As she lies awake in her bed, room dark, covers pulled tightly up beneath her chin, Sansa Stark swears she can hear the waves calling to her from all the way down on the bay. She cannot say how long she has lain this way – ever since she bid good night to the servants and they quenched the torches and she listened carefully to their steps fading away. But it must now be close to the hour of the wolf and her flight to freedom.
Everything has been so carefully planned. She knows that now Mycah Manderly and his conspirators are far from the comfort of bed, preparing to intercept her. Not that her own bed is any great comfort to her on this night. It might as well be a cold stone slab, as tense and rigid as her body in anticipation of the dare to come. Mycah's plan would surely work. But it still depended on her to escape New Castle.
Sansa replays the path again in her head – the back passages and side doors that Wynafryd had shown her during their covert excursions, winding through corners of the castle where only the weariest of servants would chance to see her. Once she was safe in the shadows of the larders and kitchens, it would be simple enough to find the small, wet gate where the oyster buskers came at day to peddle their wares. Simple so long as she remembers the way. A sudden pinch of nerves and she runs through the maze again in her mind, step by step, letting nothing slip away.
The greatest risk was in leaving her room. Here in the high halls of the guest chambers, there would be guards, guards that knew her face and name and would not hesitate to drag her back to Lady Catelyn's room next door if caught. And then it would be rightly and truly over. If her mother had any reason to suspect her flight, Sansa knows her door would never again be left unguarded, the path back to King's Landing sealed forever.
So, it must be tonight. Nothing may go wrong.
Unable to wait any longer, Sansa stiffly slides to the edge of her bed, silently swinging her feet out from beneath the heavy blankets and down to the cold floor. She shivers at the touch, the slightest gasp escaping her lips. Not enough noise to wake a mouse, but to her ears, deadly loud. With one hand clapped over her mouth, she kneels to pull the small bundle of clothes out from beneath the bed.
She would carry nothing with her – packing any parcel ran too high a risk of suspicion. Mycah waited outside with all the supplies they will need. The fine dresses Wynafryd had loaned her and the new ones Lord Wyman had ordered would have to stay behind. Instead, she will leave White Harbor in the same scratchy grey dress she arrived in.
Slipping carefully out of her soft nightgown, Sansa shivers again from the cold as she neatly folds the blue silk and sets it aside. Wincing, she tugs the old dress over her head, hoping that whatever her companions have packed for her will not feel so barbed. Over the dress goes the dark hooded cloak under which she had ventured out to the taverns with the other girls. It had disguised her well enough then; she prays it will hold true now. Lastly, she slides her feet into her plainest, most practical shoes and tiptoes silently to the door. Holding her ear flat to the carved wood, she listens for breaths or scuffling feet, any sign of the passing of the guard. Hearing none, she slowly creaks the door open, grateful for its well-oiled hinges.
The hall beyond is well-lit by torches, wrapping around the bend to stairs in either direction. She looks left, then right, watching the dancing light leaking around the corners for telltale shadows, but sees none. Steeling her nerves, she steps out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
A deep breath and another look to the right, but still, no sound nor shadows moving on the wall. All is clear. She turns, treading as lightly as possible past the door to Lady Catelyn's chambers, on to the stairs and then down. She descends, retracing every step in her mind. One wrong turn in the huge castle, still strange to her, and she will be lost, the plan over when it has barely begun. But her memory has served her well. The narrow servants' stair tucked away behind a column is right where it should be, leading down into darkness.
Behind her, she hears rustling footsteps and the faint clattering of armor – guards on patrol, but safely far off. When they pass by her door, they will have no idea that their charge has vanished in the night. Leave them to face Mother's wrath in the morning.
With one hand pressed tight against the wall for support, Sansa takes the slight, steep steps, her pace quickening as the precarious slant propels her downwards. When Lord Balman Manderly had first built New Castle in the century before the Conquest, he built his new keep with stone veins – a network of tunnels, stairs and back halls that connect every room of the upper halls and towers to the maze of kitchens and servants' quarters beneath their feet. It was these passages that granted Wynarfryd and no doubt many wanton Manderly youths before her covert passage to and from their chambers. And tonight, they will carry Sansa to her freedom.
At the bottom of the stairs, Sansa stops in the middle of a dark passage, poorly lit by scarce torches. She stops for a moment. To her right, she can smell the faint traces of the kitchens. To the left… she can smell nothing yet, but she can imagine the taste of salty fresh air. She turns, fighting the urge to break out into a mad dash, wanting to waste not another minute lingering in this place. But as she moves into the shadow, she feels a chill run down her spine, goosepimples bubbling on her arms and her breath catching in her throat as the sudden sensation of being watched crashes over her like an icy wave.
