"Sansa?"
"Yes, my lord?" She is walking towards the solar when her husband comes into the dim hallway to look for her. He looks serious now, and so she hopes that nothing is amiss. He holds out his hand to her and she hurries towards him but when she sees the delight in his eyes before he breaks into a smile for her, she knows that all is well.
"Gifts for you…from Dorne. Come now," he tells her.
There in the solar is an opened crate with its rough wooden top lying against its side and straw scattered around the floor. On the table are several large leather-bound tomes and two smaller leather cases with spring fastenings.
"Prince Oberyn has been good to his word, my lady," the maester tells her now, "and has sent you these works on childbearing from his days at the Citadel…there is another work on herblore," he adds dismissively. "The strong box contains oils such as those he offered for the treatment of your chest cold, my lord," he says to the Greatjon now, and he and Sansa exchange knowing glances before looking away from each other and back to the maester.
"Do you disapprove that my lady should learn herblore then, maester?" the Greatjon asks the man. "Certainly you make use of the herbs that are grown in the castle garden as well as those you gather from the nearby woods and pastures?"
"Indeed, my lord, as I am trained in their cultivation and uses and most importantly in the proper administration and dosages of such remedies. Forgive me if I believe that such a study must be a dedicated one; not a passing fancy," he says carefully.
"Then I trust that I may come to you with any questions, maester, so that I do not misunderstand such serious matters," Sansa says smilingly.
"Of course, my lady," he obliges her politely as he turns back with the smaller leather case. "Shall I open this one, my lord?"
The Greatjon is reading the scroll that is enclosed with the goods and looks up now. "Hm? Oh, that is for Lady Umber: it says so here is the prince's own hand. It is a gift to thank us for our hospitality, Sansa. He says that he believes that I already have everything a man can want, and so he offers a gift to my lady instead. Go on, open it," he prompts her mildly.
Sansa springs the little catch with a withheld breath, but then gasps audibly when she sees what is inside. Then she blanches and feels cold all over, even with the hearth fire of the solar built high.
"What is it, Sansa?" her husband asks now as he comes to stand beside her.
Inside a leather case lined with deep red silk sits an elaborate necklace wrought in gold and fine gems in the shape of a fiery sun. The centre is a large ruby, and the fashioned rays encircling it are studded with amber stones. The chain is heavy gold links, and she can imagine the weight of it around her collar just by looking at it. She cannot help feeling that he is branding her with his sigil, only without the lethal spear that pierces the sun.
"Ah, quite…extravagant," the Greatjon remarks hesitantly. "Very generous, is it not, Sansa?"
She cannot help shaking her head. "It- It is quite extravagant: you are right, my lord. And very Southron," she adds, knowing that is what he is thinking and so will not chide her for disliking a gift sent by a man that he counts as a friend. "I fear it is very costly, as well, my lord and so mayhaps I should refuse-"
He waves her concern away. "Prince Oberyn and Prince Doran likely wear more jewels and finery that this in their palaces when breaking their fast. The Dornish are like that, Sansa: decked out almost like courtesans for everyday. I'm sure he means well by it; and those red and dark yellow stones will flatter your hair, I am certain," he smiles at her now.
She returns an uncomfortable smile. "If…if it please you, my lord," she replies and closes the case carefully before setting it back on the table. She peers into the crate which she can see is still half-full.
"The rest are Dornish wines," the Greatjon tells her and the maester. "Best have them brought to the cellars then…unless you would like to keep some upstairs, Sansa?"
"No, thank you, my lord," she answers quickly. "I prefer Arbor wines, as you know," she adds with a more certain smile. He does know her preference and ensures that cases of Arbor gold are brought from White Harbor when they arrive in port. She had needed to insist that bringing in lemons in winter was an unnecessary extravagance, and that he had not needed to do so just to please her. She could not in good conscience enjoy delicacies when everyone was supposed to be on rations, she had reminded him. She wonders now how many crates of lemons Prince Oberyn's necklace would have brought; and thinks that they should have left a less sour taste in her mouth that his sun in splendor blazing around her neck. She continually needs to sit up and square her shoulders as they dine in the Great Hall that night; she finds that she is hunching over instinctively, to attempt to hide it from view and rid herself of its weight. But the Greajon bid her wear it and she has obeyed him dutifully though she feels that she would almost rather dine in the hall naked.
