Author's Note: I've finished diagramming out the general flow of the story- we've got six more chapters to go after this. Thank you all so much for hanging in there with me and for your wonderful feedback (and I always always always appreciate more)! -LM
She was making a fool of herself- that much was apparent. Though others certainly seemed to believe otherwise, Sansa was entirely aware of the pitying gazes, the condescending sighs, the mocking smirks. And it was ridiculous, of course it was ridiculous. Over three months, no sign of anything, and yet the little trunk that she used to store her sewing projects nearly overflowed with baby blankets and swaddling clothes.
But she could not bring herself to care. Because for the first time in such a long time, Sansa remembered what it was like to have a dream.
She hadn't conceived once in the time since she'd been married, but surely there was nothing to fear. Her womb was just resisting, being temperamental- it would come around. She found herself whispering to her belly sometimes, as though her womb were sentient, trying to coax and persuade it to yield fruit. During these times, her maidservants would let her be, exasperated smiles spread across their faces as they exited. Even Shae, who rarely left her side, would disappear behind the door- but her smile was kind, at least.
Sansa daydreamed, something she'd hardly done since arriving in King's Landing, something she didn't realize she knew how to do anymore. She'd taken to spending her afternoons away from the sewing room, away from Margaery's maidens and their giggling, away from Cersei's withering stares. Instead, she perched herself on the wide sill of a large window toward the rear of the castle- a warm, quiet, lazy spot where she could stitch and imagine in peace. Sometimes she'd be joined by her favorite of Tommen's kittens- the little grey one called North Star. She'd chosen the name.
All she thought about, repeated to herself over and over- Winterfell, North, home. And with that idea, of course, came the thoughts of her children. The firstborn remained rather vague in her mind- just a blur of gold and green, the sacrifice she'd leave for the Lannisters to raise in Casterly Rock. They'd give him some fool Lannister name- "Ty" something or other, probably...although if they so much as suggest Tywin, I'll be sick all over.
She remembered the dreams she'd had during her betrothal to Joffrey, a lifetime ago- dreams of a litter of light-haired babes, all with the Lannister look. The thought curled her lips now, halfway between a smile and a snarl.
But the second child...the second, her saving grace, her little winter prince. She imagined him with dark hair and eyes, like her father's- unlikely, as my hair is the lightest shade of auburn and everyone in Jaime's family has been fair for generations, but I don't care. Although she knew she'd never be allowed to call him for her father or her eldest brother- traitors, both - he'd have a good Stark name all the same- Rickard, maybe, or Brandon.
As she sewed blankets and baby clothes, she realized that everything was grey and white, occasionally Tully blue- all gifts for little Rickard-or-Brandon. She began to feel a bit guilty and sorry for Ty-something-or-other, so she stitched one blanket of Lannister crimson, with a lion emblazoned over the front. She placed it at the bottom of the trunk and gathered more materials in the Stark colors.
Her happy window-dreams grew more fanciful as the days passed. Once she had the first birth over and done, she imagined that her womb would be willing and ready to bear more children, and more and more. She'd leave Casterly Rock its heir, then go to Winterfell with her northern son, where she'd rule until he came of age. And she'd have others, more beautiful babies with alternating dark and red hair- the Lannisters will have their golden son, they need no more- children that she'd keep around her, that she'd teach to be better and wiser and braver than herself. As soon as one was weaned, she'd go to Casterly Rock- or Jaime would come to Winterfell, she wasn't quite sure about the particulars- until she grew large with child again. I'll have a dozen babies, and I'll teach them to become part of the North, and they'll know nothing of the South and what happens to people there. She'd breed a new generation of Starks to replace the one she'd lost- like the Earth Mother of Old Nan's stories, bringing forth child after child, giving each a piece of the land to claim and grow and nurture. They will be mine- not Jaime's, not Lord Tywin's- mine.
Of course, logic would eventually buzz in her ear like a gnat, pricking holes at her dreams until her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her own foolishness. But still, it was a goal, something to hope for and work toward. And for a girl with no family and no friends and no future, that was quite enough.
I can't be barren, she told herself again and again. After all, her mother had borne five healthy children, the Tully and Stark women had a strong history of fertility- the gods can't be so cruel, not when I need this so badly. Of course, she then remembered that the gods had thought nothing of tearing her family to pieces, killing her mother, father and brothers, scattering her sister into the winds, letting her be sold like chattel from one Lannister to another- and then she'd fall once more into despair.
