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Chapter Text

The black cells were suffocating, a rotting tomb thick with the stench of damp stone, mildew, and despair. Sansa Stark had spent weeks—perhaps months—forgotten in the dark. Time blurred without light, each endless moment marked only by the skittering of rats across the floor and the distant, anguished screams of other prisoners.  

But there was one other presence.  

He had no name. He never spoke beyond a grunt when she dared to address him. To Sansa, he was just Storm Eyes. A shadow in the dim torchlight, he patrolled her prison with measured steps, the heavy clank of keys against his leather-clad hip the only warning of his arrival. At first, she despised him as she did all who served the Lannisters, her hatred burning bright even in her weakened state. But he was... different.  

He never sneered at her like the others, never leered or mocked her misery. He didn’t throw her food to the floor in some cruel display of power. No, he placed it down carefully, his movements almost deliberate, as if to remind her that she was still human. And unlike the others, he was reliable. Ever since he had appeared, her sporadic meals had become routine—twice a day, without fail.  

But it was his eyes that lingered in her thoughts, long after he vanished into the shadows. Beneath the steel of his helm, they burned like a storm over a restless sea—fierce, relentless, and brimming with something she couldn’t name.  

“You don’t belong here,” she whispered one night, her voice hoarse from disuse as he slid a plate of bread and cheese through the rusted bars.  

For the first time, he hesitated. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the hard planes of his face, over the broad shoulders that filled the narrow corridor.  

“Neither do you,” he said at last. His voice was low and rough, scraping over her skin like the crackle of distant thunder.  

Her breath caught. It wasn’t a voice meant for comfort, but neither was it cruel. It was steady, unbreakable, as if no force in the world could shake him.  

“Why do you care?” she murmured, curling in on herself. She was a traitor’s daughter, abandoned to rot. What did it matter to him?  

He said nothing. Instead, he stepped back into the darkness, his silhouette disappearing down the corridor. The clinking of his keys grew fainter with each measured step, until she was alone once more.  

Stannis Baratheon cursed under his breath as he ascended the winding stairway, emerging from the suffocating depths of the dungeons into the cooler halls above. This mission was madness, and he knew it.  

Sneaking into the heart of King’s Landing as a mere guard was a risk even he would have deemed reckless under different circumstances. A king in his own right, the brother of the last—if someone recognized him… But who would?  

He had been a ghost in this city long before Robert’s death. He had no taste for feasts or revelry, no patience for courtly intrigue. The men who had once known him well were the shipwrights, the blacksmiths, the ones who toiled in the shadows while his brother drank in the light. His beard was thick against his jaw now, streaked with the weight of years. His shoulders had broadened, hardened by war, and his eyes—gods, his eyes had darkened with the horrors he had seen. He was no longer the man who had once commanded fleets in his brother’s name. He was something else now.  

Davos had tried to stop him. Send one of your men, his oldest friend had urged. But Stannis had never been a man to delegate his burdens. And if he was being honest with himself, it was not duty that drove him this time.  

It was her.  

He should have forgotten her by now. A girl he had met once, years ago, barely more than a child. But she had seen him, truly seen him, in a way few ever had. In a world that had offered him nothing but cold indifference, she had given him kindness, without expectation, without gain.  

And now, she was alone. Forgotten. Left to rot in the dark like something disposable.  

The thought sat heavy in his chest.  

She had no family left to fight for her. A mad aunt in the Vale, a bastard brother at the Wall—no one to stand in her stead.  

But he would.  

And gods help anyone who stood in his way.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 

The rebellion had hardened him. War had carved its mark into him, leaving little space for sentiment or softness. Yet, when word had reached him of Sansa Stark locked away in the depths of King’s Landing, forgotten in the black cells, the memory of that day in Winterfell had come rushing back like a tide breaking over stone.  

The Great Hall of Winterfell was quieter than usual, the warmth of the roaring hearth unable to banish the tension that lingered in the air. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been crushed, but the North was still recovering from the cost of war. Lords gathered to feast and exchange stiff pleasantries, but there was an undercurrent of weariness that even Eddard Stark’s steady presence could not dispel.  

