Lothor Brune lightly rapped at the door of her bed chamber as dawn came tumbling over the horizon. Sansa had already been awake when he came, quietly anticipating the morning while embraced by the warmth of her bed. Small, meandering snowflakes shimmered as the sun broke over the mountains, painting the ragged landscape in hues of blue and green. She dressed quickly in the dimness of her chamber and took deep breaths to calm her nerves. Gods, what if they don't believe me? What if they know that I am lying?
Suddenly, his face flashed in her mind, the twisted mass of his scars slick and crimson red, his rough mouth twitching slightly, his eyes white with rage. 'Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know.' His words resonated through her worried mind and she knew that they were true, at least when she was in King's Landing. But what about now? My entire identity is fabricated. Surely, I must be better at lying now than I was then. Besides, none of the Lords Declarant, to my knowledge, are dogs.
A thin smile spread about her lips before becoming suddenly aware of the pang of bittersweet sadness swelling within her. If only he were here. He would know the truth, he would know that I am not Alayne Stone, but Sansa Stark. But would he truly know me? The Sansa he knew was childish and naïve, a head filled with songs and a heart filled with silly little dreams of knights and fair maidens, flowers and dancing, feasts and tourneys.
The thought deeply disturbed Sansa. Sometimes she would stare at herself in the mirror, running her fingers through her dark hair, studying her own face and features trying to find where Sansa Stark ended and Alayne Stone began. She felt as though her identity was somewhere in between; neither the wide-eyed child that was Sansa Stark nor the world-wary woman that was Alayne Stone. I have never felt as lost as I do now.
Sansa stared out the small, thickly paned window of her chamber as the snowflakes whirled by like tiny dancers pirouetting about one another. The Eyrie was truly breath taking. Had she come under happier circumstances, she would have drunk in its beauty through misty eyes while daydreaming about being a damsel in the Maiden's Tower, waiting for some gallant knight to rescue her. Suddenly, the room seemed darker to her and colder too. I am no true damsel and there are no true knights looking for me. I am a prisoner here. No one is coming for me.
Her thoughts were dashed as she heard Ser Lothor again knocking at her door, this time more persistent. "My Lady, before long the Lords Declarant will be gathering in the High Hall. If it please my lady, we must make haste." At that, Sansa crossed the room and stepped out into the corridor.
"I beg pardon, ser. I apologize for keeping you." Ser Lothor gently took her arm in his and escorted her to the High Hall. There was a calm assuredness about Ser Lothor that Sansa admired. He faintly reminded her of Jory Cassel, captain of her father's guards at Winterfell. All of the men in her father's service were deeply loyal, strong and sincere, a reflection of the man that was Lord Eddard Stark. The thought made Sansa smile as she inclined her head to look up at Ser Lothor.
"What is it, my Lady?" he inquired, smiling back at her, eager to be let in on some imagined jape.
Still smiling, she shook her head, and gently squeezed his forearm with her hand. "Nothing, ser. It's nothing."
The Lords Declarant had been discussing the details surrounding Lysa Arryn's death for the greater part of the morning. Mostly they had argued amongst themselves, their disaccord clearly a delight to Petyr who looked on with amusement gleaming in his eyes. The conversation came to a lull as the kitchen servants fluttered into the High Hall to serve them their breakfast. Sansa had hoped for some reprieve from the unrelenting stare of Lord Yohn Royce.
Littlefinger seemingly read her thoughts, as he often did. Truly, he was gifted at puzzling out the intentions of others regardless of how elaborate the guise. "My Lords and Lady, let us enjoy a meal together. Shall we put aside our morbid discussion for something a bit more uplifting? I've heard that Lollys Stokeworth has finally taken a husband. I should imagine Lady Tanda is beside herself with joy."
Lord Gilwood Hunter shifted in his seat, obviously perturbed. "Lord Baelish, we did not make the perilous journey to this Gods forsaken place to gossip over our tea cups and honey cakes like giggling maidens. You must take us for fools, Littlefinger, if you mean to distract us with your pleasantries. Now, if it please my Lords, let us get on with it!"
The others who made up the Lords Declarant quietly nodded their agreement at his suggestion to forgo any further banter and continue discussing the issues at hand.
