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"There are gods and there are true knights too. All the stories can't be lies." Sansa Stark, ASOIAF
Twenty-five
Large fires burned on the walls of Winterfell.
A banner with the flayed man on a pink field flew high over the battlements, replacing the direwolf.
Oathbreakers, Sansa thought, sickened. Liars.
Though she was a liar too, and a coward. A little girl who couldn't tell King Robert how Joffrey treated Arya and the butcher's boy, claiming she didn't remember.
Lady died on the queen's whim, made possible by Sansa's silence. Her gentle wolf lay buried in a lichyard behind the high walls of her home...
She had to go to her, to the graves of her forefathers…
No Bolton lay in the crypts of Winterfell.
Starks did.
Heads were on spikes above the gates.
"Stannis," Sandor announced, sounding bored; pointing irreverently at the square, balding, aged head with closely cropped blue beard.
He wasn't disinterested, Sansa knew. Storm rarely abated inside him, the gnawing anger at the world and the… the awfulness in it that… the anger that kept him going, perhaps. The deeply-ingrained memory of fire and injustice. He seemed completely at ease only when he… slept in her arms. That recollection was... incredibly sweet.
But the present moment was not, demanding her attention.
Sansa had never seen Lord Stannis in person. After observing his severed head with haunted, blackened eyes, she was glad for it.
She said a silent prayer nonetheless.
His fate might have been unjust, like Father's.
Next to Stannis… Sansa recognised the lifeless, fat face of one of the most faithful Stark bannermen.
"Lord Manderly!" she exclaimed,
Two more heads belonged to women, shaggy and yet… defiant, their dead gaze focused on… life.
The beauty of it.
At times.
Sansa wondered if she would look the same if her next would-be protector beheaded her.
Full of freshly betrayed hope.
A small company of haggard soldiers camped under the walls in deep, deadly snow, clinging to tiny fires. Both men and flames seemed to be slowly dying from hunger, without dry wood and supplies. Their sigils were… Southron… Small houses… from Stormlands.
"Stannis' men," Sandor commented flatly. "He lost again."
Sansa came back home only to confirm that it was stolen from her as Petyr had claimed, by the nobles who'd betrayed Robb after crowning him their king, and who were now letting someone else's men die from hunger.
A cruel fate.
The Southron soldiers should go to Wintertown, a bit further down the kingsroad, if they wanted to survive. Maybe they didn't know about the northern custom of building shantytowns next to castles in winter, or they found it ignoble to live among smallfolk.
Her horse, timid like herself, neighed and stomped; a different animal than the one she'd fallen from in the Mountains of the Moon. Sansa struggled with the reins. Recalling the detested riding lessons from her childhood, she succeeded in keeping him in check.
She'd never fall from a horse again, not if she could help it, though she still disliked riding.
"Shall we demand to go in?" she inquired, trying to sound assured.
She ought to be the Stark of Winterfell… It was her duty.
Four men flanking her snorted in unison, despite being different like the sun and the moon; a Northman, a crannogman, a knight from the Vale…
and Sandor…
…her lover…
Not to blush was hard.
The inside of her thighs ached sweetly, preserving the precious memory of their loving; a truth etched in her skin.
No more lies, no more pretending when we're alone…
Thank the gods.
But it saddened her heart that there were so many untruths lurking between them and the world.
While Sandor feigned boredom, she pretended to be calm. While he hid the storm in his heart, she concealed nervousness and fear. And they both feigned masterfully that there was nothing between them, despite having shared so much.
It wasn't supposed to be that way.
But so few things are as they ought to be.
Direwolf banners should fly over Winterfell, and the castle walls shouldn't be on fire. A waste of firewood in winter, boasting in vain the power of the lord who held it.
She'd misspoken again, she realised, with her simple question about entering.
Her men would know she was weak and making poor decisions. They'd never follow her.
The Boltons won't open. Why would they?
Five hundred men in her retinue, more than half of them on foot, couldn't hope to besiege and recapture her home.
But how could she go away?
Where would she go?
She could have returned home with all the knights and armies of the Vale, married to one of them… a likely heir to the House Arryn… had events gone just a little differently… But they wouldn't be following her, only her husband and her claim… After, the best she could hope was to be left in peace to bear children; a prize that didn't matter after fulfilling her use.
Sansa fumbled with the huge shirt of mail and boiled leather she was wearing, trying to tighten it. She'd put it over her gown, wishing to rise to the occasion of a Stark returning home; ready to face battle if needs be.
(Though she would only be in the way if and when fighting erupted…)
Her efforts were unsuccessful, clothing-wise. The shirt would have been too large even when her breasts were still full. Now, after her illness, she swam in it. It was just a tad more fitted than if she'd tried to wear full, inflexible body armour.
"If it please you, my lady," Sandor addressed her courteously, tying her belt in a knot instead of using the metal clasp.
It was an uncommon arrangement, but it helped.
It even… looked fine.
"Thank you," she replied gratefully, feeling guilty for regretting his polite tone and chaste, squire-like gesture at the bottom of her heart.
His action was sweet. Yet it spoke at length of the outward distance between them.
Sansa wanted to bridge it, not knowing where to begin.
After readjusting the helm she also wore, she shook the reins as decisively as she was able to. Her hands trembled. The horse obeyed, cantering forward.
Her action was madness.
Yet what else was to be done?
Near the gates, she uncovered her head so that the guards could recognise her. They wouldn't feather her with an arrow for her insolence, would they?
Ned's little girl.
Not anymore...
"I am Sansa Stark," she said in a trance, not knowing if she was alone or accompanied. Sandor must have been by her side, but she couldn't see him. All she saw was Winterfell and her duty to reclaim it. "Open the door."
Giving a second glance to the heads on spikes, she wondered if Father saw his doom approaching when he denounced Cersei's high treason and Joffrey's ancestry.
This is how it ends… she mused. Petrified, paralysed, empty-headed... Nervous, disconcerted, afraid...
