November—December, 303 AC
Under the table, the queen and the prince consort clasped hands.
Sansa picked at her meal, swallowing her envy with a spoonful of soup. She was happy for them, truly. It was good to see Daenerys smile, mere weeks after she sent her favorite Missandei away on a ship bound for Naath. It was good to see Prince Aegor's health improve, his color once more pale, rather than sallow.
Weeks of bed rest had restored his vigor, though Queen Daenerys had yet to restore all of his duties. Sansa had never seen her so distraught as she was the day of Aegor's collapse. How frantically the queen had paced her chamber as she awaited his return, how fearfully she had hovered over the sick bed, hands clasped to her breast, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Now they were almost inseparable. When Daenerys held court, Aegor stood by her side, conferring with her over each judgment. When Daenerys rode through the city, escorted by her knights and her Unsullied, Aegor rode beside her; when Daenerys spent a leisurely afternoon atop her pyramid, basking in a rare sunlit day, it was Aegor whose harp and sweet tenor voice filled the air with song.
For the main course there was rice with spiced lentils and caramelised onions, served by an Unsullied who gave the first bite of each dish to a glossy rat in a woven wicker cage. Poor rat; he knew nothing of poison and assassins. All he knew was that his food was delicious, and that two-leggers liked to stare at him while he ate.
From his place standing behind the queen Ser Barristan made a moue of distaste, as if the rat's nibbling somehow offended him. No, that was silly; he was probably thinking of the unpleasantness earlier in the day.
As it was the first day of eleventh moon, this morning the queen had held court. Whilst roaming with Buttons, Sansa had chanced to walk through the hallway that led the throne room. It was there that the Unsullied searched every petitioner for weapons before admitting them to the queen's presence. Among them was a youth with the Lyseni look, holding a hank of light hair the same color as his own. Ser Barristan had turned pale at the sight of the youth, and ordered the Unsullied to turn him away.
The youth had not gone quietly. He ranted and raved as the Unsullied dragged him off, his words made unintelligible by his sobbing. Sansa had caught something about a sister, and Brazen Beasts, but then she had been distracted by Grey Worm arguing with Ser Barristan.
"The queen would wish to see him," said Grey Worm, glowering.
"I have it well in hand," Ser Barristan replied, his voice brittle. "There is no need to disturb Her Grace."
Whatever the trouble was, Grey Worm must have heeded the old Queensguard's orders. Daenerys seemed in good humor as she conversed with Ko Jhogo and his plump wife Morriqui, who sat closest to the queen. Though they did not clasp hands under the table, they seemed content enough, friends, if not lovers.
Last time it had been Grey Worm and his son Essalor, a boy of eight who stuck to his adopted father like a sheep to his shepherd, though he had finally grown out of hiding behind the captain's legs. Essalor even ventured to speak a few words to the queen, telling her of the exercises he did with the other young boys who hoped to join the ranks of the Unsullied.
Once lowly slave soldiers, the Unsullied were now the queen's most trusted retainers, save perhaps for her Dothraki. Their captains enjoyed the wealth and titles stripped from the Great Masters; their lower officers received fat purses and special privileges beyond those of ordinary freedmen. If Daenerys wished to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa did not doubt that the Unsullied would do their utmost to see it done, ill-suited though they were to face knights on horseback.
Thank the gods Daenerys seemed resigned to remaining in Meereen.
The evening Olyvar lost patience and decided to demand an audience with his aunt, he had marched to her chambers like a prisoner to the gallows. When her husband returned, splattered with blood, Sansa had panicked. Frantic with fear, her mind raced as she tried to think of how the Dornish might escape before the queen's men slew them all, just like the Lannisters had slain the men of Winterfell.
She had already woken Gilly and begun stuffing the most costly of her jewels into a case when Olyvar took her in his arms. He wore only a shirt and hose; he had stripped off his bloody tunic and breeches and flung them on the floor, lest they stain her grey dress.
That alone was enough to wake Sansa from her frenzy. Were they in danger, Olyvar would not have wasted time with such niceties. His left hand was warm against the small of her back as he held her; his right hand gently cupped the back of her head and stroked her hair as he explained what had happened. Not a word of reproach passed Olyvar's lips when Sansa began sobbing into his chest, overwhelmed by how close her husband had come to dying. Nor did her tears cease when Olyvar explained the quest Daenerys had set as the price of alliance.
Sansa glanced furtively at the head of the table, where Daenerys spoke with her husband, their silver heads bent together. Olyvar might be grimly resigned to fighting a dragon, but she could not share his calm determination. Why should Olyvar have to risk his life defending the red god's temple? It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just like it wasn't fair that she could not give her husband comfort before he sailed away, his return as uncertain as the seasons.
Each day that passed without word from Volantis only raised the tides of worry that ebbed and flowed within her. Unlike Sansa, the queen seemed confident in Olyvar's victory. Sometimes she asked of their plans for taking the Iron Throne, a courtesy which did not help her frayed nerves, especially when Daenerys idly asked how likely the odds were of war between her brother and her husband.
That night Sansa dreamt she stood atop a plank bridge that hung over a gaping chasm, swaying in the throes of a tempest. To one side of the chasm stood Olyvar, one hand outstretched, the other holding a crown whose gems shone like suns and moons. Gripping the ropes tightly with both hands, Sansa made her way across, her eyes fixed on her husband's face. She was almost close enough to grasp his hand when a howl echoed through the air.
She turned. On the other side of the chasm stood Robb. Grey Wind and Lady paced at her brother's heels, their fangs bared. Behind the wolves she could see the dim shapes of her brothers; Jon Snow garbed all in black with a crown of winter roses on his brow; Bran bound amongst a thousand weirwood roots, with two eyes white and unseeing, and a third whose red gaze saw too much; Rickon, fierce and angry and wild, so much taller than she remembered.
Sansa was halfway across the bridge when she came back to herself, her heart in her throat. What was she doing? Torn, she spun, looking back at her husband who lay behind, then her brothers who lay ahead.
"You have to choose."
Suddenly Arya stood beside her. Her sister's dark hair whipped in the wind; at her hip hung a familiar sword.
"I can't," Sansa pleaded, her stomach roiling as the bridge lurched from side to side. "What if I choose wrong?"
"Any choice is what you make of it," her sister shrugged. "You can't stay here."
Yes I can, Sansa thought mutinously. At any moment, either Robb or Olyvar would lose patience and seize her, she just had to wait. She was still waiting when the ropes snapped, the planks splintered, and she plummeted screaming to her death.
"Lady Sansa, are you well?"
Aegor frowned at her, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Only a little nausea, my prince," Sansa answered. She made herself smile and take a sip of water. Her skin felt clammy, damp with sweat, as if she'd been on the swaying bridge in truth, not only in her memory.
"Nausea?" Queen Daenerys asked, giving her husband a sly glance. Morriqui turned and looked at Sansa, her dark eyes flickering to her belly.
It was Ser Deziel Dalt who saved her.
"Not that sort of nausea," the Knight of Lemonwood said cheerfully. "Though I wish it was," he muttered under his breath, not knowing Sansa could hear him.
I should have brought Brienne, Sansa thought, resisting the unladylike urge to kick him under the table. Tired of staring at the empty chair across from her which had belonged to Olyvar, it had been Sansa's idea to ask the queen's leave to bring a companion with her for supper.
