A Wolf with a coat of Darkness – chapter 14
I do not own ASoIF/GoT or Warcaft/WoW
Rated M for everything wrong with the Cult of the Damned and the Scourge (including but not limited to cannibalism, human experimentation, murder, rape, slavery, torture, sadism)
As the sun neared the horizon to the west, Sansa and Myranda found themselves before the gates of the Red Keep, Ser Leopold standing in silence behind them.
Not long after the king's proclamation at the tournament ground did a well-dressed servant find them as they were trying to slip away back into the city. Handing them a sealed note, he simply said that their presence will be expected at the Red Keep tonight. And now, they were led through endless corridors and halls, some of which quite familiar to Sansa.
Slowly, the noise grew as they approached their destination, as did the smell. The smell of food. Of onions and garlic, of lemons, of meat and pastries. Eventually, they reached a massive terrace overlooking the bay and their appearance, or rather, that of the tall knight behind them drew many gazes. The servant that had been leading them stepped aside, disappearing through a side door before a new one appeared out of thin air before them, ushering them towards the King's table. And much to Sansa's discomfort, they moved straight down the middle. In the rushed day, Sansa was unable to get herself some clothes that would have been proper before the king and as such, she now stood in her usual attire with plenty of exposed skin.
Much to her horror, Sansa saw that seats have already been prepared for them and while the king's table was long, able to sit a good dozen people on one side alone, she would still be on one table with her family. She actually first saw the guards. Jory Cassel, Alyn, Heward. All faces that a few short months ago would have smiled at her, now stood stone cold, unflinching. 'Gods, how many months had it been?' mused the red-head. But her eyes fell down and she almost tripped upon seeing who the Stark guards were protecting. She had spent the whole afternoon preparing herself for this moment, yet her heart was once again in her neck, her belly filled with bats anew.
She fiddled with her hood, making sure that her hair was safely hidden underneath as well as adjusting her mask, raising her up to the very top of her nose. Thankfully, she would be separated from them by the royal family. As they approached, the king, already visibly drunk, rose up and toasted with a booming cheer.
"There they are! House Wrynn!" a cheer erupted through the feast and despite herself, Sansa basked in the attention, standing up straight even as she was wary of her disguise slipping off.
The two quickly made their way to their seats with Myranda sitting next to a blond boy that Sansa imagined to be the prince while she sat down next to a bald, smiling man that smelled somewhat of an overly sweet perfume.
The king leaned forth over the table and looked sideways towards them.
"Go on, go! Eat, drink! Tell us of your house! Is this your sister, little lady?"
Obliging the king, Myranda took up a presented wine goblet and drank deep from it, almost emptying the whole cup in one go, surprising the king who only laughed merrily.
"Yes, this is my sister. Beatrice."
"Aye…Beatrice. A lovely figure, though why is her face covered?"
"She too has…" Myranda began her favorite murmur show anew, adopting a sorrowful face. "She has suffered from the same sickness as our brave Leopold."
"A terrible thing to happen to one so young." Spoke up the bald man next to Sansa.
"Forgive my intrusion. Lord Varys, though many simply prefer the spider." He bowed lightly, taking Sansa's hand in his own. "I am not one usually for such festivities, but you and your sister have piqued my interest. Knowledge is my trade, you see, my pride and joy, yet sadly I must concede that I have never came across your house, my lady."
Before Myranda could respond, Sansa answered.
"We are not from Westeros." She said in a raspy voice.
"Is your liberal dress usual in the free cities? That is where you are from, isn't it? Myr? Or Lys?" asked the queen, her soft voice flowing over the table.
"My sister's dress has… a history." Said Myranda.
"Not Lys. Asshai." Rasped out again Sansa, helping her 'sister' to remember the story that they agreed upon. That she too is infected like their knight, that she is Beatrice and that they are from Asshai, a city so, so far away that no one can refute their claim.
"Asshai, my lady? Quite the wondrous place, from what I hear. Dark, but wondrous." Quipped in Varys.
"Dark indeed…" mumbled Myranda and then began the only part of the story that was actually true. "We were…forced into a cult there. A place of nightmares. We did things… terrible things…" she looked down.
"We barely managed to escape and would not have if not for him." Myranda nodded towards the knight. "The bats on our sigil. They come from there. The only things there alive."
