A blue half-moon rises over White Harbor, night descending on the city like a cold blanket. But within the walls of New Castle, none are yet asleep. In the dining hall, the evening meal has been cleared away and the older courtesans wondered off, but the young men and women of the court linger as a small band of musicians string together improvised tunes in the far corner.
Sansa Stark reclines on a lounge near the crackling fire, a half-empty goblet of wine forgotten by her side, absentmindedly examining the assortment of sea-creatures carved into a stone frame around the hearth and slowly nibbling on a cheese and jam tart. Her mind is far away, intent on mapping every hall of the Manderly's sprawling castle. The first hurdle in her plan of escape is to find a way out into the city. But with the raiders an ever-present threat beyond the walls, the guards are on high alert at every possible exit.
Nearby, the eligible young men of the court are as usual clustered around Wynafryd Manderly, jostling for a position in the conversation with a jape or a boast to set themselves apart from the rest. Wynafryd, in return, laughs and blushes at every cue, urging them on in their flattery and competition, while never lending too much favor to anyone. Her friends eagerly hold tight to her side, hoping to catch the attention of any suitor too dejected to pursue the heir to White Harbor any further.
Sansa, however, keeps her distance, casting her gaze over from time to time to see if any yearning eyes have found their way to her. The boys are handsome enough, she supposes, though none near Joffrey's beauty. But regardless, while several glance her way, even lingering for a moment or two, a few hushed whispers quickly turn their eyes back to Wynafryd. Lord Baelish is right, Sansa thinks bitterly. Even if Joffrey's claim to the throne is challenged, none of them will dare contest his claim to my hand. An honor and a curse all at once.
"What are you thinking about?" Aysanne Woolfield snaps Sansa out of her thoughts. She jumps, turning to see the older girl snatch the last of the tarts and stuff it in her round face with a laugh.
"Oh, nothing!" Sansa blurts out, realizing the boys have gone and the band with them. "I was only thinking of Winterfell."
"Ah, Winterfell," Wynafryd plops onto the lounge beside her. "I can't wait for you to give us all a tour of it one day!"
"It would be my honor."
Wynafryd leans closer to her ear. She whispers softly, but barely able to contain her excitement. "How would you like to see the city, Lady Stark?"
"Now?" Sansa looks to the other girls, confused. "Tonight?"
"Of course!" Wynafryd jumps up, pulling Sansa to her feet with her. "Some nights, we sneak out into the city to have a little fun. It can be so boring being treated like a lady all the time, don't you think?"
"I… um… yes," Sansa nods along, wheels already turning in her head. A secret way out of the castle? This could be the chance!
"Incredible! I knew you would! You see, we dress up in plain old smallfolk clothes and we go out to the taverns and the halls and nobody knows who we are. We can do whatever we want!"
"That sounds like fun!" Sansa blurts out. She sees the other girls are clearly less enthusiastic about her joining, particularly Lysa and Sybelle, watching from a distance with cold stares. But Wynafryd's enthusiasm suffers no objections.
"See, didn't I tell you what a grand time we'll have together?" She slips her hand into her bosom, pulling out her silver shell flask and popping off the cap as she hands it to Sansa. "Here, you'll want a little kick in your step."
Sansa takes a quick drink – the same burning firewater she had drank the night of the feast. But this time, she doesn't flinch. Snapping the cap back on, she tosses it back to Wynafryd.
"Lead the way."
In a far more peaceful corner of the castle, Lady Catelyn Stark reclines in the Star Garden. A broad plaza at the heart of the castle, a ring of heavily cushioned daises circle a slick stone floor, carefully polished and painted dark blue. In between the tiles, dozens of firepots lie carefully arranged, connected by silver lines etching the shapes of the constellations in the sky above. Looking up, she can see the matching stars shining down on her from the clear black night – not quite a perfect mirror. The captured stars bound here to the garden perfectly align only once a year to their heavenly siblings – on the day that King Brandon Stark the Seventh welcomed the exiled Manderlys and gifted them White Harbor. Centuries upon centuries since had brought their lines here, where she sits, the lady of Winterfell, propped up by far too many pillows, opposite the immensely fat Lord of White Harbor.
