Sansa Stark
A tingle of dread gripped Sansa as wildfire spread a green carpet over the river, hurling fiery emerald tears at the city walls. A blinding blaze dazzled her eyes, a dance of light and shadow, a grand mummer spectacle that swallowed King's Landing whole, turning darkness of the night into light of the day in a heartbeat. She saw a wall crumble, bricks leaping high as sparrows, vanishing in a foul mist.Aegon was there, fighting... his wounds...,she turned her head to the interior of the maester's tower. Heat shimmered even up to the high balcony where she watched the horror, followed by a snowstorm of soft ash, tiny grey flakes drifting like summer snowflakes. The worst came last, the acrid stench of burning, a harsh assault on her nose; wood, stone and flesh mingling in her nostrils.People were burning down there, drowning in the scorching tide of the river, in winds of steam.
"Your fear is unfounded, my lady, the odds of victory are in our favor. The situation may have deviated from the original plan, but fortune has not forsaken us," the voice of Haldon the halfmaester soothed her. She wished she could believe him, see the world with his calm, save for butterflies raging in her stomach, denying her any respite. The rest of the night she spent alone, tossing and turning on the bed, as shouts reached her chamber, cries from afar, the clashing rang of steel.If only I could sleep, wake to the relief of victory, if one comes.For a brief moment, she considered going to Haldon once more, to plea for a drop or two of milk of the poppy.Be brave, you must be brave,she consoled herself, softly humming the tune of Jonquil and Florian the fool.
"A fool in iron motley, no knight of noble birth,"she repeated the same verse three times, the rest of the words eluded her, lost in the chorus of steel, that claimed the city of King's Landing, creeping ever closer.Lord Stannis is coming, stern and unforgiving,a dark thought overshadowed the joy of the sweet dancing song.
"He longed to be her faithful knight,...",Sansa swallowed a lump of fear, looking at the golden embroidery on the canopy above the bed. The curtains hid the windows, yet the smell of burning and the ash on the wind seeped through the cracks, giving her a headache. The air was stale, heavy with stench, it melted into sour taste to her tongue.Please gods,she prayed to the heart tree,give him strength, give us dawn, give us light. Please gods, old and new,she united north and south within herself. As she uttered the last word of her prayer, the skies broke in thunder, answering her plea with a downpour, a cover of sound to hide the battle.
"...disguised as a fool," she misspoke a verse, in relief, as cheers erupted all over the Red Keep. A living joy resounded from every corner, a scream that could only herald victory. Sansa ran out of her chamber to see it, fleeing to a space full of song and jubilee.
"What are the news, how fares the king," she asked a small cupbearer who was happily skipping through the corridor.
The boy grinned through crooked teeth, "A victory, m'lady, it is a victory. Stannis is dead, slain by ser Loras in single combat".Once, another girl might have smiled at such tales.Mangled corpses, blood spilling over grass, cries of men too young to meet the Stranger; Images of the Redwood hill came to her, a grim sight of pain, a wound on the soul, the place never to heal.
Dawn came without a wink of sleep, thick black smoke billowed to the south, where the wildfire defied the rain, hiding the Kingswood in a wall of ever-moving darkness. Layers of ash covered the roofs of King's Landing, tinting the red tiles in a grey hue, giving a false impression of winter, from a distance. The air was unpleasant, of ash melted by rain, keeping most folk inside their homes. The first thing on her mind was to find Aegon, to assure herself he was alright.
Sansa made her way through throngs of men in ash-smudged armor clogging the halls, "Where is his Grace?", she asked Serjeant Mole.
"I know not, m'lady," a toad-faced man replied, a bloody rivulet running from his brow, over reddish skin, peeling off like orange. Most of the soldiers bore burns like that, parched and painful, broken.
"He went to see the queen, m'lady," a coarse voice somewhere in the distance muttered, bringing Sansa back to the ground. Once more, she had flown into the skies too fast, floating amid her dreamful thoughts.That's what you get for thinking too much,she scolded herself, opting to return to her chamber, trying to fall aleep to the sound of rain.
Three days passed and she barely glimpsed Aegon, he spent most of his time out of the Red Keep, overseeing the removal of corpses and the rebuilding of the wall. After eating her midday meal, to cheer herself up, to escape from troubles, Sansa put on a new gown, ivory-colored with red weirwood leaves covering the fine material. She had added new adornments herself, changing it to suit her own taste, bringing a touch of the North to it. Otherwise, the day seemed dour and grey, birds had stopped chirping, a shadow of smoke forbade the autumn sun to grace the skies. Sansa avoided the balcony, not to spoil her beautiful dress, the ash would leave a smudge all over it. Gently, she lifted the garment, turning in a circle, letting the flared skirt move, rise and fall, like a living rose, greeting a newborn day. Before the looking glass, Sansa saw the woman she always wanted to become, the shining mirror transported her to a divine tale of love, fulfilled dreams, a land absent of suffering. A knock on the door shattered the image for a moment, but Sansa smiled even more, somehow no issue could spoil the delight she felt.