Petyr remained quiet, the amusement retreating from his eyes, before lifting his head to meet the impatient stare of Lord Hunter. "Forgive me, my Lords, if my jest has given offense. My late wife's death has left me bereft, to say the least." Seemingly appeased for the moment, Lord Hunter settled in his seat, resting his chin on steepled fingers. Sansa let out an internal sigh of relief when Petyr started in somberly relaying the events that had taken place in the High Hall the day that her Aunt had taken her tumble out the Moon Door. Lady Waynwood looked on dubiously as Littlefinger, through tearful eyes and clenched jaw, told of his anguish at finally having been able to wed his childhood sweetheart, only to have her ripped away from him so soon.
Liar. It was my mother's name on your lips when you pushed Lysa Arryn out of the Moon Door.
A wave of heat burned on Sansa's face as anger flared within her. She pondered the feeling. She had always been meek, soft-spoken, shy even. At Winterfell, Arya had made a game of trying to find little ways to annoy her; flinging food at her from across the supper table while their mother and father were occupied, hiding her silken hair ribbons in obscure places throughout the Great Keep, mocking her as she practiced the songs Septa Mordane taught them while diligently doing her needlework. Even then, she never truly became angry. Instead, tears would fill her eyes and spill over her cheeks, warm and salty, and she would cry into her pillow as her mother softly hushed her while gently stroking her hair.
The feeling bubbling from within was different. She found that no tears threatened to spill forth from her eyes, but instead her hands were balled into fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. I could strike him. My family is gone, scattered in the winds, dust in the ground, and he dare speak of anguish.
"Was this the way of it, child?" Sansa's anger escaped her suddenly as Lord Horton Redfort turned to her, his voice quietly reassuring. She swept her eyes over the faces of the Lords Declarant, all of them staring at her blankly, but eagerly awaiting her reply.
"Yes, my Lord. My father speaks truly. I saw it all with mine own eyes." She let her gaze retreat to the floor, lest her eyes betray her. She worked intently at steadying her breath. 'They're all liars here… and every one better than you.' Oh gods, I hope they believe me.
A brief silence blanketed the group before Lord Belmore cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice booming off the High Hall walls, the irritation thick in his voice.
"Well then, it appears we all concur that the Lady Lysa's death was a terrible tragedy. That is hardly the reason we have made our journey here. Lord Baelish, if you would be so kind, the Lords Declarant will require some time to discuss these matters amongst ourselves."
Petyr flashed a tense, forlorn smile, one that feigned compliance. He quietly rose from his seat. "Of course, my Lords. Take as much time as you require. My daughter and I will leave you to your matters." With that, Petyr gave a slight bow before spinning on his heel and taking Sansa lightly by her arm. "Come, my sweet."
Once safely in the corridor outside of the High Hall, she let relief wash over her, relishing it as it came and letting the tension melt from her body. Gods be good, they believed me. They believed everything.
Despite the long-awaited relief from the unrest she had felt in the High Hall, something troubling was starting to gnaw at her, an uneasiness that settled at the pit of her stomach.
Once at the end of the corridor from the High Hall, Littlefinger abruptly stopped and turned to face her directly, cupping her cheeks in the palm of his hands. "We have not yet heard the end of this, Sweetling, surely you must know that. They have not come here, these Lords Declarant, to investigate the nature of my sweet wife's death. Marillion's last song was a confession. There was little and less to discuss where that was concerned."
With a furrowed brow, Sansa nodded her head slightly. I could have guessed as much. Where else would this feeling of dread be coming from?
Littlefinger inclined her chin lightly with the tips of his fingers so that her eyes met his. "It seems the common belief amongst our visitors is that I have no claim over my role as Lord Protector of the Vale despite Lysa Arryn's written declaration stating as much. Surely, they will demand our Sweetrobin as a ward. Undoubtedly, one of these Lords will want to raise him up to be a brave knight, one befitting of songs and stories."
Sweetrobin as a knight. He loves the knights in the story books, almost as much as I used to. The thought may have made Sansa smile, if the feeling of foreboding hadn't been so suffocating. It hung thick in the air between her and Littlefinger, stifling her breath and causing her stomach to turn.
"What will you do?," she inquired softly and lowering his eyes, her voice sounding tremulous in her own ears.
Littlefinger chuckled and pulled hard on her chin so that her lips crushed into his, holding her there for a long moment before letting her squirm away. "Such an inquisitive mind! You shall find out soon enough. Now be a sweet and prepare my solar for the Lords Declarant. You will escort them there once they have finished discussing these private matters of theirs." His eyes were gleaming pools of guile.
She liked it not.
