SANSA STARK
Day 26, 9th Moon, 275 AC
The slim ship sailed upriver, lush green land on either side. Last time Sansa saw Westeros, winter laying its claim, was several years ago, so she roved her eyes over this lively terrain with abandon. While this sight lightened her body, her stomach pulled tight. They were hundreds of leagues north of Dorne's deserts.
She was supposed to be going to Sunspear as agreed. Behind her back, the plan clearly changed. She swallowed and suppressed a shudder. Littlefinger had done that more than once. Her gaze slid to the Vale's distant mountain range at the reminder. Why is Prince Oberyn sailing towards the eastern edge of the Riverlands? For what purpose? What gain?
She turned to the vessel's deck. On it, Prince Oberyn practised thrusting and spinning his partisan up there as it gleamed in the sunlight. A wicked central blade between two others the size of knives. Reputation suggested he coated the weapon with poison before every planned fight.
The second Prince of Dorne quirked a smirk upon spotting her gaze. The man as self-assured as he'd been in her previous life. Sansa remained silent and shook her head a moment, dropping her eyes to glance at her ink-stained fingers. Over a week ago at Gulltown, a brittle quill snapped in her hand.
Near the southron border of the Vale, they made port. A black horse with its fiery red mane - Oberyn's sand steed - nearly dancing on the grass, solid ground beneath its hooves once more.
"My Prince?" she said while he wiped his forehead and approached with a confident strut.
"Aye, my Braavosi Trout?" The cheeky grin made her proverbial hackles rise at the moniker, but she kept her mouth shut. He took to using that name as they sailed, but only recently explained why. Yet, no matter who she posed as, she was still a Stark direwolf at heart; but a quiet, patient one that would test the waters before wading forth.
Oberyn Martell, in his prime, stood in front of her. For him to be so young and Princess Elia still alive, logic dictated that King Aerys II 'The Mad King' Targaryen ruled, and Lord Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King.
Caution now critical in every action. She'd once made the mistake of viewing people as they should be, not who they were. A folly that'd left her vulnerable to malign plots in King's Landing.
A flash of the Sept of Baelor and her father's execution heavied her heart, but she pushed the emotion aside. She must keep peace with the Dornishman. "Please, My Prince, that moniker lacks dignity." She straightened her full-length sleeves and met his eyes. "And I doubt The Blackfish would like the rivalry," she added to lighten the mood.
If she must be called a name, she needed something forgettable. Prince Oberyn was also known as 'The Red Viper'. That name demanded attention and implied danger. 'Braavosi Trout' suggested bastardy or falsehoods. The last thing she needed.
The prince chuckled and leaned against his upright partisan, eyes shining with humour. "And what did I suggest in Gulltown after writing my sister?" he asked, with a mock questioning look. "The formality is tiring, Little lady."
She sighed at the reminder. That particular conversation went against everything she'd learned as a child of nobility. "Oberyn. You asked I call you Oberyn, 'for the journey is long, and we're not at court'." Taking the lull in the conversation, she obliged his wish in the hope of an answer. "Oberyn?" He smiled in victory. She fought off a frown and continued. "Sailors and merchants in Braavos always spoke of longer and much hotter journeys to Dorne. We couldn't have passed the Crownlands yet."
He raised an eyebrow. "You are a knowledgeable girl. Tell me, how did you learn about Westeros?"
Spinning a plausible story was easy enough. "Without significant coin, I couldn't buy the information, so I exchanged time for details about my homeland."
He rested his left hand above his right on the partisan shaft, idly leaning on it. "How so?"
"My needlepoint was of good repute, and Mistress Talea charged more if customers requested I created their gowns." Confidence grew when he remained interested. "When they made their order, I offered to write it under another girl's name, but create it myself, if they promised to tell me something when I finished the gown. Great houses, things about kingdoms, people of import," she lied, the words flowing from her lips as though she was Littlefinger. The ease turned her stomach.
Had she been clueless and lived her childhood in Braavos, the concept was something she eventually would've done.
