Mid April, 300 AC

The crowd was screaming and Sansa was screaming, heart in her throat. Please, help him, someone, anyone!

No one heard. With a single blow the Mountain cleaved Olyvar Sand's head from his shoulders to bounce on the ground. Sansa was still screaming when the Mountain turned on her, driving his greatsword through her belly over and over and over—

Sansa woke shivering. Her tummy was tied in knots, the cramps so painful that she bolted for the privy. When at last she could retch no more she washed her mouth out with water.

Her bed was cold when she climbed back beneath the sheets. Normally Shae served as her bedmaid, but Sansa hadn't seen her since the maid helped her undress for bed. She supposed Shae must have been summoned to inform on her mistress.

The thought made fresh bile rise in Sansa's throat. She'll tell them, they'll know. She had no right to expect Shae's loyalty; why should the bedmaid risk her skin for Sansa's sake?

There had been so much blood. Gore had splattered on Sansa's hem when Olyvar Sand dropped the massive head at her feet, his face streaked with the hot red blood that had gushed from the Mountain's throat. His left arm was a horror, bent at a strange angle, bone visible beneath the bloody flesh. The arm landed in Sansa's lap when she dropped to her knees to catch the fainting youth, smearing red against her silver gown.

At first Sansa thought she had wet herself. Her thighs felt oddly damp, her smallclothes sticking to her maiden's place. She barely heard the High Septon declare her innocence as the Dornish prepared a stretcher to carry her injured champion back to the cornerfort. Snowwing had nuzzled at Sansa's cheek one last time, cooed in her ear, and flown off. Ellaria Sand and Lady Nym raised her to her feet as the crowd roared, feet pounding, hands clapping.

They offered to take her to the cornerfort, but she asked them to return her to her tower cell instead. The Dornish ladies would want to soothe her, to strip off her blood soaked gown and force her into a tub, and then they'd see, they'd know

Only when she was alone in the privy did Sansa dare to pull up her skirts, her fingers fumbling desperately. Please, no, I'm not ready.

Her fingers slipped in the blood that stained her thighs.

Grim determination seized her. First she went to the basin, wetting a rag so she could scrub between her legs. When the blood was gone Sansa ripped a strip of linen from the bottom of her shift, folding it up before tucking it between her legs. That was what the women of the hollow hill had done when their red flower bloomed. They said their moon blood almost never came when they were hungry, when the Mother knew their bodies were too weak or too young to bear children. What have I done to deserve this? She pulled on a fresh set of smallclothes, tossing the ruined smallclothes and the bloody washcloth down the privy shaft.

By the time maids came with a fresh tub of hot water, no trace of blood remained but for that on Sansa's gown. She sent all of them away except for Shae, pleading a headache. It was no lie; there was an awful throbbing at her temples. She climbed into the tub while Shae's back was turned, shoving her smallclothes and moon cloth under the bed. She thought she had succeeded in hiding the evidence until Shae was toweling her dry and the towel came away red.

Shae had not said a word then, and she said nothing when she returned at dawn to rouse Sansa from her uneasy slumber.

The bedmaid was wearing the same gown she'd worn to the trial by combat yesterday. A jewel hung at her throat, one Sansa had not seen before. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and as Shae stoked up the fire Sansa saw pale blue bruises wrapped like bracelets around her wrists. Normally Shae moved with the sly grace of a cat; today she walked strangely, as if her thighs could not meet without causing her grief. Something is very wrong.

The bedmaid refused Sansa's offer to send for a maester, so Sansa sent Shae back to bed with the salve Maester Frenken had given her for her wrist. Sansa had not used any of it; hopefully it would help whatever ailed Shae. Insolent or not, spy or not, she could not wish her pain.

Sansa dared not sing for her. No one knew of the children's gift; what would they do to her if they found out? One of Maegor the Cruel's wives had been found guilty of sorcery and Maegor had cut her heart out himself. Her grandmother Minisa Whent's ancestors had claimed Harrenhal some seventy years past by casting down Lady Danelle Lothston. Mad Danelle was accused of the black arts; they had burned her alive.

Sansa was still shivering with fear when the new maid brought her breakfast. Sansa tried to remember her name as the dark haired woman set down the steaming tray. Briony? No, Brella; Sansa remembered because it rhymed with Kella. She wondered if they were sisters or cousins or some such.

"Brella," she asked, spreading soft butter on a warm roll. "Do you know if I am permitted to leave my rooms? I would like to visit Olyvar Sand and see how his wounds are faring."

Brella gave her a sidelong glance.

"I don't know, m'lady." She fussed with the pot of chamomile tea, pouring a cup for Sansa. She took it gratefully. There was a small honeycomb with the butter; Sansa drizzled it into her tea.

