December, 299 AC
The mouse squeaked as it scurried through the rushes, one side pressed tight against the cold stone walls. His whiskers guided him, for his eyes saw the world as a dull blur.
Out in the open, please? Sansa asked. Nibbler refused, trembling. Coming out in daylight was frightening enough, but leaving the safety of the wall was different. That was how cats got foolish mice. You're very brave , Sansa reassured him.
He twitched his pointed nose. There were berries nearby, sweet and juicy. But there was a two-legger guarding them, a big one.
It seemed to take hours for Nibbler to creep his way to the table, stopping and starting at every sign of movement. The mouse's terror made Sansa remember her own. She could not forget how the Kingslayer had stared at her by the God's Eye, his eyes fixed on her bare form. A man who lay with his sister was capable of anything; would he have raped her if he had both hands?
Brienne had not shared her fear, but she could defend herself. The awkward lady was taller than the Kingslayer, as fierce as Arya and as muscular as the Hound. What would Arya think if she knew Lady Catelyn had taken a warrior maid as her sworn shield? She'd found the Kingslayer, she had even captured him.
And then he captured her.
Jaime Lannister had not defeated Brienne in battle, he had captured her with gold. It was not Brienne's fault that the northmen and sellswords at Harrenhal could be bought. How could Lord Bolton have such faithless men? Uncomfortably Sansa recalled Old Nan's tales of Boltons flaying Starks, in the days when kings ruled the Dreadfort and Winterfell instead of lords.
Sansa's stomach swooped as the mouse climbed up a table leg. The two-legger sat beside the table, her shoulders slumped. After watching to make sure she wasn't looking, Nibbler ran to the berries and began to nibble.
While the mouse ate, Sansa looked at the two-legger. Brienne's face was broad and coarse, with crooked teeth and a broken nose. Thick callused fingers rested on the table, and Sansa thought of Mikken at his forge. An ugly man might still be a great lord or a king, but an ugly woman… Sansa not imagine the scorn she endured.
Yet the warrior maid had one beauty. Her large eyes were bright blue, framed by long delicate lashes. Sansa's tummy roiled with guilt as the maid stared at the walls of her cell. All of Joffrey was beautiful, but he was cruel. Brienne has a noble heart. Their lady mother had trusted Brienne to find Sansa and bring her home. And now Brienne was locked in a tower cell, imprisoned for refusing to forsake her allegiance to Catelyn Stark.
At least she had found the Maid of Tarth. As the mouse scampered back into the rushes, Sansa thanked him and let go.
She opened her eyes to deep grey clouds. Sansa was weary, her back aching from leaning against the trunk of the heart tree. The weirwood she had planted was twenty feet high now, with graceful limbs and a thick crown of leaves.
Sansa rose to her feet slowly, her thighs aching. It had been a moon's turn since she gave her blood to the heart tree at Harrenhal, and still weakness plagued her. Again and again Sansa had tried to slip into her wolfskin on the road, but she lacked the strength. Roses await you, but beware the thorns. Three shall seek to claim you, the maimed lion, the maid, and the false son. South and east and west you'll go, the green woman had said. Sansa shivered.
South she'd come, against her will. They had put her in the same tower cell as before. Her book of northern legends sat on the table; her needle was stuck where she left it in her embroidery; her gowns were neatly folded in their carved wooden chest.
It was almost as though Sansa never left, but for her gowns revealing the truth. They were far too short, and so tight about the chest she could barely breathe. Sansa was glad of the three inches she'd added to her height, but she wished her bosom would stop swelling. By rights she should have new garb, prisoner or no.
The queen was to blame, Sansa was certain, although she had not seen Cersei Lannister since her return three days past. It was the queen's uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, who had "welcomed" Sansa back to captivity. The heavy set man had seemed amiable at first, his manner gentle and fatherly as he asked how she had been spirited away, where she had been held, how she had come to the God's Eye. He made no mention of a red wolf, nor of Joffrey.
The longer Sansa remained silent, the cooler Ser Kevan grew. At the end he was loosing questions at her like arrows, as though she might forget herself and respond. Instead, she feigned a fainting spell. Better to be thought stupid and sickly than beheaded.
And so Sansa was confined to her chambers, permitted only to visit the godswood and the sept, and then only with Sandor Clegane to guard her. He waited for her at the entrance to the godswood, a scowl on his scarred face. They walked back to Maegor's Holdfast in silence, the Hound haunting her steps as though he were a hound in truth.
Why had he been set to guard her? Was it because he had been there that awful night, because he knew what she had done? Sansa remembered the wide whites of his eyes, the pallor of his face as her gown tore, as she sprouted fur and fangs and claws. He had not run...
But, she realized for the first time as she made her way down the serpentine steps, he had not stopped her either.
The bird chirped as it swooped over the Red Keep, the sun warm on its wings. From above the two-leggers looked small, like the seeds she loved to feast on. There were so many colors, colors Sansa could not see through her own eyes. Lower, please? she asked, and Snowwing obliged.