Oberyn smirked mischievously. "Was I important?"
She could entertain the idea, but shook her head because he would want details. "I'm sorry to say they didn't, Oberyn." She gave a cheeky smile. "Your sister was, though."
After a flash of bruised ego, he put on a look of mock-irritation. "Ah, Elia. My sweet sister…."
"They said she is the kindest of hearts."
His eyes softened. "Yes. That she is." He smiled towards the south, but focused on her again. "Likely a customer took advantage of you. What did you do?"
A predictable question; one she'd prepared for. "I memorised their faces and kept busy if they came to the market square, meaning one of the other girls recorded the new order under my name. Mistress Talea would charge them full price for my finer needlepoint." Prince Oberyn chuckled, and she nodded. "If they cheated me, they cheated themselves out of paying less for my embroidery."
The prince's lips quirked, his fingers tapping the partisan. Oberyn's gaze turned puzzled. "The day I found you, you gave coin to a woman in the markets. Why was that? Did she cross you before and made an order that day?"
"She never crossed me," she said, defending the woman she'd only spoken to twice. "Lady Daena was very kind, and gave me information freely, despite paying full price at her insistence. She commissioned a dress before you arrived." That sparked a memory of the day Oberyn found her and promised passage to Dorne. She smiled. "I could almost say she treated me like we were family."
Braavos Markets
With her meagre belongings and Needle, Sansa walked alongside Prince Oberyn, so absorbed in thoughts of Westeros that she almost failed to notice Lady Daena passing by. The woman who'd paid her a compliment that morning, while ordering a gown to be made by her hand. Her small task sprang forth.
Sansa glanced back, and the amethysts of Lady Daena shone as she walked. "Excuse me, Prince Oberyn. I need only a moment." He nodded, and she hurried over. "My lady. Lady Daena!"
The escorted woman turned around, but became concerned. "Good grace, Sansa! What are you doing on your own?"
Sansa shook her head. "I have company, my lady. The Dornishman, a short distance away."
Lady Daena rested her hand on her arm. "Dornish? Is everything alright?"
She gave a genuine smile. "He's taking me to Westeros. Home. I'm going home." She took a small bag out of her pocket. "That's why I called out. I can't make your gown because we're sailing on the morrow," she said and put the coin purse in the lady's hand. "I'm sorry, Lady Daena. Here's the coin owed."
There was a curl of Lady Daena's lips, despite her expression a little sad. "Thank you for your honesty, sweetling." A finger rested on her cheek, and Lady Daena released a sigh. "I'm going to worry about you, Sansa. I see you don't own a dagger, when you really should in this city. Now you're about to sail across the Narrow Sea."
She blinked. "Is something wrong, my lady?"
The lady unstrapped something within billowing sleeves. "Please, child, I want you to carry this. Keep it close, so I know you're a little safer," Lady Daena asked, passing a sheathed dagger to her with a gentle hand. "The strap is too tight for me anyway," the lady said, but it must be a lie since Lady Daena was slender.
Curious, she slid it out by a margin and gasped at the clearly high quality steel. The rippled colouring of the metal was pretty too . "Lady Daena, it's too much to give away," she whispered, cautious of the people around them.
Lady Daena smiled and shook her head. "Nonsense. Every innocent life is precious. More precious than a piece of metal. Take it. Dusk is before the darkness, and the name of this dagger. She will serve you well."
"It's -" She suppressed her urge to debate its value. Such a thing here was too dangerous, so she cooperated when the lady strapped it on. "I can't believe you're giving me this."
"Best not speak of Dusk. Take care in Westeros, Sansa. You're a sweet girl."
"I will, Lady Daena," she promised and was patted on the cheek. "Thank you. I'll never forget this kindness."
Back at Prince Oberyn's side, the two made for Braavos's port. What Sansa had ever done to earn that woman's care, deep care, escaped her.