Her hair billowed in the winter wind, redder and longer than ever; the shades of dark brown gone.
She didn't know how long she waited.
The drawbridge was lowered, the gates gaped open.
A homely young man rode forth to meet his visitors. Black of hair, dark of armor, with a light pink cloak. His lips were wormy, meaty, uglier than Joffrey's. A large cavalry host followed in his wake.
Northmen, serving the Boltons.
Why did she ever think Northmen were different, and would remain loyal to the Starks?
Time and circumstances reshaped old allegiances.
She made the same mistake as Father and she'd perish for it. Her legs were jelly, her heart a crumpled parchment.
Sandor would die.
All her men would be slaughtered, like the entire Stark household in King's Landing, including Septa Mordane and Arya.
Sansa knew all nobles in the North by their name, yet she couldn't place the leader. Roose Bolton's son had died…
This one had similar eyes, tiny and cold.
A natural son.
A bastard.
"Look, look," the unattractive youth said, sounding amused like Joffrey when he had petitioners to punish. "I lost one bride and I'm receiving a new one. The prettier of the two sisters."
"Arya!" Sansa exclaimed. "You're lying! How could you have married Arya? She died years ago!"
"She didn't," Sandor rasped behind her back.
"Didn't she?" Sansa turned back towards her lover, astonished to the core.
"Lady Arya was delightful in bed," the would-be Bolton drawled on, smacking fat lips. "A treat for my dogs and myself. I hear she died when my late friend Stannis sent her to the Wall in this poor, snowy weather. I'm widowed, see. Twice, I must add. My first wife had a very delicate disposition. Alas, she'd forgotten to ask for food until she was so hungry that she ate her fingers. After such ignominious behaviour, it was too late for a Maester to save her. You could say she died from indigestion." Lips munched, slurped. "When I contemplate your beauty, my lady, I'm certain that you will please me more than any of my late wives, when properly trained."
Sansa had never heard more repulsive or more ominous proposals, despite having endured outrageous and cruel treatment in the past.
Here was a new suitor she would hate, and Sandor had taken his offer back…
Should she even try to influence events so that she could marry Sandor, if that was no longer his desire? If he was content to remain her secret lover... She believed she might be able to live that lie, if there was no other possibility. Less than that was inconceivable. He wouldn't abandon her, would he? Maybe she should marry a man like Ser Lyn Corbray, who didn't care for ladies' charms, and all would be fine.
But now the smell of blood was in the air, and its colour in Sandor's eyes.
The battle would start at any moment.
Sansa wondered where to position herself not to hinder the inevitable, and to pray for the impossible.
For victory.
Horns blew in the wolfswood, deep, raucous, loud.
Do they have more men? Will they surround us and butcher us?
Sandor trotted rapidly backward, though not far from her, to assess the new threat.
Sansa looked after him. It seemed to her that the retreat was cut off; horns sounding shrilly from all sides.
Bolton laughed. "I didn't expect the Umbers to be back so soon."
"These aren't Umber horns," Sansa blurted haughtily. She could tell by the sound. Unfamiliar. Wild.
"No?" A trace of uncertainty on his repellent face.
A challenge in Sandor's stony gaze. An impatience. A wish to kill.
Bolton riding swiftly forward, arms seizing her.
Her, screaming in the wind, manoeuvering her horse to wrench herself free from the unwanted grip, staying in saddle to her disbelief, despite having been certain that this time she would fall.
Sandor's arms closing around her waist. Too briefly... Checking she was fine and wouldn't slide down...
His mad, loud laugh, like dogs snarling in the pit.
Was he proud of her for freeing herself, or just taken with joy at the prospect of killing?
Sandor's greatsword drawn, yes, but not only Sandor's.
Her heart, constricting from fear.
Many blades unsheathed, knives and axes in the air.
Her, riding to stand behind the lines, to a place of relative safety. Sandor, following.
The vanishing distance between her men and the Boltons, the anger, the fury! The uncertainty in many northern eyes on both sides as they advanced, about to butcher each other...
A blade… Sandor's… no, not Sandor's at all…
A thin sword of an armoured squire, galloping from the wood towards the cold-eyed lord, shouting a word. The men of the Vale letting him through with deference.
Wormy lips, smiling. A knife aimed at the imprudent youth with deadly precision.
"Eyrie!" the squire let out a blast, and Sansa saw clearly the falcon on his helm, the sky blue cloak on his back...
Sandor's black horse leaping forward, his master late in understanding, just like Sansa. No! Surely too late in arriving-
Sweetrobin's sword hitting the black armour hard, failing to hit any weak spot...
Bolton grabbing Lord Arryn with a meaty arm, peeling his winged helm off, putting a knife at his throat, drawing blood-
Sandor, just not there yet-
Her, howling from grief.
Angry eyes, red eyes, white fur, strong paws, leaping up from snow.
Biting the horse's leg, chewing on Bolton's leg.
Robin leaning his head backward, away from his butcher's knife…
A red garnet in Bolton's ear, twinkling.
Uncertainty.
The thin sword in Bolton's eye, buried deep...
The screaming, the pain…
"I made the bad man fly," Robin whispering weakly, tumbling down from his horse.
The freshly fallen snow...
The direwolf, snarling savagely, victorious.
Blood, blood, blood… So much blood.
Red.
And then black.
Sansa couldn't breathe.
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She woke in her parents' bed in Winterfell with shaky hands, after a nightmare. She must be asleep still, an ugly dream ceding place to a beautiful one.
"Mother?" she said with hope.
Instead, there were leeches on her bare arms, and two Maesters from the Vale bent over her like woods witches, one for each branch of the House Royce.
Not a dream.
Fear invaded her heart.
Before she could faint again from being leeched, a smelly salt was brought to her nose. A glance to her right revealed a flask with sweetsleep on her bedside table.
Was she made to drink it?
Slow poison.
How long have I slept?
She didn't dare ask.
"Lord Robert?" she inquired instead, regaining her composure, donning her lady's armour woven of courtesies.