Stannis Baratheon stood near the far end of the hall, apart from the crowd. His dark gaze swept the room as if searching for an escape. The victory over the Ironborn had brought him no satisfaction, only a grim sense of duty fulfilled.  

He disliked Winterfell’s noise, the incessant chatter and laughter grating on his already strained patience. The great hall was alive with the sounds of feasting—booming voices, the clatter of tankards against wooden tables, and the scrape of knives carving through roasted meats. Somewhere to his left, a man bellowed a drunken toast, his words slurring together as others cheered and slammed their fists against the table in approval. 

The steady hum of conversation was broken now and then by bursts of laughter, loud and raucous, the kind that made his teeth clench. Servants wove through the chaos, their hurried footsteps barely audible over the din as they refilled goblets and heaped more food onto already overflowing plates. The scent of spiced wine and roasting boar thickened the air, mingling with the scent of sweat from too many bodies pressed into the hall. 

Near the hearth, a group of musicians struck up a lively tune, the twang of a lute and the steady beat of a drum adding yet another layer to the cacophony. A woman’s voice rose in song, clear and sweet, but even that could not soften the restless agitation prickling beneath Stannis’s skin. The feast was yet another display of the pomp and merriment that came so naturally to his older brother Robert but left Stannis cold.

He reached for the goblet of water and lemon in his hand, taking a small sip; gods, he had missed the satisfying tartness of lemons. The sharp citrus bite cut through the heaviness of the feast, cleansing his palate in a way ale and wine never could. It was a simple pleasure, one of the few indulgences he allowed himself. 

The cold water soothed his throat, the faint bitterness of the rind balancing the sour tang in a way he found oddly refreshing. Too often, he had to settle for plain water, but nothing compared to the crisp clarity that lemon brought. He had gone too long without it. He took another sip, savouring the fleeting comfort—until a soft voice startled him.

“Lord Stannis?”  

He turned and looked down, his stern features stiffening out of habit. Before him stood a young girl, her auburn hair braided neatly and her blue eyes wide with curiosity. She was slight, dressed in a simple gown of pale blue trimmed with white.  

It took him a moment to place her. Sansa Stark, Eddard’s eldest daughter.  She couldn't have been more then four or five namedays old. Yet she stood tall, her eyes raised to connect with the lords. 

“My lord,” she said again, her hands clasped in front of her. “Are you enjoying the feast?”  

Her words were polite, practiced. Clearly, she had been raised to mind her courtesies. Stannis’s frown deepened. “Feasts are a poor use of time,” he said gruffly. His back tensed- wary of the attention from a child. His youngest brother, Renly, was around the same age as the girl, perhaps a bit older, and he had spent little time with him since his birth. Leaving his brother to the dutiful maids and maesters who taught him his lessons and tucked him into bed at night since the fateful day where their parents ship had been caught in a storm, as they pulled into shipbreaker bay. 

Sansa’s brow furrowed slightly at his tone, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him in a way that made him feel increasingly more uncomfortable.  

“You look sad,” she said softly.  

“I’m not sad,” he replied sharply, though he found himself averting his gaze from her penetrating stare. 

“Not sad, then,” she said, her voice quiet but certain. “But you’re not happy either.”  

The observation caught him off guard. He was not accustomed to being read so easily, least of all by a child. He cleared his throat, his discomfort evident. “A lord’s duty rarely leaves room for happiness.”  

Sansa nodded solemnly, as if she understood. “That’s what my father says too. He says duty is the foundation of honour.”  

“A wise man,” Stannis said curtly.  

For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze drifting toward the long tables where her family sat. Then, as if coming to a decision, she straightened and said, “Wait here, my lord.”  

Before he could respond, she turned and hurried away, her small figure weaving through the throng of guests. Stannis frowned, unsure of what to make of her abrupt departure.  

Minutes later, she returned, holding something carefully in her hands. She approached him with the same determination as before, her cheeks flushed with what he assumed was excitement.  

“This is for you,” she said, holding out a small square of cloth.  