Turning her gaze towards the water, she answered the original question on whether Lady Daena had wronged her. "Lady Daena gifted me a map, but Mistress Talea found and sold it," she lied and looked towards the crew securing saddlebags on the sand steed. "So why are we making port at Saltpans?"
"This bothers you," he said, a calm turn of the partisan's shaft within his hands.
Such an unannounced change of plans stirred fret within her. "My Prince, I pray you will forgive me. I believed we were making for Sunspear by ship."
In truth, Sansa didn't like surprises, and this one was unwelcome. Surprises too often meant suffering or grief; typically both. The day Joffrey died, she'd been framed and, in the Vale, forced to shed her Stark identity so she could hide. She'd believed herself safe, only to witness Littlefinger murder Aunt Lysa using the Eyrie's Moon Door. Alone and stranded there, Littlefinger remade Sansa into Alayne Stone, his bastard daughter, and controlled the heirs of the Vale through her.
Oberyn's smile relaxed. "We will indeed." That made no sense with the ship unloading. "However, I thought it a waste not to explore first," he continued, untroubled by her line of conversation. "We're going to Sunspear, as you say, by ship. Just not immediately, Braavosi Trout." He chuckled when she suppressed a scowl at the moniker. "Are we at court?" He turned away and approached a crate with the Martell sigil burnt into the wood.
His back now to her, she gritted her teeth discreetly. "No, Oberyn."
He retrieved two items from the crate and approached.
Sansa met his eyes, so he would know she meant her words. "I'm sorry, Oberyn. It's a habit to use titles of respect. Mistress Talea wouldn't have tolerated less."
"Understandable." He strapped sheathed daggers onto her arms. Oberyn looked up with a teasing expression. "But each time you call me 'Prince' as we travel, I shall call you 'Braavosi Trout'." The prince's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Are we in agreement?"
"Yes, Oberyn. We are...," she grounded out, fighting the manners enforced since childhood. Courtesies that had helped her survive in court.
He smiled with ease, and led the way off his ship. "I am glad we are. Formality suffocates me; leave such talk for court."
With his daggers secured to her arms, she reached for her skirt and swiftly pulled the laces of the deep blue piece a certain way. Soon it rested on her back; a sheer cloak. The identically coloured breeches she'd worn beneath now in full view. Their appearance akin to a loose skirt, stitched in a manner to fool the eye.
Lady Daena's blade, Dusk, was comfortably tied to her outer thigh, concealed by the length of the sheer skirt-now-cloak on her shoulders. Prince Oberyn's daggers resided on her upper arms, and thus hidden.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head to the side. "Intriguing contraption." His smile approved. "You would fit in well at Dorne. Not shy of practicality instead of convention," he continued, mounting the readied horse and offering his arm so she could sit in front of him.
"Thank you."
Accepting the help, she glanced at the thriving green fauna of Westeros from the saddle. The sight was a dream. Prince Oberyn's horse walked, trotted and proceeded to canter across the grassy hills beside the Trident. The sand steed galloped along the flattest of land. "What inspired you to wear that?"
Sansa closed her eyes, and the memory came forth.
"Braavos. Beautiful and deadly," Arya said, void of emotion. "Deceive people with a two-part mummer's gown, or be dead yourself. Skirts are a liability here, Sansa, unless you can get rid of it fast. You might need to run someday. We have only ourselves."
She blinked and looked at the sky, breaths faltering as she fought the urge to sob. Arya had died without Sansa even getting to bury her. Eyes closed, she controlled her breath and withheld tears. Oberyn's arm around her middle kept her upright.
"I've upset you, Lady Tully. I apologise, for I do not know why."
She shook her head. "It's not you, Oberyn. It's not. I miss her. Arya. She was a sister to me." The loss stabbed her, but Arya would want her to grasp this second chance with both hands. "Arya worked for the Faceless Men for several years. And skilled with a Braavosi blade as though it was an extension of her arm. Yet, she got wounded. Fatally, and I don't know how or who."
