Aunt Lyrie is so very fortunate, thought Sansa, not for the first time, as she studied Beric Dondarion from across the dinner table in Father's solar. The Lord of Blackhaven was handsome like the heroes in the storybooks from her childhood, with an easy, dimpled smile and twinkling eyes the colour of a rainy morning sky. In the torchlight, his red-gold hair gleamed like sunshine. Sansa thought that he might just be enough to melt her aunt's frosty demeanour.
It had been Sansa's task to greet Lord Beric when he rode into the bailey yard beneath the Tower of the Hand, and she had not been able to help smiling when he'd retrieved two sugar clumps from his doublet and fed it to his horse before he handed her to the stablehand. The mare had nuzzled his neck, and his laugh had made Sansa blush.
Later, when they'd run into Mouse and Elia on the stairs, Lord Beric had not shrunk back or even appeared overly startled. When Lia had assured him it was safe, he'd even approached and let Mouse sniff his hand. Brave and kind and handsome, Sansa had thought. Aunt Lyrie is fortunate indeed.
Lord Beric was in the capital to compete in the tourney the king was holding in Father's name. Sansa could hardly think of the event without her stomach flipping pleasantly with anticipation. She had never seen a real tourney with knights and jousting before, let alone at the royal court, and of late, images she'd conjured as a girl frequently emerged in her mind's eye without prompting.
Part of her knew it was childish and empty-headed to imagine that men playing at war would be just like in the songs and stories, but still she liked to imagine. Liked to believe she could live in her daydreams, even for a small while.
Sansa would have to remember, though, not to call it the Hand's tourney in front of Father again. When she had, his face had become drawn and stormy, and it was only later that Arya explained how much the event was costing a treasury that was already empty.
Sansa did not think Arya should look so worried—surely Father had a way to set the realm to rights again—but talk of coin had compounded her own horror at her latest disasters in household management.
A few mornings past, Sansa had begun her daily round of the household tasks and accounts when Alle had run up the stairs, wild curls flying around her face.
"There's a whole farm waiting for you below," she'd told Sansa. Bewildered, Sansa had arrived at the back gate to see at least two dozen wagons full of vegetables and slaughtered livestock. She had nearly swooned.
As it turned out, when Sansa had written out her orders for food some days prior, something had gone terribly wrong with her calculations. With Arya spending so much time training, Sansa was back to keeping most of the accounts for their household, and somewhere in multiplying the number of mouths to feed with the pounds of produce each needed in a fortnight, she had made an error in a magnitude of hundreds.
And so, awaiting before the gate had been enough food to supply a feast for seven hundred people. When she had recovered from the shock, she had nearly burst into tears right there in front of all the servants and strangers.
In the end, it had been her mother whorescued her, just as she always did.
"Oh, darling, don't look so distressed," she'd said, squeezing Sansa's hand. "We shall have to make preserves for the coming winter in any case. This will be an early start."
Yet for days afterwards, Sansa had been entirely incapable of looking Amma in the eye, no matter that she had not chastised her once. As she directed the kitchen servants in making preserves and smoked meats, Sansa had felt the burden of shameful incompetence locked like chains around her neck.
Why could she never do any of this right? Why had she been cursed to be the eldest after Jon and Robb? Arya would have done better as Lady of Starfall—she was certain of it. Sansa was not suited to running a household, and surely she would soon discover she was not suited to ruling a holdfast either. And yet there was no other way, so Sansa gritted her teeth as she stood over a boiling pot of spicy cabbage preserves, resolving to do better.
Would it not be wonderful if she could live in one of her fairy tales, Sansa had wondered, though immediately she had been overtaken with guilt. This was the real way of things, and the stories were not real. Life was not a bard's tale—her mother had always said so, and had she not seen the truth for herself not so long ago? Did those cruel dreams of Darry not prove it? Yet…the stories were so wonderfully beautiful—so wonderfully familiar—and she could never seem to let them go.
"Prince Oberyn, is it true that you are planning a tour of the Riverlands? For…leisure?" Lord Beric asked now, and Uncle Oberyn flashed a knowing smile from his seat of honour at the end of the table.
"Oh, very astute," he laughed. "I suppose you are to be half a Dornishman once you wed. It cannot hurt to tell you that I expect my trip will not solely be for leisure."
