Chapter Thirteen
"Willas Tyrell," Sansa read out loud, "is intelligent, well read, and set to inherit Highgarden and all of its riches in the Reach. He also owns the best horses and falcons in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Which is exactly what any woman wants to hear," Leah laughed appreciatively. "He's almost twenty years older than you and a cripple besides."
A dozen open letters sat scattered across Sansa's desk, each containing careful proposals of marriage. Some were informal, boasting dry promises of mutual benefit, while others praised her kindness and beauty. Not a word was mentioned about her wit, strength, or intellect – a fact that amused Sansa no end. "They've never even met you," Arya had frowned. "They just want Winterfell."
They always have.
Still, it was wicked fun to giggle with the other girls and hear Arya scorn the matches. As she had no real intention of picking any she found it easy enough to push aside her guilt and enjoy the morning. Leah, Sansa and Jeyne sat around the fireplace while Arya leant back against the desk, noisily crunching on an apple. No matter how many times Sansa begged she refused point blank to leave her little sword in her room and so it hung in its customary place at her hip. They'd spent the morning pouring over the letters and picking out their favourite verses, all the while snacking on sweet meats and orange slices. Willas Tyrell was just one of the names...there was a Blackwood, a Mallister, the new Hardying heir, a Manderly, a Martell, a Karstark, even a remote Lannister cousin! Sansa threw that proposition straight into the fire without a second thought, even though Tyrion himself had vouched for him. A Royce suitor presented her with a beautiful cloak made from shadowcat fur and the Manderly heir sent up carts of exotic fruits and wines (which they'd promptly began to sample). Willas Tyrell had given her a comb laced with emeralds and freshwater peals which she pronounced too gaudy to ever wear in the north. She remembered Loras Tyrell and how beautiful he'd been with his brown curls and bright eyes...that was back when everything was good in the world.
"Harrold Hardying is said to be ever so handsome," Jeyne Poole ventured quietly. A kitten sat on her lap and now and then Jeyne would stroke its white fur.
Sansa had long ago learnt the real value of handsome men and so simply shrugged before carefully slicing open another waxen seal. The jewelled letter opener had been a gift from the Martell house – beautiful and deadly it was said to resemble their chosen suitor perfectly. "A Baelish!"
"Littlefinger! What does that old rat want?" Arya snickered. "He had the most stupid pointy beard."
"He must be eager to cement his alliance with Daenerys," Sansa considered thoughtfully. Only yesterday he had sent a letter to the queen affirming his loyalty and the promise of six thousand Vale knights. "Still, Aunt Lysa only passed away three weeks ago. It's rather soon to remarry." And she was secretly thankful for it. She was aware of the rumours between Littlefinger and her mother and had no desire to linger on them.
"It must be the thought of your luscious breasts and wide hips that gets them going," Leah chuckled, quoting directly from the vulgar Karstark letter, and they all laughed.
Sansa had risen early that morning to apologise to Sandor but no matter how hard she looked he was nowhere to be found in the castle. She'd enquired at the stables and one of the lads, blushing down at his boots, finally told her that he'd ridden out before sunrise. Her actions last night were embarrassing and she only hoped that he would not hate her for it. She wanted so much to confide in Arya or Leah but they would never understand...to them Sandor was still the Hound and a brute; a murderer, even. Arya, in particular, could not understand why Sansa had forgiven his previous crimes. She insisted that her rescue did little to absolve him of his countless sins. In her usual black and white view of things, she would always paint Sandor as a Lannister man and therefore no better than scum.
She wished he would hurry back.
Sansa put aside the Baelish letter and walked over to the window overlooking the courtyard. One of Jon Snow's brothers was showing three young boys how to properly use their swords and she was reminded of her brothers when they used to train. She and Jeyne Poole would peek from the kitchens to watch and giggle if they fell over. She looked over at her shoulder at Jeyne and felt a familiar stab of sympathy for the poor girl. Last week the kitchen cat had given birth to a litter of mewing kittens and Sansa thought a pet would do wonders to cheer Jeyne up. Ever since her humiliating marriage to Ramsey Bolton – or Ramsey Snow as they came to call him - Jeyne found it hard to cope with crowds but she was slowly coming back to life. Arya was surprisingly gentle with her. She was forced to grow up too quickly, Sansa realised, that could've been me.