"A lovely evening, isn't it, my lady?" Wyman Manderly sighs, beckoning to a nearby servant for more wine. The young page hurries to oblige, scampering around the circle to fill the waiting cups of Wyman, his son Wendel, his good-daughter Leona and Petyr Baelish. When the boy reaches Catelyn, however, she covers her own goblet.
"I'm still half full, thank you," she smiles at the boy, who bows politely before disappearing as quick as he came. Looking over to Wyman, she raises her drink in salute. He isn't wrong. For early autumn, the chill night air is surprisingly pleasant, helped no doubt by the dozens of small fires just a few strides away. "To the cool nights of autumn. May they last many years."
"Aye aye!" Wyman raises his cup to meet hers, his round face beaming. The others quickly join. "May the Seven keep winter until its time."
Wendel and Leona nod along as some bard, hidden from view, begins to strum softly on an invisible harp, singing an old familiar tune – a Riverlands song from her youth, Catelyn recognizes at once. She eyes Wyman suspiciously. Another ploy to slide further into her good graces, no doubt. Moved by the music, Wendel and Leona rise to dance, slowly swaying to the unfamilar tune. But as she watches their hefty bodies find awkward grace to the humming strings, Catelyn realizes she remembers every step. She had tried to teach this song to the players at Winterfell. But Ned was never much of a dancer. With a sigh, she turns to see Petyr Baelish watching her like a mournful hawk.
"I can't believe they know this song here," Petyr chuckles, his crooked smile tilted sideways. He sets his cup down carefully. "Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember," Catelyn rolls her eyes. "How could I forget. Lysa would have had it played from dawn to dusk if she'd had her way."
"Would you like to dance, my lady?"
Catelyn nearly gasps, taken aback. For a moment, her mind is back in Riverrun, a girl again, and Petyr a poor boy with aspirations far beyond his reach. But a blink later, and she is returned.
"Oh. No, Petyr, I'm sorry." His name slips off her tongue without thinking. Urgently, she turns to face Wyman, himself lost in the music, waggling his stubby fingers like a drunken conductor as he stares blissfully up at the sky. "Lord Wyman, there is something I must speak to you about."
"Oh!" Wyman snaps back to attention, his face sinking into his many chins as he looks across at her. "Whatever is the matter, my lady?"
"Tonight, while she was busy begging me to cut her hair, Arya mentioned a very strange rumor the girls have been passing around the castle. A rumor about a betrothal between Sansa and Wendel. I believed I had made my thoughts on that proposal quite clear?"
Wyman throws up his hands innocently with a chuckle. "You know how girls are. They talk. But it is only that. I swear, my lady, your word is final in all things. Wendel will find another fair maiden."
"Good. Sansa is angry enough with me already. I do not need gossips riling her temper further."
"It's nothing to worry about," Petyr interjects, sliding a reassuring hand across the dais towards her. "I am sure if such gossip crossed Lady Sansa's path, you would be the first to hear about it."
"Of course," Catelyn rises to leave, drinking down the rest of her cup before setting it aside. Looking between Wyman and Petyr, she can tell both are disappointed by her early departure. Feigning a yawn, she turns away. "We're all better off that she never learns of the matter. I fear she would do something drastic."
"To Lord Robb! May he skin the last lions and bring us back their hides!" Ale splatters into the air as Wynafryd thrusts her tankard up, standing tall atop a table in the center of a raucous tavern. The surrounding crowd joins in the cheer as she gulps down the rest of the tangy brew, droplets spraying over her cousin Lysa below, hunched over the table, cradling her head as she nurses a crippling headache.
"All the lions are already dead; the Lannisters killed them all," she murmurs drunkenly to herself, an empty tankard knocked over in front of her.