"Speaking of nausea," Sansa said, determined to change the subject. "Is it true that olives have curative properties?"
"Some maesters say so." Aegor shrugged. "The Meereenese grease their plows with olive oil, to ensure the fertility of the land and a good harvest."
"I must admit, the olive groves are finer than any I thought to see outside Dorne." Ser Deziel took a sip of wine. "I intended to take Lady Sansa for another ride through the groves next week, when they begin to flower. Your Grace and the prince would be most welcome to join us."
Daenerys stared at the Dornishman as if he had lost his wits. "What?"
Aegor sighed, a wry smile on his lips. "Olyvar warned me, but did I listen? No." He turned to his wife. "The olive trees should begin bearing fruit within the next four moons. I had intended to gift you with a bowl of the first fruits, if someone hadn't spoiled the surprise."
The queen's face was half delight, half bewilderment. "But... Galazza Galare said it would be seven years before the trees bore fruit." The queen made a face. "Of course she lied to me."
"It does take seven years or so, if a tree is newly grown from seed," Ser Deziel said. "Yours were not. The masters burned the groves to the ground, but the roots remained untouched. Once the freedmen cleared the ashes, the trees sent up new shoots, even stronger than the old."
With great alacrity a tour of the groves was agreed upon, once there was a pause in the winter rains. It seemed Daenerys rarely rode outside the city, her Unsullied being no horsemen, and both Aegor and Grey Worm being unwilling to entrust their queen to the sole protection of her few Queensguard. Ko Jhogo's proposal of an escort of Dothraki was accepted as soon as it was proposed.
"Your Grace will enjoy the fresh air," Sansa told her as another Unsullied brought in a bowl of raisins for the sweet. The rat gleefully devoured his share, pink nose quivering, but Sansa ate only a few before the sweetness grew too cloying. "The groves are lush and green, and the damp earth smells of growing things."
"I look forward to it," said Daenerys. "I should like to see the trees in their splendor, rather than the blackened wasteland that greeted me when I first came to the city. It was as if I was Aegon, looking upon the aftermath of the Field of Fire."
Sansa's stomach dropped as she imagined Olyvar lying upon a field, his body charred and burned beyond recognition.
"Is there any word from Volantis?" She asked, her throat suddenly dry.
Aegor shook his head, his eyes soft. "Moqorro has seen nothing, not since the last glimpse we spoke of."
Sansa choked back a scream of frustration. That had been near the end of ninth moon, anything might have happened since then. The red priest had glimpsed a white dragon atop a tall tower, blood streaming from the stump of his tail as he screeched defiance at a snarling green dragon. Whether white or green triumphed in the end he could not say, nor could he say whether Olyvar yet lived.
Nor was there word from the docks. Though less than forty days of sailing stood betwixt Meereen and Volantis, of late the winter winds blew strongly from the east, slowing all shipping which came from the Free Cities to the west. Even if the winds were favorable, the fleet from Meereen had not taken extra ships to serve as couriers; any word which preceded their return would be the scattered rumors of sailors.
At the moment, the ships docking in Meereen came from the east. Fleets from Moraq and Yi Ti had joined forces to drive away the pirates plaguing the Jade Sea, and with the corsairs gone, trade had quickly resumed.
Sansa thought that was why Euron Greyjoy meant to attack Volantis. With the Jade Sea teeming with YiTish ships, why not strike at another target, almost as rich? And Volantis was almost halfway between the Basilisk Isles and the Stepstones, the most infamous refuges for pirate lairs.
Whilst the east winds gusted outside the Great Pyramid, Sansa found herself becalmed. For several days after dining with Daenerys she kept to her bed, only rising to eat and use the chamber pot. Her moonblood came at its usual time, worsening her nausea and afflicting her with a headache that made her hide under the covers.
Gilly doused the blinding lights, cozened her into drinking cool water, and applied damp cloths to her forehead. It helped, but not much. Sansa would have given every one of her jewels for a handful of cold snow, or for the sound of Olyvar singing Rhoynish lullabies in a slightly off key baritone while stroking her hair.
Since her husband's departure, she had taken Gilly as her bedmaid. The soft sound of her breathing provided some comfort, as did the sight of her son Samrik curled up between them. He always slept with his back spooned against his mother's chest, his little face smooth and untroubled. Refusing to be left out, Buttons curled up at the foot of the bed against her feet.
Much as she missed her husband, at least Sansa had a welcome respite from sleeping next to a sword. When Olyvar proposed to better protect her virtue by asking Daenerys for his own chambers, or at least for a dreaming couch, Sansa had panicked at the thought of his absence and suggested they instead place a blade between them for honor's sake.
Sleeping with a sword was much more romantic in the songs than it was in actual practice. Almost every night she woke at least once, having unconsciously reached for Olyvar only to find the way blocked by a hard, cold metal scabbard. Still, it was better than losing her husband entirely.
When— if Olyvar returned, he would find a new blade in place of the old. After months of work, a Qohorik master smith had finally completed forging Queen Daenerys' gift of Valyrian steel into a spear and greatsword. The spear was almost twin to the spear which Olyvar had used at her trial. The shaft was of weirwood, rather than ash, the leaf-shaped spearhead dark as smoke. It was a simple weapon, made for battle, the only ornament engravings of twining snakes and a sun in splendor.
The greatsword was not so restrained. The arms of its crossguard were dragons' heads, rendered in exquisite detail, so lifelike that their ruby eyes seemed to follow her. Its grip was made of finely tooled leather, crimson on sable, with a great sapphire set in the pommel.
Sansa had thought Olyvar's reasoning sound when he explained that he did not wish to wield a poor copy of Blackfyre, but it was an opinion Ser Deziel did not share. He was the first to see it, the master armorer having delivered his masterpieces in the midst of her moonblood. On the day she felt well enough to accept visitors, she showed the blade to Deziel. His only response was praise for the craftsmanship, followed by odd remarks about Olyvar's recent fondness for the color blue.
"Pay him no mind, princess," Edric Dayne said.
Sansa's head still ached, but less so than before. Her moonblood was gone; she dared not refuse visitors for a full sennight. Ser Deziel had been first to make his appearance; others still awaited their turn in the hall, where she could hear Lady Toland conversing with Robett Glover.
"Thank you, my lord," she replied, favoring him with a wan smile. "You may show in Lady Toland, now, if you would. Really, she could have come in with Ser Deziel."
"You shouldn't risk overtiring yourself," the squire replied, with a pompous solemnity that almost made Sansa laugh.
Whilst Gilly tended Sansa in her sick bed, her husband's squire had shooed off concerned Dornish lords and ladies with unnecessary zeal, as if driving away well meaning guests was worthy of a knight's spurs. Granted, there was little other opportunity to prove himself, here in Meereen. A youth of sixteen, six months younger than Sansa, Edric Dayne had not liked being left behind, but Olyvar had flatly refused to risk taking the Lord of Starfall to Volantis.