A great cluster of riders rode through the gate, banners flapping in the wind. A few were coughing, likely from riding through the burned fields that surrounded the city. Ash dusted the forelegs of the slim proud horses, dulling their brilliant red and gold and snowy coats. Sand steeds, the pride of Dorne. No Dornishmen had come to King's Landing since the deaths of Princess Elia and her children. How had the Lannisters bought them? Sansa wondered. What price could ever repay such a debt?
The Dornish lords and ladies had faces of many colors, some golden as their mounts, others rich shades of brown. A few were nearly as dark as handsome Jalabhar Xho, the exiled Summer Islander prince. Ser Jaime Lannister waited to greet them, his golden armor shining, his white cloak flapping in the wind.
Her own entrance to King's Landing a week ago had been far less splendid. I prayed for a knight half as noble as Ser Arthur Dayne, and the gods gave me the Kingslayer. She did not know how much gold the Kingslayer had promised Bolton's men, but they obeyed his orders, not the oaths they had sworn to Winterfell. They should have chained him and brought him to Lord Bolton; they should have knelt before me and pledged to keep me safe. Instead they had covered her up with a dull brown cloak, tied her to the Kingslayer, and left her here.
But the Dornish ladies were not prisoners riding into the city tied behind their captor. They were proud and fierce, their silks a glorious riot of colors. Near the head of the column rode a beautiful woman, perhaps twenty or so. Her skin was as golden as her horse; her long braid a lustrous ebony; her full lips red as wine. Beside her was a gawky youth, his skin a lighter gold, his dark hair cropped short. Their look favored that of the prince at the head of the column, a striking man who bore a copper sun on his helm.
House Nymeros Martell of Sunspear, Septa Mordane's voice echoed. Their sigil is a golden spear piercing a red sun on a field of orange; their words Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Their seat is the Old Palace; their lord Doran Nymeros Martell, a man of fifty of ill health. His sister Elia was wed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His heir is his daughter Arianne; under the barbaric laws of the Rhoynar, the first child inherits in Dorne, regardless of sex. He has two younger sons, and one younger brother.
Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell reined in his stallion, a lazy smirk upon his face. The Kingslayer looked ill at ease as he ran his only hand through the stubble that covered his head. His eyes were strangely bright, filled with new shades of green.
Closer, please? The dove hesitated, fearful of the bows the two-leggers bore. Lords don't hunt pigeons, they won't even notice you, Sansa promised, and the bird fluttered to land on a horse's mane.
"-in the cornerfort. It is spacious and well-appointed."
"And as far away from the Fat Flower as possible, no doubt," the Dornish prince replied, one eyebrow arched.
"Oh, father!" the young woman behind him said, laughing merrily. "Is that any way to speak of our new allies?" There was something sly about her look, despite the courtesy of her words.
"Hush, Nym," said the gawky youth, who looked even more uncomfortable than the Kingslayer. Though his eyes were likely a dark blue as plain as his face, in Quickwing's vision they shone like amethysts, the pupils ringed with amber.
"The Tyrells are across the keep," Ser Jaime conceded.
The lords of Highgarden had been in the city for months,ever since the battle for King's Landing. They had heard of it at a roadside inn. The Kingslayer would not risk Sansa entering the inn itself; her hair and look were too distinctive. Sansa had listened from where she sat outside, hood and cloak covering the chains that bound her to Brienne.
"Lord Tywin and Lord Mace came up the rose road, and took Stannis in the rear," an old man had said, his voice cracked and dusty. "The Imp set the river aflame, but Stannis kept his men in hand. Some were taken off by his ships; the rest retreated to Storm's End."
"Aye, Lord Tywin sent Randyll Tarly after them," said a younger voice. "They've got Stannis like a rat in a trap."
"He's held out before," replied a third voice. "A year he lasted, with the whole Reach at his gates. He may think only half the Reach is an insult."
There had been much laughter at that, but Sansa wanted to weep. Why would the Reach support the Lannisters? Everyone seemed to have heard the rumor that Queen Cersei's children were not sired by her king. Didn't they know? Didn't they care?
"Which Tyrells?" Prince Oberyn was asking. "Not young Willas, by any chance?"
That made the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard frown, but he covered his confusion with a mocking smile. "So eager to joust him again? I should warn you, Lady Olenna is here as well, and I think she may still be vexed that you crippled her grandson."
"My love, I am weary," a lady said, drawing her horse up to Prince Oberyn. With a fond look he took her hand and kissed it.
"Of course. Let us wash the dust from our skin. Until later, Kingslayer."
With a sigh Sansa returned to herself, her head spinning slightly as she grew accustomed to her own skin. Birds were so light, so free. And I am not. The godswood was surrounded by high walls of stone, walls she could not climb even if she could slip into her wolfskin.
