A bird looking down from the grey sky above White Harbor would see one sea end and a new one begin – a sea of grey and blue tile roofs, crested with the white lines of neatly planned cobblestone roads. And, were it to fly further from the shore, it would see the New Castle, built into the rising natural walls of the pale bluffs surrounding the coastal city. It looks from the sky a near-perfect circle of white stone, enclosing a seven-pointed star; each point a seven-sided tower stretching up to scratch the bottom of the clouds or disappear into the mists on a cloudy day. In between the shape of the star, the palace is scattered with countless plazas, gardens and yards.
In one such plaza, Arya Stark stands poised in the clothes of a Manderly squire – dark teal pants and shirt with flowing sleeves, a silver trimmed black vest with a trident-hoisting merman over her heart. She stands in the cold morning air and slowly lowers the slender, shaking blade of Needle in front of her face, pointed across the plaza to where Syrio Forel stands waiting, his own arm-outstretched, the wooden swords he had used in King's Landing now replaced by a dulled metal blade.
"Remember, young sword," he calls out. "What are you?"
"Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow," she answers back without wavering her hand, her voice cold and practiced. "Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine."
"The man who fears losing has already lost."
"Fear cuts deeper than swords." With that, Arya springs forward, her feet gracefully skipping ahead without dropping the blade from her target. She lands, nearly silent, but Syrio is already on the move.
Sitting to the side on a pile of purloined cushions, Wylla Manderly eagerly claps, eyes wide, her green-dyed hair tied sloppily into a messy bun. Further back, Sansa reclines beneath the shelter of a balcony, nibbling slowly on a fresh lemon tart. Lord Baelish had wasted no time in telling the castle cooks her favorite delicacies, no doubt in hopes to lesson her anger at her predicament. But tainted with the flavor of things left behind, these tarts taste as bitter as uncooked lemon.
Watching Arya, at least, is entertaining. Her sister and Syrio circle each other, feet slipping softly over white stones and the binding mortar, speckled with seashells. This time, Syrio aims the first strike. Arya dudges the sudden lunge with ease, flicking Needle out in an opposing arc, though her teacher nimbly twists his back out of the way. They spin back from each other, returning to their dance. Each movement barely makes a sound, only the sharp whistle of wind as steel cuts through the air. The jabs come faster now, hopping in and out, each one a miss. Syrio smiles as Arya's face twists into a determined grimace.
"Get him!" Wylla shouts, but Arya does not let the cheers distract her. Instead she lunges forward, into the path of Syiro's next move. The Bravossi's sword arcs out to clear his path, but Arya ducks into a crouch, the blade clipping her hair as it drops, and lungs. But Syrio is too fast. His sword is back to his side in an instant to parry, and this morning's first strike of steel on steel echoes in the plaza. They are locked together now, the first blow followed by a flash of clattering strikes as the two swords cross again and again, faster than lighter than any knight. As if summoned by the call of battle, Sansa jumps to hear a familiar, disapproving voice behind her.
"What's all this?" Lady Catelyn strides through the doorway, still in a black mourning gown that makes her pale face seem nearly ghostly. She holds a wicker basket, and Lord Baelish skulks close behind in her shadow. "Sansa, what is your sister doing? Where has she gotten those horrid boy's clothes?"
"She's training, mother," Sansa sighs, shoving the rest of the cold tart into her mouth to discourage further questions. But Catelyn takes an indignant seat beside her nonetheless.
"Syrio Forel was once the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos," Baelish hesitantly offers an explanation. "He is one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I can see that," Catelyn scowls as the duel continues, unperturbed by its new audience. "But what is he doing with my daughter?"
"Master Forel began to train young Arya in the way of the sword shortly after she arrived in the city. He was personally selected by your honorable lord husband, may the Mother bless his spirit. She has grown quite…"
"This was Ned's idea?" Catelyn cuts him off, looking instead to Sansa for an answer. She only nods, continuing to chew on a mouth full of flaky crust and whipped meringue. Accepting as much, she settles into a seat. "All our work… I had hoped we could stitch together, as we did in Winterfell." She opens the basket on her lap to reveal an assortment of thread, needle and frames. She holds one, round and blank, and offers it to Sansa.