She was about to pour a drink when the doors swung forward and the queen was announced. They all rose to curtsey, even Arya, and Sansa offered her a cheerful greeting. The queen was dressed in a beautiful gown of red velvet that was so rich it made Sansa ache to touch it. Her straight silver hair fell loosely down her back and she was wearing a very plain golden circlet at her brow – a simple token to demonstrate her authority. Daenerys looked surprised to see all of them together and Sansa thought she saw a flash of longing flicker across her face. She is lonely, she thought, it must be hard to be a queen at such a tender age.
"I don't wish to intrude," Daenerys apologised softly, taking the seat that Sansa offered. "But the maester said another letter has arrived for your hand."
"From Willas Tyrell, your grace. He's the heir to Highgarden," Sansa added. She poured the queen a goblet of lemon water and Daenerys nodded her thanks.
"Might you leave us for a moment?" She nodded to Jeyne and Leah who left at once – although obviously eager to stay and listen. "I don't wish to lecture you, Lady Sansa. I myself was sold into a marriage and even though I came to love my sun and stars I would never wish for you to take that same gamble."
"I am still ten and five. I have many years left to marry."
"Of course. I only ask that you consult me in your decision. As the head of a prominent family your marriage is of interest to the realm and there are many who would try to use you for your claim."
"I understand your concern," Sansa replied quietly and sat back down. "But for now it is my intention to remain unwed. There is still far too much to do here without thinking of marriage. Winterfell is not yet rebuilt."
"Any man who marries Sansa will inherit Winterfell," Arya pointed out in her ever blunt manner. "We've worked too hard to let it slip away now."
"I quite agree, and I've seen how the small folk have taken to you. I wish Winterfell to remain firmly in Stark hands," the queen added seriously, after taking a long sip from her cup. "However, my fear is that once I reclaim the south you will be cohered into marrying a man from the Riverlands or the Vale, and I obviously cannot allow you – and him - that much power. One kingdom is more than enough."
Sansa could tell that the queen was itching to say something and she crossed her arms carefully in preparation. "You have a match in mind, then?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. A betrothal."
"To a southeron lord? I tell you now that I will marry no Lannister."
"To Jon Snow."
Sansa raised an eyebrow and tried to phrase her words carefully – she did not want to cause offence when the queen was obviously taken with the idea. "Your grace...Jon is my brother. A half-brother, admittedly, but we still share the same father. That is not the Stark way..."
"Once perhaps, but no longer. You'll have to forgive my deceit but I was reluctant to...well," Daenerys cleared her throat before continuing. A faint frown stretched across her brow and she suddenly spoke irritably. The subject was obviously not her favourite. "Jon Snow is the offspring of my royal brother and your aunt. A Targaryen bastard, instead of a Stark one."
The following silence was so thick that they could hear the clashing of practise swords outside.
Arya looked furious. "How could you know that? Rheagar and Lyanna are long dead."
"When we arrived several witnesses, including a Howland Reed, stepped forward and their accounts matched up. I couldn't see what they would gain from lying – as a bastard he will still inherit nothing. His last name may change from a Snow to a Waters but that's all. I then asked Jon if he would permit me a small test and he managed to walk through my Viserion's fire unharmed. I wanted to be sure before I made it official."
Arya struggled for a moment and then turned her back. She had always been closest to Jon and so the news obviously struck her the hardest. Sansa remained still, struggling for words.
"I understand your surprise. It was a surprise to me too – I am hardly old enough to be anyone's aunt," the queen added.
"Sansa can't marry Jon!" Arya burst out, her shoulders square. She turned back around and scowled.
