Late October, 300 AC
The river tumbled down the mountains like a child down a hill, rolling and whirling and burbling with glee as it plunged beneath the bridge.
The waters of the Yron shone blue as aquamarine, pale waves cresting over the rocks that hugged its banks. It was much lovelier than the Wyl, which they had crossed some days ago. The river Wyl ran slow and steady, its green-black waters reminding her of journeying through the Neck long ago. Then Sansa had shuddered at the black bog, at the pools of stagnant water filled with lizard-lions and worse. She had shuddered even worse at Arya's behavior, rambling about without any sense of decorum, picking poison kisses and smearing mud on her arms when they gave her a rash. Father had smiled at the gift of flowers, and laughed at the sight of Arya grinning despite being covered in filth.
She is with Robb now, Sansa told herself, perhaps even at Winterfell. A pang of longing pierced her heart, but she ignored it. She must not be ungrateful. Cersei Lannister would have had her poisoned, but for the Dornish. Prince Oberyn had played the queen like a fiddle, and Olyvar had sacrificed himself on the nuptial altar.
For a moment she remembered the small sept beside the Boneway, the intricate wooden carvings of the Seven watching, Lady Ellaria, Brienne of Tarth, and Ser Deziel Dalt bearing silent witness as her lord husband swore on the altar of the Father, who punished oathbreakers. "I shall never raise a hand against you in anger, nor dishonor you by word or deed." He swallowed, his brow furrowed as if he were still pondering what he would say. "Nor shall I claim a husband's rights, not until you do come of age, and then only by your leave."
It would be nearly three years before Sansa came of age. Even the most honorable men had needs; her half-brother Jon was proof of that. Would Olyvar take a mistress to slake his appetites? Or did he already have one? Everyone said the Dornish were full of base lusts, but after two moons of travel, they seemed no more nor less depraved than those who lived north of the Red Mountains.
Seeking distraction from her thoughts, Sansa breathed deeply, opening her senses. She could hear fish swimming in the water below, horse hooves clopping on stone, and the idle chatter of her companions. Her nose was full of scents, from the perfumes of the Dornish retinue to the clear clean smell of the river to the green aroma of growing things.
When they neared the end of the Dornish marches, Sansa had expected to see cruel mountains of red sand, lifeless wastes wherein dwelt vultures and little else. Such expectations were swiftly shattered by the glimpse of snow-capped peaks in the distance, their slopes of red stone. The road climbed through the Boneway, twisting and turning through the narrow passes. As they rode south, they passed by scattered watchtowers built beside rivers or atop mountain springs, and hidden valleys with their villages and holdfasts.
"Did you think we Dornish supped on sand and stone?" Lady Myria Jordayne asked dryly one day, marking how Sansa gaped at fields of lush green grass. Sansa blushed, embarrassed.
"My maester was born in the Vale, my lady," she replied. "He- he relied on books to teach us of Dorne."
Myria snorted. "When we reach the Tor, I shall give you some more books written by Dornish maesters, and by Dornish ladies."
Later they came to a high meadow, filled with striking pink, red, purple, and white flowers, the blooms so tall that a toddler might be lost among their grey-green stems and leaves. "Poppies," Ser Deziel Dalt informed her, happy as ever to speak of plants. "Most milk of the poppy comes from Dorne."
Sansa stared at the blossoms, perplexed, and spent the rest of the afternoon questioning Ser Deziel on how milk of the poppy was made, which Dornish houses grew poppies, and the like. Brienne of Tarth listened quietly, riding close to Sansa as usual. Sansa was so engrossed that she barely noticed when Olyvar reined up to hand her a crown woven from deep purple poppies, and accepted it distractedly. Ellaria and Lady Nym bore similar crowns, woven with blossoms of orange and scarlet.
That night they dined on mountain grouse, shot by the Manwoody brothers and roasted over the fire by one of the cooks that accompanied the retinue. The brilliant teal feathers that adorned the grouses' breasts were set aside; Lady Nym tickled her nose with one, ignoring Sansa's half yelp, half giggle of embarrassment, before tucking it behind her ear, bumping her crown of poppies in the process.
"The color looks well against your hair, my lady," her new goodsister remarked, spearing a bit of meat on one of her many daggers.