"Mother, I'm twelve."
"And did you forget your womanly lessons upon your newest nameday? I am quite older than twelve, Sansa, and I remember my stitching well." She offers again, and Sansa again shakes her head. A queen shouldn't have to stitch with her mother.
"What's wrong?" Catelyn puts the frame down, leaning in closer. Sansa can sense the concern in her voice, see the sincerity in her eyes. But she knows she won't understand. She never wanted me to go south in the first place.
"It reminds me of Septa Mordane," is the best answer she can propose. Her last glimpse of the old woman lingers in her memory, staying behind to plead their safety as the knights broke down the door to the tower. "I don't want to think of her right now."
"Oh." Slowly, Catelyn closes the basket. "I'm sorry, my dear. We may pray for her, later, if you like?" But Sansa silently shakes her head once more. In the plaza, a dull thud signals Syrio finally landing a hard, flat blow across Arya's back. Panting, she hurries back to a jug of water, taking sloppy gulps before tossing it back down, ready to fight again.
"You'll get him this time!" Wylla shouts, and Sansa can't help but smile as her sister faces down Syrio once more. She's already made a friend. She'd only ever had one real friend before… Edward. And who knows where he is now. Oldtown? She can hope.
"Perhaps later," Catelyn sighs, more to herself than to Sansa. "But if you would like, young Wynafryd is bringing gowns to your chambers. You should wear something nice to the feast tonight. I know how you love dances. And you never know who you might meet."
Returning to her room, Sansa finds every spare surface covered with a broad assortment of dresses and gowns of every color – mostly blues, greens, but some darker and rarer – grey, black, even purple. And standing proudly at the center of the exploded wardrobe waits Wynafryd Manderly. For herself, the older girl has chosen a turquoise gown cinched painfully tight with silver strings to further exaggerate the curves of her figure. Delicate silver lace stretches across the front while satin peach clamshells line the hem, collar and sleeves. Her brown hair is braided intricately beneath a hairnet of pearls and sapphires. For a moment, she freezes in the doorway, taking it all in.
"Come on!" Wynafryd beckons eagerly. "Those gowns your mother had made were so horribly grey, I just had to find something more impressive for you!"
"Thank… thank you," Sansa stammers as she's dragged across the room to the bed. The ensemble spread out in front of her is incredible, nearly as vast and luxurious as the wardrobe she had left in the capital. She reaches her hands out to feel the softness, one-by-one, picturing herself wrapped in their colors. Not the crimson and gold Joffrey was so fond of. But for the first time since fleeing the Red Keep, she almost feels like a queen again. This is good. They should see me dressed like one.
"You would not believe the gifts I get, ever since my moonblood came. They all just pile up. They think they can buy a fine wife with fine things, and most can. But my lord grandfather will accept nothing less than the best."
What's he waiting for? Sansa can't help but wonder as she shows off her favorite gowns in turn, parading them around the room like suitors at a ball. She must be seventeen by now. Most girls she knew at Winterfell had been betrothed by then, if not married and with child.
"This is one of my favorites," Wynafryd carefully holds up a pale blue dress, rougher hewn than the others, but gorgeous all the same. Sansa takes it carefully into her hands, examining the jet black stripes running its lengths and marring the soft color of the base. Down each band are stitched runes, the likes of which were carved into the crypt at Winterfell. "It's from the Frostfyres. They are terribly poor these days, but I do love their queer old ways. Back from the ancient times, when you northerners had your own kings and queens."
"You're very kind," Sansa smiles. "I don't know how I could ever choose just one."
"Well, you'll have a chance to try them all," Wynafryd laughs, plopping down onto the bed beside her. "Some of them might be a little big on you for now," she gives Sansa a playful nudge with a wink at the swelling neckline of her own gown. "But I'm sure you'll grow into them soon. You are about that age, aren't you?"
"Oh!" Sansa blushes, realizing what she means. "No, er, I mean, yes. I don't know."
"Ha! Well, I hope it does happen while you're here!" she gives another playful jostle. "I'll show you everything you need to know!"
