May-July, 299 AC
"Do you still miss Starfall?"
The woman spoke carefully, her words slightly slurred. She was young, perhaps twenty, small and slight. Her skin was darker than that of the tawny knight beside her. A crown encircled her wavy sable hair; dragons roared upon her gown beneath scarlet suns pierced by golden spears. A beautifully carved cherrywood cane lay by her side; one delicate hand rested upon the slight curve of her belly.
"Sometimes," the knight said heavily. The sun shone off the falling stars that adorned his white armor. The knight looked much the same as he had at the tower, until Sansa looked closer. His amethyst eyes were brighter, his posture straighter.
"Where is Rhaenys?" Sweat trickled down the woman's brow, and her breathing was shallow.
"Prince Oberyn rocked her to sleep in Lady Shella's garden; Ser Lewyn is with them."
"Good. Oberyn will… watch over her. Fetch the maester." As she turned to the knight, her limbs seemed slightly stiff.
"Princess—"
"Now, Ser Arthur. I will not miss the final day of the tourney, not when my husband rides in the lists."
No sooner had the knight departed than the woman winced, her amber eyes looking down at her belly.
"Are… you… there… little one? Mother Above… hear my prayer… your father… grows too eager…" Her speech seemed more natural without an audience, though much slower. She sighed, her eyes thoughtful.
"The knight … of the laughing… tree," the princess muttered. "He dreamt it… and… it came to pass. If he is right… about the other dreams… the Seven… help us all."
When Sansa awoke, all she could think of was Princess Elia. Who was the knight of the laughing tree? What were the dreams that frightened her?
Sansa thought of Elia as the old grandmother showed her how to spin; she thought of Elia as she made up a song for a fussy baby; she thought of Elia as she taught a pair of young girls how to hem a tunic. Who was Elia, truly? Had she wanted to marry Rhaegar and be queen someday? Or would she have rather remained in Sunspear and married some lesser noble?
Sansa had always known that she would leave Winterfell to wed a great lord or prince, but of late she had begun to resent her duty. She missed Winterfell, she missed her chambers and her mother's solar and the godswood. She missed Robb and Bran and Rickon, she missed Old Nan and Maester Luwin. But most of all she missed her mother.
Sansa wished she could talk to her. She had so many questions to ask. Had Lady Catelyn longed to return to Riverrun? Did she miss her brother and sister and her father? Perhaps her mother could even tell her what Elia was like. Lady Catelyn had been a young lady in the days before Robert's Rebellion; surely she had met Princess Elia. Sansa had been surprised to learn that only a few of the smallfolk in the hollow hill had ever seen a Tully, let alone a Martell.
It had been over a moon's turn since her pack arrived at the hollow hill. The massive cave still unsettled Sansa with its many tunnels and nooks and crannies. Weirwood roots ran through the walls and ceilings of the refuge. One great tangle formed a set of stairs behind the massive fire pit, leading up to a dark hollow where Sansa and her pack slept.
Sansa was still thinking of Elia when she settled herself down for the evening meal. A weirwood stump served as her seat, the wood as pale as her skirts.
Thank the gods for Arya's quick wits and Lady Smallwood's kindness. The lady of Acorn Hall had given Arya three of her own gowns for her missing sister. The gown Sansa currently wore was soft wool, with cream skirts and an ebony bodice. Swans had adorned it, until Sansa carefully undid the embroidery. It was simple to remove the fine stitches, stitches that must have taken hours and hours of painstaking needlework. Of course Sansa could not display Swann heraldry, but she had still mourned the graceful birds as she picked them apart.
Almost in apology for desecrating the lovely gown, Sansa took great care not to stain the cloth, keeping her skirts well away from dirt and soot. Arya, who sat at Sansa's left hand, did not share her sensibilities. Her brown tunic, jerkin, and breeches, more gifts from Lady Smallwood, already showed signs of hard wear.
Jeyne was the only one of their pack who remained besides Arya. The dark tunnels made Meri anxious, and she'd departed with a pair of older women, gone to seek cows. There were plenty of children in the hollow hill, children who needed milk. Gendry was gone too, away forging swords. He'd departed with a blessing from Sansa and a hard punch to the shoulder from Arya.
Sansa was surprised by how much she missed Meri and Gendry, even though she still had Arya and Jeyne. Jeyne helped Sansa manage the household, taking stock of their supplies while Arya helped Jeyne with the sums and spoke to the smallfolk.
It was Arya who had suggested the stump at Sansa's right hand. At Winterfell Lord Eddard had listened to a different person each night, and so Sansa followed his example as Lady of the Hollow Hill. Each evening Arya chose a different person to sit on the stump beside Sansa during dinner, grandmothers and children, crippled men and maidens. Sansa listened to their stories, their fears, and tried her best to help.