Who's there? She almost calls out, but better to stay silent and pray she has not been noticed than speak and remove any doubt. Slowly, she presses herself close to the wall, away from the dim torchlight, looking back and forth down the tunnel for signs of the shrouded intruder. But I'm the intruder, aren't I? I don't belong here. She gulps, and the noise sounds like thunder in her skull. There's no one here. No silhouettes moving towards her, no sound of footsteps, only darkness and the light plunks of water dripping from the arched ceiling above her head to pool on the bricks below. No one. And yet she cannot shake the feeling of phantom eyes boring straight through to her soul.
Sansa clenches her fists tight, pressing her nails sharply into her palm and forcing the sudden jolt of pain to shock her body back into motion. Ghosts are silly things to frighten little girls, Sansa scolds herself. There's nothing here that can hurt you.
Stepping forward, her foot lands in a puddle with a loud splash. She jumps forward, stumbling in the dark. In the corner of her eye, she swears she can see a shadow peeling off the wall, turning a head of darkness to face her. In that instant, all precaution rushes from her mind and Sansa takes off, abandoning her slow, careful pace for a swift walk, then a light run, until at last she has hiked up the hem of her dress, breaking into a sprint for the gate she knows waits at the end of the long tunnel. How long? Too long. She can still feel the eyes pursuing her, the raw sensation of something invisible in the dark, only a breath behind her, reaching out… reaching…
And then a blur of motion is in front of her, something real, something solid leaping into her path! Sansa tries to stop herself, slipping on the wet bricks and crashing to the ground. Her foot catches in her dress, a loud rip breaking the silence as she rolls over, pressing herself back against the wall, heart pounding desperately, as she looks up ready to face whatever apparition has captured her…
Instead, she sees Arya, pale face hovering in the darkness. The thin blade of her little sword glistens as it catches the light of the nearest torch.
"What are you doing?" She speaks, and Sansa has never been more grateful to hear her sister's voice. But as soon as the relief comes, it's gone. There is no ghost. But this is worse. So close, and now this?
"Seven hells," she curses under her breath, shocked by the sudden vulgarity. Wynafryd taught me something after all.
"What are you doing?" Arya asks again, staring down impatiently.
"Well, what are you doing here?" Sansa throws the question back at her as she picks herself up, brushing off the grime from the old dress. She feels the fresh, long tear along the hem. It could be worse. She glances down the hall, wondering if she can outrun Arya.
"I'm training. Syrio told me to practice in the dark."
"Is he here?" Sansa looks down the tunnel again, expecting the Bravossi swordmaster to jump out at any moment.
"No! No one else is here, it's the middle of the night!" Arya crosses her arms, the tip of Needle pointed at Sansa's feet. "Why are you here?"
"That is of no concern to you."
Arya looks her sister up and down, examining her old, poor dress and unkempt hair. She frowns. "Are you running away?"
"No!" Sansa snaps, but immediately realizes the ruse is over. Arya takes a step to the side, blocking her path.
"Where are you going? You won't get far; you haven't even packed anything."
"You can't tell Mother!"
"Tell her what, that you're running away?"
"I'm going back to King's Landing! I'm going to Joffrey!"
"No, you're not!" Arya's face snaps from confusion to anger in a heartbeat. "We're going to Winterfell! We're going to all be together again!"
"I don't want to go to Winterfell! I'm supposed to be queen!"
"You can't marry Joffrey!" Arya's voice is rising. Sansa takes another frightened look behind her. Her sister could wake the whole castle with her shouting, she knows all too well. But Arya shows no sign of stopping. "He's stupid and cruel! He hurt Bran! He's a bastard!"
"No, he's not!" Sansa whips back around, hand flying up, ready to lash out. Arya squeaks, jumping back, and suddenly the point of Needle has snapped into position, the pointed blade, nearly invisible in the dark, leveled squarely at her face. Sansa freezes, the breath gone from her lungs, looking into Arya's eyes for the first time. She can see the wolfsblood boiling behind them. And she can feel it rushing in the back of her own brain, years of annoyance and petty grievances panting wildly ready to be let loose. But instead, she stops. Slowly, she lowers her hand, steadying her heartbeat. "I love him."
"No, you don't! You can't!" Arya's voice weakens, returning to safer tones. She looks down at her hands, as if only now realizing what she's done with them. But the sword does not drop. Instead, she looks up to Sansa, the hard rage softening. "I won't let you."