"Thank you," Sansa nods politely. A queen should not be embarrassed of such things.
"You are sure to be here for some time, after all. Those horrid sistermen attacked another village just last night, I heard. They've made it all the way to Ravenhead Point. I fear my father will not be able to return in time for the feast."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't worry, he's fighting very valiantly I'm sure. Just like your lord brother." Wynafryd leans in closer, and Sansa notes a shift in her sea-green eyes – widening just the slightest at the mention of Robb. "It's been so long since I've seen him. What is he like these days?"
"Robb…" Sansa stumbles on the answer. She has not thought of him as a lord until this moment. But with Father gone, that is his true title. "It's been… a long time. I haven't heard from him since we left Winterfell. He was never much for writing."
"Well, he has written us!" Wynafryd laughs eagerly, kicking her legs up on the bed to lean even closer. "When last we heard from him, he was at the Twins. I would have loved to see old Walder's face. I'm shocked it didn't kill him, letting all those men cross his stupid old bridge without a toll. Robb said he tried to press him for payment, but even the Freys won't deny a royal edict."
"Did he seem well?"
"Oh, well? Very well!" But a sudden pall falls over her face as she remembers. "But that was before…" She glances at Sansa, who quickly looks away. Reaching down into her bosom, she slips out a slender silver flask. Tugging off its amethyst-crested cork with a wet pop, she takes a quick drink. With a sigh, she slowly extends her hand to offer it to Sansa.
"Want some?"
"No, thank you."
For a long moment, they sit in silence on the edge of the bed, surrounded by layers of dresses and grief. Sansa fiddles with the white lace trim along the edge of the nearest gown.
"I am sure that Lord Robb will bring swift justice upon the wretches that killed your father. If you ask me, he ought to bring The Mountain back in pieces and string them up in the heart tree at the Wolf's Den, like the First Men used to do." She takes another swig from the flask. "We should remind all traitors that the North should be feared."
"Yes," Sansa nods. She pictures Ser Gregor hanging upside down, his blood mixing with the red sap of the weirwood. But in her mind, it is not Robb who has hung him there. It is a crowned Joffrey, with her at his side and Lady at their feet, gnawing on the traitor's skull. "Yes, we shall."
She stands, and Wynafryd nearly topples off the bed as she moves. Scanning the room, she finds the most expensive gown she can see – vibrant, purple and lined with gold. She points, and Wynafryd's face lights up as she follows Sansa's slender finger to see the selection. "That one." The colors of a queen.
That night, the Great Hall explodes with color, light, music and a million different overwhelming scents from a seemingly endless parade of food. Despite the war looming beyond the city walls, the hall is full of countless guests in their finery, sparkling beneath the light of bronze chandeliers whose flames cast dancing shadows on the smooth white walls and their massive maritime murals. Long tables propped with legs of bound driftwood intermingle with blue columns, leading up to a raised dais, bordered by carved stone waves and draped with a huge, sea-green sail. From there, the ruling Manderlys and their Stark guests look down upon the festivities, cooled by the breeze from the open window above their head, shutters ratcheted open, for the night is fair, revealing the dark sky and the pale blue eye of the Ice Dragon sparkling brightest of all.
Sansa sits in her violet gown, makeup carefully applied to cast her young face with an older hue. She could tell, when she descended from her chambers, that Mother did not approve. But Mother was still in her mourning blacks, and this was a celebration. Let her take solace that she managed to force Arya into a dress, Sansa thinks, as another helping of steaming lamprey pie is heaped onto her plate with an aromatic thump. It's no wonder they've all grown so fat, she eyes the Manderlys as they shovel their own plates up into their mouths with an intensity not unlike her direwolf on an elk bone. At this rate, they'll have to be rolled out. A fate she fears she will be doomed to join if she can't manage to stop her plate from being refilled.
Plying off a small piece of flaky crust with her silver fork, she lifts it to her lips, washing it down with a drink of rich, sweet wine – from the Far East, she recalls Lord Manderly boasting. The last drop. She looks for the servant minding the flagons, hoping to catch his eye without drawing attention from her mother. While the sting of alcohol still conjured bitter memories of bile and skull-splitting headaches, she had seen Lady Catelyn carefully watching her cup and was determined not to shirk like a child from the silent discipline. But before she can refill, her chair is jostled from behind.