"It does," Lady Myria Jordayne granted, "though not with the garland." She examined Sansa more closely, her eyes narrowed. "What on earth were those Lannisters feeding you in King's Landing? Not that anything cooked in that city is worth eating." Myria was a bit of a snob about the superiority of Dornish fare. "You're far too skinny for a girl of your years. Look at her, Ellaria, I dare say she's still growing, and her already tall."
Before Sansa could form a tactful reply about the vigor of daily riding, and the irritating combination of nausea and ravenous hunger that accompanied her now monthly moonsblood, she found more grouse piled on her plate by not just Myria but by Olyvar as well.
"Sarella and I could never keep our bellies full, when we were growing," Olyvar said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck while Ellaria looked on, amused. "Prince Oberyn said we were a pair of abysses on legs masquerading as his children. When Elia was twelve, she shot up three inches in a year, complaining the entire time about how much her legs hurt, and eating everything in sight."
"She was the same when I carried her," Ellaria chuckled. Elia Sand was Lady Ellaria's firstborn daughter, a maid of fourteen. "My prince had never seen a woman carry his child before; he was constantly fretting over whether I was well fed and terrifying the servants if there was not always a tray of food at my side."
Sansa nibbled at her grouse, trying to imagine the fearsome Red Viper hovering over his paramour.
"I suppose you suffered the same sort of discomfort, Lady Brienne?" Perros Blackmont asked, popping a hunk of campbread into his mouth. Brienne looked up, likely startled to be addressed given that the warrior maid had pounded the lordling into the dust during sparring the previous day. At last she jerked her head in a nod, and Perros continued. "Lady Elia will be envious. The girl is so mad for jousting that her father dubbed her Lady Lance, but it rather vexes her that she is nowhere near six feet."
"I made the mistake of telling her that women never grew so tall," Ellaria confessed, giving Sansa a conspiratorial smile. "And now, alas! I return in the company of a woman far past six feet, and a girl likely to reach that lofty height."
"Stop teasing the princess," Olyvar grumbled, looking embarrassed, and that put an end to the conversation.
A few days later the party finally entered the Yronwood, the great forest from which the Dornish house took their name. Ser Deziel Dalt waxed eloquent about the trees, pointing out how silver firs preferred the higher slopes, but gave way to beeches as they descended through the forest. He pointed out other trees as well, groves of linden and hazelnut, elms and willows, maples and junipers, even a small stand of yew trees.
"Two years at the Citadel, and every link he forged was in botany," Olyvar told her ruefully.
Her lord husband usually rode beside Ellaria, who was as near a mother as the princess who birthed him, but every few hours he would find Sansa, whether to hand her a fresh waterskin or remind her to adjust her veil to protect her fair skin from the burning sun. The Dornish were used to clear skies; no matter their colouring, all shielded themselves from the worst of the sun's blinding rays. Most shaded their faces with hoods attached to their silk cloaks, wrapping coronets of cloth around their hoods rather like the brim of a hat. A few of the ladies preferred carefully draped veils; while very pretty, Sansa had not yet the knack of remembering to adjust her veil when it fell out of place.
"Ser Deziel is very learned, ser," Sansa replied, surreptitiously checking whether her veil was in place. It was. "I am glad to have such a gracious teacher. I must think of some way to thank him for his pains."
Olyvar snorted, a wry smile lighting up his face. "Best not, my princess. He's bad enough as it is; encouragement will only make him worse. Dezi is just grateful to have a captive audience." He winced. "Not that you're a captive! You can tell him to leave you be, no one will, will punish you or anything." Her lord husband scrunched his face in frustration. "You may not be Dornish but you are the highest ranking person here."
She was still mulling over his words the next morning when she visited the wayns full of dirt, Brienne standing guard as always. Sansa was always the first of the ladies to leave the pavilion she shared with Lady Ellaria and Lady Nym. Lady Ellaria insisted that her maid, Cassela, prepare Sansa first each morning, due to her rank.
"She is your maid, my lady," Sansa had protested. Ellaria shrugged gracefully. "So she is, my princess. But as you shall not have your own maid until we reach Sunspear, one of us must go first, and I prefer to sleep as long as possible."
