November-December 31, 304 AC

The black dragon's fury overwhelmed her senses. A thousand pins stuck into her flesh; her belly growled with hunger; her spirit raged to feel the not-mother, the cold girl who smelled of winds and pines and icy waters. How dare she encroach upon his territory again?

The black dragon roared, and as if from a distance she saw the white dragon leap into the air, shrieking a challenge, his riders small upon his back, the tall knight and the maid slumped against him. Her saddle chains dangled, half undone, clanking in the wind of the dragon's wings; when he flapped again, they gave way, and she was falling, falling, the river rising up to meet her with a blow that drove the breath from her lungs—

Sansa awoke with a gasp, almost choking as she swallowed down gulps of stagnant air. The river was gone; she was safe in her cabin aboard the Feathered Kiss.

Yet even as she tried to shake free of the nightmare, a part of her was still in the Rhoyne, sinking into the depths as water poured into her nose and mouth. Sansa knew how to swim, but that day she had forgotten. Nothing existed but the river, the river and her memories of another fall. A boy's scream echoed in her ears as he plummeted beneath her, his body breaking on the hard stone which stopped his fall. It would have broken her too, had she not landed atop him, his mangled flesh cushioning the blow. She had limped away with only a broken wrist, had fled into the night following a pair of cats who led her to the safety of a back alley behind a brothel.

A water pitcher sat on the table beside her narrow bunk. Sansa grabbed it and took a greedy drink, to wash the taste of bile from her mouth.

Her leap from atop the traitor's walk could not have lasted even a minute; her fall into the Rhoyne scarce longer. Even in her panic she had heard Olyvar dive into the water with a great splash, had felt the river shift as an immense horned turtle appeared, offering her a flipper to which she clung desperately as he brought her to the surface, her lord husband standing upon the turtle's back like a hero in a song.

Such brief moments, yet in her nightmares they lasted eons. As she fell from the Red Keep, she saw Joffrey limned in golden light, just a boy of twelve, his green eyes wide and frightened. Sansa had not even meant to kill him, not truly. Her wolfskin had made her a wild beast; it was instinct that made cast herself at her tormenter, not thought. He cut off my father's head, Sansa reminded herself, taking another gulp of water. He sent a man to kill Bran, and had Ser Meryn beat me. Surely the gods had meant for him to die, else they would have slain her too.

And the gods have kept Olyvar safe, she told herself, settling back into the featherbed. He had survived the Mountain with only a broken arm; he had survived the battle above Volantis without nary a burn nor a scratch. Even diving into the Rhoyne... Sansa had emerged with bruises that faded, and a terror of drowning that did not. Olyvar, meanwhile, had emerged completely unharmed, though he worried over her for weeks.

Oh, how Sansa wished they still shared the same bed. Her cabin felt so lonely and bare without Olyvar, who slept in the first mate's narrow quarters. A part of her wished she might climb in with him, if only so she might sleep peacefully in his arms. Alas, it was impossible. Lord Edric Dayne slept in a hammock beside her husband's bunk, just as Brienne of Tarth slept in a hammock near the door of her cabin. One of them would surely awake; even if they did not, her lord husband would not permit her to shoo away Holdfast so she might take the hound's place beside him.

Though he might not be her husband for much longer, the stubborn, pigheaded man. Olyvar's insistence upon receiving Robb's blessing before consummating the marriage should have struck her as sweet and honorable; instead, it filled Sansa with a frustration that ebbed and flowed like the tides. What if her brother said no? What if the King in the North demanded they annul the marriage, and commanded her to wed and bed some stranger?

However honorable or gracious the lord, he wouldn't be Olyvar. Olyvar, who fought the Mountain, not because he thought her beautiful but because he thought her cause was just. Olyvar, who saved her from Queen Cersei, who trusted her to help tame a monstrous dragon, who soothed her nightmares, who shared his concerns and sought her counsel. They had come so far together; why should Robb be able to tear them asunder?

Then she remembered Arya and Rickon. They had not chosen their betrotheds; they had known it was their duty to secure House Stark's alliances. Who was Sansa, to cast off her duty for the sake of her own happiness? Was it not bad enough that she had abandoned her family to go gadding halfway across the world, with nothing but letters for years? But then, Robb had never ordered her to come home either; she and Robett Glover were his eyes and ears in the court of the Dragon Queen.

Sansa buried her face in her pillow, wishing she could scream. Why couldn't Robb just tell her what he wanted before they left Mele Nernar? She had hinted in her last letters that she wished to consummate the marriage, but he did not tell her yea or nay. Had she not hinted strongly enough? Men could be oblivious, after all, even men as clever as her older brother.

Olyvar was certainly oblivious, speaking of how he wished to protect her from a rash decision, as though she were one of his younger sisters. Bold as the sand snakes were, they were mere girls, innocent as Sansa once was. But her innocence had died long ago, when she saw her father's head struck from his shoulders, and avenged him by flinging a king to his death. She was no unspoiled maid, to be coddled and protected from the horrors of the world. Whilst they played in the Water Gardens, Sansa had ruled over a petty fiefdom of outlaws and refugees; had dwelt upon the Isle of Faces and learned songs of magic from green men and singers. She had endured captivity at the hands of her enemies, had suffered the loss of her mother by vile treachery. And when the Lannisters bade her tell their lies at her trial, thinking her helpess, she had spoken the truth instead, and condemned Tywin Lannister as an oathbreaking, murdering craven before the entire court.

Sansa huffed and turned over, laying on her side. How could Olyvar be so stupid, to think that she did not know what she was doing, that she would regret choosing him? She should have had Buttons bite him that night on the terrace. Love can fade, he had said, I had rather see Sansa happy than by my side. Deziel was right to call him a fool; how could her husband not see that she was happiest with him? And when they reached Westeros, she would make Robb see it, she would convince him to give his blessing. With her mind made up, Sansa fell into a fitful sleep, and this time she did not dream.

The next day dawned much the same as the one before. Tyrosh lay behind them; in less than a fortnight they should reach Pentos, their last port before Dragonstone.

Thank the gods they were at last sailing north. Sansa had wilted in the hot, humid air of the Summer Sea. It did not help that she had to wear veils constantly, to keep her pale skin from burning. Gilly handled the heat much better, as if she enjoyed being roasted like a chicken. Worse, though she was as pale as Sansa, she quickly tanned and freckled. Olyvar was just as fortunate, his golden brown deepening to an even richer color.

