A/N: Fair warning: An Introduction to an original character lies within. Why? Because Sansa needs a friend, that's why. I know most people don't like OC's for reasons I can't quite fathom, they've never bothered me, but given this is Sansa/Tyrion's story and not my OC's that you'll meet in this chapter, I feel like it's okay to introduce her, esp. since she plays a pivotal part to the plot later in getting things moving along.
Sansa
The egg yolk sun poured through the cracks in the window's shutters and awaited entrance into Sansa's eyes.
For a split second, she didn't know who she was or where she was. She glanced over to the left and then she remembered.
They were in Sansa's old bedroom, and she almost lazily opened her eyes, allowing her form to sink into her mattress, the only warmth against such frigid cold air was the soft goose feather down blanket Tyrion had found for her that she burrowed underneath, though the moment she realized the bed felt lighter without her husband's presence, her eyes flung open and she sat upright in the bed, hair tousled, clutching the blanket around her nude form.
Her sight still wished for the darkness of the night, she sleepily rubbed the dreams away, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand and sat up straighter, resting her head against her pillow as she propped it against the headboard.
Had last night been simply a dream? Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and made no move to get up at all.
"Then let it be a good dream, then," she whispered, collapsing back against the mattress and letting her red waves splay out on either side of her like a fan, her hands intertwining together and coming to rest on her stomach.
A small smile crept on Sansa's face as she remembered Tyrion whispering words of love into her, the words exchanged between the two of them last night once they'd come back here.
Not that she hadn't enjoyed enacting sweet, blissful revenge by making love to her husband on top of Bolton's desk, but admittedly, their bed was much more comfortable and gentler on her back, which still ached from last night.
Sansa's soft smile widened as she stared at the ceiling as a memory of last night flitted through her head.
"Sansa…" Her husband's voice had been low and heavy with desire, husky, almost, even.
"Yes?" Sansa couldn't remember all of last night, only the best parts of it.
"Don't…don't stop, keep going, please…" Tyrion had practically begged her, and she could not resist it when her husband had spoken to her like that, his voice low and soft.
It had been dark in her bedroom in the east wing, and she couldn't really see him, but she could feel him squirm beneath her as he struggled to make their time spent beneath the sheets together last longer.
Every little movement, the sound of his breathing increasing and slowing down.
Sansa knew it was hard for him to resist, to hold back his urge. His surprisingly strong hands had come up to grip up painfully tight on her waist with each shift, each thrust, each little movement she made.
Sansa had not stopped, she had done as her lord husband had asked of her, and he was patient with her and gentle.
Though the walls of her bedroom were of strong, durable stone slab, they had still attempted to finish as quietly as they could given the lateness of the hour, Sansa's mind reeling from the intense pleasure waves that rocked her to the core, and she had nestled in Tyrion's arms after head, her head resting against his chest.
"Love me, husband?" she had whispered, a soft smile forming.
She had remembered his response, for how could she not? "Always."
And then a gentle kiss, first on her lips and then her forehead, and they'd fallen asleep.
But she had expected, hoped, that he would be here when she woke up.
Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and glanced wildly about the room for her gown and smallclothes, which she had remembered haphazardly kicking off her slippers and Tyrion struggling to be gentle with the lacings of her dress.
She sighed as she finally spotted a gown that she could not remember laying out last night and briefly she wondered if her lord husband had set it out for her.
Wrapping the blanket around her nude form to preserve her modesty, she rose, wincing at the soreness around her breasts and the pit between her legs as she padded barefoot and silent over towards the chair and picked up the gown at the neckline with gentle fingers.
A simple dark blue velvet gown with long flared tow sleeves and a dark cape lined with wolf fur near the hood's lining.
A gorgeous thing, and not one she recognized. She wondered if Tyrion had somehow gifted it to her.
Sansa had just finished dressing when a light rapping of knuckles came upon her closed chamber door, and Sansa swiveled her head back slightly to look at the new arrival, half expecting to see the kennel maester's daughter, and was about to dismiss her immediately, but she felt the tension leave her shoulders and her facial muscles relax as a new serving wench, one she'd not seen before and a girl who appeared to be a year or two younger than her, perhaps, enter the room, piercing gray eyes downcast and a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks.
