She had been a bird, but that bird had flown until its heart had failed and it had fallen dead from the air. Now she was huddled naked on the floor, clutching the torn dress against her chest. The air felt like ice despite the fire in the room, despite the warmth of the late afternoon air. She was leaning against the stones and wood surrounding the hearth. Weirwood, she thought with some distant, detached part of her mind. Dead weirwood from the Isle of the Faces, cut down by Harren the Black in his arrogance three hundred years ago. She ran her finger back and forth along the line where the wood met the stone. Both were hard and cold. They say there is blood in the mortar, she thought, and that thousands of men died in the quarries to mine this stone.

She didn't look up as Aegon's footsteps sounded behind her, or as he settled himself gracefully onto the floor next to her. He was dressed for the feast in a gold and black embroidered doublet. He held out a pot to her. "That's oil infused with arnica," he said affably. "It's good for bruises. I got knocked around a lot when I first took Rhaegal."

Silently, she took the pot from him. It was blue glazed pottery with a cork in the top. Pretty, she thought, turning it in her hand.

Aegon sighed, got up, and walked away. In a moment she heard him returning, felt something soft around her shoulders. A blanket, a wool blanket. "You are in shock," he said. "I thought at first that you might not recover. Stay warm by the fire, it will pass. I will say you felt ill and sent your apologies for the feast tonight."

They would be gathering now, she thought, her uncle, her husband, some of her dearest friends, even the Lannister cousins. They would be laughing together, downstairs in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. They would be plotting and arguing. She recalled that she had been worried about tonight, about what would happen at that feast. Aegon was still here, watching her. He had said he would tell them … at the feast …

"You aren't going to kill me, then," she said. She had a momentary vision of her body being dropped into the lake, her throat slit, vanishing into the deep blue with her hair trailing out. It was a peaceful image. Then she felt the breath in her lungs, felt her muscles working as she shivered, and knew she didn't want to die. Her mind began to come back with that realization. She forced her gaze up, to look directly at Aegon.

His expression was calm, steady. Under his long lashes, his eyes looked almost black. He considered her question, and quirked an eyebrow. "You mean as a way of ensuring your silence? I had not planned on it."

"Can … can I go back to Winterfell?"

"No."

She felt her breath catch and a sob started to build. "I swear, I won't tell anyone. I promise."

He reached out and took the pot from her, placed it carefully on the hearth. Then he took her hand, and laced his fingers through hers, running his thumb across her palm. "You have choices," he said, "about what you will do. You can leave this room, go down to the Hall, and accuse me of rape before all the gathered lords and knights. You can cry for the protection of your kin, your precious Northern Alliance. Perhaps they will believe you, and fight to remove me off my throne and avenge your honour." He smiled, a light in his eyes. "Naming Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty gave me some satisfaction, but nothing that would be compared to what I would feel fighting Robert's Rebellion again, this time with a dragon on the Targaryen side. The outcome would be very different this time, I assure you. There would be no battle in the fords, no ruby breastplate smashed under a war hammer. Only the fire. You know, better than almost anyone, what a dragon's fire can do to human flesh."

"You cannot take the North, there is …" She stopped, and gasped.

Aegon smiled calmly. "Brothers fight about so many things. Land, inheritances, an insult … a woman. Ask Jon for help if you wish. When he comes for you, if he comes, then we will find out who is the better dragonrider, who is the heir of the dragonlords." His dark wine-coloured eyes were almost dreamy. "It would be something to see, the sons of Rhaegar battling in the air. Then everyone would know who the true King of Westeros is. Everyone who survived, that is, as the flames rain down from the sky."

Tears silently began to trickle down her cheeks, dripped onto the naked skin at her collarbone.

"Or maybe all those people downstairs who love you, who are allied with your family, maybe they will think of what would happen if they challenged me. Maybe your friends Willas and Myranda will look at their children and at the melted walls of this castle. Maybe they will all think about the limits of their love for you when faced with a second Field of Fire." He paused to take a corner of the blanket and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"And their doubts may be real," he continued. "If confronted, I will say that we lay together in a moment of passion and that you are blaming me in regret for your disgrace. Most of the court knows you were in my arms while Arianne was in the birthing bed. Brella and the guard who escorted you will say you came here of your own free will, alone, a most extraordinary thing for a lady to do. You will be shamed as a fornicator and as a liar. Since we are both married, you would also be an adulteress. If I recall correctly," he added, contemplatively, "Cersei Lannister was forced to walk naked through the streets of Kings Landing as her penance for lying with men, and she was a widow. I don't even know what would happen to you. Even if you were able to return to Winterfell, the shame would follow you and your family all your life."

She closed her eyes and shuddered, feeling the tears welling even behind her closed eyelids. She imagined Rickon's face, Arya's. Jon's words from the Wall echoed in her ears. "Like you have never told a lie, Sansa," he had said. "Arya told me." And she had. She had lied for Joffrey, and her wolf had died as if the Old Gods had judged her unworthy of her protector.