Daenerys looked unmoved although this time she spoke only to Sansa. Her violet eyes were bright with expectation. "If you consent to a betrothal I will give you the North. You will be a free and independent kingdom. Otherwise I will expect you to marry another Northern lord of my choosing – I just cannot risk you marrying southwards."
"Jon will never agree. As a child I was cruel to him," Sansa murmured.
"He already knows. I discussed it with him before he left. His only care is that you aren't being forced into anything."
Slowly Sansa nodded. "I will think on it."
"Think about it carefully. A betrothal 'til you turn seventeen." Daenerys got to her feet, looking appeased. "I will not order you to marry him but I hope you'll agree. I really would like Winterfell to remain in your possession."
Once she was gone the two Stark sisters exchanged incredulous looks. Arya moved forward and gingerly took hold of her hand, unused to making such an intimate gesture. After a moment she let go but Sansa didn't mind, her mind was still elsewhere. "What are you going to do?"
"The Gods only know," she answered and rubbed her forehead.
"You don't have to marry."
But she would have to one day. No matter how high she climbed or how many people depended on her it always came down to the fact that she was still a woman. A piece to be traded and used for the advantage of others. Cersei had known it and so did Daenerys, even if they were both too stubborn to admit it. Sansa tried to imagine herself married to a northern lord – a Cerwyn or even a Karstark – but their peace was still fragile and picking one house would quickly bring scorn upon the others. She could also never forget that several of the lords – the Dustin's, especially - had sworn themselves to Roose Bolton and in her heart she could never forgive that. Were her mother still alive she would've sent half the suitors packing for their cheek (a Mallister marry a Stark!) but in this new age all the houses were scrambling for better positions.
Just then they heard the sound of horses and they both peered curiously out of the window. Sansa watched as a dozen black riders came racing into the courtyard and her first thoughts were of Sandor. Perhaps there'd been an accident, though she could see no stretcher. The rider in front pulled back his hood and she watched in relief as Jon Snow summoned a servant. There was a small bundle of cloth in his arms. "What is that..." It seemed to be moving. She then saw a flash of auburn hair.
No...
"Sansa!"
She ran as quickly as she could, her boots skidding across the scrubbed flagstones. In an instant her careful grace and manners were forgotten and when she turned a corner she sent a scullery maid flying. She could not remember the last time she'd ran so quickly – perhaps it was back in the Red Keep when Septa Mordane urged her to hide? Her heart was pounding but inside her mind was willing her to go on. She wore no cloak but that didn't stop her from racing outside into the snow white courtyard.
Beside Jon's direwolf Ghost stood a scrawny boy of about six years. His hair was a mess of matted curls but his eyes were clear, blue, and more importantly Tully. He was nervously sucking a thumb as he stared up around him, obviously lost.
"Rickon..." Her voice rose to a shout. "Rickon!"
He turned, his eyes brightening with recognition, and threw himself into her waiting arms. Her legs buckled beneath the weight and they fell back into the snow but she was long beyond caring. She held her little brother tightly, nuzzling kisses into his hair, as he pressed his sobbing face to her chest. She remembered a chubby little toddler who used to trail after his brothers and then crawl onto her lap for stories and songs. He used to laugh when she kissed his nose. This boy was different. Even through his furs she could feel that he was too skinny and his pale face had a pinched look about it.
She too was crying in earnest and she felt him take hold of her plait, worrying it between his fingers as though he would never let go. His tears stained the front of her dress while her own rolled down into his tangled curls.
For a long time she simply held him. He smelt like the earth, of soil, of the cold.
She was distantly aware of surprised voices, of questions and loud laughter, but for now she ignored everybody else. She looked down at the little boy on her lap and used her sleeve to wipe away the tears from his muddy cheeks. His eyes were so like Robb's.
"Hello, little one."
"Sansa?" His voice was timid, shy almost, even after their display. She noticed that his nails were bitten back to the quick.