"Pardon," she called softly.
"It's I, gorgeous," septa Lemore replied from the other side of the door.
"Come in," Sansa beamed, earnestly cherishing the moments shared with Lemore. The door opened, bringing in the septa with white robes, lacking the hair covering other septas usually wore, to shield their chastity from unwanted looks. Lemore simply carried a carefree nature as a second robe, something Sansa loved more and more.
The septa appraised Sansa, winking at the ceremonial dress, a spark of joy in dreadful days. "Someone looks dazzling today. Are we having a tourney to celebrate victory, or a great feast, or a mummer's show?"
"No," she said with confidence, "I want to feel beautiful. Being beautiful makes me free."
The septa eyed her cheekily, "Is that all? You look so beautiful, you may outshine all the flowers in the Red Keep, and I mean all."
"My intent is simply of personal nature, no ulterior motives," Sansa smiled, and the reflection mirrored her smile of pearly whites.
"I have no doubt of it," Lemore raised an eyebrow, "Though, I am glad you are doing well, you deserve it. The king is knighting a few brave souls in the great hall. Are you coming?"
"No, so many pageants tire me." A wedding came to mind, and a coronation after that, a prison made of extravagance, a looming reminder of what she lost. After some time, the pain faded, leaving only a shell of regret.
"You speak my mind. Though, Aegon wants to see you. Apparently, a very important matter," Lemore shrugged as if to say she knew no more than what she said.
Night fell as she stood before the white oaken doors of his solar, with two large holes scraped from the white paint. Stags of Baratheon had held their place there, as they had throughout the palace, antlers, hammers, the might of the hunter adorning many a wall and pillar, or tapestries or bare stone. The castle was barren of them now, given to the fires or put below the keep, in a dark hall where no man walked, sharing eternity with the dragon skulls, which Aegon refused to return to the throne room.
"Let the past be the past," he told Varys as the eunuch proposed resurrecting an old tradition. "Formidable as they are, no Targaryen king ever mounted the sky on dragon bones."
Somehow, the negative answer pleased the spider even more, putting a swift end to the discussion. "Just a moment, my lady. I'll inform the king, you are here," Shieldless Rymen of the Kingsguard told her, closing the heavy door to the hall. "You may proceed," the door was now opened to her.
"Your Grace, you wanted to see me," she greeted Aegon, seated at his long table in his work chamber, alone inside a ring of braziers, working on some parchments. The king's seal, crimson of head, kissed the paper many times.
"Yes, please, sit," he pulled out a chair for her. "Do you wish refreshment?"
"Water would be nice," she replied, a bit nervous. Aegon took a lone flagon from the table, pouring out a full goblet.
"A few hours ago, I received a letter from Dragonstone, from Lord Alester Florent, who served as Stannis's Hand. Well, the news is quite welcome, he offers a peace proposal, in the name of Stannis's daughter, Shireen. She is to relinquish all claims to the throne in exchange for amnesty for all who fought under Stannis's banner and the restoration of the Baratheon claim to Storm's End. Of course, the crown expects more concessions, land wise, from Baratheons utmost. Varys thinks I should cede all of the Kingswood they hold," Aegon chuckled, not sharing the same hunger for land as his counselors. "I am not so radical, though the price will not be easy to stomach. Some of my councilors believe we should reject it, but I am not here to sate their appetites for titles or more bloodshed."
"Pardon me, Your Grace, why am I to know this?" she asked, unsure of where this was going, as she was usually left out of political discussions. Formality hurt him, so he withdrew a bit, trying to find a distraction in the papers lying on the table.
"Cause your brother is the only current claimant to the crown of his own, the only one still alive, that is. Rumors say, for some time, Balon Greyjoy perished, so I have commanded Lord Redwyne to muster a fleet to retake the Iron Islands, but time is slipping as winter seas are upon us," Aegon said, his voice taking a sad note, of the possibility of a new military campaign. "I wanted you here, as I have decided to do something I should have done long ago. Send you home."
The word petrified her in deep silence.I don't want to go, to abandon you,one part of her heart said, as a burst of happiness claimed the other part, rejoicing at the chance of seeing her mother and Robb again. "I am to bring my brother into the fold. Beg him to bend the knee to the Iron Throne. Is that what you are asking of me?" Strength for strong words left her,am I only a tool, a means to an end. She knew this was not his idea.Was Margaery behind this, or the Small Council?
"Well, beg is not a word I would use, but yes, plea with him to reconsider defiance, so we can end this war before the first snow. And I'll be more generous than I ought to be, he can keep the lands he currently holds, if the Tullys do not object; in that case, the crown shall claim the southern riverlands under its direct rule. Or we can return to the prewar borders, with minor adjustments. Sansa, you know me, I am the last to fan the flames, and I'm in the minority."