A quiet sigh came from him. "She sounds like she was a deadly opponent. Mayhaps we'll never know the details you desire, Sansa, but know that every fighter is fallible to the blade. Even me. Your Arya gave her enemy a fierce fight, I'm sure," he said, and lightly thumbed her shoulder. "I pray she rests peacefully now. Mayhaps tell me about her, to ease you?"
When she nodded, he held her middle tight while the horse quickened.
She took a breath and spoke. "Whirlwind and soft breeze. A fighter and a lady. Impulsive and patient. We were opposites of one another, but I still loved her. In Braavos, I worked with a needle, while Arya fought with Needle; her sword." She focused on the land ahead. "Half a moon before you met me, I received Needle and a note written by Arya's hand to say she was dying. Valar Morghulis; Look after Needle, it said."
That was the last thing Arya had requested of her.
A calloused hand held hers. "I'm sorry you are so grieved, but I promise you; Needle is safe." Oberyn stroked her knuckles. "I admit it was strange to see you own such a thing." The shadow of his head shook. "Not a sword, but something you stored with your clothes. I thought to myself, 'Why does this dressmaker keep a sword, but not belt it to her waist?' It was a mystery, but now I understand. A keepsake and reminder of someone you loved."
Closing her eyes, she nodded. "Yes." The horse's rhythm soothed her. "She told me I'd be safer with the ability to run. It inspired me to design this dress; Arya insisted I made something easy to remove if I must wear skirts. Slash the laces, and the skirt falls away from my breeches."
He quietly hummed. "She was wise. And you were clever. Beauty can be a distraction to what's behind it. Wits, wisdom, cunning. And you will grow to be beautiful, Little lady; a pretty dress will add to how dangerous you can be." When she twisted in the saddle, his eyes held a sure glint. "You could be deadly using beauty to fool your enemies."
She didn't know what to say. "Thank you."
The horse slowed to a canter, which it maintained for hours without visibly tiring. A glimpse of what Dornish sand steeds were renowned for.
A doleful atmosphere lingered over the next few days. Oberyn never mentioned Arya again, granting her time to mourn as they approached and passed both Crossroads Inn and later Harroway.
On the fifth night of their journey from Saltpans, they camped a day's ride past Harroway. She'd appreciated the silence between them, but the prolonged quiet started to stifle their interactions. Needing to break it, she used the one common ground between them after dinner.
"Oberyn?"
The prince turned to her, and a slither of doubt about her idea hovered like smoke, but she pushed through.
"Your daggers." She fingered the hidden straps. Her companion looked at her with regard, so she continued. "I've never truly fought with a weapon before. Only practise." She suppressed a fidget. "Would you please teach me?"
He appeared close to delight, and she smiled at the apparent restraint. "Why have daggers and not know how?" he said in rhetoric and stood. "Of course. They are to protect you, after all."
From the saddlebag, he drew a sheathed dagger and held it at his side. Oberyn gestured to the flattest of the clearing. "Most fights have swords, but fending off a dagger is the best way to start learning. Too much too soon, and learning becomes difficult. But don't doubt yourself. Women in Dorne can do this, and so will you. Tell me, Sansa, do you dance?"
The question took her off guard, and she lowered her blades. "Dance, Oberyn?"
"Exactly." He grinned and lunged forward like an actual viper.
On instinct from Arya's lessons, she spun sideways and swung to deflect, but found no blade in sight. It took Sansa a moment, but by his thigh he held his dagger, still sheathed. Her face warmed for missing it.
He approached and took her hand. "Do not be embarrassed," the prince said, and she made eye contact. "You hesitated, Sansa. Swift and sure, and you will prevail. Dagger fighting is like a dance. Footwork and watch your fellow dancer's eyes." He stepped away and gave an encouraging smile along with a slight bow. "Will you dance with me, my lady?"
Smiling back and glad for the lightened mood, she curtsied. "I would be honoured, My Prince," she said, playing along.
