Sansa had always loved baths. As a girl, she relished dipping her toes into the warm water, steam coming off the top of it in twirling smoky clouds. She still loved them, even more so as a woman grown. Ruling as a Queen with no Hand had proven manageable, although the stress was sometimes suffocating. After long busy days, Sansa found herself eager to dismiss her servants and ladies, and sink into a tub of water so hot, it colored her pale skin a bright pink color. It felt extra cleansing somehow.
After she and Gendry had sent the raven to Castle Black two nights ago, they had said goodnight and gone their separate ways. For the first time in a long time, she had fallen asleep feeling hopeful. Because although she still didn't know where Arya was, it felt as though she were taking action. Like a plan was already in motion.
She had hope for another reason too, although she was weary of it and tried to dull the glimmer of it. The scroll she had sent to the Night's Watch contained yet another pardon for Jon and advised that he was needed for an extremely urgent matter concerning the Crown. For the first time in years Sansa hoped that she might see Jon again…and it terrified her.
She had fallen asleep in the midst of her worrying only to be woken by her ladies-in-waiting at an hour that was far too early for how late she went to bed. She was quickly reminded that she was expected to break her fast with the visiting Prince of Dorne that morning, and she had sent the ladies away, telling them she needed a bath first. And she intended to take her time with it.
She took a deep breath and sunk down into the deep tub, disappearing beneath the surface, her bright hair fanning out around her, floating in the water. She stayed under the water until she felt as though her lungs might burst and only then did she resurface, breathing deeply and feeling a bit dizzy. It was a game she had found herself playing quite a bit in recent years, especially when she found herself feeling overwhelmed or worse…completely numb to anything at all. The numbness was something she had always guarded herself with, worn it like an armor when things were hard. It was how she had gotten through her time in King's Landing- shutting down and going elsewhere as she was tormented. It had not saved her all the time though, not with Ramsay…
She shook the thoughts of her former husband and captor from her mind and leaned against the side of the tub, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling. The last thing she wanted to do was break fast with the Prince. She did not like him. She found him arrogant and entitled. The only reason she had not immediately sent him away is because her bannermen and Maester Wolkan told her he would be the most advantageous match for her. Even though the northmen had historically disliked outsiders, most of them were pressuring her to marry Prince Perros, despite her best efforts to avoid him. It was the third time he had visited her and she was hoping it would be his last.
A knock at her chamber door caused Sansa to sigh and open her eyes just as the head of her ladies-in-waiting, a young woman called Cassella entered.
"Your Grace," Cassella curtseyed gracefully. She herself was Dornish, having accompanied Prince Perros's sister Belandra, on their first visit to Winterfell. She had caught the eye of Trytas Hollard, a bannerman of House Stark. The two had wed and Cassella had stayed at Court in Winterfell, happy to serve as one of the queen's ladies. She reminded Sansa of Shae quite a bit, and was easily her most trusted confidant.
"You dislike him that much?" Cassella asked, although her tone was amused.
"I just don't know him," Sansa replied diplomatically. Cassella lifted Sansa's drying cloth and held it out to her. The queen sighed and stood up, letting Cassella wrap her in the cloth. She stepped away and wrapped the cloth tighter around herself, walking over to her armoire and looking at her array of gray, black, and midnight colored dresses.
"He bothers you," Cassella insisted, her olive green eyes shining mischievously. It was why Sansa had taken such a liking to Cassella in the first place. She was lively, she was free, strong, and a little wild. She let her passion shine through her out to the world, something Sansa wished she knew how to do.
"He's…he quite enjoys stories about himself, doesn't he?" Sansa asked.
"He is too cocky for his own good," Cassella replied, rolling her eyes and brushing her fingertips along Sansa's dresses.
"Shall I select one for you?" Cassella asked. Sansa nodded and went to sit in front of her vanity, shivering and missing the warmth of her bath.
"What did you think of Lord Keath?" Cassella asked from over by the armoire, speaking of last week's visitor.
"Lord Keath is…well I don't know that he would…keep up with…battles of wit…very well," Sansa tried to choose her words carefully. Although she liked Cassella, and trusted her more than she trusted others, she still was never certain she could speak her mind around anyone fully. Not since Jon, anyway.
"He's a simpleton," Cassella replied, a bored tone to her voice.
"Casella!" Sansa gasped, but she couldn't help the laugh that pulled at her lips.
"Who was the one before him?" Casella asked, boldly ignoring her queen's protests.
"Lord Lolliston," Sansa shuddered thinking of the way Lord Lolliston looked at her. It was too familiar- the lust, the harshness in his eyes that told her he would be a violent man.
"I didn't like him," Cassella stated, finally selecting a dress and walking over to Sansa. Sansa turned to look at the dress Cassella was holding out and her breath caught in her throat. It was a simple gray dress, of thick velvet, with a direwolf emblazoned on the chest. It was the dress Jon had complimented her on before she presented him with the cloak she had modeled after her father's.
"This one is quite lovely. How come you do not wear it?" Cassella asked.