Since the Seven had done so little to answer her prayers, Sansa tried appealing to the Old Gods. There were no weirwoods to be found in this southron climate, so she settled for a gnarled oak tree at the edge of the most distant courtyard. Using a dagger that she'd swiped from Jaime's armory, she made an even cut along the fingertips of her left hand and used the free-flowing blood to stain the bark of the tree, until the streaks almost resembled the red "tears" of the heart trees. She wiped her fingers clean on the black fabric of her dress, knelt on the ground, and tried to remember how Father and Jon and Robb would pray back in Winterfell, the prayers of silent contemplation.
But the ground was nowhere near as cold; the dirt seeped into the cloth of her skirt instead of remaining firm and solid as it would in the North. She looked up at her false weirwood, painted with her own blood- and though she'd never seen her father or brothers do anything of the sort, she crawled to the roots and wrapped her arms around the trunk, pressing her cheek to the rough bark.
Sansa closed her eyes and listened. Father used to tell them that the heart trees could talk- but this southron tree said nothing at all.
"Can it be any tree, then?" The voice startled her, and she turned her face so sharply that the bark scraped against her cheek- she felt a warm rivulet of blood trickle down over her jaw.
Jaime leaned against an oak several paces away from her, the sunlight reflecting splendidly off of his pale head and white tunic. He made a pretty picture with his windswept hair and eyes the color of the leaves surrounding him, with his upright posture and broad shoulders.
(A night, not long ago, when they'd both had too much wine and all but stumbled back to their quarters, he'd called her beautiful for the first time- she couldn't decide how to respond until he asked whether she found him handsome- he phrased the question as a joke, twisting his lips into a smirk, but she saw a genuine flash of need in his eyes- she'd only laughed, smoothed his hair back from his brow- "I think my lord knows what he looks like." He bedded her hard and fast, and when it was through, she murmured something into the crook of his neck, something so stupid that she hated herself the minute the words left her mouth- she told him that he looked like the knight she'd always dreamed of as a girl in Winterfell. She blushed and hid her face, he smiled and kissed her, but his eyes grew dark- dark, and infinitely sad.)
She brushed the back of her hand over the blood on her cheek before shaking her head. "No, it can't. I just thought I'd try." There is nothing I wouldn't try.
Jaime crossed to her- she still had one arm wrapped around the oak tree- and handed her a handkerchief, which she hastily swiped over her face. He leaned against the tree, eyes staring far past her when he spoke: "I wonder how much the gods ever hear- any of them."
"That's blasphemy," she mumbled. He raised his eyebrows, gave a hoarse laugh.
"Hardly a foreign concept to me, my lady."
Suddenly, Sansa wished desperately that he would leave- she felt her stomach go queasy and her head begin to ache. She found that she could not look at him anymore, and she stared down at the blood spots on the handkerchief instead. In her ear, an echo of an overheard conversation that she'd tried and failed to set aside, its continued presence rankling her more with each passing hour.
She'd heard, as everyone in court had heard, of Stannis Baratheon's claim that the King had left behind no legitimate heir. The subject was whispered about in the most secret places, for the Queen had made quick work of punishing those unfortunate enough to be caught speaking of it. Sansa hadn't known what to believe- none of Cersei's children favored Robert Baratheon, so perhaps the idea was not so impossible- but she'd largely dismissed it as nothing more than talk.
But what she overheard weeks later, from two passing Kingsguard knights- surely just an ugly rumor embellished for effect, but even so...
What troubled her most about the whole thing was her own initial reaction to the news. Rather than the expected revulsion and disgust, her immediate response came in the form of relief. If this is true, then at least I know that Jaime can father a child. And then she waited, waited for the horror that never came.
Perhaps she'd seen too much, experienced too much. After the constant barrage of death after tragedy after atrocity, perhaps she'd grown jaded to the point where nothing could truly shock her anymore. Yes, it was a crime against the gods- but the Targaryens did it for generations...
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to fit together. She'd always sensed something not-quite-right about Jaime's relationship with his sister- they never looked at each other, behaved together the way she would with her own brothers. At first, she'd attributed it to the fact that they were twins; having shared a womb, they surely had a different sort of bond than ordinary siblings would. But this- this made a startling amount of sense. There was a harmony to the notion that she found weirdly satisfying, like discovering the last piece to a puzzle.
What kind of a person have I become?
Sansa didn't know whether she truly believed it. If there were any proof, they would surely be dead already- Cersei and Jaime and Tommen and Myrcella. But the fact that she could conceive of it, that she could hold the idea in her mind without attacking it with righteous indignation- that was the thought that unsettled her stomach. She'd become sufficiently corrupt, tarnished enough that she could manage to think like a Lannister.