"We're headed to dance!" Wynafryd shouts excitedly. "Come on!"
Without waiting for leave, Sansa pushes her chair back, leaving behind the cooling plate and empty cup to follow the swell of music as a bellowing Northern dance tune begins. Wynafryd's companions are already waiting for them, a quivering flock of many colors anxiously swaying in their gowns, waiting for their leader to begin. Sansa tries to remember their names as they swing her out onto the crowded floor – her cousin Lysa, stern and thin, a narrow pole towering over the others; Sybelle Flint, short, plain and often angry; Alysanne and Barbara Woolfield, plump sisters who never seemed to stop talking – already they are singing the words to the new song, as Wynafryd's voice joins them, louder and more beautiful than all the rest. She grabs Sansa's arm, swinging her along as they twirl onto the floor, their dresses spinning wheels of purple and turquoise, moving so fast she nearly fears all the courses she'd lost count of are about to come spewing back up onto the floor.
"Look at all of them!" Wynafryd comes to a much-appreciated stop at the center of the floor. She points across the room to a crowd of young men in fine clothes, their whole attention commanded by the wave of her hand. "They're all here for me! And they're all hopeless, but they certainly are fun!"
With that, she's off, hiking up the hem of her dress as she prances across the floor to disappear into the swarm of suitors, kicking her feet to the beat of the deafening drums. Sansa suddenly finds herself alone in the heart of the crowd, the other girls eagerly peeling off to claim partners one by one. And in that moment, dwarfed by the adults circling her with stomping feet and waving arms, no amount of lavish dress and jewels can stop her from feeling very much a child. She takes a step back and is nearly trampled by a bounding couple, arms outstretched before them. She jumps away, another path closes. Walls of coats and gowns at every side. Her head begins to spin. Looking up, she searches for the skylight, with its fresh air and the constant cool light of the Ice Dragon, but the room is beginning to turn, the ships in the murals seeming almost to rise and fall on the painted waves.
"My lady!" Sansa stops, catching herself on the verge of toppling forward. Across from her, she see Mycah, standing like a welcoming statue in a crisp, dark-green doublet with silver studs across the front, his usually unkempt hair combed into a deep brown wave cresting over his forehead. "Are you alright?" He moves forward to steady her, but she straightens herself up, her feet finding their footing once more.
"I am well, thank you," she insists. Too quickly, she thinks. She cocks up her chin to reclaim a regal posture. "Thank you for your concern, good ser."
"I must confess, my lady, I am not yet a knight." He smiles – a flash of pearl-white teeth.
"Well, your manner speaks highly of titles to come…" she returns the smile but hesitates, though she knows his name already. Her hand lightly brushes his sleeve.
"Mycah, my lady," he finishes her sentences. He says it strongly, she thinks, with confidence. Though not so much care as he says 'my lady.' "Do you know this dance?"
"I believe I recall it," she wavers, remembering the old queen's lessons. Always let him think he's leading. "We learned it as children."
"Very good!" A booming voice from behind her stops her halfway through reaching for Mycah's hand. Turning, she finds herself in the shadow of Ser Wendel Manderly. The towering knight's bald head glistens with sweat in the light of the chandeliers, his massive mustache twitching as a huge grin lights up his moon-shaped face. He waits, arms stretched toward her as silver buttons struggle against the strain to fasten his turquoise doublet over his prodigious belly. "Mayhaps I can help jog your memory, my lady?"
"Of course, good ser," Sansa acquiesces, without looking back to Mycah. Giving over her hands to the huge man's thick grip, she finds herself whisked off the floor in a frenzy of motion. By the time he has spun her around in a full circle, the squire has disappeared back into the crowd.
And so she is carried off across the floor for this song, and the next, and the next. Wendel is a poor dancer, but what he lacks in coordination he remedies with enthusiasm. For much of the night, Sansa feels as if her feet scarcely touch the ground as he hoists her from one move to the next. A gentle touch, for a man of his size, leaving her to relax, let fear go, and be taken by the music, the movement and the spinning lights of candles and stars above their heads. But brightest of all are the eyes. Everyone is watching, she knows, and she soaks in their attention like the most intoxicating liquor.