The Lords Declarant deliberated for two hours after which Sansa led them to Petyr's solar, as instructed. They walked wordlessly down the corridor, the journey agonizingly awkward. Her instincts were compelling her to fill the silence with courteous conversation, perhaps a discussion of the morning's snow shower which had dusted the Eyrie in wisps of sparkling snowflakes. Before she could gather a handful of polite words, an acute perceptiveness beseeched her to remain reticent to which she complied. When they reached Petyr's solar, she knocked lightly before opening the door and hesitantly peering her head in. Petyr was seemingly unaware of her presence as he studied a parchment of paper in earnest. Finally, he sighed deeply before placing the parchment on the table at which he was seated. He smiled at her calmly and spoke softly.
"Alayne, my sweet daughter, please see the Lords Declarant in." He sat back in his chair as the guests filed into the solar and one-by-one took their seats at the table. Once they were all seated, Sansa turned towards the door to take her leave, but was interrupted by Littlefinger's voice as she reached for the door handle.
"Alayne, be so kind as to pour our guests some wine." Sansa was bewildered as she turned around slowly. Littlefinger nodded his head towards a ceramic flagon placed on a small table adjacent to the door of the solar. Why would he want me to stay?
Sansa methodically made her way around the table, willing herself to remain as discreet as possible while reaching between the Lords Declarant to retrieve their cups from the table. She had been invisible to them with the exception of Ser Lyn Corbray. He was a handsome man, tall and lithe, but something about his frigid stare filled her with dread, so much so her hands began to tremble slightly as she poured wine into his glass. A thin stream of arbor gold missed his cup and began spilling freely onto the table next to his goblet. While he did not speak in protest, a subtle sneering smile flickered about his lips. He's enjoying this.
The Hound had once frightened Sansa as well and he too seemed to take a strange sort of pleasure in the fear he elicited from her. However, she never truly believed that the Hound would ever harm her. However, Sansa was quite certain Ser Lyn was a dangerous man who would hurt her, if given the chance.
None of the Lords Declarant seemed particularly interested in their wine, save Lord Hunter who greedily emptied the contents of his cup multiple times before placing it empty on the table in front of him. His eyes were hooded with drunkenness and he swayed ever so slightly in his seat. Sansa retreated to the corner of the room and curled up quietly on a chair of velvet, her fatigue beginning to sweep over her.
She had been half listening as Petyr placated to the concerns of the Lords Declarant, and feigned a common interest in the well-being of the Vale. As Littlefinger had predicted, the conversation centered on removing Robert from the Vale and into the custody of Lord Royce.
In an effort to stave off sleep, Sansa began observing the Lords Declarant sitting around the table. They seemed somewhat apathetic to the direction the conversation had led them in; Lord Hunter in a drunken daze, Lord Belmore silently picking fuzz from his purple and grey doublet, and Lady Waynwood looking on politely with a glazed and bored stare. It seemed to Sansa that Lord Yohn Royce was the only one zealously involved in the conversation.
Sansa's eyes cautiously wandered over to where Ser Lyn was sitting. He had remained silent for much of the evening, but something about the intensity of his stare told Sansa that he was intently listening to the conversation. Suddenly, he turned to face her, his eyes hostile and calculating and the same sneering smile on his face. Sansa froze and swallowed hard before lowering her head.
Lord Royce was struggling to control his agitation. His face was turning a shade of crimson and his fists pounded the table in frustration. "We shall have Lord Robert!" Littlefinger sighed in exasperation and shook his head. Suddenly, Sansa saw Ser Lyn shift abruptly in his chair.
"All this talk makes me ill. Littlefinger will talk you out of your smallclothes if you listen long enough. The only way to settle his sort is with steel." At that, he pushed himself from his seat and unsheathed his sword in one swift motion, a blur of steel grey rippling in the candlelight. Sansa hadn't noticed Lothor Brune standing in the opposite corner of the room until he suddenly dodged forward with his own sword in his hand, steadily eying Ser Lyn.
Littlefinger flashed a delighted smile as a cacophony erupted from the Lords Declarant who all at once began to plead with Ser Lyn to put up his sword.
Lord Royce furiously flew from his chair. "Put up your steel, ser! Are you a Corbray or a Frey? We are guests here!"
At this, Ser Lyn laughed manically, but complied nonetheless and sheathed his sword. "Lords Declarant. You should have named yourselves the Six Old Women," he snickered at his own words before striding out of the room. His pace slowed as he passed Sansa, flashing her an icy glare which chilled her to the bone.
