Early October, 298 AC
Sansa wrapped a bit of fish in a napkin, taking care that no one saw her as she tucked it away in her pocket beside the blood sausage. Now that Father was awake, it was easier to slip to the godswood, and the mama cat deserved a treat.
The kittens mewled greetings at Sansa when she arrived. Their eyes had finally opened, and their personalities were beginning to become more distinct. The ginger kitten climbed on Sansa's lap almost immediately, a quiet purr rumbling in its chest. The white kitten with ginger patches was the most energetic, pouncing on its hapless siblings. When a fly landed nearby, the kitten chirped, its green eyes locked on the small black insect as its rear end wiggled.
There were two brown-black tabby kittens. One of them seemed to have wandered off. The other kept close to the mama cat, her eyes suspicious. A grey striped kitten huddled beside her, ready to flee at a moment's notice. The last kitten was a soft blonde with enormous green eyes. It nuzzled Sansa's hand, rubbing its nose against her palm.
Sansa felt a tugging at her skirts. The missing tabby kitten's tail flicked with excitement, its head fully inside her pocket. She gently pulled the kitten out. It had a corner of the fish clenched in its tiny teeth- it had eaten half of the fish already. Clever little thing. Thank goodness she had already offered the sausage to the weirwood sapling, burying it in a little hole she'd dug with a dead branch. She'd done so every day since her dream of Bran, and the sapling was taller than Sansa now.
"Sansa!" Her septa called from the entrance to the godswood. Time to prepare for court.
Sansa frowned as she looked down from the gallery. Septa Mordane had made her promise to be on her best behavior if she was to watch Father hold court. Though Father had awoken several days past, and Grand Maester Pycelle promised he was on the mend, Sansa did not like it when Lord Eddard was out of her sight.
Besides, she needed to practice listening to one person speak amongst many. The tourney had been disorienting, even painful. So she had began focusing on a single noise, a single voice or area, blocking out and ignoring the rest. It was difficult, but it helped, and she needed more practice.
"It will be dull, child," the Septa had warned. "Your Lord Father shall hear petitions and settle disputes between rival lords. It will last hours, and you will need to listen silently."
Sansa was not deterred. She could handle being bored. But this wasn't boring at all. A group of villagers knelt before the Iron Throne. Their clothes were ripped and bloody; some were shaking. Was it exhaustion from their journey, or was it fear? Father would give them justice, whatever they had suffered. Sansa's ears prickled- she could hear one of the villagers, a girl Sansa's age, sniffling to hold back tears. Sansa was glad she'd daubed scent beneath her nose, or doubtless she'd have smelt the filth and sweat that covered the poor smallfolk.
Three knights stood behind the villagers. Their armor shone, at least where it wasn't splattered with mud.
"What houses are they?" Septa Mordane prompted, her voice the softest whisper.
Sansa examined the banners held by men at arms behind the knights. There was a pink maiden dancing on a blue field, a black plowman on a brown field, and a quartered banner, half white, half black. The white half boasted a green dragon; a white tower rose proudly from the black half.
"Piper, Darry, and Vance. All bannermen of House Tully of Riverrun." These were her mother's people, so they must be Sansa's people too.
The Darry knight began to speak. Several villages in the Riverlands had been attacked, their people killed. Sansa's brow wrinkled. Bandit attacks were terrible, but shouldn't the knights have gone to Lord Tully at Riverrun? Lord Varys seemed to agree with Sansa.
"Brigands, Lord Varys?" The Darry knight replied, his voice angry. "Oh, they were brigands, beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands."
Lannisters, Sansa thought, goosebumps prickling up her arms. Was injuring her Father and killing Stark men not enough? The North was too far away to attack easily- was that why they'd attacked the lands of Lady Catelyn's family?
Father bid the villagers of Sherrer rise, and all straggled to their feet, but for the girl. Her simple blue dress was covered in bloodstains. Her light brown hair was a mass of tangles down her back, and clumps of mud had dried on the back of her dress and at the ends of her hair.
As the villagers told their story, Sansa's heart sank lower and lower. Homes burned down. Families destroyed.
"They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they... they..." The girl with the bloody skirts began sobbing.
Bloody skirts... they raped her. Sansa's blood ran cold. She wished she didn't know what rape was, she wished she was ignorant like she'd been before that awful nightmare.