Sandor? Where is he?
"Our lord is in good health, thanks to the Seven," Maester Colemon muttered.
But not to you or me, Sansa thought, remembering with guilt how she'd agreed to giving her cousin sweetsleep with his milk, to stop him from shaking.
While the cure was very simple and at hand: to hold him still until a seizure ended… He had yet to die from one. They always stopped after a while.
Sansa sat up.
"No!" Both Maesters protested vociferously.
She wouldn't rest. She would see for herself if her latest dream was true.
Leeches fell off her arms, fattened from her blood. She averted her eyes.
Pulling the sleeves down, she hopped off her bed. Lacing her boots, she ignored the mail shirt on the chair and the nagging of the Maesters.
The gown would do for now, grey with dark blue ribbons. A sober, travelling dress. And a dark cloak against the cold in the drafty, unheated corridors.
The Great Hall was full of men, rejoicing, the high chair of the Starks empty.
Or not quite.
Ghost lay next to it.
It wasn't a dream. None of this is a dream…
She walked to her father's seat and took it, lowering her right hand to carefully pat Ghost behind his ears, half-expecting he would bite her. But the wolf's ears only pricked briefly, before relaxing. The animal remained quiet, resting.
"Lady Sansa, welcome back," Lord Glover greeted her gallantly.
She was almost certain she had seen him among Bolton men. This one was… unmarried, if she recalled correctly. His brother had wife and children.
"Thank you, Lord Glover," she replied courteously, acting as if she had witnessed every turn of the battle, as if she had never fainted, as if she knew the heart of every man in her hall, and the strength of his allegiance.
Robin and Bronze Yohn were at her table, a welcome sight. And Harry the Heir, much less welcome, praising Robin's courage. Sweetrobin, thanking Harry in return for the suggestion to make the bad man fly…
Her, realising that Harry meant to have her cousin die bravely.
It was not to be, Ser Harrold. You'll have to continue waiting.
Servants she didn't know brought food, bowing subserviently to her, the new lady of the castle.
Where is Sandor?
"You waited for me here?" she wondered aloud about the adventures of the men of the Vale.
"First we headed to the Wall in great haste," Bronze Yohn sounded important and happier than usual. "You must have heard that the Seven Kingdoms are under attack from the white walkers, who woke after thousands of years. His Grace, King Aegon, called all banners."
"We thought you were with him," Robin continued boyishly. His cheeks were pink, healthy. "You weren't. His Grace told us he hadn't yet returned for you as he'd promised, waiting for when war allows."
"After a great battle, in which we pushed away the enemy and gained a reprieve, His Grace sent us back with orders to recapture Winterfell," Bronze Yohn beamed, proud of his battle prowess, satisfied that the knights of the Vale had finally left their hiding place, taking part in shaping the future of the realm.
"We had thought to storm the walls," Robin explained dreamily, examining a tiny drawing in his shaky hand.
Sansa was curious to see what it represented, but her cousin hid it in his pocket as soon as she tried to lean over.
Bronze Yohn burst into speech again. "But then the scouts gave us news of your arrival. We also caught a Bolton spy. The bastard wanted you as his new hostage. We hid extremely well, waiting. You were brave, my lady, riding to the door and asking him to open it. You did better than if we had agreed to the ruse beforehand."
"It was my duty," Sansa murmured, finding joy in the compliment, beginning to feel useful in conquering her own castle, and much less mad.
Though not very brave…
"What of the girl this bastard married?" she inquired quietly.
"Her name is Jeyne Poole, and she's alive on the Wall," Robin said, caressing the pocket with the drawing. "She doesn't say much more. She was hurt and will need time to heal."
Jeyne. Alive. Alive, alive, alive…
"The direwolf came with you from the Wall?" Sansa guessed.
Ghost lay silently on the floor. His ears pricked again; his eyes were alert.
"Wasn't there a young man with him?" She questioned impatiently, nervously, not measuring her words. "Jon Snow? Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Have you seen him?"
Her brother had been with her in the land of the dying. She hoped he'd returned from it, like she had.
Robin's face filled with awe. "He's a hero now. They say he rose from the dead after being murdered by his peers, and marched beyond the Wall to challenge the Grat Other in a single combat… Ravens brought news that he slayed the monster and is now returning... The king and his aunt, Princess Daenerys, have flown North to meet him. He's especially important to them for some reason. No one knows why..."
Jon. Alive, alive, alive.
She wasn't the only one.
"The white wolf… He came with the wildlings who'd accompanied us. A few of them were the bastard's prisoners. They look ghastly! See!" Robin pointed to the far end of her hall where a bunch of wild looking men and women blew horns and played pipes, embracing a dirty man and four women in their midst. The liberated captives looked as if they had been tortured.
"Then they are welcome to celebrate in my hall," Sansa murmured courteously. Wildlings, truly? The world must be changing if they rode together in peace with the men from the Seven Kingdoms…
An unknown knight from the Vale stood up, not very sober, toasting to Sansa, mentioning marriage, saying it was what every beautiful lady wanted. A strong husband and babes.
And maybe it was.
But Sansa wasn't just any lady.
She felt guilty for betraying her Mother's lessons, but to marry out of duty and custom was simply dreadful. How could it ever lead to happiness? Her parents had been extremely fortunate to find love after they were married; an exception, rather than the rule.
Sansa wanted that anomaly for herself; to love, to be loved.
Was it her only childhood wish that hadn't changed?
She didn't know.
It was difficult to give a final answer about so many of her deepest inclinations.
Yet she had never even thought she could marry the man she wanted before Sandor asked, believing that the choice would never be hers, no matter what she did.
Strong arms rule this world.
She should force the outcome she wanted. She might fail, but at least she would have tried.
She had no father, nor was there a king present to take that role. The nobles had let her take the High Seat. No one thought of putting her in a dungeon or accusing her of a crime she hadn't committed.
She would keep pretending that everything was as it ought to be; that she was the Lady of Winterfell, having a say in her own future.
