SANSA
The day was black and wild and wet. Waves thundered towards the beach, throwing themselves like rabid dogs against the black sand bars, convulsing with foamy lips. Gulls scattered themselves to the air; bits of seaweed were shorn away by the tide. In other places the waves crashed into the rocks which surrounded the harbor, and exploded into black geysers two hundred feet high, spraying the faces of those on the cliff face above with stinging salt.
"This is not even the worst of it," said Brynden Blackfish.
Sansa felt a little ill. "Surely you are jesting."
"'Tis true, my lady," said young Patrek Mallister, who had passed his father's eagle banner onto a subordinate after one strong gust had nearly torn him from the saddle. "Maester Darreg has said that the winds will be twice as bad tonight. Or worse."
The Blackfish's face was dark. "More fun for all of us." He had to lean close to Sansa to be heard over the wind. "We will be all right up in the castle, of course, but I pity them down below in the yard, or, gods forbid, on the beaches."
Sansa was horrified. "On the beaches? But… they'll die."
"Aye," said the Blackfish through gritted teeth. "Some of them will." He turned and spat into the wind. Then he urged his horse on, and Sansa had no choice but to follow.
They continued along the steep cliffside path. The woods had fallen away behind them three hours ago, and the road had petered out into a bleak, lifeless greenscape, decorated with the occasional tree but nothing else. There was a thin white fog which meant they could see little ahead of them, but thankfully Patrek Mallister and a score of his father's knights had turned up before Sansa and the vanguard managed to get lost in the anonymous moorland.
And now they were mere miles from Seagard, which she could see at the end of the curved headland, its stone walls rising above the town and the long black beach below. The vanguard, consisting some hundred lords and ladies, knights commandant, and other such dignitaries – among them Sansa, Arya and Rickon – rode two miles ahead of the rest of the army. There were around nine thousand men in all, trickling in from all across the Riverlands. In two days they would all be here at Seagard. And after that, they would set out again, this time not stopping till they reached White Harbor, and then, they would take the kingsroad all the way to Winterfell.
If Winterfell still waits for us, that is.
Rickon rode to her side. He wore his dark leather jerkin, tunic, under a mantle of dark fur and leather; in that, he looked like Father had when he went out to hunt or to execute a man. And too old for his years. It was easy to forget that Rickon was not quite thirteen. When I was thirteen, I was still innocent. How much had changed in six years.
Ser Patrek Mallister met them at the castle gatehouse, ahorse with five men. The heir to Seagard wore simple blue and grey: Stark colours. "My lady," he greeted Sansa first. "Lords, ladies, friends all. We welcome you to Seagard."
His sunny greeting left Sansa strangely disquieted. No doubt the Freys said the same for Robb and Mother, when they arrived at the Twins. She realised that it was her turn to speak. "I thank you, Ser Patrek. The day is wet and cold. If I may be somewhat bold, we would all benefit from getting inside and out of this chill."
"My lady speaks truly." Ser Patrek bowed his head. "If you will follow me." He graciously escorted them through the gatehouse.
Sansa sat back awhile with Ser Brynden. "Uncle," she said, "will you—"
"Content myself to freeze to death on the beach, and see to it that our men are settled?" He grunted a laugh. "Aye. I never did love Seagard, anyhow. The castle is too damp and too vinegary for my taste." He turned about, and rode back down the column. As he did so, Sansa did not fail to note Sandor Clegane slipping into his place, replacing him as a solemn, silent protector. Then the gatehouse arch was shadowed above them, and then they were through.
It was a short climb from the gatehouse to the upper bailey, and a short climb from there to Seagard's hall, a wide, dark room built into the cliff, with a hammer-beam ceiling and a hard stone floor. Ser Patrek led them up through the tables to where Seagard's household had assembled to await their pleasure. Lord Jason Mallister sat on a stout chair of dark wood upon the dais. He was an old man, about sixty, but still strong and lean, still a fighter. "Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, Lord Rickon," he began, "be welcome to my hall. My meat and mead are use. If you will partake in bread and salt…"
They did. And yet all of them knew, somewhere down inside, that the ceremony meant nothing. After partaking, Sansa said, "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Mallister. And for your support."