But no one loved the heat as much as Viserion. The she-dragon reveled in it, basking beneath the sun. She grew so amiable she even let Sansa take a close look at her clutch of eggs when they were between Naath and the Summer Isles. Pretty as the dragon eggs were, they were cold and hard, like jewels. Sansa preferred the wonders of Naath and the Summer Isles, the butterflies and flowers, the vibrant birds and lush trees. She sketched as many of them as she could, in the hopes that later she might have painters capture their beauty.

Much as she loved seeing such sights, Sansa would be glad to no longer be at sea, where the peril of drowning haunted her. If not for that, the journey would have been even more pleasant than it was. Cramped the Feathered Kiss might be, but it was a lively place. Chatana Qhoru kept a tightly run ship, always busy with sailors going about their work, or entertaining themselves when not on duty. So long as passengers kept out of the way, they were free to spend their days on deck.

Every morning Sansa and her companions strolled up and down the deck, to keep their legs from growing stiff. Olyvar always walked by her side, though he did not take her by the arm; Edric and Brienne followed behind. They talked of everything and nothing at all, of the plans for the conquest, of the sights they had seen in port, of the families whom they missed. Sometimes Chatana Qhoru joined them, to talk of sailing; other times her son Xhothar joined them, and taught them words in the Summer Tongue.

By the time they drew near Lys, Sansa had grasped just enough words to realize that the crew were placing bets on when the king and queen would finally bed one another. Chatana Qhoru said nothing about the fact that they did not share a cabin, nor did anyone else within earshot, but they did not know Sansa had the keen ears of a wolf, though she usually tried not to use them. Bad enough that the splashing of waves made her tremble at the thought of falling overboard; she did not need to hear the sounds of creaking hammocks and slapping flesh as the sailors found pleasure with each other.

Most of the sailors seemed convinced that Lys the Lovely would persuade the king and queen to do the same. Unfortunately for them, Lys the Lovely was not so lovely. Oh, the buildings might be graceful, the air scented with perfume, but the people of Lys were another matter. The slaves went about with their heads bowed, whilst the masters looked on, aloof and anxious by turns, with sellswords to guard their every step.

Small wonder that Tessaria Vhassar had rushed to the docks when she heard of their arrival. Olyvar had not been able to turn her away, not when she pleaded for aid in the name of his sister Nymeria, her beloved niece. Beloved, indeed. When Olyvar suggested that she visit Nym at Sunspear, Tessaria had refused, instead asking that they set her ashore when they reached Pentos. Though she did promise to write letters to Nym, and to visit later if their conquest went well.

That had not been the only trouble in Lys. Whatever had happened when Brienne took the Kingslayer ashore to stretch his legs, it could not have been good. When Brienne returned it was with red-rimmed eyes and hunched shoulders, whilst the Kingslayer boasted a broken nose which had been reset slightly crooked. Rather than push Brienne to confide in her, Sansa had let the lady be, and gave orders that the Kingslayer leave the Feathered Kiss lest he harass the poor woman further. Now he shared a ship with Ser Symon Wyl, who kept a close eye on him, assisted by his squire Arron Sand, and by Lady Toland, when she was not busy with little Sylva.

Little Sylva was not pleased to be on a different ship than Samrik, her usual playmate. When the seas were calm, they might sometimes row to the Feathered Kiss for a visit, but not often enough to please a boy of almost five and a girl of four who were used to playing together. With so few cabins on each swan ship, the Dornish had no choice but to split their numbers. Maester Perceval and Ser Gulian Qorgyle were on another ship, and Maester Lonnel and the Blackmont siblings on a third.

Thank the gods all the swan ships had made it through the Steptstones unscathed, along with the rest of the fleet.

From the day they left Mele Nernar, Olyvar had dreaded a second meeting with Euron Greyjoy and the dragon Rhaegal, who were rumored to haunt the Stepstones along with a pirate fleet. In Lys they had heard that the pirates had fought amongst themselves, but even then Sansa had not dared to hope for the good fortune which they enjoyed. When Olyvar flew Viserion ahead to scout, he saw no galley with black sails and a red hull, only a ragged pirate fleet who turned tail and ran at the first hint of pale golden flames.

Not that had helped Olyvar rest easy. She could not help hearing his nightmares, no doubt reliving the horrors he saw in Volantis, or imagining this was some trap, that Rhaegal would descend upon them at any moment. She longed to embrace him as she had when he returned from Volantis, to wipe the care from his furrowed brow, but she could not. Nor did it help when they arrived in Tyrosh, and heard that reavers had been seen sailing westward, led by a ship with black sails. Did they mean to attack the Planky Town? Oldtown? Lannisport? Pyke?

There was no way to know, and ever since Tyrosh, the uncertainty haunted Olyvar, who kept trying to guess what Greyjoy was up to. Today, Sansa had distracted him by reminding him it was time to take Viserion out for a flight. The dragon grew restless, cooped up in the hold. If the weather was clear, she wanted to fly every day for at least a few hours, scouting ahead of the fleet, or skimming down to the sea to catch a fish. Flying seemed to soothe Olyvar too, as if he could not recall his troubles whilst on dragonback.

Sansa could not take such comfort in his daily flights. Though she knew his saddle chains bound Olyvar fast, she could not stop herself from fearing for him as he flew over endless waves of open sea. It did not help that Brienne had told her of the dangers of falling into the ocean, so much deeper and colder than any river.

No one else seemed to share Sansa's terror. Little Samrik loved clambering up the rigging for a better view of the dragon above the waves, much to the amusement of the Summer Islanders. Gilly didn't fear the sea either. She liked to stand on the sterncastle, leaning on a rail whilst she read a battered old book, careful to keep it dry, and Brienne would spar all over the deck with Edric, neither of them worried that the ship would roll and pitch and cast them overboard.

All will be well, Sansa told herself, taking a deep breath as Viserion vanished into a cloud. By the grace of the gods they had enjoyed smooth sailing thus far, though she was not certain whether she should give thanks to the old gods or the new. Her father's gods were those of the singers and their weirwoods, of rock and stream and leaf; her mother's gods were those of men and their septs, with a holy book, laws, and hymns. But neither were of the wild sea, and so though Sansa said prayers to them both, she still felt uneasy.