When poor Aunt Lysa had been widowed, she refused suitors until Petyr came… And he wasn't as highborn… despite the titles bestowed upon him by the Lannisters...
She would say no with a flat face until the only suitor she desired presented himself.
Where are you, my love?
He hadn't left her side for months, and now he was gone?
Doubt crept into her heart.
Did you leave now that I'm home and enjoying the illusion of safety?
Her feet itched for the supper to end. She had to look for him; find out what she did wrong this time.
"Thank you, my lord, for your good wishes," she answered the knight frostily. "But I am weary from long travel and illness that has diminished my beauty. I shall not consider marriage for many days."
As she said that, a curtain moved in a dark corner of her hall, seven feet tall.
She stood up abruptly, nearly calling for him loudly.
He had heard… and now he would think the worst of her, as he always did when she had no intention to give offence, especially not to him... He would think she told him no. She was tired of him thinking ahead, thinking for her. And yet, she… he… his soul… his scars… it meant...
If she could hurt him so by misspeaking… it meant… it had to…
He couldn't stop loving her, could he?
He had to care for her deeply.
He couldn't leave, could he?
She should go against her upbringing and ask him herself. Then shut up, fret, fear, and wait until he answered.
Marry me, my love.
"But when Lord Rickon arrives-" Lord Glover offered.
"Rickon?" Sansa's heart was large like an aurochs', forgetting Sandor for a moment.
Can it be?
"A raven came for lord... for the bastard of Bolton before his demise. Or rather, for Lord Stannis, but Ramsay had caught it. Lord Davos is travelling from the White Harbour to Winterfell with young Lord Stark in tow. He is first in line of succession," the nobleman added, with a suspicious eye on Sansa, studying her reaction.
"Of course he is," Sansa agreed. "But I, his sister, shall remain at his side. He… he is seven now. Do you not agree that this is just?"
Rickon would have authority to make a match for her… her baby brother. He could be easily influenced by any false friend trying to win his trust in exchange for his lordly favours.
Like Sansa was befriended by Queen Cersei.
She thought of seven feet tall curtains, of time that was running through her fingers, of Jon, of Rickon, of Arya, of… Bran… why not if Rickon was alive? They were together when Theon supposedly killed them…
The imposing door of the Great Hall bursting open… the commotion… the inferno of yellow flames…
"The dragon!"
"By the old gods!"
"Others take me!"
Sansa pressed forward amidst the exclaiming crowds.
Maester Colemon rushed in with a letter. "For… for the Lady Sansa."
The hall was silent as never before.
She was a Stark in Winterfell, and she received a letter delivered by a dragon.
She opened it with poise, striving to control extreme nervousness.
Aegon?
It wasn't. The letters were small and flowery, distinctively feminine. Sansa devoured the tiny, elegant words.
"Lady Sansa,
We haven't met, but I have heard many words of praise about you from my beloved nephew, Aegon…
Sansa skipped hastily through the paragraphs about Aegon, his upcoming marriage, the war, the realm, and the need for soldiers, to the very end of the letter, concerning her family.
…Jon Snow… who made a difference in this war, by defeating the king of our enemies beyond the Wall… said before that you… he had a vision of you, and saw you doing something in a dream, which he later had to do in life…
Would you know more, my lady? I would be anxious to hear from you about it.
He has been asleep since then, like dead; though I hope, I pray that he would wake, for he isn't gone, not truly…
His heart is beating.
I would be very grateful for your counsel on this and on other pressing matters.
Sincerely,
Princess Daenerys Targaryen.
Sansa was caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Were the visions during her brush with death… true? Could she have been an example to Jon? She had thought it the other way around. But he had been behind her then… Had he been watching when she slew a monster on his throne? After that frightening ordeal ended, she saw Jon beginning a march towards that same castle where she'd defeated her foe. She'd wished to warn her brother not to, but he was already gone… Had she at that moment truly seen Jon when he rode to war? Not only in a dream or in… in the antechamber of death, as she'd believed?
If that were true, then… Then...
There are gods and there are true knights too. All the stories can't be lies.
The shape of the last lines in the letter drew Sansa's attention once more. In the section about Jon, the writing was different. Dense. Less perfect. Rushed. Nervous.
This unknown princess trembled over Jon's health like Sansa now fretted in advance over Sandor's unpredictable moods... Or from the sound of his beloved voice when he talked to her...
Sansa's heart went to another lady in trouble, forgetting her own.
"A pen and a parchment," she demanded. "And a raven, if there is one in Winterfell."
"The… the dragon is waiting, my lady. For the… for the answer I presume." The maester's breeches were suspiciously damp under his tunic.
No one dared refuse her. Stationery was brought immediately. She didn't have to use deceit to obtain it, like in the Vale…
Sansa wrote back a few simple words. Only what was important. Not having time nor patience for courtesies. Those would come back to her on the morrow.
Talk to my brother, Your Grace. Every day. A lot. Begin now. He may not understand, but he may hear you. He may wake, gods willing. Trust me, please. As if I was your sweet sister, and not only his.
Concerning the matters of the realm, I shall write more shortly, on my honour as a Stark.
With the assurances of my highest consideration,
Lady Sansa Stark.
Thinking how her old dreams of Sandor and the kiss she'd imagined also felt devastatingly real, she walked out to see that dragon. It wasn't the white one Aegon rode, but a big black one.
Air smelled of sulphur. Tiny orange flames sparkled from the great black maw into the night.
Sansa found the animal beautiful, and couldn't be afraid.
Cautiously, she stuck her letter in a silky yellow pouch attached to the dragon's paw, where her letter must have been during delivery.
A scaled wing nearly toppled her over when the majestic beast spread them, taking flight…
What a glorious passing that would be… swept off by a dragon wing…
When she returned to the table, deadly silence reigned. She realised that few men would have dared to rush blindly to an encounter with the dragon.
So be it.
She'd let them think she was brave, in hope they would be loyal, rather than kill her.