Oberyn quirked a smile. For two hours, he tutored her on the basics of dagger fighting; waste no energy, no flourishing, watch the eyes, stand side-on, be prepared for them to have moved to a new place.
By the end of it, Sansa rested on a log and the night's chill cooled her face. "Here," he said, his waterskin offered to her. She took a drink. "I imagine you wish to bathe in the river?" He walked over to his partisan, picked it up and stood beside his sand steed with his back towards the water. "It is dark; no one is here to leer at you."
Her body was of a child, so she lacked the appeal of a woman grown. However, people in Westeros with perversions existed, yet he'd taken a watchful position and given her privacy, which suggested he wouldn't hurt her. She nodded and approached the saddlebag containing her spare clothes and a linen towel. "Thank you, Oberyn, I do."
He met her gaze to nod and turned back towards the road ahead of him.
Hesitant at first, Sansa removed her clothes and slipped into the water. It made her shiver, however, she forced herself to start washing. Despite Oberyn's reputed debauchery, she had to acknowledge how he'd been honourable since they'd met.
Through the wash, she never caught the prince looking at her, so hurried out of the coldness to dress. At the water's edge, Sansa scrubbed her soiled blue outfit and smiled at its white embroidery. River Road. She knew her geography. Yet, couldn't determine how this journey would benefit the prince. Oberyn had never voiced his intentions, but hope churned in her stomach. Hope. Such a foreign concept. However, she squashed it herself before her mind could latch on. Life loved tearing away anything good.
Rising, Sansa wrung the wet clothes as she walked to the campfire, where she hung them on a branch and approached Oberyn. Facing the road with his partisan, he turned as she neared with a smile. "Thank you. I fear I'd make a poor guard, but do brace yourself for the chill."
Lowering his partisan, he nodded. "Not a problem, Little lady. And you need not fear. Any man would be stupid to sneak up on me." He walked to the river, still armed.
While she settled down on a blanket by the fire, her back to him, a rustle and splash sounded behind her.
For a week, the routine was established; break their fast and camp, eat lunch in the saddle, dinner beside a campfire, followed by dagger training and bathing. Hardened from the past, Sansa hesitated to trust. However, her guarded manner towards Prince Oberyn chipped away day by day.
Not once had he breached the limits of friendship. Guilt for her caution crept into Sansa's mind, but she'd been hurt too many times by men and women alike, each in their different ways.
On the morning of the twelfth day since Saltpans, they crested a hill. Ahead stood the splendour of Riverrun. "Here we are, my Braavosi Trout. You've swum home."
Words failed her. Riverrun. Guards on the walls, and not an Other in sight. This barely compared to passing through the towns. Sansa brought a hand to her mouth, grasping the saddlehorn with the other. Her appearance as a Tully could not be disputed, thanks to her likeness to Mother.
Hoster Tully, her maternal grandfather, held a reputation for shrewdness and schemes. Sansa was near identical to his eldest daughter. Or so she'd been told. If the man didn't recognise the risks to House Tully, should he send her away, then he wasn't Hoster Tully.
The sight of Riverrun in a lively state soothed her like a balm. Hope rose once more, with a pinch of scepticism. Mother had acted bitter towards Jon Snow during Sansa's girlhood. In essence, Sansa would be a bastard walking into Riverrun, uprooting the lives of House Tully, including Catelyn Tully. Mother. Sansa would be another Jon Snow brought to Winterfell. Names were the only difference.
She took a breath and sighed. A calloused thumb ran along her knuckles. "Sansa. Do you need a moment?"
"Please, Oberyn. I want to be composed when I meet my family."
"It's understandable you have nerves. But remember, Dorne will welcome you."
In silence and astride Oberyn's sand steed, she kept staring at Riverrun. In girlhood, she once aspired to be the lady her mother imagined, including following the Faith instead of the Old Gods. She inhaled. The Faith. The influence of the Faith was more substantial here than in the North, and Riverrun would have a septa teaching Faith culture. Followers of the Old Gods, mostly the North, were more receptive towards bastards, sparing them from the brunt of the south's scorn.