They were only two days from Pentos when a storm hit. Waves crashed over the decks, and the wind tore at rigging, masts, and sails, roaring like some terrible beast.

Sansa listened from within the safety of her cabin. Mostly she prayed, and tried not to vomit when the ship lurched in the churning sea. Thank the gods Olyvar, Brienne, and Edric were with her, and Gilly safe in the women's quarters. When the storm passed, they learned two sailors had been swept overboard and swallowed up by the sea. Nor was that the worst of it. Several ships had sunk in the storm, and though all the swan ships had made it through, they were damaged, as were many of the galleys, cogs, and carracks which carried the Golden Company and the cargos of supplies and precious goods.

And so when the fleet limped into Pentos at the end of eleventh moon, it was not for a brief sennight as they had planned. A sennight was adequate to purchase all the grain that could be had, and gather news of Westeros, but it was not nearly long enough to make all the necessary repairs to their ships.

Whilst carpenters and sailors crawled over every inch of the fleet, the king and his retinue took rooms in a comfortable inn near the docks. An entire floor was given over to their use; for the first time in months, Sansa slept in a bed that never moved. Even better, she could send Gilly away so that she could bathe in private.

After so long at sea, it felt the height of luxury to bathe with as much hot, fresh water as she might like. Though the water was cold by the time she finished, having spent her time doing things other than washing. Her hands were as busy as her mind as she thought of Olyvar, of how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, of what might have happened had the kiss they once shared not ended too soon.

It helped, but not enough. Why must she be tormented with such a handsome husband? It was his body Sansa wished to explore, not her own. She wanted to tangle her hands in Olyvar's waves of steel-grey hair, and fall into his eyes, whose purple depths were ringed with amber like sunrise over the sea. She wanted to press herself against him, and feel his hands on her skin, and... well, she was not quite sure how things proceeded after that, but she very much wanted to find out.

After that it was hard to look her husband in the face and hide her frustrated lust, but somehow she managed. There was too much to do; she could not leave Olyvar to handle it all by himself. The letters from Prince Aegor must be delivered to Illyrio Mopatis, and not by her husband. Aegor had been quite firm on that point, and Olyvar agreed.

Instead, after much thought and discussion, they chose Ser Symon Wyl and Tessaria Vhassar to serve as King Aegon's envoys. Ser Symon was blunt and direct, Tessaria charming. Between the Dornish knight and the Volantene lady, they should be able to handle one Pentoshi magister, even one so corrupt as Illyrio.

Both Olyvar and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when Ser Symon returned, Tessaria having remained behind to enjoy the magister's hospitality. Illyrio Mopatis had read the letters, then sat in silence for a very long while, ignoring his guests, and when his smile returned, it did not reach his eyes. He said nothing of his son, nor Daenerys, nor of Aegon, but he did say that he was always happy to trade with those who had aught to sell.

The next day, the magister's seneschal appeared at their inn. Silks and spiced wine from Naath, feathers, gems, and hardwoods from Tall Trees Town, he was glad to take them all, though at a price that was so low as to be insulting. Olyvar and Ser Gulian Qorgyle spent the rest of the day haggling with the seneschal, whilst Sansa took it upon herself to ensure the best of the cargo was reserved for themselves. King Aegon must needs adorn his court and give lavish gifts to his lords, after all; it would not do to let Magister Illyrio have everything.

Sansa's eighteenth nameday came and went a sennight after they arrived. Olyvar marked the occasion by taking her to the menagerie of the Prince of Pentos, which boasted birds and beasts from all over the world. Sansa was careful to keep her senses in a tight grip; she did not want to learn whether the animals were content in their many gilded cages, so far away from home.

The birds from the Summer Isles seemed happy enough. Their enormous cages soared into the air, filled with flowers and trees from the isles. There were hornbills and parrots, lories and cockatoos, but the queerest bird was a small dark fellow called a bird of paradise. His feathers were black as pitch, save for a bit of blue under his wings. As they watched, he spread his wings out like a cape, pulling his head back until it seemed to vanish. In place of a bird, there was a smear of black feathers, with two bright blue eyes gleaming over a bright blue frown. Then, to her astonishment, the bird began to hop and whirl, chasing after another bird with brown wings and a speckled belly.

"A mating dance," Olyvar said, trying not to laugh as the bird pursued his lady fair.

Several extremely improper remarks came to mind; Sansa resisted them all. There was no point starting a quarrel on her nameday and ruining everything.

Sansa was rewarded for her good humor when they returned to the inn, where a feast awaited them. Almost every dish was made with lemons or oranges, and there was all the qatarmizat that she could drink. The lords and ladies gave her gifts fit for a queen, and gave her husband raised eyebrows and encouraging looks that he politely ignored. When Sansa retired to bed, it was alone, just as she had expected.

The next day was even busier, after the respite of her nameday. As usual, Sansa awoke before dawn; the bells tolled six as she broke her fast. She paused a moment to offer a prayer for the Hour of the Crone; in his chamber across the hall, Olyvar would be doing the same, though then he would fall back asleep. Her lord husband was wont to remain awake past midnight, toiling away at his papers; he would not rise for a few more hours yet.

Whilst her husband slept, Sansa applied herself to her harp. Once she had written a song for her father, to tell the realm of how he was betrayed; now her songs were of a hidden prince, to tell the realm of his honor and valor, of the justice of his cause. Some verses she wrote to fit old familiar tunes, but that did not always suit. It was hard enough, finding just the right words, let alone trying to coax forth melodies to match them.

But the work must be done. Maesters might write their histories, and mummers perform their shows, but the singers were the ones whose songs spread from village to village, from kingdom to kingdom, all the way from Dorne to the North. Even Gilly, who grew up beyond the Wall, even she had heard songs of Florian and Jonquil, of Jenny of Oldstones and her prince of dragonflies.

Sansa wondered if that was a sort of magic, that songs could unite people across such vast distances. On the Isle of Faces, songs were magic. It was a song of healing that mended the gash that ran from her navel to between her breasts, the wound she'd taken as a wolf when she flung herself between her sister and a sword. It was the same song the singers had taught her to heal her own wounds, the same one she used to mend Olyvar's crushed arm and Bel's three crooked fingers.

If only she had learned such magic before Bran fell.