"Arya…" Sansa searches her mind for the right words to say. But there are none. Not for this. She can only hope to make her understand, if only long enough to escape. She slowly extends the hand she had raised in anger moments before. Arya glances at it but does not yield. "I do love him. And I know he isn't perfect. But no one is. He can be better. I can make him better. Don't you think I would be good? As a queen?"
"Cersei was queen. And she wasn't good at all."
"I'm not Cersei!"
"You already tried! We all tried and look what happened!"
In the dark, tears begin to bead in the corners of Arya's eyes, glistening in the torchlight as they slowly slide down her cheeks. Sansa takes a step closer. Needle dips a little lower as Arya's grip grows shaky.
"We didn't fail," Sansa smiles. Her hand slowly finds Arya's, wrapped tight around the hilt, and gently pulls it down. Arya lets it fall until it hits the brick at their feet with the faintest scrape. "You never wanted to be a lady. You wanted to be a warrior. And look at you! You're better with a sword than any squire your age. Everyone tried to tell you no, but you didn't care, did you?"
Arya shakes her head stiffly, no.
"I used to think you were stupid for wanting that, but I know how you feel now! The moment Father told me I was going to be queen, I knew that was what I was meant for! And when it all fell apart, when everyone told me to give up, I still know that's where I belong! Just like you belong with Needle."
Arya looks up, a slight smile slowly uncurling on her face as Sansa takes another step closer. She can see the tears plainly now, her whole face glistening. "I don't want you to go."
"Don't you see? This is how our dreams come true! You will be a warrior and I will be a queen. Then no one will be able to stop us, not ever again."
At last, Arya's face collapses into Sansa's chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Sansa slowly returns the embrace, resting her chin on the top of Arya's head.
"Give me Needle," she whispers.
Arya backs away, confused, but slowly offers the sword. Sansa takes it, clumsily at first, the steel of the hilt feeling strange and unnatural in her hand. But, as carefully as she can manage, she holds it out before her, the other hand lifting Arya's long brown hair. Gently, she guides the blade up to the base of her sister's neck and begins to pull, slowly sawing through the poorly-combed mess. Strands fall away in thick clumps, sticking to her shoulders or catching in the air to float to the ground. Arya flinches as some cuts pull tighter than others, but she does not make a sound.
Finally, Needle slices through the last fistful of hair. Sansa steps back – her work in the low light is jagged and uneven. But the long, flowing hair Mother had so diligently maintained now lies scattered at Arya's feet. Like this, she looks exactly like Edward, Sansa realizes. She hands back the sword.
"Thank you," Arya whispers.
"Mother will be too mad that I'm gone to yell at you. Be brave for her."
"I promise."
"When I'm back, I'll send all the best knights to search for Edward. We'll find him."
Arya nods, silently, run out of words to say, but with a hopeful smile on her face.
"I'll see you soon," Sansa vows, and with that, she turns and is gone, off down the hall. She can feel the breeze from the gate on her face now – so close! She cannot let herself look back. But behind her, slowly fading into the darkness, Arya raises Needle in salute, her empty hand waving a final silent farewell.
At the Busker's Gate, Mycah is waiting – Therry, Fen, and Remus Locke with him. Mycah's three companions are dressed in drab, dirty grey and brown cloaks not unlike Sansa's. Mycah, however, stands in the uniform of the city watch, trident in hand in case any stray drunk or vagabond were to question their passing. As Sansa slips through the shadows of the gate and out into the cold night air, she sees the trident and only then breathes a long-brewing sigh of relief.
"You made it!" Mycah whispers, in a tone that assures her he never had any doubt.
"Did anyone see you?" Remus asks.
"No!" Sansa snaps back quickly, perhaps too quickly, but it does not seem to arouse any suspicions. Not wanting to linger long, in case Arya changes her mind, she hurries past them down towards the street. "We must hurry! Where is the ship?"
"Did you expect us to drag it here?"
"Remus!" Mycah hisses, silencing the younger boy. He looks back to Sansa, his irritation disappearing at once. "Fen brought your clothes. The rest of our supplies are already waiting onboard."
"Thank you," Sansa smiles as Fen hands her a heavy bundle, clasping it tightly to her chest. She can feel the dresses within, rough and lumpy and smelling of mildew and salt. This journey will not be a comfortable one. But she remembers the finery that awaits in King's Landing. Anything is worth that.
