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"I dreamt of a maid at a feast, with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. And later I dreamt that maid again slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow." Ghost of High Heart, ASOIAF.
Twenty-three
The lion opened its jaws, about to eat her.
Sansa wanted to run away, but she couldn't, unable to move, overcome with cold and boiling heat at the same time.
She looked for the lion, but it was gone.
The room was dark and stifling. Her shift was all sweaty, clinging unpleasantly to her shivering, chilled skin.
She was alone.
She wanted to be in a cooler place, but didn't know where it was, nor understand why she'd despised it in her past.
The past she could no longer remember.
Her eyelids snapped open and she saw a bright, white light in a doorway.
She made a step towards it and halted, uncertain.
Should she cross?
It was so beautiful.
Magical.
Behind it, she could hear voices intoning a hymn; uniting in a prayer.
Her voice could be one of them, sweet and harmonious.
She wouldn't lack for anything if she entered.
There would be no tears, no beatings.
No treason, no claims.
No need to marry or give birth to sons she would love instead of a husband someone else had chosen for her.
She would be delivered from all harm…
She would be saved...
Wasn't that what she wanted?
As always, she wasn't certain.
She had never been completely convinced of anything. She had to make people worthy in her head so that she could tell herself that she loved them. And yet she always noticed the signs of who they were in truth. But often she couldn't bring herself to heed those portents, wishing people were better, or for not having… more honest allies to rely on.
Yes, she knew people.
Ugly. Decidedly non-magical. Lying. Cruel.
All except her family.
But her family was gone.
Did that mean she was deceitful and evil like the rest? Why else would she survive?
Or was it rather that the little good she encountered or did in the world since she left home was all there was?
Her insecurity persisted; about her wishful fabrications, about what she wanted, and what others wanted for her. But she wouldn't mention it to anyone, not to give offence or sound stupid with her hesitations.
Seven save her, but she just wouldn't explain herself to anyone if she didn't have to.
Even if she knew how...
She'd keep such choice as was left to her. She wouldn't give them all they wanted. Only what they could take from her no matter what she did.
That light seemed less pretty on the second glance. Less alluring.
Door faded, voices disappeared.
Very warm, huge hands fumbled with the laces of her smallclothes. She was in the open, out in the cold.
The air smelled of winter.
Her woman's place was freezing. Wind rustled in the last leaves of a large tree. Sansa wished they were red, but they were ugly yellow.
A large palm rubbed her tummy in circles, but she couldn't see to whom it belonged.
This should be improper, she remembered.
The propriety mattered. To her. To society. Did it? She wasn't certain.
In a few moments she felt so cold that she made water, expecting admonishment for her childlike behavior.
Instead, rough hands continued massaging the lower part of her belly. A moment later they kneaded the small of her back, until pressure came to her behind.
On an impulse, Sansa made more than just water.
Who was witnessing her most private behaviour?
She must have been blinded by the light she'd so impolitely ignored, for she was unable to see, despite her eyes being wide open.
Soon she was back to that stifling heat, under a roof, covered by a cloak stinking of mule, seeing nothing but darkness.
She had to rest, but she couldn't close her eyes, striving to stay awake.
Sleep scared her.
Those giant palms made her sit down, cleaning her with a washcloth, dressing her in a fresh, soap-smelling shift, putting her to bed and covering her with a prickly, woollen blanket.
She had maids in the past, but their touch had been different.
Sleep was both tempting and terrifying in her blessedly clean condition.
If she closed her eyes, would she see that bright light again?
She missed it now.
She was lying still when she heard a voice.
Deep. Vibrating.
If it was just a tone lower, it would be inaudible from how deep it was. She couldn't distinguish the words it formed. Only listen to its rumble.
The strange, flashing light reappeared, muting all sound.
Suddenly, she wasn't the only one approaching the brightly lit doorway. She turned to look back, noticing a familiar young man walking behind her, older than she remembered him. Black of hair, dashing, dishevelled, he carried an unknown sword with a white wolf's head on the pommel. Bleeding stab wounds blossomed on his red tunic like poisonous flowers.