Not wanting to offend the lady who was essentially her goodmother, Sansa had yielded. She did not mind. The early morning dew sparkled like diamonds, and while the servants bustled about preparing for the day's travel, most of the Dornish lords and ladies were still abed, freeing her to visit her weirwoods without an audience. As usual she found that all seven saplings were still alive; their slim white branches boasting at least a few leaves, though some more than others. The weirwoods did not seem to like the constant jostling of the heavy wayns up and down the rocky mountain roads. They had grown very little since leaving King's Landing, despite regular offerings of her blood dripped upon their roots when she was sure Brienne wasn't looking.
"
Mrow
?"
A ginger cat slunk from the back of the wayn, flopping on his back in front of Sansa. Buttons had not appreciated being left behind again. The first morning after leaving King's Landing she found him in her bed, curled into the back of her knees. It seemed that Buttons had stowed away in one of the wayns, and sniffed her out once they made camp for the night.
Sansa idly scratched the cat's chest, smiling at his chirps of contentment. It was nice to have one companion she need not fear offending with her ignorance. No one had shouted at her, but she still felt profoundly stupid at how little she knew of Dornish history and customs.
She was trying, but there was so much to learn. Every morning while the maid did Sansa's hair, she read from the book Lady Myria had gifted her for her wedding, Shifting Sands: Being an account of the coming of Nymeria and the Rhoynar and the History of Dorne, as recorded in the chronicles of House Jordayne, translated from old Andahli by Lord Timoth Jordayne and his sister, Lady Frynne Jordayne, who completed his manuscript after his honorable death fighting against the tyrant Aenys Targaryen in the year 1157 CR.
It was far different from the books she read at Winterfell, full of people and places she did not know. Even the title had baffled her, until Ellaria gently explained that many Dornish preferred the calendar they had kept before Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms, using CR, from the Coming of the Rhoynar, rather than AC, after Aegon's Conquest.
"Mrow!" Buttons declared, offended.
Lost in her thoughts, she had stopped petting him. With a sigh Sansa scritched under the cat's chin, watching as his yellow-green eyes closed in contentment. Although Buttons fed himself quite easily by ensuring not a single mouse dared threaten the supply wayns, he deserved a treat.
When she returned to the center of camp, Brienne trailing her, she found her mouth watering at the scent of roasting fish. While the servants packed away the pavilions, the lords and ladies broke their fast on mellow wine and spiced trout. Sansa fed tidbits to Buttons as she let the flow of conversation pass her by, half-listening to Mors and Dickon Manwoody argue over whether they would reach House Yronwood's keep before or after midday.
Ser Ryon Allyrion's faithful hounds crouched at his feet on the other side of the fire, annoyed as ever that they were not permitted to chase Buttons. It had taken several days of coaxing and quite a bit of bacon to convince Virtue and Whitenose to obey Sansa's wishes, and they still weren't happy about it. Sansa wasn't their master, even if she could talk to them and Ser Ryon could not. Their master didn't mind if they chased cats; why should she? There was no reasoning with them; Cats Were to Be Chased, and only bribery and ear scritches ensured their begrudging compliance.
When she noticed that the hounds were still eyeing Buttons as the retinue finished breaking camp, she scooped up the cat, who emitted a startled "mrrp," and placed him on the patient white mare she'd named Snowsister. Once Ser Olyvar helped her mount up, Buttons climbed in front of her, his back half resting on her skirts, his front half draped over the swell of the saddle. They had scarcely gone a league before the cat was asleep, his fur gleaming in the sun.
"A devoted companion," Brienne remarked from atop her piebald courser. "Animals seem to favor you, my lady."
Sansa smiled, trying to cover her unease. She had not informed Lady Brienne of her strange gifts. The memory of the warrior drawing her sword to defend Lady Catelyn from a red wolf still stung. And so, that night in the Kingswood when she and Olyvar had finished an extremely unexpected conversation that still twisted her tummy in knots, she had sent her wolves away before seeking out Brienne. The homely maid had fallen to her knees and sworn her sword to Sansa before she could say a single word.
"I swore to your mother that I would see you safely returned to her embrace," Brienne said once Sansa had accepted her oath of service. "When the Lannisters set me free I remained in the city, seeking a way to free you from the Red Keep." Her wide blue eyes glistened with tears; she rubbed them away with one thick hand, grimacing to reveal crooked teeth. "I failed you, my lady. I should have spirited you away before—"
"I am still a maid," Sansa interrupted softly, gesturing for Olyvar to emerge from the trees. He had insisted upon following her, his protectiveness painfully reminding her of Robb.
