Mid April, 300 AC

The worst part was the smells.

The old gods had granted her a direwolf's keen nose, but Sansa was a maiden still. The scent of stone and straw she could bear. She could even abide the vague smell of old blood. But the stink of urine and nightsoil... those were new and terrible. Her tummy roiled, and the stench of vomit soon followed.

The darkness was absolute. Only a girl with a direwolf's vision could see well enough to make sure that she relieved herself in the same corner. Even so, Sansa could not keep her gown completely clear of the mess. She huddled down in the straw, as far away from her mess as possible.

Once she had reached her father in the black cells, creeping down in the skin of a black cat. But that girl had sat safe in the godswood, her back against the weirwood sapling. Now her back pressed against cold stone, her body shaking and shivering. There were no wolves here, nor cats, nor birds. The rats were few, skittish creatures that fled from the strange girl and the power that pulsed beneath her skin.

Soon she could not tell the difference between waking and dreaming. Her mother sang her a lullaby, her hands soft as she stroked Sansa's hair. The queen clawed at her belly, nails ripping and tearing until all was bloody ribbons. Her father hugged her close, tears streaming down his nose. The Bolton crossbowman strode into the waters of the God's Eye, unlacing his breeches with one hand as he reached for Sansa with the other.

She screamed and screamed, begging for someone, anyone to save her. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. She called for Brienne, for Arya, for her mother and her brothers. No one heard, no one came, and she wept until she could weep no more.

The crossbowman's hands were grasping her hips when the lake vanished, replaced by desert sands. A maiden with Arya's face forked a brown mare, her hair whipping in the wind as she fled from two knights all in white. The maiden rode like a fury, the knights falling further and further behind. Sansa was sure she would escape—

An arrow sprouted from the horse's shoulder. The mare reared, screaming, the maiden falling to the sand. She rose unhurt, cursing like a demon. When Sansa looked for the archer, she saw a knight in black armor studded with rubies, a sad smile on his lips. Then she knew who the maiden was. A dragonknight came for her, but he was no Prince Aemon.

A slim boy huddled in a dark alley, his breeches bloody, his eyes hard as he shaved white-blonde hair from his head. A maid with pale golden hair streaked with silver curtsied for a young man with a forked beard, a black dragon pendant dangling between her breasts. A violet-eyed child wept before a red door, sobs wracking her tiny frame.

Time passed, and other ghostly visitors came and went. Her grandmother Lyarra brought her the first needle she'd ever used, long lost in the halls of Winterfell. Sansa was begging her grandmother to show her a new stitch when she remembered that Lyarra had died when she was six. Uncle Benjen brought her winter roses; Aunt Lysa scolded her for not holding baby Sweetrobin gently enough.

When Ser Kevan Lannister came, she would have thought him another imagined visitor, but for the lantern he carried. The sudden light hurt so badly that she cried out, covering her eyes with her hands. Lord Tywin's brother had brought her a jug of water, warm bread and soft cheese. He spoke her gently while she ate and drank, too famished to care about poison.

She must have eaten too quickly, for her stomach cramped as he spoke of how she was expected to behave. Sansa nodded, and remembered all her courtesies, and he left smiling. As soon as the heavy door swung shut, she bolted to the corner and vomited.

The Hound was the last visitor who came to her in the darkness, sour wine upon his breath. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.

That was what Ser Kevan wanted, what Lord Tywin wanted; a pretty little bird who would sing their lies. Sansa watched the life they had planned for her play out like a mummers' show upon a stage. She wed a Lannister and spread her legs for him, bore his children and died while the queen watched and laughed. Righteous fury seized her. I am no little bird. I am Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, the blood of Winterfell.

Sansa removed her gown with fumbling fingers, the straw coarse against her skin. When she was bare she took a deep breath. Sansa thought of her mother and father, of Robb and Arya, of Bran and Rickon, of Jon Snow. Her skin rippled. She focused harder, remembering Lady and Nymeria, Grey Wind and Ghost, Shaggydog and Bran's unnamed wolf. Patches of fur sprouted as her arms grew longer, her legs shorter. She fell to all fours, her snout erupting from her face.

The direwolf paced her cell. The stones were tightly placed, without crack or cranny. The door was thick wood, heavily barred from the other side. Sansa sat on her haunches, thinking. Even if she were loose in the Red Keep, there were guards everywhere. Perhaps she could vanish into the night without being shot full of arrows, but then what? She was not sure how long she could hold wolf shape, and she did not trust the Tyrells or the Dornish, not enough to fling herself on their mercy. With a quiet whine Sansa reached for her own shape.

As she dressed, she thought. There must be something she could do. Whatever the Freys had done to Lady Catelyn, Sansa knew that her lady mother had been strong and brave. She had taken the Imp captive, she had treated with King Stannis and King Renly, she had saved Brienne's life with nothing but quick wits and a brazier.

What would my lady mother do?

Sansa was still thinking when they came for her.