Apparently, after Edric's aunt Allyria, the next in line to Starfall was a cousin, Ser Gerold Dayne, the Knight of High Hermitage. The Daynes of High Hermitage were only a cadet branch, but Ser Gerold's grandmother had been a Dayne of Starfall. Should some calamity strike down Edric and Allyria, then Gerold Dayne would hold both seats. From what Olyvar said, no man in Dorne would make a more dangerous overmighty vassal.
Lady Nymella Toland was solicitous of Sansa's health, though her idle comment that pregnancy relieved a woman of her moonblood was extremely unwelcome, if intriguing.
"A full two years?" Sansa asked, bemused.
"If a woman nurses her own babe, yes, princess," said Lady Nymella, smiling. "Ask your maid; wet nurses rarely bleed until their work is done and their milk dries up."
"Perhaps I shall, my lady," Sansa said, though she knew she would not. Should Gilly confirm Lady Nymella's claims... Sansa needed no further temptation to yield to her carnal thoughts if Olyvar returned. Much as she desired her husband, she thought she might desire a respite from suffering days of headaches and nausea every month even more.
At present, her only escape during her moonblood was wandering the pyramid with Buttons. In his skin she could enjoy scraps of flavorful meat without the risk of retching it up, and enjoy the soft caresses denied to Sansa when she was in her own skin.
Though her moonblood and headaches were gone, over the next week Sansa's despondency refused to leave her be. Rains poured down outside, rather than proper winter snow, and what began as worry for Olyvar somehow spiraled into guilt over abandoning her family, then to a persistent grief for not only Winterfell but for Westeros itself.
Winterfell was the home of her girlhood, but Sansa had always known she must someday leave it behind for her husband's keep, whether it be a northern castle or a southern palace. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought of sailing across the Narrow Sea to live among strangers who spoke strange tongues, wore strange clothes, and ate strange foods. Oh, High Valyrian was a pretty language, pretty as the silk dēls of the Dothraki ladies, and she liked many of the foods enjoyed in Meereen well enough, but they did not taste of home.
One day, Sansa grew so heartsick that she gave herself another headache from the effort of slipping into her wolfskin. When Gilly and Samrik returned from Lady Toland's chambers, it was to find a red direwolf curled on the bed, tucked into a ball with her tail against her snout.
Samrik's shriek of surprise nearly startled her into losing her skin, until Gilly calmed him down. Once placated, the toddler promptly flopped on the bed and began rubbing his face in her fur. Licking his nose was too tempting to resist, and provoked a giggle that warmed her to the tips of her pointed ears to the ends of her claws. Direwolf and toddler fell asleep to the soothing sound of Gilly reading from a book of Dornish poetry, sharing an unfamiliar tale of the water witches who bent the Greenblood to their will.
When she awoke the next day, her spirits somewhat refreshed, Sansa forced herself into a flurry of activity. Too long had she self-indulgently ignored her duties; her lords and ladies deserved better.
The middle of eleventh moon passed in a whirl as Sansa made herself smile and laugh and stitch away at her needlework, always accompanied by Dornishwomen occupied with their own employment, whether it be reading or stitching or playing the harp.
After a dozen failed attempts at sketching a new sigil for Olyvar, the last of which nearly sent her into a weeping fit at the thought that he might never return, Sansa turned to drawing the birds that sometimes alighted on the terrace. Curlews and palm swifts, bright-eyed nightjars and crested hoopoes, she drew them all, trying to capture the delicate arch of their wings and the subtle layers of feathers that graced them with the gift of flight. If only she could fly to Olyvar's side, to see if he yet lived...
"Our princess is lost in daydreams," Jennelyn Fowler said one afternoon, quirking a blond eyebrow in amusement. "Might we know where your fancy wanders?"
"Really, Jenn," Jynessa Blackmont tsked, looking up from her book. "Such a foul, tactless statement is beneath you." She turned to Sansa. "Princess, should you like to learn a few new words of Rhoynish?"
Sansa quickly rued accepting the seemingly innocent offer. Why did the Rhoynar have a word for when a lover ran his fingers through your hair? And why was there a word for desiring to nuzzle a lover's neck with one's nose and pepper it with kisses? Sansa could feel her entire face blushing, a blush which soon extended to her ears, neck, and upper chest. Stammering, she chided Jynessa for her impropriety.
Unfortunately, her gentle rebuke did not result in the contrition for which she had hoped.
"Yearning for one's husband is no sin," Lady Toland informed the ceiling, almost absentmindedly.
"A brother who fiercely opposed his sister's marriage would have found a way to end it by now," said Jenn, frowning as she examined a lopsided stitch. "Not indulged years of delay when the marriage might be consummated at any moment."
Head back in her book, Jynessa contributed the final thrust. "Maester Perceval says maids of seventeen are ripest to begin birthing children; delaying too long makes the first labor longer and more difficult."
Arya would have likely said something very rude, but Brienne of Tarth only gave Sansa a sympathetic glance from where she stood guard beside the door. Bolstered by the show of support, Sansa reined in her tongue, resisting the impulse to scold her ladies. Better that they tease her, rather than dwell upon their anger at the dragon queen for setting Olyvar yet another quest before they could depart in peace.
Still, Sansa's patience was sorely tested. Maester Perceval did not drop hints so much as boulders, and Prince Aegor kept seeking her out to lament how bereft he felt without his cousin Olyvar, and how bereft Olyvar must feel without his lady wife. Even Queen Daenerys trespassed upon the quiet of Sansa's solar one afternoon to bestow upon her several bolts of precious muslin. Said to be woven by mermaids in remote villages upon the isle of Great Moraq, the cloth was a pure ice-white, as thin and light as a spider's web, and just as sheer.
"Your Grace, what am I supposed to do with this?" Sansa asked, appalled at the lustful thoughts that first sprang to mind.
"Have it made into a sleeping shift, I should think." Daenerys smiled. "Morriqui knows of a seamstress able to work with such delicate cloth."
In a fit of utter madness, Sansa accepted the offer. By the time she came to her senses, the seamstress had already marked her pattern and begun embroidering the cloth with flurries of snow rendered in silver thread. Aghast as she was at her own poor judgment, Sansa felt too guilty to command the seamstress to quit her work. The seamstress was an amiable woman, eager to please, and the delicate cloth would surely be ruined if the seamstress tried to pick out her careful stitches. Once the shift was finished, Sansa would simply have to have Gilly hide it away, deep in some chest she never used where it could not tempt her.
Sharing her burdens with Olyvar back in second moon had not untangled the twisted knots of her duty; if anything, his staunch support made matters worse. Her husband was resolved to uphold whatever decision Sansa made, at spearpoint if necessary, whether it was to consummate the marriage upon their return to Westeros, or to have it annulled so that Robb might make her a match of his choosing.
Sighing, she drew out the silver locket she wore every day beneath her gowns, the one gifted to her by Lady Margaery Tyrell. When she opened it, Eddard Stark looked up at her, his long face framed by long brown hair, his close trimmed beard flecked with white.
The painter had depicted her father wearing his lord's face, not the kindly face he wore with his wife and children. There was a grim cast to her father's grey eyes, as though he was disappointed in her. It was as if he knew how vainly she struggled against the longing in her heart, a longing she dared not name lest it drown her.
"What would you do, Father?" Sansa whispered to the portrait. "Would you have chosen Olyvar for me, if you knew he lived?"