"And the key?" asked Arya, her voice startling Sansa. It came as a slap, a sudden wake up call. A voice that despite the outward appearance that the younger Stark girl now bore, still carried childlike wonder when she asked the question.
"The key to Freedom." Finally said Sansa, grey eyes meeting hooded blue ones.
"Hmm, poetic." Interrupted the queen. "And the dress?"
"Ah, yes." Said Myranda. "That was the clothing of the cult. While I got rid of mine a long time ago, my sister does enjoy the freedom it provides. Says it makes it easier to move and breathe."
"A sad reality for all of us, the fate of a lady. To be dressed in so many gowns that sometimes one cannot breathe or move." Quipped in the queen with what sounded as genuine sympathy. "I toast you to your bravery."
"Bravery, she calls it…" grumbled the king.
The rest of dinner passed in idle chatter, the queen leaving early and the king marching off to mingle with the rest of his guests, his interest in 'house Wrynn' quickly lost. Sansa did get in a few pieces of food in, lowering her mask, but bending over her meal, making sure her hood obscured her face. The guests began to dwindle and the red-head was particularly grateful when lord Varys left. The bald man under the pretense of curiosity asked plenty of questions. About them, their House, the cult, even touching up the subject of magic. 'Maybe picking Asshai was not the greatest idea.'
In an unfortunate moment of awkwardness, both the two girls and the Stark father and daughter got up to leave at the same time, both drawing the other's gaze instantly. Out of courtesy, lord Stark approached them.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, my ladies." He lightly kissed the hands of each girl, Sansa practically shaking, her blue eyes wide open. She barely held herself back from jumping around his neck, from bawling in his chest. Barely managing to give out a simple nod, she was quick to turn her head away, if only to hide her eyes brimming with tears.
"We have a house in the city, you should come by tomorrow for lunch!" spoke up Myranda, causing Sansa to sharply turn back.
"Tomorrow is the last day of the tournament." Quickly said the red-head, remembering just in time to add a rasp to her voice.
"Then the day after." Shrugged Myranda.
"The hand is a busy man, sister." Bit out Sansa through gritted teeth, though her response was met with a glare of annoyance.
"I have some work in the city, it would be an honor to be your guest. Though, I am afraid, I am not as entreating as Robert." Interrupted Eddard.
Eddard did not know why he agreed to it. Maybe it was curiosity about the two girls from distant Asshai. Maybe he was drawn to them since they were outsiders and not entangled in this whole web of lies and deceit that was the capital. Or maybe, it was because he wanted to be away from this exact web, if only for a moment. He cannot quit, he cannot refuse the king. He cannot let his friend down. No matter how much he wished he could just go home to Winterfell with his daughter in tow, he knew he cannot.
He lost his eldest daughter but a few months ago. A few months that feel like only yesterday, yet years at the same time. So much has changed since then. Even after weeks of endless search by every man at arms or capable of bearing them, they found no sign of Sansa. Then, they settle down to wait for demands of a ransom, a threat of war, an extortion. Anything and everything. But nothing came.
His home grew cold. Robb grew years in the span of two months, Jon not far behind, both boys having led large parties in the initial search. Even Arya wanted to join, though he expressly forbade it. After it became clear that something else entirely had happened, the wolves pulled each other tighter together. Bran was no longer allowed to climb walls and towers, Arya no longer allowed to run free. Bran's training was started in earnest and both Robb and Jon no longer sparred with blunt sword, only live.
It broke his heart to see his children cold and stern 'Just like me' but he knew, deep down, that it was for the best. That way, no one could hurt them. When the king came and asked him to be hand, he was on the brink of turning it down and staying in the North with his family, damn the consequences, if not for a letter from Lysa Arryn, his wife's sister. In that letter, she openly blamed the Lannisters for the death of the previous hand, Jon Arryn, his foster father.
And with his mind already full of suspicion and burden, he was plunged head first into the viper pit that is the capital. Half of the time, he wondered if he truly was the Hand of the king or simply an outsider, unable to do anything and just sit on the side and observe. The crown is massively in debt – let us have a tournament with outrageous prices. This person been a spy for that lord and that lord been an agent for that septa and that septa been an informant to that lady. He wondered if the loyalties that were revealed to him were the correct ones or were further games to confuse him and keep him blind. Or maybe, they were true and were revealed to him only to taunt him, to remind him how unprepared for all of this he was, how out of places he is.