"Why d'you laugh, Mama?" Serena asks her now when she overhears her mother's mirthless snort.
Sansa smiles at her daughter across the table. "I was thinking how nice it should be to truly see the great sun and to feel its warmth again." It has been cloudy and damp for sennight and, though it is less cold, her husband's cough has been worrisomely persistent.
"Guess we'll needs make do with that gaudy mess you've been gifted instead; least 'til Spring comes," Uncle Hother grumbles from where he is seated next to Eddard. He has been dining in company with them since Mors was buried in the crypts. "Is that right, then: giving jewels to another man's wife now? Don't seem right somehow," he continues.
"Gifts should be honoured; and I'll not be one to give insult, nor will Lady Umber," the Greatjon states firmly to him in a manner that indicates that the subject is closed.
Later, attendants bring the large tub and buckets of water for the lord's bath, and Sansa empties a glass vial of the eucalyptus oil into the hot water. Once he has settled behind the screen and the attendants have left he calls to her:
"Sansa," he clears his throat, "do you mean to join me?"
She steps behind the screen now dressed in her robe which she lets drop once he sees her there. He nods approvingly when he sees the necklace around her neck.
"That is more like it," he murmurs when he recognizes the simpler garnet pendant he had once gifted her. It is the only thing she wears beneath her robe.
"Yes, I prefer the gifts you bestow on me, my lord," she smiles slyly as she steps into his bath and settles across his lap.
"Let's make use of this oil then…after all, it was a gift and a gift should be honoured," he jests merrily he reaches for her.
Later, when they are beneath the furs in their bed, he speaks again:
"It was good of you to wear the necklace, Sansa; even if you don't like it. Best we not give insult to the Martells for they are close to the throne now. The queen remembers that her sister-in-law was a Martell of Dorne…and her niece and nephew were half-Dornish."
"You killed the Mountain: the man who murdered Princess Elia and her son, my lord. Surely that counts for something. And how should they know if I did not wear the necklace?" she asks guilelessly.
He tightens his arms around her and she can hear a low feral growl from deep in his throat.
"Who knows what they know now, Sansa, with that mincing spider back in the service of the throne. Lord Varys," his voice sneers, "cannot be trusted by anyone. He vanished the night Kings Landing fell to Renly; and though he was not a soldier I feel it was no less desertion on his part, him and that vile little Imp," he grumbles darkly. "A Lannister in power again: what was that girl thinking to make him her Hand? It's as though we never fought at all: your father and brother died for nothing."
Sansa clings tighter to him now. "Lord Tyrion is Hand again? But surely Queen Daenerys knows that his father's army was responsible for the sack of Kings Landing during the Rebellion? Why should she trust him?"
"Old Tywin cared nothing for his dwarf son: refused to leave him the Rock when his golden son became a member of the Kingsguard. Mayhaps he wanted revenge: they sent him out into the vanguard when Joffrey's dog deserted him. It was thought he was dead for the longest time but they never found trace of him: it was years before he was heard to be in the East. And the Imp is cunning, they say."
"He- he was not so unkind to me as the others," Sansa ventures, "but he is still a Lannister." She remembers that he ordered her father's head and those of his household taken down off the walls of the Red Keep, and how he was the only one to speak up when Joff had her stripped and beaten. But he had disappeared when the battle for Kings Landing had seemed to be over, and probably her life as well; only the Hound had risked himself to protect her.
"Thought our time for bending the knee to Kings Landing was at an end," he laments, "all my life…had a bellyful of them: Southron kings. We won our independence, and now the little dragon queen wants us back in the fold."
"How so, my lord?" Sansa whispers to him.
"Lord Manderly says she has asked his unmarried granddaughter to court for the honour of attending her: the honour she calls it. When has anything good come of Northerners going South to court, I ask you?"
"Never," she whispers flatly.
"Well, mayhaps the Old Man in the North during the Hour of the Wolf: Cregan Stark could handle the Targaryens right enough but he chose to return North," he ventures until he notices that Sansa has gone completely quiet in his arms.
"Hm? Forgive me, Sansa," he turns to her now, "I bring back bad memories for you."
"Do you think…do you think she will ask for children from every Northern house, my lord?" Sansa asks hesitantly.