Ser Lyn's outburst had apparently shamed the Lords Declarant who decided to grant Petyr a year to sort out the ramifications of the Vale's misrule under Lysa Arryn. After an uncomfortable silence, Lord Royce shifted in his seat and resumed the conversation.
"It's all, but settled then. A year you will have. You would do well to make the most of that time, Lord Baelish," he warned through clenched teeth and furrowed brow. "As Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident, I should think you would have a vested interest in the carnage that has ensued in the Riverlands. Outlaws have all but besieged both sides of the Trident. Should they meander their way to the Bloody Gate, you had best have means of dealing with them."
Petyr scoffed at that. "Should they survive the mountain clans and shadow cats on the way to the Bloody Gate, they will sooner be patted on the back than put to the sword." His facetiousness did little to quell Lord Royce's visible irritation. Sansa's mind had begun to wander once more until she saw Lord Hunter hold his cup out for more wine, at which she rose to oblige his request. As she retreated slowly back to the comfort of the velvet chair, Lord Royce began again.
"Lest you have forgotten, the Saltpans have been savagely raided by the Hound and his band of outlaws. The town was put to the torch; men, women, and children alike slaughtered like sows. We have heard reports that the Hound himself raped a girl of two-and-ten before viciously killing a dozen men."
Sansa stopped in mid stride. Her heart pounded against her chest and her blood ran cold, followed by an instantaneous burning in her stomach. Her hands shook violently and the flagon of wine slipped through her trembling fingers, falling to the floor and shattering to pieces with a resounding crash. Silence descended upon the room as the Lords Declarant snapped their heads around in unison to look upon her, their mouths gaping and confusion spilling across their faces.
No. Gods no, he would never do something like that. He couldn't have.
Sansa held her breath to steady her heaving chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was ragged and breathy. "I beg pardon, my Lords." Petyr's glare bore into her like valyrian steel. She dare not meet his eyes.
"You have scared the poor child, Lord Royce!" scolded Lady Waynwood, "My Lords, I believe we have reached an agreement, albeit less than ideal. Lord Royce, if you wish to discuss the matters of the Riverlands further, perhaps you should do this privily with Lord Baelish." Lady Waynwood shot a fleeting glance at Sansa. "I believe it is past time we conclude this parley."
The Lords Declarant nodded in agreement. One by one, they each pushed themselves from the table and quietly retreated from the solar. Petyr bid them farewell as they left, politely smiling and wishing them a night of peaceful rest. As the last Lord Declarant left, Petyr gently shut the door and turned to where Sansa was kneeling, gathering up pieces of shattered flagon in her hands and collecting them in the folds of her skirt. The smile had all but melted from his face.
Petyr snatched her wrist in his hand, squeezing so hard that she squealed in pain. He yanked her from the floor, flinging her violently into the wall behind them. His hands flew to her shoulders and pinned her to the wall with a force surprising for a man his size.
"What sort of folly was that?" His grey-green eyes were a burning rage, his breath hissing out of his lungs.
Her hands fell to her side, pieces of the flagon raining upon the floor below. "The Hound did not do those things. He wouldn't…I mean, he watched over me in King's Landing, he was different."
Petyr swiftly swung one of his hands from her shoulder. The open palm of his hand landed heavily across her right cheek, leaving a wave of stinging pain in its wake. She gasped at the pain before his hands wrapped around her throat, his face close enough she could smell the stench of wine and mint mingling on his breath.
"And just what exactly do you think you know of Sandor Clegane?" He squeezed her throat and pressed the weight of his body against hers, pinning her helplessly against the wall.
The memories of her beatings at King's Landing flooded her mind; the memories of all those gallant knights snickering at the sight of Ser Meryn or some other knight of the Kingsguard delivering blow after blow, but unwilling to come to her aid. Knights are supposed to protect the weak. Either they were no true knights or I am not as weak as I once thought. And then she remembered; his voice was a low rasp, akin to the growl of a dog. 'Enough.' He had tried to stop it. He was the only one who tried to protect me.
Suddenly, the courage she had lacked in King's Landing erupted from within her and exploded forth. One large shard of the flagon remained in her hand. Sansa swung the shard up to meet the soft flesh of Littlefinger's cheek. She plunged the shard as deep as she could, slashing downwards to rip open his flesh which spilled red rubies of blood. With a shriek, he released the tight grip on her neck and brought his hands to the bloody gash on his face, stumbling away from her in disbelief.
Sansa gasped for air. "What I know of Sandor Clegane is that he never, not once, raised a hand against me." She was seething, a red rage filling her being.
