The water of The Bite is dark on this cold morning as the small fisherman's cog Barnacled Belinda cuts a lonely path across the huge bay, due east toward the open sea. The ragged crew have sailed through the night, leaving White Harbor far out of sight by the time Sansa Stark stumbles back atop the deck from the small storage room that had been cleaned and scrubbed into a somewhat presentable private quarters for the young lady of Winterfell. Not that it had helped her sleep at all.
The Belinda was even more ramshackle than the boat Petyr Baelish had charted to carry them North after all the chaos that had befallen them in King's Landing. It creaked and groaned throughout the night, ever sounding on the verge of collapsing in on itself and dumping them all into the frigid waters beyond. For Sansa, her heart still pounding from the exhilaration of her flight from New Castle, that fear was enough to keep her eyes – now red and listless from exhaustion – pried open all night long.
Now, as she steps out from her stuffy, oyster-scented room and up into the cool, salty morning, she finally feels relief. The sea is calm, the grey sky cloudless, the rhythm of the water gentle beneath her feet. Lady rushes to greet her as she breathes in the fresh air, rubs her eyes clear, and takes in her surroundings by the light of day for the first time.
The Belinda is a rough-hewn cog of mismatched wood and rough edges, with a single sturdy mast flying a dirty sail. The deck is uneven and discolored, cluttered with nets, cages and crates. Its crew remains silently focused on their work. Removed from the shadows of night, they appear just as rough as their ship. Torbin Tollett is hunched, scarred and burned, swimming in an over-sized old captain's coat, rarely taking his hands off the wheel. His mates – one man and one woman – both tower over him with broad shoulders and skin darkened by long days in the sun, buried under heavy furs, some of which Sansa does not recognize. The motley crew conjures the image that Sansa had imagined for the wildings in Old Nan's stories. Deciding against trying at conversation with them, she turns to the bow, with Lady trotting eagerly at her side.
The sharp rapping of wood greets her as she steps carefully over a torn net to reach the front of the ship. Here, Mycah Manderly and Therry have cleared the clutter from a small circle and face each other with oars in hand. The turnkey's training as a knight has already started, Sansa thinks, amused. At first, the boys do not notice her, continuing to clatter the oars against each other. She watches quietly, idly scratching Lady behind the ears. Mycah holds his oar as confidently as his real trident, a strong grip with both hands steady, making careful jabs and parries. Therry, Sansa thinks, has probably never held a real sword before. His oar slips in his hands each time Mycah connects, his feet jumpy, eyes darting from back and forth with each move. But he's handling himself well enough. With much help from some mercy on Mycah's part, Sansa thinks, smiling.
"My lady!" Mycah snaps to attention as a quick pivot suddenly brings her into his view. He jumps backward, dropping his oar to his side. Therry, too slow to stop, finds his oar smacking hard against the squire's face with a loud crack.
"Mycah!" Sansa cries out, nearly tripping as she rushes to him. Therry's oar clatters to the ground, his face mortified as Mycah doubles over, clutching his nose. But as Sansa reaches his side, she realizes he's laughing.
"I'm fine!" he swears, straightening back up and wiping away the blood from his nose. He grins at Sansa, his teeth turned briefly pink. She grimaces at first but forces a smile in return. "My apologies if we frightened you, my lady."
"I wasn't frightened!" Sansa quickly insists, her concern immediately replaced by embarrassment. "Go on, get back to it! Don't stop on my account!"
She hurries back from them, sitting down on an overturned crate, careful to avoid splinters through her thin wool dress. She watches the boys impatiently, silently scolding herself for such a girlish outburst. Unbecoming of a queen, she thinks. A little blood should be nothing. Therry, however, is clearly nervous to pick up his oar again.
"Come on!" Mycah encourages him. "The knights in the yard never hit me like that! It means you're trying!"
Slowly, Therry takes up position, though his already shaky form is even more cautious as Mycah begins again, his parries slow and retreating. But as the old rhythm returns, his confidence grows with it. Sansa watches approvingly from her crate, holding herself carefully demure as the boys spar.
In the corner of her eye, she spies Fen approaching. She recognizes the same rough grey fabric from her own dress, and wonders if it is one the busker had worn years ago, before she grew so tall.