He took it hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. It was a handkerchief, embroidered with a golden stag in the centre. The stitches were uneven, the thread pulled too tight in places, but the effort was clear. Surrounding the stag were small red and white flowers, their petals clumsily stitched but recognisable.  

“I made it myself,” Sansa said, her voice tinged with pride. “The stag is for your house, and the flowers are for the South and the North, because you are our guest.”  

Stannis stared at the handkerchief, his expression unreadable. He was not a man who received gifts, especially not gifts made with such care. The uneven stitches and childish design only made it feel more sincere.  

“You made this?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.  

“Yes,” she said eagerly. “Do you like it?” Looking down at her slippers with rosy cheeks. 

He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Kindness was foreign to him, and he had no idea what to do with it. Finally, he nodded stiffly. “It’s… acceptable.”  

Her head shot up, face lit up with a smile, the kind of smile that could only belong to someone untouched by the cruelties of the world. “I’m glad,” she said. “You can keep it, my lord. So you’ll remember Winterfell.”  

Before he could respond, she curtsied and darted back to her family, leaving him standing there with the handkerchief in his hand. A hand that had been stained with blood.  

Stannis stared down at the small square of fabric, its edges neatly embroidered with tiny red flowers. A child’s gift, given with innocent kindness, yet it sat heavy in his palm, as if it carried a weight far greater than its size. His hands had known steel and slaughter, had signed the deaths of men and wielded justice with an unflinching grip. They were not the hands to receive such a delicate thing. 

What did the girl see in him, to approach him so boldly? Not warmth, surely. He had never inspired ease, least of all in children. And yet she had looked up at him with wide, solemn eyes and offered her gift without hesitation.   

He should not keep it. He had no use for such things. And yet his fingers curled around the cloth instead of discarding it. He told himself it was merely courtesy, that it would be improper to toss aside a gift given in good faith. But a deeper part of him, one he rarely acknowledged, wondered if he had ever been given something so freely before.

For the rest of the evening, he kept it tucked into his belt, his fingers brushing against it absentmindedly as he endured the feast. He didn’t understand why the small, clumsily stitched cloth felt heavier than it should have, or why he kept it when he returned to Dragonstone.  

The realisation had struck him like a blow: no one else had ever shown him such simple, unprompted kindness. She had seen him—not as a fearsome Baratheon lord or a battle-worn soldier, but as a man. A man who looked sad and needed kindness. 

His first instinct had been to ignore the news. What could one girl’s fate matter in the grand schemes of war and power? But the memory of her quiet compassion had refused to fade. In the cold, rigid confines of his mind, where duty and justice reigned, the thought of her wasting away in the dark felt… wrong.   She had once reminded him of the North’s warmth, its unyielding kindness, and the fleeting possibility of something more. To ignore her plight now would make him the very man he despised: someone who took without ever giving in return.  

He set the handkerchief down carefully on the table beside him, his jaw tightening with resolve. Sansa Stark had offered him kindness when no one else had, and though years had passed, the weight of that memory demanded action. He would save her.  

Something demanded it within him.  

Not duty.  

Not honour.  

Something older, something nameless, something that stirred in his blood like an oath unspoken. It was not the rigid code of justice that had guided his every decision, nor the stubborn loyalty that had bound him to his brother’s crown despite the weight of resentment. This was different—deeper, more instinctive. It was a pull, a certainty, a command that did not come from gods or men but from within himself. A need to act, not because it was right, nor because it was expected, but because it was. Because he must.  

His life had been shaped by duty, by rules carved into his very being, but this… this was not duty. It was not obligation.  

It was possession. It was instinct. 

It was her. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

He hadn’t expected the girl to be so... composed, even in her misery. Her eyes reminded him of her mother, Catelyn Tully—fierce but guarded, as though life had chipped away at her piece by piece, yet she refused to shatter completely.

He wasn’t sure when he had started lingering outside her cell longer than necessary, listening to the soft murmur of her voice, the occasional hum of an old song, or the quiet sobs she tried so hard to stifle. He wasn’t sure when her pain had begun to stir something in the cold recesses of his heart.