Arya is not the only Stark with a bit of wolf in her…
A sinister laugh erupted from Littlefinger's throat, a laugh which matched the hysteria in his eyes. His teeth were stained with blood as it poured into his mouth from his gaping wound. Slowly, he paced towards her and grabbed her by her elbow, wrenching it firmly so that she could not move. He pushed his face towards her until his lips barely brushed her ear, blood dripping onto the hair covering her shoulder, his voice was just barely above a whisper.
"And since you know your dear Hound so well, indulge me in this, Sweetling. Did you know that Sandor Clegane only fucked red-headed whores since the day you arrived in King's Landing? It seems he fancied you too and given time, I'm sure he would've had you, just as he had that poor girl in the Saltpans; slipping into your bed one night while you were dreaming sweetly, ripe for the taking. He would have fucked you bloody and left you a ruin. No one wants a dog's leftovers, but he would have done it anyway. So tell me truly, Sansa, how much do you really know of your precious Hound?"
Sansa was aghast not only at the hateful words pouring from Littlefinger's bloodied mouth, but also at the way his cunning grey-green eyes darkened to a shade black as midnight, gleaming like obsidian jewels. She had finally worked her way free of his grasp. She rubbed her elbow, wincing at the pain while eying him intently. Her eyes darted about the room, seeking the most efficient means of escape. I can't be more than three paces from the door. She bit her lip while desperately strategizing how to close the distance to the door and her escape.
Petyr pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and carefully patted the blood away from his cheek, pulling the fabric away periodically to study it deliberately as if somehow trying to assess the damage that had been done to his face. He seemed preoccupied as Sansa began taking small steps backwards towards the door. He muttered curses under his breath before scowling at her.
"You're as wild as your sister. No matter, she is dead, most like, rotting somewhere. Your mother would be none too proud of what her sweet daughter has become. Oh, but I forget myself again. She is dead too. And to think that I had arranged your marriage to the future Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale. The Young Falcon shall be most disappointed when I recant my offer, to be sure, but perhaps this is for the best."
Something inside of Sansa was screaming for her to propel herself forward and savage the other side of Littlefinger's face, but her legs refused to comply. He wants me to come after him. He wants me to fall prey to some sort of trap.
She had heard of the Young Falcon, Harrold Hardyng. Sweetrobin had regaled her with stories of the Young Falcon's heroics and gallantry before proudly declaring that he, Robert Arryn, shall be the next Young Falcon. Later, Sansa had inquired about the Young Falcon with Lothor Brune. The older knight sang a different song when it came to Harry the Heir. It was widely believed that even though Ser Harrold was hardly older than Sansa, he had already fathered a bastard child. 'There are no true knights, no more than there are gods.' No true knights, indeed. Sansa was now beginning to understand Lord Royce's fervor at dismissing Littlefinger as Lord Protector of the Vale and his adamancy at removing Sweetrobin from Petyr's custody. She gathered her thoughts and began hesitantly, still taking small steps backwards to the door behind her.
"Robert Arryn will be the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the vale when he comes of age."
"Robert Arryn is a sickly boy, you know as well as I. Should something…unfortunate happen to our Sweetrobin the Young Falcon will inherit the Eyrie and the Vale." The calculating smile that descended upon Littlefinger's blood-stained lips was identical to the one that had graced his face while pushing Lysa out of the Moon Door. Sansa knew instantly what he was implying.
She shook her head in disbelief. "You're a monster." The words escaped her body as a breathless whisper.
"No more than your precious protector, the Hound," he replied mockingly, derision gleaming in his eyes before snapping at her, "Now get out, you little fool."
Sansa burst through the door of Littlefinger's solar and sprinted down the corridor as fast as her legs could carry her. The sound of her heels hitting the stone ground was a whisper in her ear against the deafening beating of her own heart. When she reached the heavy doors leading to the garden of the Eyrie, she stopped and doubled over, gasping to catch her breath. Her legs melted underneath her and she collapsed on the floor, her skirts pooling around her. The droplets of Littlefinger's blood had dried in her hair and flaked off as she smoothed the tresses from her face. Gods, I hit him. I left him there with his face a mess of blood and flesh.
Her eyes burned and she was certain that she might begin to cry. For long moments, she sat at the foot of the door to the garden, patiently awaiting the flow of tears; tears of frustration, tears of despair. However, the tears never came and instead she sat in silence, a queer beacon of clarity illuminating her mind. Sansa slowly pushed herself up to stand and sighed deeply before starting down the corridor, back towards her bed chamber. She hadn't taken more than four steps down the corridor before she stopped abruptly, willing herself to remain as still as possible.
