Thunder stirred in the distance, where a wall of dark clouds brewed with the threat of a storm. The further north into the Riverlands they traveled, the more familiar such clouds became.
The storms that passed through the Riverlands were certainly fiercer than the ones in Winterfell, where it only truly stormed in the spring and summer. The rains in the Riverlands were so heavy that Sansa half expected the world around her to wash away. Back north, the rain was never so heavy. The snow, on the other hand…
According to Tommen, the storms in the Riverlands were nothing compared to the ones in the Stormlands. He'd only experienced one once, when King Robert and all the court visited his ancestral seat of Storm's End. To hear Tommen tell it, the storms there were so fierce even the gods themselves quivered in fear.
The ground crunched under the hooves of their horses as Sansa, Theon, and Tommen followed the Kingsroad north. Sansa would much rather have traveled off the Kingsroad, as they had for much of their journey. But Theon insisted they travel along the Kingsroad as they approached Harrenhal. "Too many outlaws," he claimed.
Already they'd passed far too many people for Sansa's liking. Words carried, and if the wrong person overheard the wrong thing, the three of them would be back in Cersei's clutches before making it past Harrenhal. There weren't many, Sansa suspected, who wouldn't turn the three of them over in exchange for the hefty reward that Cersei had no doubt placed on their heads.
From Sansa's left, Tommen sang quietly under his breath. The bear and maiden fair, if Sansa heard correct. It pleased Sansa, to see Tommen in better spirits. The first days of their journey Tommen spent in a sullen silence, and Theon and Sansa had pretended not to notice the way he sniffled and choked back tears at night.
Sansa had tried to speak with him, to offer some comfort. But what could she say, really, when it was because of her he even had to flee? If he hadn't helped her and Theon, he would still be in King's Landing.
Even with the fate that would await him back in King's Landing, Sansa knew Tommen still yearned for home. She'd caught him eyeing his horse in the mornings, once or twice, and staring longingly back the way they'd come. Can I truly blame him? He would be deemed a traitor now, and Cersei was still his mother. The Lannister's, for all the harm they'd wrought on Sansa's family, were Tommen's family/. Yet as they passed Stokeworth, Sow's Horn, Duskendale, Tommen remained.
Another distant rumble of thunder roared, this time closer. Sansa's mouth pinched in distaste, Theon cursed, and Tommen groaned. The storm clouds seem closer as well. Sansa had hoped the storm would move away, rather than towards them.
"We'll have to find an inn tonight," Theon said.
The thought of a clean bed, a hot meal, mayhap even a bath should have delighted Sansa. On the nights they made camp out in the open, she never slept well. She didn't sleep at all those first few nights after escaping King's Landing.
She was certain Joffrey's men were only just around the bend or beyond the last ridge, out of sight and mere moments away from riding them down. For how could they not be? They assuredly had better horses than the ones Theon filched, and doubtless, they knew the land far better than Theon, Sansa, or Tommen.
They'd ridden nearly the entire night through after fleeing King's Landing before finally stopping to make camp, and the entire ride Sansa had felt as though her heart would surely burst. Every snap of a twig or rustle of a bush was Sandor Clegane, come to haul her back to Joffrey, or even Ser Meryn, come to run her through with his sword like he'd certainly done to Jory. Jory. The clatter of steel against steel as Jory held off Joffrey's dogs still haunted the wind when Sansa closed her eyes.
Even now, weeks later, Sansa's sleep was fitful at best. The days and nights passed, and the ever pressing fear of being followed so closely had faded. Or perhaps she'd only grown accustomed to it, and rather than fade it simply lay dormant, just under her skin. Her new habit of glancing back over her shoulder hadn't abated, and the slightest snap of a twig startled her from sleep.
Not that Sansa slept much better when they stopped at inns. Every harmless, cursory glance from another patron was one of recognition, and each creak of a floorboard was a gold cloak coming to snatch her back to Joffrey. She never felt any more at ease than on the Kingsroad, either.
Joffrey would not let her live, and nor would he give her a quick death. Or Tommen, and Theon. Would he drag her to the steps of the Sept of Baelor too? Sansa wondered if her father's soul lingered there, on those grand steps. If Joffrey beheads me there, at least his soul will have company.
