A Bastard in The Belly
Dressed all in black, head to toe, a spitting image of her Lord father, Jon Stark stood before her, his eyes flushed with the slightest glint of a tear. Sansa felt her own eyes well over, yet she was unsure why. It was all too real, but that wasn't the issue. She worried that one of the cruel gods would swipe down a hand from the heavens and steal the only kin she knew she had left, before she could muster a single heartbeat to save him. But Jon was real, and stood before her, gawking at her like an idiot.
She couldn't find any words; they were trapped beneath the lump in her throat. Before anyone could talk, the pair desperately spurred to one another, embracing in the only display of brotherly and sisterly love Sansa could recall. She pounced into his arms as she'd seen Arya do a thousand times over, yet wrapped up in his arms, she felt her safest since they all left Winterfell together, so long ago. You stupid girl. You couldn't help but be horrible to him, and now he's all you have left. She didn't want to let go, it made her heart ache to think this could all be a dream, an illusion, or anything that would strip this of her. It was hard to shake the feeling Joff and the queen would burst in with their golden lions and tear her away, back into the snakes pit of Kings Landing. No, Sansa, she argued silently. Joff is dead…Littlefinger saw to that much. It's the bastard you should fear. Ramsey was worse than Joff could have ever been, she thought as her half-bastard brother clung to her tightly.
When Jon finally put her down, Sansa had to look into his deep, dark, Stark eyes, wanting to pinch herself. If this is truly a dream, then curse the man who wakes me. His hair was longer than she remembered, and he wore it tied back the same way father had. No wonder her mother had no affection for him, a constant, living and breathing reminder that Ned Stark, despite all his honour, lay with another. And he looked more a Stark than any of then. Robb had been blessed with the Tully's fair looks and auburn hair, same as her, where as Arya and Bran had more of The North in them, though not as much Jon. But it had been years since she'd laid eyes on any of them. Their faces were a fogged memory to her now.
'I can't believe you're alive. As much as I knew, you were in Kings Landing,' Jon finally said.
'I escaped whilst Joffrey choked on his pigeon pie,' she replied, a small part of her wishing she'd stayed to see it for herself, to make sure he was really dead. 'Soon after I was in Winterfell…' She couldn't bring herself to say it and reveal all the horrendous things she'd seen Ramsey do, all the horrendous things Ramsey had done to her, not with all these people listening at least. The room was full of strangers.
A grey, stone cold, gargoyle of a man donning a chauvinistic crown of golden antlers stood beside a woman clad in red, from her shining red hair, down to her crimson velvet shoes. A savage looking woman, with a freshly scarred brow was with them too, dressed in tattered furs. And a frail old knight, with an onion lashed across his breastplate, joined Jon as well. She guessed the crowned man was Stannis Baratheon, the man who Cercei promised would rape half the ladies in the city, when he had tried to sack Kings Landing, with no success. She could not open up to all these unknown faces, but Jon saved her from that.
'We will trade our tales another time, sweet sister,' he said with a gentle smile.
She only nodded and lapped up all the beauty she had failed to see before in her brothers face, with a sweet smile and moist eyes. With a click of the fingers, Lord Umber summoned in his hostages, one of which screamed and raged at her capture. When they were seized by the Umber men on The Kingsroad, Sansa had assured Brienne she could trust them. She explained how the Umbers were the loyalist of houses to the Starks. But Brienne of Tarth tried to fight, as she had seemingly always done, which only riled suspicion from the Giants of Last Hearth. Sansa was treated softly by the men, but Brienne and Pod were far from spared of that expense. They were dragged into the room bloodied and on their knees.
'What do you want done with these two, Lord Stark?' Smalljon Umber asked Jon, gesturing to Brienne of Tarth and The Imp's old plump squire.
'Who are they?' Jon intrigued, barely sounding interested.
'Fuck knows. The big bitch had Lannister looking steel, fancy armour and the gold hair echoes as much. We think she was heading south, most likely Kings Landing,' Smalljon exclaimed. He had dismissed all of Brienne's truths for lies. She had tried to beg for her release, but stubborn by name, Lord Umber had none of it.
Her plead popped out of her mouth, like juice from a bursting grape. 'Please Jon, they are no Lannisters. They are my saviours. They helped me escape Winterfell with Theon,' but she'd said too much.
'Theon?' Jon queried, with a stern frown borrowed from Lord Eddard himself.
'Yes.' She eyed the room, pondering whom within was trustworthy. She leaned into her brothers ear and whispered, 'Bran and Rickon are alive. He did not burn them as everyone thinks.' The whole world thinking her younger brothers were dead and gone made that world a safer place for them. Theon had done them a kindness of sorts.
