CHAPTER 21

SANSA

Sansa rode alone into the Ryswell keep. She told herself that she should not fear, because Barrowton and all the North belonged to her and she should not be afraid to treat with her own bannermen. But without Sandor at her side to protect her, she had never felt more vulnerable. She was finally aware of what little protection came from trusting others.

She told the man at the gate that Lady Ryswell was expecting her. He looked her over, nodded once, and let her in. Within the hour she was granted a private audience with Lord Ryswell's widow.

"Here is the girl," a page announced her. The hearth in the solar did not warm the room enough, and Sansa kept her cloak on. From her chair by the hearth the Lady Ryswell stood up; she was a cold woman, dressed in black, with lines set in her face from frowning. She looked Sansa over without smiling.

"You're Sansa Stark."

It was not a question, but Sansa answered it anyway. "Yes, Lady Ryswell." She gave a short curtsy. Though the widow of Barrowton had already shamed her by not taking her hand or bending the knee, Sansa did not forget her courtesies so easily.

"Yes, anyone who knew your parents could see that. Your resemblance to both of them is plain enough." Her eyes wandered over Sansa's body. "Especially to your mother. You have her breasts, you know."

"I . . . did not."

"Well I do. I remember my husband complimented them generously even though he was married to me. Tell me, how long have you been hiding in my town? A week? Two?"

"Not that long," Sansa shook her head. "A few days."

Instead of placating her, this news only displeased the widow more. "The smallfolk are already whispering about you," she hissed. "It would be better if they kept quiet. If Ramsay hears of it, he'll punish me for keeping you from him." Then she smiled. "And you can be sure he'll make a sport of hunting you down."

"Ramsay . . ." Sansa searched her memory. "The Bastard of Bolton? Ramsay Snow?"

"He is legitimized now, and heir to the Dreadfort. You'd best be sure you call him Ramsay Bolton if you ever have the misfortune of running into him. Though you won't live very long if you ever do."

Sansa could not tell if Lady Ryswell was threatening her. The nervous thought that Sandor was right and she had delivered herself as a hostage crossed her mind. Sansa decided to push her authority. "The Boltons are vassals of House Stark; as are you, my Lady."

If Lady Ryswell acknowledged this, Sansa had already decided to push the point by asking her to provide an escort for her back to Winterfell. But the woman laughed. Her teeth never showed, her lips never turned up at the corners and her lower lip stuck out as she breathed huh huh huh from her chest. "The Starks are all dead. I won't help you North, if that's what you're getting at."

"You would deny your liege." Sansa was near shaking in anger. I've brought myself here for nothing. If she didn't already fear for her life, she could have slapped the Lady Ryswell.

"I will help you enough by pretending I never saw you, and cutting out the tongues of those who swear they did."

At least she will set me free, Sansa thought. "You favor Bolton's claim on the North."

"I protect my skin, my land, and my people. I have no great love for the Boltons, and they are a cruel lot. But make no mistake—I have no great love for your family, either. And I will not hinder my pretty and true princess on her impossible quest to reclaim her castle. All I ask is that you respect this neutrality. If you win this game I want no punishment from you, as the punishment from the Boltons on me now would be wroth."

"Fine," Sansa said. Coward, she thought. I should not have come here.

"It shouldn't be too much trouble for you; you made it this far." Lady Ryswell turned up her nose. "Coming into my keep alone, with no escort, would you have me believe you came north by yourself? How did you manage that, I wonder?"

"I would rather not say."

"Fair enough. A Lady must have her secrets. But you should know that there is a rumor from the South that it was the Hound who brought you. They say he stole you away from his masters, and raped you every day on the way here."

"I . . . that is not true."

"I suppose it couldn't be, if you're still walking. Either way, its in your best interests to quell that rumor if you plan on marrying once you make it back to Winterfell. Men like to break a filly in themselves, so to speak. Oh, but how I forget myself!" She threw up her hands in mock surprise. "You were married to Tyrion Lannister."

"This marriage was done in raptus," Sansa bristled. She did not often think of her marriage to Tyrion, but it did not look like the world was willing to let her forget it. "Vows said beneath the point of a sword are not true vows."

"This is true, but it may not matter much to your suitors if the Lannisters already lay claim to your cunt. Your husband was supposedly insatiable when it came to sex."

"I am still a maiden! Tyrion was a monster, yes, but he never . . ."

"Are you? Well, I trust your word on it over any Maester's, but don't expect others to. You'd best have it confirmed medically if you want to rid yourself of your Lannister ties. I lost mine own to your uncle Brandon. A fat load of good it did me, giving something so precious of myself to him. He got betrothed to the Lady Catelyn, a smear upon my honor as sure as the one across the sheets. The day he got himself killed by Aerys I was truly sorry, for it meant that Catelyn's hand passed to his younger brother Ned and I would never sit the seat you run to. Winterfell. It will be easy for you to annul your marriage and trade your maidenhead for a husband who can help you restore it. You are beautiful, virginal, and naive—men will come to you from across the Seven Kingdoms to try and win your hand. Take an old woman's advice and don't believe their gallant promises and professions of love. Words are wind. You are beautiful, but it is not you they love. Each longs to be the first you take to bed, but it is not you they want. The love power. They lust for a kingdom. And what better way to get it than by a poor and forlorn princess we all thought was dead."

Sansa did not know what to say to that. Arrangements were made for Sansa to sleep there, and she retreated to a room in Lady Ryswell's keep. The room was high up in a tower, and near the Lady's own chambers, so Sansa had little fear that she would be disturbed. All the same, she felt safer that she could lock the door behind her.