Beside Lysa, Sansa sits, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor as the room spins around her. The night has passed in a blur. At first, she had stuck to her plan, carefully memorizing each back door, forgotten gate and bribed guard that had parted to let their giggling posse out into the city, minding the streets and alleys leading down towards the harbor. But as they had danced through one tavern, then another, the lines began to tangle. Now, sitting in this massive, overflowing hall, the sound of drums and laughter and drunken singing echoing off the walls in a constant throb, she feels as if she is on the brink of the Seven Hells.
How much she has drank, she lost track of long ago, refusing to back down from any goblet, tankard or dented tin the older girls pressed into her hands, swallowing it all down with a masked grimace and defiant laugh as the wine and ale and firewater swirled into a hurricane in her stomach. Head spinning, eyes blurring, legs slowing, she had locked her eyes onto Wynafryd's braided head, following her as they weaved through the dark maze of White Harbor at night.
But here in – what was it called, The Sapphire Demon? – they had disappeared into the crowd, all save Lysa, who had collapsed along with her at the table, and Wynafryd, who was lost to no one. The center of attention, boots stamping on the table, she flaunts her hips and the deep cleavage exposed by her peasant disguise, jumping and swaying to the rowdy rhythm of the band, urged on by the cheers of men and women alike and the occasional tossed coin.
Sansa tugs at the uneven hem of her own disguise, the rough-hewn brown dress a year too small. She imagines she can feel every strand of the hideous creation scratching and tearing at her skin. Only one way to drown it out. Grasping her tankard with both hands, she forces down the rest of the ale. Dropping the empty mug down, she sees Lysa staring at her.
"Do you want to go back?" she asks with a glimmer of concern. But Sansa impulsively shakes her head violently, stifling a belch.
"No, no," she swears. "I'm fine." But she can tell Lysa does not believe her.
"When are all you skeletons going to dance?" Wyanfryd shouts, suddenly jumping down from the table with a cackling shriek. "Come on, get moving!"
Sansa forces herself onto her feet, nearly tripping flat on her face as she wobbles after Wynafryd into the crowd as more rush in at the sound of a new, deafening drinking tune being played. As the flailing, gyrating bodies press towards her, Sansa feels panic set in. This is a different kind of dancing entirely, nothing like any of the rigid forms she had practiced in the North or the South. Wild kicks, swings and swoops, men and women jostling each other to an uneven rhythm. She finds herself pushed to and fro, bouncing off bodies as she struggles to force her way through the crowd, fighting not to lose sight of Wynafryd even as her breath grows faster and her heart pounds harder in her chest.
Through the constantly-shifting gaps between torsos and limbs, Sansa can see Wynafryd dancing at the center of the floor, surrounded by handsome, eager men. She watches large hands sliding over Wyanfryd's curves. No longer thinking, she presses closer and closer, dodging elbows until, suddenly, Alysanne Woolfield blindly shoves her out of the way.
"Wynafryd!" Alysanne tears the admirers off her. "There's a band of guards from the castle coming! They'll recognize us! We need to go, now!"
"Shit!" Wynafryd snaps out of her dancing trance, eyes quickly scanning the room, shouldering past the disappointed men. "Where's Sansa?"
"I'm right here!" Sansa tries to scream, but is drowned out by the mob as her friends disappear into the crowd. Losing all sight of them, a sudden madness seizes her. Unable to hold back the panic anymore, she rushes madly forward, arms wrapped tight around her head as she careens across the floor, the men and women surrounding her seeming to tower like giants. She runs and runs, stumbling over feet and chair legs until she crashes out a back door and into a rush of cold night air.
Looking back and forth down the street, she cannot see any familiar faces lit by the flickering torchposts. But she does see a small cluster of Manderly guards walking down towards her, clumsily carrying a crass tune. Bile rushes up in her throat, but she turns away, forcing it back down as she darts into a dark alley between the tavern and the empty shop next door. Stumbling blindly forward, weaving side to side, she makes her way over broken crates and shattered bottles, trying to make sense through her jumbled memories of how to get back safe inside New Castle without being seen. Mother mustn't know. She'll never let me out of her sight again!