At least it was beautiful. The godswood was full of loveliness, from the delicate blossoms of the flowers to the graceful branches of the trees. The grass was thick and soft beneath her feet; the air fresh and wholesome.
"Lady Sansa," the Hound said curtly, and the beauty was gone. Sandor Clegane loomed above her, his eyes hard, his hair lank. Sansa met his gaze, trying not to look at the twisted mass of scars on the left side of his face.
"My lord," she replied.
And as the Hound helped her to her feet, his eyes flickered to the heart tree.
The cat slipped into the Tower of the Hand. A guard bent to scratch his ears, but the cat did not stop. His tail twitched, his gaze intent on the sweaty, bloody two-legger he followed.
Sansa winced as she recognized the door to the Hand's solar, her father's solar. Now Lord Tywin Lannister sat in the great chair, the golden chain of linked hands glimmering about his neck. Though Lord Tywin was lean and muscled, he had all the wrinkles of a man in his fifties. His head was shaven, his face bare but for the thick side whiskers that ran from ear to jaw. Like a lion's mane, if the lion were bald. Ser Kevan Lannister stood beside him, a portly shadow of his older brother. Though Sansa knew they wore tunics of Lannister crimson, in Buttons' eyes their tunics were a dull muddy yellow. Cats saw well in the dark, but they knew nothing of red nor orange nor purple.
"The gold train is taken, my lord hand," the messenger said, his voice dulled by exhaustion. "Eleven days past, on the gold road near the Blackwater Rush. They came out of nowhere, two thousand horse, wolves howling in their van. Our horses went mad; we were encircled before Ser Forley Prester could restore order."
"Where is Ser Forley?" Ser Kevan asked.
"The Stark boy slew him personally. I- the entire escort was slain, my lord."
"Yet you are here." Lord Tywin's voice was level, but rage shone in his eyes. The messenger gulped.
"The boy spared me, my lord. To bring a- a message. He- he-" The messenger fell silent, his shoulders slumped as he stared at his feet. Lord Tywin glared.
"Out with it," Ser Kevan prompted sternly. The messenger looked as if he would rather be somewhere, anywhere else.
"Robb Stark sends his greetings. He bids me tell you that he has taken the gold train because he could, because the Young Wolf does not fear the Old Lion. He challenges you to meet him on the field of battle, or else he shall proclaim you a coward to the whole of Westeros. If you lack the stomach, he offers peace until after winter, so long as the Iron Throne acknowledges him as King of the North and King of the Trident. He will not kneel to a- a bastard born of incest."
Robb will kill you all, Sansa thought, exulting, but Buttons hid in the rushes as Lord Tywin rose to his feet, his expression thunderous.
Ser Kevan dismissed the messenger. As soon as the door shut behind him Lord Tywin began pacing the room.
"The boy is a fool," Lord Tywin said coldly. "Winterfell may be retaken, but the northmen will not forget that it fell."
"Have they found his brothers yet?" Ser Kevan asked. Bran and Rickon? Are they not at Winterfell?
Lord Tywin shook his head.
"No. His heirs are lost, the ironmen hold Moat Cailin, yet he sends all his foot ahead of him and comes south alone. Desperate for glory, no doubt. With half the ironmen gone, he'll find little renown defeating those who remain."
"If only Balon Greyjoy hadn't died... damn their ridiculous kingsmoot." Ser Kevan shook his balding head. "Does Stark know we hold his sister? How in the seven hells the other girl got to Riverrun-"
Arya was safe! Lannister or no, Sansa could have kissed him for such good tidings.
"He does not," Lord Tywin said. "There was no need to inform him." A satisfied glance passed between the two men, and Ser Kevan nodded, a smile playing at his lips.
"What can he be thinking? The Blackfish must know our numbers would crush two thousand horse." Ser Kevan frowned. "True, we have only three thousand horse ourselves, but we have eight thousand foot, and the power of the Reach besides."
"Boys are fond of playing at war; a crowned boy even moreso. Doubtless the Blackfish failed to restrain his folly." Sansa wished she could ask Buttons to bite him for daring to insult Robb so. Robb had beaten them before, he'd beat them again.
"I shall lead our host myself," Lord Tywin said, clenching his jaw. "You will remain here to serve as Hand in my stead."
"And the Tyrells?"
"Ser Loras will be only too eager to lead the van. Let Mace Tyrell defend the city. Stannis cannot move by land with Tarly besieging him, and the Redwyne fleet will soon cut him off from the sea. Ser Addam Marbrand shall keep a few thousand of our men; I'll not leave the city to Tyrell alone."
"Still..." Ser Kevan hesitated. "The boy cannot wait on the gold road forever. If we ignore this challenge, he must follow his foot north, and wed his uncle to a Frey."
"No. It's time to break this boy king. I'll skin the impudent wolf myself."
Lord Tywin glanced at the cat in the rushes, his eyes cold. And as Sansa fled back to her own skin, she could still feel the chill of that murderous gaze.