Late July-Mid August, 300AC
Softer than a whisper, the needle slipped through the cloth. Sansa tugged gently, the loop of white thread vanishing as it embraced the silver. She had drawn the fierce direwolf herself, sketching and sketching until it looked right, just as she had pinned the paper to the canvas, pricked out the design, then dusted it with charcoal.
The seamstresses had made her maiden cloak of white velvet, trimmed with a border of cloth-of-silver dotted with snowflakes made of pearls. When Sansa finished embroidering the sigil of House Stark on the canvas, the seamstresses would stitch it to the velvet. Ladies might spend hours at their needlework, but it was not their trade, and Sansa had never embroidered velvet before.
"Such deft work," the queen cooed, hovering over Sansa's shoulder. She fought the urge to shudder.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Cool fingers brushed against her throat, against the golden collar she wore. Cersei was always touching it, reminding Sansa of her powerlessness. The queen's other ladies never seemed to notice. Jocelyn Swyft was meek as a mouse, and gullible besides. She'd told Sansa quite sincerely that the recent rains were the gods weeping for Lord Tywin. Cerissa Brax did needlework in a haze, when she wasn't reading from The Seven-Pointed Star. The War of Five Kings had taken her father and two of her brothers, and she was deep in mourning. Melesa Crakehall and Darlessa Marbrand were more shrewd, but if they saw the queen's odd behavior, they refused to acknowledge it.
Melesa was a brisk, big-boned woman, the wife of Ser Lyonel Frey. How on earth old Lord Walder Frey had managed to wed his son Emmon to Genna Lannister, Lord Tywin's only sister, Sansa did not know. However the marriage happened, Lady Genna had never left Casterly Rock, though she had given her Frey husband four sons, including Lyonel. Melesa had quite coldly told Sansa that she was lucky to serve the queen, considering her brother's treachery against the crown and her own disrespect.
"Madness is no excuse for such vile behavior," the lady told her, aggressively stabbing her needle through the brindled boar she was stitching. "The laws of the Seven do not apply to traitors."
Darlessa Marbrand was even more ill-tempered, with her constant jibes about the barbarity of northerners and their demon gods. Despite her hostility, Sansa pitied her. Lady Darlessa was the widow of Tygett Lannister, one of Lord Tywin's younger brothers. Her husband had died of a pox years ago, and she had lost her only son in the bread riots. Nor did she seem to enjoy serving Queen Cersei, who was demanding and gracious by turns. So Sansa let the cruel words pass over her, and focused on her stitches.
While Sansa attempted to lose herself in her needlework, Shae had succeeded in vanishing entirely. A few days past Sansa had awoken alone, her bedmaid's side of the bed cold and empty. Brella had not seen her, nor had the servants who brought Sansa's breakfast. Properly Sansa ought to have sent for the goldcloaks, to have them find the missing maid, but she had kept silent. Ser Pounce had found a stash of jewels in the cupboard where Shae kept her things, hidden beneath a thin roughspun gown. If Shae wanted a life far from the Red Keep, Sansa could not begrudge her, though she did wonder how Shae had gotten her hands on so many jewels.
The needle glided, swimming gracefully on its way. Sansa wished she could get her hands on more weirwood seeds. Her precious silk bag had been left behind at the hollow hill when she chased after Arya. The weirwood tree had not born another fruit, not since Sansa last visited the godswood, anyway. Faintly she remembered the taste upon her tongue, of coppery blood and bitter herbs, of sweet honey and tart lemons, of salted tears and fresh fallen snow.
Up and down, in and out, the silver needle flowed smooth as a song. Bel had come to sing for them last week, courtesy of Prince Oberyn. The queen had been most irritated as Bel performed her finest songs from Dorne and the North, her rich voice filling the room with plummy sweetness.
When the queen excused herself for a moment to speak with Grand Maester Pycelle, Bel came over to speak to Sansa. Her dark eyes flashed at the sight of the golden collar, her full lips pressed thin.
"Well met, m'lady," the singer said. "Prince Oberyn sends his compliments, and laments that you have been gone from the cornerfort for far too long."