When at last Wendel stops his dancing, lulled to a rest by heaving, gasping breaths and the announcement of desert being served, Sansa finally slips away from the center of the floor, escaping the crowd, finding rest against a far wall as her breaths return to a natural pace. Snagging a pastry from a passing servant, she nibbles quietly in her brief moment of solitude. The young men watch from the floor, but none approach, seemingly unwilling to challenge for a dance the lord's son.
"Sansa!" Her head turns to find the source of the hissing summons. While lost in thought, Barbara Woolfield has scurried up beside her – blonde hair coming unwoven from fierce dancing, her hands clutched around a stack of pastries and a bejeweled decanter tucked under her arm. "We're going to the East Tower with Wynafryd to have some fun! You know, away from them." She jabs with her head to the high table, where Sansa spies her mother searching the crowd, no doubt for her, as Lord Baelish implores her to follow him to the dance floor.
"I think I shall," she smiles, slipping the decanter from its precarious clutch. She snaps open the lid, releasing a fierce aroma. "Let me help with that."
From outside, the East Tower of New Castle is identical to its six kin – tall white stone and a blue-tiled roof, modeled after the Manderly's long-lost first home of Dunstonbury. But inside, creeping up dusty stone stairs on a winding path to the top – it sits largely unfinished and abandoned, shunned for the ill fortune of resting entirely in the shadow of the bluffs that form the castle's sturdy, earthen spine. Until, that is, one reaches the highest room of the tower.
"This is my stuff," Wynafryd drunkenly boasts as she forces open the door on rusty hinges, moving quickly to light each lamp and lantern in the seven-walled room as her companions hurry in behind her. The flames rush to life one by one as if they've been waiting patiently in the dark for their mistress' return. Alive again, they cast a warm glow through colorful glass over the cacophonous menagerie of mismatched trinkets and exotic furniture strewn across the room.
"What is all this?" Sansa asks, unable to stop her jaw from dropping. Elaborate chairs and wardrobes of foreign wood carved with frightening faces line the walls. Rough steel lanterns dangle from the ceiling, mixed with delicate strands of blown glass. Busts, sculptures and artifacts from lands surely far from Westeros line the mantles, even more illuminated as the plain stone hearth erupts into life as Wynafryd tosses down her torch.
"Every gift I get, every curiosity I find in the market, anything that is too crass or eccentric for mother and father to leave in the rest of the castle I have brought here. My sanctuary. Perfect for solitude, and contraband," she snatches the decanter from Sansa and slips it into a wardrobe overflowing with bottles and flagons. "Or secret rendezvouses." She gestures to a round bed in the far corner, covered in garish pink sheets and a mountain of pillows. Sansa can't help but blush as understanding sets in.
The other girls quickly grab their own bottles from the wardrobe. Sansa moves slower, conscious of their eyes as she scans the secret larder. Finally, she lifts a clay bottle embellished with sea-shells and sealed with a thick cork. Popping it loose, her nose curls up at the smell of spice released, unlike any drink she's ever known.
"A good choice!" Wynafryd shouts before she can put it back. Throwing on a confident smile, she turns back to the group, all reclining on the bed, taking long drinks of their chosen bottles.
"I bet you ten dragons she doesn't even know what it is," Sybelle sneers.
"I do, too!" Sansa spits back. Too quick, again. Nerves are showing.
"Then drink it."
"Sybelle, leave her be," Wynafryd laughs, playfully swatting away the challenge. She leans in close to her friend's ear, but Sansa can still hear. "She's just a girl, after all."
"That's the problem," Sybelle whispers back. "How do you know she won't run back to tell her mother? And our mothers? You barely know her."
"Sansa, dear," Wynafryd turns back to her, her face slowly shifting into a caring, gentle gaze, the sort Sansa is all too used to from her mother. "You do know that's not wine? It's very strong. You may choose something else if you like."