And this is why I will take my children far, far away- this is why I will shelter them in Winterfell, why I will keep them away from this place and these people. They will not end up like me.
Sansa threw a glance over her shoulder- Jaime was still there, staring off into nothingness. She almost asked him what he thought about, then realized that she might not wish to know. There had always been a chasm between them, there always would be- they'd neither of them wanted this marriage, after all. His distant gaze, tinged with something hopelessly wistful- she remembered him in Lord Tywin's chambers; the golden Lion of Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer, suddenly meek and helpless. Her stare wandered to his golden hand, glowing in the afternoon sun- she looked back up to his face, the worry lines starting to form around his jaw- Do you think me handsome, Sansa? A crushing in her chest, somewhere between sympathy and despondence, as she realized: He may have created his cage on his own, but he's as trapped as me.
Impulse urged her to take his hand- he flinched as his reverie abruptly ended. He's broken, we all are, but he wants to protect me.
"Jaime," she said, her voice soft. His eyebrows lifted with surprise- she very rarely called him by his name. Her grip grew tighter as she gave his arm a little pull. "Jaime. I want-"
I want you to tell me it's a lie, what they're saying. I want a baby, I want dozens of babies. I want to go west and walk barefoot on the pebbled beaches and breathe the salt air. I want Winterfell and the North and the cold ground and ice-blue sky. I want to go back, back to a time when I could dream and imagine and really believe it all to be possible.
She felt a knot in her throat, and she paused to swallow it. As she did so, Jaime braced his back against the tree and slid down until he sat beside her. He did not touch her, much to her relief, but he looked at her with eyes too full for her to bear.
He finished her sentence for her: "You want to fly away."
Sansa wanted to cry out, to shout "Yes" into the heavens- this place is poison, I want to go, go, go, westward and northward and onward-
She'd asked him, once or twice or ten times, when they could leave for Casterly Rock. His answers had always been vague- "soon," "not long" - and he'd responded the last time with a layer of steel beneath his voice, enough to dissuade her from asking again. She did not know why he hesitated- or rather, she likely did know, and she hated that she knew. For Tywin and Tommen and (probably most of all) for Cersei- but doesn't he see, if he gets away from here, he might have a chance at being free-
He wants to protect me. Maybe he can protect himself, too. Maybe I can help.
She moved closer to him, until her arm brushed against his. He'd turned his head to look forward- she rested her chin on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, "And you with me, Jaime. We'll get away from here, be lord and lady of our own land, and no one can tell us what to do..."
She was starting to sound like a child again, and she bit down hard on her lip.
Jaime flicked his emerald gaze onto her face. "You forget, little wife, that as long as he lives, my father is still the Lord of Casterly Rock."
She frowned, both at the words and at the tone of resignation in his voice. But then a thought came to her, an epiphany both appalling and thrilling at once- she nearly hesitated to say it aloud, but then-
"But you are the Lord of Winterfell."
She knew the shift in his expression, knew that he was preparing to say something derisive about the barren northlands- she fixed him with a blazing stare, as though daring him to slight her homeland, the land of the Starks, the land she'd give her children.
Something like contrition passed over his face, and he gave a slow nod. "I suppose that's true."
A Lannister lord in Winterfell- unspeakable. But perhaps he could come with me...once we were there, he would see, surely, that I must be in the high seat- I am the Stark in Winterfell. And he'd see why I want to protect the northlands, he'd see what his son- what my son - will inherit...
Sansa pulled Jaime's arm around her shoulders and settled her cheek against him. "Did I ever tell you about the northern lights?"
She felt his arm tighten around her as they sat together, as she described the beautiful streaks of color that painted the northern sky bright. She felt his fingers in her hair- they would lie together that night, he would release his seed in her womb, and perhaps this time, it would take. Maybe after he was spent, when he was relaxed and holding her to his chest, maybe then she would ask again when they could go away.
As she continued the story, she caught sight of a mockingbird in the courtyard beyond, hopping along over the cobblestone pathways. It tried to launch itself into flight, over and over, but never hovered more than a fingerslength from the ground. Sansa noticed one wing, damaged and bent, unable to flap and carry its body aloft. In spite of the futility, it tried again and again, and Sansa felt oddly bolstered by its persistence- and then it stopped. It released a chirp, expressive and impossibly human- a sound of absolute defeat.
She finished her story, sat quietly with Jaime against the oak tree, watched with a heavy heart as the mockingbird slowly hopped away and out of view.