"He is too kind," Sansa replied, mindful of the ears around them. "I could not ask for better company than the queen and her ladies. How fares Ser Olyvar?"
"His arm still troubles him."
Sansa wanted to cry. She had sung for him just as she sang for herself. Was a broken arm so different from a bleeding one? The Mountain crushed his arm to pulp; perhaps saving the arm was all that she could do. In her frustration, Sansa happened to glimpse Bel's hand, those three stiff crooked fingers. She looked about the room. Jocelyn and Cerissa were reading from The Seven Pointed Star, engrossed in the prayers. Melesa had gone to the privy, and Darlessa was in her rooms with a headache.
"May I sing you a northern song?" Sansa asked quietly. "It has no words, but it has a certain beauty."
The song was familiar now, but the awful cracking sound was new. Bel cursed under her breath, tears in her eyes as her fingers jerked into their proper place. She stared at Sansa, terrified.
"Arya said you missed playing qithara." Sansa's voice was small and tremulous, ashamed at causing pain when she had meant to heal. Without another word, Bel fled.
Once I finish the snout, then I can ask to be excused. Sansa had tried to capture her siblings' direwolves in her drawing. The direwolf had Nymeria's golden eyes, Grey Wind's cloudy fur and Shaggydog's snarl. Yet there was something melancholy about it too, some sorrow that reminded her of Bran's nameless wolf.
She missed Bran. At least she knew Robb and Arya had each other, and Rickon had Winterfell. Who did Bran have? No one had told Sansa anything, save that Bran was missing and presumed dead. But he was alive, she knew he was, she could feel him in the weirwood tree, just as she could feel his direwolf in her dreams.
Sansa could still recall the last time she had seen him, before he fell. Father had left to hunt with Robb and the king and most of the men, leaving Sansa and the younger children behind. Bran was practically wiggling with excitement over their departure on the morrow; Sansa had caught him marking the days on his wall.
"Don't tell Robb," he had begged her. "We're leaving him behind; he'd be sad." Sansa had solemnly promised not to say a word. Robb was her big brother, and Rickon was a funny baby, but Bran was her favorite, the only one who shared her love of songs and chivalry.
When Bran wasn't running around Winterfell, he was with Sansa, reading. Sansa would read the narration, being a much better reader than Bran, but Bran voiced the knights and monsters and villains, while Sansa voiced the maidens and princesses. Together they gasped over the bravery of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, of Ser Ryam Redwyne, of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, who'd slain a dragon by creeping up on it from behind a shield of polished silver and glass. They sniffled over poor Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, twins who had died on each others swords in the Dance of the Dragons; they gossiped in hushed voices over whether Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest living knight, would be stern and solemn or friendly and gracious.
Poor Bran had never met Barristan the Bold. Sansa wondered what Bran would have made of the distinguished old man who had greeted her with such courtesy, only to depart the Red Keep red-faced, his armor and his white cloak lying abandoned on the floor of the throne room while lickspittles laughed at Littlefinger's japes. At least Bran had been spared that pitiful sight.
The snout was finished. The tips of her fingers ached, the imprint of the needle pressed into her thumb and forefinger.
"Your Grace?" Sansa asked softly. The queen looked up from her own embroidery, a golden lion that seemed to grow slower than a snail. The queen hated needlework, she just hid it better than Arya.
"Yes, sweet child?"
"May I visit the godswood? Please? Ser Lyn will ensure that I do not overtire myself."
The queen frowned, suspicious. Sansa hated Ser Lyn, which the queen knew full well, and avoided him like the plague. Forcing Sansa to endure his company would please the queen. But letting Sansa go to the godswood was a kindness, and Cersei was not kind.
"I must prepare for my supper with Prince Oberyn tonight; I suppose you may go. A few minutes only," the queen answered finally, one hand chucking Sansa under the chin. "Fresh air is dangerous for a girl of your delicacy."
Sansa buried her relief behind her courtesies, dipping a deep curtsy as the queen summoned Ser Lyn. She needed her courtesy, it was her only armor against Ser Lyn's crude japes and bawdy suggestions, half of which she did not even understand. Finally he left her at the entrance to the godswood, warning her to be quick about her heathen prayers.