Days passed, and Sansa began speaking to him in earnest, even when he did not respond. She spoke of Winterfell, of her family, of the dreams she still clung to despite the nightmare she lived in. She didn’t know why she spoke—perhaps because, in the unrelenting darkness of the black cells, his silent presence was the only comfort she had left.

"You remind me of the North," she murmured one night, her voice softer than usual.

He tilted his head slightly, the shadow of his helm obscuring his face. "How so?"

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "The winter storms, ser. They are unyielding. Unforgiving. But beneath them, something strong. Something steady."

He didn’t reply. But the fingers at his side brushed absently against his pocket, where a small scrap of soft cotton lay. 

When the other guards were drunk on stolen wine, he slipped through the dark corridors and into the cell, pressing a piece of roasted meat and a flask of water into her hands—better fare than the rancid scraps she was usually given.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, wide-eyed. Sansa hadn’t seen meat in months. Hee mouth watered at the sight, at the scent of the roasted lamb. 

"Does it matter?"

She hesitated only a moment before taking it gratefully, eating in slow, careful bites as she studied him more closely than ever before.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Silence stretched between them. She thought, perhaps, he would ignore the question altogether. But then, his voice, rough and low, broke the quiet.

"Because I’ve seen too many innocents die."

The words struck her like a blow, reverberating deep within her chest. She stared at him, and for the first time, she felt as though she was seeing beyond the armour, beyond the helm that concealed his face, beyond the shadows of him.

"Who are you?" she whispered, her heart hammering.

Beneath the heavy helm, his jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek twitched—a shadow of movement just beneath the rim, where torchlight barely kissed the sharp cut of his chin and the ghost of his lips. But his face remained obscured, hidden beneath steel and shadow.

She had never seen his face. Not fully. Not once. It gnawed at her. How could a man with so much presence—so much strength—be content to remain a shadow in the darkness? What was he hiding? Was it more than just his identity?

He did not answer.

Instead, he turned and walked away, the heavy echo of his footsteps softening as he grew further from her. 

"Wait!" she called after him. "Please."

But he was already gone, his footsteps swallowed by the endless dark.

She was left in the silence, the emptiness pressing in from all sides.

She slumped back against the cold stone, the raw sting of unshed tears burning in her eyes. Why did it matter? Why did his presence matter so much to her?

She had no one now. Her family was gone. She had been abandoned by them all, left to rot in the black cells.  And yet... when he was near, even in the silent shadows of her cell, she felt something—something—that she had not felt in so long.

It wasn’t just the food, though the roast lamb had been the first thing she’d tasted in months that didn’t make her stomach twist. It wasn’t the water, though she had been parched for days. It was him. The way he watched over her. The quiet vigilance that seemed to say, without words, I see you.

And yet, she couldn’t even ask his name. He kept his distance, both physically and emotionally. He remained an enigma—a man who appeared only when the others were gone, offering her fleeting moments of comfort, then disappearing back into the shadows without a trace.

Who are you?

It had been a question that gnawed at her for days. She had seen soldiers come and go in King’s Landing—men with faces, men with names. But this one... Storm Eyes, as she had come to think of him... he was different.

Every time he approached, there was a stillness to him. As if he was weighed down by some invisible burden. It made her feel—strangely—less alone.

Yet, in her heart, she knew the truth.

He was a guard. He was part of the system that had imprisoned her here. He couldn’t be trusted, no matter how much he seemed to care.

But then... there were the moments. The times when he’d bring her food, when his silent gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary. He wasn’t like the rest. And that terrified her.

The more she thought about him, the more questions she had. Why did he help her? Why risk so much? She’d seen the cruelty of the Lannisters firsthand—no one was kind in King’s Landing. And yet... there was something in his eyes.

"Because I’ve seen too many innocents die."

The words cut through her like a blade. He had said it so simply, so quietly, but the weight of them crushed her chest. She had heard the stories of how the Lannisters had taken her family, how they had twisted her future. But she had never imagined she would find an ally in the midst of it. Not in a place like this.

