Resting quietly beneath the gloomy White Harbor sky, the godswood of the Wolf's Den is as ancient and weathered as the keep surrounding it; paths once carefully maintained are now overgrown as the unruly oaks, elms and birches cast the patchy ground beneath them in an eternal shade. Moss and ivy cover the surrounding walls of the castle, turning them a patchwork of gray and green. And at the heart of it all is the largest weirwood Sansa Stark has ever seen. Thinner than Winterfell's, but much taller, taller than the walls surrounding the wood. Its branches are thin, but they are many - too many to count - and stretch wide, creeping their way over the parapets and into open and forgotten windows. Closer to the ground, its carved face is long, slender and weathered. Sansa cannot decide if it seems angry or welcoming. But as she sits beneath its hard sap eyes, at the edge of an old grey pool, Lady curled up beside her, she assures herself the old tree is glad to see a true Stark once again.
"You wouldn't believe the things they're saying, Lady," she whispers, arms locked tight around the wolf's neck as it pants peacefully, letting their hearts beat in rhythm once more. "Lord Manderly wants me to marry his old son! And I'm worried Mother will let him! She's never going to let me go back to the capital."
Lady is silent as ever in response, and the tree is silent too, save for the faint whispers of wind through the mazed canopy. Father said that the Old Gods could speak through the weirwoods. She remembers the years sitting on his knee as she grew, straining her ears to listen, but had never heard more than the creaking of wood. Eventually, she had stopped listening, saving her prayers for The Seven, learning their songs from Mother, and graciously receiving words of assurance from the septon.
This morning Mother had brought her and Arya to the Manderlys' sept to pray for their brothers and their armies and a peace that would bring them all together again. Sansa had said her own silent prayers – prayers for a new path back to the Red Keep, to Joffrey and to her throne. But looking up at the unmoving stone faces, she knew her pleas would receive no blessing from them. Respect your mother, they would say. Stay true to your home. Do not want for more than you have been given.
But she could not abandon her dreams any more than she could fly back across the sea. She breaths the cold air and remembers the way the rotten smells of King's Landing creeped in through the windows to mix with the perfumes of the Red Keep – a one-of-a-kind smell, repulsive but powerful. She touches the teal silk of her borrowed dress and remembers the fine gifts – gowns and shoes and lace and jewelry - the court had nearly drowned her in. She catches her reflection in the pool and remembers how Joffrey looked at her side, with his golden hair and emerald eyes and soft hands. She brushes aside a stray strand of hair and feels a phantom crown upon her head.
What are we going to do? Sansa isn't sure if she says the words out loud, or merely thinks them, face buried in Lady's fur. She holds for a moment longer, bent over in the dirt, the wood falling silent save for the beating of the wolf's heart as she breathes in time, waiting for something, anything…
A gust of winter wind crests over the parapets high above, rattling down through the branches of the weirwood in a rush. Sansa looks up in time to be hit by the chill, letting out a choked gasp as it knocks her backwards. A sudden, stinging sensation alights on her nose, freezing her in place. Lady looks up, concerned, but Sansa lies still, eyes crossed as she tries to look down at the solitary snowflake swiftly melting into her warm, pale skin.
Winter is coming.
She stands, brushing dirt and grass from her dress. She catches the eyes of the weirwood watching her. The wooden face looks somehow different. Impossible, she knows. And yet… Above her, the branches continue to shake in the sudden onslaught of wind. Wrapping her arms tight around herself, she turns away from the tree.
"Lady, we should go. There's a storm coming." But part of her cannot bare to leave. Lady rises to stand beside her, but she lingers, swaying in the wind. Was that a sign? She wonders if she would even recognize one if it did come. Father, are you there?
The next rush shakes the tree behind her even harder, its ancient branches making a coarse, creaking chorus until a thick clump of leaves is torn loose – the huge crimson hands floating free in the air above her head. Sansa's eyes follow them, unable to look away as they glide through the wood like thin red birds, her feet thoughtlessly moving to follow. The leaves peel off, one by one, some tangled in branches, others dropping to the ground, but slowly they lead back down the weedy stone path, out from the shade to the clearing beyond, where the ringing of steel welcomes her back to the world of men.
The last leaf twists in the open air, a slick scarlet palm in a weightless dance. Sansa and Lady linger at the edge of the wood, watching it spiral up and up, the only flash of color against endless grey sky. And then, as soon as it arrived, the wind is gone. The leaf, bound once more to the laws of earth, begins its slow descent back down to the ground, finally ending its flight amidst gravel and stone at the feet of Mycah Manderly. The squire sits on a stump, heavily bundled in thick pants and a wool coat, toiling away at polishing a scallop-shaped shield, no doubt for one of the cluster of knights chortling amongst themselves behind him. His face his flushed red in the cold, his wavy hair a tangled tempest after a hard day's work. But even from a distance, as he looks up his eyes are as bright as the leaf at his feet.