"I know it's not wine," Sansa responds carefully through gritted teeth as a mixture of anger and embarrassment fight to wrench the composure away from her face. "You shouldn't be afraid that I'm weak." She locks eyes with Sybelle. "You should be afraid I'm stronger than all of you."
Defiantly, she raises the bottle to her lips, forcing past the screams of better judgement as she takes three long gulps. The taste comes first – delectable – but then the burn, engulfing her throat in liquid flame as it tears its way down. Her eyes twitch into a grimace but she tugs the bottle away, loose drops flying from her lips, using every ounce of will to resist the urge to choke it back up as she strides to the bed and takes a confident seat opposite Wynafryd.
"See? She has the wolfblood in her!" Wynafryd laughs gleefully, eagerly tugging the bottle away to take a drink of her own. Sybelle glowers, while the Woolfield sisters nervously shove treats into their mouths in silence. "Sansa is our newest friend! And she won't tell her mother about anything we do. Or her brother." Robb, again? Sansa's eyebrow rises as the liquor bubbles in her stomach. Wynafryd effortlessly takes another drink before leaning closer. "Tell me, what does he look like? We were nearly babes the last we met."
"Ugh, not on about him again," Barbara groans, eyes rolling back in her head. "Robb this, Robb that, it's all Robb Stark these days."
Something's going on. Sansa takes the shelled bottle back, and Wynafryd returns to her jeweled decanter of wine with a shrug. "What do you care about my brother?"
"What every maiden wants to know about a young, un-promised lord," Wynafryd laughs with a drunken hiccup. "Is he dashing? Is he strong? Does he often take to bed with women?"
"I wouldn't know about such things!" Sansa quickly pulls back, but stops herself. What would Cersei say? Mask your feelings. I have to know more… She leans back in.
"You don't need to keep any secrets from me. Men, women, we're all the same. No one is faithful, truly. No one interesting at least." Wyanfryd takes a long drink and crawls closer across the bed. "Believe me, we all have secrets here that our mothers and septas shall never know. That's why we must stick together." Another drink, her wine-stained lips smacking as she pulls Sansa in. "After all, we'll be sisters soon."
"What do you mean?" Sansa can't stop her eyes from flashing wide open. Their faces are nearly touching now, Wynafryd leaned up against her, pale face filling her vision, sea-green eyes still sparkling despite the cloud of drink. "I don't understand."
"Can't you tell? The way my old grandfather dotes upon your mother, the way he sings the praises of my virtue, the way he lauds the fruitfulness of my mother's line?" She laughs as the pieces slowly start to fall into place. "He has great plans for the North. And they all start with us. Our houses will finally be joined. Myself to Lord Robb. And you to Wendel."
"Wendel?" Sansa jerks back, forgetting how close she is to the edge of the bed. She topples backward, landing on the floor with a thud as Wyanfryd, without her support, sprawls facedown onto the mattress. The other girls burst into drunken, tittering laughter. The shock shakes loose the last of Sansa's pretenses. "He's old enough to be my father!"
"Not quite!" Wynafryd lifts her head back up with a cocky grin. She goes for another drink, but finds hers empty. Swinging her legs back down onto the floor, she wobbles across the room to the wardrobe for more, as Sansa watches in disbelief. "He treated you well tonight, didn't he? Oh, I know he's no Joffrey Baratheon. But believe me, you could do far worse. You have seen the type of men there are to spare in the North."
With a triumphant grin, she settles on another fine bottle of wine, popping off the cork with a spray of droplets and a cheer. She sways back to Sansa, who rises to meet her as she guzzles down her prize.
"I don't understand!"
"Oh, of course you do!" Wyanfryd laughs, wiping her mouth before placing a wine-stained kiss on Sansa's forehead. "It's a tale as old as time. All that's left is for your mother to say yes!" She holds up her bottle in a toast. "Welcome to the family!"
As the others cheer, Sansa forces a smile back onto her face, clinking her bottle against Wynafryd's in salute before rushing it back to her own lips. The older girl collapses back onto the bed, catching a face full of purloined pie while Sansa, her balance beginning to sway as the laughter echoes in the dusty tower, continues to drink. The burn is less this time. And, if she's lucky, when she awakes this will all be naught but a dream.