Chapter Text
Days passed, but the encounter in the black cells stayed fresh in Sansa's mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about Storm Eyes—his calm precision in dealing with the guards, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her. He wasn’t like the rest of them.
But who was he?
The question gnawed at her. The mere presence of him commanded attention; they way he moved when he had dispatched the drunken men had been skilled, much more skilled then a mere guard. And there was something in his eyes, a heavy weight that she had seen in the eyes of soldiers returned from war. She had been a small girl when her father and his men had come home from the Greyjoy rebellion: but even then she had seen the horrors that echoed within their eyes. Flashes of a tall man with saddened blue eyes lingered in her mind from that time.
She waited for his next visit, listening intently for the familiar sound of his boots on the stairs. When he finally appeared, carrying her evening meal, she studied him carefully as he placed the plate on the floor near the bars.
"You’re late tonight," she said, her tone casual, though her heart raced several beats faster then normal.
"I had other matters to attend to," he replied simply, stepping back into the shadows.
She didn’t know that his delay had been spent elsewhere in the Red Keep—scouring its hidden corridors, marking the guard rotations, mapping out the paths least watched. He had not come to the dungeons to linger in helplessness. He had come with purpose. And time was running short.
"You don’t belong here," she said, echoing her earlier words. This time, she leaned forward, her voice sharper. "You’re not one of them."
He didn’t respond, but his silence was answer enough.
"Who are you?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing.
"It’s better if you don’t know," he said, his voice low and guarded.
"Why? What are you hiding?"
For a moment, she thought he would walk away. But instead, he leaned closer to the bars, his stormy eyes meeting hers.
"Knowing the truth won’t help you, my lady," he said, the title slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.
Her breath caught. "You know who I am."
"Everyone knows who you are," he replied, though his tone was too careful, too rehearsed.
Sansa narrowed her eyes, her mind racing. "You’re no guard. You speak like a lord."
He didn’t deny it.
Her mind began to spiral. Who was he?
Stannis did not leave the dungeons immediately after delivering Sansa's meal. Instead, he navigated the winding tunnels beneath the Red Keep with careful precision, slipping into the hidden passageways known only to a few.
Varys was a creature of whispers, a man Stannis neither trusted nor liked, but even he had to admit—the Spider's web stretched far, and its strands trembled with information Stannis could use. He had no illusions about their uneasy alliance. Varys did not help out of kindness, nor out of loyalty, but because he had deemed Stannis the likelier piece on the board to shift the game. A dangerous thing, to be a piece rather than the player. But Stannis was no one’s pawn.
He found Davos waiting in the shadows of a forgotten corridor, his posture stiff, his eyes wary. The Onion Knight was many things, but he was not a man built for deception. He had served smugglers, he had bent the rules, but he was no spymaster, no whisperer in the dark. Yet, he was the one man Stannis trusted.
“We’ve confirmed what we can,” Davos said quietly. “The city’s too well-guarded to take her out by force. The wedding keeps the eyes of the nobility distracted, but the Gold Cloaks are thick around the Keep.”
Stannis clenched his jaw. A siege of the Red Keep was out of the question, and an open show of force would only get Sansa killed. He had failed her once before—failed Renly, failed his men, failed so many. He would not fail here.
“And the Lannisters?”
Davos grimaced. “Cersei barely leaves Maegor’s Holdfast. Varys has had no word on efforts for a retaliation, though it is doubtful those men ran to her when they failed.”
“ Joffrey is occupied with the preparations for his nuptials, and there’s talk of Tywin moving men—likely securing his hold. But…” He hesitated. “Varys’ little birds say Tyrion Lannister has been looking into Sansa’s whereabouts. He knows something’s amiss.”
Stannis exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his side. Tyrion. Of all the Lannisters, the Imp was the only one Stannis might consider intelligent. If he was digging, then their time was running out.
“Then we must act before they do.”
Davos shifted. “There’s a ship waiting in the bay,” he continued. “The Mud Gate is watched day and night. Even if we slip past the guards, the current in Blackwater Bay will be treacherous. It’s not the sort of route we can take lightly.”
Stannis straightened, his fingers curling into fists.
“We don’t have the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment. Every day she spends in that cell is another day she grows weaker. And if Cersei decides to act again, there is no guarantee that I may interrupt it.”
Davos raised an eyebrow. “You’re certain about this, then? About taking her with us?”