Robert studied his drawing again, a clumsy pencil sketch he must have done himself, of a young, pretty lady, with grey scars on one side of her face and neck.
He hid it under his plate when he noticed Sansa was back; pulling a lordly face, not blushing, hiding his new secret.
Sansa fought a smile, eager to stretch from ear to ear, hoping that the unknown lady would find it in her heart to love her cousin like Sansa never could.
Soon after, the hour was late. Her duties for the day ended amidst respectful bows, coughs and good-nights.
Ghost had fallen asleep next to the High Seat.
The wolves have returned.
She could retire for the night.
On her own, freely, with no guards to hound her steps, able to look for her lover.
If only she could make him see that he should stay by her side once and for all!
If she could make him understand that no matter what she said or did, she truly loved him…
She wondered if she would find the man who saw her, and not only himself… Who wiped the blood from her lip, caught her if she was about to fall, tightened a belt on her loose shirt…
Or if she would meet his sullen self over and over again, always at odds with the world, including her; pondering killing her if she failed to meet his expectations.
By the time she had searched the entire castle, her feet hurt, and she was convinced that everything was her fault.
She should have simply said yes to Sandor's proposal, like she should have told the truth to King Robert about his son Joffrey.
The king might not have blamed his son. The queen might have still gotten a wolf pelt. The strength of custom might yet prevent her marriage to Sandor. But at least she would have done her part.
Her eyes itched, tears threatening to fall.
Everything was her fault. For being weak, for being stupid, for acting too late, for fretting, for trusting the wrong people, for trusting people, for not being a true lady, for being wanton, for being too much of a lady…
Despair choked her.
She was all alone and needed to breathe.
She staggered to the lichyard, to Lady's grave, or what she thought to be her wolf's final resting place, with freshly tilled earth. Too small for a man or woman grown. There was no name, no mark. Maybe it was a child killed by Theon or the Boltons, maybe it was... Bran… In the event that only Rickon had survived the sack...
A sharp knife of fresh grief for the family she lost was stuck in her throat, piercing it.
She stumbled into the crypts, to her Father's grave, wondering if his bones, sent North by the Lannisters, had ever arrived. His likeness in stone was unfinished. A stone mason who knew Father had to be found, to continue his work. If one still lived… Next to him there was an empty niche for Robb...
Sansa sat on the cold floor and wept until her tears dried out.
There was only one place left to visit.
Her last refuge, her last hope, wasn't far.
She exited the crypts and sleepwalked to the entrance of an ancient precinct in the open air, bolting the door behind her.
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She found her lover in the godswood, sprawled next to the pool of dark water in front of the heart tree; his mangled, cherished face bathed in moonlight.
He stirred when she approached and he…
…stank.
She hadn't felt that acrid smell on him for years, not in that quantity.
Of sour red wine, dark like blood.
All a man needed… Or was it a woman?
She couldn't remember clearly.
Her thoughts and fears were repetitive, circular, turning like a giant wheel about to crush her. She was unable to stop them.
"I knew you'd come," Sandor rasped doggedly, struggling to sit up, uncoordinated. "You always lied about going to pray in the capital. Maybe tonight you'll do it in truth. The Lady of Winterfell."
Drunk.
Contemptuous.
He'd gotten drunk once in the Vale, before duelling his brother, but not this much.
He would bark at her, he would. She had no doubt. She wanted to cry and couldn't. A stone was in her throat. A pain in her heart.
Father never yelled at Mother for misspeaking. Maybe Mother never spoke poorly or gave unwitting insult. Mother was perfect, like Sansa would never be.
Father was different. Cold and reserved by nature in most circumstances, he was often openly warm in the circle of his family.
By contrast, Sandor's aloofness was a well-practiced act, a lie; a survival trick, perhaps, like her own submissiveness at Joffrey's court. His warmth was stormy, restless, like himself, always on the move. All his spontaneous reactions were like this… Thunderous… She loved him for his… passionate nature. But she couldn't handle him well when he was… truly awful. In the past, this caused her unease and reticence, and now it provoked both anger and terrible hurt, because if they loved each other, how could he treat her so?
Reaching the bottom of her despair, Sansa understood the reason for her troubles.
She couldn't make Sandor cross the chasm that sometimes opened between them; of anger, uncertainty and doubt.
If he couldn't bridge that distance, if he wouldn't come to her, from being caught in the web of his life, his beliefs, his past, her love would be for naught.
Insufficient to bring him over.
Superfluous.
She stretched her hands forward nonetheless.
Love was all she had to offer, unable to change the world.
She would blame herself afterwards, for not being able to appease him, after having seen what they could be together.
A miracle, lost.
He didn't take her offer.
Her hands dropped; useless, rejected.
Just like when Joffrey refused her attentions after Nymeria bit him.
A woman's love couldn't make a man respond to her…
And the other way around… Sandor's heartfelt confession in the Eyrie would have fallen on deaf ears, just like Sweetrobin's, if there hadn't been already a seed of her own care for him… surging freely, streaming on its own accord, like a river springs from the mountain, or a waterfall rushes down the cliff, breaking on the rocks…
Alyssa's Tears.
Neither she nor the Mother above could gentle the rage in Sandor's soul.
He had to do it himself, over and over again.
Despite knowing she might be doomed to failure, Sansa offered him her hands again, wishing he would take them.
"Sansa," he said, covering his ears, to her surprise; a futile, confused gesture she'd never seen him do. "I knew you'd come," he repeated; arrogant, unconcerned, drunk…
"I looked for you everywhere," she sounded haggard, reproachful, already failing in all her efforts. "Where were you?"
"There's a fine winesink in Wintertown," he drawled, "I haven't seen you there. Might be you didn't look for me that much."
How can you say that?
He staggered, seemingly very unstable on his feet .
She was next to him before she knew. He leaned on her, smiling his ugly smile; his stench vile and sickening.
The sour wine of Winterfell was inferior to the Dornish, judging by the smell.