From somewhere within her, she felt a gentle tugging as if something was beckoning her to the garden of the Eyrie. Sansa had only been in the garden once. Littlefinger kissed me in the garden while Lysa looked on. And then he pushed her from the Moon Door. Since that fateful day, Sansa had not returned to the garden, not even when Sweetrobin had pleaded with her to play come-into-my-castle with him one unseasonably warm autumn day.
The transcendent pull in the direction of the garden was as perplexing as it was powerful, as if the heavens above where speaking through her. Slowly, she obeyed, turning around and beginning towards door of the garden.
As she pushed out into the stillness of night, large glistening snowflakes were coming down steadily to blanket the ground in thick layers whilst catching on her eyelashes and dancing amongst strands of her hair. The tingle of snow melting upon her face conjured up warm memories of Winterfell. She lifted her eyes to the stars above and saw amongst them a horned moon hanging low in the sky. The Warrior's moon. Sansa watched as the moon was besieged by a cluster of dark clouds which extinguished the silvery luminescence and left the garden bathed in transient shadows.
She scanned the gardens, drinking in the solace she found there. Tall sentinels dotted the edges with patches of Moonbloom enveloping the area underneath, filling the air with their fragrant sweetness. Enchanting as it was, Sansa found that she yearned for the Godswood of Winterfell and would have given much and more to sit beneath the massive weirwood, gazing into the still pool of black water that gathered beneath it. As a child the weeping, red-eyed weirwood had frightened her and she had preferred her mother's gods, the Seven.
In King's Landing, prayers to the Seven were never far from her lips. One by one, she prayed to each of the Gods. When it would seem that her prayers went unanswered by one God, she would pray to the next. On it went, day after day, a cycle of pleading to the heavens for some reprieve. She had even incorporated the Stranger, the only God she truly feared. She had told herself that surely between seven Gods, one would have to hear her desperate pleas. The answers to her prayers never came. 'There are no true knights, no more than there are gods.' The gods have all but forgotten me, it would seem.
She contemplated the old gods, the ones her father prayed to. Many nights Lord Eddard Stark retreated to the Godswood and sat silently beneath the expansive weirwood. For long hours he would pray to the Gods that remained nameless. Those Gods had seemed strange to Sansa, some unknowable and unreachable divinity.
Perhaps those Gods will hear my prayers, whoever they might be. Sansa swept her eyes about the garden, already knowing she would find no weirwood, but looked anyway. This is a godless place.
Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't seen him sitting in the corner of the garden, hidden from the moonlight that had vanquished the clouds to once again kiss the garden in its celestial splendor.
From behind her, a voice rung through the thin, autumn air, clear as a bell. "Sansa Stark."
Sansa stifled a scream and spun herself around, almost tumbling to the ground as her feet slipped out from underneath her. Her eyes darted about the garden before she spied Lord Yohn Royce's hulking silhouette, sitting on a stone bench in the most inconspicuous corner. He rose delicately to his feet, as if afraid she might flee from him like some frightened animal. "I mean you no harm, child."
Her breath began to steady again before the fear filled her being. He knows who I am. He will take me back to King's Landing and Cersei will have my head.
"My L-l-lord…I didn't see you. You have mistaken me for someone else, I fear." Her voice was quivering. She had imagined how fearless Arya might sound in this moment and tried her best to emulate that. Somehow she sounded like a frightened child, meek and helpless.
Sensing her trepidation, Lord Royce took slow, deliberate steps towards her and reached his hand out to reach hers. "My child, if I wanted to steal you off to King's Landing back to Cersei Lannister, I could have done so already. I assure you that was never my intention."
Of course he knows who I am. How could he not? It was foolish to think otherwise. Sansa breathed in deep and poised herself to finally meet Lord Royce's eyes, something she hadn't been able to do since he arrived at the Eyrie.
"How did you know, my Lord?"
Lord Royce slowly traversed the remaining distance between them, the blanket of snow crackling under his feet, and came to stand in front of her. Gently, he brushed her chin with the tips of his fingers, inclining her head up to meet his stare. "You look so much like your mother, Sansa." He smiled down at her and for a moment he almost sounded like her father. "I had my doubts. Lothor Brune all, but gave it away when I began asking him questions about you, the mysterious Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Petyr Baelish. He regurgitated the lies Littlefinger had fed him, but the man is inept at lying, it seems. Please, come sit."
