In the Wolf's Den godswood, Sansa Stark can hear the faint echoes of Syrio and Arya training out of sight back in the yard. She pictures them in her mind's eye, now having watched her sister duel the swordsmaster so many times that she can begin to predict their moves, silently calling the next thrust or parry as her needle dips up and down. Mother is glad to see her retreat into needlework once again. But these days, she has grown fond of conjuring wolves and battled warriors from thread, rather than roses and fair maidens.
Now, she waits, sitting carefully on the stone by the pool before the weirwood, in one of the new grey and rose dresses the Manderlys had made for her, Lady's head resting in her lap. There is no wind today, but little sun either, the sky above the branches grey and listless. She can hear the sounds of sparring and, somewhere out of sight, squirrels shaking the treetops. But so far, no footsteps come her way.
Each day since that whirlwind night in the city, she has wondered if he would come. At first, she had feared he would tell Mother. But when she came to the table the next morning, struggling to conceal the lingering, painful aftereffects of the drinks she had lost count of, the only reaction she noted was the look of relief on the faces of the older girls who had misplaced her in the mayhem. In absence of a wrathful scolding, she can only assume that Mycah Manderly had not betrayed her. But he has not come to her either. In fact, she has not seen him since that night. Except in her dreams.
That much, not the secret parties or the lies and schemes, she was ashamed of. She should be dreaming of Joffrey. But lately, while she sleeps, it is Mycah who comes with his ocean eyes and waves of brown hair to carry her south in giant strides across the sea and place her safe upon the Iron Throne with a crown upon her head. But as of yet, he has only appeared to her in dreams – until last night, when a message was slipped beneath her door, bidding her to a meeting here. And now she waits, alone with her wolf and the weirwood and her worries.
At last, a crunching branch from behind her breaks the silence. Sansa and Lady snap their heads up to look as one. Mycah has come at last – and he is not alone. With him walk three companions – two boys and a tall girl, ducking her head under stray, unpruned branches as they come down the path.
The girl, Sansa can tell, is a servant, no doubt, and older, maybe even than Mycah, ten-and-six perhaps, or ten-and-seven. Her plain grey dress is dirty and stained and long black hair in a messy braid clearly done herself. Her face is darkly tanned by the sun, making her darker eyes look like twin black pits – whatever work she does, it must be outside.
Out of the two boys, Sansa marks the taller as the oldest. His hair is shaved down to his scalp, showing the burn marks of a recent infestation of lice, but the patchy attempt at a mustache he is attempting to grow shows that, were his hair to be there, it would be auburn… like Robb. His clothes are clean, but poor, and a large collection of keys jangles at his belt. A servant here in the cells, she imagines.
The shorter boy, unlike his companions, Sansa can see at once is highborn – his skin clean, brown hair down to his shoulders neatly combed, fine clothes in the muted brown and grey tones so popular among the Northern houses. She looks for a sigil to mark his family, but sees none, only small golden studs around his collar. He's thin, even thinner than the girl, making him seem younger than his years, but Sansa suspects him older than her but younger than Mycah. She swears she has seen his narrow face before, somewhere in the castle, but can't recall where.
"My lady," Mycah bows as he arrives beneath the tree. His two lowborn companions quickly follow suit, bending even lower in their courtesies. But Sansa's eyebrow arcs to note that the young noble declines, back straight.
"You brought friends," Sansa eyes the quartet cautiously.
"Oh!" Mycah's eyes go wide, as if suddenly realizing that she may be disturbed by the sharing of their secret with strangers. "I hope that's alright! I cannot hope to do this alone!"
"Of course, of course," Sansa stands, brushing grass and dust from her dress as Lady steps out to prowl around the group in a wide circle, sniffing the air suspiciously. "But only… who are they?"
"This is Therry!" Mycah, relieved, jumps quickly into introductions, pushing the tall boy forward, who snaps into another quick bow. "We grew up together. His mother is a washerwoman here, and now he's a turnkey."
"But I'll be a knight one day, my lady!" Therry flashes a proud smile of dirty, square teeth, his chest puffed out with certainty. Sansa finds that dream unlikely but… she realizes; Mycah wants a place on the Kingsguard from me. This boy wants a knighthood.
"This is Fen," Mycah gestures to the girl before Sansa can ponder the bargain further. "She's busked oysters up from the docks to the Wolf's Den for years. She'll know how to find us a ship."
Fen curtsies again, politely and silently, seeming reluctant to look at Sansa for too long. She returns the favor, turning quickly away to inspect the third stranger. Mycah leads him forward.
"And this is…"
"Remus Locke." The short boy cuts off Mycah to introduce himself, smiling back at Sansa as if expecting her to know him already. But while Sansa is quite familiar with the ancient history of House Locke, she has never heard of a Remus.
"And why are you here?" Sansa looks him up and down. The other two surely have no friends in New Castle who could turn her over to Mother. But this boy…
"As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a maester. But my father is intent on strapping a sword in my hand and marrying me off to some dull girl. Only I hear that you're in the business of granting wishes."