Sansa began nervously groping different parts of her body, afraid she was also injured and…
Dying.
No, she couldn't be dying.
Her dream was entirely too vivid for it.
Death must be something painful when it occurred, that's why she'd always been so afraid of it.
Her body seemed whole, but lacked substance, as most dreams did.
She made a step back, turning her back on… one of her brothers, running away from the strong, stunning light.
She didn't want to see it, didn't want to succumb to its call.
In a blink of an eye, she saw herself from above, from the rafters under a slanted roof. Her body was lying lifelessly on a low cot in a peasant hut. A man was seated next to her, bent down, not touching her, silent and unmoving like her form. Square and huge.
She wanted to hear his voice, to know if it was that deep rumble she'd heard before, but he wouldn't speak.
Impatient, she wanted to thrash with her feet to show her displeasure.
If she could move.
She was… out of her own body. The realisation frightened her as nothing had ever done before.
Speak up will you? I need to hear your voice.
She clung to her impatience in order to control her fear, realising she was fairly certain of one thing.
If Sansa ever truly wanted something, it was not to be.
But she continued to hope for happiness, unable to do otherwise.
Harry, the Eyrie and Winterfell…
This was supposed to please her.
But why would it? Why would castles won through marriage ensure her contentment? Who was Harry? Just some stranger… Did her only way back home pass through ceding the inheritance of her forefathers to another family?
She remembered the queen, aging and bitter, despite occupying the highest position for a lady in the land.
Better not have any position at all.
But this wasn't truly what she wanted either.
Sansa was raised to help her husband run his castle, and make him an ally of her family by her application, kindness and beauty.
Many years later, this sounded dishonest as well. She was supposed to subtly use her talents to foster her family's standing. Just like she had been used by that lion who wanted to eat her… This was far removed from the ideal of sincere respect towards her husband she had also been taught, and had nothing to do with… love… which should develop after a while, inside a marriage in which both husband and wife preserved their honour… her Mother had said.
And Sansa forgot it immediately, dreaming about another kind of love.
Daring and impossible… Born at first sight.
Yet she couldn't entirely ignore her upbringing. As a highborn, she had duties to perform. Even if, as a young girl, she would have liked to sit idle, reading or writing poetry.
Sansa suddenly yearned to look into the eyes of the man guarding her sleeping form, but he wouldn't raise them, staring down.
The luminous gateway reappeared, blotting out everything else.
Her brother had almost passed through it.
Sansa followed after him obediently, ready to intone the next hymn. They would be united in death with the rest of their siblings, who were already awaiting them.
A ruined, dissonant voice spoke to her from the abysmal darkness, rupturing the sweet song, spoiling it; loud and raspy.
Deep, deep, deep.
She hated it for affecting her so, and yet she wanted to hear it more clearly, wishing to determine what power it had over her, that it destroyed her latest pretty dream of painless, blissful existence beyond life's suffering.
Darkness came, came, came.
There was no light.
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A wooden castle in the cold land was crumbling down, covered in snow. Monsters roamed in its cavernous halls, tall and evil; the ugliest beings Sansa had ever seen, made of dead flesh and ice.
At least they couldn't deceive stupid girls about what they were by the ostentatious semblance of golden, undeserved beauty, or empty promises of happiness if she gave them what they wanted.
All men had been killed or ran away, and there had never been any women or children in that castle.
Sansa should flee as well, but she was too shocked to move. Her boots were stuck in snow reaching her knees. Her nose hurt from cold.
The largest monster noticed her. Taller than Ser Gregor, he began approaching her, unsheathing a horrendous sword, twice as long as Ice. She thought she would die from fear before he reached her.
The monster's hands would grab her. His blade would slice her head off, and she wouldn't be able to help it.
Then, the deep voice returned to keep her company.
She closed her eyes to listen to it in the time she still had.