But then – familiar voices ahead. Sansa stops, still hidden in the shadows. She can recognize them, silhouetted against the light from the far side of the tavern – Lysa, Sybelle and Barbara. She presses herself tight against the wall and listens.
"Gods, where is she?" Sybelle squints in the dark.
"She's run back to the castle, no doubt," Barbara slurs, leaning drunkenly against the wall to catch her bearings. "Let her be, she'll be fine."
"If we leave her, she'll go crying back to her mother, no doubt," Lysa crosses her arms sternly. "And then we'll never hear the end of it."
"Why'd Wynafryd make us bring her, anyway?" Sybelle kicks over a broken crate in frustration. "Dragging her along everywhere we go, all just because she wants to be the next Lady Stark. It's insufferable. Why can't she stay with Wylla and the other girls her age? It's pathetic, the way she copies everything, playing so grown up. What is she, twelve even?"
"She hasn't even had her moonblood!" Barbara laughs, interrupted by a loud belch.
"Can you believe she really thought she was going to be queen?"
Clasping a hand over her mouth, Sansa stifles a wounded gasp, stepping backwards into the dark. Rage and embarrassment and envy and shame spinning around in her head, she turns away, trying not to make a sound as she carefully lurches step by step over the uneven cobblestones. Bile bubbles in her stomach, but, desperate not to make a sound, she forces it back down again, letting it burn her throat as she moves on through the dark until she can hear the older girls' jeers no more.
At last, she can see the street on the other side. She hurries along, arms swatting at the walls to each side as she struggles to stay upright. Go on, run back to the castle, just like they said I would, she thinks. Maybe I should tell Mother. That would show them! But it would only prove them right. Pathetic! They called me pathetic! What kind of a queen runs away like that? Maybe they're right…
As she lurches out of the alley into the street, the bile becomes too much to contain. Slipping, she drops hard to her knees, retching a long night's worth of food and alcohol out onto the broken stones and gravel in front of her. She desperately tries to hold her hair back, but her head keeps spinning, the sickness seeming that it will never end. Until, at last, it does.
Coughing up the last flecks, she wipes her mouth along the sleeve of the dirty peasant dress. The rest of the world slowly comes back into focus – the street is empty. No one seems to have noticed her until, as she hesitantly tries to pick herself up, she turns to see a pair of boots standing beside her. Frightened, she jumps, narrowly missing the pool of vomit as she crawls backwards away from the boots, eyes rising slowly to see dark pants, a dark green cloak and…
the face of Mycah Manderly looking down at her. Sansa's blood turns cold in an instant.
"My lady!" the squire's jaw drops as his eyes flash open with recognition. He rushes to her side, dropping to one knee as he reaches for something beneath his cloak.
"No, no, no," Sansa drunkenly tries to wriggle away, eyes clenched shut, mortification setting in, but his left hand steadies her, holding her in place. Reluctantly she stops fighting, slowly opening her eyes to see a canteen waiting in his right hand.
"Here. Drink." He presses the canteen into her hands. Slowly, she accepts, raising it to her lips and leaning it back. Never has water felt so good – cold, soothing, rolling down her throat and washing away the persistent taste of retch. She gulps and gulps until, coughing, she finally pulls it away, handing it back to Mycah. She watches him carefully, searching his face for any sign of judgment or disdain. But instead, he only reaches out, gently wiping a stain from the side of her mouth.
"Thank you," she whispers, her throat still cracked.
"Come on." He takes her hand, gently lifting her back up on her feet. Still unsteady as they step out into the street, she holds tight to his arm. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."