She could not imagine her father overthrowing Robert Baratheon, the friend of his youth. But after the Lannisters slew him... would Eddard Stark have thought to seek an alliance with the Dornish? Robb had not. Would Father urge her to remain in her marriage, and thereby prevent war by serving as a bridge betwixt Stark and Targaryen? Or would he urge her to seek an annullment, and return to Robb's keeping so that he might dispose of her hand?
Long though she stared, she found no answers hidden among the brushstrokes.
Rereading the most recent letters from Westeros, written and sent before the end of third moon, also failed to provide her with any new insights. The Summer Islander fleet had returned at the end of tenth moon, delivered their chests of letters, and immediately set sail again, eager to take advantage of the reopening of the trader's circle around the Jade Sea. They did not expect to return until the fourth moon of the new year, if the winds were fair.
If Olyvar returned, the Dornish would finally be able to begin preparations for the journey home. Many tons of grain must be purchased, and a fleet of ships to carry them must be hired. Princess Arianne's letters were full of sums from her treasurer, Alyse Ladybright. There were estimates of how much gold had been made from the Summer Islanders' prior journeys, estimates of how much remained of the treasure brought in secret from King's Landing, and esimates of how much gold might be made if the Summer Islanders were able to make another round of the Jade Sea.
All the sums made Sansa's head hurt. Only with the assistance of Ser Gulian Qorgyle was she able to bring some semblance of order to the chaos. Olyvar had given her explicit permission to open all of his letters and handle them as she saw fit; with Ser Gulian's help, she prepared a summary of the funds available, one so simple even she could wrap her head around it.
There was less gold than she had hoped, given how vast the cost of feeding the realm looked likely to prove. Ser Gulian thought a loan from the Iron Bank would be required, if they were to have any hope at all of affording the necessary expenses.
Unfortunately, the Iron Bank of Braavos had already refused to make any loans to Queen Daenerys, though they had demanded she cover the debts of the Great Masters whom she had slain. Why should they make loans to one Targaryen, when they refused to make them to another? Besides, Meria's letters said the Iron Throne was already in debt to the Iron Bank and making regular payments on the usury. Queen Daenerys said the Iron Bank only overthrew princes when they were too stupid or too poor to repay their loans. Still, sending an envoy was worth the effort, slim though the odds might be. She would have to ask Olyvar what he thought if he returned.
The letters from her goodsisters were much less tedious than going over sums. Some had been addressed to her, some to Olyvar, but she read them all, and shared the news with the rest of the retinue.
Obella Sand had celebrated her fifteenth nameday at Salt Shore, with her betrothal to a younger Gargalen son being announced at the feast. Olyvar had recommended the youth to Ellaria, having seen him frequently about the Water Gardens. He shared a fondness for poetry with Obella, and his quiet nature would hopefully balance some of her wildness. Ser Quentyn Martell would also be married soon; his wedding was due to take place at the end of the year, after Gwyneth Yronwood came of age.
As Olyvar predicted, Obara and little Elia were currently on the outs, after a tilt that resulted in Obara breaking both a lance and her wrist. Elia was very smug about the victory, which she attributed to her mount, a glorious red stallion which had been sent to Sunspear by Lord Jonos Bracken. Though the stallion had been intended for Olyvar as thanks for slaying the Mountain, Elia informed her brother that since she had taken it upon herself to train the glorious steed, he would have to defeat her in a tilt if he wished to reclaim the stallion.
As for Tyene, she continued to serve as unofficial mistress of whispers for Arianne. Loreza's letter was mostly pleas for Olyvar to return; Dorea's was a lengthy complaint about the selfishness of brothers who toured the stupid Free Cities when they should be at home, spending time with their neglected sisters. Dorea had finally beaten all comers at the Water Gardens; why hadn't Olyvar been there to watch her?
In Oldtown Sarella continued to forge links, most of the maesters blind to her disguise as a youth named Alleras. She wrote she suspected that a few were aware, and willfully ignoring it thanks to her adeptness outstripping that of most of her peers. As of third moon, Sarella had forged twelve links, and soon hoped to forge a platinum link as her thirteenth.
To Sansa's surprise, there was also a letter from Lady Mellario of Norvos, widow to Prince Doran and mother of his children. In no uncertain terms she ordered that Olyvar write to her recalcitrant daughter Arianne and demand that she set aside the betrothal betwixt her youngest son Trystane and Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Myrcella was a sweet girl, Lady Mellario admitted, but Dragonstone was a foul, cursed place, and any alliance with these Lannisters was a fool's bargain like to end in bloodshed.
The Norvoshi lady did not know of the secret of Olyvar's birth, nor would she, not until Olyvar raised his banners upon the shores of the Seven Kingdoms. During her brief time at Sunspear, Arianne had confided that her lady mother was half a stranger, and apt to sharing every secret with her Norvoshi ladies, who might then tell others in turn.
Arianne's reign continued to go relatively smoothly. Her daughter Eliandra was almost two now, and quite robust. She hoped a second child would soon follow, as soon as her husband's seed quickened. Queen Cersei had not tried to halt the shipments of fish and fruit going north, nor had the King's Hand, Ser Kevan Lannister.
Meria's letter was so rude that Sansa blushed to the tips of her ears. Amongst the news of Westeros, including a devastating bloody flux tearing through King's Landing, her sentences were laden with barely concealed impatience for Olyvar to return at once, not to mention overt insults as to his tardiness. Did he think she could manage Queen Cersei forever, when she was as unpredictable as wildfire? Meria was weary of enduring Cersei's venomous company, and even wearier of staving off advances from half the knights of the court, who thought Dornish bastards were all eager slatterns.
Meria also complained at length on behalf of her poor Willas. He was sore beset by his father, who grew less and less tolerant of his refusal to wed. Thus far, Prince Oberyn was trying to distract Lord Mace Tyrell by rubbing in the queen's regent's refusal to set a date for the wedding betwixt King Tommen and Lady Margaery. Thank the Seven that Cersei would sooner give up her crown than allow Margaery to don one. Her pigheaded stubbornness was the only thing forestalling the alliance being sealed with blood, a seal not easily broken.
Jynessa Blackmont aided Sansa in taking notes over the many intrigues of King's Landing and elsewhere. Together they pored over Meria's letters with a fine tooth comb, comparing the most recent news to that which had come before, and organizing the sheafs of paper into coherent order.
The letters from Winterfell, though, those were read by no one, save Sansa herself.
Arya was very nervous about her upcoming journey to Last Hearth, almost as nervous as she was about her imminent moonblood. Sansa began writing a long letter full of words of comfort before she realized Arya's moonblood had likely come during the eight moons since the letter was written. If not, it would likely arrive long before the Summer Islanders returned, let alone before they had time to carry her letter across the Narrow Sea.
Instead, Sansa dwelled upon the other news within Arya's letters. She imagined herself among Arya's circle, gossiping and sharing secrets with Jeyne Poole. Jeyne Poole would like Jynessa, who shared her wit, if not her talent for bestowing clever nicknames. And Merissa of Sherrer would surely enjoy showing Gilly the many cows and calves of Winterfell, whilst Gilly would appreciate having a confidant who could understand some part of the horrors she had suffered. Sometimes in her dreams Sansa wandered back to a cave in the Riverlands, when she and her little household had curled up together for warmth, as young and innocent as a litter of puppies.