Like before, she couldn't distinguish the words. The timbre was unique, raucous, harsh and … burnt? How did she know this?
She forgot all about monsters.
Without seeing the shiny door again, she plunged into darkness...
...and was awakened from it every so often, in regular intervals, by the provoking sound of that deep voice.
Her body stopped sweating.
Her lips were often sprinkled with water. She felt no thirst, no hunger. Food was pushed into her mouth but she mostly spat it, choking.
Only water was tolerable.
Water and the voice.
She could live on it.
After quite some time in the dark, every now and then she saw herself from above, journeying in what seemed to be a modest wheelhouse rolling over a bumpy road - if Sansa could judge well by the shaky appearance and change in scenery she glimpsed through the carriage windows as a…
A ghost of herself ?
Her stiff body was laid in a bed that looked like a bier used by silent sisters.
But her silent sister was that man who wouldn't let her see his eyes nor speak in her presence. Yet his figure was terribly familiar, tense and firm in grey armour, and the shapeless, loose tunic he wore under.
How do I know this?
She remembered details about his garments which were far too intimate for a lady to be acquainted with.
And his eyes were different than anyone else's, weren't they? More grey than grey…
I must see them again...
But how?
Maybe she would one day, if he continued talking to her. By now she was fairly certain it was he who had been telling her stories.
One every night.
Maybe one day she'd hear what his fabrications were about. Maybe he was telling her the same story over and over again. Or perhaps it hadn't been stories, but something else entirely…
But what else could one person have been saying to another before bedtime? Was it lessons… counsels…? Could he be cursing her? Had she done something wrong?
She didn't think so.
Not to him.
Unless he wanted her to confess to a crime she hadn't committed, like others had done before him.
It would hurt her if he did…
…if he proved to be the same as everyone else, wanting her to recite pretty, meaningless words.
She could only hear him when she didn't see him or herself from above, outside her own body. This experience was familiar by now; less confusing, and almost not frightening.
Like a good girl, Sansa slipped out of her viewing position to hear her wordless story for the night.
None came.
Instead, she was back to that snowy castle once more, the one she hadn't dreamt of in a long, long while.
Days, months, years…
The savage giant was ruling over it.
Victorious.
Untouched.
Enthroned.
Served by others like himself, bringing him the blood of the living in polished, golden cups.
The castle couldn't be his. If it were, Sansa assumed he would have built it from snow, not merely covered it with it.
It wasn't fair that the true monsters won, be they ugly or beautiful.
Sansa was so angry.
Her anger didn't matter, not truly. Because she was dying, and yes, she knew she was dying, despite deluding herself that she wasn't, and wanting her story…
She wouldn't have her story for the night, nor her happiness, not even those sons she would love while being indifferent to, or more likely hating, her future lord husband and his attentions…
There was no justice for the weak.
This angered her more.
There should be.
Long, stone-hard icicles hung from the frozen ceiling of the unknown, ruinous fort; tapering at the end, sharper than knives.
Neither the monster-king nor his servants paid any attention to Sansa this time.
She was a ghost. No one could see her.
Not even that special man that was always seated so sadly next to her pale figure when she watched him from above.
She was free to haunt this castle and the dreams of its cursed inhabitants.
It occurred to her that… They must be the white walkers from Old Nan's stories, feasting on the blood of the living.
Sansa grabbed the biggest hanging chunk of ice she could find and yanked it hard at the base. Surprisingly, it broke off as though it was made of dry twigs.
Incorporeal, ice-armed, Sansa approached the monster's throne, with all the intention to spoil his pretty dream.
As she came forth, the Others saw her, ghost or not.
She wondered if they could drink her blood.
Her non-existing heart beat madly. It was too late to retreat.
She closed her eyes to see if the voice of the man who talked to her would save her.
But she encountered only silence.
A cold poke in her back forced her to look.
A… a guard of the king of Others had prodded her with an icicle of his own, gesturing she should wait in the long line of servants bringing cups with blood to their king.
When it was her turn, she slowly positioned herself on her knees, looking down with feigned contrition and genuine fear.
