Sansa
Sansa was spending the slowest hour of her life.
Ordinarily before a feast like this, she and her friend Jeyne would sit together and excitedly discuss who was to come and what they would dress like; who would fall over drunk and who their fathers would look at disapprovingly. The last time Winterfell had hosted the lords of the North, Roose Bolton had brought his bastard son and some ill-smelling servant, and for the very first time, Father had placed Jon Snow at the back of the tables rather than the front, seemingly so that Ramsay Snow would not be seated among the heirs to Winterfell. Jon had been sullen, or moreso than usual, for weeks after, and Theon had mocked him until Robb had hit his hand so hard with a tourney sword he had broken a bone. That had brought Father's ire down on them all, and Jon had never been seated at the back tables again. Sansa cared for her bastard brother, but she'd thought it hadn't been that hard a thing to sit at the back rather than the front.
Tonight, however, was no ordinary feast. It was a royal feast, so Jon wasn't even allowed in the hall, and Jeyne Poole, as the daughter of Winterfell's steward, had to help her father with the preparations. Sansa, in the meantime, had to wait until it was time for her to be led in with the lords and ladies of the houses of Stark, Baratheon and Lannister. She was to draw the crown prince.
Sansa paced the flagstones. The crown prince. Joffrey had ridden into Winterfell on his own horse, not with the other children in the wheelhouse. He didn't look a bit like his father. Father had told her and her siblings, on cold nights, of Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident: the only man strong and fast enough to wield a hammer against swords. King Robert was red-faced and thick-bearded, had puffed his way across the courtyard, and had needed a mounting block even to get off his horse. Joffrey, though, was handsome. Golden-haired, with high arched brows: Joffrey had ridden in and his fine sable cloak, black as midnight, had swirled in the air behind him.
And if Father would only say yes, she would be his bride. She would be a queen.
She looked anxiously through the window, down onto the courtyard, but they were still carrying in cups and trenchers and flagons: nobody was even in the Great Hall yet. She sighed and her breath fogged the glass.
Behind her, Lady whined. The direwolf was lying on the bed, her bright yellow eyes shining in the candlelight. Her head tilted; one of the wolf's ears was sticking up properly this week, but the other still flopped like a puppy. Sansa took up a small horn comb she had taken last week from Arya—it wasn't as if she used it anyway— and sat on the bed next to Lady, gently running it through the thick ruff of fur at her neck. Lady had just started to grow it, and it made her look like a true direwolf, not some common dog. Sometimes, Sansa fancied that Lady understood her better than a dog would, too.
"You'll be coming with us soon, to King's Landing," she told Lady. Softly, though, so nobody could hear her speak from outside. It wouldn't do to be heard talking to herself. "You'll be the only wolf in court. Besides Arya's and Bran's, of course, but I don't think they'll be let into court. They're not as well trained as you are." Lady yawned and showed all her teeth, as if to agree in her own wolfish way. Just to prove her point to herself, Sansa set down her comb and held out her hand to Lady, palm-up.
"Shake, Lady."
Lady regarded her for a long time, and then gracefully put her paw in Sansa's hand. It was bigger every day and would grow bigger still, but Lady was still the smallest of all of the direwolves, save for Jon's runt pup. Sansa gently shook Lady's paw up and down.
"Good girl."
Lady's paw tensed in her hand, and the direwolf's new ruff stood all on end. Lady stood up fully on the bed, large head just above Sansa's. There was a tangle of legs across her lap, Lady's nails scratching into Sansa's hand, and the wolf bounded across the room.
"Lady!" Sansa exclaimed, staring down at her hand; the wolf had left long reddening marks on her palm. She looked up to chastise Lady and forgot her hand altogether: the direwolf was crouched low and defensive, teeth bared, and the growl she was making was so low and deep Sansa almost couldn't hear it.
She was growling at the window.