Without another word, their small party is off, Mycah leading the way. A cloudy night has dulled the moon and blacked out the stars, leaving the city lit only by flickering lamps that line the streets down to the harbor. Rain is coming, Sansa can tell, the moisture already heavy in the air and beginning to condense on the stones, leaving them slick beneath her feet. But she manages to stay upright, hurrying along at as fast a pace as can be allowed without arousing suspicion. At any minute, she expects the castle behind them to come alive, shattering the night with the sound of clattering armor as scores of guards run out to drag her back. But they never come.
As they near the harbor, Fen takes the lead, steering them off the main roads of the city, away from the huge shipyards of the Manderly fleet. In this direction, the buildings grow darker and more ramshackle by the block. They are far from the castle now, far from the Wolf's Den and even from the taverns that Sansa had ventured to with Wynafryd. Here, the city is not so asleep, with drunken noises, angry shouts, barking dogs and pounding doors sounding from the alleys and shuttered buildings as they pass. Sansa shuts them all out, instead listening to the soft smacking of the waves against the jetty. She keeps her eyes locked on Mycah's back, no longer allowing nervous glances behind her for fear of seeing some unsavory dealings transpiring in the night.
At last, Fen stops at a small, rickety pier, groaning its own ominous wooden song into the night as it shifts with the tide. Only a single torch shines here, at the far end, a sickly, greasy, yellow flame that wobbles like a drunken sailor. In the dim light, Sansa can see the pier tilting to the side and down, missing planks and nails jabbing upwards threateningly. She hesitates as the others step forward, almost turning back for a final look north at New Castle and the family within. But she spies Remus smirking as he watches her, no doubt preparing some new snide remark. And so she steps forward, over the water, the boards creaking in protest as her feet land delicately.
"Which one is ours?" she asks. Three small cogs are moored here, dark shapes bobbing idly on the water. Fen points to the furthest one. Sansa stifles a gulp, gasping her pack tighter to her chest and steps forward, past the others, carefully sidestepping the holes in the pier as she draws near. Shadows are moving on the deck… And then, a flash of light.
Sansa jumps back as a lantern bursts into flame just a few steps away from her. The bundle drops with a thud as she clasps her hands over her mouth to mute the scream trying to escape. Behind her, she can hear Remus laugh. But Mycah plants a strong hand on her shoulder as she looks up to see the scarred, dirty face staring down at her from beneath the orange light of the rusted lantern.
"Aye, you must be the princess," the face speaks, its voice rugged, like a hinge in bad need of oil. He chuckles, hooking the lantern into place to illuminate the splintered ladder leading up to the deck. "Ye can call me Tollett. Torbin Tollett. And this is the Barnacled Belinda, at your service."
"Thank you… ser… Torbin," Sansa slowly regains her composure. She glances at Mycah, who nods an endorsement before bending down to pick up her dropped bundle. He extends his free hand, holding her arm tight as she carefully climbs the uneven step onto the deck of the small ship.
"I'm no knight, m'lady, far from that. But you can call me Ser Torbin if ye like. I likes the sound of that." Torbin is a tall, thin man, his cheek bones so sharp that his face would be nothing but a skull if it wasn't for his patchy beard and ratty long hair. He steps aside to let Sansa move in as her companions climb up behind her. Waiting at the bow, another shadow moves.
Lady steps into the light, ears turned up with excitement to see her mistress once again. Sansa bends down to embrace the wolf and kiss her forehead. Lady still smells like the Wolf's Den. You would have liked to stay, wouldn't you? Sansa thinks. The wolves were meant for the North. But she couldn't imagine leaving her. We're both wolves, after all. We'll make out new home in the south.
Looking back, she sees Torbin signal to two towering shadows looming behind him on deck without introduction. They nod in silhouette and go to work unmooring the cog from the dock. With one hand still scratching Lady behind the ears, she steps over discarded rope and scattered nets towards the bow. Mycah follows, silent as the boat slips free, out into the open water of the harbor.
As they float away, a gap parts in the clouds above. Sansa can see the towers of New Castle now, rising high over the city, glowing white in the moonlight. For the first time, she is struck by the great keep's beauty. Could I have been happy here? she wonders for a fleeting moment but banishes the thought. There's no going back now.
"Are you ready?" Mycah whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the waves. Their hands rest beside each other on the railing, Lady between them.
"I think I've always been ready," she answers, but takes his hand anyway, clenching it in her left fist, her right holding tight to Lady as the water carries them away, away from the cold, from family, from the past, and to the future, to her destiny, to the crown.