Sansa shrugged, knowing that if the war continued, Robb was surrounded on all sides, Tyrion Lannister was to rule the west, her aunt Lysa had bent the knee a few moons past, the rest of the south was firmly in Aegon's grasp or worse, in the Tyrells', and the Greyjoys still held Moat Cailin as far as she knew. The lands by the Trident were fertile, second only to the Reach, but the war had left them desolate, with weak defenses. "For the sake of my brother I'll go, though the northerners are a proud kind, they would rather go down with the steel bent, than the knee bent. My pleas may find deaf ears. Many of them." Growing up, she had ignored the lordly talk of her father, of this house or that, who hated whom, which house was close to another. Winterfell was the only world she knew, rarely going to the winter town, or the river mills not far away. The north came to her, Cley Cerwyn, Benfred Tallhart for the most part, sometimes Karstark sons. Other men who came, grizzled and bearded, frightened her, so she avoided them.
Aegon nodded, wordless for more to speak, just gazing at her, tides of sentiment stirring beneath their eyes. Certain vows wanted to break through the hard surface, yet drowned in the depths of the dark.This was it,she realized,the last days with him, perhaps the last ever.King Robert had called Father his dearest friend, and only made the procession to the North once, with a clear intent. Elsewise, the friends might have died leagues apart.
"If the war is our fate, no harm shall befall your kin, I swear it to you...," he finally said, ending a long silence.
"I know," she murmured softly, as tears filled her eyes. She was not meant to weep, yet she failed, shedding a few drops harder than iron. He drew near to her, offering a handkerchief, a three-headed dragon in silver, a direwolf snarling as a third head.He had kept it all this time, a token of thanks, of a broken pledge, a seed that never rose to kiss the sun, never to blossom.A different rose had stolen its place.
"It is not an end, if we choose it so," he offered her a hand, she touched milky rough fingers, feeling a fiery spark shooting back to her heart. Together, hand in hand, they walked to the door. "Ser Rymen, escort Lady Sansa back to her chamber."
"As you command, Your Grace," the boy knight replied, tucking his raven locks beneath the visor.
Later that night, she learned that she was to depart on the morrow's eve, with a guard of eighty men to escort her, led by Thunderex, who had returned from Maidenpool. To tender Robb's iron crown, Aegon was also sending Ice, the sword of Sansa's father, his bane rather, and freeing another northman from captivity, Donnel Locke.
By the light of early dawn, Jeyne came to her even before the breaking of the fast, "I came as soon as I heard, I cannot believe you are leaving."
"Yes, it seems like a lifetime since we left Winterfell," Sansa said wistfully, remembering the thrill they had shared, the south was where the songs came true, knights in shining armor, ladies of the court.Jeyne got smitten in love with Lord Beric Dondarrion, now a famed outlaw, who had cheated death seven times as the tales went.She might have dreamed of a gallant outlaw knight daring rescue of a maiden from the clutches of wicked lions, if not for finding love among the golden sellswords.The truth be told, Lord Beric was already betrothed to the sister of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, one of the greatest knights that ever lived. Ser Pykewood Peake was no outlaw, nor a one to match the great champions of arms, but a good man, a rare quality these days.
House Peake had lost two castles for rebelling against the Targaryens in the old days, both now restored, at least on paper by Aegon's decree. Pykewood was to take possession of Dunstonbury, an ancient castle on the banks of the Mander, once belonging to the Manderlys, the loyal Stark bannermen. The younger Peake brother would be raised to a lord, and the match would make Jeyne a lady, of a great seat, something a mere daughter of a steward, of a minor house, with little wealth of their own could only dream of.
"Well, I spoke to Pyke, we are to take our vows today, here in the royal sept," Jeyne said proudly.
"Today?" Sansa was at a loss for words.
"You are the only friend or family for that matter that I have, and the Lady of Winterfell. I thought, only if you want, to give me away. You are a Stark of Winterfell, it is your right,"
Sansa embraced her friend, "Of course I will," gushing light of bliss.
The sun cleaved the sky in two, as she donned her new gown by Jeyne's side on the altar of the royal sept, sharing space between the guardian beard of the Father and the serene smile of the Mother. "With this kiss I pledge my love," Jeyne whispered the sacred vow of the ritual as an orange cloak fell on her gentle shoulders. Of the three castles of House Peake, two kept their ancient black color, but the third now glittered in gold, a prudent reminder of how the castle returned to the Peake's hold. A bit nervous, Pykewood kissed his new bride, to the cheers of two score officers of the Golden Company. An hour later, a small feast was arranged, a pale shadow of what had occurred at the royal wedding, yet Sansa enjoyed the four courses much more, especially the lemon cakes.