Sansa shoots a glare at Mycah, who sheepishly shrugs. "Why can I trust you? My lord father never cared for House Locke."
"I can't imagine he did," Remus smirks. "And my father certainly did not pass on to me any fondness of House Stark. And yet here we are. And your mother's guards have yet to appear to drag you back to her."
Sansa crosses her arms, sternly, summoning her practiced queenly authority. There's no point in arguing with the smug boy. If he betrays her, it's too late now, anyway. Best not to give him the satisfaction of argument. She turns back to Mycah.
"So – tell me. What is this plan of yours?"
Mycah bends down in the dirt and gravel to begin drawing, laying out the details of his scheme in careful, layered tones. Sansa listens closely, trying to take it all down to memory. Lady prods her nose into the back of her leg and she reaches down to idly scratch the wolf's head. As she does, her attention strays, drifting to the last, silent conspirator here in the clearing – the wierwood, its red sap eyes seeing all.
It's all coming together, she thinks. Each piece falling into place. It can only be fate. Pushing away her last scraps of doubt, she turns back to Mycah, dipping down to his side to be closer to the action, closer to the plan. This is the chance. I'm getting my destiny back, whatever it takes.
That night, Sansa arrives to what only she knows will be her final feast within the walls of New Castle. Sitting at the high table between Mother and Arya, only a few seats away from Ser Wendel and Lord Wyman, she takes in the surroundings one last time. She admires the beautiful murals and the lively music of the band in a new light – no longer one of begrudging acceptance, but one of fond appreciation here on the eve of departure. She imagines herself returning one day, crowned, with Joffrey by her side. He would like it here, she thinks. There was good hunting, she's heard, and he seems like the type of boy who would like boats.
And the food! The food brought up on steaming platters from the Manderlys' kitchens was, as always, delectable and overwhelming. Unsure when her next proper meal will be, Sansa eagerly accepts heaping helpings from each new dish thrust her way – lamprey pie and roast duck, oysters and lamb, roasted turnips and stuffed mushrooms, and of course all manner of deserts, most precious of all her beloved lemoncakes, washed down with rich red wine. She says yes to every offer until she cannot bear to answer any more, sinking deep into her seat to nurse her wine and nibble on the last of the lemoncakes, her overfull stomach straining the laces of her gown.
Glancing down at Lady Catelyn, it does not seem that she has made note of her increased hunger, something Sansa is relieved by as she swallows the last bite against her stomach's gurgling protests. She can't risk raising suspicions now, not so close to escape. But more than her mother, it is Lord Baelish – Littlefinger – or just Petyr, as he so insisted he be called – that she worries the most about. He had spies everywhere in the capital. No doubt he has them here as well. But tonight, the former Master of Coin seems undisturbed, bantering with Catelyn and the other members of the court that he has so seamlessly slipped into.
Fearing she will properly burst her seams if she stays at the table a moment longer, Sansa takes her leave, spying Wynafryd out on the ballroom floor, already dancing, waving her over. She gingerly follows down into the growing crowd, wishing away her burgeoning indigestion as she lets the music move her. For a moment, her eyes close and she is swaying alone to the tune of a song she does not quite know. But then Wynafryd has grabbed her hands, pulling her into the dance.
Sansa's eyes snap back open, finding Wynafryd holding her close, slipping into a slow dance all Northern girls learned nearly before they could walk, its rhythm almost matching whatever song it is the band is playing now. She is captivating, as always; skin flawless, warm eyes glowing, long brown hair tightly woven, her curves fitting perfectly into another elegant teal and silver gown – everything Sansa has always dreamed she would be as a woman grown. And suddenly, for all the anxiety this new friend has caused, she realizes just how much she will miss her.
"I'm sorry about the other night," Wynafryd smiles, her voice as soft as the loud room will allow. "I shouldn't have let you get lost like that. It was my fault. Sometimes I forget how young you are. You're so smart. And confident."
"Oh!" Sansa can't stop herself from blushing. "Thank you!"
"No, thank you for not telling your mother about our little getaway. We would have deserved it. But now we're safe."
"Of course! I wouldn't…"
"I know," Wynafryd pulls her in for a tight embrace as the song dies down; the band preparing for the next act. "The others had their doubts, but I knew from the day you walked in. You're like me. I'm glad we're going to be sisters."
She steps back, slipping her hand discreetly down her chest to retrieve her flask. Taking a quick swig, she offers more. But Sansa declines with a smile, fearing what the fiery drink would do to her bubbling stomach. Laughing, Wynafryd drops the silver shell back into her cleavage, spinning and bouncing away to join the other girls as a livelier, louder dance begins, pulling the last few reluctant guests down to the floor.
Sansa stands back, watching her go. She'll be good for Robb. He learned well from Father's ideals. But those ideals had not been enough to save Father. For all her wild indiscretions, he'll need a wife like her. Someone who knows the world and how it works.