"Good morrow!" Sansa offers a cheerful greeting, but Fen only nods silently back, stopping to watch the training for a cruelly long silence. Sansa shifts in her uncomfortable seat. This trip had best be fast if she's to be the only girl I have to talk to on the way. But she keeps her face plastered pleasant, not betraying any inner annoyance. At last, Fen looks down at her.
"I can help you with your hair," she speaks, her voice dry, as if this is the first she has spoken all morning. "The braids you use will mark you as highborn."
"Oh! Of course!" Sansa regrets not having thought of that herself. Not that her attempt at braiding this morning in the cramped room was anything to boast of. She was unaccustomed to braiding by herself, leaving her hair tangled in a poor imitation of the elaborate designs she had worn in court.
Without another word, Fen kneels behind her, slipping her long fingers, hardened and scarred from years of carving up oysters, into Sansa's long auburn strands, gently tugging each knot and weave loose until it all hangs free against her back.
"How did you meet Mycah?" Sansa asks. There must be some way to pry a conversation out of her, she thinks. It was clear the older girl was attracted to the squire, and Sansa certainly can't blame her as they watch him together, swinging the decaying oar through the air like a greatsword with effortless precision.
"I sell to the garrison. He lives at the garrison," Fen answers, simple and to the point, as she begins to work on the new braid. That, it seems, is the only answer she deems worth giving.
"Well, what about this crew? Tell me about them."
Sansa feels a slight tug on her hair, as if each new question has made Fen more tense. But the answer comes, eventually.
"I buy oysters from Torbin often. He knows how to avoid attention. He takes the Belinda far north, beyond the trade waters."
"You mean he's a smuggler?" Sansa gasps, turning her head to face Fen, but grunting in pain as her grip on the braid does not yield, forcing her back into position. "You've brought us onto a ship full of outlaws!"
"You asked for someone who could get us out of the city unnoticed. And he did."
"I asked you to find someone we could trust! An honest man!"
"You'd do well to learn the difference between honesty and following the law, m'lady," Fen pulls Sansa's hair sharply back into place. "I think you'll be needing to learn a lot of things out here."
She's better off staying quiet if this is the sort of rudeness I can expect, Sansa thinks, arms crossed, her smiling façade growing ever heavier to hold. Doesn't she know how to speak to a lady? To a queen? She sighs, trying to relax into the feel of her hair being woven behind her. Still, she's all I've got.
"What about the others? His mates?"
"Uthor and Niamh. They come from the far north, too," Fen says, with some hesitation. "They don't talk much. I like that."
Sansa steals a nervous glance over to the hulking duo as they pick through the clutter, looking for something buried within. Could they really be wildings after all? Or even from Skagos? She had heard truly horrid tales about those tribes. A shiver runs down her spine, and she looks away, back to Mycah as he scores a flat blow across Therry's back with triumphant shout, followed immediately by more eager encouragement for his clumsy pupil.
Imagine if Mother knew the sort of company I'm in now, Sansa thinks with a smirk. But better here with crass smallfolk and wildings than back there with her, getting married off to Wendel Manderly. I'm free now. That's what really matters. With a sigh, she relaxes into Fen's work, saying a silent prayer to the gods for sending Petyr Baelish with the truth in time for her to flee the city unwed. When I return, she thinks, I will have to see he is well paid for that favor.
"Edward?!" Lady Catelyn Stark's harsh cry makes Arya jump as she is dragged into her mother's chambers. For an instant, she looks behind her, half believing to see her lost twin in the room with them. But no, she realizes, touching the ragged fringe of her freshly cut hair – it is only her. Like this, she looks identical to Edward. Or at least, would have, before Joffrey had left his face scarred.
"Come here, girl!" Catelyn beckons her draw near. She is dressed, but in a state of disrepair Arya is unfamiliar in seeing from her mother – gown wrinkled, hair unkempt, eyes red with tears. Reluctantly, she draws nearer to where Catelyn sits, sprawled on an overstuffed chaise, a plate of food untouched beside her. She reaches out to her daughter, but Arya stops, just out of reach. "By the gods, what has happened to your hair?"
