Win or Die
Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.
Part 1
Chapter 3
The morning sky was just beginning to lighten, and snow was beginning to coat the ground, and the camp had yet to wake. Outside one particular wagon, two knights had their bedrolls laid out- the first, Dagonet, shared his bedroll with the young Lucan; the second, Lancelot, shared his with Sansa. The latter pair were cuddled close, burrowed underneath Lancelot's cloak. Their sleep was peaceful, undisturbed.
But that wasn't to last.
Suddenly, Lucan was seized from Dagonet, and Sansa from Lancelot. Marius Honorius held a knife to Lucan's throat, as did one of his soldiers to Sansa's. Both Lancelot and Dagonet jumped up, but were unable to do anything, for fear of something happening to their charges.
"I have the boy!" Marius shouted, as if trying to ward off the knights approaching.
"Kill him!" Someone shouted.
"No, don't! Let him go!"
"Kill him now!"
Amidst all the shouting, an arrow struck Marius in the throat, forcing his release of Lucan, who ran straight into Dagonet's arms. Guinevere strode forward quickly, drawing another arrow to her bow, pointing it at Sansa's captor.
The other soldiers, along with the one who held Sansa captive, looked around, their determination wavering at their master's death. Lancelot drew his swords, beginning to approach them; and the soldier who held Sansa pressed the knife tighter against her throat, drawing a yelp from the girl as a line of blood appeared on her throat.
Lancelot sneered, his eyes dark. "I would release her, Roman, before I separate your head from your shoulders." He threatened, stepping forward again.
The soldier trembled at the very sight, and threw Sansa to the ground, before he took off running. Before he made ten feet; he fell, with an arrow in his back. This time, the arrow came from Tristan, who nodded to Lancelot.
Lancelot swept over to Sansa, drawing her to her feet, and into his arms. "Your hands seem to be better," Lancelot commented, dryly, to Guinevere, before he gently grabbed Sansa's chin, lifting it to examine the cut.
Bors stalked around the remaining soldiers. "Artorius!" He shouted, before growling at the soldiers, "Do we have a problem? Huh?!"
Arthur swept in, looking in disgust at the soldiers. "You have a choice. You help or you die. Lay down your weapons," He demanded, angrily. It took only a moment of indecision, before they gave in, and laid down the weapons.
"Lancelot," Arthur called, gaining his friend's attention. "Tend to her," he requested, gesturing to Sansa.
Lancelot merely nodded in response, guiding Sansa into a wagon. Lancelot found a rag and dampened it, before drawing Sansa to him. He cleaned the cut with a practiced ease. Then he took his time, examining it, trying to decide whether the cut needed any more treatment.
"Tis a scratch, Lance, leave it be," Sansa said, crossly, as Lancelot leaned into examine it yet again. Lancelot sighed, tossing the rag to the side.
"Can you blame me for being concerned, Sansa? You were almost killed," he remarked in frustration.
"Well, I am almost killed nearly every day. You don't need to worry, I'm not going to burst out weeping," Sansa retorted, crossing her arms.
"Good," Lancelot said, pulling the young woman into his lap. "I hate crying women," he added with a smirk.
"A Saxon woman never cries," Sansa commented, with a slightly bitter tone.
"I'm in luck then," Lancelot murmured, before kissing the young woman into silence.
"So you and our Saxon girl, eh, Lancelot?" Gawain teased, as the Knights rode along, near the front of the caravan.
Lancelot rolled his eyes, adjusting his hold on his reins. Sansa and Guinevere rode in a wagon, where they had begun conspiratorial whispering as soon as they were placed together. It made both Arthur and Lancelot disturbingly suspicious.
"We saw you kissing her," Galahad called, with a smile.
Lancelot traded an amused look with Arthur. "So?" he asked, nonchalantly.
"Leave it to Lancelot to be bedding the enemy," Bors said, loudly.
"She isn't the enemy," Arthur remarked, with a final tone that showed he meant it.
"And I haven't bedded her," Lancelot piped up. "Yet," he added, to the riot of laughter among his brothers.
A flaxen head appeared from the wagon they rode alongside. "You shouldn't push your luck, Lance," Sansa called, her eyes aglow with amusement. The knights began to laugh again, as Lancelot's cheeks colored.
"Quiet yourself, woman," he said, gruffly. Sansa merely smirked, before withdrawing into the wagon again.
The caravan was coming up on a lake, frozen in its entirety. They moved onto it, slowly, tentatively, waiting to hear the tell-tale cracks.
And they came.
Arthur shouted for them to spread out, for everyone to get out of the wagons. Lancelot immediately went to Sansa's wagon, helping her down. The drums of the Saxons were growing louder, and louder, and Sansa's face grew grim and pale, as she kept one hand curled into Lancelot's which kept her steady on the slippery ice.