Lord Beric's eyes seemed to light up. Sansa did not know to what they referred, and a questioning glance at Arya showed that she, too, was not informed.
"What are you planning to do then, Uncle Oberyn? Aren't you here for the tourney?" It was Lia who piped in from the other end of the table with the question in all their minds, standing up out of her seat to get a better look. Uncle Oberyn smiled, and then Sansa saw him give their mother a look that quite resembled the look Arya often shot her when she was being deliberately vexing. Amma coughed.
"Elia, darling, please sit down. Your uncle has princely business that he does not wish to discuss at present. Isn't that right, Oberyn?" She bit into her last question, returning Uncle Oberyn a glare dense with meaning, and Sansa felt her own curiosity prickle.
"Of course, of course. Elia, you must listen to your mother, for she is always right." Father coughed then too, and Arya made an incredibly unladylike sound.
Sansa turned to Obara, who was sitting to her right.
"What do they speak of?" she asked softly. Obara raised a dark brow.
"Your mother didn't even tell you?"
"No."
Obara laughed low in her throat and had another gulp of wine, then cast a look over at Arya, who was rolling her eyes at something Lia was saying.
"I guess I see why. I'm not to tell your two younger sisters, and I suppose you would if you knew." She grinned. "Probably best I don't tell you anyway. You seem like the type to scare easily."
Sansa felt her cheeks flush. She had not a clue how to reply. Speaking to Obara was often exhausting, she was realising, for she never knew if she should be insulted.
Lady Ellaria sighed.
"She means no slight, dear," she said, hand on hers. "And I am certain your amma would explain the matter if you asked her."
Sansa doubted that. If their mother wished them to know a thing, she would tell them without being asked.
Still, Sansa nodded, not wishing to contradict Lady Ellaria, whom she liked very much. Uncle Oberyn had been just as Amma described him—hard and sharp and every inch a fighting man—but Lady Ellaria was soft-spoken and gentle, and yet Oberyn looked at her the way Father looked at her mother. Like she was the sun peaking out behind storm clouds.
Sansa could not help imagining a gallant warrior knight looking at her the same way, warmth glowing cheerfully in her belly.
Talk at the other end of the table had shifted for some moments—first to the beautiful Dornish steed Oberyn had brought for Elia as a gift, then to the queen's younger brother returning from the Wall with, most curiously, a band of Father's Skagosi tribesmen in tow—but now it returned to this mysterious task Prince Oberyn had in the Riverlands.
"We set out as soon as the tourney ends, Arthur," Oberyn was saying. "Do you think you can have your maps and your research for us then?"
Arthur nodded with an eager seriousness.
"Certainly. I'll start on it tomorrow." He paused, and Sansa thought she saw Elia nudge his foot. "If you tell me just a bit more of what you're planning on doing, I can make the maps even more specific."
Laughter broke all around the table, boisterous and warm.
"Oh, darling, a valiant effort," Amma said between laughs, and Arthur flushed pink.
"Very clever indeed," said Uncle Oberyn, wiggling his eyebrows at Elia, for he, too, had seen the foot nudge. Her sister had the good grace to blush. "But not to worry, little lady. You will all know what I am up to soon enough if the gods are good."
Elia narrowed her eyes in thought, making Oberyn chuckle again.
"Your amma used to make that very face when I would not share my secrets," he told her, drawing more laughs around the table. Sansa smiled, imagining her mother so young. It was a strange feeling, knowing that her mother was once a child, but Sansa did hope that she had once been as happy and carefree as Elia was now.
Elia pursed her lips. "Well, how did she get you to tell her your secrets, then?"
"Oh, I couldn't," Amma said. "He's more stubborn than a turtle."
Elia giggled.
"A turtle! I resent that!"
"But am I wrong? The only one who could get you to spill your secrets at all was—oh."
The breath escaped her like someone had struck her. Sansa felt the sudden twist of pain in the sound even as she did not understand why.
And out of nowhere, a stifling silence stormed in, loud like a summer squall. Sansa watched the smiles slip off Oberyn's face and her mother's.
"Oh dear," Sansa heard Lady Ellaria say under her breath. She turned to her.