"Must we?" Sansa said. "Perhaps the storm will pass us by." As if mocking her, another distant rumble of thunder reached their ears, louder than the last.
"I doubt that," Theon said with a grin that boasted about being right. "Unless you want that dye to run right out of your hair."
Sansa grimaced. Not a full week after their flight from King's Landing, she'd insisted on spending their already dwindling coin on dye for her and Tommen's hair. Tommen's gold and her red weren't common, and she'd feared that even with the hoods of their cloaks tugged forward the color of their hair would give them away.
Whether or not they saw them, Sansa did not doubt Cersei had men scouring the Kingsroad and villages along it for them. She'll send word to houses that remain loyal, too. It wouldn't be difficult for any of those men to determine who they were, even if they did not know their faces.
But dye was not cheap, especially dye of finer quality, and Theon needed most of their coin to buy food or for the occasional stay at an inn. The dye they purchased ran when wet, as Tommen discovered when he last bathed in the river and his hair had been left splotchy and muddy. Sansa thanked the gods they had enough dye left to fix it.
Her hair, thick and long and something which she took some amount of pride in, was now a common dirt brown rather than the red she shared with her mother. And Robb, Bran, and Rickon. It wasn't even brown like Arya's or Jon's, or her father's, even, and the dye left it feeling stiff in some parts and greasy in others.
Tommen's took darker than hers had. He at the very least seemed to draw some amusement from the new color, even with all his troubles. "I look more like my father now than I ever have," he'd japed.
Without a reply from Sansa, the three of them continued on towards the inn. At least in the inn I'll be warm and dry. Even the shabbier inns they'd patronized on their journey were a far cry from a bedroll on the forest floor.
The inn that night was an older inn on the lakeshore by the name of The Shattered Lance, complete with a cracked and faded sign that once had been carefully painted to depict just that: a lance shattering against a foe's shield. It was larger than the other inns they'd stayed at on their journey thus far, though not so large as the inn at the crossroads. Docks jutted out into the shallows of the shore, and tall reeds sprung up out of the water. Water splashed, and a flock of geese took to the air.
Warm light beamed out the windows in the fading daylight, and a cool wind gusted around them and carried with it a familiar damp smell that promised rain. Lightning streaked amongst the rolling clouds, silent until the distant rumble of thunder chased after it. A stable hand rushed out of the stables to take their horses. They dismounted and removed the small packs they'd secured to the saddles. Sansa pressed a gold coin into the stable hand's palm.
Sansa slung her pack over her shoulder and followed Theon and Tommen into the inn. It was less-so a pack, and more a tightly bound bundle of a bedroll and the dress she'd fled in. The first village they'd passed, Theon bid Tommen and Sansa to wait just outside. He'd returned with two bedrolls, and new clothes for Sansa and Tommen. Clothing that was not so fine and would not draw so much attention.
The trousers Theon gave her were held up only by a length of rope, with a too-large linen tunic tucked into the waistband. The cloak Theon purchased for her dwarfed her as well, though Sansa was thankful for it during the cooler nights. Theon and Jory had brought more with them, and Theon said they'd readied the packs in the small shack they'd hid away in in Flea Bottom. But they left behind those when they fled with Joffrey's men on their heels.
The smell of warm bread greeted the trio as they entered the inn. Sansa did not remove her hood, dyed though her hair was. The common room was far too full for her to feel comfortable doing so. Few seats sat empty, but no one appeared to take note of their entrance. If they even heard it. Any conversation was swallowed by a fiddler playing in the far corner.
Despite the fire which had been lit in the sole hearth in the common area, the room remained dim, with few tables having candles. A young woman with pitch-black hair dashed about between the tables, filling tankards and balancing empty plates and cups in her arms. "Lara!" The woman yelled, and out dashed a girl no older than Rickon, with hair the same as the woman's secured neatly into a braid.
The woman plopped the plates and cups into her arms and the young girl tottered off back into the room whence she came, picking her way through the crowded tables carefully. "And send Shyra back out, will ye?" the woman shouted after her.
Their entrance hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. A portly man caught sight of them and heaved himself up from where he sat and made his way over to them. A scrawny boy sprinted into his path and deftly wove around him, sending the man into a fit of curses. The boy dashed up the stairs and the man hollered after him, before he turned to greet them with a gap-toothed grin.