Sansa blinked owlishly at the kitchen wench, startled by her.
"Milady Sansa," murmured the kitchen wench, her blush deepening as she lifted the gaze and set down the heavily laden breakfast tray she had been carrying. "Lord Tyrion and Lord Roose and his son require your attendance in the mess hall for breakfast. I—I am afraid it is a matter of utmost urgency. They have insisted that you hurry, milady."
"Then why bring the tray up if I am to dine with the men?" she asked, gesturing towards the tray which contained a half loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, and some boiled mutton, good meat, and she wondered if the castle had food stores if worse came to worse in the event Winterfell was to become snowed in.
It had happened before.
If it was possible, the young blonde's blush deepened and she promptly looked away, painfully twisting her fingers together, biting the wall of her cheek.
"Milords Tyrion and Roose did not know what you might like to eat, so I brought up something just in case. Your husband said you had not eaten at all last night, so you'd be hungry."
That was a good enough explanation for her, Sansa supposed, and she decided to drop the matter, seeing how it was clearly making the girl uncomfortable.
Sansa knew it was wrong to converse with the castle's servants in this manner, though she had a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Lord Roose and the rest of the Bolton family, except for perhaps maybe Lady Walda, who seemed kind enough, treated their servants with hatred and mockery, and Sansa knew that she and Tyrion were not about to continue that scorn, for she knew that without the kitchen wenches and the soldiers and sentries and bannermen, even the squires, that this castle would not stand on its own, nor would it last without their help.
Everyone played an integral role.
"What is your name?" Sansa asked kindly, giving the kitchen girl a quick once over and furrowed her brows in contemplative thought as the petite little blonde with almost spritely, elfin-like features lowered her gaze again and clasped her fingers together nervously and came to rest them around her middle, actively averting Sansa's gaze as if afraid to look the last surviving Stark girl in the eyes, which she thought was unnecessary and not at all called for.
Sansa watched with something akin to pity intermingled with amusement in her eyes as the blonde startled and let out a muffled little squeak of terror at being asked such a question, though Sansa supposed she could not blame this girl for reacting in such a strange and unorthodox way, for she doubted the Boltons knew the names of their servants, deeming it unimportant, most likely.
"Phoebe, Lady Sansa, Milord Roose Bolton sent for me to wake you if you were not already roused, a—and I was told to tell you that I am lady Myranda's replacement for you," the little blonde a good head shorter than her finally answered rather sheepishly.
"And your surname?" Sansa prodded, genuinely curious now, and she could not help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief at knowing any further contact with the kennel master's daughter would now be limited, as she felt her shoulders slump and sag with utmost relief at not having to deal with Myranda, hopefully ever again, and she supposed that in time, she could trust this new little blonde.
She was cute, kind, and quite pretty. Maybe she could be a friend. Something that Sansa did not even know she missed until she lacked it.
The little blonde bit her bottom lip and stuck it out in a pout, seeming to hesitate in deciding whether or not to tell her lady her full name. At last, she relented. "Phoebe Snow, Lady Stark."
The blonde fell silent and waited, painfully wringing her hands together in a nervous sort of anticipation.
Sansa, who had been about to take a sip of water from the chalice the new serving girl had just finished pouring for her, coughed, choking and spluttering and promptly set the cup down and felt her body involuntarily stiffen as the petite blonde woman clapped Sansa on the back, not seeming to take any offense or acknowledging that she had touched Sansa without any permission.
"I—th—that's…b—but how are you here, like…like this? F—forgive me, Phoebe, but I guess I did not e—expect you to be a—a Snow…" but her voice trailed off and she could not finish her sentence that she so desperately wanted to ask, and Sansa blearily lifted her head once her coughing fit had subsided and for perhaps the first time since this girl had entered her bedchamber and got a good look at her, her first true good look at someone who she could hopefully call a friend to her in this wretched place.
Her first thought was that perhaps the girl was lying, for how could she be a Snow when she had the golden yellow hair of a Lannister?
Her hair the color of golden wheat, was cropped short, brutally short, as short as King Joffrey's had been at the time of his gruesome death, and the golden hues glinted in the light that the warm fire in the hearth sent its light and warmth out into their cold desolate bedchambers, and her hair was a thousand shades of gold that made mosaics in the warm light from the fireplace.