"She can ask…and we can refuse, or stall her and her council. She is not like to send an army North so soon after taking the throne; and most will not want to come so close to the Wall when they know what's beyond it," he growls with satisfaction. "But it time…we cannot know what she will want from us in time, Sansa."
"The children…Robb's children, even Rickon?"
The Greatjon reaches to smooth her hair back from her brow and kisses her forehead and looks into her eyes in the dimness of the glowing fire and the candles that are burning down on the mantle of the hearth.
"Sansa, I promise you that no harm will ever come to you, or to our children, as long as I am alive to protect you, do you understand? I promise you, Sansa," he murmurs intensely and then kisses her tenderly.
Sansa cups his cheek as she kisses him back. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you."
…
The air is still damp and the skies are still cloudy when they gather in the yard to greet the sledges full of wildling children when they finally arrive at Last Hearth. Sansa is particularly excited to hear that her youngest brother Rickon is travelling from the Wall in their company on his return journey to Winterfell. He had remained a long time with Jon after Robb's death; and the Stark family had worried that they would lose another member to the service of the Night's Watch. But now he is heading home, and Sansa has not seen him since she had left Winterfell to be married.
Her heart fills when he rides through the gates: he resembles a young Robb, and Sansa realizes that he is near two-and ten. He is the same age that she was when she saw her father die, and so he has lived most of his life without him, she realizes. She wonders how well he remembers him, if at all; and now he has lost his oldest brother too. As heartbroken as she has felt to have lost Robb, she wonders how much more he must have meant to Rickon: he would doubtless have been the closest thing he had as a father for most of his young life.
He dismounts his horse and lopes towards them with Shaggydog and Grey Wind at his heels. Robb's direwolf breaks away suddenly, and heads straight to the Greatjon.
"We meet again, wolf," her husband murmurs as he reaches to stroke the wolf's head. Grey Wind sits on his haunches before him. "Told him he'd have a home here if he wanted," he speaks to Rickon now, "though I expect you want him back in Winterfell."
"Well, it's been his home for years now, Lord Umber," he replies and bows to his host.
"Let that be the last formality between us," the Greatjon offers his hand warmly and pats the young man on the back. "You're bigger than even the last time I saw you…though I was near flat-out on my back then. You are welcome at Last Hearth: my lady's family is my family too."
"Sansa," her youngest brother greets her awkwardly and looks her over. "You're older," he remarks.
"Yes, Rickon," she tells him softly, "and so are you. It is so sweet to see you again: it has been so very long," she opens her arms to embrace him and he stands still for her before stepping back and clearing his throat. She is momentarily hurt, and reminded of how she felt when young Eddard first broke from her embrace.
He is almost a man now, she realizes. She hopes it is not a lack of affection for her that makes him pull away, but she is uncertain.
She sees over his shoulder that the sledges have come to a halt and that the soldiers are helping the wildling children out to set them down. A few are looking around curiously but not moving from where they stand. She smiles at her youngest brother and makes her excuses.
"Pray forgive us, Rickon: we have very young guests to greet. I promise that we will talk later."
She follows the Greatjon now to where some wildling women are now gathering smaller children together and they look up warily when her husband approaches them. Sansa suspects that the wildlings are as unsure about Northerners as those at Last hearth are about wildlings.
"Free folk," her lord intones respectfully, "you are welcome at Last Hearth. I am Lord Umber, called the Greatjon, and I introduce Lady Umber, my wife and sister to the Warden of the North."
"Sister to Lord Crow too; and a Stark as well? Tormund said you'd be kissed by fire. That'd be lucky North of the Wall; though red-haired Wights rose as well so they weren't that lucky," an gnarled older woman speaks frankly. She is lean and worn-looking and wears ragged furs that match her greying hair. "So…you're a lord then?"
"I am, woman," the Greatjon tells her firmly. "And who might you be?"
"Myrtle is my name; and when do we kneel, Lord Umber?"
"You don't," he tells her shortly. "You kneel to kings and queens. Men bow their heads to their lord, and ladies curtsey."
"Best we bow then, Myrtle: we be no ladies," the other woman cracks and cackles at her.
The Greatjon smiles at that, and then laughs his booming laugh with them. Sansa ducks her head and smiles as well; but inside her mind, a memory stirs:
I am no knight.