Chapter 11
It is the first time in months that she feels more Sansa than Alayne, more Stark than Stone. They cling to one another with bruising strength, but it's not enough for either of them and they embrace fiercer still.
It is the first time in months that she lets her feelings show. She has worn a mask for so long now – in Joffrey's court, as Tyrion's wife, as Petyr's bastard – that she almost cannot break free, but as her mother strokes her hair and hushes her softly and whispers to her that It's alright, darling. You're safe now she forgets to hide her tears.
A voice behind them and then a face before them and mother and daughter follow Jaime Lannister from the hall. He shows them into a cool, dark antechamber, thrusts a torch into a bracket and then ducks out the room to stand guard, hand on sword hilt.
But Sansa notices none of this, only the soothing words and warm embrace and flowing tears of the woman beside her.
"Mother..."
Her voice cracks. How long has it been since they were last together? Back in Winterfell, with Father and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.
Before King Robert and King Joffrey and Queen Cersei and Lord Baelish – you were not my father, my father was honourable and just and kind, and Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell – and before Sansa Lannister and Alayne Stone.
When winter was coming but had not arrived, and there was a fire in the huge hearth, and the hot springs in the godswood, and the late blooms in the glass gardens, and direwolves playing in the snow.
With Father and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.
Sansa weeps against her mother's shoulder, and her mother weeps with her, and finally they allow themselves to be less than strong.