'I know,' he replied casually. 'Rickon is on his way here as we speak. It's okay, Sansa. No one will hurt them, not now. If we can still walk through the gates of Winterfell, a family, them the Boltons will never hold The North. And you say these two are friends? What of her Lannister steel?'
Brienne had been more than truthful regarding the circumstances in acquiring that sword. It was her fathers, Ice—well half of it. The Kingslayer had given it to her after Lord Tywin had the steel reworked. Oathkeeper, she named it, in tribute to Ser Jaime promising her mother to protect herself and Arya. Despite her fondness for the one-handed knight, Brienne was to be trusted. She saved my life, I must vouch for her. But I cannot bare the truth to all these ears. Jon must know everything first. And she'll plunge that sword through Stannis first chance she gets. I hope she understands this is for her own good.
'Lock her away, for now. We should question her later. And the boy.' Before anyone could protest, she jumped straight back in with Jon, a quick distraction above all else. 'I haven't seen you in so long. I'm sure Lord Umber will host a banquet to our reunion, we can talk a plenty then. I'm sure I do not have as many adventure stories as you.' Jon moved his eyes away from hers as the Umber men seized Brienne and Pod, only to rile screams of protest from the blue Lady of Tarth. Pod said nothing, however.
'Lady Sansa! Please, you cannot trust Stannis!' She shushed when the guard knocked her down with a sly elbow in her jaw. She looked up at her, blood and spittle draining from her cracked lip, on her knees like a beggar. Please, Brienne. Just give me some time. They dragged her out across the floor, urging her to scream once more. 'My Lady! Please! He's a murderer!' She screamed until her voice faded from the halls, a whispering echo of pleads, and an aggressive exchange of grunts as she tried to fight off her captures. Brienne's groans rung louder and more oft, so Sansa guessed she got the worse of it.
Stannis had Jon's burning glare. But Joff's usurping uncle didn't care, and hid it poorly behind his renowned stone cold face. The man didn't seem the monster the Lannisters sold him as, perhaps just a gargoyle, like the ones that used to sit cold, at Winterfell. If anything, he just looked plain bored, but he made no protest to Brienne's claims. He's just another man, like the rest. If he had taken Kings Landing that night, I doubt he'd be no less interested in raping the women than he seems at this very meet. He's no monster, I know the real monsters. Not Stannis, not The Hound, definitely not Robb, The Northern King who fed on the flesh of the fallen. They are the real monsters, the ones with all their lies and their tricks. Littlefinger's voice echoed, and they're all better liars than you. She wondered if that were still true; she had told many lies in her company with Littlefinger, and everyone who had listened lapped them up like a hot thirsty hound, panting its tongue into a puddle of rainwater.
After the screams faded, the room returned to life.
'You want a feast then, Stark? We'll host in your honour, I guess,' Lord Smalljon announced, though he sounded less enthusiastic than she hoped.
Jon came back to the room as well. 'I would gladly dine on our alliance, Lord Umber,' Jon donned a fake smile, she knew. Sansa saw straight through it. He had a great weight baring on his shoulders, it was clear as day to her. 'But I hoped we'd speak of other matters first. A feast is all well and good, but we have a war to plan. Sansa, perhaps you'd do well to rest. The journey home is to be a long one yet. I hope I don't speak just for myself when I say I could use a rest from the war.' Jon smiled prettily, more than Sansa could have known of him. He is soft on the eyes, yet he has the hard Northmen buried behind his own eyes.
She was sad that she'd been so cruel to him when they were younger. All she wanted to do was hold him, tell him how sorry she was and how stupid she had been. In all her thoughts, she realised the room was waiting on her for a response. In typical fashion, she played the charade her Septa had taught her; the dim witted, eager lady everyone expected of her.
'That would be most pleasing, brother. I'm sure the Umbers will make fine hosts. I must prepare a gown for the evening.' In that moment, her own voice felt as if it were coming from the lips of Margery Tyrell. Now there is a woman who can play these game. Sansa mirrored the smile the rose queen often donned in the company of anyone important, below her big brown doe eyes she wore with the smile. Sansa had seen too much horror to pretend such innocence. She imagined her eyes were as hard as the false knight Ser Illyn Payne's.
She bowed courtly, placed a loving kiss on Jon's cheek and made haste to her guests solar. The main hall began council as Jon explained his intentions to his newly found bannermen, upon her departure. When she arrived at her room, she couldn't help but feel the smile on her lips, thinking of all the ways Jon could kill her husband. Not Tyrion though. Who would have guessed The Imp was the only one worthy of my hand? Curse Joff, curse Ramsey. I'd take Tyrion to bed before either of those real monsters. She rued her own past as she bathed in her warm, scented waters. She had dismissed the closest thing to a handmaiden the North could muster and opted on washing herself. She would not have another soul lay eyes on the marks Ramsey had left on her. Or the swell in her belly. The thing that lived inside her made Sansa feel queasy. Gently, she smoothed a hand over the modest bump and began to hum a lullaby her mother used to sing to her. If I am truly with child, his child, then cut it out of me. But Cercei whispered behind her anger at Ramsey, you shall love no one more than your children. She carried on singing, despite her qualms.