Sansa pushed open the glass windows and looked out onto the night. The town was below her with the rolling hills of the Barrowlands in the distance. She left the window open since after sleeping out of doors for over a month, the room felt stuffy to her. Everyday my luxuries grow more numerous. She was so used to sleeping on the ground that it was strange to have a large bed with soft sheets, warm blankets and an abundance of pillows. Still, she was glad to be inside. The moon was rising and a light snow was falling. She wondered how fared Sandor, alone on this cold night.

Sansa climbed into bed and under the furs, but her mind was restless and she could not sleep. She knew there was truth in Lady Ryswell's words, but she never would have worded it that way. Sansa had always entertained romantic visions of her marriage, but now those seemed impossibly naive. Part of her wanting to escape the Eyrie had been so that she could choose her own mate, but with Winterfell so heavy a consideration she realized that the stability of the North weighed in at far greater importance than her own girlish happiness. Will my husband love me? Will he be handsome? These suddenly did not seem as important as questions like, Will he betray my house to my enemies? Will he bring food to my people?

Sansa took the largest pillow and laid it alongside her body. She missed sleeping next to Sandor. She'd slept next to him every night for more than a month—naked, for the most part—and he'd never touched her. Well, except for last night, she thought, but we weren't sleeping. Coming on to her drunk had been woefully inappropriate, but Sansa wondered how she would have reacted if he had not been drunk and if she was not so concerned about preserving her maidenhead.

Now that she had heard the benefit of her innocence worded in such an ugly way, it did seem a trivial thing to establish a marriage on. When she thought of how she had already been married against her will, the idea that her suitors wanted her intact to prove a claim on her made her feel more like an object than a person. Is my body just a vessel to bargain with? Am I truly worth more to a man if he can break me? She wanted to think of sex as romantic, but it didn't seem possible if love was not a part of it. And if marriage was the only prerequisite for sex, then how could she ever find love?

Sansa tossed in bed, mulling it over. She had to marry, and her only concern could be to benefit Winterfell. Her girlish dreams of romance had to be put aside. She didn't know if she could do it. To marry for Winterfell, yes; but to never know a lover's touch? To save herself for a man she did not know, who did not actually love her? They wanted her kingdom; she was a prize to be won, a way to conquer the North. If they romanced her, it would be because she was first a princess and they wanted her power. But Sandor only wanted her.

She reached between her legs to the place that he had touched her. Even through her smallclothes she could feel that she was wet. Alarmed, she pushed them to the side and felt for her maidenhead. Nothing felt different; though the folds of her vagina were slick, she wouldn't be able to get a finger in without forcing it. She stopped pressing at her entrance and felt up and down the outside, remembering how he'd moved his tongue. She was as wet as if he'd just licked her.

Soon Sansa was breathing heavy. She grabbed the pillow next to her and squeezed it between her legs, rubbing her hips back and forth on it. She thought of Sandor and the way he held her to him when they kissed, strong like he would never let her go. He could be rough and scary but when he kissed her he was always gentle. She loved the feeling of his hands pressing firm against her skin, of his power when he hovered over her and the playful way he sometimes rolled her on top of him. Sansa clutched the pillow tighter and rubbed down harder on it. She turned her face and moaned into the furs; not so much because she couldn't help it, but because she wanted to give the feeling some voice. Her thighs strained and a wave of relaxation overcame her.

Sansa flung the covers off her and sprawled on her back, panting. She knew what she had done. A blush rose up her neck, darkening her already splotchy skin, but she found herself wondering why she should feel embarrassed. If love and sex and marriage were as the Lady Dustin said they were—and that was just the other side of the coin Sansa had always believed them to be—she had something special with Sandor that she would not find in a husband who married her in a political arrangement. There were pawns and players, but for the players the game always came first. A man could not be both her lover and her lord, and if she could not hold out for love in her marriage, she would have to find it elsewhere—lest she become as frigid as the Lady Dustin.

Sansa knew from songs and stories that highborn ladies had gallant knights who fell in love with them and did their bidding, though these men had no hope of ever rising above a petty lordship, much less marrying the girl. Of course, she had never imagined that she would have the need of anything from such men except their loyalty, being as she was destined to have a loving, fulfilling relationship as the wife of a handsome, young, and dashing prince. That had not turned out, and now Sansa was alone in the world, with even her own bannermen unwilling to protect her against her enemies, no home yet, and no knights.

But Sandor is my knight. He cared for her and protected her—not because she could marry him one day, but because he loved her. He had done so much for her, and she was always selfish. He was bringing her all the way to Winterfell for no reason other than she asked it of him, while she was so wrapped up in propriety that she could not even admit her own feelings about him to herself.

Now she felt guilty and foolish, for who in all the world could she trust except for Sandor? She could not even expect her future husband to be as loyal. Sandor had proved that he wanted her, and his passion had been frightening; but he had also proved every step of the way here that he loved her. She had refused him because she thought it was the right thing to do, and also because she was not ready, but now she thought, Why shouldn't I be intimate with him? Sansa knew well the power of icy courtesy, but what about the power of a fiery embrace? She was curious about it, and it made more sense to Sansa to be honest about her feelings than to hold herself back for the dream that her husband would love her. And maybe Sandor was right and there was no harm in it; there was something supremely unattractive about saving herself for a man who believed her worth tied to her innocence, while the whole world believed she'd had sex with Tyrion anyway.

She would give her life to her station, but she could give her heart away as it wanted. She decided she would tell him. As soon as she saw him next she would tell him everything. That I owe him my life a thousand times over, that I am grateful for everything he does for me, and that I am sorry I did not say it sooner; that I love him.