The raucous echoes of the taverns and whorehouses fade into the night as Sansa sits on the edge of an old stone bridge in a quiet part of the city near the docks. Here, sleep reigns; even the lowest candles have burned out. Her feet dangle free above the narrow canal below, slowly rippling along its slow path out towards the harbor. Beside her, Mycah sits silently, his only legs idly swinging back and forth.
Her head beginning to clear with each deep, long breath of fresh air, Sansa lets the anxious pins and needles in her spine relax and the feeling return to her face as the night breeze chills her bones and returns her to her senses. The urge to vomit receding, she looks up from her feet, turning towards Mycah without a word. His mind has wondered, head leaning back, looking up to the watchful constellations. For some time, she watches him watch the stars.
Here, she thinks, in the moonlight, staring up at the sky, he is even more dashing than in the harsh light of day. There is something about him – the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes fall wide open to sparkle with light – a yearning inside, something hopeful. A dreamer. For a moment, she is overcome with a sudden urge to lean in and kiss him, forgetting everything else and all of her plans. But instead, he lowers his head, turning to her.
"What was it like? Being in King's Landing?"
"Oh!" Sansa quickly regains her composure. "It was simply the most wonderful place in the world. All of the different people, the food, the music… Oh, and the Red Keep! It's the greatest castle in the world! You wouldn't believe the things they have there, the luxury! You must see it one day, it's like nothing else you can imagine!"
"I've always wanted to go," Mycah smiles, leaning on her every word. "My family… we don't travel much. But I love to read all the maester's books about the wonders of the world. King's Landing and Oldtown, Dorne, Highgarden, Castlery Rock. And beyond the Narrow Sea, Lys and Braavos and even further. There's so much more than the North!"
"Oh, I know!" Sansa sighs. She glances mournfully out to the sea. "It's amazing."
"You'll have to tell me more, sometime. When you're feeling better."
Sansa smiles back. Again, she studies his face, waiting to see what he's really thinking behind his kind words. For a moment, she curses her instincts. Is this who I am now? Everyone else a puzzle to be cracked open? But Littlefinger is right. You can't just see people. You have to understand them. And in Mycah, she sees a boy waiting… for something.
"What do you want?" she asks, barely more than a whisper. "If you could have anything in the world, what would you wish for?"
"I…" Mycah hesitates. He looks away, following the canal on its quiet path out to sea. After a heavy sigh, he turns back to her. "As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a knight. And not just any knight. The greatest knight in all the North, just like the heroes my mother used to tell me about. Like the Dragonknight. Or Duncan the Tall. I used to dream that I was fighting by their side in the Kingsguard. Some nights I still have it. I can see myself in the sparkling armor, white cape whipping in the wind. But then I wake up. And I know it will never come true. My father will never let me leave the city. And even if he did, there hasn't been a northman on the Kingsguard in generations. That's why I don't think about wishes, m'lady. Impossible dreams drive men mad."
"I know what that's like," Sansa leans closer. "I never could have imagined being queen. But then, all of a sudden, it was happening. Like I was living a fantasy. Until it all fell apart. And my mother won't let me leave, just like your father. She thinks I'll be safe here. But in my dreams, I'm still wearing a crown."
"Parents," Mycah laughs, sadly. "They're all the same, aren't they? We're supposed to listen to them, but they never listen to us. The way of the world."
Sansa sighs, long and heavy. Her hand slips towards his along the edge of the bridge, touching ever so slightly. He understands. The other girls, they can laugh now. But they'll settle for whatever small worlds they're handed, when they could take so much more for themselves.
"What if I said that if my wish comes true, I could make yours true, too?"
"I don't understand…" His head tilts as he looks at her, catching the reflection of the moon in his sea-green eyes. "What do you mean?"
"What would you do for your dream, Mycah?"
She waits, so near to his face she can feel the warmth of his breath as it rolls out from between his lips, hanging half-open as he lingers in silence. A loose pebble, worn free from the cobblestones, slips from the bridge, dropping down into the cold water with a loud splash; the only sound until, at last, he speaks.
"I'd do anything."