The memory rose like steam from the hot springs. Lord Eddard knelt before the heart tree, his children fanned out around him like a crescent moon. Weeping made their eyes as red as the weirwood's, though Robb and Jon Snow tried to hide their tears. They were fourteen, after all, almost men. Sansa and Arya sniffled as they tried to pray; Rickon openly sobbed. Even bold, carefree Theon Greyjoy looked stricken as he stood beside the black pool, watching in silence. Had he prayed to his Drowned God then? He was only their father's ward, but surely he must have felt some pity for Bran.

Or maybe not; perhaps Theon had always been rotten to the core. The moment Theon had the chance he had abandoned Robb, taken Winterfell, and killed two common boys when he couldn't find Bran and Rickon. Sansa was glad he had disappeared beyond the Wall; he didn't deserve to serve with honor in the Night's Watch. Gilly had met Theon before Jon sent her south; she said he leered at her bosom, and made crude japes about bedding her.

The Gilly bustling about Sansa's chambers bore little resemblance to the timid maid who entered her service at Sunspear. Gilly was almost twenty now, and though she avoided the Kingslayer like the plague when he was aboard the Feathered Kiss, other men no longer frightened her. Even her fear of the Kingslayer had not stopped her from fetching Sansa when he troubled Brienne back in Lys.

Brienne of Tarth still would not speak of whatever had happened. She guarded Sansa's chambers with her usual viligence, trained with Ser Edric, ate, slept, and barely spoke. Much as that worried Sansa, she had other concerns.

Whilst Olyvar slept she might practice her harp, but as soon as he finished praying at the Hour of the Father, the rest of the day was so busy she barely had time to catch her breath. King Aegon must make the final preparations for their landing, and that meant meeting with the captains of the Golden Company, with the quartermasters who had charge of the supplies and with the captains whose ships would carry them across the Narrow Sea as soon as the repairs were finished.

When the fleet set sail, it would be for Dragonstone. Sansa could only pray that the isle would fall quickly. Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard had charge of the castle's defenses, and a fleet of dromonds defended her waters. Not the Redwyne fleet, thank the Seven, but the queen's ships, under some unknown captain. Whoever he was, hopefully the sight of a dragon would convince him to yield. Winter was no time for reckless bloodshed.

The news from the Wall remained unchanged. A host of wights still stood silent vigil beyond the Wall, staring up at each keep. The very thought of those cold stares was enough to make her shudder, let alone the thought that Bran might yet be trapped beyond the Wall. He must be alive, he must be, he could not have vanished only to die. Olyvar swore that he would search for her brother as soon as they turned north, but that was long months away; he must deal with King's Landing first.

Once Dragonstone was taken, from there King Aegon might send and receive ravens from across the realm, and determine how to divide his forces. If House Penrose raised their banners for Aegon, a part of the fleet would sail for Storm's End to help them subdue the Stormlands. Dorne was already theirs; a Dornish host should be waiting in the Prince's Pass, ready to march. Another host should be coming from the Reach, thanks to her goodsister Meria and to Lord Willas Tyrell, but they would not know for certain until they reached Dragonstone.

Sansa desperately wished that ravens flew across the Narrow Sea. She much preferred Meria's thorough reports to the confused rumors that came from the sailors on the docks. And what wild rumors they were.

In Lys they had heard that Margaery Tyrell was dead; in Tyrosh they heard that she was alive, and newly wed to the King in the North. How on earth that happened was unclear, but Lord Willas Tyrell swore that it was Cersei Lannister who orchestrated the attack which slew Lord Mace Tyrell, dressing sellswords in the garb of northmen. Now that they were in Pentos, the sailors said that Queen Cersei maintained that Lord Willas was deranged by grief, and that an imposter had taken advantage of a poor cripple whose mind was as frail as his body.

Whether or not poor Tommen believed such absurd lies, his mother had already given him a new bride. Talla Tarly was the unfortunate girl's name, the daughter of Lord Randyll Tarly, the Hand of the King. All the sailors agreed that Lord Tarly held King's Landing in an iron grip, his soldiers both numerous and well-trained.

Lord Tarly had acted swiftly to remove traitors amongst the city patricians and guilds, claiming they had turned their cloaks for northern coin. The accused were arrested and given to the Lord Confessor Qyburn; when they confessed their guilt, they were condemned, their property seized by the crown. The city had cheered for justice, enraged by the deaths of Lord Mace, Queen Margaery, and Ser Loras.

Of course, when word came of Queen Margaery and Ser Loras's survival, the mob had promptly rioted. The commons might love gentle Tommen, but they had always hated Cersei Lannister. Alas, the commons had not managed to chase her from the city, as they once drove out the pretender Rhaenyra Targaryen. Lord Crakehall's host of westermen had surrounded the Red Keep, and Lord Tarly was not a man to be easily cowed. The Lord Hand and his soldiers had slain hundreds putting down the riots, and then he had tried and hanged over a thousand more.

"We should have returned sooner," Olyvar said one evening when they were alone save for Brienne and Edric. "If I had not tarried so long in Mele Nernar..."

"Lord Mace might have decided he preferred a grandson on the throne," Edric pointed out. "Your Grace could not have known Cersei would be so mad as to slay her own allies; if anything, King's Landing is more ripe for the taking than we could have hoped."

"I'm sure that's a great comfort to the dead," Olyvar snapped.

"What's done is done, Your Grace," Brienne said quietly. "There will be justice soon enough, when your banners fly above the Red Keep, and you sit to pass judgment on those who have wrought such ruin."

Sansa cast her a grateful look, then winced as a cramp seized her belly. Her moonblood was as predictable as it was unwelcome; she would have a foul headache on the morrow.

The next four days passed in utter misery. With Olyvar so busy, it was Gilly who tended her, bringing her mild but hearty food, damp cloths for her brow, and hot bricks wrapped in cloth for her belly. Of course, her lord husband still checked on her, though only when she was asleep. She could tell because he always left a fresh flagon of water beside the bed, and the scent of his sandalwood perfume lingering in the air.

When her moonblood finally ended, it was the sixteenth. All was ready for their departure, save for the ships, so the next sennight dragged by at a snail's pace.

While Olyvar paced and brooded, Sansa played her harp, and stitched away at a doublet which she was embroidering with phoenixes in flight. The doublet was a rich, deep blue that suited her lord husband perfectly, the phoenixes a warm orange like the embers of a hearth for which he had named his valyrian steel spear. She finished the last stitch the day before their departure, and packed the doublet away in her chest, beside a pale gossamer shift made from the mulin Empress Daenerys gave her, so sheer and delicate it might have been woven from seafoam.