Shame flooded her. If not for her and Mother's actions, Jon would've live happier and not fled Winterfell for the Wall.
Sansa exhaled. Before her stood Riverrun, not Winterfell, and there'd be no scrap of mercy for her here. Riverrun's septa no doubt taught Mother and Aunt Lysa the Faith's resentment for bastards. But her best chance for saving lives was here. Even if it meant living what she and Mother had put Jon through. She'd deserve it.
Receiving acceptance from House Tully would be an uphill challenge at best, and backfire at worst. Like her time in the Vale with Littlefinger as Alayne Stone, she must mentally prepare for a new life. No matter how bleak it seemed.
She'd always love Catelyn Stark, Mother, but she had to let go of expecting to see her again. An impossibility. They were of an age now, and the Faith's scorn would be thrown her way. A sure thing to happen.
Should, by some miracle, Catelyn Tully not look down upon her, and instead become a sister in the true sense of the word, she needed to accept that a sister's love was all she could get from her mother. Her other mayhaps sister-to-be, Lysa, needed to learn the truth about Petyr Baelish. He would never love Lysa. Use her, hurt her, and nothing more. Sansa silently prayed that she could steer Lysa Tully's future in an improved direction.
She shut her eyes and sighed. Petyr Baelish would be here. I have to do something, but is there a way to get rid of him without compromising myself?
Oberyn quietly cleared his throat. "Sansa. There is no shame in fearing what's yet to come." He lightly ghosted her knuckles with a kiss. "It's facing the fear that makes one brave."
She did not fear entering Riverrun. She dreaded the likely misery. Nonetheless, this was where she needed to be, so she could make the most difference.
However, should Hoster Tully reject her completely, Dorne could become her new home. House Martell. The changes she could make would be smaller there, but still a difference. Princess Elia never deserved her fate last time, nor this time either. Mayhaps she could save her. Scheme a marriage to save the princess's life. How the Seven Hells will I manage it? Could it prevent Robert's Rebellion?
Dorne would be her contingency, weakly planned as it was.
With one glance at Riverrun, Sansa dismounted and loosened the laces of her cloak. It slipped over her shoulders to her waist, where she tied them. The sleeved bodice and versatile skirt became a single dress; breeches concealed. "I suppose I best look the part of a lady, Prince Oberyn," she commented and reached out for his arm to remount, but sidesaddle in front of him.
"Indeed, Braavosi Trout. And a dangerous one that fools the eye."
Sansa gave a weak chuckle as she released her hair from its ties. A strange desire for wind in her hair, but something about it sounded freeing. She turned to Oberyn. "Once we reach the bridge, you can't call me that moniker anymore. And I'll be required to address you by your title." Her lips quirked when his face formed a half-hearted grimace.
"Very well, Little lady."
His circumvention of formalities amused her, and her body lightened. "And Oberyn?" she said with ill-hidden mischief. She turned towards him.
An eyebrow rose in question. "Yes?"
"Don't show off."
The prince leaned back and chortled. "Me?" Oberyn spurred his black horse into a gallop, its fire-red mane swished in the wind.
A firm grip around her waist kept her in place, and they thundered towards a lowered drawbridge. She giggled at Oberyn's antics despite herself, which turned to laughter by the time they were at the bridge. The prince rode in a circle until the horse slowed to a walk, Oberyn holding her steady. "I see a little boy. Jealous one too," he whispered and dismounted to help her down by the waist. He added a kiss to her knuckles with a bow.
She wouldn't lie to herself, and deny she had fun with the moment of foolishness. Neither would she ruin Oberyn's, for she couldn't find it in her heart to do so. Her last moment of laughter was so long ago.
"Cat?" a young Braavosi voice said.
The accent soiled her mood, but she maintained a relaxed face. Turning around, the closeness startled her into stepping back.