"What is it?"
Lady Ellaria gave her a sad smile.
"Your Amma was speaking of Princess Elia, I imagine. Oberyn gets that expression when he is reminded of his sister without warning."
Sansa looked to her mother again, and sure enough, she now wore that stricken expression that sometimes appeared when some careless soldier brought up Ser Arthur Dayne in the Great Hall.
Elia frowned.
"Did I say something wrong?" Amma and Uncle Oberyn had been staring at each other as if lost, Oberyn's jaw tightening. At Elia's words, Amma turned to her, blinking and still mute. Ellaria pushed her chair back and seemed to hesitate, likely wondering if she should rise to comfort the prince.
Father cleared his throat, and Sansa saw his hand slip down to her mother's knee.
"No, Elia, you said nothing wrong," he sighed, bidding Elia sit back down. For once, she obeyed.
"But—"
"What your mother was trying to say was that she never could get the prince to tell his secrets, and I doubt you could either, unless he wished to tell you."
"Oh…" She was still frowning, but even Lia could feel the change in the air.
Again, Father cleared his throat, and after a moment, the tension broke. Sansa saw Oberyn give Ellaria a little smile, and Ellaria settled back into her chair. From her seat beside Father, Amma blinked very fast and drained the rest of her wine.
Lord Beric coughed too, clearly discomfited.
"Prince Oberyn, if I may," he said then, smiling a little too cheerfully. "Perhaps you would not object to my coming with you when you tour the Riverlands? I have yet to go myself, and I would not object to seeing it." That eager glint was back in his eye, and again Sansa wondered what Uncle Oberyn could be planning that was so enticing to Lord Beric.
Before Oberyn could respond, Amma had recovered and smiled up at Lord Beric, refilling his wine glass.
"My lord, on that account, I actually intended to ask a great favour of you."
Lord Beric turned to her.
"Of course, my lady. Anything you need, you must simply ask."
"My daughter Sansa will be heading to Starfall once the tourney ends, and I had been hoping that you'd be an escort for her. A detour on your way back to Blackhaven. I had intended to send her with a few of our Winterfell guards, but they have never traveled south of the Neck. I would be much comforted in sending her south alone if I knew you accompanied her."
He looked most surprised.
"Oh, I see."
"Of course, that would entirely derail your plans to join Prince Oberyn, so if you cannot, I perfectly—"
"No, not at all, my lady." Lord Beric flashed her mother a smile, then turned it to Sansa. She felt herself blush again but returned a nod.
"Lady Sansa will be my niece one day. It would please me greatly to escort her to Starfall."
"Soon, I hope. I cannot thank you enough, my lord. How long has it been since your last visit?"
"Two years now, I think," said Lord Beric, "though I do exchange frequent letters with Lady Allyria."
He smiled once more, his entire face brightening. It seemed he liked to smile, and Sansa was glad for it. If she remembered right, it would do Aunt Lyrie a world of good to have a husband who smiled often.
"That is what she tells me as well," Amma said, nodding. "She looks forward to your letters." Sansa turned to look at Arya, whose eyebrows had crept to her hairline. From what they had seen of Aunt Lyrie during their visit to Starfall, Lord Beric must have a bookish turn about him that they had not seen for their aunt to be so interested in his letters.
Lord Beric perked up.
"Truly? I…" His face seemed to colour. "I look forward to every one of her letters as well. I have never known anyone like her, Lady Stark, truly. Oh, and…" He rose from his seat and strode over to where the servants had hung up his cloak, retrieving it and returning with a spring in his step.
"She made this for me," he boasted, spreading the cloak over the back of his chair. Sansa exchanged an amused look with Arya as all present stood to examine it. On the dark background, there were galaxies of violet stars woven into the fabric, the patterns intricate and flawlessly wrought. She had only ever seen such fabrics from Essos—Myr or Lys—made by master weavers using jealously guarded techniques. Sansa was certain Aunt Lyric was no master weaver.
Beside her, she heard Lady Ellaria's sharp intake of breath.
Amma raised her eyebrows.
"Lyrie made this?"
Lord Beric nodded.