When they returned to the Feathered Kiss, the chest came with her, the porters returning it to its place in her cabin. Sansa had almost forgotten how small it was, though at least it had glass windows to let in the sun, and a cushioned bench beneath the windows where one might sit. With their prows pointed west, the light was best in the morning, but it was still pleasant enough in the afternoon.

The next afternoon found Sansa on the bench, too restless to read or sew. Olyvar was off riding Viserion, and for some strange reason, she felt a curious sense of apprehension. There was no reason why she should; all her folk were accounted for. Gilly and her son Samrik were in the women's quarters, playing with Buttons and Holdfast. Ser Edric was on deck drilling with his sword; Brienne sat beside her, gazing out the window, lost in thought.

Sansa shifted in her seat, wondering if she should speak. It was selfish of her to want a distraction, she knew. But surely it would not hurt to ask what troubled her sworn sword, and offer what help she could.

"Brienne," Sansa said gently. "What happened in Lys?"

"What happened, Your Grace?" Brienne said bitterly, a flush creeping up her thick neck. "A friend proved himself a knave, and me a fool."

Sansa flinched, but Brienne did not seem to notice.

"Ser Jaime... I thought he teased me because that was his way, just a lion might lash his tail because he could not use his claws. If he stared at me, it was because he was searching for something to mock; if he favored my company, it was because he knew me better than Edric, and was too proud to mingle with the sailors. When I asked that he might go ashore, I thought only to give him a respite from the ship."

Brienne swallowed.

"When we were ashore, I thought I might tell him about Ser Deziel. But before I could say a word, he- he- he asked me to-" Angry tears filled her eyes. "He said he wanted to take my maidenhead."

Sansa put a hand to her mouth, appalled.

"I tried to pull away," Brienne continued, "but Jaime grabbed me by the hand, he would not let go. He said he dreamt of me, that we were destined to die together fighting the Others. And then he kissed me, and I punched him to make him let go."

"I..." Sansa paused, choosing her words with care. "I am so sorry, my lady. I had feared he made some improper comment, but did not think he would dare do more than that."

Brienne sniffled, and pulled a kerchief from her sleeve. "Nor I, Your Grace. Jaime once told me he had never even thought of a woman who was not Cersei."

Sansa made a disgusted noise, unable to help herself.

"When Jaime came to apologize the next day, he did not even seem to realize what he had done," Brienne said, after she had wiped her eyes and blown her nose. "He thought I was angry because he took my first kiss," she mumbled, ducking her head as she blushed.

Sansa gave her a look of encouragement, not daring to speak lest Brienne retreat into her shell.

"Did you not know, Your Grace?" Brienne said, puzzled. "I thought... Ser Deziel and His Grace are close as brothers..."

"I know Ser Deziel had... hopes," Sansa said delicately. "Olyvar said he spoke to you before he left, but that was all."

"Oh," Brienne said. "Uhm." She rubbed her neck. "Ser Deziel asked my leave to approach my father about a betrothal. He said he didn't need an answer now, only asked that I think of him while he was away." She blushed deeper. "And he asked for a kiss."

"Well?" Sansa asked.

In answer, Brienne did a fair impression of a pomegranate.

"Deziel was so chivalrous, so calm," Brienne told the ceiling. "If I had said no, I daresay he would have begged my pardon and left straightaway. When I said yes... it was a chaste kiss, a brush of the lips, and then he kissed my hand and took his leave."

"And?"

"And I haven't been able to think straight since," Brienne groaned. "Ser Deziel is handsome, and Lemonwood is prosperous; he could have any lady he wanted!"

"And he wants you," Sansa said, bemused.

"I know," Brienne said, burying her face in her hands, clutching at her flax-colored hair. "Seven, I did not think I would miss Deziel so much. I had not realized how dear a friend he was, until he was gone. Do you know, he spent months growing me flowers the same color as my eyes?"

She did not wait for Sansa to answer.

"My father met my mother thrice before they wed; I have seen Deziel almost every day for years, and know he never speaks but in earnest. I had not thought to ever marry, let alone to find a man who did not ask that I give up the sword. Though he did say that he wanted babes, if I would be willing to bear them."

"Would you?" Sansa asked.

"I never thought I would have the chance," Brienne said softly. "But... yes. When we reach Westeros, I mean to accept his offer."

"Congratulations!" Sansa hugged her, overcome with joy. "You deserve every happiness, my lady."

"Thank you, Queen Sansa," Brienne said. She hesitated. "If I may be so bold, so do you and His Grace."

It was if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on her. "If only it were so simple."

Brienne tilted her head, confused. "Begging Your Grace's pardon, but what impediment stands between you?"

For a moment Sansa considered biting her tongue, but why should she? If Brienne felt free to confide in her, why should Sansa not return her trust? She was not Arya, but she was still a friend; Olyvar had certainly told Deziel his deepest secrets, ones he hadn't seen fit to share with her.

"His Grace fears he loves me too well," Sansa said bitterly. "He fears that our love would make him weak, that he would abandon duty for the sake of love, as the Kingslayer did."

Brienne stared at her in frank disbelief. "May I be blunt, Your Grace?"

Sansa nodded.

"That is perhaps the most witless argument I have ever heard." Brienne shook her head. "Whatever love they share is one that consumes them both, and leaves no room for duty. Meanwhile, neither yourself nor His Grace have faltered in your duty yet; if anything, you are better able to do your duty because you rely upon one another."

"I thought the same," Sansa admitted. "But that was not the only reason. Olyvar wishes to secure King Robb's blessing, and I cannot say that he is wrong. I have not seen my brother in over six years; he is almost a stranger."

Her voice broke; she swallowed.

"What if Robb hates me, for staying away so long? If he refuses to give his blessing, then I should go back to Winterfell, but I don't want to. But how could I stay without it, knowing it might lead to war?"

"I take it back," Brienne said, frowning. "That is the most witless argument I've ever heard."

Sansa glared at her, unamused.

"Your Grace," Brienne said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "There is a host of wights at the Wall, and the Lannisters hold the Iron Throne. No matter how angry he might be, do you truly think your brother would raise his banners to go to war over your marriage?"

Put that way, her fear did sound rather stupid.

