Late October, 298 AC
When Sansa awoke her chambers were dark as pitch. Slowly Sansa's eyes adjusted. Merissa and Jeyne lay next to each other, Merissa curled on her side, Jeyne on her belly. Arya was making little woofing noises in her sleep, her body warm against Sansa's back. It was the middle of the night, but Sansa could not fall back asleep.
Her dreams had been strange, as they had been since eating the bloody fruit. She'd seen a wolf with a limp, a mockingbird fluttering around the wolf's head. Then a pack of lions came, their teeth bared, their claws sharp. The mockingbird flew about the wolf, urging the wolf on, then suddenly flew to land on a lioness's back.
Sansa fluffed her pillow, frustrated. Father had told her to share any strange dreams, but should she wake him? He needed his sleep so badly, he always looked exhausted. Then Sansa remembered. She was to leave on the morrow, to take the ship north with Arya and Jeyne and Merissa and their septa. She'd best tell him now- she might forget in the morning.
Carefully Sansa slipped from the bed, pulling a robe over her shift. The passage was dim, lit only by torchlight as Sansa made her way to the Hand's chambers. She was nearing his solar when she heard voices, muffled by a door but still clear.
"- have no fear, my good lord. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six thousand gold pieces should do it."
Baelish's mocking voice sent a cold shudder through Sansa. Why would the Hand need to buy the City Watch? The door creaked, and Sansa fled, her purpose forgotten. By the time she reached her bed and hid under the covers she was covered in droplets of sweat, yet she still felt cold. Lord Baelish had known her mother, he had loved Lady Catelyn Tully... everything would be well.
Then she remembered the mockingbird and the limping wolf. What was the sigil of House Baelish? Sansa wracked her memory, and sighed with relief when at last she remembered. The grey face of the Titan of Braavos, with flaming eyes on a green field. Yet still it troubled her. She had seen a mockingbird recently, she knew she had. But where? Sansa was still trying to remember when sleep found her.
Sansa awoke to the sound of metal crashing in her ears. It was just past dawn. While Jeyne and Merissa still slumbered, Arya was already at the window, dressed in her ratty leathers and roughspun.
"They just started," Arya said.
Below in the yard were at least a dozen men in mail and crimson cloaks. Lannister guards, Sansa thought, her heart pounding like a rabbit's. The Hound was there, riding an enormous horse, a lance in his hand. He charged at a straw dummy, and Sansa looked away, rubbing her ears as the dummy exploded. Usually Sansa ignored the sounds of metal, given how often she heard armor as knights walked through the keep, or the sound of guards' swords brushing against chainmail.
She couldn't eat anything at breakfast, though Arya ate enough for both of them. To Arya's delight, Father agreed to a last water dancing lesson, so long as she was bathed and changed by midday.
"May I visit the godswood?" Sansa asked quietly. She'd been unable to sneak away since the night Arya had sworn to her, the night she'd eaten the bloody fruit.
Father paused.
"Her things are all packed, my lord," the septa conceded. Sansa smiled at her gratefully. "I can fetch her before midday."
"I'd prefer she not go alone," her lord father said. The septa rarely stepped foot inside the godswood of Winterfell, and she had no interest in the godswood of the Red Keep.
"She should have a guard, but I cannot spare a single man," Father said, a frown on his face. For a moment Sansa hesitated.
"It is a holy place— surely I don't need a guard?" Sansa asked. Eddard leaned back in his chair, worry draped over him like a cloak. At last he nodded heavily, and Sansa slipped a knife from the table into her pocket.
This time Sansa could see what she was doing, and she examined the pale bark for a long time before she began to carve. First she gave it a mouth, a mouth that reminded her of Arya's stubborn grin. Then, she carved a nose, the nose that she saw every day on her father's face.