It wasn't that bland color that was just a shade nicer than the white of old age, it was streaked with warm reddish hues and butterscotch. It gave her some warmth, complementing her pale face rather than making her look washed-out, and when she moved away from the fireplace to turn back towards the breakfast tray she'd carried all the way up to Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion's room, Sansa marveled and watched as the girl's hair almost seemed to change hues and become a rich coppery strawberry blonde.
The girl's bangs fell in wisps and stray strands, ending just above delicately shaped and arched brows.
She seemed…almost entirely too well put together for a mere servant, which immediately raised Sansa's suspicions and she quirked a brow her way.
Then as Phoebe Snow turned to look Sansa's way she found herself surprised all over again, her eyes were not the watery blue she'd expected, they were a brilliant, glistening gray, and reminded Sansa of ashes and smoke blowing in the wind coming from a fire that burned everything to the ground.
They were intense, coming from that fire that burned deep within the girl's soul.
They glistened brightly, cold, and metallic, rivaling the most excellently polished suit of armor. The sclerae that surrounded them were pristine, untouched by red. They were pure. They were cold. They were beautiful.
At first, Sansa thought to call Phoebe Snow's eyes 'silver' or 'gray', but then she realized that was just simply not good enough to describe the wench's eyes.
Neither word did them justice. They were so solid, so bright, the exact lustrous color of a polished shard of metal.
If you looked closer, like she was just now, you'd see the swirls of glittering onyx black and tinges of blue at the edges. They weren't monochrome or boring. That had simply been Sansa's terrible judgment.
They were beautiful.
Phoebe Snow wore the attire of servant's garb, a simple brown linen dress with long, close-fitting sleeves and a wide skirt, and a simple pair of brown boots on her feet.
Surprisingly enough, given that she had surmised the girl worked in the kitchens, her dress was much too clean for her to be a simple kitchen wench like the girl was claiming to be, and the girl had turned her back on Sansa for a moment to readjust her headscarf, knotting the notch that little bit tighter so it would not come loose while she worked.
She turned back towards Sansa and took the emptied breakfast tray from the small wooden table she'd set it upon.
"You should eat quickly, milady," Phoebe murmured, "for I would not want to keep the young lord waiting." There was a beat.
A pause and Sansa blinked owlishly at the young Snow girl as her blonde brows furrowed into a frown and her lips pursed into a thin, rigid, tight line.
"Though you ask me, Milord Ramsay deserves to be kept waiting, vicious bastard," she grumbled darkly, shaking her head in disgust, and almost as if on cue, a loud guttural roar from a room somewhere down below her erupted and rent the otherwise silent early morning air.
She let out a muffled squeak and grabbed the tin flagon of wine.
"If you will pardon me, Lady Stark, Lord Tyrion, and Lord Roose are awaiting your presence in the mess hall, a—and I should go and see what Master Ramsay wants."
The petite blonde turned to leave, a hand on the doorway to steady herself when something about the blonde's tone caught Sansa off guard and she called after her.
"Wait! Don't!" Sansa pleaded; a hand outstretched as though she thought that might prevent her new handmaiden from leaving her side.
There were so few people here in Winterfell that she could trust aside from her husband, and Ser Bronn, so just the thought of the possibility that she might be able to make a friend overjoyed her.
It mattered not that she was a Snow, or that she was Sansa's new handmaiden, the differences in class and societal rank did not bother in the slightest.
She drew in an abated breath and held it; unaware she had released it until she heard herself exhale slowly.
She watched as Phoebe Snow slowly turned around, a quizzical look in her gray eyes, though her face remained impassive, Sansa could read it in the wench's eyes, she was curious as to why Sansa had stopped her, and both women winced as another loud roar from Ramsay coming from below shattered the uneasy silence between the girls.
"Wh—what is it, Lady Sansa?" Phoebe's voice escaped her as a low muffled whimper, no doubt she was thinking of whatever punishment Ramsay Bolton would inflict upon her if she was even another second late with the man's wine, but Sansa had to ask the one question that was burning on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked.
"Walk with me later out in the courtyard for some fresh air?" Sansa asked, biting her bottom lip in anticipation, and she emanated a tense exhale of relief as the blonde, seemingly taken aback by her request, blinked owlishly once or twice in astonishment, but then she nodded and dipped her head in acknowledgment and offered a little curtsy.