"No," Sansa agreed begrudgingly. "But I have a duty to let my brother choose my marriage—"

"Sansa," Brienne said sharply. "If King Robb meant to drag you back, he could have done it long ago. What do you want, my lady?"

Sansa hesitated. What did she want? She wanted her father and mother alive again, she wanted her family safe and whole within the walls of Winterfell. Letting Robb choose her husband would not give her that, could not restore all that she had lost.

"I want my husband," she said at last. "I want to be his wife for true, to bear his children and be his queen."

"Then tell him that."

"I have been!" Sansa protested. "Olyvar thinks I might change my mind, that I might regret choosing him. How can I make him him listen?"

"I don't know," Brienne admitted. "But you should probably talk to him sooner than later."

Brienne was right; why had she not seen it sooner? Olyvar had thought far too much, as was his wont, and made a mountain of a molehill, and she was so caught up in her own doubts that she had let him.

"Thank you, my lady, for your wise counsel," Sansa said.

She rose to her feet, her cheeks warm with anger. As if sensing her mood, the wind picked up, sprinkles of rain pattering against the windows. That was good; Olyvar would be bringing Viserion back before the rain worsened.

"I believe I must needs speak to my lord husband. Now."

And with that, Sansa swept into the passageway, not even bothering to fasten a cloak over her simple wool gown. Brienne followed at her heels, barely able to keep up with Sansa's angry strides; she nearly flew up the ladder, intent on speaking to her lord husband before another moment passed.

Quick though she was, the rain was quicker. It was pouring when she reached the deck to find Olyvar unfastening his saddle chains. Viserion waited patiently, her nostrils steaming, her pale wings held aloft to keep the rain at bay. Sansa ran toward the dragon, too upset to panic at the sound of the churning sea. She would not let him duck and dodge; he would follow her to the cabin, and they would speak privily, and that was that.

"Olyvar," Sansa yelled.

"Sansa?" He called, his brow furrowed. Olyvar slung a leg over the saddle and slid down the dragon's side, his boots hitting the deck with a thud.

"I need to talk to you!" She shouted over the wind.

"You can talk below," bellowed the first mate.

Olyvar grabbed her by the hand, and together they ran for the closest hatch, the one Brienne had just gone down.

"I'll be right there," Olyvar promised, letting go as she began to climb down. "I have to get Viserion—"

A wave crashed over the deck; Sansa clung frantically to the ladder, closing her eyes against the salt spray, against the water cold as ice. When she opened them, Olyvar was gone.

"Man overboard!" Cried a distant voice.

Another voice was crying too, high and sharp, a woman's wail that cut off as soon as Sansa realized the voice was hers.

"Lower a boat," she shrieked instead, clambering back onto the swaying deck.

Sailors rushed to one of the rowboats, but they weren't moving quickly enough, not near quickly enough. The water was freezing, the waves rough; even a strong swimmer would not last long.

Terror gripped her fast as Sansa realized what she must do. It took everything she had to make herself take one step, then another. Then she was racing to the railing, her numb fingers fumbling at her gown as she tore at the laces, stripping off everything except her thin shift.

"What are you doing?" Brienne screamed through the blinding rain. "My lady, no—"

Sansa took one last, deep breath, reached for her wolfskin, and leaped.

When she hit the water, she was no longer a maid but a direwolf near the size of a horse. Her paws paddled away steadily, keeping her snout above water as she sniffed for her mate. When she caught the faintest whiff of sandalwood amidst the salt brine, she swam toward it as fast as she could.

Olyvar was barely afloat when she found him, coughing and choking as he struggled to keep his head above the waves. When he saw the red direwolf he cried out, dismayed; she had to nip at him before he put an arm over her shoulders, letting her keep them both above water. Rain poured down in sheets; she could hear the distant sound of oars, but how would the rowboat ever find them?

Then she heard the sound of wings. Viserion soared above them, breathing pale golden flame as she circled, a beacon that could not be missed. When she beat her wings there was a gust like a furnace wind, warmth enveloping both man and wolf from above whilst the sea chilled them from below.

The sailors were wide-eyed with shock when the rowboat reached them. Xhothar pulled Olyvar aboard first, giving Sansa an extremely nervous look as she draped her front paws on the edge, then carefully clambered in, the rowboat rocking beneath her weight. She could hardly change back, and be naked in front of everyone.

And I thought you stank before, the she-dragon informed her as Viserion followed the rowboat back toward the ship, her flames lighting the way. You smell like wet dog.

Sansa snarled in answer, and draped herself over Olyvar. Her mate was sodden and shivering; she must not let him grow any colder.

When they reached the deck of the Feathered Kiss, the squall was already subsiding, the rain fading to a drizzle. With great difficulty Sansa followed the sailors up the ladder to the deck, her claws goughing the wood. Getting below deck was equally difficult, but she managed it in the end, falling into the passageway with a thump.

While Edric bustled Olyvar into her cabin, Sansa shook the water from her fur. Gilly approached with a towel, perhaps thinking she meant to change back, but when Sansa rubbed against the towel, she took the hint and began drying the direwolf's fur. Olyvar must be kept warm, and between her size and her fur, she was almost as good as a hearth.

When the direwolf shoved herself into her cabin, she scarce fit through the door. Olyvar lay in her bunk, naked but for a breechclout. Edric was piling blankets over him, but one snap of Sansa's jaws and he retreated, shutting the door behind him.

With him out of the way, the direwolf leapt onto the bed. She could barely fit beside her mate, who curled against her belly, burrowing into her fur. Shivering, Olyvar clung to her, his ragged breaths gradually slowing. Only when her mate seemed to rest easily did the direwolf permit herself to drift to sleep.

When Sansa awoke, it was shortly before dawn, and she was a maiden again. Olyvar lay next to her, on his side. His brow was smooth, his color back to normal. Relieved beyond words, she could not help reaching for his cheek, and his eyes fluttered open at her touch.

"My love," he mumbled drowsily, a soft smile upon his lips. "How sweet you are, to visit my dreams. Much better than the drowning nightmare."

Sansa winced, and the spell was broken. Olyvar's eyes widened, as if only just realizing that she was naked as her nameday—

"You could have died!" Her husband yelped, pulling away from her. He closed his eyes tight, his hands fumbling for something to cover himself.

"And I didn't," Sansa said, handing him a blanket. "Here; stay put, ser. I will only need a moment."