He was bald, save for the bushy, gray beard which masked a double chin, and his eyes were small and watery, though not unkind. "Welcome to the Shattered Lance. My name's Will. Just the three o'ya? You'll be wanting a room, I presume."
"Aye," Theon nodded. "If you have one."
The innkeeper nodded and waved a large hand. "Follow me." He led them up the old, wooden stairs behind him, each step creaking under their feet. "I never got your names."
"I'm Wex, and this is my wife Mya and her brother, Alyn," Theon said, using the false names they'd decided on at the first inn they stopped at.
The innkeeper muttered pleasantries, then came to a stop halfway down the hall and opened a door. "This is it. If you're hungry, Moria will see you fed downstairs." Without another word, Will descended back down the hall.
The room was small, with only a narrow bed pushed against the far wall and a small table beside it. It will be our bed rolls for two of us. One window to the left of the bed would have let in light during the day, but in the absence of daylight a candle lit the room. Sansa placed her small pack on the floor beside the door and sat on the bed. It was both lumpy and hard, and she wrinkled her nose at the mildewy smell which emanated from it.
Wife. Being called so by Theon never failed to send Sansa's stomach aflutter, or a flush to tint her cheeks. She hoped it came across as her simply playing the part of a new bride. What might it be like, to be Theon's wife?
They would have five children, Sansa decided, so they might grow up with as many brothers and sisters as she. They would have a son, with Theon's wolfish grin and her eyes. Theon would teach him how to wield a sword, and he would be just as brave as his father. We'd have a daughter, to be certain. A daughter who would have Theon's wild mop of curls and his sharp features, whom he'd dance with at every feast as her own father once did, and whom he'd teach to shoot a bow if she so desired.
Already, Sansa knew these children to be a wild bunch. How could any child of Theon's be anything but? She could envision with all clarity Theon chasing them around the yard and snatching them into the air, she heard the shrieks of laughter and Theon's echoing laugh, far in the distance. They would play amongst the rocks and shore of Lordsport, same as Theon had before his father rose in rebellion. Sansa had never seen any ocean before arriving in King's Landing. But these children would know nothing different. They would be of the sea, a part of it as Theon never could be.
And if he doesn't inherit the Iron Islands? His claim may very well be lost. From what Theon told her, his father had risen in rebellion yet again not long after Theon left to come rescue her. His father hadn't so much as given a second thought for what might become of Theon, and the thought rankled Sansa. Robb would never take his head, especially not now.
It wouldn't matter if his claim was lost to the sea. Robb would give them a keep. Something modest, where their children could be happy and safe; safe from the game, safe from those who would do them harm. Or we might could stay in Winterfell. Their children could play in the godswood, with cousins who would be sure to come.
"Sansa," Tommen said. Sansa started, and from the way both Theon and Tommen looked at her it wasn't the first time they'd tried to draw her attention. "Are you alright?"
"I'm just fine," Sansa said. She chided herself for allowing herself to become lost in such a way. It's only curiosity, she reasoned. Those dreams had been a tidy way to chase away fears whilst she was in the Red Keep, and now they were merely idle fantasies to cure her of boredom and the monotony of riding day in and day out. Nothing more, she lied to herself. You've no reason for them any longer.
"Come. We're headed down to eat," Theon said. He helped her up from where she sat, and instead of letting go of her hand he tucked it into the crook of his arm as they walked down to the common area of the inn.
A large peal of laughter from a group of drunken men greeted them as they reached the bottom of the stairs. They sat at a table closest to the door, and Theon bypassed the empty table near them in favor of one towards the back of the room, tucked into a corner. Always in the corner. At the last two inns, Theon picked the table in the corner as well.
Moira and the small girl, Lara, Sansa remembered, brought out food not long after they sat. Warm bread cut into thick slices, a hearty beef-and-barley stew; a modest fare, compared to what Sansa was accustomed to back home, but welcome nonetheless. It was better than what they'd eaten on the road thus far. Hot meals were few and far between. Sansa dunked a hunk of bread into the stew. As modest as it was, it tasted better than anything she'd eaten in days.
Tommen and Theon chatted amongst themselves as to the virtues and shortcomings of different horses; sand steeds from Dorne, destriers from the Reach, coursers from the Riverlands, Sansa never cared much for the distinction. She drifted away from their conversation and thought of Jory, who had been among the first to take her riding through the Wolfswood without her father or Robb present.