"My support is guaranteed for righteous causes," said Lord Jason. "As for my hospitality… you are too kind, my lady. Truthfully, my accomodations are rather bare. I hope you will forgive their meanness. Seagard was built as a fortress against the ironborn, not as a true habitation."
Does he think I still yearn for the comforts of the south? Sansa wondered. "I have stayed in many castles, my lord," she said. "Many lords and ladies have shared their opulent hospitality with me. Yet I find that I value an open hearth and an honest host more than any of them, and in you, I am sure to find one. I have heard House Mallister's history, both old and new. I know that you fought loyally for my brother Robb while he lived, and continued to fight against Lannister and Frey oppression after the Red Wedding."
"I did, my lady. Yet I still regret that I did not do enough. I was not there at the Red Wedding to save my king."
The Rivermen had a habit of saying this, and it was one Sansa did not understand. Why would you want to be there? You could not have saved him, not you or a thousand others. "That is the past now," she said. "Let us not forget the here, and the now."
He looked down at her, suddenly very aloof and dignified, like the eagle on his banners. "That may be so, my lady," he told her, "but still, The North Remembers. And always will." The flint eyes softened somewhat. "Which reminds me – a letter arrived for you, about a week ago. Maester Darreg, the letter, please."
The maester, a thin, pale-faced man, brought the paper forth and laid it very delicately in Sansa's hands. She turned it over. The seal had been broken, but she accepted the letter nonetheless.
"I hope you will forgive me for having glanced it already," said Lord Jason. "If the news was urgent, it might have served us to respond to it. As it stands, I will allow you to read it in your own time."
Sansa nodded. "Thank you, my lord."
Lord Jason sat forward in his throne. "Lady Sansa, you may not know this, but shortly before the Red Wedding your royal brother gave me instructions regarding a task. One of his final commands. I was to send longships to deliver Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont to Lord Howland Reed, who each had their own commands. I fear I do not know the exact nature of their commands even now, but when you reach White Harbor, you might do well to inquire of them."
Before she could answer, Arya suddenly broke in: "Do you have any news from Winterfell? Or from the Wall?"
Lord Jason shook his head. "I fear there is nothing yet, my lady. The letter from Lord Wyman is the last we have had in some time. And even then, it might have been delayed in its arrival. The snows north of the Twins are thick; we have had little luck getting any birds through."
"If anything comes, you will let us know," said Arya firmly.
"I will, my lady." There was a pause. "Is Ser Brynden with you anywhere? I had hoped to pass my greetings on to him."
"He is at the beach," Sansa explained. "Seeing that our men are well organised and accomodated."
"Ah. I fear I cannot offer them good hospitality either, my lady. There are so many. The beach seems unkind, I understand, but it is better shelter than they would find up here on the cliff, in the natural caves."
"Do not worry," Sansa said. "They will find no fault with your hospitality, I am sure. And if they do, it is only for one night. We shall be gone this time come the morrow, Lord Jason."
"I should like to march north with you," admitted the lord. "But word of ironborn ships has only grown in recent weeks. You may have heard—"
"Invaders in the Westerlands, approaching Casterly Rock. We have heard."
"Not that," said Lord Jason. "On the Stony Shore, too. Torrhen's Square and Flint's Finger and the like, and the ironborn swarming up the coast. They will not pass White Harbor, or Moat Cailin if it is still manned, but they will make things mighty difficult for your progress north to Winterfell. If that is still your intention."
"My – our – intentions are unchanged. And they will remain unchanged."
Lord Jason nodded. "As is your right, my lady."
Sansa was not wholly comfortable. He knows I am not Robb, and he sees no need to treat me the same. He would never have presumed to tell his king what his rights were, and what they were not. "If I may interject, Lord Mallister," she said, "I believe I might – we might – all benefit from some time to rest. And to think."
Whatever Lord Mallister thought of her, it was not a request he could refuse. "As you wish, my lady. I shall see you escorted to your rooms, and we shall perhaps talk later at supper. Ah… my steward will take—"
Patrek Mallister stepped in. "Ah. Father. If I might…" He turned to Sansa. "My lady, if I might have the honour?"