"She wrote that she had contrived a new sort of loom. Something about…well, I cannot remember what she called it, but something to do with punching holes on thin cards of wood. This was her first testing of it, and she decided to send it to me." He smiled again, and Sansa leaned in close to study the fabric. She could certainly not produce anything even close to this intricate detail.
Something like delighted curiosity pricked at the back of Sansa's mind.
How had Aunt Lyrie done this, she wondered. For the first time since her mother had announced that she was to head to Starfall once more, Sansa felt just a tiny jolt of excitement at the prospect. Perhaps…just perhaps…things could be different this time.
000
Sansa remembered well that year she had spent at Starfall. She had been nine when her mother announced they would be going to Dorne, and for many nights before their departure, she hadn't been able to sleep for excitement.
Her entire life, Amma's stories of her youth at Starfall—of the beautiful castle and fragrant gardens and the violet twilight over the sea—had glittered like gems in Sansa's daydreams.
Ever since she learned how to read, she had pored over the old stories of chivalrous knights on white horses and princes sweeping ladies off their feet. Though she knew that there could be no prince for her—for she would be Lady of Starfall one day—in her head, she imagined herself married to a handsome knight, who smiled at her the way Father smiled at Amma, and who was honourable and gentle and kind.
In Dorne, it would be warm enough to wear shimmering silk dresses every day, and she and her lord husband would hold tourneys and dances, surrounded by laughter.
They had stopped at Sunspear first, but for Sansa, that had been a blur of faces and dust and marble chambers. She remembered spending days in the Water Gardens, playing with the other children. Some of the games had been too rough and tumble for her, but the water had been deliciously cool on her skin, and the air had smelled of new flowers.
She remembered also Prince Doran's and Uncle Oberyn's daughters, who all insisted on calling her cousin. Obara had frightened her somewhat, and Sarella chattered on endlessly, but Tyene seemed like the Maiden herself, and Arianne had a wicked sort of gleam in her eye Sansa had secretly found thrilling.
And then there had been Nym, who was of an age with Sansa, and when Sansa narrowly bested her at throwing darts, she had laughed like wind chimes and told Sansa they were surely meant to be friends.
They had spent but ten days in Sunspear, and then they had taken to the sea once more.
Starfall had been enchanting, a breathtaking sight as they approached from the sea, its roof tiles polished so they dazzled like the morning sun. Inside, the walls were white and cool to the touch, the archways decorated with coloured glass that filtered rainbows onto the stone floors.
When they were too far inside its walls to hear the sound of the lapping waves, there was always the gurgling of little fountains in the courtyards. It had seemed like a castle straight out of a bard's tale, but she soon learned she was not to live in a song.
For a sennight, her family stayed, but then her parents and siblings boarded their ship again and left Sansa to live in this strange new place.
It had been lonely there at Starfall, too still and quiet despite the constant whispers of water that followed whenever she went. Sometimes Sansa had felt she was disturbing the place, even when she walked alone. Amma had always spoken of Starfall with a light in her eyes and a longing smile on her lips, and she had seen the way her mother had glowed as she'd shown her around the castle. Yet, Sansa had never felt more like a guest, and one that was not quite welcome.
In the mornings she would take lessons with Septon Roset, a reedy man who looked rather like a piece of leather left to tan in the sand, and Maester Bors, who was as wizened as Maester Luwin.
Roset tended the libraries at Starfall, and knew seemingly everything there was to know about Dornish history, but his voice was dry as dust, and his lessons even drier. Sansa often found her mind wandering as he lectured on, and only snapped back to attention when he interrupted his pontificating with a hacking cough.
The maester taught in the same vein as back home—farming, politics, history—but without the boisterous presence of her siblings, those lessons too seemed dull and foreign.
Household bookkeeping had been worse. By nine, it was already clear to Sansa that numbers were not her friend. On the page before her, they often overlapped or jumbled into one another. When she tried to recall sums in her head, each seemed the same, and sometimes, stupidly, she would mistake a 52 for a 25 or add too many noughts to a number and make a horrible mess of the practice ledgers.
There had been Uncle Dev, of course, whom Sansa liked immensely. He would tell her old tales of the Dayne family heroes, of gallant Swords of the Morning, and the lady Dyanna, who married a dragon prince without knowing she would birth a king.