"Now, in the alternative," he said, and she opened her eyes, "you may choose not to make a complaint against me. Everything will be as if this," he gestured to the room, "never happened. After the festival, the court will return to King's Landing, where you will continue your excellent work on the Small Council as my advisor. The realm will continue to rebuild from the horrors of the war and the winter, and there will be peace. There will be no reason for my brother to leave the Wall, and I will be content for him to live and die in that frozen wasteland. Discretely, and in private," he continued, "you will be my lover." He smiled at her look of horror. "Which, I assure you, which is what would have occurred if you had not been so stubborn, and which you will find far more pleasant than what just happened. In time, you may even become Queen, with all the honours of the position, and with the children you so desperately want. It would be fitting," he added, "for a Stark to be the one to continue the Targaryen dynasty, when your family nearly ended it."

Lyanna had been young and foolish, but Sansa was a woman grown who had seen war and death, who knew the consequences of her actions and the harsh truth of her world. She had seen war and death, known hunger and fear. "I won't tell anyone," she said. "But I will never be your … your … lover."

"We shall see," he said cheerfully. "I am sorry about your dress. I'll buy you a new one. There is a gown of Arianne's you can wear to get back to your quarters; if you wait until after the feast has started there shouldn't be anyone in the hallways." He cupped her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her forehead. "We'll talk again later." He rose, then stopped. "And when your Podrick gets better, you might want to consider finding some way to get rid of him. I don't care one way or another, but keeping him around seems ... cruel."

The door closed behind him, and Sansa was alone. She touched the painful spot between her legs and her fingers came away covered in blood. She stared at it for a moment, then revulsion overwhelmed her and she dashed the blood across the wood and stone of the hearth. The burning flames wavered and blurred, and she buried her face in her arms as sobs shook her body. She didn't know how long she cried, but when she raised her head the afternoon light had turned golden-pink with the setting sun.

The only hope she had would be to run. If she could disappear into the countryside and lose herself amongst the small folk, somewhere that the Spider could not find her, long enough to get to take ship in a port, to flee. But where? Who would be willing to give her refuge; who would she be prepared to expose to the dragon's wrath? All she knew was that she was alone, as she always had been since she had ridden out of the gates of Winterfell when she was eleven years old, as she had been in all the darkest times in her life. The girl who had left Winterfell all those years ago had hoped and loved and trusted, but that girl had been gentle and foolish, and the last part of her had died here in this room.

Sansa felt through the folds of her dress until her fingers touched the round smooth shape of the silver pin. She ran her fingers across the hidden catch the silversmith had fashioned for her, but found it jammed. So. Raising the broach, she smashed it against the stone until it shattered and released its hidden contents. The mocking bird pin fell into the palm of her hand. The silver had been bright when she had given it to the silversmith, as bright as it had been when Petyr Baelish had worn it at his throat, as bright as it had been the day she had paid the iron price and made it her own.

She combed her hair with her fingers and washed herself at a basin she found. Then she put on Arianne's dress. It was Dornish in style – a flowing length of saffron-dyed silk embroidered with the sun and spear motif that hit Sansa at mid-calf. Her own gown was torn from neck to hip, the white samite stained, the bright butterflies dimmed with filth from the floor. She used it to wipe the blood from the hearth stones, then built the fire up and tossed the dress onto it. The flames leapt up, consuming it until there was nothing left but ash.

Jon

I hope and pray that this letter will find you safely returned to the Wall. I said unkind things the last time we met. I am deeply sorry. You have always conducted yourself with honour, and the father who raised us both would have been proud of you. I understand now that your duty is at the Wall, and I was wrong to suggest otherwise. Know that my prayers to the Seven and to the Old Gods are for your safety and that you find some measure of happiness.

My last letter distressed Sam. In truth I was distraught and angry over what happened to Podrick. There is more - Tyrion Lannister is dying. He has maintained the peace these last years more than any of us understood and his passing will shake the foundations of the realm. Although it is likely not necessary, I may take Maester Tarly's advice and go to family at Riverrun or the Eyrie for a time. Do not fear for me.

You were of the North before you ever were a Targaryean, and our words are not fire and blood. We do not seek vengeance against our enemies. Winter is coming. Please, I beg of you for the love that you bore for my father and for Robb, and your love and devotion to Arya, Bran, and Rickon, please no matter what happens, no matter what occurs and what you may hear, do not leave the Wall.

I am sorry, Jon. I tried.

Sansa

A/N: This is the end of Sansa's POV, and from this point the story will be continued through Jon's eyes.

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed. This is my first fic in many years, and your encouragement means so much to me. One review was emailed to me but vanished from the site – I'm not sure why. If the writer of the comment is reading, thank you for posting.

There will be a break before the next set of updates; since this is a plot-intensive story, I do try to have at least a rough draft of the section before I post so that I don't write myself into a corner. Please don't think I have abandoned the story.

Regarding Sansa's decision at the conclusion of this chapter that she won't tell anyone about the rape - I realize some people may be shocked and upset about it. Without writing an essay about the treatment of victims of crime (a topic I have strong feelings about), Sansa's actions are a reasoned reaction to her circumstances and come out of her history and her position in the society of Westeros. Even in the real world, people make this sort of decision every day. At the same time, I hope that nobody will think that I am advocating for victims of crime to remain silent and not seek help. Sansa's decision is very much a product of her history of abuse. She doesn't consider that anyone she might approach, like Jon, might understand the dangers she faces and be able help her without starting a war. If anyone is or knows a victim of crime, help is available.