"You look radiant, Cat," Petyr said. The boy looked a little self-conscious. This young version of Littlefinger clashed with the sly, honey-worded man she'd learnt so much from. It disoriented her for a moment. "I have something. For you, I mean. I picked some flowers," he said, words fumbled. It was nothing like his smooth lies later in life.
He thrust out his hand of wildflowers; the movement made her jump back. But her feet touched nothing.
"Cat!"
"Lady Catelyn!"
"SANSA!"
Petyr, the guards and Oberyn were above on the bridge. Pulling out a dagger, she slashed the laces of her deep blue skirt and sheathed the blade with haste. A running river beneath her.
Above her, the skirt billowed out and drifted downwards like an overlong Tully banner with the embroidered white trouts on it. The fabric slowly descended towards her. There was a flurry of motion on the bridge but the river impacted like a slap to her back.
She swam as Mother had taught her, and broke the surface free of struggle, wearing only her breeches and bodice. Right next to her swam Oberyn, offering to hold her above water. Sansa shook her head and trod water, searching for a ledge along the river surrounding the castle of Riverrun. Upon spotting one, she searched for her skirt. Quickly retrieving it from where it'd gotten caught on a rock, she swam towards an opening. "This way."
He was close and kept his voice low. "Looks like the Braavosi Trout can swim."
Sansa glared at him with the steel of a Stark. "Thank you for the assessment, My Prince," she answered in kind and turned in the water, hoisting herself up by the arms. "This is not what I had in mind this morning," Sansa lightly grumbled. Water dripped from the wrung fabric of the skirt, deliberately chosen for today; Tully colours and embroidery. "It had to be the bridge…."
Water sloshed, and Oberyn climbed up onto the same ledge and sat next to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking her over. Like water, guilt soaked her for grumbling over an accident. Sansa turned to apologise, but he gave a dismissive wave. His focus upwards at the drawbridge, an expression of pondering. "Looks like you are a true Tully, Little lady. Much of my crew wagered you weren't. Hence our little journey," he said with a smirk.
"This isn't how I imagined meeting my family," Sansa said to herself, but paused and turned to him. "Pray forgive me, but what did you just say?" Sailors wagers? What proof is he talking about?
Oberyn gestured up at an audience, gathering high above them on the other side of the river. Petyr Baelish stood at the forefront, flanked by redheaded girl on either side. The girls close in their ages. "The older girl," he said. "I'd dare say you're twins. You did not lie to me in Braavos."
Sansa had barely spoken honestly. Nearly everything she'd said was a fabrication. Arya the only exception. She turned her eyes to the other girl when movement drew her attention; her last memory of the youngest, Lysa, made Sansa shiver.
Behind Sansa came multiple sets of footsteps now. A tone of authority summoned her attention. "Shain!" a man snapped. "Stop gawking like a fool and have some sense, man! By the Seven, get the girl a linen and dress before she freezes! Winter lingers and she'll need a maester if you tarry."
With a glance beside herself, Oberyn grinned at the man. "Blackfish!" he called. "It should've been I on the land and you in the water, no?" Oberyn's face had no remorse upon uttering the cheek.
She glowered at Oberyn, exasperated, but it went unnoticed for he wasn't looking her way. Some of the guards chuckled softly. Uncle Brynden appeared slightly amused.
Once her clinging, wet breeches were concealed by her damp skirt, Sansa sought to put an end to this. "I do not think now is the time to be japing about monikers, Prince Oberyn."
When the Blackfish looked at her, Sansa curtsied and met his gaze. Those Tully blue eyes stared at hers. She refused to blink. After a moment, he signalled the guards to leave, and watched until the last had vanished. "I'd think you were Catelyn, hadn't Oberyn Martell shouted a different name. So, Sansa," Uncle Brynden said as though testing the name. "Where did you come to be in the company of the Red Viper?"
"A market square of Braavos, my lord uncle," she said, determined to rely on truth. "We met a moon ago, and have travelled here since." Lies would always be a part of her life, this life. However, I'll speak honestly when survival allows it.