The hair on Sansa's arms stood on end, her skin chilling. Lady had never made a sound like that, not once. Tentatively, she stood from the bed, and crossed the cool flagstones to the direwolf. Even with her floppy puppy ear and her smaller size, Lady was already bigger than most dogs in Winterfell, and more fearful than most. Her bright yellow eyes did not move from the window: the direwolf's pupils were small and sharp, and her little front teeth had spittle clinging to them. Sansa looked to the dark night outside, and then, taking a deep breath for courage, stepped in front of Lady. The direwolf pushed to her side as she walked to the sill, head warm against her knee. Sansa, shivering, looked down to the Winterfell courtyard.
The movement was easy to spot even in the low light of the evening; he was wearing bright gold and white, and his hair shone as bright as his armour. It was the man they called the Kingslayer, the queen's brother Jaime Lannister, walking across the courtyard, one arm held close to his chest. Jeyne, this afternoon, had said he was more handsome than any knight she'd ever seen. Sansa hadn't truly noticed him at the time, and her view from above made it hard to see him now; all she could tell was that he was as blonde as the other Lannisters, and taller than most. He crossed the courtyard and turned a corner around the building; the last she saw of him was his white Kingsguard cloak, stained with mud.
"It's just a knight, Lady," she said firmly to the direwolf. Lady sniffed at the air, and Sansa smiled. "Do they smell funny in all their armour?"
Lady growled, and then huffed, stalking towards the fire and lying down by the hearth. Sansa frowned at the direwolf. She would have to train Lady more; it wouldn't do to have her be afraid of the King's knights.
Except that an hour of anxious pacing brought a Kingsguard to her door, the one with the dark black beard, and Prince Joffrey. She was so excited by the presence of the crown prince that she quite forgot until she'd been escorted halfway across the castle, hand on Joffrey's arm, that Lady hadn't seemed at all concerned by either of them. The direwolf had only lifted her head to watch, and then settled back down by the fire.
She didn't worry about anything much, after that. Joffrey was wearing a crimson leather jerkin, tooled with gold that matched his hair, and he complimented her dress with a smile that made her heart melt. His eyes were a bright blue, and even when she looked away, sometimes she caught him looking at her with an expectant gaze. They made polite small talk all the way to the Great Hall, and Sansa wished the walk could have lasted forever.
When she reached the procession waiting by the closed ironwood doors of the Great Hall, she wanted to cry with the excitement of it all. Father waited by the front with Queen Cersei taking his arm; he looked unhappy, but he always looked unhappy at feasts. Father would always say that guests warmed Winterfell up too much for his liking. The Queen seemed unhappy too, but she wasn't looking straight ahead like Father; she was looking around, frowning. Queen Cersei was truly beautiful tonight; her hair was piled high in a way Sansa had never seen before, and it was so bright she almost missed the tiara of golden antlers nestled in the braids. Emeralds shone out of the antlers like cat eyes in the dark.
Behind Father and the Queen was Mother, dressed in dark blue and sparkling with black beads, and the King, crowned and dressed in dull gold silks and leathers. He looked like he'd already had a little to drink. Next came Robb, with the young Princess Myrcella grabbing onto his arm, and then, the space where she and Joffrey would stand. He led her gallantly to their place in the procession. Out of line with the others and not yet holding onto Prince Tommen's arm was Arya, and then, behind them, Bran and Rickon. Arya was looking behind her; Sansa followed her gaze.
She made brief eye contact with him and she shot her head forward quickly afterwards. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. Sansa had never seen a dwarf before, and it wouldn't be becoming of her to stare at the first one she'd ever seen, but she did want to look: she'd heard a lot about the third child of Tywin Lannister. Apparently he was a curious man, no stranger to perversions, and he had killed his mother in the birthing bed. Sansa held Joffrey's arm a little tighter.
Curiously, the third of the Lannister siblings was nowhere to be seen. Sansa wasn't too sad about that: much as she was interested to see what Jaime looked like, the way Lady had growled at him, even though he had been all the way down in the courtyard... it had put her on edge.
The ironwood doors opened, and the golden lantern light washed away her concerns.
"Go on, try it," Robb said, pushing the huge plate across the table. He was smiling in that way he did when he'd been given too much to drink. It was rare when Father was around, he typically gave them one cup and the one only, but the King had demanded more wine be given to the childrens' table until he had gotten more than a little distracted by the woman who had been serving them the wine. Arya picked up another large chunk with her hands, but Sansa hadn't tried this dish yet, and had no real intention to. She held back the grimace and politely declined.