He pulled her gently down to sit beside him on a stone bench, dusted in snow, which gradually melted into cold pools and saturated the bottom of Sansa's dress. Lord Royce remained quiet for some time, a ponderous expression cast about his face.
"The War of the Five Kings, they're calling it," he started, quietly contemplating the name with a far-off stare glazing his eyes. "More like the War of Three Kings. Joffrey was no more Baratheon than I am, that was plain to see. And Balon Greyjoy was an old fool to think that he could liberate the Iron Islands from the clutches of Tywin Lannister." Lord Royce shook his head and furrowed his brow before beginning again.
"No, the War of Three Kings is more fitting. The other three self-styled kings had the only legitimate causes, each different from the others. Stannis felt that duty was the force beckoning him to the Iron Throne. Renly desired glory, beloved as he was by the highborn fools that flocked to him. And then there was your brother, the Young Wolf. He wanted vengeance for your father and to rule the north as the Starks once did in days of old as Kings of Winter, Kings of the North."
A somber smile began to form about Sansa's lips. House Stark, almost as old as time itself. We once ruled as Kings of Winter. And now we are scattered in the winds, lost and broken.
Tears began to fall from Sansa's eyes in plump drops that patted the ground softly, melting the snow where they landed. Wordlessly, Lord Royce offered Sansa a small white cloth. She accepted it and delicately patted the tears away from her cheeks.
"Duty, glory, and vengeance, all appealing in their own right, but vengeance was the only worthy cause. Your father was a great man; loyal, honest, honorable. One of the last great men, I fear. He was a ward of Jon Arryn, that much I'm sure you already know. But you never knew Jon Arryn. He was a great man too. And then there was Robert Baratheon. True enough, he became a drunken lout once he took the throne, but he too was a great man."
A pained look flushed across Lord Royce's hardened face. It was the look of regret. She had seen the same look on her father's face when they had begun their journey from Winterfell to King's Landing so long ago.
"These men, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and Robert Baratheon, have perished and the realm bleeds because of it, a gaping wound that has begun to fester. Lannisters and their hordes are all but running the seven bloody kingdoms into the pits of the deepest hell, one by one. They are poison to our existence. Your brother had the right of it; liberate the North before the poison could seep in, amputate the limb to avoid a certain death.
I wanted the Vale to support your brother in his cause. I rallied my bannermen and wished to do the same with the rest of the Vale. I tried to council your Aunt, to make her see, to make her understand the direness of the situation. She was mad with paranoia and fear by then, unreachable it seems. It makes no matter. I was too late anyway. Your brother is now the King who Lost the North, his family and his bannermen scattered and wandering the Seven Kingdoms."
Sansa lightly worked the white cloth in her hands before noticing the embroidering that was showing slightly through the folds. She opened the cloth to find the half completed direwolf of the House Stark, the one she had been working on when Lothor Brune summoned her upon the Lords Declarants' arrival to the Eyrie. Stunned, she gasped, but before she could say anything Lord Royce took her hands in his.
"You are a Stark, perhaps the last; the last of a lineage that extends thousands of years, back to the Age of Heroes. Are you familiar with my house sigil and words, Sansa?"
She searched the recesses of her memory to the long days spent listening to Maester Luwin dissert each house's sigil and words. Bran had eagerly absorbed the information, fascinated by the intertwining histories of the houses. Sansa would sit bored, daydreaming of the knights and maidens of the songs and stories she loved.
"Runestone. Your family seat is in Runestone. And you wear armor inscribed with runes, my father once told me. I had asked him why you were called Bronze Yohn."
Lord Royce laughed heartily at that. "Aye. Runes. Runes inscribed into bronze armor. Runes which have kept my ancestors from harm. Runes worked with the magic of old. The Royces, much like the Starks, are blood of the First Men, ancient wisdom coursing through our veins, hidden away somewhere forgotten. Royce words, Sansa, are 'We Remember.'"
He sighed deeply before continuing.
"Aye, and so it is. We remember. More like, we have not forgotten. Jon Arryn was snuffed out by Lysa Tully at the behest of Petyr Baelish, of this I am certain. We have not forgotten. Your father was murdered on steps of the Sept of Baelor by a bastard King. We have not forgotten. Your mother, brother, and countless good men were slaughtered at the Red Wedding by traitors and turncloaks. We have not forgotten."