Convincing Brienne that Olyvar meant her no harm proved surprisingly easy, once the warrior maid returned her sword to its sheath. The awkward pair seemed to share some unspoken kinship, some understanding of spirit. It helped that Olyvar had immediately asked Brienne to do him the honor of letting him watch her spar with his eldest sister, Obara, once they reached Sunspear. Despite hailing from the isle of Tarth in the Stormlands, Brienne knew as little of Dorne as Sansa did, and had assumed tales of warrior women were exaggerated. Learning otherwise had brought a hesitant smile of wonder to her face, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. Brienne was smiling the same soft smile now as she watched Buttons shift his position, yawning and stretching before going back to sleep.
Still, when they caught the first glimpse of Yronwood's stone towers in the distance, Brienne's smile faded. She did not understand Sansa's refusal to abandon the Dornish, to flee into the night and take ship for White Harbor, and had told Sansa as much repeatedly. Sansa could hardly explain the truth of her husband's birth, nor her desperate need to meet his supposed aunt, the princess she had dreamt of for so long. But Brienne had sworn to serve, and despite being seven years Sansa's elder, she kept her oaths.
Yronwood was much like the castles Sansa had seen before, but for the scorch marks that adorned each of the four square towers and the battlements. The Dragon's Wroth, Ellaria had explained when she caught Sansa glancing at similar scorch marks as they entered the keep of the Wyls. A Dornish lady—an ancestor of Lady Ellaria, in fact, Lady Harmeria Uller— had slain Rhaenys Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, when a scorpion bolt pierced her dragon Meraxes through the eye, sending dragon and rider crashing to the sands below. For the next two years Aegon and his other sister-wife, Visenya, had burned every castle in Dorne.
Once within the castle, Sansa soon forgot the shadows of dragonflame upon its walls. The keep was large and well appointed, the great hall lined with tapestries of long dead Yronwood lords. She was puzzled by the lack of ladies until she remembered that unlike most Dornish, who followed the Rhoynish custom of inheritance by the eldest child regardless of sex, the Yronwoods clung to the ancient ways, favoring male heirs. The oldest tapestries depicted proud blond men wearing iron crowns; the Yronwoods had been kings since the time of the First Men, near as long as House Stark, and only lost their crowns after Nymeria's War.
Lord Anders Yronwood seemed like a man who remembered that his ancestors once ruled near a third of Dorne. His bearing was regal; his figure broad and strong despite the silver streaks in his blond hair and the wrinkles at his eyes and mouth. Lord Yronwood had to be near fifty, Sansa judged as she listened to his words of welcome, and yet he was still hale enough to lead his men into battle himself. Somehow she doubted he led from the rear as Tywin Lannister was wont to do. Her heartbeat fluttered like a rabbit; her breath caught in her throat. He is dead, he cannot hurt me now.
"Princess Sansa of House Stark, her lord husband, Ser Olyvar Sand, and her sworn sword, Brienne of Tarth," the herald called. Olyvar took her arm, and with measured steps they approached the dais, Brienne trailing a good distance behind. Lord Anders' face was neutral as Sansa curtsied and Olyvar bowed.
"I had not believed the rumors to be true," Lord Anders said, one eyebrow raised disapprovingly. Lady Cora Yronwood, seated beside him, frowned. "When the raven arrived from White Harbor I thought it some strange jape, or else a boy king's folly. Surely even a Lannister would not wed a princess to a bastard."
Olyvar had retaken her arm as soon as he finished bowing; his fingers tensed, his grip firm.
"Perhaps not, my lord," Sansa replied, mindful of the blush rising in her cheeks. "But as no trueborn knight was brave enough to face the Mountain, I cannot disdain my noble husband's birth. Your lordship's bannermen must be fierce indeed, when Dornish knights raise squires so bold and gallant."
Approving murmurs spread through the Great Hall, but Lord Anders merely nodded, as if she had passed some test by the skin of her teeth. He waved a hand; a servant came forward, bearing a tray laden with a steaming loaf of bread, a crock of honey, and two goblets of deep red wine.
"Be welcome beneath my roof and at my table," Lord Anders said, once they had each taken a bite of soft bread dipped in honey and a sip of the rich wine. "Chambers have been prepared; you may refresh yourselves before the evening meal."