"It's my favourite, lady Sansa, you simply must," said the princess Myrcella, whose golden curls had, by this point of the night, begun to escape her jewelled hairnet. "They wrap it in clay and bake it so they can pull out all the quills, it's quite extraordinary!"
Sansa tentatively took a small piece on the tip of her knife and bit down. It was so smothered in cameline sauce that she couldn't taste the meat itself, but it was tough and chewy and she hated every second of eating it. She swallowed awkwardly and took a deep draught of the summerwine to wash it down.
"Have you never tried hedgehog before?" said the prince, his mouth curled in amusement, and Sansa felt a rush of heat to her cheeks.
"No," she said, before adding hastily, "Prince Joffrey. We don't often cook them in Winterfell."
"Shame," the prince said. "I'm sure you'll try a great many more things once you come to King's Landing." He leaned across the table, swirling the cup in his hand. "The future queen of Westeros deserves better than this smallfolk piss. At home, we drink Arbor gold, Dornish red, apricot wine from Pentos… Myrish firewine." The crown prince's smile was slow and assured on his face, and his eyes never left hers as he spoke. He had such an intense gaze, Sansa felt as if she was drowning in it, and the heat in her cheeks was not just from the wine. Beside her, Arya made a retching sound, and Sansa held back the urge to shake her sister. Tommen cut in in that nervous voice he seemed to constantly have.
"Myrish firewine is green," he said, but the statement didn't seem to go anywhere. Tommen's face was very red from drinking. Sansa found Tommen annoying, and Joffrey seemed to agree with her.
"You ought to be in bed," Joffrey said, voice sharp. Tommen blinked back nervously.
"Go on now, little brother," Myrcella said, and Tommen rose from his seat, almost falling back as he tried to extricate himself from the bench. Bran put a hand out to steady the prince as he toppled his way across the bench, and then he promptly walked into someone's chest. The table looked up to see Jaime Lannister.
After hearing all about how handsome the Lion of Lannister was from Jeyne, Sansa glanced up with interest. Now she looked at the man, however, she felt to her surprise like Lady had been: like she wanted nothing more to growl at him until he went away. He didn't look particularly scary, not like the man with the burnt face and the dog helmet that had ridden in with Prince Joffrey, or the strange Tyrion Lannister. In fact, he was indeed very handsome. He was finely dressed in crimson and gold, and a satin cloak as black as night. His hair was as blonde as his siblings', cut close around his sharp jaw, and while his nose was a little crooked, like he'd broken it long ago, Sansa had always felt that signs of knightly injury could look handsome too. He was certainly Cersei's twin— had the Queen been a man, and a knight, this would be the very one.
But something about him struck a chord, deep in her. He was a man she ought to run far, far away from, or perhaps attack if the time was right. And when he turned his head from Tommen to look right at her, through her, Sansa froze in place.
He regarded her for a long time. Eventually, he plucked up a pitcher and two cups, hers and Myrcella's, from the table.
"You're too young to drink," the Kingslayer muttered, before strolling away, towards the man playing the high harp.
Sansa turned back to see Joffrey's face had paled, his eyes wide and angry. Myrcella stood up.
"I'm going to bed," she announced. "Good night, and thank you for your hospitality." She couldn't have left the hall faster if she had run. The rest of the table made hasty goodbyes; Robb politely made his leave, taking Bran away to bed, while Arya just stood up and wandered off.
Joffrey snatched Tommen's cup from where he had been sitting and poured wine into it so hastily he overfilled it, and it spilled. He pushed the cup towards Sansa, glaring at where Jaime had been.
"I will speak to Father about this," he growled. "A Kingsguard cannot steal from the future King."
"Thank you," Sansa said, although she wasn't sure how Jaime had stolen from Joffrey. She picked up the cup and drunk deep. The summerwine's sweet taste was starting to become heavy on her tongue. In the distance, a song struck up, one Sansa had never heard before. Joffrey seemed rather interested in it.
"Do you know this song?" He asked, his anger seemingly forgotten. Sansa shook her head.