He'd always caught her in the past, and now she caught him or he would have fallen face first into the pool.
Supporting him, she regretted it.
Maybe a cold bath would sober him up…
Or offend the gods who stared at them mutely through the red eyes of the heart tree.
The leaves rustled, speaking about the past, the future.
Blades clashing, blood gushing, feasts, weddings, alliances and wars, babes being born, and the old buried…
She needed a true friend, a man who could help hold at bay her uncertainty and despair; her guilt and fear of failure.
She needed a companion in her troubles, not only a strong arm that would keep her from falling.
A man who wouldn't abandon her and judge her severely, whenever she was too weak to achieve her goals of perfection.
Of happiness… of freedom… of just rule… As a Lady of Winterfell, or in any position where the blessing and the damnation of her birth might take her…
But who could give her what she sought? Who could understand her deepest wishes, if she was so often unable to see clearly within herself?
Perhaps no man could be what she wanted…
"The dogs, I had to kill them," he blurted, catching all her attention.
"What do you mean?" she murmured.
"The bastard, he trained them to be vile," Sandor's words poured out of him, like every time he was drunk. "Nothing could be done. They couldn't be saved like Gregor's horse. They were rabid. I killed them. It had to be done," he repeated.
"You didn't find joy in it?" she asked needlessly. Her heart melted for him.
So he got drunk because he was sorry for the dogs, not because he was angry with her. She was sorry for the dogs when she thought of it. "Nothing could be done?" she parroted, knowing herself to be stupid, not caring.
Sandor shook his head.
"So you drank," she surmised.
"Not for that reason, no," he retorted, sinking back into sullen silence.
"Is it me?" she wondered; worried, perplexed, miserable once more.
"You, this castle, the looks the men give me, the pity," he waved with a huge arm at his scars. "Since I killed Gregor, they all know it was my brother who disfigured me. I thought I could do it… I could charm them… into accepting me. I was a fool."
"I was afraid you left," she reminded him of her deepest fear. "If I love someone, they leave me. And the Stark bannermen aren't accepting me, despite my birth. Not yet. They're just afraid to oppose me because at this moment I appear powerful… And I also seem much more condescending towards their interests than the Boltons, from what I overheard in conversations during supper."
Weak, they think I'm weak.
Yet Robin might leave her some of his army if she asked nicely, and she'd seen unfeigned, chivalrous admiration on some of the bearded faces of the Northmen she remembered.
She wasn't without support.
"I'll make it more difficult for you."
"A husband I hate will make it impossible," she reacted brusquely. "Maybe I'll end up eating my fingers."
Wait, Arya!
"What about Arya, why did you never say-,"
"I did-"
"When?"
"In your sleep-"
"Did you tell me about your sister then as well?"
He'd mentioned the night before that he could take an oath on his sister's grave...
He stepped away, a boulder of grief and danger, seeming taller than his dead brother. "I did," his voice came forth strikingly small and thin. "I can't say more at this moment."
Will you cry?
"You don't have to," Sansa reassured him. She didn't mean to pry or dishearten him... "But Arya-"
"-was alive and left Westeros a year ago. Is all I know."
"Why haven't you told me?"
"I was going to," he shrugged, "but there was never a right moment."
Arya. Alive, alive, alive…
I'm not the only one…
But her most intimate happiness didn't depend on her family anymore. She had to make her own home.
"You announced you wouldn't consider marriage for a time," he went to the point, always faster than her in calling troubles by their name.
"Is that why you're drunk?" she countered, her voice lowering, unrecognisable, older.
"No," he dismissed her.
"Is it because of the dragon?" she asked further, unable to see his reasons, needing to understand them in order to continue breathing.
It was the wrong thing to ask.
"What dragon?" he was irascible now. "I haven't seen a dragon. Has your prince returned for you? I'm drunk because I wanted to be sloshed. I like it better than the milk of the poppy Gregor used to drink to pass out. Why are you asking so many times? The lady doesn't like the smell?"
Her nose was wrinkled with displeasure, Sansa realised.
"Does your noble nose hurt?" He continued mocking her.
My heart hurts.
"No," Sansa replied quickly, wondering if she could live with the shame of proposing marriage to him now, if his hateful refusal would be her only answer. Or a careless remark to hop off and leave.
Let him be. Let him drink. Let him hate the world at will.
She had letters to write. A castle to run. She had to survive the nobles and their intrigues, the Maesters and their poisons, the gods knew what else. She had to pray for her family, and wait for her siblings to return. She would write to Aegon, to swear fealty and offer an alliance, and to wish him joy in his future union with Princess Arianne Martell (hinted in his aunt's letter, if she still recalled correctly). She'd say she would be delighted to attend the wedding if she had the honour to receive their kind invitation. (In company of her betrothed… her husband… they should marry before Rickon arrived home if this could be arranged.) And she would send men to the Wall, to this new war, as many as were eager to go and could be spared… The Wardens of the North couldn't be absent from a conflict involving their domain… Joining the Night's Watch was considered noble by the Starks...
She cleared her throat. There was no point in delaying her humiliation, if that was her destiny. She had to be brave, crossing her part of the imaginary, flimsy bridge hanging above the chasm between them, hoping he could cross his. Hoping they would meet in the middle, entangled forever, heart and soul.
Opening her mouth-
"Marry me," he said.
-she never closed it, gaping like a little fish, unable to answer.
"Marry me," he repeated.
She was nodding, though she still couldn't speak.
She realised she was expecting him to help her, to nudge her in one direction, to say yes for her, in some way.
He wouldn't, wanting from her what she wanted from him, the knowledge that she had mastered her temper, her insecurities and fears.
That she spoke her heart plainly instead of lying, or accepting him with a cold heart, feigning obedience to his wishes.
"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded hollow, frightened, untrue. She hated herself for it, wishing it were different, stronger, confident, womanly. What he wanted. What he needed to believe in her.
"Yes?" he questioned, needing more words.
She always had so many, and now she found none.