"Lemons grow by the Mander, throughout the summer, and sometimes in the autumn, I'll never forget to send you some to Winterfell," Jeyne told her when they parted, by the end of the festivities. As a gift, Sansa left her all the gowns she had in King's Landing, two of them were of similar cut, so the cloth should fit.A great lady should wear great wardrobe.
She felt a bit gloomy as she entered her chamber again, so many farewells were taking a strain on her nerves, she was returning to her home, her first and true one, but this had also become her home, not the foul days with Joffrey, but the blessed days of freedom that followed.If only this day would end, the road would make it easier.
The hours of the late day passed slowly, crawling like days, chaining her to the bed in a strange mood as if in a dream, wondering if she would wake, only to find it all false. Wake in the Red Keep in the weeks after Joffrey's coronation, and the murder of her father; wake in Maidenpool, in the sweet days of the newborn autumn, as a pleasant breeze swept through the streets of the little port-town; wake in the days on the road to the first battle she beheld, the dreadful odour of death; wake on the march to King's Landing again, as she held her breath if Aegon would survive his wounds.
The bitterness of being, only ceased when a girl servant came to give her a note: the horses were ready, and the column could depart whenever she wished.A little bit longer,she told herself, the North before her was rising wide as snow-covered mountains, long as the great Trident, but the past had shrunk as a melting ice cube.
The point of departure almost came when Haldon visited her, carrying a bundle of parchments, neatly rolled in five cylinders, linked by leather cords in a knot. "My lady, may your journey be safe and well," he began.
"Thank you, Haldon, are those for me?" she did not expect any papers.
The halfmaester nodded, undoing the knots in a swift move, precisely placing the parchments on the table in a arranged stack, "The king deemed it imperative for you to have these." At speed, Sansa read the messages inked on the brownish parchment.
"...An elimination of Stark host in full; a cooperation of flayed man. Haldon, what are these?" she snapped at the maester, whose plain-shaven face did not flinch. A conspiracy against the Starks woven in four messages, mention of a wedding bathed in crimson, skins on the river wall.
"The first message was seized from the personal belongings of Tywin Lannister, in the immediate aftermath of His Grace's victory," Haldon pointed at the oldest letter, "the rest we received at our own leisure, after contacting the Freys of the Crossing, feigning interest in the plan Lord Walder proposed to Tywin Lannister, an act of betrayal meant to annihilate the forces of your brother, including the murder of both Stark and Tully family members. The final letter was sent by Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, it seems he is an active participant in the plot to overthrow the Starks in the North. Per his suggestion, Bolton would defect to the Crown in exchange for amnesty and wardenship, in the same manner the Freys wish to claim the title from your mother's family."
A cold fear punched Sansa in the stomach, she had not felt this powerless since Joffrey screamed, "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" Dark thoughts bloomed instantly,who knew of this, was Aegon ready to harm her family to such extent. She could not believe it.His heart was pure, devoid of any malice, he could never command anything of the sort."Why would Aegon partake in correspondence with these traitors?"
"He did not," Haldon brought her relief, "It was the late Hand Connington who gave the order, though for what it's worth, he only knew of Lord Frey's wish to change his allegiance, not of the vile conduct they plan to carry out. All further correspondence, after initial contact, was made with the intent to uncover the full scope of the plot, including all major participants involved."
"Robb must see these letters, as soon as may be. Send a raven," Sansa breathed in haste, longing for the letters to reach her brother.
Taking the letters in hand again, the halfmaester deftly returned them to their previous scrolled state. "The matter at dispute is delicate, and I counselled His Grace to proceed with necessary caution. Lord Stark may not interpret our gesture as a kindness, but as a ploy to sow discord between him and his bannermen." Sansa understood the wisdom of his words.The Northmen were blunt and straightforward in their dealings, and scorned the subtle intrigues of the south.The Iron Throne, under Joffrey, had shown them nothing but treachery and deceit, even forcing Sansa to pen a letter to Winterfell, demanding her brother's fealty.As they contemplate the world, Aegon was no different, and I am the only one who could bridge the gap between the foes."Honest men is a beacon in the snowstorm," she recalled Father's saying.
"Tell me all that you know," she asked him, still reeling from the revelation.
"Threads are in place, the trap is set, the Freys deserted from Stark ranks after your brother wed a Westerling maid, in contradiction with the terms of the agreement for safe crossing over the Trident. A marriage pact is proposed to your uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, and at the wedding feast Lord Stark and his bannermen are to be massacred. Lord Bolton, who commands the bulk of Stark's foot, is to send them into futile assaults further south, without significant strategic sense, only to be crushed by our host".
Sansa shuddered, picturing all of it in her mind's eye, the bloody Stark men, clad in their furs, hacked and hewn on the green fields of the south, dying so far from home. The visage of death mirrored the corpses of Lannisters, still haunting her dreams at times, the sharp stench filling her nostrils, so vile, it soured her meals for days.We must make haste, Thunderex will obey my will, by a fortnight or less we could reach Riverrun. But the heavy rains, the roads must be mired by now.In the last few days, rain is often a gift from the heavens, as the sun.