The king of Others stared her down dismissively, demanding… what all kings wanted.
An oath of fealty.
She had no cup, and hopefully no blood to spill, being a ghost, so she offered her icicle to His Grace, as a knight swearing his allegiance would present his sword.
When the monster bowed to accept it, Sansa pushed the long spike into his chest.
It went where I wanted it to go, like a tourney lance, she mused, paralysed with a fresh wave of fear, waiting for something terrible to happen as a consequence of her rebellion.
To her surprise, the monster immediately rolled off the throne, hitting the frozen ground. There was no retribution.
No punishment.
Black blood oozed from the wound she had caused.
Her weapon was stuck in it.
Sansa imagined a blue winter rose growing from the chunk of ice she'd used to… slay a savage giant in a castle made of snow.
The throne room shook and lost solidity.
Dissolving into a million grains of fine sand, pouring all over Sansa, the castle vanished into nothingness.
Darkness came, came, came.
She would die now.
What else?
As always, she wasn't certain.
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Water dripped slowly into her mouth.
She coughed, choking. A few drops trickled over the ugly knots in her hair. No one had brushed it for days.
Bread and cheese crumbs followed.
She spat them out, yearning for more water.
She was the last one.
Her remaining brother must have already crossed the bright doorway between this world and the next, stepping into the light.
Sansa wanted to say a prayer for him, but it felt terribly unnatural that she, a moribund, would pray to the gods for the dead.
Who will pray for me?
Unexpectedly, Sansa began dreaming of her brother…
Jon…
She was wrong in her assumptions about his latest choice, like she'd wronged him in the past calling him her half-brother.
Jon was still standing, undecided and troubled, in that wonderfully lit doorway.
Immersed in the darkness, Sansa thought he was staring at her emaciated figure.
The song behind the gates of the next world was celestial and innocent; a glorious pageant of continuous praise.
Her brother must have died bravely, unlike her, who just… got a little ill with mild fever from too much walking, and then slipped from her horse and hit her head.
Her end was simple and undignified.
Was it like this?
She couldn't remember.
Jon turned away from the light and began a march towards the very familiar, snowy castle which was now rebuilt, armed and ready to withstand a prolonged siege.
The shiny sword he wielded was similar to Ice, and yet so different from it. Men dressed like trees followed him, and even more men wearing black, or southron armour.
No, no, no, no.
The way back meant certain suffering.
True monsters were vanquished much easier in dreams, than in truth.
Sansa searched in vain for her brother, wishing to warn him of the danger that awaited him on his newly chosen path, but he was gone.
Then, she looked for the light, for the way out, but couldn't find it either.
She was lost to darkness.
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When Sansa began losing hope of ever hearing him again, the man who wouldn't leave her side spoke to her once more.
His voice was sombre, deliberate, clear. The melody and the rhythm of his deep grumble were more refreshing than water.
He must be telling her a story, like an old friend.
Like her wet nurse, Old Nan.
If Old Nan was alive, Sansa would tell her a new story, about the maid slaying the monster in a frozen castle.
Maid?
She was married so she couldn't be a maid.
Sansa, you're lying, she admitted to herself, but couldn't remember what the truth was regarding her maidenhead as she fell asleep.
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Her body continued on a journey.
Wheels bumped on the road.
Horses' hooves thudded, tumultuously trotting on.
She was abandoned, sprawled on a bier.
Darkness was thick, was sour, was empty, would remain hollow until she heard his voice again.
Could she fall in love with a voice?
Wasn't that stupid?
No more stupid than the rest of her dreams, old and new.
Except that this latest fantasy was completely new, and the strangest one of all.
Marsh flowers of all shapes and colours adorned her room… no… the wheelhouse… smelling sweetly. Green, yellow and red on one side… White and bright purple on the other…
Arya had plucked a bunch of them for Father, earning a rash, when the Starks had been crossing the… the Neck.
Her brooding man must have brought them in while she slept.