The more he learned of everything, from the debt schemes to the power plays and the murder of Jon Arryn, the more powerless he felt.
On the last day of the tournament even as his mind was filled with a plethora of things, when his eyes fell upon the two girls sitting opposite him and simply…enjoying the tourney, his mind was put at ease. Although dark thoughts began to creep in that maybe they were trying to get close to him due to his position, Ned nevertheless found himself looking forward to lunch the next day.
'Aye, a moment of peace, even if only for a meal.'
Even as the fabled day came, he almost forgot until it was time for it. Following Jon's route, Ned found himself meeting another of Robert's bastards. A boy, this time, a blacksmith. A spitting image of the younger king. Deep blue eyes, coal black hair. Strongly build and robust. 'And a passion for hitting things with a hammer.' Ned joked in his mind despite himself. Still, the visit left with him more questions rather than answers.
Why was Jon tracking Robert's bastards? Was this something that the king ordered? Did he wish them looked after? Jon did inquire about the state of the children in general. Were they healthy, happy, fed and clothed? Strange questions for the Hand of the king to ask.
"My lord, I must protest." Spoke up Jory next to him, bringing him back to reality. Even as the younger Northman led Ned to the home of the two girls of house Wrynn, he still bore the characteristic frown now associated with the north.
"We already spoke of this." Half-heartedly returned Ned.
"Still, we know nothing of them. It could be a trap."
"Everyone know where I would be. Killing me now would be stupid."
"As you say, my lord." Said the captain of his guard, though his tone was far from happy.
After a few more minutes of riding in silence, Jory stopped before an unassuming building and after sharing a look with him, banged on the door with his fist. A few tense moments in which they wondered if they were at the correct house before the large double doors swung inward, the tall silent form of the Wrynn knight greeting them.
As the armored figure stepped aside to allow them entry, Ned was greeted by the small lady of the house.
"Hello, milord! I was beginning to wonder if you would come."
"It was a kind offer, I found it hard to turn down." He said before a small smile graced his face "And it would give me an excuse to be away from Robert."
Ned was led to the second-floor terrace where a small table was prepared. Simple goblets, yet clearly silver were places on it with several plates of slices meat, fruits and cheeses.
"Come, take a seat, both of you, I'll be with you in a moment." Said Myranda as she disappeared into an adjacent room. The two men shared a look, Jory clearly uncomfortable.
"It is rude to refuse a lady." Simply stated Ned, taking a seat, Jory following after a moment of hesitance.
The young girl returned not long after, carrying what appeared to be a pie, a proud smile on her face.
"It's still warm, I was a little worried." She said, placing it in the middle of the table and taking a seat, her enigmatic sister appearing out of nowhere and taking a seat as well, though this time, she kept her head up though she was still masked and hooded.
Beatrice, he remembered. While her clothing was less than ideal, especially for such a young girl, it was her eyes that drew his gaze. He managed to catch only a passing glimpse of them at the feast, once. And while they were a familiar striking blue, they were also sad. And to top it all off, it seemed as if she was avoiding his gaze.
He saw her blue eyes momentarily shift to Jory and then to her sister. The two girls shared a look for some time and when he looked at Myranda, he saw what might have been annoyance. The younger girl lightly gestured with her hands to the older one, a sort of push.
And then the older girl reached for her mask.
Ned was about to protest, extending his hand. He remembered the story, of how her face was disfigured. A memory of her raspy voice as well flooded his head. But he stopped himself. He was a guest, here. An invited one. That meant that she was prepared to reveal her predicament to him.
In turn, all that he could do was wait and steel himself as not to show disgust and offend her, no matter how bad it is.
She pulled down, the dark purple cloth peeling away to reveal…. A small nose and pink quivering lips. Flawless rosy skin. His mind stopped as he was met with a face that was familiar. Like a ghost from a long-gone dream. And then the hood fell and a fountain of red hair spilled, framing the apparition's face. As the familiar Tully features of his wife's family stared back at him, Ned rose to his feet, the specter following as well, slowly.
"Hello father." She said, shily meeting his eyes. He remained silent and took a step forth, extending his hand as the girl held her arms over her chest, protectively. He idly stroked her cheek with his index finger, almost as if to make sure she was real, that she was there.