Gendry, she realized one morning as she awoke, groggy from sleep, the first light of dawn peeping through the terrace windows. Gendry and his sister Mya Stone were both at Winterfell, the last known bastards of King Robert, as alike to each other as they were to their dead sire. If they could be persuaded to make the journey south, their blue eyes and black hair would serve as proof against those who yet refused to see the truth of King Tommen's birth.
Hastily, before she forgot, she appended a note to her letter to Arya. It was only after she broke her fast with tea, hard cheese, and flatbread that Sansa remembered that she would likely arrive in Westeros at the same time the letter did.
With clear skies for the first time in days, Brienne of Tarth hesitantly proposed a ride through the city. Brienne loved to ride through the city whenever there was a break in the winter rains, and always invited her lady to join her.
Overwhelmed by the depths of her melancholy, Sansa usually refused, choosing instead to mope about her chambers whilst feigning good humor as best she could. Brienne took her refusal in stride; Arya almost certainly would not have accepted refusal so easily. Arya would have bodily dragged Sansa from the bed, forced her onto a horse, and then crowed unmercifully when the fresh air inevitably lifted her sullen mood.
Reproached by the thought of her sister, Sansa accepted Brienne's invitation, much to her surprise. Seven knew Sansa needed a distraction. Reading the letters from Westeros only made her more heartsick, as she inevitably would begin dwelling on the lack of news from Volantis. If Olyvar returned in one piece, she had half a mind to climb him like a tree, to borrow a crude phrase she'd heard Perros Blackmont say to Ser Deziel. Ser Deziel had slapped Perros upside the head for it, though she was not quite sure how a man six feet tall would climb a woman like a tree. Perhaps it referred to some bawdy act of lovemaking? She hadn't dared ask anyone, lest they start teasing her about Olyvar again.
Thankfully, the ride through the city provided its own distractions. Ser Deziel pointed out various flowers and trees that grew on the terraces of the pyramids; Perros explained the origins of the wonders to be found in the markets, showing her which were from Qarth, Moraq, even distant Yi Ti. Edric Dayne was less interested in Perros' ramblings; he occupied himself with guarding Sansa, as alert as if he were a knight of the Queensguard, not a mere squire.
His dedication was sweet, if unnecessary. Her sworn sword Brienne of Tarth kept her well guarded, and the city was calm, though bustling with people going about their business. Now and then Sansa caught sight of Unsullied in their quilted tunics and spiked bronze caps, or of Brazen Beasts going about their rounds. They were the city watch of Queen Daenerys, freedmen in brass masks, pleated skirts, and patchwork cloaks who patrolled the city streets to keep the queen's peace, always in groups of four.
"How goes your training?" Sansa asked, when Perros finally stopped talking at a raised eyebrow from his sister Jynessa.
"It goes well, princess." Brienne smiled, her crooked teeth almost as white as the moons on her surcoat. It was made of light cotton, quartered with yellow suns on rose and crescent moons on azure; sunlight gleamed off her chainmail and the hilt of her sword.
"I hear you win five of every six bouts with Ser Symon Wyl," Sansa said. "No wonder Ser Barristan dares not try you."
It was if a cloud had passed over her face. "If you say so, my lady." Brienne hunched her shoulders.
Sansa's curiosity overwhelmed her guilt, and a question that had plagued her since arriving in Meereen suddenly burst from her lips. "Is that why you spar with the Kingslayer? Because he was once a Kingsguard too?"
Brienne blinked at her, startled. "No, my lady. I..." She paused, frowning.
Sansa glanced around, then kicked her mare into a trot, taking them ahead of the rest of the party, where there were less ears. With gentle care she began to draw the story out, first in fits and starts, then a flood that poured forth from Brienne's full lips.
Despite spending much of her time sparring Ser Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth still could not comprehend the Kingslayer. She had found him wandering the Riverlands in a delirium, his sword hand a rotting horror. Her oath to Lady Catelyn bade her seek out the Kingslayer and return him to Riverrun in chains; instead, she had cut off the festering hand and dragged him to nearby Harrenhal so the stump might be properly treated.
What transpired next was a bewildering blur. The Kingslayer had come upon Brienne in the bathhouse and feebly tried to slay her, all the while rambling about Mad King Aerys in a feverish daze. Then, when Bolton sent him on his way south, Jaime had inexplicably returned and saved Brienne from a bear.
"He said he dreamt of me," Brienne told her horse's mane.
Not an hour later, the Kingslayer had come upon Sansa and placed her in chains. Sansa recalled their miserable journey to King's Landing, Brienne's fury and the Kingslayer's mockery. She did not know that the Kingslayer had sought out Brienne almost every day during her imprisonment, bringing her to the godswood to spar. She did not know that it was Ser Jaime who had forced Ser Loras Tyrell to finally speak to Brienne of Renly's murder, a conversation which left them both in tears. At the Tyrells' behest, the crown had finally ransomed Brienne to her father the very next day.
Sansa did not like the thought that it was Jaime Lannister's mercy that had set Brienne free to become her sworn shield. She also did not like the fact that after three years in Meereen, she still did not know how the Kingslayer had come to sail across the Narrow Sea. Neither Daenerys, Aegor, nor Brienne had managed to prise that secret from his lips, only mocking smiles and japes about how different the world appeared after Varys told the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that his lord father was dead, slain in the night by a thrust through the heart.
And who made that thrust? Sansa wondered. In King's Landing the courtiers had laid the blame upon a sorcerous assassin, a shadow of malice conjured by Stannis Baratheon's red priestess. Brienne and Sansa's mother Lady Catelyn had seen such a monster slay Renly within his tent; surely no other assassin could make his way to the innermost sanctum of the Tower of the Hand. The guards had not seen anyone enter the Hand's chambers after he retired to bed, nor heard any disturbance. How could an assassin enter without being seen, let alone one who went about in gilded armor and a white cloak?
"I am grateful you were able to enter my service," Sansa said at last. "But... why spend so many hours sparring with the Kingslayer?"
"I pity him, my lady.
"
Sansa stared, mouth agape.
Brienne had shame enough to blush; one thick hand rubbed the back of her neck.
"Cruel though his, black though his crimes, the Kingslayer has nothing left to him. Meat and mead give him no pleasure; he does not take solace in reading nor music. All he does is train, desperate to regain his skill. Prince Aegor once sparred with him, but no longer. Daenerys loathes him almost as much as Ser Olyvar does, and just as eagerly avoids his presence. Swordplay is all Jaime has; it is no hardship to test my skill against his."
"Is he as good with his left as he was with his right?" Sansa knew no left-handed swordsmen, save Arya, who wielded a bravo's blade.
"I do not think so, my lady." Brienne frowned. "Not yet. The Kingslayer grows more dangerous by the day; I had not thought he could best Ser Barristan Selmy."
Sansa well remembered how pleased her husband had been at the old knight's humiliation. She herself had felt pity for Ser Barristan. He did not realize the awe with which his young knights held him, nor how careful they were to avoid injuring either his aging body or his pride.