"Who are you?" she had whispered into the dark, her voice trembling.

She wanted to know who he was. She needed to know.

But no answer came. And with each passing moment, the silence between them grew heavier, thicker.

Maybe he was right to keep his distance.

He had told her nothing about himself. Not a name, not a reason for his strange kindness. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him—or if she even wanted to. Was it foolish to hope for something more, for some glimmer of light in this endless darkness?

But in the quiet, in the stillness of the cold cell, she couldn’t help but wonder... Could he be the one to take her away from this place?

But no. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that. Not anymore.  She had nothing left but the chains that bound her. Nothing would change.

Still... every time his presence lingered in the darkness, she found herself wanting to believe it could. Maybe one day, he would take her away from here.

The truth was a burden Stannis knew he could not keep hidden forever. He was not meant for shadows and deception—he was a man of fire and justice, of law and duty. And yet, here he was, cloaked in darkness, risking his life for a girl he barely knew.

But every time he looked into Sansa’s eyes, saw the quiet strength she carried despite her suffering, he was reminded of why he had come.

She deserved better than this.
Better than a cell.
Better than the cruelty of the Lannisters.
Better than him.

And yet, every night, he found himself descending those stairs, drawn to her like a ship seeking harbour in a storm.

Still, watching over her in the dark was not enough.

He had begun laying the groundwork—careful whispers in the right ears, bribes passed with a heavy hand, threats where needed. The Lannisters thought they had won, that he had been broken after Blackwater, but their arrogance made them blind. He had men in the city still, loyal ones who had not bent the knee to the boy-king. Gold cloaks who looked the other way, dockhands who spread false rumours, a captain with a fast ship waiting for the right signal.

But it wasn’t enough to get her out—it had to be done right. If they were caught, she would be killed, and he would be executed as a traitor before he ever reached the throne.

No, he had to be patient.

A final piece remained, the most dangerous step of all. He needed to slip her past the gates, past the Red Keep’s many eyes, past the spies that infested every street in King’s Landing like rats feasting on a corpse.

Soon.

So he waited. Measuring each step carefully, each piece upon the board like a commander surveying his army. Readying to strike. Strike hard, strike fast..

He knew one thing for certain

He would not leave King’s Landing without her.    

Chapter Text

The heavy iron doors to the black cells groaned open, the sound reverberating through the damp stone like a beast awakening from slumber. Sansa froze. It wasn’t time for her meal.  

The air was thick with mildew and rot, the ever-present stench of stagnant water mingling with something fouler—the unwashed bodies of the men who patrolled these depths. But the footsteps that followed were not the measured, deliberate ones of Storm Eyes. These were erratic, boots scraping against the uneven floor, punctuated by the jangle of keys and the slurred voices of drunk men.

“Been too long since we had a pretty one in our hands,” one of them growled, his voice thick, his breath ripe with the stench of ale fouling the stifling air of the black cells.. “Pretty little wolf, all locked away, forgotten by the world.”

Sansa’s heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. The torch they carried flickered wildly, sending long, distorted shadows dancing across the damp walls. The flame’s glow illuminated their grinning faces—cruel, hungry, filled with the kind of malice that made her stomach churn.  

One of them clutched a dagger, the steel glinting with each movement, catching the sickly light and flashing like a predator’s eye in the dark.  

“Leave me alone,” she said, forcing steel into her voice, though her hands betrayed her, trembling where they clutched at her thin, tattered blanket.

The men chuckled, the sound rough and jagged like gravel grinding beneath boots.  

“Oh, don’t fret, girl,” the dagger-wielder sneered. His breath reeked of sour wine and rotten teeth. “We’re just here to remind you that ain’t nobody coming for ya. Nobody cares.”  

The words bit like salt in an open wound. 

Sansa pressed herself against the cold stone wall, its damp surface seeping through her dress, chilling her to the bone. The cell smelled of rust and despair, of mold growing unchecked in the cracks between the stones.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust.  

The men stepped closer, blocking out the flickering light, casting her deeper into shadow.