Uncle Brynden blinked and stared at her. "You're of Tully blood; I can see that. The Baelish boy couldn't tell you apart from Catelyn, nor the guards," he said in a reserved tone. "What do you know about your life?"
She squared her shoulders and used what truths she could afford. "Very little, my lord uncle. My youngest memories are vague, but I learnt needlework in Braavos and earnt my coin with it at Mistress Talea's establishment. I've always known my name, and that of my parents, but nothing more."
"Mistress Talea?" Brynden repeated, observing Sansa. "Who was this woman?"
Oberyn intervened. "In true? Nearly her Braavosi owner."
The description made her bristle, but she kept the irritation to herself; this conversation wasn't worth the semantics.
"Sansa was but a smallfolk there, Ser Brynden. Little coin to her name," Oberyn said and gave her an apologetic look.
The attention of the Blackfish shifted to Oberyn. Talked about while she stood in front of her uncle made her hackles rise, but she crushed the urge to speak. She was only a child in their eyes. "And how did you meet? The girl's told me where," the Blackfish needled. No doubt he searched for a hole in their story.
Oberyn could ruin her chances if he wasn't diplomatic enough. His traits were of a hot-blooded fighter, not a negotiator.
"A dressmaker's stall," he said. "I know dedicated craftsmanship and remarked on a dress suitable for my sister, Elia. Sansa stepped forward in thanks. She wasn't Braavosi and claimed to be your brother's and goodsister's daughter. Naturally, I was curious. She knew your words, has Tully colouring, and was eager to write."
Uncle Brynden didn't hide the scepticism. "And so you brought her across the Narrow Sea?"
"And so I did. I was crossing it with or without her."
Uncle Brynden stared with reluctance, and she took a step towards the man. She had such desperation to be accepted here, but the journey seemed a wasted endeavour. She swallowed and broke the silence, shoulders square to control her emotions. "I have but one request, my lord uncle."
Oberyn looked at her with curious eyes, while Brynden just watched. Her companion tilted his head. "Lady Sansa? What do you request?"
She allowed homesickness to bleed into her voice. "An audience with my lord father. If he denies that I'm his daughter, then I will respect his decision. But please…one audience with him is all I ask, my lord." If Riverrun fails, I will go to Sunspear.
Collecting herself internally, Sansa kept silent and held Brynden Tully's gaze while she awaited his response. Coming down the stairs to this ledge were soft steps and Sansa turned.
A woman heavy with child, and carrying a boy of one on her hip, came into view from behind Blackfish. "Cat, sweetling, why did you jump into the Red Fork?" she asked with a warm voice, looking over Sansa's face. The lady shook her head, and led Sansa upstairs with a gentle hand. "Come along, Catelyn, let's get you in a bath before you turn ill."
Sansa stared for a moment, struggling to believe her eyes, but obeyed the brunette while attempting to think. Like Sansa, like Mother, this woman shared their jawline and high cheekbones. But her hair was brown. Minisa Tully. A grandmother she'd never met.
Beside her grandmother, she gave her head a little shake. 'Grandmother' was the wrong title to use in this life. If accepted here by Riverrun's Lord and Lady, she must refer to them as 'Mother' and 'Father'. As matters stood, she was of an age with her blood parents and mustn't think of them as such. That was folly. Here or in Sunspear, she'd have to use their names.
Her grandmother rubbed her back, the friction warming her skin. Gazing at her, Sansa struggled not to stare at the likeness of their faces. She recalled her reflection as Lady of Winterfell. Except for one thing; Sansa's fairer skin. A tone most common in the North.
"Minisa, wait!" Blackfish shouted from the bottom of the stairs, boots pounding on the stone to follow them. "That's not Catelyn!"
"You've lost your wits, Brynden," Minisa said, and proceeded to lead Sansa away while he followed. "Find them, and leave my poor daughter be. She's shivering from the Red Fork, and now isn't the time for your grumblings. Tell Hoster what's happened; that Cat's well."