When she reached the weirwood it was to find an old raven perched on the lowest branch. His feathers were dirty and bedraggled, his size enormous.
Hello, she soothed. Are you lost? The maester will help you feel better.
"
Snow
," the old raven answered, quorking. "
Sansa.
"
Sansa tilted her head. She had never heard a raven speak aloud. Clever boy, she told him, holding out her arm. He flapped over to her awkwardly, her arm dipping beneath his weight. The letter tied to his leg was a tiny scrap of paper, so small she nearly missed it, the scroll tightly rolled and sealed with black wax. She broke the seal, and nearly wept when she recognized the cramped handwriting that filled the page.
Sansa,
At Castle Black. Stannis's red priestess saw you in the flames. She saw you by a weirwood tree dripping from seven wounds; saw you naked with a shadowy man; saw you surrounded by wolves. Didn't say when this would happen, only that she saw it. Robb is too far to reach you in time; you must find your own escape. I'm so sorry. Elected Lord Commander; Night's Watch takes no sides; I break my oath even by sending this. Heard about trial; proud of you. Love you.
Your half brother,
Jon Snow
"Lady Sansa!"
The raven took flight, dismayed by Ser Lyn's bellow. He calls for me as a kennel master calls for his bitch, Sansa thought.
"Coming, Ser Lyn!" She called back with a merriness she did not feel. Sansa read the paper thrice more, committing the words to her memory, then crumpled the precious scrap and tucked it beside her heart.
As soon as she was alone in her rooms Sansa tossed the paper in the fire, watching it curl and turn to ash. A weirwood attacked, marriage to a man in shadow, and then the forest and the wolves. But had the red priestess seen the visions in that order? And where had they taken place? The Harrenhall weirwood had thirteen great wounds; had she seen that and counted wrong? Or had she seen some other weirwood?
"Your dinner, m'lady," Brella called as she entered bearing a tray. Dinner. The queen is dining with Prince Oberyn. Her own supper could wait, as could worrying over visions.
"Thank you, Brella, you are dismissed for the evening," Sansa said. The maid set the tray on the table, curtsied, and left.
Lady Cinders was not pleased to be awoken from her nap on the queen's featherbed. I'm sorry, Sansa told the tabby cat. I'll give you a lovely fish tomorrow if you'll just trot into the solar. Please? The cat licked her chops, yawned, and leaped down from the bed.
They arrived in the queen's solar shortly before Prince Oberyn, Lady Cinders making herself comfortable beneath a side table while the queen welcomed her guest. The pleasantries seemed to drag on forever as Cinders washed herself, her rough tongue setting her fur in order.
"King Tommen is a handsome lad," the prince remarked as servants brought greens and warm bread. "The gods were kind to give him a share of his mother's beauty. I hear Princess Myrcella is no less comely."
"Joffrey was even more beautiful," the queen said, her voice suddenly dull. "They draped Joffrey in a golden shroud, to spare me the sight of him. But how could I not look upon him one last time?"
Cersei took a long draught of wine.
"I carried him, I birthed him, I nursed him at my breast and taught him at my knee. He was my golden prince, tall and handsome and strong, but when I lifted the shroud..." The queen angrily choked back a sob. "I cannot think of him without remembering the bloody ruin of his face."
"Your Grace has suffered much," Oberyn said, more gently than Sansa had ever heard him speak. "No parent should have to bear the pain of losing a child."
"He was murdered, not lost," the queen said sharply. "I betrothed Sansa Stark to my son, and how did the she-wolf repay me?"
He cut off my father's head and made me look at it, Sansa thought, fur bristling with anger.
"May the Father Above judge her as she deserves."
"My son will never see his wedding night, so I swore that his faithless bride would spend hers screaming," the queen said, tasting her soup with surprising delicacy considering the fury in her voice. "And why not? Our enemies were in disarray, our victory inevitable. Robb Stark had vanished into the Riverlands, an arrow through his face, his death as certain as the sunrise. Lord Tully was a prisoner at the Twins, Winterfell held by a child of five. The Vale was gathering swords on our behalf, or so my lord father said before Stannis's vile assassins took him from us."