"Bring me parchment and ink, maester," she pleaded in gentle words.
Out of the bowels of his clean robes, Haldon produced a small vial of ink, a snow-white quill sharp as a knife and a thin sheet of parchment, still fresh in yellow hue, "I had a feeling you might want it," he smiled.
Aegon granted Sansa leave to write to her kin, just days before they marched swiftly from Maidenpool. At first, Sansa thought no answer would ever come, as moons came and went, until a rider from Maidenpool reached King's Landing on the eve of the last battle, bearing a brief letter from her mother, stitched with words of love, more than of news. "Our spirits are high, as they must be in these dark times," Lady Catelyn wrote in the wake of her sons' deaths. Later, the dark times turned to cruel times, by the slaying of Rickon and Bran.
"Arya lives," Sansa wrote back to Riverrun, in her melancholic reply, "she is too fierce to fall."I will be gone again, on the road, even before Mother writes again.
With a steady hand, now, she penned one final sentence, ending with "Wait for me..."
"The letter is to be sent promptly, the autumn rains are harsh, so it will take longer than usual," Haldon said. "I have all the materials ready, I will seal it properly."
According to his words, the letters were safely hidden in one of the wagons. Sansa fetched them, spurring her mare to Thunderex who donned a new golden surcoat at the head of the guard.
"Leave the wagons behind, or better yet, abandon them, we must ride as fast as we can," she commanded him.
"My Lady, all your belongings are in the wagons, and the provisions for the journey. If we forsake them, our days will be meager of fare," the Summer Islander objected.
"All I need is here," she lifted the leather bag with all the parchments and Haldon's personal notes on the Frey-Bolton plot. "Divide the force in two, leave some to watch the wagons, the rest of us ride with haste. Food can be carried by the horses."
The ebony serjeant obeyed her command with some reluctance, leaving twenty riders to guard the wagons, and taking another ten horses riderless to carry the food rations, just enough for the journey. Arranged in a long column, they waited as the bronze gates of the Red Keep rose. Instinctively, Sansa turned her head to the balcony of Aegon's own chamber. He was there, waving down, bidding her farewell. A moment later, Margaery appeared from the chamber, looking at her stiffly. From such a distance, Sansa could not tell if the Queen was relieved that Sansa was leaving or angry for some unknown reason.Perhaps both, with her it was so hard to tell what she wanted, almost as hard as to know if the autumn day would be rainy or just grey.
"Serjeant," she signaled with her hand.
Thunderex bellowed in his foreign accent, "Onward". And the line of Targaryen banners galloped through the wet streets of King's Landing, through mud and rain mixed with ash. The smell of battle lingered even stronger near the walls, until they passed through the Old Gate, onto the Kingsroad. Sansa rode in the middle of the column, with Donnel by her side, in the safest part of the file.
Seven days later they had scarcely covered a third of the way, still trudging through the woods where the Kingsroad curved around the right bank of the God's Eye. Rains fell ceaselessly as if to chastise them, turning the muddy road under their hooves into a knee-deep sludge of water and earth, a misery for horses, more so for riders. They had already lost half a dozen mounts, and each day would lose one more. She wept seeing the helpless beasts by the road, as soldiers eased their suffering, slaughtering them for a meal. Some were simply abandoned in the deep mire, for the wolves to claim them and clear the road. Losses became so dire that a score of men were left behind to await the wagons, as sharing mounts seemed hopeless. Even Thunderex, dwarfing Sansa, struggled with the mud.
To cheer her up, Donnel Locke tried to console her, as things might not be so bad, "Mud is bad m'lady, but bearable, deep snows are impossible." A child of the long summer, she had never seen such snows, she barely knew snow at all. Summer snow fell now and then, only to melt faster than it came, mostly making the same mud in the courtyards of Winterfell. Still, she loved playing with snow, building castles, imagining ladies living inside and their noble husbands.
She gave the northman a courtly smile, but was not in the mood for talk, choosing instead to brood in the dampness of the drizzle, dreading the sky might burst again sending watery shafts upon them. Her only solace was that the road led them into the woods, a shield from the winds and a decent cover from the heavy rain. Last time she saw these woods, she traveled on a wagon with Septa Mordane and Arya, in the opposite direction, and she remembered all the bumps on the hard road, the grass so dry it crackled on a gentle breeze. As then, she did not stray from the road, though she wished to see the great lake or even catch a glimpse of Harrenhal. Jory had said the castle could be seen from miles away, but the sparse trees concealed both the lake and the castle. Maps were familiar to her now, she knew the road was too far from both.
On the twelfth day, the damp cold finally caught her, under the wet hood, as a strange tickle played in her throat, only to grow into a tender heat claiming her whole brow. Fighting with sleepiness, she tried to stay on the horse, wobbling right to left, barely keeping hold of the reins. Lightheaded and weak, she would have fallen if not for Donnel Locke riding just beside her, keeping one hand always on her back.