Sansa reached out with a shaky hand and ran her hand over the wolf embellishment, recalling the way Jon had stumbled over his words when she asked if he liked the dress. It was the first and last time she had ever seen him nervous in that way. Sometimes, on her loneliest nights, she would close her eyes and remember the way his eyes had traveled up and down her body as she walked toward him. Up until that day she had hated when men looked at her, but when Jon did, it caused a flutter in her stomach, for reasons she had not understood at the time.
"Sad memories," Sansa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced up at Cassella, whose ever present smirk was gone, the corners of her full lips turned down.
"My apologies, your Grace," she bowed her head. Sansa shook her head back and forced a smile.
"You didn't know," she replied, and pulled the dress out of Cassella's hands.
"I'll pick another," Cassella replied, turning to walk back to the armoire.
"No need. This one will do. I used to love it. It's time it saw the light of day again," Sansa assured her. Cassella nodded and wordlessly helped Sansa to dress. After, Sansa sat down at her vanity once more and stared at her reflection in the looking glass as Cassella braided her long hair down her back.
"Jon liked this dress," Sansa said quietly, without thinking. She instantly regretted the words, as she saw a look of confusion cross over Cassella's face. One of the reasons why Sansa enjoyed Cassella's company so much was that she knew nothing of Jon. She had arrived at Winterfell long after he was gone, and other than the fact that he was the long last Targaryen heir, raised as the bastard of Winterfell, Casella knew nothing of him. Not of his bravery, or his goodness. Nothing of the secret feelings Sansa had harbored for him.
"Jon, your brother?" Cassella asked.
"Cousin," Sansa corrected. Cousin. It had been the most unexpected sweet relief when they had found out.
"You don't talk about him much, your Grace," Cassella said, still sounding confused.
"No. No, I suppose I don't," Sansa replied. Cassella looked as though she were waiting for an explanation, but Sansa never gave one. She didn't have to.
Shortly later, Sansa braced herself outside of the dining hall, dreading the thought of spending an entire meal with Prince Perros. At least Gendry would be there, as another highborn guest of the castle. It was someone to act as a buffer. She took a deep breath and walked into the dining hall, the soft fabric of her dress swishing around her slightly with each step.
As she approached the long table at the head of the room, she was disappointed to find Prince Perros and his men appeared to be the only guests in there. Perros sat at her table while his men sat at the far end of the room, talking amongst themselves. Maester Wolkan also sat at her table, although he was all the way at the end. As Sansa approached, Perros stood and a wide green spread across his face.
"Good morning, your Grace," his voice boomed, and he bowed low to her. She took her place next to his at the table and tried to make her smile look warm.
"My apologies, Prince Perros. I know I am late," she said, although even she had to admit there was no trace of regret in her voice. Perros sat down and batted his hand.
"Please, your Grace…queens are never late," he took her hand and kissed it. Sansa's stomach churned. She despised touch, hated it. Ever since King's Landing. Especially since her marriage to Ramsay. The only person whose touch she did not mind, she had not felt in years.
"This looks delicious. You brought the fruit with you?" Sansa asked, looking at the colorful spread of Dornish jellies in front of her.
"Yes, try the purple one, it is delicious," he told her, his voice saccharine. It was what Sansa could not stand about Perros the most, his inability to be sincere. She had met many men who were trying to play the game he was: the politics game, the wooing game. And none had been more transparent than he. Not even Littlefinger.
"I hope you do not mind, your Grace, but I have to admit…I did send your friend away," Perros said casually, taking a long sip from his goblet. So that's where Gendry went.
"I do not believe the Prince of Dorne has the ability to dismiss the Queen's guests," Sansa replied, trying to keep the cutting edge out of her voice.
"I suppose not, but you were not here yet. And I was so looking forward to spending the time with just you," he replied. Sansa felt her teeth clench as her anger flared. Were she a man, no one would dare to take such actions. Sansa snuck a glance over to where Maester Wolkan had been seated to find he had gotten up and was walking toward a messenger standing in the doorway of the dining hall.
"Now I know not to keep you waiting," Sansa said quietly, sarcasm lacing her voice. If Perros noticed though, he ignored it.
"I am an inpatient man, what can I say?" he asked, and flashed her what was probably supposed to be a charming smile. Sansa did not return the smile, and instead looked back out to where Maester Wolkan was reading a scroll, eyes wide and face pale.
"Excuse me," Sansa murmured, dazed. Her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure others could hear it. Something in her knew the scroll was a reply to the one she had sent a few nights ago.
The next thing she knew, she felt herself walking toward the door of the dining hall to where Maester Wolkan was now looking at her, expression urgent.
"What is it?" Sansa asked quietly.
"Your Grace…I do not think now is the time," Wolkan replied. Sansa shook her head and held out her hand for the scroll. The maester sighed, but handed the scroll to his queen and bowed his head as Sansa's eyes scanned the paper. As she read, her heart only sped up, her eyes growing wide. She thought she must be hallucinating but when she looked back up at Maester Wolkan, she knew he had read the same words.
"He rides for Winterfell?" she whispered. The maester nodded gravely. She felt as though her breath had been knocked out of her, as though there was no air in her lungs. And yet, she could not fight the smile that pulled at the corner of her lips.