The nights were so long and so lonely, and the time when he talked to her so short.
Sansa inhaled the smell and waited patiently for her bedtime story. There had to be a story before darkness, every time, so that she could sleep in peace.
But tonight there wasn't!
What happened to you? Where are you?
Did you enter that dark chamber from where you can see the light of the next world?
Did you follow the lure of the Mother's hymn, the promise of the voices?
Did you find peace?
True peace, not the small measure of it she could try to bring him, if he didn't despise her attentions… Men had mocked her before, not wanting to be mothered nor comforted. Not wanting to look weak.
Was mothering him what she wanted?
Probably.
That, and so much more!
Her breath hurt, stuck in her chest.
She was terribly agitated and waved her arms, but they refused to move.
She thought she felt a crumpled sheet under the small of her back. Her skin grated against the bedding because her shift wasn't well adjusted.
Sansa tried to move her legs.
To no avail.
She inhaled the perfume of the colourful flowers and her nose wrinkled from it, a little.
Wait…
The bumping of the wheels, the thumping of hooves, the uneven texture of bed linen under her back… The shift that wrinkled because she hadn't been still and stiff in her sleep…
The flowers… Their scent...
She felt it all today. And not like in a mere dream or that strange outside vision of herself; devoid of the richness of sensations, stripped of smell and touch.
"Oh," she sighed, breathing out deeply, afraid and very nervous.
To hope was to lose in the future.
Not to hope was having lost from the beginning.
Please let it be true, she prayed to the gods, old and new. I'll cross the next time you call me, I promise. I'll sing for you later if that is your wish.
She felt guilty and sinful for bargaining with the gods, but her plea was so heartfelt that it had simply burst from her chest.
The carriage stopped moving, reined in brusquely.
Sansa savoured the simple, ordinary sensation of having felt the halt.
Her eyes snapped open for true for the first time in... how long?
Days? Turns of the moon?
Years?
She hoped not.
She didn't want to be an old woman already.
Instead of seeing her form from above, from a corner of a room, from a branch of a tree, from the ceiling of the wheelhouse… now she spotted a vividly auburn wave of her hair in the corner of her right eye, and then her chest under her chin, heaving gently, flatter than she remembered it.
"Sansa!" Sandor burst into the wheelhouse clumsier than a horse, ripping open the door with such force that the hinges broke.
She must have sighed quite loudly when she woke.
His voice was unnaturally thin, like when they…
Oh. Not a maid. Most certainly not anymore.
She didn't have the strength to blush from her unseemly, treasured memories.
She saw him, his eyes, the pain in them, remembering everything.
Alyssa's Tears.
Sandor knelt next to her. Pulling her blanket off in a careful and yet decisive sweep, he suddenly buried his beloved, ugly head in her lap, his frowning forehead touching her belly. Her ribs were tickled by his hair; black, smooth and much finer than hers - wavy, thick and strong despite its soft, silky appearance after brushing.
His hands seized her waist and slid down, anchoring themselves on her hips; warm and resting.
She thought she could feel her hair curl from the pleasure of his presence; the sight, the feel of him.
It was almost impossible to move her hands; lethargic, thinned, skeletal, but somehow she slid them over his massive frame by sheer force of will. Her limp fingers ended up entangled between Sandor's lank mane and the irregular tissue of his scalp, harsh like tree bark on the side that… that…
She cried profusely, but not from sadness.
The wretched misery of his childhood suffering should stay in the past where it belonged, not having any power over their future.
Sansa slowly shifted the weight of her hips left and then right on the mattress, barely able to do so… and yet rejoicing that she could move at all; ever so gently rocking the cherished burden in her lap...
Holding Sandor with all her love and shedding tears of joy.
Surely, her voice would be weak like her body after such a long silence, and very far away from the celestial perfection.
Tremulous, fearful, breaking.
She might as well try it.
Her eyes dried.
Her heart was filled with gratitude.
The gods must have heard her.
Her voice was steady and crystal clear when she sang the Mother's hymn.