"I-"
"You what?"
His patience was nearing its end, and there it was, she saw it, the moment he became truly angry, when she wasn't good enough, the moment he would despise her and dismiss her, despite that she had given him herself, more than once; every feeling in her soul, every inch of her body.
Everything.
Time stopped, silence reigned, the leaves of the tree rustled, water hummed in the pond, disturbed by the night breeze.
He surprised her, kissing her instead of becoming hateful; long and sound.
She didn't like it, but she let him.
Because she loved him...
Are you passing me your anger in a kiss?
He had the taste of cold, acid wine, and she was happy when he stopped.
"I'll get another wine skin and ask you as many times as it takes to get a proper answer…" he murmured.
"And will you kill me if it's not what you want to hear?" Her question was unbidden, curious, and she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.
He began to disarm haphazardly, tossing away his swordbelt on which he carried a knife, shedding off the scabbard with the greatsword from his back.
"Drag it all out of my reach," he ordered. "Tie me if you wish. Or find some guards if you want, who can kick me out over my past transgressions. The boy, Old Royce, they'll help. I drank enough not to be a threat. A few of them will manage."
"Take your weapons back," she commanded, dismayed, insulted by his carelessness.
She wanted him to be able not to resort to murderous thoughts and deeds when he was with her, even when he was fully armed.
To trust her no matter what she said, to talk to her calmly if she gave offence, to set aside his mindset of a killer when they were together.
She didn't want it to be necessary to tie him or disarm him when he was in a foul mood in order to feel safe.
He retrieved his sword.
Drawing it with great speed and precision, despite being drunk, he pressed it on her throat, like before. "Is this what you want?" His voice was deadly cold.
She stiffened, feeling frozen, chilled to the bone. Her nightmare was back. She hated the touch of men. Her captors dictated her fate. Her lover was her butcher, and she never saw it coming.
Violence was all there was, undeserved, unwanted, unavoidable.
"No," she answered, collapsing inwardly, melting.
A treacherous tear fell. One, then another.
Why can't you understand?
At times he saw through her better than she understood herself, and on other occasions he was more mistaken about her than the courtiers who looked through the insipid traitor's daughter.
If only she understood herself better, then maybe she could make him see-
"Yes, I want to marry you," she finally confessed; drained, defeated, ruined by love, sensing cold steel against her pulse. "I haven't stopped thinking about it since the first time you asked. I think… I believe that we might be able to enforce our will in this matter if we're careful and clever… I've been thinking about how we could arrange it since I entered the Great Hall tonight. The moment is opportune… History is brewing in the Seven Kingdoms. The players… the pawns… They aren't the same. The rules of the game are changing. We should act soon. Before Rickon is lord and I only his marriageable sister."
He laughed raucously. "You truly are stupid, aren't you? Not even dogs love a hand that beats them."
This was a very cruel thing to say.
Her pulse trembled against his blade. She didn't know whether she was grateful or sad that his drunken arm was so well trained in swordsmanship that it never shook from holding it.
"I don't love it. I hate when you do this." She'd repeat everything to him now, not caring if he saw her as an empty-headed bird or if she'd told him all this before. "I hated every time you mocked me when I was a child, not understanding half of what you said. I abhor when I am treated like… like an animal to be manhandled and led around… despite kicking and screaming. I hate having to feign submission. I want… I want the other you. I fell in love with… with the man who heard my song and left me alone… unharmed… I longed for that man to come back, not for the one who attacked me over my innocence… I know, I know, they are one and the same! I'm not asking you to be someone else… because I would hate that too! I don't want you to be the Knight of Flowers… I want you to be you… And I hope that I can learn to accept this part of you…. If you can't be otherwise, or find it in your heart to always be kind. Am I so stupid? You tell me."
She felt like they had the same useless conversation so many times before… She had nothing more to tell.
He sheathed his sword mechanically, hauling the scabbard on his back once more. Cinching his swordbelt with practiced gestures, he remained armed in her presence.
Calm as a dove.
Lost.
"I hate myself for this, every time," he admitted, burned lips thinning, scars twitching madly, eyes stormy and grey. "Understand, Sansa, I couldn't… after seeing you as the Lady of Winterfell, and bloody sers toasting to your marriage, I knew my time was up... I couldn't delay any longer… Or someone else would take over. I couldn't let my chance slip through my fingers… but I didn't know if I could bring myself to ask you to marry me again so soon if I stayed sober. I always… I always told you more when drunk. Hateful things… but not only… right?"
He stared at her with a questioning gaze.
"No, not only," she hummed, pulling a long hair out of his eye instinctively. "You have your answer," she continued, melody and softness returning to her voice. Her heart felt warmer, beating carefully. "Is it the one you wanted?"
"Can I disarm now?" He asked for her permission, sounding ashamed, perhaps.
"If that is your wish," she conceded, offering him her hands for the third time, looking timidly into his face.
Fingers intertwining, fine and craggy ones knitted together.
The man she loved existed in truth. She didn't invent him. He was returning now… or rather, had never been entirely gone, just buried deep under the Hound's mask. Or else she would have been dead by now; one of the many nameless victims of the Blackwater Battle, ruined beyond recognition.
He was here. Hearing her. Listening to her in his loneliness. Coming out of his shell. Crossing that tiny, imagined bridge leading towards her on his own…
Over and over again.
"You were right about the boy," he rasped quietly, nervously caressing her palms. "He's grown. And he surely has a weakness for older girls. He met Stannis' daughter on the Wall and proposed marriage to her. Her mother couldn't say yes without Stannis' permission. Now she might."
"He has a drawing of her," Sansa mentioned, giddy about Robin's happiness; her curiosity finally satisfied with Sandor's explanation.
"He made it himself," her betrothed confirmed what she'd already thought.
"He also has a soft spot for scars," Sansa murmured, blushing.
"There's more," Sandor declared stonily, ignoring the mention of scars.
You will believe me one day, will you?