Suddenly she was ravenous. Sansa devoured crisp bacon and greasy sausage, two soft boiled eggs, three rolls, and the entire pot of tea before pushing the tray aside. There was a little bowl of blackberries in cream, but she was far too full. Brella shared none of Kella's reluctance; no sooner had Sansa offered her the fruit than she tucked in.

"I'll ask after the Dornishman, m'lady," Brella promised as she took the tray away.

It was Prince Oberyn himself who came for Sansa just before midday. Sansa dipped a deep curtsy, her tummy burbling unhappily as the prince offered her his arm.

"Lovely as ever, my lady," Prince Oberyn said gallantly as he led her from her chambers. Today Sansa had chosen a gown of deep vermillion over a shift of burgundy wool. Between the red garb and double layer of smallclothes, she should be able to hide any evidence of her first moon blood. If Shae didn't already tell them.

"Thank you, my prince," Sansa replied. "I hope your son is recovering from his wounds. Few men can boast of siring a son so brave. I cannot thank him enough for risking his life for the sake of a stranger."

"I tried to talk him out of it," the Red Viper said bluntly as they descended the stairs. "Nothing against you, my lady," he said, smiling to take the sting from his words. "But no man in his senses would choose the Mountain as his child's test of knighthood."

"Knighthood, my prince?"

"He has more than earned it. Slaying the Mountain is a deed even I cannot match. When Olyvar is well enough he shall hold his vigil at the Great Sept of Baelor. He has not yet chosen whom he wishes to dub him. Would you have any suggestions, my lady?"

Sansa glanced about, noticing for the first time that the Hound had not followed them. Was he at the door when we left? Sansa could not remember. At any rate, there was no one close enough to hear.

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, perhaps?" Sansa ventured, keeping her voice cool and polite.

Prince Oberyn laughed so hard he almost choked, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

"Oh, the look on Lord Tywin's face would almost make it worth it." He sighed, giving her an appraising look. "Still, even I know when not to pour salt in the wound. Who else might you suggest?"

"Many young men prefer to be dubbed by their father, I have heard."

Prince Oberyn shook his head. "No, not Olyvar."

"Why not Ser Loras Tyrell?" Oberyn watched her, one thin eyebrow raised. When he kept silent, Sansa realized he was waiting for her to explain.

"Ser Loras has the best reputation of any knight in the city; all say he fought gallantly at the Blackwater. The history between the Reach and Dorne is… tumultuous. The Knight of Flowers dubbing your son would be an honor for both men, one to which Lord Tywin could not object."

"The Fat Flower would be only too pleased," Prince Oberyn conceded. The rest of the way they walked in silence.

Olyvar Sand was asleep when Prince Oberyn brought her to his sickbed. Sweat dappled his forehead, his left arm wrapped in blood soaked linens. Ellaria Sand sat vigil in a corner chair, The Seven Pointed Star on her lap.

"The arm was broken below the elbow, thanks to the blow he took on his shield." Oberyn fiddled with one of the jars sitting at the bedside table, rolling it in his hand, tossing it and catching it.

"The maester set it and splinted it, but as for the flesh… it has begun to swell already, and he has a fever. If the swelling does not go down…"

"The arm will have to be cut off at the elbow." Ellaria Sand's voice had aged a thousand years.

Sansa's tummy roiled with guilt. I did this. She sat, her heart as heavy as her limbs. Numbly she echoed the prayers Ellaria was reading aloud. Prince Oberyn prayed too, until Ser Daemon Sand summoned him away.

Servants brought a light repast for the midday meal. Sansa picked at her food listlessly, unable to look away from the bandages. Ellaria ate scarce more before excusing herself for the privy.

They were all alone. The door was heavy oak, thick enough to bar any sound. Sansa took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, and began to sing.

There were no words to her song, yet the music told a story all the same. Her voice rippled like a river over stones; it darted and fluttered like the birds in the trees; it hummed with the lowest notes she could reach, solid as stone, steadfast as earth.

She was still singing when Olyvar began to toss and turn. In a tremulous voice she finished the melody, praying he could not hear.

"I'm not you," the boy snarled, eyes still closed, his features twisted with rage. "I'll never be you, never."

Olyvar fell still, his chest rising and falling. Sansa had just calmed her frayed nerves when he began to scream.

He thrashed against the sheets, blood soaking through the bandages, his words slurred and strange. Amongst the screams she recognized perhaps one word in ten, curses and oaths so terrible that they would make a septa faint. "Die," he screamed, "why won't you die?" He flailed and kicked at some unseen enemy, his right hand snatching up the knife from his bedside table.

Sansa fled.