Once she was cleaned and dressed, in garbs of Winterfell grey, her hair brushed until it shone its fiery Tully auburn, she pondered a visit to her new King. If anyone was to blame for her…experience back home at Winterfell, it was Littlefinger to be sure. He'd said himself he'd do anything to get what he wanted, and clearly, selling Sansa like livestock to the Boltons played a part in that. He must of known. Of course he did, he knows everything else. He prides himself on all he knows. Yet he took me there anyway. If I can lure him here, to help us take The North, I can slit his throat when the war is over. It's the least the little snake deserves. If anyone could arrange such a demand, the brother murdering King Stannis could assist her better than anyone else. But before any of that, Riverrun was her pick of the bunch. The Freys infested her mothers home and not a sword down south would save it. But Stannis might, if I ask.
She set off, unsure where her path would take her. The main hall seemed the most likely, but she had no mind to speak under the prying ears of strangers whom she did not trust. Her wanderings brought her upon a guard who told her where Stannis was making his solar. His council led her out across a courtyard blooming with hedge knights and guardsmen swinging blunted swords at straw men, whilst autumn snows sat soft and deep on the ground. Their looks lingered as she walked by. Looking up, Sansa noted how fat Last Hearth's main keep's tower was as she entered. She eyed the stag within a fiery heart on the armour of two bored guards, stationed at the base of a stairwell. They let her through with not a word.
She climbed up the stairs, as if it would answer her prayers. Sansa strutted her ladies walk, scripted and taught to her from an early age. If she could only convince her new King to march to Riverrun. The closer I get Ramsey to the river, the easier it will be for me to drown him. With a creak from the hinge, a howl of wind fled the room, as she wearily opened the heavy oaken door. Two pairs of eyes received her as she entered; those of Stannis himself and the glaring rubies of The Red Woman. Composed and confident, a hint of a creeping smile lingering on his stone lips, the cold Lord of The Seven Kingdoms stood with a puffed out chest, donning the bravado of a man who'd never lost a war. Only the most important battle of your life. One especially important to me. How much of my family could have lived if you'd won Kings Landing that night.
'Your grace,' she exclaimed, dipping her aching body into a lazy curtsy. She felt her bumped squirm and kick within her, until she wanted to wretch. But she forced it back, giving it as little thought as she could.
Her armour was here courtesies, and honour was a woman's best weapon. Her mother thought that at least. Cercei was wrong. If she'd thought to use that bastard bearing hole between her legs against a man like Stannis, she'd be dead, and not mother. Mother's honour was wasted on Walder Frey. But Stannis is different to the other snakes for men.
Stannis seemed to hold Tully words above his own. His fury wasn't much to be feared so far, but duty and honour seemed a second nature to him. A shame family falls behind the pair. Duty and honour is worthless without family. Even the Lannisters know that much, Sansa rued quietly.
'Do you realise your brother is the most powerful man in The North?' He asked bluntly, ignoring her greeting entirely, intently staring into the flames, like an enlightened moth.
This is war, Sansa. These follies are all just a show. The shows ends where war begins, she had to remind herself.
'It would seem so. Second to you, of course,' but it was a lie really. The North cared not for Stannis. The sooner he returned south, the more The North would embrace Jon. No Stark fought any true Baratheons, so no hatred was aimed to the stags. The flayed man, the golden lion, the golden kraken too for that matter—they were The North's enemies. But Stannis earned no love from the northerners either, and up here, that was as good as hatred.
'The Northmen want me out of their country, they see me as no ruler to them. All I bring for them is more war. But they'll live under Jon Stark's peace. I've demanded nothing of the North that your brother doesn't agree with. They must know that.'
'Half-brother,' she blurted out, spurring only guilt after doing so. She wasn't sure if word of Bran and Rickon's death being a lie had spread to the King's ears yet, and she was less sure that he was trustworthy. If the tales were true, chances were, he'd have the boys put to the pitch without even flinching. That much she could not risk.
'Does bastard not chime to your lips, Lady Stark? Because under it all, the orders, the pieces of parchment claiming everything but, your brother is still a bastard to you, isn't he?' The Red Woman glared her fiery stare, two burning holes seeping with magics and mystery. She approached her, resting an oddly warm hand against Sansa's cheek. She dared not blink, only staring straight back, trying to unravel the priestess's own secrets. 'You have so much of your mother within you. A shame for your half-brother. Deep down it wounds you, to see him, a bastard born, bare the sigil of your ancient house, when he only shares half your blood. Does it not?'