Their group tarried two full nights just outside of Brindlewood, where Jory said to wait for him if they were separated. Sansa had known Jory wouldn't show, and so had Theon, no matter how he tried not to show it. He'd spent most of their ride griping about how he'd been forced to leave his fine bow behind along with the rest of his and Jory's belongings. "All I've got is this shit sword," Theon said over and over. But there was never any genuine anger behind his words, and Sansa suspected he simply wished to avoid thinking of what happened to Jory.
After all, it'd been Theon who insisted they wait so long at Brindlewood. They were only to wait one night, Theon said. But when the first night came and went with no sign of Jory even into the late afternoon, Theon hadn't hesitated to insist on another night spent hidden in a copse of trees. It was only when gold cloaks entered the town proper that they left.
The guilt of leaving Jory behind gnawed at her chest, deeper than anything Sansa had felt before. She took a heavy gulp of her ale and glanced around the room, searching for anything to take her mind away.
"That red star, remember?" A woman from the table over said and then tutted. "Twas a fell omen. I told ya, did I not? We've got war now, and a long winter to boot."
Sansa remembered that star. There had been no one, in the Red Keep, highborn or lowborn, who hadn't something or other to say about it. She glanced at the table to their left. Two women, one who might have been of age with her mother and another older, with gray wisps in her hair, sat across from two men. One man had a bushy beard and mustache and the other was bald with a craggy face.
With a dismissive wave, the bald man at the table snorted. "Wars come like the winter. Highborns' always killin' one another." He drained his ale and smacked the mug down on the table before shouting for more.
"A long winter? What makes you say that?" The bearded man asked, voice heavy with skepticism.
"Lotsa fog this autumn. My ma always said that meant we were in for a hard winter," the younger of the women said. The older woman hummed and nodded sagely.
The bald man scoffed. "We've fog every autumn, and in the spring too. Sometimes even in the summer. Don't mean nothin'."
"Aye, but not like this," the older woman said. "And the pigs! They've been gatherin' sticks they 'ave. And best not forget the cows. Hair on the back of their necks is twice as thick I tell ya."
"A load of nonsense. You women say so every autumn, and no winter's worse than the last," the bearded man said.
The younger woman gave a derisive snort and stood from the table, her mug tight in hand. "Come on, Randa. I saw old Merriman's widow o'er there. She could use the company."
The women left and joined a small, white-haired woman with a wizened face, who sat beside a girl near in age to Arya. The men left behind moaned to themselves about the "nonsense of wives," before turning to talk of war. Sansa's attention drifted away from their talk of whose son had gone off to join who until more familiar words drew her back in.
"Heard she threw herself from the walls of Casterly Rock," one of the men said.
"An' which one is she? The last king's daughter? The mad one, that is," asked the bearded man.
The bald man shook his head. "Nay, none of 'is daughters lived past their first year."
The bearded man scratched at his chin and took a swig of his ale. "Thas' not right. He did. She fled, last I heard. Dead now, most like."
"Don't matter," the bald man grunted. "This one's the kingslayers daughter. Cousin o'mine, he says she went mad and tossed all her Lannister kin into a fire. Threw herself from the walls, after that. Or maybe she was pushed. Don't matter, she's dead."
Sansa froze. Are they speaking of Alysanne? Her heart fluttered, a bird beating its wings against her chest fighting to burst free.
"Bugger off, Sam. You've a cousin in every corner of the realm, to hear you tell it. Ran into Joss earlier, says you told him she made her kin jump from the walls, and she's the one who was burned," the bearded man said. The bald man, Sam, sputtered but the bearded man continued. "There's not a man, woman, or child from here to Riverrun who'd believe a word out of your sorry mouth. Nay, I'll tell you the truth of it, 'cause what I hear is that she marched right on back to Riverrun, and she'd sprouted great demon wings, she did. That's how she took Casterly Rock in the first place. Flew right up over the walls."
"Demon wings? And where'd you hear that?"
"The merchant the village over, and he heard it from a wandering septon. Everyone knows septons don't lie," the bearded man said. He thumbed his fist onto the table, as though that would make his word law.
"That's shit, that is. A septon cheated me out of some coin once."