"Along with our brave Ser Jaime," said Oberyn. "Strange that there has been no demand for ransom as of yet." The queen gripped her dagger tightly, her face white.
"My brother would not leave me unless he had no other choice. They may have captured him, but he will escape, I know he will, and those who took him will die screaming."
"And what of Sansa Stark?"
The queen signed, suddenly tragic and vulnerable. "I wanted so badly to see her wed. Marriage to a cruel husband is a worse fate than any death."
The Red Viper looked at the queen strangely. He pities her. Robert Baratheon might have been handsome once, but he had treated his queen with barely concealed disdain, groping at serving girls before her very eyes. Sansa wondered if Cersei had always been so cruel, before she spent fifteen years in endless misery.
"The small council thinks me foolish, I know. There are so many urgent matters of state, matters of more import than a single girl." The queen gave the prince a heartbreaking, bitter smile. "But how can I rule Seven Kingdoms if I cannot even avenge my son?"
"I may be able to be of help, Your Grace."
The queen sat up straighter, points of color burning in her cheeks.
"I knew you would not leave a mother in distress. It is too late to wed the girl, lest her brother send Yohn Royce and Brynden Blackfish to wreak bloody vengeance. But, perhaps… even young maids can fall ill, wasting away despite a maester's devoted care. Robb Stark could not fault us for that, whatever private suspicions he might nurse."
Poison. How on earth could Sansa flee from that? Mayhaps her nose could sniff out some poisons, but what if a poison had no scent?
"My heart bleeds for you, Your Grace," Prince Oberyn said with a sigh. "I must apologize for the role Dorne has played in adding to your sorrow. The behavior of my bastard has been... unfortunate. I did my best to dissuade him from taking part in the combat, but the boy is at the age where he does not think with his head."
The queen laughed, her eyes wary as she took another sip of her wine.
"Why, what could you mean, my prince?"
The Dornish prince favored her with a wicked smile.
"You know how headstrong young men can be when they are led by their... lower impulses. The moment Olyvar laid eyes on the Stark girl he desired her, though her beauty is nothing compared to your own."
The queen pressed a hand to her breast, her smile bashful as a maiden, her eyes cold as ice.
"I shall not insult you by pretending to mourn the death of Ser Gregor Clegane, but the Stark girl had nothing to do with us. My sister still remembers the Lady Lyanna's whorish ways. Alas for my son, the Lady Sansa seems not to share her harlot aunt's freeness with her favors. Had you noticed the girl's failure to visit his sickbed?"
The queen allowed that she had heard such rumors.
"Lady Sansa came to see him once, the day after the combat. In his fever Olyvar attempted to make bold with her, and ripped her gown before she fled. The girl has refused to go anywhere near him since."
What? That wasn't what had happened. Olyvar had screamed, yes, and grabbed for his dagger, but he hadn't laid a finger on her. Once she had time to think, Sansa realized that he had likely been trapped in some nightmare, and felt ashamed of her panicked flight. Arya wouldn't have fled, she'd have punched him like she punched Jon Snow the time he pretended to be a ghost.
Lady Cinders yawned and stretched out on the rushes, her movement reminding Sansa of the matter at hand.
"— a husband for Lady Sansa. Olyvar would have preferred her before she flowered, but he already presumes too much for one of his birth. Still, any man would be a fool to not seek such a match for his son."
"Why should Robb Stark tolerate a bastard wedding his sister?"
"The smallfolk have gone wild for my son's stupidity," Prince Oberyn said, rolling his eyes. "The singers declare his love for Sansa is the purest love since Prince Duncan wed Jenny of Oldstones. Why not use their absurd songs for your own ends? Robb Stark can hardly condemn the man who saved his sister's life as an unsuitable husband, let alone convince three kingdoms to rescue her from his tender embrace."
"No," the queen said thoughtfully. "I had not thought of that."
"The commons will be so frantic with joy over the wedding that the unpleasantness at Lord Tywin's funeral will be immediately forgotten. As soon as they are wed, you can send them back to Dorne. The girl will be farther from her family than anywhere else in Westeros, unless you intended to send her across the Narrow Sea." The prince shrugged elegantly. "My bastard has begged for years to tour the Free Cities and their... depraved pleasures. His lady wife would of course go with him, and share such pleasures whether she will or no."