The knights and the village men went on with their tale. Father's eyes snapped with fury, yet the rest of the Small Council were calm. Grand Maester Pycelle idly stroked his chain as he listened. Lord Baelish wore a lazy smirk. Lord Varys' expression was neutral, perhaps mildly concerned, as though the villagers reported some minor troubles.
Sansa could not believe their indifference. Were they blind and deaf? Did they care nothing for the horrors these people had seen? Smallfolk worked the land, and in exchange, their lords protected them, they defended them from violence. Father would make it right, Father must make it right. The Hand of the King could bring justice.
Sansa's stomach dropped as the knight argued with Grand Maester Pycelle. A huge man leading the attacks. The Mountain that Rides. Had the Mountain raped the poor girl, like he'd raped Princess Elia? Or had it been one of his men?
When Ser Loras stepped forward to offer his sword, Sansa's heart leapt. Brave Ser Loras would make it right, he would slay the monster. Lord Eddard glanced aside, calling forth Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Gladden Wylde, and Lord Lothar Mallery. Were they to ride beside Loras?
Father's face was stern and unyielding as he passed judgment. Gregor Clegane was attainted, stripped of his titles, and sentenced to death. Sansa should feel sad that a knight had fallen so low, but Gregor Clegane was no true knight. He deserved to die long ago, and now there would be justice for Princess Elia and her babes, and the smallfolk of the Riverlands. Perhaps even for the Hound.
When Father refused Ser Loras, Sansa wondered for a moment if her ears had stopped working. By the time Septa Mordane led her from the gallery, Sansa was bristling with outrage.
"Father should have sent Ser Loras, why wouldn't he let him fight the Mountain?" Sansa said, trying to keep her voice sweet.
"It is not your place to question your Lord Father's decisions," Septa Mordane scolded. A small laugh interrupted their conversation. It was Lord Baelish. Sansa resisted the sudden urge to hide behind her septa. This man is not safe.
"Oh, I don't know, Septa. Some of her lord father's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. The young lady is as wise as she is lovely." Lord Baelish bowed deeply, and Sansa knew he was mocking her.
"The girl was just talking, my lord," the septa replied. "Foolish chatter. She meant nothing by the comment."
"Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?" His face was friendly, but his grey-green eyes reminded Sansa of an old cat at Winterfell.
The cat had lived in the stables, where it caught mice. Sometimes children would try to pet it, and it would lay quietly, nuzzling their hands, perfectly sweet. Until the child was close. Then it would attack, with silent, sudden fury, slashing with its sharp claws until the child was screaming, covered in bloody stripes. Lord Baelish had the same look in his eyes as Sansa explained about heroes and monsters.
"Well, those are not the reasons I'd have given, but..." he reached out, touching her cheek as Sansa tried not to shudder.
"Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow."
Lord Baelish left, and all the sounds Sansa had been ignoring during court pressed back in on her.
"-leaving for the Riverlands at dawn-"
"The Lord Hand looked so frail-"
"Why not send the Tyrell boy?"
"The Queen is going to be furious-"
Sansa frowned. Somewhere, among all that noise, she could just barely make out the sound of sobbing. The girl. Sansa turned toward the sound of the sobs, moving through the crowd as quickly as she could.
"Young lady, what are you-" Sansa ignored the septa's scolding, intent on the weeping girl.
The villagers were all gathered near the entrance to the hall, waiting aimlessly for their knights to return. The girl was crumpled on the floor beside them, her face buried in her hands, her back against the wall. The villagers stared at Sansa, their eyes bloodshot.
There was no ignoring the smell now. The metallic tang of blood, the foul earthy scent of human waste. Had they soiled themselves in terror during the attack? Suddenly, Sansa felt self-conscious of her perfect dress. Her gown was finely made, her body perfumed lightly. What did she look like to these broken people?
"I am Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn of House Tully," Sansa said. The men bowed deep and the old grandmother attempted a wobbling curtsy.
"Come on," Sansa heard one of the men whisper to the girl sobbing on the floor. "You've got to curtsy, girl, it's the Hand's daughter."
"After what she has been through, there's no need for that," Sansa said, a lump of lead in her tummy. Think. What would mother do? Family, duty, honor. House Tully owed a duty to these people. What would Good Queen Alysanne do?
Life is not a song, sweetling, Lord Baelish's voice echoed in her head. Sansa's blood hummed with fury. Then I will make it a song.