Had he been handsome, she would have never averted her eyes. He wouldn't have provoked her to look at him.
She wouldn't have seen further than his face. She wouldn't have started to fear for him... to have him in her thoughts… or in her heart.
She might have missed her chance for happiness...
His hands nearly broke hers from how tense he was. "The boy wants to give me some lands," he stated with feigned indifference. "They should be pretty and cold, like yours. Near the buggering waterfall. No one wants them because people are credulous, and Alyssa was cursed. They're not very big, but few can compare to yours…"
What are you saying?
"Do you…" She prayed she wasn't mistaken in her assumptions. "Do you want to build me a home?"
He looked down and then into her eyes, shrugging.
"You do? That is… That's lovely!" she exclaimed. "But," she frowned gently, "do you not want to return… to your sister's grave?" she dared ask. "Where the three dogs died in yellow grass?"
He had his dead as well. His crypts.
He was silent, uptight. "I might. For a visit," he added quickly. "But would you? It's far away and it's not pretty, even before Gregor, who must have ruined it. He had two wives and killed them both. I don't know what's there. I should… I should claim my grandfather's lands, I suppose. For the leg he lost, for the dogs that died…"
"Why wouldn't I go there? One day?" Sansa fantasised about seeing that yellow grass and the high walls of his keep.
"You would accompany me?"
"It would please me," she confessed, curious, intrigued, ignoring the memory of Ser Gregor, pitying his dead wives. "You've been to my home twice. Should I not see yours?"
"If you say so," he sounded very uncertain, and maybe a bit open to the notion. After a little while, he announced decisively, "I'll take the boy on his offer and let the little falcon call me ser, if your northern gnats will then overlook what and who I am, and let me have their lady."
"You're my future lord husband," Sansa teased him a little, feeling… light. Healed. Saved for the time being.
"Not a lord," he said, defensively.
Was it him, parroting himself? A very large bird from the Summer Isles, empty-headed like herself.
Hope crept into Sansa's heart, unstoppable.
On an impulse, she squatted. The black lake was cold, but much less so than snow.
"Come," she said, standing up, dragging him with her by the hand.
He strolled after her, heavy like a boulder, rolling.
Another pool was nearby, in the direction of the old guest house, a hot spring. A rarity in Seven Kingdoms, to be found only in Winterfell and on Dragonstone.
Boots were unnecessary.
A hem of the dress lifted high. A soft woollen sock, prised off slowly. Her slim foot, teasing the bubbling surface of the spring, drawing circles on it, splashing. The simple joy of her young years, returned to her.
A gulp, in the darkness. A far more intriguing sound than a cold-hearted rasp.
His weapons, abandoned with his garments.
A secret, shared.
A peck on her lips, a brief one, thankfully. Saving both her and him from suffering the pain of rejection, due to his continued poor scent.
Hands on her back, unlacing.
An ache; fresh, persistent, weakening.
Splotchy, sprinkling water.
A dress, one of the few she had, possibly ruined, set aside. Her hair in a knot on top of her head, not to become wet.
Carelessness. Immersion.
A fantasy of being - inside the waterfall.
Alyssa's Tears.
A man's closeness, wanted, dreaded, longed for. Too much too bear. Too little.
Yearning.
A breast, teased thoroughly. The narrowing of her waist grasped, held tightly.
A skin much darker than her own revealed under moonlight. The ugly smell of wine slowly replaced by another, sharp and yet sweet, born of embraces. The curve of a hard muscle under her lips. The harshness of a shoulder bone. A behind much firmer than her own, caught by surprise under her roaming fingers.
The absence of fear. The freedom. No sides. Levity. No laying on her back.
No duty.
Time.
Standing together. Floating. Flowing.
His manhood in her hands, his touch in her folds.
A long, deep kiss, tasting of warm water.
A need to dry, after night swimming. Clumsiness. Small laughs. Raspy. Giggly. His tunic as her towel. Her hair moist, despite the knot, now loosened, spilling over her back. His hair, soaked. Him, wringing it out.
A murmur in her ears. A room in the guest house he'd found for himself. Just above the pool, overlooking it.
The entrance to the guest house… Outside the godswood. Too far. She can't possibly! Not like this. Dishevelled. Heat in her face. What did she think she was doing?
The wall of the guest house. Rough masonry. A stairway. Dangerous. Or not truly. Not as high. A possibility.
Huge hands on her waist, lifting her up. Climbing up the wall in a damp gown. Childish. Improper. Her, not caring. Him, humming with approval, clambering behind her. A stone becoming loose and falling, from his weight. A roll, a thud, a tiny avalanche.
Her, already up, at the open window, glancing down at him, concerned, needlessly.
Him, catching up, cursing, helping her to crawl over the windowsill.
Her, wondering why he'd let the window open in this cold, shivering madly from the chill. He couldn't have known they'd do this.
Fire, blazing in the hearth, answering her query, perhaps.
Him, closing the window, for her.
A much poorer bed than in the lord's chamber in the Eyrie. A featherbed nonetheless. Dry and warm.
A sign of Winterfell, surviving and preserving its riches, despite everything.
Like her, like him.
Enduring adversity.
Conversation without words. Long due. Easier to pursue without the sweet distraction of water. Incredibly gentle at first. A sincere apology, if there ever was any.
Given…
And accepted.
Then… Hands becoming more daring. Lips more demanding. Embraces more intense.
Wondrous.
The greatsword of her true knight forgotten in the godswood.
The distant face of the heart tree, smiling.
THE END
This story is now complete and it represents my best shot at conveying the essential about two fictional book characters, in a story format.
SanSan in a nutshell ;-))
There could be an epilogue in September, exploring how characters might react when significantly older, after years of living together. This depends a bit on how shocked I will be (or not) by the show summaries this summer ;-))
The music that goes with the very end of this last chapter could be Once Upon a Time in the West by Ennio Morricone.
Dear, clever readers,
Have a great summer.
Thank you so much for reading and sharing your views with me.
It has been a pleasure ;-)))