At last she came to the eyes, and there she hesitated. Should she give it mother's eyes, with the delicate arch of her eyebrows? Mother did not keep the old gods. Father's eyes didn't seem right either, and Sansa couldn't quite remember Robb's eyes, not enough to carve them. I know my own eyes well enough, she decided finally. She set to work, careful to keep her sleeves away from the sap that dripped from the nose and mouth.
Sansa stepped back and gazed at her work. The tree smiled back, red sap dripping from her eyes like tears. Bran had said that men sacrificed to the trees, but Sansa couldn't kill a person, not even the awful prince. Dimly Sansa heard the sound of the kittens mewling, and she pushed the thought away immediately. No, her own blood had fed the seed, and her own blood would have to do now.
With trembling hands Sansa rolled up one of her sleeves. Pricking her fingers didn't produce much blood- not enough for a sapling. Sansa nicked herself halfway up her forearm, then pressed the wound against the weirwood's trunk, squeezing her arm to help the blood flow.
When the blood eased to a trickle, Sansa staunched the wound with a handkerchief, then tied the handkerchief around her arm. Her sleeves were huge, and easily covered the bandage. Now for one last farewell.
"Here, kitty kitty," Sansa whispered as she crept toward the bushes.
Four of the kittens ran out to greet her. The blonde one trotted out, mewing gently. The white and ginger one was so eager that it bowled over the ginger one, making Sansa laugh. One of the tabbies sniffed at her skirts, then crept back under the bushes, clearly disappointed by the lack of fish. The other tabby and the grey hid with the mama cat in the foliage.
With gentle hands Sansa picked up the ginger kitten. It was the friendliest, the most eager for affection. It purred loudly against her cheek as she stroked its soft fur. Just there, the ginger kitten ordered as she scratched under its chin. Sansa almost dropped it in surprise. When Arya swore the mama cat had talked to her, Sansa had thought she was japing, or mistaking a dream for reality. I wish I could take you with me, Sansa thought wistfully. A kitten wasn't Lady, but it was still sweet.
For a moment Sansa enjoyed the kitten's nuzzles, the wind rustling in Sansa's hair. She sighed, and opened herself to the sounds of the Keep. She was fairly sure she could hear Arya's lessons, if she focused— the Small Hall was near enough, and usually had a door or two open.
"My father wouldn't send you," Arya snarled. Men were laughing, strange men. Why were there strange men at Arya's water dancing lesson?
"Put down the stick, girl," a man ordered her gruffly. "I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords." But which one? Sansa couldn't place the voice.
"So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king," Arya said. "I don't have to go with you if I don't want."
"Take her," the knight said. What? Why would a knight take Arya?
Clang!
This time Sansa did drop the kitten as she clapped her hands over her ears. A man was screaming— Quent, Quent was screaming. Quent who had smiled at her when she left the Tower of the Hand this morning.
Suddenly Sansa was drowning in noise. She heard the thud of axes against a door— the door to the Tower of the Hand. Septa Mordane was shouting Sansa's name, then suddenly she was silenced. Swords clashed back and forth. Arya screamed for her dancing master to run. She heard Desmond over by the stables, swearing terrible curses at his foes. Hullen screamed, and there was a dull thump— he'd fallen. He begged for mercy, he was only a horsemaster, he had no sword— there was a squishing sound as someone stabbed him, over and over again. Stark men were all around, their voices filled with fear, and everywhere they were surrounded by strange voices, jeering voices, and the clang of weapons.
Arya, where was Arya? Where was Father? Sansa was torn between her desire to flee the godswood, to see what was happening, to find Father, and her desire to hide where no one would ever find her.
Fear won out, and Sansa dove under the bush, the kittens yowling as they sprang out of her way. Sansa wept as she listened to the moans of dying men coming from the Tower of the Hand. Were Arya and Father dead now too?
"You liar!" Arya, Arya was in the stables, Arya was alive! Sansa tried to calm herself, to breathe deep as Arya had shown her, blocking out everything but the sound of Arya's steps as she moved about the stables. Then she heard a second set of steps, and her stomach dropped.
"There she is," a voice hissed.