A servant led them from the hall; Sansa could barely hear the herald cry "Ser Ryon Allyrion, heir of Godsgrace!"
"Lord Anders is very formal," Sansa ventured quietly.
Brienne nodded, her armor clanking softly as they walked through the torchlit passageways and entered one of the towers. Olyvar said nothing, but his shoulders slumped slightly as the servant indicated the small cell where they would sleep. Though the furnishings were of good quality, the featherbed was rather small, and several pallets were set on the rush-strewn floor, as if the cell was to be shared with several other guests.
"Your chambers are this way, princess," the servant said softly, his eyes downcast. Brienne's eyes narrowed, flicking from Sansa to Olyvar, who did not seem surprised.
The chambers provided for Sansa's use were much larger, graced with an enormous featherbed whose frame was ornately carved with all the trees she had seen in the Yronwood. A copper tub awaited, full of steaming hot water, and beside it stood a lady's maid, her head bowed as she informed Sansa that she was to see to any of the princess's wants whilst she stayed beneath Lord Yronwood's roof. She did not provide her name until Sansa asked, and then said it so quietly that she could not have possibly heard "Alyse" had she not the ears of a direwolf.
A hot bath did little to soothe Sansa's nerves, despite her relief at scrubbing off all the dust and dirt of the road. Alyse waited upon her in total silence, scrubbing her skin until it was pink, washing her hair, trimming her nails, and toweling her dry and helping her into a dressing gown before Sansa could object. Lady Ellaria's maid preferred to comb Sansa's hair when it was wet, and let it ripple into soft waves as it dried. Someone had taught Alyse differently; she waited until the auburn hair was almost dry, then brushed and brushed until it was a gleaming cloud that flowed down Sansa's back. She did not ask how Sansa would like her hair arranged, but braided it up in a style similar to that of the ladies who had stood behind Lady Cora on the dais.
Finally she laced Sansa into one of her best gowns, a silvery blue that reminded Sansa of cold glaciers and northern skies. As always her silver locket hung about her neck, the long thin chain almost invisible beneath a carcanet gifted to her by Lord Harmen Uller for her wedding. Clusters of pearls separated single square diamonds in settings of silver leaves; a pendant hung from the carcanet, small diamonds framing a brilliant sapphire, a single teardrop pearl dangling just above the myrish lace that trimmed the neckline of her gown. Two more teardrop pearls hung at her ears; her hairnet was of silver set with tiny diamonds that twinkled like stars.
Adorned in her armor, Sansa felt almost calm by the time Olyvar came to escort her to dinner. The repast was as lavish as any she had beheld at the Red Keep, course after course of crisp greens, refreshing soups, perfectly roasted fish, and flaky meat pies. Sansa was seated near Lord Anders, with Olyvar and Ser Deziel close by. Lady Ellaria and Lady Nym also sat at the dais, but had been placed at the far end, as distant from Lord Anders as was possible without seating them at the tables below. Ill at ease without her usual dinner companions, Sansa focused on her food, speaking only when spoken to and listening to the conversations around her.
"This wine is terrible," Deziel muttered to Olyvar under his breath. With the roast boar had come flagons of sour Dornish strongwine, so heady Sansa could barely stand to sip it. "Is Lord Anders hoping we shall overindulge and shame ourselves?"
"I think Lord Anders had particular persons in mind," Olyvar replied, equally soft, his fingertip tracing the stem of his goblet. It was near full; he had barely drunk any of it.
Sansa frowned, trying to remember all she had heard of Lord Yronwood. Prince Oberyn Martell had killed an Yronwood once; had it been Lord Anders' father or grandfather? She wasn't sure, but his barely concealed disdain for Olyvar, Ellaria, and Nym suddenly made sense.
"Ser Cletus returned only an hour past," Lord Anders was saying to Ser Ryon Allyrion on her other side. Ser Ryon's wife, who had remained at Godsgrace, was Ynys Yronwood, the eldest child of Lord Anders. Cletus was his secondborn, his only son and heir. "He and Prince Quentyn and Gerris Drinkwater were visiting the shore when we received word that—"
"—oh, give over, Dez," Mors Manwoody groaned, taking a deep draught of strongwine. "Lemon and orange wines are for children, they're so weak."