"What's wrong, Mother?" Arya asks, hands clasped tight behind her back, leaning forward on her toes, hoping to deflect having to answer that question. She cannot betray Sansa's parting gift. Catelyn runs her hands through the rough edges left dangling above her shoulders once Needle's hasty handiwork was done.
"Who did this?"
"No one?" Arya answers sheepishly, remembering the words of Syrio's training. Fear cuts deeper than swords. And facing Mother like this was more frightening than any sword.
"Of course. No one," Catelyn sighs, shaking her head. But Arya can tell she has far greater concerns than hair. "When was the last time you saw your sister?"
"At dinner." The lie comes smoothly, without flinching, her heartrate steady. Syrio would be proud. A bravo's words must be as disciplined as his blade. "Why? Where is she?"
For a long moment, Catelyn does not answer, and Arya cannot tell if she believes her. She takes a moment to look over her mother's shoulder and around the room. Lord Wyman is collapsed in a chair in the far corner, sweating huge, nervous beads and avoiding eye contact with Catelyn at all costs while Ser Wylis anxiously paces the floor. Lady Leonna sits closer, trying in vain to comfort and calm her guest, but is paid no heed. Finally, the silence is broken as the doors swing open. Ser Marlon clatters in, with Jory Cassel and Petyr Baelish walking close behind. The stocky knight comes to a sputtering stop as he sees Catelyn waiting.
"There's no sign of her at the Wolf's Den, my lady! We've searched everywhere!"
"Clearly not!" Catelyn stands, pushing Arya down onto the lounge in her place. Her voice rises sharply to a pitch Arya has rarely heard before. "She must be here somewhere! She can't have simply disappeared! How could you let this happen?"
"I…I…" Marlon stammers, scratching at his breastplate, the straps holding his plate together twisted and mismatched in haste. He looks across the room for help from his cousin, but Lord Wyman continues silently staring out the window to the sea beyond, as if contemplating taking the leap.
"Out with it, ser! Where is my daughter?"
"I… we… We think she may have had some help in getting past the guards, my lady."
"Help?" Catelyn's eyes narrow into a deadly glare as she steps toward the shaking knight. "Help! What do you mean?"
"My… my eldest son is also missing. He had... erm... they had been seen in each other's company of late."
"Then find him! Find them both!" Catelyn waves Marlon out, the knight fleeing down the hall with loud clanging footsteps, back to the hunt. As the doors slam shut behind him, she turns slowly to look at Arya once again. "Now, Arya, you must think very carefully. Did Sansa say anything to you about running away? Where would she go?"
Arya gulps, shaking her head, but finding her mouth steeled shut. Thankfully, Baelish steps between them to her rescue, bearing the only calm face in the room. Catelyn stops, letting her breath calm. As he has so often since their arrival, he offers his hands up in comfort. This time, she does not pull away, as he gently takes hold of her shoulders, steadying her.
"I fear I may know the cause of this, my lady," he speaks slowly. Arya watches him carefully, with no doubt in her mind he has rehearsed this speech already. "Sansa did mention, once, the matter we had discussed before. Of her betrothal."
"Did she?" The icy stare begins to return to Catelyn's eyes as she looks up at Baelish. "What did you tell her, Petyr?"
"Exactly as you told me, that it was a foolish rumor and not to believe such things."
"And that was all?"
"That was all. But now I must consider that perhaps she did not believe me."
"Of course! I should have known," Catelyn sighs, taking a seat beside Arya. She puts her small hand into her own, pulling her close. Now Arya has no choice but to look directly into her mother's eyes. There is a desperation there, a fire burning, pleading and commanding all at once, with an authority that she cannot deny. She knows she has seen that look, only the night before. The same eyes that Sansa had in the tunnel.
"I don't know where she is," she whispers. That much was true. But she would not break her vow. Sansa had cut her hair. Sansa had understood. She owed her that much.
"She's gone to the capital, hasn't she?" Catelyn asks. Arya shakes her head, pulling her hand back to her chest. But it is clear Catelyn already knows the answer. Looking back to Baelish, she takes a deep breath. "Send the men to the docks. Not just the City Watch, but your own men, too. I know you have them. And I need them now, Petyr."
"It will be done," Baelish nods, and Arya detects the faintest hint of a smile.