"Don't give up, m'lady, we are at Castle Darry soon," the man tried to keep her spirits up. Soon in truth was almost three days as the outline of the castle became visible from afar, through her feverish eyes. A bulky shadow of Thunderex from time to time came from the head of the column to check on her. Fever took her completely as they passed through the charred walls of the castle, so she fell asleep on the horse, dreaming of a hot day by the Trident. Before her eyes the image seemed clear as the day she last graced Castle Darry, a perfect little place, only a finger of the size of the Red Keep or Winterfell, but big enough to be important and beautiful. In the dream she was alone in the halls, barefoot enjoying the softness of Myrish carpets, in a thin maiden's dress dancing, until she went out to feel the light of summer. The monstrous wheelhouse of Cersei Lannister was there, as were baggage trains, filled with fruits, meat, wine, mead, cakes, to quench the mighty appetite of King Robert for feast and hunt, as a hawking wagon and another one serving as a kennel were also lodged on the meadow in front of the castle. All of it empty, abandoned, she tried to find a soul, Arya or Father perhaps, but no one was there.
Then, a soft grey blur darted in between the wagons, and Sansa's heart leapt, recognising the clean fur, the beautiful twitching ears. So she wept, tears of joy or tears of never healed pain, it was too hard to say, but she truly wept. The shape became a crystal clear image.
"Come, girl, I am here, I am here," Sansa called Lady softly. The direwolf came to her gracefully, not fast or clumsy as her brothers and sister who ran wild through Winterfell. Lady was quiet and gentle, kind to everyone not only Sansa. And, now, grown, so huge, she was as tall as Sansa or taller, shedding the soft features of youth for the sharp ones of maturity that every creature acquires. Yet the ears were the same, twitching, glad to see Sansa. By habit Sansa scratched them, drawing a soft purr from Lady, and a tender lick of the rough tongue on her upturned palm.
Suddenly the direwolf snorted, pawed and gnawed, her movements loud and in an instant Sansa opened her eyes, finding herself in a small solar, on a soft feather bed, a luxury she had not slept in for a fortnight or more.
A half-bald wrinkled figure stood over her, and Sansa gasped, "However unpleasant I might be, I am no threat to you. Now drink this," a small cup was soon in her hand. The remedy tasted bitter mingled with the light sweetness of honey. "You are at Darry, Lady Sansa, your health is well, a mere chill caused by unnecessary long travel if I may say". The chain revealed the man as a maester in a black robe, and more links than Luwin had. "One might say almost as mad as keeping a direwolf as a pet", the man went on chuckling. Sansa wanted to retort and put him in his place, but her throat hurt too much.
Voice returned back to her when Locke and Thunderex came to see her, both men joined in shared worry. "We are to continue by the morrow," she rasped sentence.
"Lady Sansa, we are men of war, and this pace is wearing us down as well. Let us stay for at least three more days. No hurry is worth your health," the ebony serjeant said.
Locke sided with Thunderex in his appeal, "Heed the big lad, m'lady, a cold sickness fells a man as easy as an axe."
"I am well, when I eat, strength will come back to me," she lied. Quite the opposite, pain ran through her muscles, and she still felt dizzy and feverish. The potions given by the Darry maester helped but little.
"No," Thunderex shook his head, "We stay here, until you are fit to ride. The king gave me the charge to protect you, first and foremost, and then to bring you to your destination."
Seeing no point in arguing, she spent the next day confined to bed, recuperating in a small chamber with a smaller window letting in weak sun rays. The counsel of her protectors seemed wise as she felt much better, regaining the health she had on the day they left the capital. Young Lord Lyman waited for her recovery to hold a feast in honor of the small guard, three and forty of Sansa's own, and two score of Golden Company men from Harrenhal led by Captain Lothson.
"Lady Sansa, it is nice to have you again under Darry's roof," the boy seemed pleasant enough. "Please open the feast," he handed her a golden fork, which she plunged into the pigeon pie, taking a bite. The dish was too salty, stinging her parched lips, yet Sansa smiled at the young lord.
"It is wonderful, my lord," she returned the courtesy.Wonderful and too small for every man to have a share.Though other dishes were plentiful, filling two long tables of the narrow hall.Within these walls King Robert ordered the death of Lady, for a crime she did not commit. Harming Joffrey was a good deed, Nymeria should have killed him. The world would be a better place for that.The new tapestries did not elude her eye, a beautiful art on linen, alive with colors, and rich embroideries.
"Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters," Lord Darry slid a hand on her back, making unwanted caresses. Sansa felt uneasy but let him have his way. Three dragons filled the sky, above the first three heads of the dragon. Scanning the other images Darry went on, "Jaehaerys the Conciliator and his noble wife Queen Alysanne, and on the left, in warrior's armor, is Daeron the Young Dragon under the blazing Dornish sun." He stopped at Daeron, though Sansa recognized more in the likeness of Daeron the Good, his sons Baelor and Maekar, then came Aegon the Unlikely and what could only be his famed Kingsguard Ser Duncan, after two friends servants mismatched chronology putting another pair of a King and a Kingsguard, brothers Aegon and Aemon. The last tapestry was torn, with the left side missing, clumsily sewn to the previous one. Her deep blue eyes lost themselves in the young Targaryen face, whose features she knew. The young crowned silver-haired head looked exactly like Aegon.
"That one is damaged," Sansa pointed a finger to the displeased grin of her host.
"It is His Grace, King Aerys, my father lost three brothers fighting under Rhaegar's banner, not far from here at the Ruby Ford. I cut off the other half cause of the traitor Tywin Lannister, his hound killed my father, seized our home, put many to death. I am glad King Aegon avenged us, shattering all the Lannister scum, if only I was there at Redwood, I would proudly raise my banner by his side," the boy muttered in a mix of pride and anger, finally taking his sneaking hand off her back.If you were there you might have died, if Aegon had not challenged the Lannisters from the west, Clegane, Lorch and others would have raided closer to the Trident, further north as they could.
A lone singer playing a flute invited the guests to dance to the tune of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. He must have been new to his craft, as his fingers were only slightly better than his voice, as he mostly shouted the verses rather than singing them. The feast was half done, so most guests were in the mood of drunken revelry, taking bewildered serving girls into their arms. Donnel joined them, grabbing a plump washerwoman, spinning her in a frenzy of wine. The northmen was in truth still a captive, forbidden to wear a weapon or armor for that matter, but he had every liberty, making friends with the golden sellswords, so much so that no one would suspect his prisoner status.
"My Lady, may I ask for a dance," Lyman offered his soft boyish hand, she was three years his elder, and she felt it then. He had seen some war, a doom befalling his house and losing his father, sharing a similar fate as Sansa had. It was clear to her, he wanted more, to impress her, maybe even suggest a marriage pact. After the rebellion, the Darrys suffered as the Conningtons, the Mootons and other loyalists who stayed true to the crown instead of following their liege lords. Now, their lands and wealth were expected to be restored by Aegon's return, raising them back to their old glory.
"Forgive me, my lord, my health bids me to decline," she made an excuse. Being rejected did not please him, so in a sour mood Lord Darry sat down, brooding over a cup of Arbor gold.
"Even while the Usurper Robert and your father feasted in this hall, my sire stayed loyal to the dragons, as he did for the last two decades. Those tapestries were waiting to see the light again. He dreamed of Prince Viserys coming from Essos, claiming the throne of his father. The gods are cruel, taking him on the brink of such a thing happening," he said, with a distant look.
Sansa remained silent as the things she wanted to say did not make for a pleasant tale, opposing the folly of idealizing the world in a way that it was not.How many men followed Aegon simply because they had to by the command of their lord, how many chased a false dream of glory only to find horror on the battlefield, how many, as the Darrys, sought to reclaim land lost to the wrong choice. The more she thought about it, hardly anyone was behind him because he acted as a king should act.
Captain Lothson came back to his seat with a face shining of sweat, sipping another cup of wine, then a second to wash down the first. "Captain, have you seen battle with the men of Lord Bolton?" Sansa asked the man.
The wine left idiotic plain look on his face, so he needed a few moments to grasp her question, shaking a head to clear his mind. "Nay, m'lady, mostly skirmishes, now and then, a few loose arrows. Some men died though, nothing of note. The Leech Lord keeps his men at Stoney Sept, since Forley Prester fled it, escaping to the west; we have ours at Harrenhal and a few garrisons in nearby holds. Outlaws are a bigger problem, the lightning lord, and even some Lannisters still lurking in the woods. They snatched our captain-general," he bellowed in laughter, spilling drink all over the table. Lord Darry shot a disgusted look at the sellsword. Meanwhile, Sansa felt grateful, as there was still hope, a greater war in the Riverlands might be avoided.
As the health returned to her, Darry felt too crowded, so she finally asked Thunderex to move out. The serjeant obliged her wish, so they set out, passing through a small village, mostly deserted or its inhabitants gone to hide from unwelcome guests. The first day of their renewed journey they rode directly towards the sunset.
"Here is the River road, m'lady," Donnel Locke said obvious.
"Indeed," Sansa played along, feigning obliviousness, though she knew they had left the Kingsroad many hours ago. Surprisingly, the ride was more pleasant in the heart of the Riverlands, through green fields, a few rolling hills and the strong murmur of the Red Fork of the Trident. The ground was a bit firmer, easing the travel somewhat, though mud still ruled more road than not.