"Some prefer to drink wine which has a pleasant taste, a depth of flavor which strongwine cannot match. And Lemonwood wine won't leave you reeling so badly that you try to join the mummers midway through a play as the dancing bear—"
"—Ynys is well-used to running Godsgrace in my absence, goodfather; when did you last—"
"—the disgrace, wedding so high ranking a maid to one of the Red Worm's many indiscretions. The gods only know how such lowborn scum managed to defeat Ser Gregor Clegane—"
"Lady Yronwood? The air is quite close, and I find myself growing dizzy after such a long day," Sansa ventured, distracting Lady Cora from the whispers of poison she had been pouring into her daughter Gwyneth's ear. The maid was Sansa's age, a scrawny girl whose brown hair matched her mother's, setting her apart from the rest of her kin. "Is there a garden where I might refresh myself?"
"Mother, may I show her the royal garden?" Gwyneth asked. When Lady Cora gave her permission the girl nearly leapt from her seat, eagerly taking Sansa's hand and leading her out of the packed hall.
The royal garden proved to be a lovely place, a lush refuge of flowers and shrubs centered around a reflecting pool whose fountain was a king of white marble, his shield graven with the Yronwood's portcullis sigil. His other arm was extended, water flowing from the palm of his hand to splash at his feet.
"That's King Yorick the First," Gwyneth explained, seating herself on the broad bench of sandstone that circled the pool. "He defeated a storm king, I don't remember which one."
"I am sure it was a great victory," Sansa agreed, sitting down beside the maid. Gwyneth grinned, then looked around. Their protectors stood guard at the entrance to the garden, Brienne and one of Lord Yronwood's household knights having followed them from the hall.
"Sorry about my lady mother," Gwyneth whispered. "Prince Oberyn killed my great-grandfather, and she takes family quarrels very seriously. I'm sure Ser Olyvar is very brave and gallant. To fight the Mountain!" She sighed, as giddy as the girl Sansa had once been. "Oh, it must have been so romantic."
"The Mountain broke his shield, and his arm, and his spear, and Ser Olyvar still kept fighting," Sansa told her, watching the girl's dark brown eyes go wide with awe. There was no need to tell the girl of the rest, of the stink of blood and urine and nightsoil, the obscene flopping of Olyvar's useless left arm as he shrieked for a spear.
"Oh! Did he—" Gwyneth's eyes lit up, and she bolted to her feet. "Quentyn!"
At the entrance to the garden stood a short, stocky youth of eighteen. His tunic was a rich orange, trimmed with golden embroidery. A splendid red sun pierced by a golden spear marked his breast. Alas, the poor youth lacked the handsomeness of his clothes. The wavy hair that fell to his shoulders was a dull brown; his face was wide and his jaw was square, giving him a vague resemblance to a frog. But a very nice frog, Sansa told herself as he let Gwyneth drag him over to the pool, completely unbothered by her stream of chatter.
"This is Princess Sansa of House Stark," Gwyneth said, her courtesies suddenly quite proper. "Princess, this is Prince Quentyn Martell, second son of Prince Doran Martell, and my father's foster son." Then, less formally. "Oh, and my father knighted him last year, so he's Ser Quentyn now." Gwyneth grinned as if she was the one who had been knighted.
"Princess," Quentyn said, bowing.
"I am honored to meet you, ser," she replied, curtsying.
"Forgive me; I must return to dinner," Quentyn told Gwyneth, all solemn duty. "Your lady mother said I might find you here, but I must pay my respects to your father and to his guests." He paused, a shy, fond look on his plain face. "I brought you some presents from the shore; the servants will have put them in your room."
With another bow, the youth left, his walk as steady and cautious as the rest of him. When he was gone Gwyneth giggled as she sank back onto the stone bench. "He's my betrothed," she confided. "When I come of age we'll be wed, and we'll have a keep by the sea. That's where he and my brother were, seeing what repairs will be needed." She turned pink. "Quent promised to bring me lots of pretty seashells."
And for the first time since seeing Lord Anders' intimidating visage, Sansa laughed.
The next morning found Sansa in the small solar attached to her chambers, once again reading from Shifting Sands while she waited for her hair to dry, the wet strands soaking the back of the dressing gown she wore over a wool shift. The Dornish lords were in the Yronwood bathhouse; the ladies with chambers had bathed in copper tubs, while those unlucky enough to sleep on pallets in the great hall awaited their turn at the bathhouse in the afternoon. Brienne, who had slept on a pallet in Sansa's room, had risen early to spar with Perros Blackmont.