Sansa sat speechless, the wind lightly playing at the loose strands of her hair which shone auburn in the moonlight, Alayne Stone yielding to Sansa Stark. Lord Royce caught one of the loose tresses delicately with his fingers contemplating the dried blood that still remained there.
"The direwolf, sigil of your House. It seems the wolf in you is showing her teeth. She, more than any, has not forgotten."
Sansa shook her head. "No, my Lord, I most certainly have not forgotten."
"Neither have your bannermen. They have not lost their spirit, only a Stark to rally behind. Winter is coming, my Lady. Never has it been more imperative to have a Stark in Winterfell. You belong in Winterfell and I mean to see that through."
As a renewed strength washed over her, Sansa turned to face Lord Royce, with fire burning in her eyes.
"You are mistaken, my Lord. Winter is not coming, but is already here." Sansa motioned her head towards the legion of snowflakes descending from the sky towards them. "I am not my brother. I do not have an army and I cannot fight a war. I want to go home, but the way is lost."
"With all due respect, my Lady, it is you who is mistaken. The way most certainly is not lost. Throughout the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North, lost and broken men have begrudgingly pledged their fealty to the Iron Throne. Never think for a moment that these men are content with this arrangement. No, Sansa, they lay in wait for the invocation, the call to arms. It is time, Lady Stark. Just speak the words."
Sansa let his words wash over her, weighing them in her weary mind. Traitors and turncloaks. Cersei and Joffrey, Theon Greyjoy, Boltons and Freys. They have extinguished all that I have loved, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. I am neither Sansa, the helpless child, nor Alayne Stone, the lost soul. I am Lady Sansa Stark, last of my name. The end of a lineage that is thousands of years old, blood of the First Men, Kings of Winter. I will find my way home or die in the process. But should I perish, I will perish as a Stark of Winterfell.
Sansa turned her head and looked Lord Royce square in the eyes, her steady stare deliberate and fierce. "Lord Yohn Royce, I want to go home."
He did not break her stare, but instead silently nodded his head. "We leave the Eyrie tonight, my Lady. You know all too well you are not safe here. We shall stay within the Vale. The Riverlands to the west are too treacherous."
Sansa's thoughts fluttered back to Petyr's solar and Lord Royce's admonitions concerning the Riverlands. '…The Hound himself raped a girl of two-and-ten before viciously killing a dozen men.' "The outlaws," she whispered, biting her lip at the thought of Sandor Clegane committing such an egregious sin.
Lord Royce mistook the solemn tone in her voice as fear. "Aye. I meant what I said about the Riverlands, but Sandor Clegane is not the Monster of the Saltpans."
Sansa breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The Hound was fearsome, to be sure, but there was something oddly honorable about him. I knew it couldn't have been him.
"We have naught to worry where he is concerned. He is dead, Sansa. He died somewhere along the Trident, I am told. Some other beast donned his helm and raided the Saltpans. The Eyrie and the Vale suffer as long as Littlefinger remains as Lord Protector. I thought to stir him to action with talk of outlaws, in particular the Hound. He's more unyielding than I had anticipated."
She had barely heard him. Her heart had been lifted, soaring through the twilight sky, only to plummet, shattering in her hands.
He's dead. He rode off into the darkness. He had offered to take me with him. If I had known that would be the last time I saw him…
"We leave one hour hence. You will meet me here. Dress warm, girl, and leave your belongings. And be sure no one is following you."
Ser Royce raised himself to his feet and left her in the garden of the Eyrie. She sat in silence, the snow falling peacefully about her, glimmering beautifully in the moonlight, the beauty a cruel juxtaposition to the storm that raged in her heart. She was flooded with anguish and an ache that left her breathless.
Her mind was still a daze as Yohn Royce whisked her away from the Eyrie, away from Littlefinger, away from the nightmares of her Aunt Lysa pushing her out the Moon Door. She didn't know when or how, but he would bring her home. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, for a brave knight to rescue her from the perpetual nightmare that had been her life since the day she left Winterfell. She had prayed for this moment, to the old gods and the new, and they had finally answered her prayers.
I am Sansa Stark, last of my name. Tonight I begin the journey home. My heart should be soaring. Instead it is breaking.
A/N: **Two of Lord Royce's lines ("We shall have Lord Robert" and "Put up your steel, ser. Are you a Corbray or a Frey?") are quotes from "A Feast for Crows." In addition, Lyn Corbray's response ("Lords Declarant. You should have named yourselves the Six Old Women") is also a quote from AFFC.**
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