She was a little confounded, but what of it? "Lead the way, Ser Patrek," she said.
They went from the hall. She did briefly wonder why he had begged the honour, but before she could ask the Blackfish intersected them in the hallway. "I have seen to the beach," he told her. "The red priest, Thoros, seems to have it all in hand."
"Good. Uncle, you might—"
Ser Patrek cut in. "Forgive me, my lady, ser, but while I am here I should carry my father's greetings. Ser Brynden, he will be wanting to see you. If you are swift, you might catch him before he leaves the Great Hall."
The Blackfish nodded. "I will do my best not to disappoint him. Niece, I shall return to you soon enough." He continued past them down the hallway. Meanwhile, Sansa, Arya, Rickon and the Hound followed Ser Patrek up to the chambers that had been set out for them at the top of the stairs. Ser Patrek made a strange, awkward bow before departing.
"He likes you," Rickon said, with a narrow smile.
"He likes the idea of me," she replied. "He likes the princess of the North. He does not know me."
"Who are you, then?" asked Arya.
"Not who he wants me to be." She turned Wyman Manderly's letter over in her hand. "Manderly was the fat one, wasn't he?"
Arya nodded. "Father had to have a special chair made for the Great Hall, because he couldn't fit otherwise. And he got stuck in an archway, once."
"Yes," said Rickon. "But he was loyal. Always loyal. When I was at White Harbor, Ser Davos mentioned that."
"Ser Davos?"
"Davos Seaworth. He was Stannis's Hand. Him and Shireen were my friends." He looked away from them, hiding his face.
"Read the letter," said Arya. "Is there anything about Bran or Jon?"
Sansa opened it and read. Lord Manderly's handwriting was huge, so despite the size of the parchment not much was said. "No," she said, "he only mentions that the ironmen are marching east and may reach Winterfell at some point. Nothing about Bran. But I'm sure if it gets too much, he'll leave—"
"He shouldn't," said Rickon. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
She felt uneasy. "I would sooner have a living brother than a Stark in Winterfell."
"What else does it say?" Arya asked.
"It says that he needs support. From the south. What we expected, really. He mentions the Tullys and the Arryns, but he says he has received no reply from them, and that he does not expect to. I fear on that matter I can give him little of comfort. Uncle Edmure and cousin Robert have not responded to my calls. Though… in truth… they have little reason to do so."
"I would have thought their moral obligations were convincing enough reasons," grumbled Arya. "Father would not have stood for Lord Edmure's refusal to participate. Neither would Robb. And neither should we."
"What's this about my nephew, now?" said Brynden Blackfish, appearing in the doorway.
Sansa gave him the letter. The Blackfish read it through. "Dear gods," he commented when he had finished. "Manderly has awful handwriting. But more to the point, I understand your frustration with Edmure. Yet at the same time, I understand his reasons, too. As I'm sure you do, Sansa."
He was prompting her, she knew. "No doubt Uncle Edmure has seen thousands die already in this war. The Riverlands have burned from the Twins to the Gods' Eye. The damage here is worse than in all the other kingdoms. And the scars run deep among its people, too."
The Blackfish nodded sagely. "It may be that Lord Mallister is not quite so supportive of our cause as he makes himself out to be. I spoke to a captain who suggested quite inadvertently that his lordship is withholding some of his levies."
"They can't do that!" said Arya. "We – we are their liege lords."
"No, we are not. The only time House Mallister has been sworn to Winterfell is under King Robb. And none of you are Robb."
A glance passed between Arya and Sansa, and they were sure of it. Neither of them had managed to attain the authority that had once been Robb's, and that was in part due to each other.
"I will write to him," Sansa said abruptly. "To Edmure, I mean."
"A letter will do little to convince him," her sister replied.
"It will be better than nothing." She seated herself behind the desk, and found to her surprise that parchment and ink had been left for her. Maybe they wanted me to write to Edmure. "Should I write 'dear Lord Edmure' or 'dear Uncle Edmure', do you think? On the one hand we are appealing to him as family, but on the other—"
"Write 'lord'," Arya decided. "This is no time to approach him carefully with a sentimental message."