He told of the culture of their people, of the festivals around the grape harvest and the annual competitions for the biggest fish and mollusc finds, of the funny characters among their landed knights and neighbouring houses.
He told of their mysterious ancestor who had built Starfall seemingly from the sea itself; of their family's fall from their lofty thrones as Kings of the Torrentine under Nymeria's invasions; of their fraught history with the rest of Dorne because of their ancient ways and strange eyes that would not fade despite generations of Rhoynish blood.
There were stories of heroic battles against the Marcher lords and political intrigue against the Ullers and Folwers, and finally, of how Lady Lyella Dayne betrayed her blood for loyalty to her people and her liege back when Maegor the Cruel ruled the Seven Kingdoms. This last story Sansa liked least, for she did not want to hear of sister turning against sister, but Uncle Dev was an engaging bard nonetheless.
He would pinch her cheek too, and tell her she looked just like her mother, which pleased Sansa a great deal. And sometimes, he would take over her mornings with Roset and Bors, and Sansa never learned more than in those lessons.
But Uncle Dev was often away on lordly business, and she had been too young to tag along. When he was at Starfall, even Sansa could see how often his face became strained with fatigue, his lips taking on a tinge of blue, and he would need to be helped back to his rooms most afternoons to rest.
Then there was Aunt Lyrie, who was so brilliantly beautiful it sometimes hurt Sansa's eyes to look at her too long. She was kind, and Sansa knew she had tried to make her feel at home. (Sansa's chambers had been decorated with her favorite pinks and blues, and there was even a bard engaged to come and continue her harp lessons.)
But Aunt Lyrie had preferred to bury herself in the library among her books and her parchments, even more than Sam did, and seemed almost stiff when asked to speak to anyone for more than a few moments, even the nine-year-old Sansa. She was like frost—delicate, exquisite and cold—and Sansa could never imagine being close to her for fear that she may melt, or that she herself might freeze.
Sometimes, Sansa would walk by her table at the library and see her scribbling away at her parchment as if the world beyond it did not exist. Once, Sansa had gathered up the nerve to ask what she was writing, and Lyrie's eyes had lit up like a star piercing the night sky. But then, she had launched into an inscrutable diatribe, using words like "contrapositive rotordynamics" and "oscillatory motion," and Sansa could only nod politely as her eyes glazed over. She never asked again.
And then…then there had been Gerold Dayne. He too had been ice-cold in his beauty, his hair so pale she had trouble believing him of this world if not for the streak of black that shot through it like a bolt to this earth. He was training with the master-at-arms, her uncle had told her, and no doubt hoped he would one day be worthy of wielding Dawn. Of the three Daynes at Starfall, he was the one she exchanged the most words with, and yet none had ever been remotely pleasant. She had tried to smile at him the first day, but he had sneered in return, and she had hidden her face.
There had been something harsh and angry about him, even as a boy of thirteen—as if he were an injured animal, intent on protecting himself from the world. With his teeth. He was always ready with a snipe, alternatively mocking her "barbarous northern ways" and her "wilting northern manner." He had taken to calling her "my lady" in a tone soaked with disdain, and when he joined in her lessons, he was not shy about mocking her ignorance and her mistakes at sums.
For months, she had suffered his insults with a quiet stoicism she hoped her mother would be proud of, until one day she could not stand it anymore, and to her everlasting shame broke down in tears right in front of him. No one had ever been so cruel to her, let alone without reason. They could be friends if he would just stop being so cruel, and she could help him if he was hurting, she knew she could. She did not understand why he must view her as the enemy when she had done nothing to harm him.
Back then, she had thought him the cruelest person she had ever met. Now—after Darry, after the prince and the burned knight and the boy called Mycah whose insides had spilled from his broken body—she knew better.
She had run away from Gerold Dayne then and hidden in her chamber the rest of the day.
After that, he had disappeared from her view for a fortnight. When he returned, he spoke no more than a few short words to her at a time, and that was somehow worse than the constant sniping. She felt him observing her with those stormy eyes, and it made her hair stand on end and her cheeks burn with shame for how easily he had caused her upset.