She doubted Brienne would be so dishonorable as to lose on purpose. Like most knights she held Barristan the Bold in awe, and dearly wished for the chance to cross swords. If her sworn shield had the chance to spar with the queensguard, Sansa was almost certain Brienne would come out the victor. Alas, the old knight adamantly refused to spar with her, claiming chivalry did not permit him to risk harming a lady. That did not make sense to Sansa; Lady Brienne was a wonder with a sword, and unlike Arya she towered over most men, being over six and a half feet tall.
Another thought occurred to her. "How did the Kingslayer convince Ser Barristan to spar?"
Brienne flushed a deep red. "They had a disagreement, my lady. Ser Jaime challenged Ser Barristan to defend his words with steel."
"If Ser Barristan were not so obstinate, you might have thrashed him yourself," Ser Deziel said mildly, having come up behind them. The thick, tight curls atop his head were as dark as raven's wings; his dark brown skin gleamed in the sunlight. "From what Perros said, he deserved it."
Deziel had stopped at one of the stalls; in his hands he bore skewers of sausages, roasted with little sweet onions and garlic and served piping hot. Her stomach still full from breaking her fast, Sansa declined his offer of the first skewer. Brienne accepted it gladly, devouring the onions and sausage with evident relish. Deziel nibbled at his own skewer, eating only a few bites before pressing what was left upon the Maid of Tarth.
When they neared the small pyramid which served as the queen's nursery for foundlings and orphans, Jynessa Blackmont proposed they dismount for a walk in the surrounding gardens of Mazdhan's Maze. Jynessa far preferred walking to riding, claiming it provided better opportunity to appreciate the beauty of one's surroundings.
Prior to the dragon queen's conquest, the worthies of Meereen had favored palanquins and litters, shunning beasts of burden. As such, hitching posts were rare, though more Meereense were following their queen's example and learning to ride. Thankfully, as the queen visited the nursery every few weeks, there were enough hitching posts for all their horses. Perros stayed behind to watch them, having brought a book in his saddlebags.
As the party made their way to their gardens, they happened upon several Brazen Beasts in the midst of their rounds. Each bore a cudgel in his hand and a shortsword at his hip, and each wore a brass mask in the shape of a different bird. Though she could not see behind their masks, all three men seemed startled by the unexpected appearance of noble visitors. In a rough mixture of Valyrian and Ghiscari they offered to escort Her Radiance's guests through the gardens. Sansa accepted their offer in her best High Valyrian, and allowed the freedmen to fall in behind them.
Still, the presence of additional guards could not stop her escorts from their duty with utmost diligence. Brienne and Edric took up their usual places to either side of her, whilst Deziel and Jynessa walked a few paces further back.
Sansa soon forgot her companions, swept away by the beauty of Mazdhan's Maze. Built centuries ago for the enjoyment of the Great Masters' few children, the gardens were lush with fragrant herbs, and planted with many different trees and shrubs so that there were colorful blooms and ripe fruit in every season.
The centerpiece of the gardens was the maze for which they were named. Far smaller than the famed maze of Highgarden, the hedges boasted no thorns to dissuade Deziel from examining their leaves, or Jynessa from plucking a bloom to ornament her hair.
When they turned to go deeper into the maze, the Brazen Beasts halted, talking amongst themselves in Ghiscari for a moment before the one in a heron mask hailed the Westerosi.
"It is easy to become lost, your worship," warned the heron, sunlight glinting off his long sharp beak.
"I think we can manage," said Ser Deziel with a grin.
"He tells it true, worship," added the vulture. "And the paths are mud from all the rain."
Sansa could feel Brienne frown at the same time she did, her eyes flicking to the tidy brick path upon which they walked.
"A thousand apologies, worship." This time it was the cuckoo who spoke, his voice plain and honest. "They hoped to spare your worship distress. There was trouble, earlier, in the maze. A band of robbers who hid to divide their loot and then turned upon each other. No fit sight for your worship's eyes."
"Were all slain?" Edric Dayne's hand rested on the hilt of his sword; the squire eyed the hedges as if a robber might jump out of one of them.
"All, your worship," said the cuckoo. "We left one of our men to guard the remains."
None of her people protested as Sansa acquiesced to being escorted from the gardens. If anything, they drew closer around her, Brienne still frowning, her eyes flickering to the Brazen Beasts. It was Edric who took Sansa by the arm to lead her away, and he set such a brisk pace that she only kept up thanks to her legs being as long as his. It seemed only minutes before the Westerosi were outside the maze once more.
The Brazen Beasts did not follow. Instead they turned back, doubtless intent on clearing the robbers' bodies. That was good; across the way Sansa could see children emerging from the nursery, eager to play in the fresh air. Most of them clustered in small packs around their wet nurses, save a few who were wandering aimlessly. Sansa prayed the Maiden would guard their innocence keep them close to the pyramid until their Brazen Beasts finished their unpleasant task.
The Westerosi were almost back to the horses when a woman's scream pierced the air, echoing from the center of the maze.
Sansa clapped her hands over her ears, desperate to block out the shriek of pain that followed the scream. Cudgels thudded against flesh, bones shattered, and the woman fell silent. But the screams went on, the screams of Hullen and Quent and Desmond as they fell beneath Lannister blades—
"Deziel, the princess!"
When Sansa came back to herself she was sitting on a bench beside the hitching post, with Jynessa's arm around her shoulders. Deziel and Perros stood guard, swords drawn; there was no sign of Edric and Brienne but for the muddy path they'd left behind when they drew their swords and sprinted back toward the maze.
A waterskin hovered beneath her lips; Sansa gulped down the water, trying to focus on the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears rather than the distant ringing of steel. Breathe, stupid, Arya's voice reminded her. She drew a shuddering breath, long and slow, then followed it with another, until she regained her composure.
Sansa felt herself again by the time Brienne and Edric returned, their swords bloody, their faces ashen. She did not twitch a hair as they haltingly explained what had happened at the center of the maze, nor hesitate before commanding Perros to fetch Unsullied from the nearest barracks. Edric she sent back into the maze, so that he might copy the glyphs written with the blood of the women they had found too late.
"These are Ghiscari, my lady" Jynessa said, when Edric returned bearing the scrap of parchment he'd taken from Perros's saddlebags. She frowned at the paper, her eyes uneasy.
"What do they say?"
Jynessa faltered, stricken. "Perros reads it better than I do, princess, perhaps we should wait for him? I... I don't know..."
"Tell me," Sansa urged. She clasped Jynessa by the hand and squeezed gently, hoping it would comfort her friend.
"Another bride for the blood bride," she whispered at last. "Slay yourself, if you would spare your children."
Whilst the Unsullied dealt with the horrors within Mazdhan's Maze, the Westerosi rode back to the Great Pyramid, their mood subdued. Determined to keep them from sharing her melancholy, Sansa filled the silence with sincere praise of Brienne and Edric's bravery. She could not make them forget what they had seen, but she could honor their courage in trying to stop it.
Not everyone shared her high opinion of Brienne and Edric's deeds. When Edric returned from training the next day, he came with burning cheeks and an account of the argument that had erupted the moment Brienne of Tarth entered the training hall.
Edric had never seen Ser Barristan Selmy so angry. Barely an instant had passed before he began upbraiding Brienne for interfering in the queen's business. She was not one of the Queensguard, nor an Unsullied, nor even a Brazen Beast. Her reckless behavior had endangered both herself and the lady she claimed to serve; what if more Brazen Beasts had appeared whilst Lady Sansa stood defenseless?