"Is not. Man said the septon saw it himself, leathery wings and all, flying high in the air. And cheated, you probably deserved it. You still owe me coin from nigh seven moon turns ago."
"Sansa," Theon whispered, so low Sansa could barely hear it. "I'm sure she's fine."
"Yes. Of course." Sansa took a sip of her ale. She couldn't be dead, she can't be. Joffrey and Cersei would not have been quiet about such a thing. And Alysanne would never do something so horrible as throw someone from the ramparts, family or not. Or burn anyone, for that matter.
Tommen excused himself to bed not long after he finished his meal, leaving only Sansa and Theon sitting across from one another. Theon rested his elbows on the table and let his shoulders fall. He watched the other's in the inn carefully, from the young couple dancing along to the fiddle, to the table with the older women with their heads dipped together, no doubt gossiping.
It struck Sansa then that this was the first she'd been alone with Theon since leaving King's Landing. At Brindlewood, Theon left her and Tommen alone together whilst he went into the town to wait for Jory. But that was the last the three of them had truly been separated for any length of time, and Sansa did not need to tell Tommen what fate had befallen her in King's Landing.
"Thank you. For coming to get me," Sansa said, careful to not reveal too much with her words.
"Like I would leave you there," Theon scoffed. He waved away her words with a dismissive hand before letting it fall back to the table. "And you've thanked me nearly every day. I told you, you don't need to."
"But I do," Sansa shifted forward in her seat and laid a hand atop his, where it rested idly on the table. "You didn't have to come for me, but you did anyway. Despite what you knew might become of you."
Instead of his usual quick smirk and witty retort, Theon offered a sheepish smile, genuine and gentle. "Like I would leave you there," he repeated. He bit off a piece of bread, and his face grew dark. He swallowed harshly. "I should never have let you go south alone."
"I wasn't alone. I had my father, and Bran, Arya, and Jeyne." Sansa gripped Theon's hand. "You couldn't have known what would happen."
Who could have? Not even Cersei had known Joffrey would take her father's head, if her desperation that day was anything to go by. Perhaps she too had believed Joffrey's false promise of mercy.
Sansa would never forget the ease with which Joffrey had made that false promise, nor would she forget the glee on his face when he called for Ser Illyn. She would not forget Lord Baelish's underhandedness with the Gold Cloaks, or the way the crowd jeered at her father, or how they'd cheered and celebrated at seeing his head cleaved from his neck. The blood. That would live with her as well.
Even knowing who Joffrey was, Sansa had allowed herself some modicum of girlish excitement. Though she'd long learned that the stories often had a darker truth, she would always take some comfort in them and hold them dear to her heart. And to see the same halls that the Dragonknight roamed? To pass by Oldstones, where the Prince of Dragonflies fell in love with his Jenny?
"I should have known Joffrey would offer no mercy," Sansa continued in a low tone. Alysanne had warned her of Joffrey's true nature. I should have paid more attention, rather than get caught up in the majesty of the Red Keep.
Will mother blame me for not doing more for father? Dreams of reuniting with her mother, with Robb, Alysanne, and Jon were tainted with the underlying fear that the song's she'd sung of her traitor father and brother had reached them. They had to know I had no choice.
"Sansa," Theon gaped at her in disbelief, and his words were louder than he'd intended them to be. He glanced around, but no one had heard him or paid him any mind. "You can't mean that."
Mindlessly, Sansa studied a knot in the wooden table, traced the knife and scuff marks with her eyes. The fiddler launched into a jaunty tune, and it reminded Sansa of the feasts back home filled with singing and dancing and her father's quiet smile. He always loved mother's laugh.
Now there was silence where her mother's laughter should have been. Her father's blood stained the steps of the Sept of Baelor, and no one had deemed to tell her what happened to his remains. He deserves to rest in the crypts back home; next to his father, brother and sister, and the countless Starks of old, where he might hear mother's laugh once more.
"He made me look at it, you know. Up on the spikes next to Septa Mordane and all the rest. He promised to bring me Robb's as well." Sansa tore her eyes away from the table, though they ached to return. Theon stared at her with a clenched jaw and dark gaze.
The fire from the candle in front of him flickered in his eyes, and his jaw shifted. "I should have killed him. For what he did to Lord S— your father. And for what he did to you."