Spying Sansa watching from across the yard, he flashes a smile her way. She quickly returns her own smile with a slight wave before shoving her hand away up into her sleeve to fend off the cold and hurrying across the yard to where Syrio and Arya wait, having just finished their latest training bout. Arya is guzzling water from leather canteen, her face as red as a tomato and shining with cold sweat.
"Your sister does well, Lady Sansa," Syrio grins. "Soon she will be first sword of the North!"
"You need to tell Mother to let me cut my hair," Arya grumbles, tossing the canteen aside and struggling to tie back the long clumps of hair that have tugged free during the fight.
"Ha!" Sansa can't help but laugh. "She'll no sooner let you do that than she would let me return to King's Landing!"
"Why would you want to do that?" Arya glares back at her. "It was awful, there! I'm never going to leave the North again!"
With a sigh, Sansa sits down on a cold stone bench as Lady joins her sister-wolf, lounging about unbothered by the frigid air. "We should head back soon. There's a storm coming."
"It's not so bad!" Arya insists, even has her breath turns to a small cloud. "Syrio's not even cold!" She turns to her teacher, only to spy the swordmaster clearly shivering beneath a heavy fur coat hastily thrown over his shoulders. Before he can speak, though, the knights across the yard finally turn their attention to them.
"Bravossi!" shouts a stout man with a rowdy beard poking out in every direction from beneath his helm. "It must be nice to only ever fight little girls! How much does it pay?"
Arya's eyes darken as she spins on her heel, hair only half-corrected, looking as untamed as a wolf. Her hand jumps to Needle, ready to draw again, but Syrio steps between her and the laughing knights.
"You fish-headed men wish to challenge Syrio Forel?" He lowers his own blade towards them in challenge. "Which one of you will stand? Or need you all try at once?"
"Ha!" The bearded knight laughs louder, but does not begin to rise. "You should pace yourself, old man. You've been fighting girls for so long, try against a boy before you take on a man!"
"Yes!" His companions cheer, quickly whipping themselves into a frenzy, their bellowing breaths creating a thick fog over their heads as they all turn to Mycah, still polishing away. "Send the boy!"
Mycah looks up from his work with a glance of resigned acceptance. Without a word, he stands, setting the shield carefully aside and pulling off his coat, a quilted green shirt underneath. One of the knights hands him their trident, the steel glistening even on this cloudy day as he strides to the center of the yard.
He's no boy, Sansa smirks, he's at least as tall as Robb. He quickly runs his hand over his hair, flattening it as he raps the butt of the trident thrice upon the stone.
"Do you challenge Syrio Forel?" Syrio lets his coat drop to the ground behind him. Arya, excitement growing on her face, hurries to sit by her sister on the bench. "Who are you to speak so boldly?"
"I am Mycah Manderly, son of Ser Marlon Manderly," he answers, casting a quick glance in Sansa's direction. "I have no quarrel with you, ser. But I am a squire, and bound by my knight's commands." He slowly lowers the prongs of the trident to face Syrio.
"I accept your challenge, boy." Syrio steps into the yard, his sword level with the trident. "Or rather, the challenge of the cowards behind you."
"Ha!" The knights laugh. "Make him into fishfood!"
At that, Syrio strikes first, his sword cutting through the cold air with a sharp whistle. Mycah spins away, dropping the trident to swat the strike away with its blunt end before flipping it back into an attack. But Syrio is too fast, the prongs striking the stone where he had stood a moment before. Mycah jumps back into a sturdy stance, keeping the length of the trident between him and the circling, unbothered Braavosi.
"You are quick on your feet," Syrio nods approvingly. "But they are still made of stone."
In a flash, he strikes again, this time aiming directly at the head of the trident. He brings his sword down once, twice, then again, striking in rapid succession, each time locking steel with the prongs. Mycah's grip does not waver, and he yields no ground, blocking each strike while each opponent barely moves.
"What's he doing?" Arya leans forward. "Why isn't he moving?"
"Don't just stand there, boy!" the knights shout.
But Syrio only strikes, again and again, like a bored cat batting at a piece of string, each strike rebuffed by the slightest twitch of the trident. Mycah narrows his eyes, steadying his stance, trying to see through his opponent, predict the next move. And then, on the next strike, he catches the sword between the prongs of the trident. Before Syrio can pull back, he twists his wrists, trapping the blade and pulling with all his might. Arya's jaw drops.
But Syrio does not let go. Left hand locked holding his hilt in an iron vise, the rest of his body goes limp, giving way to the motion forced upon him as Mycah swings the trident in a wide arc to the ground. Rather than being disarmed, Syrio lets himself be pulled in. In a single fluid movement, both blades hit the ground with a metallic chime and Syrio is in the air, kicking one leg hard into Mycah's side with a heavy thud. The squire drops and Syrio lands on his feet, sword still in hand. He spins back around to finish the fight but Mycah rolls away, trident close to chest, out of range.