"If that is what my lady wishes, then so it shall be, Lady Sansa. And…Lady Sansa?" she asked, her free hand not clutching onto the tin flagon of red Dornish wine, a strange sympathetic little smile on her face. "Perhaps it is not my place to speak out in such matters but…." She paused.
And then... "What the Boltons did to your family was a terrible crime, one that deserves to be punished. I hope that justice towards your family will be served. The North Remembers. We have not forgotten your parents or the rest of your family, milady."
Sansa mutely nodded, feeling sudden moisture glistening in her eyes as she rapidly blinked to fight back tears.
Phoebe Snow offered a shy smile and a small wave before another guttural roar that sounded more like a wounded animal than that of the bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton elicited a terrified little squeak from Sansa's new handmaiden.
Politely offering Sansa another curtsy, Phoebe grabbed the tin flagon of wine, careful not to spill so much as a single drop on the cobblestones beneath her feet, and with her other free hand not clutching onto the flagon as though her very life depended on it, she lifted the skirts of her simple brown dress and quit the scene.
She blinked, staring after the doorway at the space where the young blonde had stood only moments before, already disappointed at feeling the girl's presence in the room.
Sansa had known Phoebe Snow for all of a precious ten minutes at best, and already, the spritely little thing that looked like one of those nymphs in the fairy tales her Father and Mother used to tell her as a little girl was already leaving an impression on her.
Smiling softly and allowing a soft chuckle to escape her lips, Sansa let out a tiny sigh as she draped her fur-lined cloak over her arm and swiped a chunk of cheese off the breakfast tray that her new handmaiden had left for her.
She snorted and rolled her eyes as she strolled down the silent hallways, realizing that Ramsay's screaming, and shouting fit had stopped.
A child. A tall child, like a little boy throwing a temper tantrum, is what he is, Sansa thought darkly to herself, her brows furrowed in contemplative thought.
Anyone that can tame the mad beast is someone worth befriending in my book, she thought, letting out a sigh as she walked the desolate hallways towards the stairwell.
Sansa felt her frown deepen as she glanced at the thick walls of stone.
If this fortress of stone, built on blood and bone, could talk, she knew that she would beg for deafness.
Though she could not hear the whispers of the ages, tales of lives lost, and deaths of agony that no one should ever feel, they remained cloistered in the castle's walls, its dungeons, and echoed around staircases of twisted rock.
So much to say and no ears willing to listen, no soul willing to feel the torment that lay within, except for Sansa.
There was absolute stillness within the wall of Winterfell, a sensation that Sansa thought eerie. Where were the Bolton soldiers? The serving girls? The hearth keeps?
No air stirred in the corridor, and Sansa felt her blood chill to ice in her veins. Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far off distance.
Even her own breath seemed to die as soon as it left her mouth, and she could not quite shake the sensation nor the tension from her shoulders that someone unknown person or persons were watching her movements.
It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed, her senses became heightened.
Sansa felt like the prey even though no predator could be detected. It was as if her small world within Winterfell's walls were encased in a cocoon, a bubble, and there was no way for her to escape from her fate this morning.
"Lady Sansa!" A male's voice interrupted Sansa's thoughts, and she jumped, startled, cursing herself and biting the wall of her cheek as she slowly turned at the waist to better greet the voice that had temporarily commanded her attention. She exhaled.
"Ser Bronn," she murmured courteously, dropping into a low curtsy. "What can I do for you this morning, sellsword?" she chuckled, accepting Bronn's arm as she allowed herself to be led towards the mess hall, to where Lord Tyrion and Lord Roose Bolton were still no doubt waiting upon Lady Sansa to break their fast with her now.
Sansa stifled her grin as she clutched onto Bronn's arm. The sellsword and personal guard of Lord Tyrion and herself were somewhat too tall for his build. Were he a few inches shorter, he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing, only to be stretched on a pair of racks in the dungeons.
Ser Bronn was a clear head higher than most men she knew and would consider them tall. Somehow, he wasn't lanky, though.
There was bulk on Bronn too; muscles beneath his tunic and jerkin.