"Whether she will or no?" The queen swirled her wine before taking a sip and favoring the prince with a smile.
"A wife vows to obey her lord husband. Should she prove less than eager Olyvar will be quick to remind her of her place. Truth be told, it will do the boy good to focus his attentions on a wife; the serving girls grow clumsy when covered in bruises, but he loves the way they shriek."
That night her dreams were filled with screaming women and men staring at her naked body. It was difficult to keep her face calm in the morning when the queen informed Sansa that she would not be choosing her husband as previously planned.
The next week passed in a whirl of needlework and slowly increasing panic. The Red Viper had lied about Olyvar assaulting her; was he lying about everything? Or was Olyvar truly as monstrous as his father claimed? Sansa could not make heads or tails of it. Ser Olyvar had championed her when no one else would, he had whispered of justice when he raised his spear.
Was it an elaborate trick? After all, once she had thought Joffrey was gallant too. Ser Pounce had heard a Crakehall squire complaining that Olyvar had beaten him senseless for no reason, but Buttons had seen Olyvar helping another young squire improve his spear work.
Sansa desperately wished that Brienne of Tarth was still in the city. Her father had finally paid her ransom and the warrior maid had left without a word of farewell. If anyone could have helped Sansa flee the city, it would have been Brienne.
She didn't dare try leaping from the walls again; she'd been lucky to escape with only a sprained paw the first time. Sansa spent so much time fretting over her needlework that the direwolf was finished before she knew it, the date of the wedding set for the fifteenth day of the eighth moon.
The night before her wedding she was invited to sup with Lady Olenna Tyrell. They dined in her solar in the Maidenvault, alone but for Esti, a serving maid nearly as old and wrinkled as her mistress, and the fool Butterbumps, an immense round fat man dressed in green and yellow motley.
"A Dornish bastard is no fit husband for a princess of Winterfell," Lady Olenna said tartly as Butterbumps bellowed 'Flowers of Spring.'
"I owe Ser Olyvar my life," Sansa said meekly.
"That doesn't mean you have to spend it with him," Olenna replied. "Gratitude is all very well, but there are limits. You were made for gentle rivers and lush gardens, not rocks and sand. You would blossom in the Reach."
"I am to be wed tomorrow," Sansa replied, confused.
"Hmph," the old woman snorted. "I may be old but I'm not blind. You're no more in love with the Red Viper's bastard than I am. Why should you dance to the queen's piping?"
Lady Olenna patted her hand, Butterbumps still singing at the top of his lungs.
"Let me take you under my protection. My most trusted knights will spirit you away to Highgarden, far from Cersei's clutches."
Rather than dance to Cersei's pipes, you would have me dance to yours . How could Sansa escape if she was guarded night and day by the finest knights of the Reach? And once they reached Highgarden she would be at the Tyrells' mercy. Would they make her wed Willas? The heir to Highgarden was kind, but he was so old.
"You are too kind, my lady," Sansa said carefully. "I would not want to endanger House Tyrell's standing with the crown."
The old woman waved a gnarled hand dismissively.
"The queen claims you are her honored guest, and she needs Highgarden's swords to keep her son's crown. She can hardly afford to declare war on the Reach."
"Nevertheless, my answer remains the same."
Olenna's eyes narrowed, her genial smile fading.
"Butterbumps! Stop that infernal racket!"
When she returned to her chambers Sansa could not sleep a wink, tossing and turning as she thought of visions and prophecies. The Ghost of High Heart had said she would be a queen; that was plainly false. The green woman had said three would seek to claim her. The maimed lion was Ser Jaime, the maid was Brienne; was Ser Olyvar the false son?
Sansa smacked her pillow in frustration. Her own dreams had proved true, warning her of Joffrey's falseness and her father's execution, but how could she trust the visions of women she did not know? A piece of needlework had thousands of stitches; what if they were looking at the wrong ones? Princess Elia had condemned Rhaegar Targaryen's obsession with prophecy, and his actions had led to the deaths of Lyanna Stark and both of his children.
