Win or Die
Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.
Part 2
Chapter 1
Lancelot had kept his vigil at Sansa's bedside, leaving only rarely in the last two weeks. A night after the battle, Sansa had fallen into a fever. It was only the skill of the Woad healers that kept her alive, and broke the fever. It had been a torturous journey, watching Sansa teeter on the edge for so long.
But now Sansa was healing, getting better. She rarely woke from her deep sleep, but when she had, she was in the throes of a fever. It had been two days since the fever had broken, and Sansa had not woken. It worried Lancelot in a way, but at the same time he was glad she slept through the most painful parts of her healing.
"Lancelot," Cynric, the new Saxon King, spoke, putting his hand on the dark knight's shoulder. The Saxon had been impressed by the knight's dedication to his sister, and was rather relieved that it was Lancelot he'd be leaving his sister to. Lancelot looked up from where he stared, at his hand entwined with Sansa's. He noted with slight amusement that the Saxon butchered his name just as horribly as his sister did. "Let me sit with my sister. Go take some rest," Cynric requested, gesturing to the door of the healing quarters.
"Send someone for me if she wakes," Lancelot requested, as he always did, raising Sansa's hand to his lips, before quietly leaving. Cynric slid into the seat he'd vacated, and gazed at his sister.
She had seemed so near death only a few days ago. But Cynric knew Sansa was a fighter, and she was fighting her way back to them. She lay in the bed, completely motionless, her short-flaxen hair spread over the pillow like a halo.
"You must come back to us, sister. I fear your knight will not survive it if you don't," Cynric murmured to her. As if she heard him, Sansa shifted in her sleep, a frown forming on her lips. He sighed, brushing the hair from her forehead, feeling the temperature of her skin at the same time.
Sansa's skin was warm, but not feverish. A good sign. Cynric thought she could wake at any time, but he'd been wrong before. "How is she?" A low voice questioned from the bed next to hers. Cynric turned, glancing at the man. The man had long, dark hair with two braids on one side.
"She heals," Cynric answered. "But she does not wake," he added, turning his gaze back to his sister.
"I owe her my life," the man commented, making Cynric turn and look at him again, more carefully.
"You are the scout, I have heard Arthur speak of you," it dawned on Cynric, and the scout nodded.
"Tristan," he supplemented. "Sansa saved my life on the battlefield, by fighting your father," Tristan explained.
"And she nearly paid with her life," Cynric said in reply. He did not say it with spite, but the scout's face tightened none-the-less.
"I would never wish it. I owe your sister a great debt, and with the life she's given back to me, I will repay her," Tristan told him, lifting his chin.
"How?" The Saxon questioned, rather rudely.
"Cynric!" A very familiar voice scolded. Both men's eyes shot to the woman who lay in the bed. "Don't be so rude!" Sansa told him, weakly.
Cynric's eyes were wide, jumping out of his seat to put his arms around his sister. "Send for Lancelot, and the healer!" He barked at one of the men standing guard at the door. "Sansa, you're awake!" Cynric cried, happily.
Sansa smiled, tiredly. "And I'm ready to go back to sleep. How long have I been out?" She asked.
"Two weeks," he answered, solemnly. Sansa's eyes went wide.
"What's happened? Father?" She questioned, going pale at the thought.
"Father's dead," Cynric told her as the Woad healer walked in, starting towards Sansa, poking and prodding at her. The look of stunned silence on his sister's face told Cynric he had to explain further. "After you fell, I challenged him. And won," he added.
"Yeah, after Tristan and I tired him out for you." Sansa said, dryly, shooting a weak smile towards the scout. But then she gasped, realizing what Cynric's words meant. "You're King! What has happened?!" She demanded.
Cynric chuckled. That was his little sister alright. "We're at peace, Sansa. I sent the surviving warriors home. All that remains is a small band of my most trusted men to accompany me home once you've healed up. And I'm staying until you're recovered. Everything is fine," he assured her.
But Sansa's attention had been lost. Cynric turned to follow her gaze. In the doorway stood Lancelot, breathing heavily as if he'd run the whole way there. His eyes were wide and glued to Sansa, his gaze disbelieving. "Lance!" She cried, reaching a hand towards him.
And as if a switch had been set off within him, Lancelot crossed the room swiftly, diving forward to take Sansa into his arms, pushing the Healer away. Within the safety of her lover's arms, Sansa began to sob in earnest. "I'm so sorry," she wept into his chest, feeling the tremor of his own emotion affecting his body.
Lancelot lifted his face to look at her, so Sansa could clearly see the tears in his eyes. "I swear, if you ever do that to me again, I will murder you," he promised, his voice shaking.
Sansa giggled a little, raising a hand to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes. "Well, wouldn't that be a little contradictory to what you want?" She asked. Lancelot let out a growl, before pressing his lips to hers, in a desperate attempt to memorize the feel of her velvety-soft lips against his.
The Healer stood off to the side, his expression sour after Lancelot had shoved him to the side in his haste to take Sansa into his arms. "How is my sister, Healer?" Cynric questioned, gaining the lovers' attention.
"The lady is healing well. But she is very weak, she needs plenty of rest, and plenty of food. The lady looks nearly starved to death," the Healer explained.
"When can I go back to my rooms? Rest there, I mean," Sansa questioned, amending her statement when she saw the objection rise onto the surrounding men's faces.
The Healer shook his head. "You cannot be moved yet, my lady. Your wounds are still too fresh, too liable to rip out your stitches should you be moved. What you need right now, my lady, is a good meal, and more rest," the Healer responded.
"Then what are you waiting for?! Bring her something to eat!" Lancelot barked, sending the Healer scurrying from the room.
Late that night, Tristan was awakened from his deep sleep, by a soft gasp. He opened his eyes, looking to the bed to his right- Sansa's bed- finding his view of her obscured by the bulk of an unfamiliar man. The man had one hand crushed over Sansa's mouth, and was using the other, his fingers wrapped around her throat, to drag her from the bed, making the blonde crumple against the side of the bed. Her breath came out in terrified, air-starved gasps as he released her mouth, as his hand strayed to his side, revealing a silver knife that glinted in the moonlight.
Tristan sat up, silently, cursing the protests of his still healing-wounds, pulling his dagger from underneath his pillow. "Good-for-nothing whore…" The man muttered, as Sansa struggled weakly, against the hand that clutched her throat, preventing any breath from reaching her lungs. "If you had just died of that fever, this wouldn't have been necessary," he growled, his hand tightening on the knife, raising it above Sansa's head.
Tristan's steps were silent as he closed in, stepping up behind the man, placing his dagger at the would-be assassin's neck. The man froze, his bulky body tensing. "Release her," Tristan demanded, and the man immediately dropped the knife, and loosening his grip on Sansa's throat. Sansa let out a shuddering breath, slumping against the bed. "Who are you?!" Tristan demanded, pressing the dagger harder against his throat.
The assassin let out a harsh laugh. "It matters not who I am. I am dead anyway," he replied, reaching for Sansa again. But before he could touch her, Tristan drew his dagger along the man's throat, killing him instantly. "Sansa!" Tristan then cried, dropping to his knees before her. Sansa's breathing was shallow, and the left side of her simple white shift was dyed red with blood. "Help!" Tristan shouted. "Help!"