"She is stubborn, but she is resourceful. And now she has a squire. She may be gone already. We must know the name of every boat that left last night and every man aboard them. Send word to every port between here and King's Landing, but only to men you trust. The Lannisters will be looking for her, too, and the Tyrells and The Father only knows who else. We must be first."
"We'll find her, my lady. I swear it."
And that, at least, Arya believes.
Sansa's new braid rests oddly on her back as she leans over the rail of Barnacled Belinda, peering out towards the southern horizon. It isn't a bad feeling, she has decided. Her hair is pulled and tightened in different ways, the tension balanced differently, where it pulls on her head and where it relaxes. It almost feels better than the old elaborate fashions her mother had taught her years ago – a weight off her shoulders. Though not such a relief as she had left Arya with.
The memory of her sister, standing there in the tunnel, hair cut so short and jagged, makes her laugh. She can't imagine why any girl would want short hair. But it had made Arya happy. And after so many years of bickering, it had made her happy, too. But it had also made her think of Edward – wherever he was. She could only hope he had made it to Oldtown. But in her heart, she doesn't believe it. He's out there, somewhere, lost. She can feel it. But just as surely as she knows he is lost; she knows that she can find him. A queen can do anything.
Eyes on the pale blue horizon, she imagines what King's Landing will look like when it first appears, beckoning her home. In her mind, the torches burn brighter than usual, the colors shine more brightly, and the walls are lined with trumpets. She can almost hear them now…
"Food will be up, soon, my lady," Mycah steps to the bow beside her. "Therry and I made sure to borrow some supplies from the kitchens in the Wolf's Den. Better than the hardtack and salt pork this lot usually eats."
"Thank you for that," Sansa smiles, remembering the bitter gruel they had been forced to eat on the journey north. "Who's cooking?"
"Fen," Mycah chuckles. "I don't think Torbin knew what to do with all that."
They laugh, sharing the thought of the ragged captain trying to serve up a fine northern dinner. But if there was one thing the Manderlys knew, it was food. Sansa smiles as her laughter trails off, noticing the dried blood stuck under Mycah's bruised nose.
"I am truly very sorry about that." She retrieves a handkerchief from within the folded pockets of the old dress, carefully wiping the dark crust away. He doesn't flinch as she cleans, instead looking back, the deep sea-green pools of his eyes unblinking. She glances off to keep from blushing. When she pulls the handkerchief away, he's wearing a matching smile.
"You really oughtn't be," he insists as she shakes the cloth clean over the edge of the boat, letting the flakes of dried blood float down to the ocean. "Like I told Therry, it's good to have a real fight. One doesn't get to be a Kingsguard without bleeding every now and then. My father, he…"
"You've said that before, what happened?" Sansa blurts out, immediately regretting it. But Mycah does not seem offended.
"Too much. Too much happened. My father thinks our line is cursed. He lost his parents, his siblings, finally…" he turns away, staring out to the open water. "It was a sailing accident. My mother loved the sea. A squall came out of nowhere. We lost her. My sister Maege. And my baby brother, Marstan. After that, father's scarcely let me or the twins out of his sight. Much less out of the city. I barely remember the world beyond White Harbor. He only wants to keep us safe. But it's like he's wrapped us in heavy blankets, too heavy. It's suffocating."
"I'm so sorry…" Sansa wishes she could find the right words. Losing her own father had nearly broken her spirit. She couldn't imagine this.
"Don't be," he looks back to her, his smile now less believable. "You're the one who got me out of there."
With nothing left to say, Sansa finds she can only lean into him, pulling him into a tight embrace until her face is shamelessly tight against his chest and she can feel his muscles through his quilted shirt, tensed nervously. But slowly, silently, he relaxes, accepting the kindness. We've both freed each other, she thinks. And we're never going back.
They linger for a moment, neither wanting to speak or move, only listing from side to side with the rhythm of the waves beneath them. Until the blunt stomping of approaching feet shocks them back to the present moment. Pulling apart, they see Fen and Remus staring at them. A dark look has fallen over Fen's face as she glares at Sansa. But Remus' scowl is of an altogether different nature – one of sheer indignation. He gestures angrily to his feet – pants and shoes sopping wet, pooling water on the boards of the deck.
"We seem to have sprung a leak."