She let out a choked laugh. "Yes, I'm Sansa. I'm your sister."
"Are we home?"
"We're home, sweetling, and we'll never leave." She swore then that she would protect this boy with her life. He would want for nothing for as long as she lived. Just as their mother would've wanted.
Only then did she look up into Jon Snow's Stark grey eyes. He was watching them intently, with an anxious smile on his lips. He will always be a Stark inside. He is no dragon. "Thank you for my brother."
He bowed. "My lady."
Rising to her feet, she lifted Rickon up and carried him back inside to find Arya.
That evening the remaining Starks took solace in Sansa's private rooms. Sansa sat before the fire with Rickon crouched on the furs by her feet. Arya sat by him, combing the tangles from his hair with more care than she had ever previously shown. Carefully Jon Snow and Lord Davos had explained about finding Rickon hidden away in the company of a wildling woman named Osha. She'd been intent on taking him to the wild Isle of Skaggos. When Sansa heard that she clapped a hand over her mouth and shuddered, thinking about all the terrible tales Old Nan used to tell about the island of cannibals, monsters, and ghosts. That was no place for a person, let alone a child. When Rickon began to yawn Sansa summoned Leah to take him to bed. "Sleep tight," she whispered, kissing his hot forehead goodnight.
"I want to stay with you," he murmured, his eyelids only half open, and so she tucked him up in her own bed. Later that night when she crawled into bed Rickon cuddled up beside her and she felt grateful for his presence. The wind outside howled but inside she felt warm and loved.
The next day was free from snow and so she rode out with an escort of a dozen men to inspect the restoration of Winter Town. Several of the buildings had been in dire need of repairs but the town was slowly coming to life and the people came flooding back. It was a strain on their resources but Sansa maintained that too many hands were more useful than none at all. Every person was put to work, whether it was building, farming, or nursing the ill. There was a sense of understanding among the people of Winter Town that rebuilding their homes and storing food were the main priorities. Several of the people called out to Sansa as she rode past and she made sure to stop and talk with them. One of the Inn's was completed and she shared a simple meal of winter broth with the Innkeeper, his wife, and his brood of six children. One of the eldest boys was called Eddard, presumably named for her late father, who requested he might join the castle guards.
"It's hard work," Sansa warned. "I still have yet to find a Master at Arms."
"He's tougher than he looks, m' lady," his father assured her. "It's safer up there behind those big walls o' yours. Down here you don't know friend from foe. 'Sides it's one less mouth for us to feed."
"Then I'll gladly have you. You can accompany me back tomorrow if you're ready."
And so the next day Eddard joined her party as they rode back to Winterfell. The snows had resumed and they were anxious to get home before dark so they took a more direct road than usual. Away from the Inn the lad revealed that he seldom got along with his father's new wife and was so relieved to finally get away. Sansa found his coarse talk surprisingly refreshing though Erik (the unofficial captain of her guards) scowled. Arya will like him, she found herself thinking.
They were about a mile from the castle when the first arrow struck. It came out of nowhere and shot one of her guards straight through the gut. Surprised, the man fell silently from his horse and landed in a heap on the cold hard ground. Before she could even think a cloud of wildlings were upon them and attacking with blunt dirks and ruthless hands. They had ridden right into an ambush. Sansa tried to rein her horse around but the poor beast was too frightened and refused to move. She suddenly felt hands grabbing at her cloak and hair.
"Ride, my lady!" Erik shouted before he too was shot down like a dog. Another man beside him was pulled from his horse and silenced with a quick blow to the head. Sansa looked around and met Eddard's eyes just as an arrow pierced his heart.
Sansa tried to beat the hands away but they were pulling her from the horse. She heard gruff voices arguing over whether to kill her or ransom her and she felt sudden tears of anger run down her cheeks. Not now. I've just found Rickon. One of the men holding her smelt like manure and she desperately clawed at his face with her teeth and nails. He let her go with a shriek of pain, holding a bleeding eye, and she ran as quickly as she could into the snow. She could taste blood.