"Sansa?" hearing her name from her father's lips was what burst the dam. The girl threw herself at him, hugging him for dear life, squeezing him with surprising strength. Snapping from his shock, he returned the embrace. After a while, he pulled back, holding her by the shoulders and with a smile of disbelief, studies her face, her features.
"How is this possible?" he managed to utter out. "Why are you here, how did you get here? And a house? Whose house is this?"
"Our house." Butted in Myranda, a smile on her face.
"W-What?" the northerner shook his head in confusion and sat down, his gaze now shifting between Myranda and Sansa.
"And you are?" the northerner asked, despite himself, for maybe Myranda was not even her real name.
"Myranda Moore."
"Of house Moore?"
The little girl shook her head.
"Then who or what is house Wrynn?" asked Ned, each answer only leading to more questions.
A giggle escaped Myranda's lips before saying:
"The royal family of Stormwind." She then looked towards Sansa.
"Just tell him already. Everything."
His gaze shifted just in time to see his daughter now glaring at her friend before her shoulders deflated, an audible sigh escaping. Sansa's eyes roamed to the confused face of Jory Cassel before returning to her father. She swallowed hard and turned her head away, looking outside, to the sky. After a few moments of silence, she closed her eyes and began to speak.
"I awoke in the back of a cart, my hands tied…"
The pie had long gone cold by the time she finished recalling the events up to the present. Myranda who was cheerful up to now had adopted a forlorn look, recalling her time with the cult. As she finished her story, Jory reached out for a goblet and drank deep while Ned stood mouth agape.
"That…That can't be real."
With sad eyes, Sansa rose her hand and flames appeared in her open palm.
"I am afraid it is." And to add more fuel to the fire, Myranda appeared behind her in a Blink, causing both men to jump in their seats. A slow, heavy rusty screech made itself known as the armored warrior made his way to the terrace, stopping a few paces behind the girls. Both northerners remembered the tale, that he is just a skull, but did not believe it. When he unceremoniously dropped his sword to the ground and lifted his helmet with both hands, the two became as white as ghosts.
"GODS!" shouted Jory as both he and Ned reached for their swords. What stilled their hands was the way Sansa got up and moved to the knight, caressing the rusty breastplate with love and affection.
"My knight in shining armor…" she said, even as rust flakes fell from the armor beneath her fingers. "Two times already had you saved me."
"Sansa…" began her father, drawing her attention. "If that man did save you, how could you do this to him?" he asked.
"This?" asked Sansa, confused.
"Yes, this. Deny him his peace!" he argued. "You should leave the dead alone. You should stop this, all of this!"
Dark looks fell on both girl's faces.
"His soul is at peace, I have made sure of that, multiple times."
"How would you know?"
"Because, father, I was forced to learn it!" half cried, half screamed Sansa.
His eyes never leaving the tall armor, he deflated slightly, saying:
"Even if all of that is true, you are safe now. There is no need for any of this. For …undead and magic."
Sansa fell silent for a while before composing herself.
"For all those months with the cult, I dreamed every night of home. Of the cold air and the gentle snow flutter. Of the soft bed covers and gently cracking fire. Of you and mother, of Robb and Bran…even little Rickon and Jon." Her voice began to crack.
"When I, when we finally escaped, I was solely focused on making my way to Winterfell. When I learned that you are coming here, we waited. For you." She looked back at him and the pain in her eyes broke his heart.
"And now… as I expected…and feared…you are telling me to give up magic… The very thing that saved me, saved us." She shook her head.
"Would you give up your sword or better yet, your hand? For no apparent reason? No father. Magic is now a part of me, for better or worse."
"For no apparent reas-Sansa, it's magic!"
"My answer is no, father." She said with finality. "I want to go home, more than anything, but I am not that little naïve girl anymore."
"I-I need time. To think…" finally said Ned, shaking his head as he moved to leave, his eyes again darting to the empty sockets of the skull knight.
A tear slipped down Sansa's cheek as her father passed her. Without turning, she said just loud enough.
"You are always welcome in this house, Lord Stark."
I feel Ned is too often portrayed with too high of an intelligence. Not that he is an idiot or anything, but he is really set in his ways. Just the very first scene with him when he executed the Night's watch deserter, he does not even pay attention to his words nor does he care for them because that man is a deserter. As such, if he went: "Oh, yeah, magic, cool." it would seem unnatural to me.
Thank you for reading.