Win or Die
Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.
Part 2
Chapter 6: Conversations
Sansa panted as she climbed another step, her breath coming out in visible puffs in the chilled air. She leaned a little bit heavier on Gilly, who patiently helped her up every step to get to the second floor of the Knights' old quarters. Where Tristan alone resided.
Sansa had never been up here. Lancelot's quarters had been at the very end of the hall on the first floor, and she had not spent even a full day before disaster struck. "Only a few more steps, milady," Gilly coached her.
The young man of just thirteen had been surprisingly patient with her. The journey across the fort had tired Sansa, and every stair had her wheezing. There was no pain though, telling Sansa she was healing well. "You said that five steps ago, Gilly," Sansa sputtered, her hand tightening on Gilly's arm as she struggled up another step.
Gilly put his other arm around her waist. "Look up, milady, and you'll see," he assured her. Legs shaking slightly, Sansa risked a quick glance up. Only two more steps. Gilly wasn't lying this time. Sansa took a deep breath, and took another step. "One more, milady." Gilly added encouragingly.
Sansa flashed her escort a menacing look. "Call me 'milady' again, Gilly, I dare you," she muttered, taking that last step onto the second floor. Gilly silently guided her to Tristan's quarters, knocking on the door.
After a reasonable amount of time, and no movement inside, Sansa raised her hand to knock on the door again. "I don't think he's here," Gilly stated, looking at the Saxon for what she wished to do. The last thing he wanted was to try the stairs again so soon. Sansa reached for the door latch, and found it unlocked.
"I will wait inside," Sansa declared, pushing the door open. She released Gilly from her hold, having caught her breath, and stepped inside. Tristan's quarters were barren. His armor hung upon a stand in the corner, there was an open chest in the opposite corner filled with haphazardly piled linens and clothes. A cot with only a pillow, blanket and a single fur were discarded messily on his bed. The room was chillingly cold- the window was open and the fire in the hearth had died out.
"I don't think he'll like that," Gilly said nervously.
Sansa crossed the room to the window, pulling the shutters closed. "You may go now, Gilly." She said absentmindedly, before turning to the hearth.
Gilly sighed, scrunching his nose at her, shaking his dark hair out. "Milady," he teased, giving a little bow. Sansa turned quickly with a mock angry look on her face, and Gilly scuttled out before she could reach him.
Sansa gave a hoarse little chuckle at the adolescent's antics, turning back to the hearth. Conveniently situated next to it was a pail of firewood, kindling and flint to light it with. She carefully kneeled before the hearth, and made a little nest of twigs and dried grass as kindling, and struck the flint to light it. Then she carefully lifted one log after the other into the hearth to ensure a crackling fire that would fill the room with warmth.
Once done with that, Sansa stood carefully and shut the door to trap the warmth within. Then she sat down on his cot (for lack of other seating), and wrapped the fur around her shoulders to keep warm until the fire would. Now all she had to do was wait.
Tristan was climbing the stairs to his quarters when he saw Bors' oldest son sitting on the first step. "What are you doing here, boy?" Tristan questioned. The Knights' old quarters had been empty since the others had moved out.
"Lady Sansa is waiting for you in your quarters," Gilly answered, without lifting his chin from his hands.
Something shifted in Tristan's eyes, but no visible surprise crossed his face. "That doesn't answer my question," he responded gruffly.
"Lady Guinevere asked me to escort her here, because she was still weak. The lady struggled on the stairs. 'M waiting for her to help her back," Gilly explained, looking up at the Knight with his chin still cradled in his hands.
"You can go find something else to do, boy. I will make sure the lady gets back to her chambers intact," Tristan told him. The boy hesitated for a moment, before jumping up and flying down the stairs, eager to find something fun to do.
Tristan continued up the stairs, and came to stand before the door to his quarters. He wondered briefly at what the Saxon wanted, before he opened the latch and went inside. "Shut the door. You'll let the warmth out," Sansa ordered as soon as he stepped inside his quarters.
Wordlessly, Tristan obeyed and cast his eyes around the room. A fire had been started in the hearth, his window shuttered, and the Saxon princess was sitting on his bed with his fur wrapped around her shoulders. She had made herself quite comfortable in his absence. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Tristan wondered, leaning against the wall opposite the cot.
Sansa didn't answer at first, folding and carefully setting the fur next to her. Then she looked up at Tristan, folding her hands on her lap. "Why are you not moving into the Villa with the rest of the knights?" she asked bluntly.
Tristan blinked at her. "You get straight to the point, don't you Princess?" he said lowly.
Sansa shrugged. "You know I do not like to be called that, Tristan. As someone who has saved your life, and as you have saved mine- I think it might be acceptable for us to call each other by our given names," She informed him, pulling at the ties of her cloak and letting it fall onto the cot as it grew warmer in the room.
Tristan gave a slight nod at her words. "As I hear it, Arthur wishes to turn this building into a home for the poor- a home for those who lost theirs in the battle." Sansa remarked. "So why won't you move into the Villa?" she added questioningly.
"The poor can have the room in the Villa," Tristan bit out. "These quarters have been my home for fifteen years, Sansa. I do not tell the poor they cannot have the rest of the building." He refuted.
Sansa raised an eyebrow at him. "Ah, but there is only one set of chambers in the Villa. And I hate to say it, Tristan, but the poor are frightened of you," She reminded him.
Tristan looked pleased at those words. "Good." He uttered.