Tonight Sansa's guest was Anguy, one of the group who had captured her pack. He had remained to guard the hill, though Arya said he was itching to do something more. The archer stared at her, his hands trembling as he ate. Sansa had intended her transformation to inspire faith, but it had also inspired a certain amount of respectful terror. She didn't like that at all. A lady should inspire love in her people, not fear.
"I saw you shoot at the hand's tourney," Sansa said between bites of stewed venison, hoping to put him at ease. "You defeated Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces."
The archer smiled, startled out of his respectful silence.
"That I did, m'lady."
"How did you become such a fine shot?"
"Well, livin' in the Dornish marches, the lords like t' train as many bowmen as they can, in case the Dornish attack. Me dad was a fletcher, he made me a little bow when I was that one's age," he jerked his head at Arya. "He had me practice by hunting game."
The Dornish marches? Would he know of Princess Elia? Sansa examined his face and her heart sank. No, he was far too young.
"And the whole realm saw the worth of his teaching," Sansa replied, making herself smile. Anguy blushed.
"I've only hunted with hawks, not the bow-"
"She's not very good at it," Arya interrupted.
Sansa forgot herself and stuck her tongue out at her sister. Someone choked back laughter, and Sansa gathered the shreds of her dignity.
"An archer must practice his craft, just as a wolf must hunt. Might you teach some of the others how to shoot?"
The archer tapped his foot thoughtfully.
"We've only a few bows, m'lady," he said. "I could make more-"
"And how long would that take?" Alyn asked from across the fire, his face skeptical under his scraggly beard. Anguy frowned.
"A while," he admitted.
"If we find you bows, would you train any willing to learn?" The young man nodded, and Sansa looked at Arya. Her sister grinned wolfishly.
It took a week before Nymeria and her pack arrived, bows and quivers gently clenched in their jaws. Some of the bows had bloodstains, and Sansa wondered how many men had been slain to steal them.
Arya seemed to have no qualms about riding into battle in Nymeria's skin, but the thought of killing men still made Sansa feel ill. Had those bowmen been trained like Anguy? Had they grown up hunting game with their fathers, only to be sent to kill men they had never met nor quarreled with?
Sansa did not have the heart to fight like Nymeria, but she could do something else.
Sansa the direwolf snuffled at the scrap of the child's shirt. She could smell the mother's hand that held the cloth, the salty tears upon Liane's face. Focus. The cloth was heavy with the smell of the child's sweat. The poor boy had been terrified, and now he was all alone.
The red direwolf ran south, her feet so swift she felt as if she could fly, bits of poetry running through her head as the leagues slipped away. As she ran Sansa sniffed the air for any trace of little Pate amongst the aromas of wood and water, fire and ash.
She was near Stoney Sept when she found a sleeping toddler, alone and starving. Her tail wagged frantically as she sniffed him but drooped when his scent proved strange.
Once the child was delivered to safety, Sansa resumed her search. She was lapping water from a stream, stars shining overhead, when an unexpected scent tickled at her sensitive nose. The scent was so familiar that Sansa almost slipped back into her own skin. Mother?
Liane wept until she laughed when the red direwolf returned with Pate riding her back. Sansa wished her son had been as grateful for her help.
The little boy had screamed himself hoarse when he saw the red direwolf. Sansa had ripped a branch of blackberries off a bush and brought it to him, the thorns prickling her mouth, but he refused to take the ripe fruit. Finally she had crawled under the blackberry bush, slipped back into her own skin, and told the boy his mother had sent her. That had startled him so much he stopped screaming, but it took ages to persuade him to come with her.
When Liane finally let go of the direwolf's neck Sansa clambered up into the dark hollow and changed back into her own shape. She dressed herself in a deep blue gown, Jeyne helping her and whispering what had happened in her absence.
Jeyne's news was worrisome. Though there was plenty of meat from the wolves, they were low on flour and cheese, and they desperately needed cloth and thread. Many of the smallfolk had only one set of clothes, and those half ruined when they fled from Lannister raiders.
"Alyn's gone out for supplies, and a singer arrived this morning," Arya murmured as Jeyne finished Sansa's laces.
There was no word of Robb, or Winterfell, but a fisherman had brought a brace of enormous fish and word that Renly Baratheon was dead, his host gone over to Stannis. Rumor had it that Lady Catelyn had been with Renly when he died. Sansa bit her tongue as she thought of mother's pale face in the sunrise, and the strange knight who'd frightened Sansa away.
Soon it was time for dinner, and the singer approached Sansa as she made her way to her seat.