In truth, it took her more than a moment to rummage in her chest, searching for the shift she wanted, and for a bedrobe to pull over it. When she was decent, she sat beside him on the featherbed, though she had to poke him in the ribs before Olyvar would open his eyes again.

When he did, she froze, her breath caught in her throat. Sansa spoke to her husband every day; why could she not do so now? Her tongue felt thick and clumsy; her mind dizzy and stupid. Yet she must speak, before the moment passed; she had come too far to turn back now.

Unable to do anything but stare, she regarded her husband with nervous eyes. King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, that was what all the officers of the Golden Company called him when they met. King Aegon wore silks and velvets of parti-colored blue and black, graced with phoenixes and dragons. King Aegon was stern and cautious, always willing to listen and heed good counsel.

But it was Olyvar who lay in her bed. He did not look like a king, just a youth a few years her elder, and it was Olyvar she must speak to. Olyvar, who prayed seven times a day that he might prove worthy of the crown which he sought; Olyvar, who loved his terrible japes almost as much as he loved his sisters; Olyvar, who above all else feared acting in reckless haste.

"I leapt after you," Sansa said slowly. "And not on impulse or instinct. I knew I should not jump into the sea. I knew, and leapt anyway."

Olyvar made a strangled noise. "What- you overheard?"

"I did," Sansa admitted. "And ever since I have fretted over how to confess what I overheard, and how to tell that you are wrong."

Olyvar's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Encouraged, Sansa continued.

"Love is not the death of duty, it is the foundation of it. Hasn't my love helped you remain steadfast, all these long months of preparing for your conquest? Your love has certainly helped me endure long years away from home."

"Home," Olyvar whispered. "I know you long for Winterfell; I cannot keep you from it."

Sansa shook her head. "I long for Winterfell," she said, wistful, "but in the way you long for the Water Gardens. Those days are done; I cannot truly go back, no matter who I wed. I cannot be a girl again, no more than you can be a bastard boy. You trust my counsel in all else; will you not trust me in this?"

"Sansa." He cupped her cheek, his gaze warm and uncertain. "Are you sure? There is no going back from this; it is a choice that cannot be undone."

"A choice is what you make of it," she said. "And I choose you. You once said you would only touch me by my leave, and you have it, ser." She hesitated, shy. "Just as you have my heart."

"Oh, my lady." Olyvar pressed his forehead to hers, their breath mingling. "I've been a fool, haven't I."

"A bit," Sansa said, breathless. "But they say fools can always learn."

Olyvar ducked his head, sheepish.

"Ah. About that. I have no idea what I'm doing, I never actually- well, I tried once, but- there's a book in my cabin—"

"You can show it to me later," Sansa said, clasping his hand to reassure him. "I don't know what I'm doing either; does that worry you?"

"What?" Her husband blinked. "Of course not- oh. Well, then." Olyvar brushed the hair away from her face. "May I kiss you, my lady?"

Sansa gave him a look; he laughed. But rather than kissing her, he climbed out of the bed, the blanket falling away. What was he doing? She might not know much, but she was fairly certain Olyvar needed to be in the bed.

"Get back here," she demanded.

Instead, he knelt.

Oh.

Sansa rose from the bed. She stood before her lord husband, her loose hair falling to her waist in auburn waves that shone like copper in the sunlight.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady wife," Olyvar murmured, his eyes as soft as the grasp with which he held her hands.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord husband," Sansa answered, her heart racing in her chest.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul," they said together.

They paused, drinking each other in. Olyvar's hair fell to his broad shoulders in steel-grey waves; his arms were muscled, his chest firm and solid, with a light dusting of dark hair that trailed down his belly to his breechclout.

It was not right, that she could see so much, and he so little. Sansa let the bedrobe slide from her shoulders to pool at her feet. Now she was bare, save for her shift of diaphanous muslin, whose silver snowflakes glimmered in the soft light of dawn.

Olyvar's lips parted at the sight of her; his arms reached up to clasp her in an embrace. For a moment that was enough, but only for a moment. Sansa drew him to his feet, and then at last his lips were on hers.

He kissed her as if he never wanted to stop, one hand in her hair, the other around her waist. Sansa kissed him back, pressing her breasts against his chest, the muslin so thin she could feel his heartbeat fluttering as wildly as hers. When at last they broke apart, panting, she brought his left hand to her lips and kissed it.

"I do not regret it," Olyvar breathed as she traced the mottled scars which ran up his forearm, the scars he had won defending her. "Even if I had lost the arm, it would have been worth it."

"I know what you mean," she said, gesturing at her own scar, the line of puckered silver that ran from her navel to between her breasts.

To her surprise, when Olyvar saw it, he startled. "How- what—"

"We can talk about it later," she sighed, and drew him in for another kiss.

After that, things were a bit of a blur. With tender care Olyvar helped her out of her shift and laid her on the bed. While Sansa wound one hand in his hair and pulled him close with the other, he seemed determined to keep kissing her. He began by pressing delicate kisses to her eyelids, her lips, her neck, his beard soft against her skin, but he did not end there. Nor did he object when Sansa decided she would quite like to return the favor.

Their hands wandered, petting and caressing, searching for the spots that provoked gasps and sighs and low, desperate groans. There was laughter too; she had not known both of them were ticklish, and Olyvar almost fell out of bed laughing when she trailed her fingers down his ribs and over his belly.

And there were awkward moments. Hanging loose, her long hair kept getting in the way of their kissing; when they tried to adjust their position on the narrow bunk, Olyvar yanked it by mischance. Sansa yelped in pain, and he quickly moved his elbow.

He then made it up to her with more kisses, followed by something that was more awkward and messy than anything in the songs, but also much more exhilarating. Sansa was almost frantic with need by the time they finally reached the part which was meant to seal their marriage in blood, though to her surprise there was little pain, and even less blood.

After, they lay on the featherbed, both of them slick with sweat but too stubborn to move. Her lips felt swollen from their kissing; she could taste salt upon her tongue from exploring his skin, and there was a tender ache between her legs from their coupling.

"Will you want moon tea?" Olyvar asked. Her husband's lips were swollen too, his beard damp. One hand lazily twirled a lock of her hair, his eyes soft. "War and winter are enough danger already."

"Let the gods decide," she said. "A king needs an heir, and a babe is a blessing."

Olyvar's smile was almost as blinding as the light now pouring in the windows.