"Are you sure you have no words of wisdom to impart to help us?" Lancelot asked, with a joking smile.
Sansa rolled her eyes. "Nothing that I haven't already told you," She responded.
"But you've told us nothing at all!" Galahad called.
Sansa huffed, exasperatedly. "Saxons rely on brute strength and numbers, not cunning or speed. There are no politics involved," She explained.
"Sounds perfect," Tristan interjected, to receive a glare from the Saxon woman.
"The king is the best warrior among our people. The only way power changes hands is with death. The King can be challenged for the throne, and if he is defeated and killed- the challenger becomes king. If the king dies of natural causes- the prince or heir will fight the challenger for the throne. It is all death. Always, never-ending death," Sansa spoke darkly.
"Your father is the king," Dagonet said, more as a statement, not a question.
"Yes," Sansa answered.
"Has he ever been defeated?" Tristan questioned interestedly.
Sansa shook her head. "No," she replied. "I was a child when my father became king. 15 winters ago, when I was only 5 winters old. I remember watching the fight. My brother was 15, he held me, tried to shield my eyes from the battle. My father was elder than the king, knew that he would lead our people into trouble if he was allowed to stay king," she explained, and all the knights listened carefully.
"It was a bloodbath. Within minutes, the king was killed. Then my father slaughtered the king's wife, and the young prince, a child the same age as I," Sansa continued, to looks of disgust.
"How could he do such a thing?" Arthur demanded out of disgust.
Sansa shrugged. "It was well within his rights. There can only be one King and Queen. Just as it is with Kings, Queens can only leave their titles behind with death. Unless my father wished to kill my mother in order to save the Queen, he had no reason to keep her alive. As for the prince, he would likely have grown up to be someone who challenged my father. Why would he spare him?" She replied, a surprisingly bitter bite to her voice.
"There is no honor in killing women or children." Lancelot spoke, looking at the Saxon woman with surprise.
"I agree," Sansa replied, squeezing his hand. "But my father cares nothing for honor. Only for his power and what it brings him. If it was honor he sought, my father would not be here," She argued, to which Arthur voiced his agreement.
"Is there any way to make the Saxons give up? Retreat?" Arthur asked, hopefully. Sansa shook her head, dashing that naïve hope.
"The Saxon way is to win or die. They will never retreat," She announced, to the solemn faces of the Knights around her. "If my father wins," Sansa spoke up, seriously. "He will leave no one alive. No man, woman, or child that can or will be able to swing a sword will be spared," she promised, her gaze centered on Arthur.
Arthur looked deep in thought, standing still. "Men," he began.
"Might as well," Dagonet spoke.
"They're so close, my arse is hurting," Bors commented.
"I don't like looking over my shoulder anyway," Tristan said, with a shrug.
In the midst of their preparations, Sansa was forgotten. And she took advantage.
Lancelot did not realize until he stood on the ice with his brothers, that he'd forgotten to say goodbye to her, and that she'd simply disappeared.
"Are you insane! You only have 7 men!" Ganis shouted.
"Eight," Guinevere said, smoothly, sailing over.
"Nine, actually," A heavily-accented voice remarked, as Sansa slid into the space next to Lancelot.
Lancelot's eyes went wide at the sight of her, and turned furious, looking as if he'd very much like to strangle her.
"Go back," Lancelot ordered.
"No." Sansa replied, turning away, preparing her quiver and bow.
"Sansa, go back!" Lancelot hissed, through gritted teeth.
"No." Sansa again replied. "What will you do, Lance? Take me over your knee? You cannot make me go," She teased.
Lancelot glared at her, as the others chuckled. "Leave her be, Lancelot. We could use another bow," Arthur spoke, causing his best friend to glare sharply at him.
"Oh, damn it all!" Lancelot growled, seizing Sansa's arm, pulling her to him in order to crash his lips onto hers. Sansa dropped her bow, in the heat of the moment; as she wrapped one arm around Lancelot's neck, and buried the other in his dark curls. The knights around them chuckled.
After a few moments, the pair broke apart, breathing heavily. "We will continue this later," he growled, squeezing her bottom, making it quite clear that he expected both of them to live through this. Sansa blushed brightly, before moving to pick up her bow again.
"So if we do not win this for the sake of our own lives, we should win this just so Lancelot can bed Sansa," Gawain called out, grinning.
"Why is it the man that always does the bedding?" Sansa retorted, rolling her eyes. "Isn't it just as likely that I will bed Lance?" She added, bumping her hip into Lancelot's. The man rolled his eyes, smiling fondly at her.
"Shall we, brothers? Sisters?" Arthur remarked, gaining their attention. The knights and two young women readied their bows.
The Saxons flooded from the forest, and on the ice. The battle would begin, shortly, and the knights and their friends would be tested- within inches of their lives.