Sansa considered it a moment and then decided she was probably right.
Rickon said, "While you're writing it, maybe me and Arya could go down to the square to practise. Maybe."
Arya was about to reply in the contrary, no doubt, but then the rough tones of Sandor Clegane cut in. "I'll take them," he said from the doorway. "Keep them company while you finish your letter, little bird. Come on." He growled it in such a way that not even Arya could defy him.
Sansa wondered how long he had been waiting in the doorway, and how much he had heard. Clegane could be unnervingly silent when he wanted to be, despite his size. Sometimes she wondered why he was still here. Sandor Clegane had never been particularly disposed towards loyalty, as Joffrey had learned, and she had no gold to offer him as the Lannisters did. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Brienne had told her the story about the Quiet Isle, of course, but even so she had trouble believing it.
The letter to Edmure was more important now, though. She started with Dear Lord Edmure, and wrote with the Blackfish leaning over her shoulder. When she had finished Ser Brynden looked at her approvingly. "You are not entirely without your mother's fire," he said. "And mentioning family, duty, honor will no doubt rile him up. Still, I fear that Edmure has already made up his mind. Would that I could take the letter to Riverrun in person, and give him a good clout round the ear if he dared disobey."
"Well," said Sansa, thinking seriously. "You would doubtless be valuable in the North, uncle, but if you clouting Edmure round the ear gets us another two thousand men, then it is worth it."
"Alas, I doubt that I will succeed. Edmure is stubborn as a mule when he wants to be. He took that from his father… and perhaps from me, too. Not to mention that he is not too disposed to heed my advice after I left the Freys to hang him at the Riverrun siege."
Maybe the Blackfish expected a reaction to that. But Sansa only nodded. "I heard. Leaving him on the scaffold was the right thing to do."
"And harder to do than it is to say," said Ser Brynden. "Not to mention that it was against family. And duty and honour too, I suppose. Though… there was a greater sense of family above that. Riverrun, you see, was the entirety of Tully history. Much more than just Edmure. But I had seen Edmure grow, I had loved him… he seemed much more real to me as 'family' than some empty castle stones did. Home, Sansa, is more than just a castle." He laid a hand on her shoulder and said, "I hope you remember that."
And she felt sure that she would.
That evening, after she had given the letter to Maester Darreg, who would send it to Riverrun, Lord Jason invited them down for supper in the Great Hall. They ate well; good hearty Riverlands fare, lots of fish. Lord Jason consciously seated his son Patrek next to Sansa. He kept pouring her wine and profusely apologising about one thing or another. She was not really listening. Let them court her if they liked. She had greater concerns. Tomorrow, their progress north would begin. And all across the hall, they knew the monumental nature of that task, and down on the stormy beach, where the Northmen and Rivermen sat around their feast tents, they surely knew that too.
After supper, she retired upstairs again. Though there was a full moon glowing in the cloudy dark, it was a cold night, so Sansa had no allusions that it would be best to close the windows, and fewer still that a fire in the hearth might be a wise idea. She called in Podrick, and had him stir the flames up till they were roaring. It was a still a little chilly, so she sent him out in search of better wood. But when the door next opened, it was not the stammering Payne boy who entered, but Rickon and Arya.
"We thought you could use some company," said Arya.
Sansa could not hide her surprise, nor her shame at that surprise. "Well," she said nervously, then nodded to the seats by the fire. "You may sit – I mean, sit down. If you want."
They did. Rickon on the left, so his shadow filled the fireplace, and Arya on the right, nearer the door. The flames crackled feebly in the hearth. Sansa said, "I'll have Podrick warm up some wine for us when he gets back."
"Podrick?" Rickon laughed. "You know he likes Arya, don't you?"
Arya did not react. But Sansa reacted for her: "Podrick?" she exclaimed. "You mean – Podrick Payne?"
"How many other Podricks do we know?" her brother asked.
"But he's – but he's – well, I honestly thought he might be—"
"Simple?" suggested Rickon.
"That's unkind. But – yes. A little. Though… are you sure you mean Podrick, Rickon?"