Company aside, the food, at least, had been agreeable. There had been dozens of fruits and cheeses and spreads she had never seen before, not to mention chewy, fragrant flatbreads, grape leaves stuffed with raisins and mushroom, and tiny, flaky tarts filled with pistachio cream. Even grilled snake did not frighten her so much as intrigue.
She had not realised that food could be so spicy—her mother had surely introduced only ginger and the mildest peppers up North—but was glad that she managed not to embarrass herself in front of Gerold.
And the lemons: oh, they were plump and sharp and fresh, and some varieties were so sweet the cook would cut them into wedges and Sansa could eat them like oranges. Sansa had never eaten lemon cakes made from fruits so fresh, and they were surely the food of the gods.
Even so, Sansa found she was rarely truly hungry despite the rich palette of flavours concocted to encourage the appetite. Meals were too quiet, and she missed the chaotic bustle of the Great Hall at Winterfell, missed the laughter of her father's men and the rise of her sisters' voices. A few months in, all her clothes started hanging just a bit loose.
Sansa began aching, physically hurting for home, wishing so to return to her boisterous family and the rough familiarity of Winterfell. At least there, the walls were warm, even with the summer snows. But then Sansa would remember that this castle must be her home now, that she would be Lady here and live here the rest of her life with frosty Aunt Lyrie and Gerold Dayne with the venomous tongue and stormy eyes. Then she would feel such an endless chasm of despair that she could not keep the tears at bay.
So at night, much to her shame, she began to pray to every god she knew that somehow, her mother would change her mind. She prayed that she would not have to live here alone all her life, and she prayed that she could just go home. And when she did not pray, Sansa would flip through those storybooks she had brought from home, losing herself in the familiar stories of shining princes and white knights, of laughter and dancing and shared joys.
She would pretend, in her evenings, that she was not Sansa Stark who would rule over this cold castle one day, but instead just a maiden waiting for her lord to carry her into the sunset.
Miraculously, it seemed that her prayers were answered. The next year, her uncle had announced that she would be returning to Winterfell, though Sansa had thought she would be staying here for the rest of her life.
"Your family misses you terribly, and your mother wants you home," he had said, a sad look in his eyes, and a moon later Sansa had sailed into White Harbour, watching for her father's tall frame on the docks.
And when she was wrapped in her mother's arms again, Sansa hadn't been able to stop herself. All the words had tumbled out—how she had been so alone and so miserable, how she was certain she would be terrible at filling Uncle Dev's role, pleading with her mother to make someone else the heir—but then her words had caught in her throat. Her mother looked her up and down, and suddenly tears had welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheek.
The sight had frightened Sansa to the bone. Amma never cried. Oh, she should not have been so selfish, so stubborn. She had only been at Starfall for less than a year. It was only unfamiliar to her It would take some getting used to, perhaps, but she could manage. She was a Stark and a Dayne, her mother always said, and stronger than anyone knew.
Sansa never brought up her feelings on the matter again, even when Amma later asked. "I liked it there, but I'm glad to be home" was all Sansa said, while she hoped desperately that she would not have to return to Starfall until those words held some truth. She tried not to think of the place or her future there at all, for all that she was confronted with it every day in the lesson chambers.
Alone at night, she would curl into her bed and read those old tales by the flickering lamp—children's stories, she knew—but simply imagining herself elsewhere, even for a little while, could calm within her the storm of guilt and yearning for another life.
000
Later in the evening, when their guests had all left, Arya had headed to bed so that she might wake early for her lesson on the morrow, and the twins had gone to let their wolves have a last run about the yard, Sansa sat in her mother's solar and brewed rose tea for her parents.
"Amma, were you truly worried about only having Winterfell men accompany me to Starfall," Sansa asked, washing the dry flowers with a first round of boiling water.
"I'd like to know the same," Father said, raising an eyebrow. "I had no idea you held such misgivings about our men, my lady."
Amma looked not a bit contrite.
"Oh, I don't have misgivings about our men," she said, biting into a lemon cake. "What I do have misgivings about is Beric Dondarrion heading into the Riverlands with Oberyn and leaving my sister without a betrothed should something happen to him."
Sansa frowned up at her.
"Amma…what exactly is Uncle Oberyn doing in the Riverlands? Why didn't you want him telling Elia?"
Amma smiled, and even Father laughed, but then both their faces sobered.