"Tom o' Sevenstreams, at your service, my lady," the man said with a gallant bow. Tom was a man of fifty, as thin and worn as his woodharp. He attempted to claim the stump beside Sansa, but Arya sent him off with a fierce glare.
Arya had already chosen Sansa's dinner companion. Ronnel was a big man gone to seed, his hair almost entirely grey. The man had been born with a clubfoot, but his strong arms and gentle smile had won him an apprenticeship with the blacksmith and the hand of the prettiest girl in the village. His wife was gone now, as were his sons, who were fighting under Lord Bracken. It was his forge that Gendry now used, for Ronnel was too weary to lift a hammer.
When the meal was finished Tom began to play. His voice was sweeter than his looks, and for a few minutes Sansa lost herself as he sang "Alysanne"and "Seasons of My Love." Then he began to play "The Rains of Castamere" and the moment was gone. Tom sang half a verse before the crippled smith told him to shut up.
Sansa was grateful that Ronnel had spared her the trouble. She could not think of Tywin Lannister without remembering Princess Elia and her babes. What singer had written such an awful song? Whoever he was, he was surely richly rewarded. Father never had to pay people to sing his praises, they loved him for himself.Yet no one knew what Ned Stark had done, or why his death was so cruel. No one but Arya and me.
Under her breath Sansa began to hum, thinking of poetry she'd composed while running in her wolfskin.
The King he rode for Winterfell
to seek an honest man
the lord there knew his duty well
and said he'd serve as hand
The Hand he was a northern lord
with eyes as grey as stone
the Hand he wore a noble sword
valyrian steel sharp honed…
Sansa sighed as she set her sewing down. Sewing tunics was necessary but incredibly dull. She should be grateful Alyn had returned with good wool cloth, stolen from some Lannister supply wagon, but she desperately missed embroidery. Sansa almost sympathized with Arya's hatred of needlework.
At least it was finally getting too dark to sew. Dusk was falling, the sun dipping toward the horizon in a glorious riot of gold, lavender and rose. Beams of light shone between the alder trees, illuminating the children at play. All safe? Sansa silently asked the barley birds who twittered in the branches above her head. They were friendly, restless birds, their feathers grey and green and flax. One of them chirped happily- no unfamiliar two-leggers were about. Sansa exhaled, a knot in her tummy loosening. Everyone needed time outside the cave, but it made her nervous.
Sansa sat near the entrance to the hollow hill, perched on a boulder. Weirwood roots curled around the cave's entrance; one even embraced the boulder Sansa sat upon. In the distance Anguy was teaching a group of boys to shoot, along with Arya and a few older girls. Most of the women sat beside Sansa, some sewing, some spinning. The surest spinner was the old grandmother from Sherrer. Celia's wrinkled hands moved with the ease of long practice, her thread as fine as Sansa had ever seen.
"It may be growing too dark to sew, but it isn't too dark to spin, m'lady," Celia said, almost absentmindedly.
None of the other women dared reproach a lady of Sansa's high birth, let alone one who could turn into a direwolf, but Celia was too old to care for such niceties. Alyn had found wool cloth and raw wool, but no thread. They could not do anything without thread, so everyone must do her fair share.
It was Celia who had decided that Sansa must learn to spin, and Celia who had briskly demonstrated the motions over and over until Sansa could spin a lumpy thread. Truth be told Sansa liked the old woman's little improprieties. They reminded her of Old Nan. With a sigh Sansa picked up her distaff, whorl, and spindle. She had been spinning for only a little while when Tom approached.
"Good afternoon, my lady," the old singer said with a graceful bow. Sansa dipped her head to acknowledge him, but kept her eyes on her spinning.
"Your sister tells me you've been making up songs for the little ones," Tom stroked the strings of his wood harp, calling forth a pretty ripple of music.
Sansa nodded, her tongue sticking out as she watched the long thread in her hand.
"Lady Jeyne says you've been writing a song for your father." Sansa pinched the wool too tightly, and the thread snapped.
"A song is a powerful thing, my lady. I'll be going back out in a day or two, and I'll be traveling far. I might help you finish it, and spread it over the Riverlands."
Sansa stared at the spindle lying on the ground. What if he laughs at it? What if he thinks my song is stupid?
"My lady?"
Sansa picked up the spindle, frowning as she looked at the split end of the thread. Celia would help her mend it when Tom was gone, but Celia could not help her with this.
"I thank you for the kind offer," Sansa said at last. "Come to me after dinner, and I'll share what I have thus far."
Sansa absentmindedly stroked the weirwood root, her spinning forgotten. The root was warm from the sunlight, a low hum of power pulsing beneath her fingers. Father will have a song, a better one than any writ for Tywin Lannister. I swear it.