No more prophecies, Sansa told herself. She must focus on what she knew. Whatever Ser Olyvar's intentions, they would depart for Dorne the morning after the wedding, following the Kingsroad south. She would never have a better chance to escape than when they were in the kingswood with wolf packs all around. If he raped her on the morrow, well. Meri had survived the Mountain. Sansa could survive a Sand.
Dawn came too soon, and with it, maids to dress her for the wedding breakfast in the Small Hall. The ladies of Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands surrounded her with amiable chatter as she picked listlessly at her eggs. It came as a relief when the servants cleared the food so that the bride gifts could be presented.
The Lady Nym presented her with a eating knife, the silver handle carved in the shape of a wolf's head. From Lady Cedra Santagar there was a book on how to run a household; from Myria Jordayne a book on Dorne.
"Written by a Dornish maester," Myria said pertly.
Lady Larra Blackmont gave her earrings and a matching necklace, both made with silver from the mines in the Red Mountains that had made House Blackmont prosperous, while Corinna Manwoody gave her bracelets made with copper and gold from the mines of Kingsgrave.
Ellaria Sand was the last of the Dornish ladies to present her gift, a gown of cloth-of-silver fit for a queen, along with a new set of silver needles, bands of silk for trimming, and threads of many colors so that she might decorate the gown herself.
Lady Olenna gifted Sansa with rose seeds and a scathing comment about the inferior soil of Dorne. Lord Mace Tyrell's wife, Alerie Hightower, gave her a set of silver combs and hairbrushes. Lady Margaery waited until her grandmother was distracted before presenting her gift, a small silver locket.
"Look inside," Margaery whispered. Sansa found a hidden latch and opened the locket.
Nestled inside was a miniature, painted in the vivid Myrish style. Lord Eddard Stark smiled up at her, his eyes crinkled, his long face so familiar she could have wept.
"My grandmother may be angry, but you will always have a friend in the Reach," Margaery said softly, her eyes kind. The locket was on a thin chain, so long that Sansa could wear the locket beneath her clothes unnoticed. Margaery fastened it about her neck, making a moue of distaste at the ever present golden collar.
No sooner had the gift giving concluded than the Dornish ladies bustled her off to the cornerfort, insisting that she must have a ritual bath before she donned her wedding gown. Sansa had not bathed with other women since Winterfell; she had forgotten how pleasant it was to share company during a bath. Ellaria herself scrubbed Sansa down with a mixture of lemon peel, olive oil, and salt that turned her skin soft as silk. When her bath was complete they helped her into a simple gown, rather than a bedrobe as she had expected.
"We thought you might wish to visit the godswood, before the ceremony," Ellaria explained, lightly touching Sansa's wet hair.
Sansa's heart was almost light for the first time in weeks as the Dornish ladies escorted her to the godswood, pressing kisses to her cheeks before letting her enter alone.
When she reached the weirwood, it was to find it bleeding from seven sharp wounds.
This is a longass chapter, as befits our heroine. I look forward to long comments screaming at me below
NOTES
1) Yes, I researched medieval embroidery, including the technique Sansa uses. Some fun facts: most embroidered work was created on canvas before being appliquéd to other fabrics. Trim could be removed and reused, just as gowns could be redecorated. Textiles are neat.
2) In AFFC, Cersei has ONE lady in waiting, Jocelyn Swyft, and a few maids. The fuck, GRRM?! Darlessa Marbrand and Melesa Crakehall exist in canon, I gave them personalities. Cerissa Brax is mine.
3) Jon wrote that letter in a panicked frenzy. No, he didn't use the exact same words as Mel for her visions. He feels like a colossal asshole because he can't magically teleport some brave knight to Sansa's defense; all he can do is warn her and pray she figures out her own escape plan.
4) On Margaery's gift: real life medieval courts always had a few artists around to paint portraits of the nobility. All she had to do was surreptitiously find out which one of them saw Ned the most, then hire him to paint Willas while also having him secretly do the locket portrait of Ned for Sansa. It would have been Margaery's way of welcoming Sansa to the Tyrell family. Although Sansa ended up betrothed to Olyvar, Margaery decided she might as well be magnanimous.