"Sorry, I don't."
"You ought to. It's 'The Rains of Castamere', it was written for my grandfather Tywin." Joffrey leaned in excitedly. "His father Tytos was weak, and none of his vassals respected him, especially not the Reynes or the Tarbecks. They took money from him when they wanted, and never gave it back when he asked. Eventually, grandfather rode out to demand the money back." Joffrey smiled. In the background, Sansa could hear a line, ground out in a low tone:
In a coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws…
"Lady Tarbeck said to him, 'you aren't the only lions in the west', and then she said, 'my brothers are coming, and their claws are as long and sharp as yours'. But Lady Tarbeck didn't know the ways of men at war, and she did not know grandfather." His smile turned jubilant, almost elated. "The fires at Tarbeck Hall were lit for a day and night, and by the time they died down, the only thing left was the last Lord Tarbeck, a child of three. Grandfather threw him down a well, I heard. And then he went on to Castamere."
Sansa's skin was pimpling with more than just the cold of the night. She suppressed a shiver.
"The Reynes retreated; they had gold mines just like the Lannisters, and so they hid in them, like cowards. Grandfather had no patience for cowards. They sent him peace terms and he ignored them. He had his men dam up a river, and the river flowed into the mines."
"No," Sansa whispered. Joffrey's eyes widened with something she couldn't place.
"I've heard some of grandfather's men say they could hear the screams for hours."
Sansa stumbled up, knocking over the wine as she did; it spilt across her dress and ruined it. She looked up at Joffrey, feeling her face heating up with tears. He looked surprised.
"Please excuse me, Prince Joffrey," she managed, before rushing from the room. The tears flowed down her cheeks all the way to her room, and she buried them in Lady's fur.
Mance
He had been surprised by King Robert.
He'd heard a great many things about the man that had ended three hundred years of Targaryen rule. Mance had had no love for Targaryens: Maester Aemon had never been so bad, but then hand Maester Aemon three dragons and he might not be as kind. When he had heard of the defeat of the Mad King at the hands of a man who carried a great hammer, his antlered helm as wide and proud as an eagle in flight, who had caved in the breastplate of Rhaegar Targaryen and sent rubies scattering across the Trident—
—Well, he had expected more than a red-faced man in his cups, fondling any girl of low enough birth to be beneath notice.
A clatter beside him. A man walked into the shadowed corner of the hall. Mance had set himself up where, in order to see him, you would need to walk past the screen that obscured the kitchen door; enough that he could see and not be seen. This was the first person to come near him.
Tall and blonde, sharp-eyed and finely dressed; he was a Lannister, that was for certain. The lord raised up a pitcher in one hand, two cups in the other.
"A drink for the bard," the lord said, a smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Excellent playing, ah—"
"—Abel, m'lord," Mance said with a patient smile. "And I'm honoured, uh—"
"—Ser Jaime, of House Lannister," he said, handing him the cup and filling it. Mance waited until Jaime had tasted his own before drinking.
"Would you like a song, m'lord?" Mance offered, tasting from the cup. The lord had given him summerwine. He didn't get a lot of summer at home, and it tasted sweet and cloying. "P'raps the Rains of Castamere?"
The Lannister looked up at the tapestry of the wolf. "My lord father's song, and one I've heard too many times at too many feasts. What songs do you know that I won't, bard?"
The wine might not be worth the song if the southron would be this choosy. It would cost him time to observe the others if he had to entertain this man any longer. Mance smiled reluctantly. "I know a great many songs, but I'm afraid I don't know of your tastes."
"I've heard, this close to the Wall," the Lannister said, "many of the bards know the songs of the wildlings." He sipped deep from his cup and watched Mance. His eyes were sharp and searching, and Mance's blood turned to ice in his veins. This wasn't some idle question. Behind the Lannister, King Robert laughed, long and loud. No one had noticed the music had stopped; it was late in the evening, and the talking had become raucous and drunken. Some corners of the hall even had their own amateur bards: the dwarf Lannister seemed to be leading a chorus of 'The Dornishman's Wife'. Mance set down his cup. The kitchen door was a few paces to his left.