He scrambles back to his feet, panting and, with a shout, charges. For once caught off-guard, Syrio jumps back as Mycah swings the trident out in front of him, no longer on the defensive, striking with each end in turn. He forces Syrio back towards the wood, rapid fire strikes of steel coming head-spinningly fast as sword whips back and forth, parrying prongs then butt then prongs again. Syrio glances behind him, watching for the trees, and Mycah seizes the moment, bringing the dull end down swiftly for a blow to the head. Hearing the dull wind of the strike, Syrio dodges at the last moment, catching the staff to his back instead. Countering Mycah's momentum, he dives to the ground, escaping the corner as he tosses his sword to the ground in front of him and tumbles in a ball out of the way.
Mycah spins about, narrowly missing tangling the trident in the branches of the tree. As Syrio is rising slowly, he lowers the trident and charges. But from the moment his feet break into the sprint, a triumphant white grin explodes on the Bravoosi's face. Sansa immediately recognizes what is about to happen as Mycah dashes forward towards his unmoving foe. As he gets nearer, step by step, his eyes go wide as he sees it, too. But it is too late to stop, full speed carrying him to the end. At the last second, Syrio spins out of the way, arcing his sword through the air and bringing it down with a heavy chop. The trident slams into the ground, embedded into shattered stone. Mycah gasps, momentum carrying him forward, directly into Syrio's raised elbow. His head snaps back and he drops back hard to the ground.
Arya bursts into a shrieking cheer as the knights are left silent, but Sansa quickly dashes to the prone squire's side.
"The boy will be fine, my lady, if a little less pretty." Syrio sheathes his sword and pries the trident free from the ground, tossing it back at the feet of the speechless knights. "So you see Syrio Forel can fight a boy? Do any men wish to challenge?" None rise, and so the swordmaster turns away, twisting his back to relieve the freshly forming bruise as he returns to Arya's applause and a long swig of water.
Sansa, however, remains kneeling at Mycah's side, his nose a bloody mess. She hurriedly tugs a delicate handkerchief free, but at the sight of the monogrammed lace, he pulls away.
"Don't waste that on me, my lady," he coughs, sitting up, wiping the blood on the back of his sleeve. "It's no matter. I've taken worse."
"You fight very well," Sansa insists as she helps him to his feet. "I've never seen anyone face Syrio like that. I almost thought you'd beaten him!"
"Well, almost isn't good enough, is it?" He sighs, looking over to the knights as they, grumbling amongst themselves, begin to wonder off to attend to other unnamed duties. "Thank your man for the lesson. It's back to work for me." With a half-hearted, blood-stained smile, he turns to follow the knights off into the depths of the Wolf's Den, leaving Sansa holding the handkerchief alone. She looks down at it, clean and white in her hands, one of the few scraps she had carried with her in the flight from the Red Keep. In the corner, neatly stitched, a flash of red – not blood but a weirwood leaf, just like the one resting by the now-empty stump. She looks to it again, just as a fresh gust of wind sweeps it back off the ground, tossing it into the air once more. Sansa shivers as she watches it soar away, up above the walls of the ancient castle towards the ominously encroaching clouds beyond. Lady pads silently to her side.
"Come on now, Arya, we have to go! Mother will be worried!"
Two towering white stone mermen guard the entrance to Lord Manderly's council chambers, clad in armor of colorful shells plucked from the bay, their scaled tails painted a bright teal. Beneath them, smaller, but much more alive, wait two flesh-and-blood human guards, with legs in place of fins and steel in place of shells, their deadly tridents held in the same sentinel's pose. They have not spoken a word since Sansa arrived, taking a silent seat on the driftwood bench in the hall, beneath a lush tapestry of some long-forgotten hunt in the green hills of The Reach.
The guards barely seem to have noticed her at all, leaving her to sit unannounced, straining her ears to hear what is transpiring behind the chamber doors. But the thick oak, carved with a huge ship's wheel, keeps all conversations trapped tightly within. Only a sharp knock from the hidden side of the wall signals the guards to break the silence, turning to pull the doors open, allowing the councilors within to file out. Ser Marlon is the first to leave, followed by a small crowd of courtiers Sansa has only begun to recognize. Lastly, Lord Wyman himself waddles out, flanked by Ser Wendel to the right and Lady Catelyn Stark and Lord Petyr Baelish on his left.
"Sansa?" Catelyn, dressed still in mourning black, immediately notices her waiting daughter as she rises to meet her, and pulls away from whatever conversation the Manderlys are plying her with. She hurries to Sansa's side. "My dear, what's wrong? Your dress is covered in dirt."