"I'm glad the two of you are getting along," Catelyn's voice from behind startles Sansa. She turns to see her mother hovering close by, one hand extended.
"She's been very kind." Sansa accepts the hand, but instead of dancing, Catelyn leads her off the floor into a slow walk. Suddenly worried as to where this conversation may head, she blurts out. "You should say yes!"
"Yes to what?" Catelyn stops, a smile – rare of late – crinkling her face.
"To her marrying Robb."
"Now how would you know about that?"
"People talk…" Sansa shrugs, sheepishly, with a glance over her shoulder to the girls still dancing, hoping to deflect her mother's attention, that the next question will not be about her marrying Wendel.
"I know that all too well," Catelyn sighs, but does not seem disturbed. "Lord Wyman cannot keep a secret for all the gold in the world, it would seem." She pulls Sansa gently down to sit beside her on a lounge against the wall, watching the court in dance before them. "But you are not wrong. It is a fair offer, one I will be glad to share with Robb when he returns."
"Have you heard from him?" Sansa asks, sincerely but also determined to keep this conversation far from her own betrothal.
"No, nothing new from the Riverlands, I fear. He is ensconced at Stone Hedge, planning his next move against Lord Tywin and the Imp. But Ser Wylis has won a sturdy victory against the raiders here in the North. He believes they have been properly routed."
"That's wonderful!"
"It is indeed, thank The Seven. With these rogues thwarted, Lord Wyman believes that it will be safe for us to return to Winterfell."
That sends a shock down Sansa's spine. Winterfell? So soon? How soon? She looks up to her mother's face to see Catelyn looking back with more peace and relief than she has worn since she lost Father. And as she takes Sansa's hands lovingly in hers, pulling her close, the shame begins to sink in.
"We're going home, Sansa."
Sansa summons a smile, faltering, but leans in, burying her face in Catelyn's shoulder to hide the guilt she knows she cannot hope to conceal. She feels her mother's slow, soft breath as her arms wrap around her, stroking her hair.
"The war is almost done. Soon we will be back where we belong, all together again."
Sansa stays silent, breathing in rhythm, clasping Catelyn's hands tighter. Whatever it takes to make it seem she believes it's really true.
Far out from White Harbor, bobbing up and down on the inky black expanse of the Narrow Sea, two ships wait, sails limp on a windless night, finally falling quiet as the raucous crews beneath their decks at last collapse in slumber. All save one.
Ser Jaime Lannister stands alone on the creaking boards, looking up at the vast expanse of stars. He has taken the late watch most nights on this voyage west, unable to sleep for longer than a few uneasy moments since departing Pentos with the Brave Companions. These long nights standing sentry are the only peace he can find surrounded by the brash and unruly mercenary band.
He traces the constellations in his mind, following the spine of the Ice Dragon up to its pale blue eye, leading them North. He wonders if Tommen is watching the same star tonight. Cersei had taught their children all the symbols of the night sky. Or tried, at least. Tommen had always dozed off. And in Pentos, they have different names for the stars. If I ever see him again, what will he remember, Jaime wonders. What sort of boy will he be? And what sort of man will he think I am?
Lowering his head from the cold lights above, he sees he is no longer alone. A poor guard I make, he thinks, his silent companion having made it all the way to the bow while he was lost in thought. Stepping towards the dark silhouette, he stomps his boots loudly to announce himself. The figure turns back to him, revealing its face in the moonlight – Qyburn, the exiled maester.
"Good evening, Ser Gerold," the old man smiles. Jaime almost forgets his alias, cutting off an impulsive correction with a stern grunt. "It's a lovely evening, isn't it? Though poor wind for sailing."
"Better than a storm, at least." Jaime steps to the bow beside him, silently thankful for a slow approach. More time between him and the cursed work ahead. Leaning against the railing, he squints towards the dark horizon, almost imagining a pale glimmer in the distance. And as it lingers, he realizes it is not his imagination at all.
"That will be Widow's Watch," Qyburn muses, sensing what Jaime has spied. "I suspected we would be seeing it tonight." He turns to their left, where only darkness waits. "Due west to White Harbor from here."
"Where does Hoat mean to land us?"
"Isn't that your course to decide, ser?" Qyburn looks back to him with a wry smile on his face. "I was told you know these lands, that you would lead us to Winterfell?"
"Yes," Jaime answers, barely a word as he breathes it out. He wraps his fingers tight around the railing, leaning out until he can feel cold salt on his face. For a moment, he considers letting himself go, sinking down to the halls of the sea god. What was the horrid song Stannis' mad fool sang? It's always summer under the sea.
But no. The living world is not done with him yet. He turns his eyes up to face the horizon waiting to be revealed and imagines the high bluffs and frigid plains of the North. And beyond that – Winterfell. Whether I wish it or not, doom is coming for you. Doom at my hands.