Word had spread, then. Sansa retracted her hands and folded them neatly in her lap. Icy shame coiled in her stomach. Does everyone know of my humiliation? "You've heard, then."
Theon hesitated and averted his eyes from hers to the table. "We'd heard rumors. You don't have to tell me more."
"What harm is there? I suppose everyone else knows." Sansa straightened her spine and took a draught of ale. Best set the wild tales straight. "I don't remember the first time he had me beaten. It might have been after Robb was crowned, or mayhap it was after he captured Ser Jaime. It tends to all blur together, after a time. He'd have me summoned to court and have Ser Meryn or Ser Boros strip and beat me. When my wounds had healed from the last time, he'd have it done all over. Unless he grew impatient."
"And no one tried to stop him?" Theon's hands curled into fists atop the table, and Sansa's mouth curled upward into the barest hint of a smile.
Foolish Theon. As if Joffrey would obey anyone. "Tyrion tried to stop him, but I don't believe he was ever truly willing to risk his own neck for me. And Tommen… tried his best. He was the only one who was ever truly kind to me."
A heavy silence followed her words, and Theon's fists curled tighter. Fury darkened his features even further, and he leaned over the table. "I should have cut him down for what he did to you. I would have, had those bastards not been in the way."
Theon. Always so brave. "I do not doubt it," Sansa said. "But you would have died as well, and then where would I be?"
No longer hungry, Sansa shoved away her barely eaten stew. She could not bear to look at Theon's sad eyes, or listen to the merry laughter of the other patrons in the inn, or listen to any more platitudes about how Joffrey never should have done what he did. "I'm quite weary," Sansa said. "I think I'll retire."
Without another word, Sansa made her way up to the room they'd been given with Theon not far behind her. It would be the bedroll's for her and Theon, as Tommen had claimed the lumpy bed for himself.
Theon set to laying out both of their bedrolls, and Sansa searched for the cloak Tommen had discarded earlier. He'd forgone the blanket which had covered the bed, and as Sansa moved it from where it'd been bunched at the foot of the bed she understood why. It was scratchy and smelt faintly of manure, and she let it fall forgotten to the floor.
Once Tommen's cloak was spread neatly over his sleeping form, Sansa crawled onto her own sleeping palette. She did her best to quiet her mind by listening to Theon's soft snores, but still she found herself weary the next morning.
They rose before the sun, before other guests in the inn had roused. The cook hadn't even finished the morning meal, not that their trio had planned to sit and eat anyhow. They always rose early and took their morning and midday meal on the road; none of them had any desire to slow their journey. Despite their hurry, Moria insisted they take leftover bread from the night before along with some bacon that had only just finished cooking. She wrapped it neat for them whilst the stable hand readied their horses, and soon enough they were on the road once more.
As usual, Theon set a fast pace. They rode along the Kingsroad for half the day, before veering off on a smaller road towards Harrenhal. The village before last, they'd overheard a merchant speaking of how Robb's men had retaken it for their own. If we're lucky, they'll still be there.
They stopped at no more inns on their way to Harrenhal. Day in and day out they rode, made camp, and then rose again to start all over. Never once did Sansa bring up what she'd told Theon, and neither did he. Though Sansa could feel his eyes on her. The newly formed scars on her back itched under his gaze, and she knew Theon yearned to ask more of what had happened to her.
They'll all want to know what happened to me. It would break her mother's heart, Sansa knew for certain. And Robb would certainly rage. How will the rest of the lords look at me, knowing Joffrey's court saw me bare? Would they think her ruined for marriage? Sansa was not so naïve to think that Robb would not have her married off for an alliance. But that won't matter, if they believe Joffrey took more than just my dignity from me.
The closer they came to Harrenhal, the more traces of the war they found. There were corpses hung from trees, so bloated and rotten that not even their own mothers could have placed them. The burnt remains of farms still smoldered, and widows wept along the road as they carted their belongings south. Worse still were the soldiers left behind on the battlefield, food for carrion that had long since eaten their fill. Men and women from villages nearby were only just leading horse-drawn carts onto the field to cart away the bodies. The sight had sick pooling in Sansa's mouth.
Two days after leaving the inn, the melted towers of Harrenhal appeared on the horizon. Sansa's breath hitched and her chest tightened in anticipation. Forward they went, hoping it would be Robb's men which still held the old ruins, and not Lord Tywin's.