simply because I do not know what horrors she is fully capable of.
Her maroon dress pools as she kneels before me, and I instantly drop my gaze lower, back to the floors of my family. For a fleeting, gasping moment our eyes have met… hers so burning and knowing… and suddenly I feel as if the outer world has faded from us. She is a glowing, scalding sun, and she has beckoned me to blind myself by looking upon her… A compulsion runs deeply through me, and as her hot fingers curl beneath my chin, bidding me to look up, I consent without really meaning to. A creamy, smooth face, with swirling, scarlet eyes, stares into my own.
"There you are, Lady Stark. Forgive my intrusion," she withdraws her hand, "but it is much easier to see the true Sansa Stark when our gazes meet."
The way she says true… as if there is some secret I do not even know about myself, makes me sit farther back into my chair.
"You see, my king," she speaks more loudly, "Lady Stark merely needs a way of communicating with a room; she is obviously quite present and compliant. We will give her a means of making her decisions known."
A stone is pushed into my hands, and though I wish to examine it, I still feel the need to watch the Red Woman as she watches me. Her voice drops, for my ears alone.
"This fear of yours will pass, child. It is a simple thing to manage, and we will conquer it quickly. For now and tomorrow, use this speaking stone. Strike one knock to answer with a 'no', and two knocks for a 'yes'."
The solution seems so simple – the implications liberating because I may be allowed some chance to save myself while still hiding within the prison of my mind – that I am almost thankful. Yet suspicion and distrust riddle every thought which passes through me. The fire priestess has intentions beyond the scope of my own… I cannot believe her, even as she acts as my ally.
She smiles before our eyes part and then stands, sweeping away from view. It is as if a gust has blown through the room, emanating from myself, as her strange power lifts from me. My head is my own to control again. I quickly duck it into my chest.
"Well then? Why is she still not speaking?" The king admonishes.
Melisandre sounds vaguely triumphant to my ears, but her tone is so subtle I am sure it is lost on the men in this room.
"Ask her a question, your Grace. Something which may be answered simply, with a yes or no."
The whisper of leathers and rough-spun wool, and I realize that Stannis Baratheon himself is standing before me, judging me, waiting to chastise whatever responses I may manage to conjure with the stone wedged in my palm.
"Are you Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, former Lord of Winterfell?"
Oh no… why this question? Either response seems dishonest.
I return to my instincts and the actions which have kept me alive through painful interactions: what answer does this man wish to hear?
I rap the stone against my chair arm once, then twice. A pregnant silence follows, the dull thud of rock on wood echoing in my mind.
"Is this your idea of speech?" Stannis has turned away from me, his anger pitched across the room, accosting his priestess with venom. "I need her testimony, not… whatever this is."
Unruffled, the Red Woman comes near us again. "She has answered you, my king, and quite clearly. Two knocks represents a yes, but one would have meant a no. In this way she will be quite capable of passing judgment. Tomorrow I suggest she be hidden away at court but allowed full view of those under question. Have their charges read publicly, and if Lady Stark agrees or disagrees with the accusations she will make her opinions audibly known. You may still measure out justice, with the fair amount of evidence you seek."
I feel dizzy with the realization… I understand what they intend now, what they wish me to do. Who they may wish me to condemn. But how can I face my tormentor, or even occupy the same room – hidden or not? The mere thought of being in his presence again makes me fight against the tight corset that binds me, wishing I could curl in on myself, preparing my mind and body for violence.
Davos speaks again, startling me because he has moved quite close, standing behind my shoulder. "It seems a good plan, my Grace. But what does Lady Sansa think?" His hand alights on my shoulder again, and this time I somehow withhold any outward reaction. "Will you pass judgment on the Bolton men and northern betrayers who tried to claim Winterfell as their own?"
I run my thumb over the surface of the stone which has given me a voice and opinion; given me the petrifying, yet liberating chance to have some say in what will become of my bastard Lord Husband. If he still lives I can help sentence Ramsay… It is what I have yearned for, so achingly and completely that it seemed my only thought at times. My very breath had felt long-repurposed for his destruction. Yet, now that the opportunity is upon me, I am almost paralyzed.
Almost, and yet not quite. The disgusting flood of hope that surges through me is something I cannot suppress in the moment. If this is the last action I am ever truly allowed to perform, and then I am made to resume my tortured, lonely life, I will decide. I will choose and be heard.
I raise the stone, knocking it loudly against wood. One hit, then two, and I have finally spoken.
Yes. I will judge those who broke me.