Up ahead of her was a forest of some sort and she hurried towards it, very aware of the archer and rushed footsteps following her. The weight of her cloak was dragging her back but she would be dead for certain if she took it off in this weather.
Her bow.
She still had her bow slung over one shoulder and the little dagger that Sandor insisted she strap to her ankle. She would never be able to get close enough to use the latter but perhaps if luck was with her she could make use of the bow. It would be a chance in a million.
Her hands were shaking badly but she managed to shoot an arrow back towards the hurrying figures.
It struck a wildling right through the neck.
She heard some of the more wild of their workmen refer to her as "the lady kissed by fire" and right at this moment she felt as though she had been. Anger rode off her in waves and she could no longer feel the snow fall against her skin. Quickly, but with a new sudden forcefulness in her step, she hurried into the woods and searched for a place to hide.
I wish Sandor was here. Or Arya. Or one of Daenerys' dragons...
She huddled into her cloak, hidden from view by a muddy ditch, and waited them out. She couldn't hear any footsteps and hoped with all her might that they'd panicked and gone back. If they came across her now she would be dead for sure. Slowly nightfall arrived and she had no choice but to leave before the wolves arrived. No matter what house sigil she used her tender flesh would still make a fine meal for a pack of wolves. She hurried back to Winterfell, constantly looking over her shoulder for any movement, and by the time she arrived it was dark and she was a shivering wreck.
"There she is! Lady Sansa is back!"
Kind and gentle hands reached out for her and she welcomed them gladly. The courtyard was a flurry of movement with lit torches and watch fires. She saw Jon Snow, Daenerys, and Jorah Mormont organising search parties but they stopped, staring, as she was brought forward. The sight of her silenced any questions. Her long hair was a ragged mess of knots and brambles and there was a smear of blood across her mouth and stark white cheeks.
Leah was at her side and Arya on the other. "Wildlings..." she muttered shortly. "They...killed Erik and the others. That poor sweet Eddard. He really wanted to come here."
"She's babbling. It could be fever," Arya said, peering into her eyes.
"Help me get her upstairs," Jon decided. "She needs warmth."
"I was bringing him back for safety..."
Careful arms lifted her up and she was carried up to her bedchamber. A fire was quickly made as she was stripped out of her wet clothes and bundled into a thick woollen shift. She was then helped into bed amidst half a dozen heavy blankets and furs to await Maester Samwell who prescribed rest and liquids. Leah was gently brushing out her hair when Ser Barristan begged entry. "First thing in the morning I'll send out a party of riders. We'll find the animals, Sansa, mark my words."
"The bodies..." Her voice was hoarse.
"Aye, we'll bring them back. Give them a proper funeral."
She nodded and fell back against the pillows. Tiredness overtook her and her head swam with the images of those poor guards who had sworn to protect her. She saw the faces of those wildlings too, all caked in mud and cuts, their eyes wide with hunger and desperation. Even here in her comfortable bed she could still feel their grabbing hands. Later, she presumed it was later for the candles were out and Leah gone, she opened her eyes to find Sandor crouched at her side. His black hair looked wet and windblown, as though he'd ridden through the storm to get back.
"Little bird..."
"You're late," she murmured. Her lips felt heavy and clumsy but she was too tired to care.
"I just got back. Are you hurt?"
"I shot one, Sandor. Before I went into the woods. They were chasing me..."
"Hush," he put a hand to her boiling forehead and sighed. "You're in a fever."
"It was so snowy, but I can still see their faces. That poor boy. I was bringing him here for safe keeping. He wanted to be a guard. We have to make sure his body is returned to his family."
"All will be well," he assured her quietly. His face swam before her eyes and she felt a sudden stab of pity for him, for her, and for the two of them. My ever loyal Hound. How did we get ourselves into this mess? "Now close your eyes."
She did as he bid and for the second time he watched her fall back into a feverish slumber.
Warning: Next chapter will make you hate me