"Wouldn't claim to know them, m'lord."
"'Ser'", the Lannister said carefully. "I am Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, the White Swords. The correct title when speaking to a knight is 'ser'."
He flicked his eyes to the tapestry, drank deep again from his cup, and set it down by Mance's harp. His fingers flickered around the edge of his finely made cloak.
"Just as your correct title is 'your grace'."
He was already halfway to standing when Lannister gripped his shoulder tight and pushed him back against the wall. A blade poked at his belly.
"So it is you," Lannister murmured, his eyes wide. He almost seemed surprised.
Mance looked to see if anyone had noticed. King Robert was slapping his hands across a serving girl. The Stark girl was flicking stew onto her redhead sister's face. The dwarf Lannister's low voice rose across the Hall, joined by half a dozen drunken voices.
"But what does it matter, for all men must die—and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"
All eyes were turned away from their corner. It couldn't be a better situation for Jaime. Unless he were to cry out, of course, but then who would believe an unknown bard's claim over the words of the brother to the Queen? It would only tip the balance further in favour of the Lannisters.
It was a situation he hadn't anticipated. Nobody south of the Wall knew his face as 'Mance'. He joined no raiding parties, avoided his former brothers, socialised little and only as 'Abel'. And yet here was Jaime Lannister with a knife. And yet— for all this lord had found out about him, the evidence he must have somehow found— he hadn't yet done a thing.
Mance had bitten his lip when Jaime had pushed him back. He licked at the blood and looked deep in the lord's green eyes.
"If you want me dead, kill me," he said. Jaime made no move to push the knife further in, and Mance smiled. "If you have something to say— say it."
Jaime regarded him for a long moment with wide eyes. "I trust you can play and listen at the same time."
"Aye."
"Do it. I'm sure you understand you would not win in a fight against me, if you run." Jaime stepped back and leant casually against a pillar; his blade disappeared into the folds of his cloak, and Mance didn't get a chance to see where it was strapped. Smart lord.
Mance slid down to the stool, picked up the harp, and began to pick out a melody. The Lannister bristled as soon as the first notes were played, but he stayed where he was. Mance smiled. But I'm smarter.
"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?"
More than a few eyes glanced in his direction now: the song of Tywin Lannister would never fail to gain interest from his family. He could see now that the Queen herself had taken notice. If Lannister was trying to hold his conversation in secret, having a few eyes on them wouldn't hurt Mance's position.
"Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know…"
Lannister's eyes gleamed in the light of so many candles; with every flicker of the flames, they glittered green, then blue. The lord spoke low and quick, and as he spoke he fussed with a piece of fabric at his cuffs; it looked to be the end of a bandage on his arm.
"I'm sure you know by now that summer is ending. The days are getting shorter. In a year— no, less than a year, I believe— the Citadel will send out the white ravens. But by the time winter reaches you…"
"In a coat of gold, a coat of red…"
"Half of your people will be dead…"
"A lion still has claws…"
"And fighting for the white walkers."
Mance missed a note, fingers losing their place on the strings. He had to redouble his concentration to keep the rest of the song on tempo. The hair on his arms and hands had begun to stand on end. As far as he had known, the lords of the south had never once cared of nor believed in the white walkers once they'd built their wall. He risked a glance up to Jaime as he sung. The knight looked back at him with impassive certainty. He had provoked Mance into confirming his identity, but he didn't seem to want any confirmation about the dead rising. He just seemed to know.
"And mine are long, and sharp my lord—"
Mance fought alongside moonsingers, wargs: woods witches, skinchangers, the men who had their green dreams. It could be that Jaime saw something in the same way Orell saw through the eyes of his eagle, or Val saw strange sights in her sleep, but Mance had never once thought that southrons had the same abilities, or would ever trust in them.
His voice strained to stay in the low register of the song.
"As long and sharp as yours."
Jaime spoke again.
"You might not believe me. But I've seen them, and I've fought them. Your people stand no chance alone."
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere…"
"You need to bring them all south, as fast as you can. When your people come to the Wall, I will be there to let them through."
"But now the rains, weep o'er his halls, with no-one there to hear."