"A letter for you, princess," Alyse said softly, shutting the door behind her as she returned from fetching Sansa food to break her fast. Beside the warm flatbreads and hard cheese lay a rolled parchment, sealed with pale wax stamped with the direwolf of House Stark.
"Robb?" Sansa blurted. "How?"
Alyse put a hand to her hair, twisting one strand nervously before abruptly returning her hands to their original position, clasped respectfully in front of her.
"Ser Olyvar gave it to me, princess. He had it from the maester." With a deep curtsy, the maid returned to tidying Sansa's chambers.
Her hands shaking, Sansa broke the seal. The letter was addressed to Olyvar, the bold, messy handwriting painfully familiar. Why had he given her the scroll? He should have read it himself; she would have counted herself lucky if he told her the contents of the missive, let alone let her see it when he was finished. Heart pounding in her throat, she read.
Robb Stark, King of the North, King of the Trident, King of Mountain and Vale, was not happy. In terse, formal sentences he demanded the return of his beloved sister, whether or not the marriage had been consummated. Envoys were sailing to Sunspear to negotiate with Prince Doran; in the meantime Sansa was to be treated with utmost respect, as befit a princess of her rank. I am told you have many sisters, Robb wrote. I hope for your sake that you treat my sister as gently as you would treat your own. Oh, if only Robb knew! The rest was thinly veiled threats and insults, which would have cheered her if not for the fact that Olyvar had done nothing to warrant such enmity. The bottom of the letter noted that it was one of several copies; doubtless Robb had sent ravens to each keep they might reach on the way to Sunspear.
Mind whirling, Sansa sent for ink and parchment, pondering what she might tell Robb to convince him of her safety. She could not be too direct; if the raven fell into the wrong hands, it would go ill if Cersei Lannister learned her husband's true intentions. Even her coded message must be cautious; she could not betray her lord husband's trust by sharing the secret of his birth. What if someone else was able to decipher her code?
In the end Sansa wrote a rather long, bland letter informing her brother of her engagement and marriage, and of how kindly the Dornish treated her, and of the many sights she had seen in her journey south. Cersei would think such words to be lies dictated by her cruel husband. At the end of the letter Sansa promised to write again once she reached Sunspear, and apologized for her poor spelling, wishing to draw Robb's attention if her first attempt at a coded letter had not been noticed. Her message read:
Rumors and truth are not the same. I am yet a maid, and I am safe. Olyvar is as honorable as father, and as brave. Brienne of Tarth has found me, and sworn me her sword as she once swore to mother. More I cannot say, not yet, but do not fear for me. And please let Arya keep her Needle and her dancing lessons. She will need them.
NOTES
1) In the real world, poppies generally bloom between early spring and early summer, depending upon the variety of poppy and the climate. Let's just pretend that the Rhoynish poppy (like all plants in ASoiaF) does its own thing and can bloom/reseed themselves throughout the long summers. Cause, uh... there's a reason that flora in temperate and even semi-arid zones require winter- the plants are resting! Growing opium poppies is illegal in the US, but wow, are they pretty.
2) The Red Mountains are based on the Pyrenees which divide Spain from France. The forests are inspired by the Irati Forest in Navarre.
3) I got a little lazy with researching medieval Moorish dress; the head wraps (turbans?) are accurate, at least. I'll do more research as we get into Dorne, promise.
4) To my horror, it turns out life in Medieval Europe was NOT good for cats. As part of the Catholic Church disassociating from pagan religions, cats were demonized as allies of Satan and some villages murdered cats en masse. At best, they were grudgingly tolerated to kill rodents. In ASoiaF, there is nothing to indicate that the Faith has an anti-cat agenda, thank god. Companion animals are very rarely mentioned; however, in medieval Europe dogs were often kept by folk both poor and rich. Men had hunting hounds; women (even nuns!) often had lapdogs. Yes, I looked up medieval dog names, they're adorable. Anne Boleyn had a dog named Purkoy, who got its name from the French 'pourquoi' because it was very inquisitive; other names included Little Hammer, Amiable, and Bo.
5) A carcanet is a style of medieval necklace.
6) holy shit, this chapter puts the fic over 250k words