Sansa could not help but to wonder just how many jokes and comments Bronn got on the daily about his stature, jibes about 'the air being thin up here,'.
Though his legs moved slowly to match Sansa's footfalls, he was still walking as fast as any servant within Winterfell, each stride carrying him and Sansa closer and closer to the mess hall.
She could not remember a time when she had seen Ser Bronn ruffled, and this morning was no exception. His voice as he spoke to Sansa had a slight husky drawl and every step that he took was precise as he sauntered towards the banquet hall, the pace of their footfalls not changing one iota. That's just the way the sellsword was, born calm.
Sansa knew there was no changing the man, not that she and Tyrion wanted to. Bronn's boots made a rhythmical noise against the floor beneath their feet, solid and regular like a soldier's footsteps ought to be.
His face was lined and careworn, stern, and yet peaceful as he shifted his scabbard to his other hip. High cheekbones, symmetrical.
Bronn had deep dark eyes and tanned skin. He was still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped. Good news for him there.
Around his eyes were laughter lines in just the right amount. She supposed that Ser Bronn was often happy, but at this moment in time, the man was deadly serious, which frightened Sansa more than a little.
In an effort to break the silence, Sansa coughed once to clear her throat and dared to peek back over her shoulder towards one of the castle's marble columns, frowning.
Nothing. She could have sworn she saw the briefest flickers of movement as someone darted behind it, but as she squinted her eyes, having to crane her neck slightly forward in order to better see, Sansa felt her face become crestfallen as she looked.
There was no one there. "Hmm," she murmured, her frown deepening as her eyebrows came together in a quandary as she forced herself to turn back around to face Bronn, who had noticed where she was looking and had followed her gaze. "I thought…" Sansa could have sworn she saw someone watching her and Ser Bronn.
She was sure, she was sure she had seen something, but without any viable proof, it was just a suspicion.
Sansa coughed again nervously to clear her throat and attempted to quell the uncomfortable and rather awkward silence.
"I suppose I should congratulate you on your upcoming marriage to Lollys Stokeworth, Bronn. You shall be a wonderful husband, I think! Though…" Sansa paused and tapped her chin thoughtfully. "She doesn't seem to strike me as your type of girl, Ser Bronn," she joked, craning her neck up to look at Bronn.
"I wouldn't say I have a single sort of girl, Lady Stark," he retorted back immediately.
"But she's dimwitted, Bronn!" Sansa laughed, a snort escaping through her nose as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling fit.
He rolled his eyes playfully and paused outside of the wide oaken double doors of the banquet halls. "If I wanted wits, I woulda married you, Stark. Stokeworth is a sweet enough girl. Has a nice ass and a good pair of tits, I'll give her that," he snapped, huffing in frustration, and relinquishing his arm upon Sansa's arm as they lingered by the doors. "There was a reason I came to fetch you. Lords Roose and Ramsay are in an uh…bit of a 'mood', shall we say," he growled irritably, lowering his voice to a whisper, low enough so that only Sansa could hear him. "I just advise you to be cautious around them, and that means..."
Here, he bared his teeth and Sansa shivered involuntarily, thinking it to be a rather wolfish grin, "watching that pretty little mouth of yours. When your parents were still alive, perhaps you might have been able to get away with your silly little outbursts, but here under the Boltons' command, it is very different, and I just advise you to be careful, and…"
He hesitated, turning away for a moment to compose himself, and when he turned back around to face Sansa, she was surprised at the grim expression on Bronn's face.
Ser Bronn bit his bottom lip and after a moment he let out an exasperated sigh.
"Winterfell is snowed in."
"What?!" Sansa felt her eyes widen unnaturally large, as round as a dinner plate, in shock as she glared after Bronn, who startled a bit at seeing Sansa's panicked expression.
Sansa let out a sardonic laugh and shook her head in disgust as Ser Bronn opened the door towards the banquet hall for her.
Now she was well and truly trapped here.
With Ramsay. Sansa swallowed nervously and followed Bronn into the mess, slamming the banquet hall's door behind her, so loud that it rattled on its hinges.
Neither party bothered to look back behind them as they entered Winterfell's mess hall, for if they had, they would have seen the slightly hunched and stooped over figure of Reek scraping his nails down the stone pillar of the column he'd ducked behind.