Mance plucked the repeating melody on the harp a little louder than was pleasant, and spoke so low it was almost drowned by the song.
"You've fought them, eh? When did you go beyond the Wall, Ser Jaime?"
Jaime's face twisted as if remembering. He wound one hand around the other, digging his nails into his palm.
"I didn't go beyond the Wall. They did."
Mance frowned as he plucked 'a cat of a different coat' so hard that the notes rang sour. "The walkers don't go south of the Wall."
"They did," Jaime said, his eyes wide and roving around the hall. "Eight years from now, the white walkers tore this castle apart. I was here. I saw it. They killed your people, and if we're to keep them alive this time, you need to take your people south."
So he had dreamed something. A vision of the future, perhaps. Mance didn't trust much in visions and prophecies and magic. He could believe in it, even respect it, but he did not trust it. And he had finally placed where he'd heard the name 'Jaime'.
"What you saw, you saw," Mance said. "All men dream of ghosts. I won't put my people in the path of your soldiers because you saw them. I know you now, Lannister. You're the man they call the Kingslayer."
That struck a chord. Jaime's face twitched.
"Listen to me," he snarled, leaning in closer. "I could be doing anything else with my time here than talking to you. Half the people I loved most in this world are in this room when just a day ago they were dead, and instead of spending time with them, I'm having to speak with you, because I was told to— what do you want from me? What would convince you?"
Mance raised an eyebrow. Jaime's eyes opened wider.
"Tormund!" he said. Mance frowned.
"Tormund?"
"Giantsbane. That's his name, isn't it? He's a wildling."
"He is."
"I knew him," Jaime said. "I met him. Large man, orange hair. Strange fellow. He told us a story, about how he got his name. He… killed a giant. He… suckled milk from the giant's wife. Said it was how he grew so strong" Jaime waved his hands in the air helplessly. "And then he drank so much fermented milk I almost left the room."
It wasn't a shock to Mance that Tormund had told that story. Tormund told that story to anything with a pulse. But Tormund, before he had joined Mance, had been the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, at the rightmost fork of the Milkwater. To travel that far, up among the Thenn mountains, had taken Mance's party three months; to convince Tormund and all nearby leaders of the necessity to band up or die, two months more: and he had travelled to the Frostfangs with them only three months before now.
For the lordling to know Tormund's appearance, strange tales down to the way he told them, and tendency to chug kumis until all in the surrounding felt ill: he'd have had to meet Tormund, or someone who knew him well. And all of those people, until three months ago, had lived five hundred miles from anyone Jaime could have met.
It wasn't proof, but it was enough to make Mance take interest.
Mance leant back, plucking out the strains of 'Alysanne'.
"What else did you see, Ser Jaime?"
Sansa
When she sleeps, she dreams of dying.
She dies twice over. The first death is simple. A man reaches out and pulls her down, and then another, and then her leg is broken, and her chest is caved in, and it is all in the dark. She feels nothing but pain, hears nothing but the rattle of rotting breath. It is over with quickly.
The second death comes for her slowly.
The water laps against the stone walls, so high it splashes into her mouth and tastes of salt. A tower is burning, the flames licking higher even as its black walls are submerged. Lady is beside her, large as a horse, her yellow eyes weeping yellow tears, howling a warning to her pack. Sansa can hear the meaning as well as any wolf: danger.
Sansa looks back to the sea outside her home, and upon it she sees...something, far in the distance. At first she thinks it's driftwood, floating in the tides, but it rises, higher and higher, and then she thinks it's a wave. But a wave does not have arms, ten of them, long and black and cold as the waters that had birthed them, and a wave does not have children.
They come for Lady first. A long black arm pulls the wolf to the sea and uses five long limbs to rip her apart, and Sansa screams, because it is like a part of her is being stripped away. She pulls her hair back from her face and screams an order, and sword in hand, she descends into the saltwater-soaked mud of the Winterfell courtyard.
The children of the sea swarm her people, and they swarm her, and she is buried beneath them, her sword hand trapped under her as they drown her in the mud. Far above, she can hear the scream of dragons, and the laughter of a creature less man than fish.
When Sansa woke, she screamed, and the sound joined the chorus.