"As long as you are haunting these halls, Tristan, the people will not move in. Will you deprive these people a roof over their heads over sheer sentimentality and obstinacy?" Sansa queried. His eyes narrowed at her for daring to use the word sentimental.
"Your vocabulary is improving," Tristan responded.
"Arthur is teaching me to read and write," Sansa explained as answer.
"I did not know you couldn't," the Scout replied, the barest hint of surprise passing through his features.
"I always wanted to, but my father said I was clever enough that I didn't need to know my letters. Not that my father knew them, either." Sansa said indifferently.
"Clever, you certainly are." Tristan confirmed.
Sansa's lips quirked into a little half smile as if that was something she already knew. "So will you consider moving?"
"I will escort you back to your chambers, Saxon." The Scout stated.
Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Is that a yes?" She prodded.
Tristan shook his head at her persistence. "Not if you keep badgering me, woman." He grunted, taking two long strides to close the distance between them and offer her his arm. Sansa just raised her eyebrows at him before picking up her cloak again and securing its buckle before accepting his arm.
A grimace passed over her features as she stood, using Tristan's arm to help her. "I hope you are feeling better than I, Tristan." Sansa muttered, her free hand pressing against her ribs for a moment before joining the other on Tristan's arm.
There was naked concern on Tristan's usually impassive face. "Are you feeling so poorly, princess?" he questioned.
Sansa quickly settled him with a dirty look for using her title. "I am feeling weak, Tristan, but there is no pain thankfully." She responded. "I have yet to regain my strength and I am beginning to grow impatient," Sansa confessed. Tristan snorted at her insinuation that she was only beginning to grow impatient, getting another dirty look as reward.
"Perhaps you should consider some light exercise," Tristan suggested, guiding her outside of his quarters. He secured the latch carefully, before leading her towards the stairs. Suddenly Sansa clutched his arm tighter, and he remembered that Gilly had said she had struggled with the stairs.
"Are you offering to help me?" Sansa asked in response, her teeth gritted as she took the first step down. "Because everyone else insists that I keep resting until I am at full strength again," she continued, her grip tightening on Tristan's arm again as she stepped down another stair.
"Some riding or light sparring would not hurt you, I think." The Scout offered as answer.
The surprise was evident on the Saxon's face, but Tristan wondered briefly why. "And you would spar with me, ride with me?" she asked. Tristan nodded, his confusion at her reaction deepening. "In my homeland, women only spar with women…" Sansa divulged, looking up at Tristan with an expression that he didn't understand.
She quickly looked away, focusing on moving down the steps. "If you object to sparring with me, I'm sure Guinevere could be persuaded." Tristan murmured. His mind was whirling with the possibilities, what sort of reasons there was for her culture to make such a rule.
Sansa shook her head wildly, sending her cropped blonde hair flying about. "I would like to spar with you," she countered, her face flushing a deep red. Tristan frowned at the way her face had flushed, wondering if the exertion of stairs was too much for her. He briefly considered offering to carry her down, but he would not injure her pride by doing that.
The Saxon Princess was alike to Tristan in that. Pride and a certain inflexibility was part of their character. Sansa had saved Tristan from certain death and had nearly died in the process. And she had never said a word about it until today, and only to ask Tristan to call her by her given name.
Tristan had saved her life too, when one of her brother's soldiers had tried to take her life while she still lay in sickbed. He had said nothing either- and he hadn't wanted to. He hadn't saved her so he would be recognized, and that was why he had become angry with Lancelot for pestering him about it.
So Tristan was careful to preserve Sansa's dignity and pride, he stayed firm for her to lean on him, and averted his eyes. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, they waited a moment for Sansa to catch her breath. Tristan carefully checked for how flushed the Saxon was now, and was pleased to see her color had much improved.
They continued out of the building, and walked silently across the fort towards the Villa. "I've also heard that you've been very short with your fellow knights," Sansa remarked, her breath steaming the air. Tristan grunted. "What is going on with you, Tristan?" she asked with concern.
Tristan sighed. "I don't see why it is any of your business, Saxon." He grumbled. In response, Sansa dug her fingernails into his forearm. Tristan hissed in pain, glaring at the woman.
"Tell me," She demanded quietly to not draw attention to them, her nails still dug into his skin.
"My hawk has still not returned." Tristan bit out, pulling his arm from her hold. Sansa's features softened at his words, and she reached for his arm again. Tristan let her take his arm passively, his dark eyes watching her very carefully.
"Perhaps she is far away," Sansa suggested softly, restarting their journey towards the Villa she resided in. Tristan sighed again- it was not the answer he hoped for. "You must be patient, Tristan. It is same way you caught her to begin with, yes? If you wait patiently, she will make her way back to you." She continued.
Tristan gazed at the Saxon woman as they walked for one long moment, before looking back to the path before them. "Perhaps." He drawled, glancing up as snow began to fall. Sansa released Tristan from her grasp to pull up her hood over her head. Tristan felt the strangest sense of loss, and longing, as Sansa turned to look at him, guileless mismatched eyes of blue and green rimmed with long, black lashes.
"Is something wrong, Tristan?" the Saxon asked him. The mere sound of her accented voice sent a shudder through Tristan's body. Her brows furrowed at his reaction to her words, her expression became more questioning.
"No…Sansa. Everything's fine. Let me get you back to your chamber," Tristan said slowly, each word feeling alien on his tongue. She still looked doubtful, but she nodded nevertheless and took his arm again. The rest of their walk was silent, all but for the crunch of the snow they marched through.
Just so you know, I am making shit up about Saxon and Sarmatian Culture. I will explain all in time.
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