At that point the Kingslayer had arrived and demanded to know what was going on. Once apprised of the events at Mazdhan's Maze, he had promptly agreed with Ser Barristan, to the astonishment of all present. Granted, the Kingslayer did not care about respecting the queen's authority. No, he was aghast at the absurdity of highborn lady risking her life for common wenches who were already dead.
Sansa winced; she could almost see Brienne shrinking in upon herself as two renowned knights berated her. How Edric could smile calmly after seeing such a sight was beyond her.
"And then," Edric said, in a tone of great satisfaction. "Lady Brienne lost her temper."
Brienne had not needed to raise her voice to shame them. Instead, she had recited the vows of knighthood, slowly, calmly, savoring each word as she looked daggers at Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime. Then, with utmost patience, she had asked them which vow permitted a knight to ignore the screams of the innocent. Speechless, Ser Barristan had strode angry from the hall, and the Kingslayer had stared at Brienne of Tarth as if he had never seen her before.
Proud as she was of Brienne, Sansa wondered if perhaps Ser Barristan had a point. Not much of one; Brienne had not left her defenseless, after all. Deziel and Perros were quite capable of protecting her. That said, a sworn sword was supposed to remain by his lord or lady's side, no matter what. But then, a true knight must always rush to the aid of the helpless, and though Brienne had never sworn the vows, she was a truer knight than any man to ever grace the Kingsguard.
For a moment Sansa imagined Brienne clad all in white plate, with a white cloak blowing in the wind at her back. The wind blew harder; the cloak and armor turned blue, and the vision soured. When Brienne joined Renly Baratheon's Rainbow Guard, the honor had not stopped men from whispering behind her back, nor made women treat her more kindly. Lady Catelyn was an exception, not the rule, or so Sansa gathered from what Brienne let slip.
Brawny and brave though she was, beneath her armor Brienne's heart was just as tender as her own, just as sensitive to cruelty and contempt. Brienne had wept when she spoke of how she longed to embrace her father, who loved her so, who never blamed her for the freakishness that cursed her to be neither son nor daughter. And she missed Tarth nearly as much as Sansa missed Winterfell; she yearned to swim in its sapphire waters and stroll upon its sandy shores. She did not deserve to be treated cruelly by anyone, let alone by Ser Barristan Selmy.
Angry though Ser Barristan Selmy had been with at Brienne, his wrath was nothing compared to that of Queen Daenerys when she found out what had happened at Mazdhan's Maze.
It seemed that the old knight had not told the queen of the women disappearing from the streets of Meereen for the past several moons. Each had been taken by Brazen Beasts, vanishing for days before reappearing, lying slain beside walls scrawled with glyphs written in their blood. Some had been beaten, like the ones in the maze; others had been cut with knives. All had been raped, just as all were young, with silvery hair and light eyes that gave them a passing resemblance to the queen.
Learning of the attack upon the wet nurses sent Daenerys into a frenzy. Ser Barristan kept his white cloak, but the Unsullied captain Grey Worm was raised above him, with final say over the queen's protection. At his command the Brazen Beasts were confined to their barracks, held under guard whilst the queen and her council considered how to cleanse the traitors from their midst. At the queen's behest and with Prince Aegor's help, the children of the queen's nursery were brought to the Great Pyramid, escorted by a company of Unsullied.
To Sansa's surprise, the foundlings were settled not in one of the lower levels, but in the empty apartments nearest to those of Queen Daenerys. When, after a week of heavy rain, Daenerys invited Sansa to spend an afternoon with her in the garden atop the pyramid's apex, she arrived to find children running everywhere, their wet nurses hovering nervously over their charges.
Queen Daenerys and her prince consort sat together on a stone bench, beneath the great olive tree at the center of the garden. Sansa joined them, trying not to think of her husband when she noticed how Daenerys leaned on Aegor. Normally a restless woman, the queen was more steady than she could recall seeing her in a long while, her violet gaze tranquil as she watched the children at their play.
"Your Grace seems well," she ventured, after a long silence.
"Considering all the murders?" Daenerys smiled at the shocked look on Sansa's face, then took a hesitant sip of wine. "I had rather know what is wrong than have it concealed from me. At least now I can start to set things aright."
The queen took another sip. This time, she made a face, and almost spat it out. "Gods, too sweet. I did not think the taste would be so cloying; how much did you put in?"
"Only three grains, I measured them myself." Aegor turned to Sansa, seeing her confusion. "Sweetsleep, to calm her heart."
"Oh, Ser Symon Wyl takes that too, Your Grace." Of late the old knight had begun to suffer tremors in his hands. "He puts it in goat's milk; the tang covers the sweetness."
"I shall consider that for next time, my lady."
Daenerys toasted her, then downed the rest of her wine with a grimace before setting the cup aside. Rising from the bench, she made her way to one of the children, a little boy with silvery hair. Aegor soon followed, leaving Sansa alone on the bench.
The shadows of the olive tree's leaves danced over her, waking memories. For a moment she sat beneath the orange trees in the Water Gardens, watching Olyvar play with his sisters. Then she was beneath the heart tree of Winterfell, the wind whispering in the leaves, the carved face weeping blood.
Sansa opened her eyes. Above her loomed the olive tree, crowned with pale white-gold flowers. How could it thrive, here, hundreds of feet above the earth below? Its roots could no go deeper than three, perhaps four feet, down into the mounds of soil which had been hauled to the top of the pyramid.
A weirwood could not live like that, no more than Sansa could. She yearned for a home, a garden in whose rich soil she might put down deep roots, a place she might call her own—
A great shadow blotted out the sun; a screech rang out. She could taste blood in her mouth and smell it on the air; mother, her mother was near, but first she must sate her hunger with tender meat.
NO.
Sansa flung every scrap of her resolve into the command. The hunger snarled at her; Sansa clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, and closed her eyes.
NO.
For an instant she looked down upon the pyramid, upon the ants that dotted the bricks among the flowers and beneath the great tree. Mother, where was mother? He had caught her scent, but now she was gone. His vast wings flapped once, twice, as though he meant to dive, but the cold was in him, holding him back, the not-mother who smelled of winds and pines and icy waters.
GET OUT, roared the hunger, and Sansa was herself again, looking up as the black dragon fled, roaring, a gout of black flame veined with red spewing from his maw into the empty air.
Blood trickled from Sansa's nose; when she licked her lips she tasted copper and salt. All around her children shouted and waved and pointed at the dragon. A few were so excited they jumped up and down; none showed even the least hint of fear.
Had she misunderstood?
She looked around; Daenerys and Aegor were gone, doubtless summoned to deal with some pressing matter. A kerchief served to staunch her bleeding nose; when she felt well enough to stand Sansa walked to the terrace pool with its burbling fountain. With trembling fingers she cupped the water in her hand, washing the blood from her face, waving away the wet nurse who tried to offer her help.
She must have misunderstood. There was no point risking arousing Daenerys' wrath, not when they were so close to departing on good terms. Hunger did not mean hunger for children; surely there was a haunch of meat left somewhere atop the pyramid, in hopes of luring the wayward Drogon.