Stannis shot him a glare, his temper flaring. “I didn’t come to this cursed city to leave her behind. Sansa Stark is not some piece to be sacrificed.”
Davos held up his hands in a placating gesture.
“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”
Failure was not an option.
He had watched her, had seen the strength beneath her grief. The way she carried herself, even when covered in dirt and bruises, even when the world had given her every reason to break. She did not cower, not truly. She endured.
Would she hate him for what he was? For what he had done?
Stannis had never been a man who sought approval, nor one who concerned himself with how others perceived him. Duty had always been his guiding star, not love, not admiration..If she knew the truth of him—of the things he had done, of the choices he had made—would she recoil? Would she spit his name like a curse, the way the North spat at the mention of his flames?
Would she see him as the monster they claimed he was?
He could not be certain what she had been told. The Lannisters were liars, and Cersei in particular was a serpent. Perhaps she had filled Sansa’s head with falsehoods, painted him as a usurper, a villain who sought to destroy all she held dear. Or perhaps the truth was worse than any lie—perhaps she would condemn him for his real sins, for Renly, for the fire, for the sacrifices he had made in the name of his cause.
Would she look at him and see the shadow that had stolen a king’s life?
Would she see the burned corpses, the pyres he had lit?
Would she hear the whispers of his name, spoken in fear and scorn?
It did not matter.
He had never been a man to waver. His course was set.
She could loathe him. She could curse him. It changed nothing.
He would see her free, even if she never looked back.
Even if, once the cold stone of the Red Keep was behind her, she cast his name into the depths of her memory and let it sink without regret. Even if she looked upon him with nothing but fear and revulsion, as if he were no better than the men who had tormented her in this hellish place.
He did not expect gratitude, nor kindness, nor understanding. Stannis Baratheon had never been a man who inspired softness in others.
He was not her knight, nor her hero.
But he would be the one who freed her, no matter what it cost.
Stannis inhaled sharply and gave Davos a curt nod.
“We move at your word my king,” he finally said. “Chaos will be our ally.”
Davos let out a humourless chuckle. “It always is.”
Stannis turned away, back toward the dungeons, back toward the girl with fire in her hair and grief in her eyes. He did not know what awaited them, only that for the first time in years, he had a chance to make something right.
And he would not waste it.
When he returned, like clockwork, his back to her cell door; she watched him carefully, her mind racing.
“Do you have a family?” she asked suddenly, breaking the ever present silence.
He froze for a moment, his back tensing “Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious,” she said. “You don’t talk much, but when you do, it’s clear you’ve lost people. Was it your wife?”
His jaw tightened, and for the first time, she saw something flicker across his face—a crack in the armour he wore so well. He was married then?
“Eat,” he said curtly, his tone sharper than usual. Avoiding her questioning.
She didn’t move, standing her ground. “You’ve lost someone, haven’t you? Someone important.”
“Everyone has lost someone,” he replied, his voice low. Turning to face her as she stepped closer. They were almost face to face. Her delicate pale hands, gripping the bars. "You don’t belong here. You’re not like them. I know you’re not. Why are you here?". Her voice was almost pleading. She was so lost in misunderstanding. She couldn’t fathom why he was so different, when everyone else had gone out of their way to harm her.
He met her gaze, and for a moment, she thought she saw something raw, something vulnerable. But then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.
"You’re not eating enough," he said.
She blinked at the shift in his voice—still firm, still measured, but with something else woven into it. He spoke as if he cared for her well being.
"I don’t have much of an appetite," she admitted.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He hesitated, then, before she could react, reached through the bars. His fingers brushed against her wrist—rough, calloused, but shockingly gentle. He meant to pull away, she could tell, but he hesitated just a moment too long. She was so soft. Even covered in layers of dirt.
Sansa's lips parted, her head tilted up to meet his hidden gaze: he was one of the few who wore their helm religiously. Oh, seven hells his touch was warm.
"You’re cold," he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, just barely, before he withdrew.
When he looks at her, when she tilts her head just so, lips parted as though she wishes to say something but holds it back… he thinks of Shireen, waiting for his approval. Waiting for a man who never gave enough.
And he wonders—when had Sansa begun waiting for him?
The warmth of his touch lingered as he stood. His expression hardened, as if he had already regretted the lapse in control.
"Eat," he said, his voice quieter now.
The warmth of his touch lingered as he turned to leave, and in the dim light, her heart raced once more.