"A babe is a blessing," he said, drawing her in for another kiss. "And I trust your judgment," he said when they came up for air.

He promptly lowered his head, dappling kisses against her neck.

"So soon?" Sansa laughed as his lips trailed toward her breasts. The thought of trying again made her belly flutter happily, her thighs and hips shifting of their own accord.

"We should be thorough," Olyvar said, looking up with mischief in his eyes. "If we mean to make an heir—"

Sansa pounced, rolling her husband on his back, and then nothing more was said for quite a while. When they were finished, Sansa felt the vague need for a bath and a chamber pot, but she could not bear to leave the bed. As there was hardly room for both of them, Sansa ended up slinging one long leg over her husband's middle, her thigh warm against his belly, her head nestled beneath his arm as he held her.

It was in that position that Gilly found them at dinner time. Thankfully she knocked before entering, giving Olyvar time to pull a blanket over them. They were both too sated to be embarrassed. To her credit, Gilly said nothing, only raised an eyebrow as she placed a platter of food on the table beside the bunk.

"Who won?" Sansa asked, her stomach rumbling at the scent of food.

"Won what?" Olyvar asked, bemused.

"The crew have been betting on us," Sansa said absentmindedly, eyeing a morsel of roast duck as Olyvar made a noise of outrage.

"I won, m'lady," Gilly said. She gave the king a look that was almost smug. "I knew His Grace would see sense eventually, if not until the last moment."

"We're still six days from Dragonstone," Olyvar said indignantly.

"And we had better use them wisely," Sansa said. "Gilly, you may go."

When they had eaten, Gilly returned with buckets of warm water, soap, and washcloths. It was only natural that they should help each other bathe, though both were too tired to couple again. They touched simply because they could, Sansa humming to herself whilst Olyvar washed her back, then turned so she might do the same for him.

Once refreshed, they returned to bed, not bothering with shifts. Snug beneath the blankets, they cuddled, Sansa pillowing her head on her husband's chest whilst he murmured of Dragonstone.

They should land upon the first day of the new year, if no more squalls slowed their passage. At Dragonstone they would find the latest letters from Meria, which King Aegon must read before raising his banners and sending word across the realm. And Sansa must write to Robb, and Olyvar to his mother, who would send forth ravens to declare the truth of his birth.

"The singers will go mad with joy," Sansa giggled, nuzzling his chest with her nose. "They may not even bother with my songs; they'll have their own ready before you can snap your fingers."

"Yours are better," Olyvar said, kissing her brow. "Though I doubt the singers will devote so many verses to my looks, such as they are."

Sansa stared at him, nonplussed. "You need a better looking glass," she said firmly.

"I had rather look at my lady wife, the sweetest maid to ever live."

"I'm not a maid," Sansa reminded him, giddy.

When they awoke the next morning, she reminded him again, to their mutual satisfaction. There also might have been some nipping and biting, which was received rather better than she expected.

The next week passed in a blissful haze. There was nothing else to do before Dragonstone, so they had ample time to practice making heirs and pore over the book which Aegor had so thoughtfully gifted her lord husband. Olyvar only left the cabin to tend Viserion, and Sansa left not at all, though she did dress each evening when they hosted Ser Edric and Brienne for dinner. Their sworn swords were mercifully tactful about all that had transpired, and pretended not to notice their king and queen holding hands under the table.

The day before the end of the year solstice should have been much like any other. Yet there was a queer taste to the wind, like lightning after a storm. Sansa's skin itched; her ears twitched at every sound, her nose scenting the air for some unseen foe. Even Buttons and Holdfast seemed to sense something amiss; both cat and hound whimpered at nothing, their tails tucked between their legs.

That night Olyvar fell asleep easily, his arms wrapped around her, but Sansa could not seem to follow him. If she were in her wolfskin, she would have snarled and snapped her jaws, to drive away whatever shade had seen fit to haunt her. They were not alone, she knew; gooseflesh prickled her arms; the hairs on the back of her neck bristled.

The flutes and drums had just sounded the second hour after midnight when Sansa bolted upright, possessed by some terrible dread.

Faint moonlight streamed through the windows. When she turned, she saw a strange demon perched on the bench. It had no form nor shape, but it wore a face like an ill-fitting mask, a face she almost remembered, as if from a distant dream.

"Olyvar," she said urgently, afraid. Her husband was a light sleeper, yet when she shook him by the shoulder, he did not wake.

Beneath the face, a thousand red eyes gleamed, malevolent. Their gaze cut sharp as knives as the moonlight vanished, a chasm dark as death opening beneath her feet. She managed one last scream before the nightmare took her, horrified when she finally recognized the face the demon wore.

"BRAN!"

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Finally!!! I cannot WAIT to see what y'all think in the comments :D

Happy two year anniversary to this behemoth of a fic! Can't believe it's over 600k, what the fuck???

I am absolutely blown away by the love this fic has received; thank you so very much to all of you for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. And extra love to all those who have helped with researching/planning/outlining, and most of all to my amazing beta PA2. This fic began as a single goofy idea, but it's become the creation of a whole community

For this momentous occasion, I commissioned an incredible painting from ohnoitsmyra.

While multiple people have asked if this was inspired by Klimt's The Kiss, it wasn't. This gorgeous work of art was inspired by Wilhelm List's The Embrace, which was painted in 1905 and actually predates The Kiss by 2-3 years.

Now, every prior Part has ended with a Sansa or Sansa-centric POV. So theoretically we should be ending here, right? WRONG. It's back to the Wall and beyond as we close out part IV

Next Up

148: Bran V

149: Jon VII

150: Epilogue (Theon)

And then we're into Part V

1) Thank you so much to the readers who have added to The Weirwood Queen's Tvtropes page. If anyone feels like adding Gilly and Deziel to the character page, that would be awesome; the quotes page hasn't gotten any updates since over a year ago.

2) Fun fact: I use section headers in my chapter outlines, such as "Arriving in Pentos" or "Brienne Convo" or "Overboard." The section heading for That Scene was "FUCKING FINALLY (Fucking, finally!)"

3) Here is what it looks like when a bird of paradise does a mating dance.

Yes, that is a real bird; they're native to Indonesia and Papua New Guinea. You're welcome :D

4) For most of human history, going overboard was really goddamn dangerous, and usually a death sentence. It doesn't take long for shock to set in; plenty of people drown before they even reach hypothermia.