"Halt," a voice rang out from the head of the column, as a massive trunk blocked the road. To their right rose a steep hill, to their left a thick tangle of bushes and vines. Slowly the column began to climb the slope, the riders cautiously moving to avoid injuring their mounts.
Donnel Locke eyed the treeline above them nervously, a looming row of dark green sentinels watching over the road. "Donnel, what do you see?" she asked.
"Trouble, m'lady, that tree did not fall by itself. It lies too far from the top. It may be the work of brigands, these lands are ripe for their dishonorable deeds," he had barely finished his words when the first arrow flew from the high ground, then a second and a third, and soon a shower of shafts rained down on them, as relentless as the drizzle that had followed them from King's Landing.
A third of the column had already crossed to the other side, leaving them outnumbered. "Shields around the lady, shields around the lady," Thunderax bellowed, spurring his horse towards Sansa. In a ring of gold she was safe, as arrows hissed and clanged against the golden armor and mail. She saw a men of the Golden Company falling dead in the mud, with two shafts in the bloody helm, another one flung from a dying horse into deep layer of thorny bushes.
Auuuuuu, auuuuuu, auuuuuuu,the horn sounded in the distance, a familiar and dreadful call. Sansa had heard it across the hills as the Lannister host marched on the Redwood. As before, the distant sound was followed by the loud thunder of hooves. Between the sentinels on the crest she could see hundreds of shapes, half-hidden by the mist, many of them in red, some mounted, charging towards the eastern side of the hill where the slope was gentler.
"Move Lady Sansa to the left," Thunderax ordered, and five men guarding Sansa shifted closer to the trunk that barred the road. "Spears up," the serjeant shouted, as twenty-five men lifted their spears and shields. With a fierce neighing of horses, the two cavalries met, and Sansa could only watch in horror as wood splintered and men screamed in pain. Leaping from his horse, Donnel Locke snatched a fallen shield and spear, and quickly mounted again.
"They are holding, m'lady, they are holding," Locke said in a trembling voice, as the battle raged only a few dozen yards from Sansa. Through the gaps between her protectors, she saw a few Golden Company riders strike down their foes. From the other side of the trunk, more riders tried to join the fray, but arrows still flew from above, hitting some. Horses stumbled and fell with their riders on the uneven ground. She heard bones breaking.
And then came a rustling of leaves, Sansa's heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst, pumping strength into the great beast that was her fear. "Down, down there!" Donnel Locke shouted as dark shapes moved in the thick cover below the road. A click echoed in the air, before a crossbow bolt pierced through the golden halfhelm of the nearest Sansa's guard. Two more dropped from point-blank shots, before the foe abandoned their cover and charged.
A bloated brute in a lion halfhelm and a Golden Company surcoat hurled a spear, killing a fourth man. Sansa screamed and the men laughed, revealing a noseless face. The last golden sellsword rode down two attackers, both in scraps of Lannister red armor, with one less than desirable. Locke was still holding his ground, moving in front of Sansa, a second before a bolt grazed him, sending a sharp pain in her thigh. Whimpering from the pain, she looked down and saw a river of blood flowing down her leg.
"No, you fucking fools, she is to be unharmed. The girl is to be unharmed," the noseless one cursed.
"M'lady, stay strong, I'm here," Locke told her, putting his body and horse between her and the enemy.I am not in pain, she wanted to tell him, but only managed a barely audible groan. Her chest was on fire, as fear mingled with a strange excitement; she felt as if her head was boiling, turning the world around her into a chaotic mess of incomprehensible ordeal.Is this how warriors feel in battle?
She wished for a splash of cold water to clear her mind, as her body stopped obeying her, the sounds around her faded into a long buzz. Instead, a warmth of red splashed stained her face, as the head of Donnel Locke flew far away from his body. The sight shattered the petrified facade that trapped Sansa, and she screamed from the depths of her lungs.
"Shut up, you bitch!", a cursing voice came from below, and she felt the worst pain ever as sharp nails dug into the flesh of her wounded leg. Falling from her horse, she landed in the mud.
"Let me go!" she struggled against the unknown assailant, hitting him with her feeble arms, and he released her for a brief moment, so she crawled through the mud, fleeing to nowhere.
Another pair of arms seized her so hard she thought the monster would tear them from their sockets. A guttural roar pierced her ears, as the stench of foul breath hit her. Opening her eyes, Sansa's heart exploded as she saw sharp teeth beneath the lion halfhelm descending upon her neck. The monster's bite took all the air from her chest.I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe, her mind screamed to the body. Blood was on her tongue, filling her mouth like an empty cup. Whatever she tried, it failed. No air came in, no scream came out. The beast bit down again, spilling blood all over his monstrous helm.
"Nooooo, you fool, what have you done?" a coarse voice snarled somewhere behind.
Mother, Father, Robb, Arya, Rickon, Jon... Aegon, she thought of faces dear, as darkness closed in on the light.
She did not feel the third bite, only the coming of nothingness...