"Oh!" Sansa looks down to see the stray grass and earth still clinging to her. "I only just returned from the godswood."
"Is something the matter?" Baelish makes haste to join them.
"No, nothing," Catelyn waves him away but he lingers. "Did you need something, Sansa?"
"I…" Sansa shuffles through thoughts, looking for an excuse. "I only wanted to let you know, Arya's gotten it in her head to try and cut her hair again. I'm sure she'll be asking about it at dinner."
"Oh!" Catelyn laughs at the thought. "Some things never change, do they? Thank you for the warning, dear." She pulls Sansa in for a warm embrace and holds her for a moment longer. Sansa can hear her mother breathing deeply, and wonders if she has carried in some secret smell from the weirwood. "I never understood what that tree meant to your father. But I think he would be very pleased to know you have kept vigil for him there."
"Thank you, mother," Sansa holds on tighter for a moment longer, a sudden twinge of guilt twisting in the back of her throat. She finds unwelcome tears welling in her eyes. "I miss him."
"I know," Catelyn lets go, gently brushing a stray hair from Sansa's face. Her eyes water as well, mirroring Sansa's, though both hold their faces unwavering as stone. "I miss him so. But we must be strong. We are the North, now, and we must hold it for him." Sniffing back the last bit of tear, she dusts off her daughter's dress. "You must clean yourself up before dinner!"
With that, she turns off, back down the hallway, where Lord Manderly waits upon her. Baelish turns to follow, but Sansa grabs him by the sleeve.
"I know what they're plotting," she hisses softly.
"Plotting?" Baelish feigns confusion, but Sansa has known the man long enough to mark when he is holding back. The corners of his lips pull back tight, straining to maintain his usual helpful, harmless expression. "I don't know what…"
"Don't treat me like a child, Lord Baelish."
"Please, my lady, I've told you many times, call me…"
"To call you Petyr would mean you were a friend. A friend would not play such games with me!" She turns away in a huff, waiting. Sure enough, only a few quick breaths pass before he is twisting her shoulders back to face him, the falseness on his face discarded. "You told me you would see me made queen. But now I know Lord Wyman is plotting to marry me to his fat old son. Not even his heir!"
Baelish casts a nervous glance around the hall to spy any prying ears, but the others have moved on. Sansa follows close behind as he casually strolls to the nearest window, as if pondering the view of the white-walled city stretching down to the harbor below.
"House Manderly is second only to your family in power in the North. They mean to secure their authority with Stark blood."
"I understand Wynafryd and Robb," Sansa shivers as a chill wind blows in. The sun is beginning to set, and the dark clouds draw closer. "But me? How can Mother take Wendel seriously?"
"Your mother means to break your betrothal to the prince. Even given the current… precarious situation in the south, few lords would dare risk the animosity of the Lannisters and Baratheons. There are far worse fates than Wendel Manderly, my lady. He is a kind and clever man."
"He's twice my age!"
"You would not lack for comfort or wealth."
"I would not be queen." Sansa turns, staring up directly into the tall man's eyes. "You promised me. You swore to me on the boat. Does your word mean so little, Lord Baelish?"
For a moment, he has nothing to say. Slowly, he places his hands on her shoulders, but she refuses to soften under the gesture. His face wavers halfway between a frown and a smile. "My lady, you know your mother. I cannot sway her."
"But you can sway Lord Manderly."
"Even if Lord Manderly were to abandon his plans for you and Wendel, your lady mother would simply find another northern man."
"We shall see. But I will find my way back to the capital, with or without your help." Sansa crosses her arms sternly as Baelish's hands drop away.
"I will speak with Lord Manderly. But that is all I can do."
"Thank you, Petyr." She smiles, watching carefully for signs of deception. But he only bows politely, before turning off on his way.
"I will see you at dinner, my lady."
He's not going to help me, Sansa can feel it in her bones as his footsteps fade. She stands before the open window, letting the air wash unfettered over her, freezing her blood to ice. From this sill, she can see the Wolf's Den, the tallest branches of the weirwood prying their way up above the ramparts, a flash of crimson against the white bluffs beyond. Closing her eyes, she listens once more to the wind. This time, for only a moment, she sees Father standing on the parapet of the crumbling castle, his face wooden, like the ever-watchful eyes of the tree itself. And then he is gone, the cruel wind scattering him into an explosion of red leaves and shocking Sansa's eyes back open.
Stumbling forward, she catches herself on the frame of the window. The clouds are over the city now, the tempest whipped up into a shrieking howl as it tears her hair loose, whipping back and forth like a flag signaling the fresh storm. Winter isn't coming, she thinks, looking down at the city as white flakes begin to fall from the black clouds. Winter is here. And no one is going to hand me my destiny. I have to take it myself.