"Your Uncle Oberyn has come to hunt Gregor Clegane," her mother said. "He's heard news that he has returned to the Riverlands and has in his head that—oh, love, careful with the water—" Sansa moved the kettle away just as the boiling water filled up to the pewter brim, having completely forgotten her hands in her shock.
Gregor Clegane? Returned to Riverlands?
Sansa's eyes bulged.
"Is…is it true, the rumours?" she half-whispered, for who had not heard of the horrid way in which he murdered Princess Elia and her baby prince? Who had not heard of how he had disappeared into thin air the night before his trial by combat?
Sansa resolutely refrained from thinking of the details, for they had made her beyond ill, to know that any man could do such things. What could possibly have driven Gregor Clegane to do such things?
For a moment, her thoughts drifted to the man's brother. What must Ser Sandor's childhood have been like, she wondered now. Was that why he had been so unspeakably cruel and seemed so pleased about his cold-blooded murder of those smallfolk? Had his brother caused him such pain that he must cast it on to others too?
Sansa tore her mind away from the memory of his cruel voice in her ear when he'd whispered how he'd killed the boy named Mycah. Was there truly still humanity in either of the Clegane brothers? Could some men truly…no, she could not bear to think it.
"The prince certainly believes that he has returned," Father said. "It cannot hurt to see, I suppose, and the king and Hoster Tully would think the same, so long as he keeps his men disciplined."
"In any case, Oberyn is determined to go," Amma said, turning to her with a determined smile, and Sansa could see that she did not wish to speak of Gregor Clegane. What long-hidden pains this must unearth for her.
"I do not wish for your sisters to know," she continued. "Neither are very good with guarding their tongues, and no one would be served by this information becoming court gossip."
Sansa strained the rosebuds and poured the steaming tea into cups.
"I won't say anything," she promised, handing the cups to her parents. Arya could even get it into her head that she'd like to join the search party—Obara was, after all—and that would no doubt lead to more headache for her mother.
"So, 'twas a coincidence you are sending him to Starfall with Sansa instead, is it?" Father asked. He sipped his tea and gave Sansa an approving nod. Amma shot him a triumphant smile.
"Oh, sometimes things simply fall into one's lap. This betrothal has lasted near on five years, but I doubt Lyrie has the time to remember her marriage with her mind so occupied in studies I do not even know the names of.
"Dev is certainly doing nothing that would help her leave him. Beric has no parents of his own to press him on the matter of marriage, so he will head off into one adventure or another if left to his own.
"By the by, this is wonderful, love," she said, sipping her own tea. Sansa smiled, pleased.
"So it is you who must hasten this marriage?" asked Father, looking amused. "It appears they are both content the way they are now, no? Writing letters to one another and giving gifts?"
Amma gave Father a patient look.
"My sister is nearing five and twenty, and Beric is no younger. If they wish to produce an heir and a spare, they'd best start soon."
Father chuckled and looked towards Sansa.
"Sometimes, your mother is so practical that it is truly frightening."
Her mother tutted.
"My lord, you speak as if you have not benefited greatly from my pragmatism."
"And so I have. You must pardon me, my lady. I only mean to say your practicality inspires awe in me."
Sansa ducked her head to hide her smile, sipping at her own tea, even as something ached in a corner of her chest.
How long would it be before she could make rose tea for her parents once more? How long would it be before she could have her whole family together again, laughing and teasing, spirited and warm?
She thought again of Starfall's cool halls and the icy splashing of the fountains, of quiet dinners and Gerold Dayne's heatless eyes.
And then she rose to set the kettle back in the hearth, for her parents were before her now, and there would be weeks yet before she would have to leave them.
I've written another one-shot! This time it's a fluffy memory from Jon's childhood called
I Will Always Find You. (see my profile)
Before anyone says anything about Sansa, I'd just like to say that there is a great deal of myself in the way I've characterised her here—more than in any other character—so please be nice of us .
Thank you to the wonderful Captain Fuckew McHugerage and 1969strat and CMedina for all their help and ideas and in generally listening to me rant about crazy plot directions. I often feel like that Pepe Silvia meme...
Also, lol Allyria coming up with a Jacquard loom was a spur of the moment inspiration so I hope that was fun.