And so when Daenerys returned, Sansa smiled, and spoke of things that did not matter, and took her leave as soon as she might do so without causing offense.
Sansa had hoped to fling herself upon her bed and cry herself to sleep. That hope died the moment she saw that Lady Toland sat upon her terrace, accompanied by her great-niece, little Sylva, as well as the nursemaid Gilly and her son, Samrik. And so Sansa disposed of her bloody kerchief, washed her face again, and then joined them.
It was a decision she quickly regretted. Watching the toddlers play monsters and maidens with a patient Gilly quickly led to Sansa imagining what her children with Olyvar might look like, and from there to imagining how making such children might work.
You're no help, she groused at Buttons, who lay on the terrace, licking himself. Every time a cat in the pyramid went into heat, the ginger tomcat abandoned her to press his suit. Worse, he thought Sansa should follow his example when Olyvar returned. Was there no one she could trust not to make obnoxious, improper suggestions?
"I do want to have children," she confided to Brienne a few days later.
Both the beginning of twelfth moon and her seventeenth nameday had come and gone. For the first time since leaving King's Landing, Sansa's nameday passed without a feast. She could not bear to celebrate, not when there was still no word of Olyvar. Instead, she hid in her chambers, crying, drinking far too much qatarmizat, and then crying some more. Thank the gods that Gilly was not like to shame her with stories of her mistress's frailty.
"Most women do," said Deziel, who sat across from them on the terrace, enjoying the rare sight of a setting sun. "Not all, thank the gods. My great-aunt despised children; if she had any, she would have made them miserable. And then there are those like Obara, who can only stand them once they are old enough to talk and run about. What of you, Lady Brienne?"
Brienne stared at him, bemused. "I... I have my sword, ser. And three failed betrothals. My cousins will be the heirs to Tarth when I am gone."
Deziel shrugged. "Nymeria's women bore swords and children." He turned back to Sansa, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "If you'd like children, you need only say the word when Olyvar returns—"
At last, Sansa had reached the limit of her patience. Without a word she rose, sweeping her skirts behind her, and left the terrace before she did something Arya might do. No, that wasn't right. Sansa wanted to shift her skin and bite Deziel; Arya would have Nymeria do it for her.
As it was too late to go for a ride, Sansa ended up pacing her chambers, trying not to eavesdrop on Brienne as she reproached Deziel for his lack of courtesy. Duly chastened, he apologized most sincerely to Sansa before departing.
By way of further apology, the next day Deziel brought her a leather-bound tome of Rhoynar legends. Determined not to think about Olyvar, Sansa read the entire book, first to herself, then sharing the best stories with Samrik and Sylva. Now four and three, they were close to the same size Rickon had been when last she saw him, though their hair was dark instead of auburn.
The children did not care about Olyvar's absence, save for missing him as a playmate. They did not dwell upon the deaths that might be caused by their choices, they did not fret over dead men in the snow and horrors yet to come. In the stories the monsters always lost, the heroes always returned triumphant, and clouds always yielded before the summer sun.
Once Sansa had been the same, when she and her sister and brothers listened to Old Nan tell tales before the hearth. All of them loved her stories, Bran and Sansa most of all. There was no calamity that could not be cured by the right story, and Old Nan knew hundreds of them. Tales of love, tales of war, tales to make the listener laugh or weep.
Skald, that was the old northron name for the best singers and storytellers, the ones whose skill earned them a place at a high lord's table through the winter. All through spring and summer and autumn they would travel the north, seeking out new tales for the coming winter. The boldest ventured further afield, to Skagos, the Vale, the Riverlands, even Braavos, were they brave enough to take ship.
No skald ever went so far as Meereen.
Over the next week Sansa wrote until her wrist was sore. She began with Gilly's tales from beyond the Wall, the ones handed down from her many mothers. Next she turned to Brienne, who told her tales of the Stormlands, from Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight, who won the heart of the Maiden herself, to Elenei, the goddess who lost her heart to Durran Godsgrief and saved him from the wrath of the gods who gave her birth.
When she turned to tales of Dorne, she found herself besieged. Perros Blackmont, Jennelyn Fowler, and Ser Deziel all knew the same tales, but could not agree on how they went. They argued over every detail, from whether Nymeria of Ny Sar was lovely or plain, to whether the water witches disappeared during a drought or due to the Red Princes offending Mother Rhoyne.
Rain poured down in sheets one evening as Sansa leaned back in her chair, nursing a headache. Across the table Jennelyn and Perros argued over whether Girasol the Glad was a maiden of House Blackmont or House Fowler. So far as she could tell, it seemed likely the Long Summer would come again before either of them would concede the point. Sansa was about to dismiss them for the evening when the door to her chamber slammed open.
Olyvar stood in the doorway, water pooling at his feet. He was drenched from crown to heel, his hair sodden, his cloak dripping. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a stiffness to his walk, but it was him, hale and whole and here.
"If you will excuse us?" Sansa rasped through dry lips.
The moment the door shut behind her guests, she flew across the room. Sansa could not say who opened their arms first, only that one moment she was looking up at Olyvar, watching his lord's face fall away, and the next they were embracing. His arms wrapped about her so tightly she could barely breathe; she squeezed back just as hard, as if to make sure he was real.
Olyvar buried his face in her neck; for a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her, before she felt him begin to shake, sobs wracking his body. Words spilled forth like a torrent, so fast she could not understand, fire and dragons and Volantis and Nym and Irri—
"Slow down," she begged.
Almost without thinking she reached up to cup his cheek, his beard soft against her palm. She drew a long, shuddering breath, and watched Olyvar's chest rise and fall in time with hers.
"I've got you," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. I've got you, my love.
Can't wait to see what y'all think in the comments :)
You might catch some parallels between this chapter and the last; Sansa is a completely different type of hot mess than Cersei, lol. I would not be 16-17 again for a million dollars.
Next Up
137: Bran IV
138: Jon VI
139: Olyvar V
140: Dany VI
NOTES
1) Let's talk about olive trees. The Great Masters burned their groves to the ground when Dany arrived. Later, someone told Dany they were replanting, and that it was 7 years to bear fruit, and 30 to be truly productive. In actual fact, olive trees have incredible root systems, and can send up new shoots/trunks even after being burned to the ground. There's olive trees that are thousands of years old!
ADWD Dany was not as attentive to detail as she is later on in The Weirwood Queen, so amongst her MANY concerns, the specific details of olive tree husbandry/cultivation didn't come up. Now, technically there shouldn't be any olives fruiting until winter ends, but... look, rule of symbolism, the seasons make no sense anyway, fuck it, ASoiaF olives can bear fruit during wet Mediterranean winters.
2) The winds preventing news from Volantis are based on the levanter, a winter wind in the Alboran Sea (the westernmost Mediterranean) which blows from the east.
3) Dany gave Sansa a length of dhaka muslin, the finest cotton ever woven. The technique was developed over centuries in Bangaledesh, where a particular species of cotton was woven in very specific conditions which allowed staggering thread counts. True muslin was reputed to possess a thread count as high as 800-1200; modern attempts to recreate the lost art have only managed 300. Why was the art "lost?" Thank the British, who thoroughly fucked over the weavers during their takeover of India.