Sansa gritted her teeth, swallowed the lump in her throat, and spoke on at Stannis, pulling her face from The Red Woman's delicate touch. 'You yourself named him Warden of The North and Lord of Winterfell. You are King and your word is law.' She struck a firm look back to the witch draped in crimson, missing only a golden crown of hair paired with a lion the same colour. Perhaps she is my enemy too. With a touch of gold, she'd fit right in with the lions. Despite the hair, she even looks like Cercei, in a certain light, Sansa contested quietly.
'Half my blood he may be, but as far as I see it, a brother is still a brother, and him being a bastard would make him no less guilty of murder than yourself. Yet, even a bastard, Jon would never slay his own brothers. Especially not with foreign sorcery.' Sansa's tongue was venom at this point. But the King only smiled, coldly.
'Lady Brienne has told you much it seems.' Stannis took a deep breath and let the wind take his woes. 'It is true, I did murder Renly, my own brother, using blood magic. I did love him once, when he was a boy. But man-grown, he became a thief. No matter who you are, treason is treason, and death is the punishment. And as far as I know, I took your brother Robb too, by the same means.' His words took her breath slightly. He looked at her, sharper than Valyrian steel. 'I tossed a kings-blood thirsty leech into the flames announcing your brother a usurper. I did the same of Joffrey. Where are they now? Dead. And for all I know, I put them into the ground myself. There is power in king's blood. I've seen it for myself.'
The man's a fanatic, tainted by the whispers of a witch with perked breasts and a demon baring cunt. If the tales are true. She had a mind to set him straight, announce Littlefinger as the traitor he is and spit on the name Frey whilst cursing his treachery. But she knew nothing would sway the King's mind. He had seen far worse things than she, Sansa guessed. Or perhaps he is simply lust-filled and mad.
'I was wrong though,' Stannis continued, taking a seat behind his battle plan covered desk. He slouched the same slouch Joff did, when the worm-lipped little wretch sat the Iron Throne. 'I should have packed with your brother and given him The North as his people wanted. I see that now. With Jon as Lord Commander of The Watch, Robb as Warden of The North, perhaps even King, and me upon the chair my blood right owes me, Westeros may have a chance to face the dead.'
The Red Woman circled the room, to finally go and embrace her King. She pushed her hands through his greying hair and whispered into his ear, all the while staring Sansa in the eyes. Stannis shunted her away, displeased. 'Damned woman!' He spat. 'Leave us. Your words are boring to me.' The priestess stepped back, abashed, and walked away with a sly sway before stopping in the doorway.
'Lady Stark. Think on your sins. Or the Bolton creature inside you will bloom into the darkness,' she left with her regular smug smile.
Sansa silently cursed Witch!
'She has promised me much serving her R'holler. I have done things I wish I hadn't. But in the flames I did see things for myself. Whether she lied about that sword, your brother, everything else, I still saw a battle in the flames. I experienced only a taste with your bastard born brother. We were fighting for Westeros…but not against the Lannisters, nor the Boltons. The dead truly come walking and I plan to let them,' Stannis claimed, with a chilling glint in his eye. It scared her somewhat.
At least he has a plan. Perhaps it's insane. Perhaps he'll take back Winterfell and Riverrun.
'What do you mean, your grace?' She asked innocently, pretending she hadn't the faintest idea.
'When the dead come south, I aim to be hauled up behind The Bloody Gate. Numbers aren't my strong suit but the Tyrells give the Lannisters an overwhelming amount of men, more than I can defeat. If we can get every last man, woman and child who will serve me into The Eerie, it would take a very, very large army to conquer us.' His smile was intoxicatingly mad.
She struggled to get her words passed her breath. What he was suggesting was pure evil...but the look on Cercei Lannister's face when an Other came to cut her down would be worth more than all the gold at Casterly Rock. As wrong as it felt, she thought she agreed with this deranged madman.
'You can't mean to…' She couldn't even say it. He would let the world burn just so he could rule the ashes. Just like Littlefinger. So many more will die when the long night comes.
'The South has too long believed the magics of the North are follies. When the Walkers march, all who face them will know how real they are. I cannot defeat the Lannisters, but The Others might. And they'll march farther south than us.' A gargoyle no more, the monster in Stannis finally revealed itself, with a more wicked smirk than she'd ever seen. Ramsey, Cercei, Walder Frey, Littlefinger…they have no clue as to what is coming for them.
*Authors note: Apologies for the delay, been very busy as of late and had some trouble uploading. Trying to get as many words in a day as I can. Also, change of pace to the story as I'm planning to bring in a few more characters as PoV chapters so hope you guys enjoy. Reviews are very much appreciated and will spur me to write more so please do! Thanks for reading!*