"I'm sure. I've seen him watching her in the yard. He always tries not to be seen. But when he's watching, his eyes go so big they take up half his head."
"Like yours and Jeyne Poole's did when any lordlings came to Winterfell," Arya broke in suddenly. "You were always so taken by them. The same with singers. There was that one—"
She thought of Marillion, singing in one of the Eyrie's sky cells. This singer's killed my lady wife, Littlefinger had said. And Marillion went away whimpering, and they took his fingers, and his eyes, but not his tongue, and he sung and sung till the blue called to him. A chill went through her. "Not singers," she said, "not anymore."
Arya seemed to understand. It was impossible that she did, of course, but she did a good job of seeming. "No. Not anymore. But sometimes…"
"It's nice to look back," Sansa finished for her. "Do you remember the feast we had at Winterfell? Just before we left. Forget the queen and King Robert and everything. It was still just us, then. All of us. Starks of Winterfell."
"It was nice," said Arya, flatly.
"You weren't. You threw soup at my dress."
"You probably deserved it. But… well, I'm sure the feast was nice, even if I wasn't."
I'm sure it was nice, she'd said. As if she hadn't been there herself. But the thing was, Sansa wasn't sure that she had been there either. But she laughed, all the same.
The long pause threatened again. Then Arya said, "I should apologise."
"For what?"
"For how I was to you back then. Not just with your dress, of course. But with everything. I was selfish. Vindictive. Proud." She sounded hollow, but it was coming from somewhere.
"So was I." That seemed hollow, too. Then she thought of something to add: "The way I acted towards Jon was despicable. When we see him, I'll have to apologise to him, too."
"But we're here now," said Arya.
"We're here now."
"And the pack survives."
"The pack survives."
And their echoes seemed to prove that it was so. Sansa found herself searching for wine cups, and without waiting for Podrick to return, she began to fill them from the bottle of Arbor red she had waiting. One cup each to Rickon, to Arya, to herself. And solemnly she raised her own. "To Father."
"To Father."
"To Mother."
"To Mother."
"And to Robb."
"To Robb."
Just as they were drinking their third toast, the doors opened, and both Podrick and Brynden Blackfish came in. "M-my lady—" stammered Pod. "This—"
"I thought I sent you for firewood, Pod," she said. "Oh, well, no matter. Come, take a cup, and you too, uncle."
But the Blackfish shook his head seriously. "Sansa," he said, "listen to the boy."
Podrick came closer, trembling a little, and pressed something into her hands. "It-it's from Lord Manderly, my lady. In White Harbor."
Sansa turned it over. Another letter? It looked ordinary, so far as he could see. Perhaps his lordship had something more to say about the Northern levies arranging themselves, she thought as she read the greetings. Or perhaps—
And her heart stopped dead. Stopped at the words. At the word Jon. At the word Bran.
The paper fell from her fingers, fell down like a bird without feathers, fell down onto the flagstones in a mess of crumpled paper. And Arya, wordlessly, took it up. She read. She stopped.
Her eyes met Sansa's. And her eyes said, please. But there was nothing she could say.
Arya turned towards the door. She did not run. She walked right through them, but no one stopped her. And Sansa watched her go, as though time had slowed, remembering every instant of it, first her, and then her shadow.
Sansa went to the letter, once more discarded on the flags, and picked it up. She was faintly aware of the commotion around her, voices calling "Arya! Arya!" and Rickon and the Blackfish were moving away from her, and Podrick was standing by helplessly saying "I'm sorry, my lady, I'm so sorry." Then Sandor Clegane appeared from nowhere and grabbed her arm – but gently, or gentler than she expected.
"Here, little bird," she heard him say roughly. "Don't you dare start going all Florian and Jonquil on me."
"Bran," she forced herself to say, "and Jon. And… where's Arya?—"
"Don't you go worrying your pretty little head," said Clegane. "The Blackfish and your brother are after her. She'll be back before long. Now, you just take a seat."
She wanted to resist him. She so desperately wanted that. But then her legs were folding under her, and she had no choice. The letter was still crumpled in her hand, and its fatal ink left dark smudges on her fingers.
Next chapter: Arya (following on directly from this one)