Sansa could barely breathe as Arya begged the boy for help, as he said that Father was dead, as he told Arya to come with him. Sansa almost fainted when she heard the quiet squish of a blade entering a body, the thump and clang of something—a weapon?— falling to the ground.
"Oh, gods," the boy moaned. "Take it out."
Relief mixed with horror as Sansa realized that Arya must have stabbed him. Then the horses were screaming, and Sansa couldn't hear Arya anymore. She had to be safe, she had to be, Arya was the brave one. But what if she wasn't? The noises rolled back in, as brutal as the tide, and Sansa could not stop weeping.
Someone was coming. Long, dragging steps entered the godswood. Sansa froze, peering through the foliage. She saw a grey cloak trimmed in white- Quent, it was Quent, his hand clutching his belly. There was a gash on his face. A dark patch stained the front of his tunic. Something greyish-purple was against his hand— his guts, Sansa realized, biting her lip so hard it bled.
"Sansa?" he whispered, looking around. She did not make a sound. A dead man could not save her. With faltering steps Quent made his way to the weirwood tree.
"I tried," he told the old gods. Whatever strength had brought him so far, it failed him now. Quent fell to his knees, his blood smearing the weirwood's roots, his guts spilling on the ground.
A rough tongue lapped at Sansa's hand- the ginger kitten. Dimly Sansa realized the kittens were all curled up against her belly, the mama cat standing guard at the edge of the foliage. When Ser Arys Oakheart found her, just before dusk, it was with all of them curled in her arms. He led her out of the godswood, past the weeping weirwood tree.
Quent's body was gone.
They locked her in a room in Maegor's Holdfast. Ser Arys had coaxed her out from her hiding place with gentle words, and he had not objected when the entire family of cats trailed behind her skirts. All but the ginger kitten, who Sansa clasped in her arms. A guard in a crimson cloak had tried to take them away, before they locked her in, but Ser Arys stopped him with a shake of his head.
Servants brought her dinner, a simple meal of venison and fresh bread. She was still weak from the blood she'd given the weirwood, so she forced herself to eat. Her strength slowly returned, though she could not taste a single bite. None of the servants would tell her what was happening, and she could not stop weeping.
It was late when they shoved Jeyne and Merissa through the door, Jeyne hysterical and covered in bruises, Merissa silent and staring. Sansa took a deep breath, doing her best to brush her own concerns aside. A lady must provide comfort in times of fear, and Jeyne and Merissa were in her charge.
Providing comfort proved difficult. Jeyne couldn't stop sobbing about her father. Had they killed the gentle steward too, like they'd killed Hullen, who treated his horses like his own children, who had taught her to ride without shaming her for being afraid? Sansa could not find the right words, so with gentle hands she guided Jeyne to a chair and set the blonde kitten on her lap. Then she brushed Jeyne's long dark hair, braiding it in a northern style that Jeyne had long admired.
Merissa was on the bed hiding under the blankets, the mama cat and several of the kittens curled up beside her. She was shaking, but no sound passed her lips. When Sansa was done with Jeyne's hair, she curled around the lump that was Merissa, stroking her back and singing softly as mother did when they were sick. Jeyne curled around Sansa's other side, clasping her tight, and the three of them drifted to sleep.
The second day was worse. Jeyne still cried for her father, and Merissa barely spoke. Even with the window open Sansa could not breathe. The noises below were completely normal, the hustle and bustle of cooks and grooms and guards. It was as if yesterday was a terrible nightmare, but for the dark patches of dried blood all around the yard.
Servants brought them food, and water for Sansa to bathe. They even brought some of Sansa's and Jeyne's things from the Tower of the Hand. But they would not say a word, not about Father, not about Arya. They almost seemed frightened of Sansa. That made no sense to her— they were Lannister servants, and Lannister guards had killed every Stark man they could find. What was there for them to fear? Sansa almost wanted to scream, to force them to face what had happened.
On the third day, they came for her.