Then as fear began to rear its ugly head a voice cut through the stagnant air like a blade striking flint.  

“That’s far enough.”  

The guards turned, and there he stood—Storm Eyes.  

The torchlight caught him as he stepped forward, glinting off the steel of his vambraces, the polished edge of his sword. His presence filled the narrow corridor, the weight of him pressing against the stale air. Beneath the rim of his helmet, his blue eyes burned bright with unrelenting coldness. 

Sansa’s breath hitched, her fingers curling into the threadbare fabric of her blanket: providing her with some semblance of comfort in this tense moment. 

She had never seen him like this before. He had always been a presence at the edges of her suffering—quiet but steady, never cruel, never kind enough to give her false hope. His kindness had been in the small things, in moments so fleeting she had once thought she imagined them. The careful way he set her food down instead of tossing it through the bars, The nights when he lingered a second too long outside her cell before vanishing into the dark. The time he had pressed a solid piece of meat into her palm when the rest of the guard were drinking themselves silly, his fingers—briefly, barely—brushing against hers.  

But now—  

Now he was standing before her, sword drawn, back rigid with unspoken fury.  

He had been a shadow in the darkness, a figure at the edges of her imprisonment. But now, standing between her and the men who had laughed at her suffering, he was something more. A force, unshakable and unwavering.  

The air in the cell thickened, charged like the spare moments before lightning strikes. 

Sansa had forgotten what it felt like to feel safe. But now, with Storm Eyes standing there, the weight of his gaze on her, something inside her—a long-buried ember—stirred to life. 

The guards hesitated. The torch guttered, throwing jagged shadows across the walls.  

“And who are you to give orders down here?” one of them spat, his drunken confidence faltering slightly as the sight before him registered beyond the mist of alcohol. 

“Someone who doesn’t take kindly to cowards threatening women in chains.” Storm Eyes replied. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a promise of violence that made even Sansa’s tormentors hesitate.  Gooseflesh raised along her skin. 

“She’s just a prisoner,” the dagger-wielder snarled. “What’s it to you?”  

Storm Eyes stepped forward, his fingers flexing at his sides as though itching to draw blood. The air around him pulsed with barely restrained fury, with something dark and unrelenting.  

The dim torchlight caught his eyes, and Sansa’s breath stuttered—those stormy, unyielding eyes burned with something close to rage now, like lightning ready to strike.  

“Walk away,” he said, his tone icy. “Before I make you.”  

The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Sober, they might have recognized the danger radiating off him. But in their drunken state, they mistook his warning for a bluff.  

They didn’t see the wave suspended, ready to drown.  

The man with the dagger lunged first, aiming for Storm Eyes’ chest. The move was sloppy. Storm Eyes sidestepped it with effortless precision.  

Steel sang as he drew his blade, the whisper of metal against leather slicing through the silence. In one fluid motion, he struck, his sword flashing in the torchlight. The dagger clattered to the floor. Blood dripped to the dirt covered stone. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Sansa held back as gasp, the man’s hand bled furiously, her eyes glanced the tell tale signs of a limb barely attached. The cries coming of the man as he clutched his hand to his chest, clouded eyes flittering around the cell. 

The second guard swung the torch like a club. Storm Eyes parried with brutal efficiency, the force of his block sending a shockwave through the air. He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling against the cell bars. The torch fell, sputtering out on the damp stone.  

The stench of sweat and blood thickened.  

“You’re mad!” the injured guard spat, scrambling backward. 

Storm Eyes pointed his sword at the man’s throat, his expression carved from stone.  

“You’ll hang if you lay another hand on her.”  

The guard whimpered, nodding furiously. Storm Eyes stepped back, letting him flee up the stairs, dragging his unconscious companion with him.  

Silence fell.  

Sansa sat in the dark, still trembling from the violence that had just unfolded. Her heartbeat raced in her chest, as if echoing the chaos of moments ago. And yet, despite the fear that had gripped her, there was a strange, unfamiliar warmth creeping into her bones.

Stannis stood before her, his back rigid and sword now sheathed. The air was thick with silence, save for the raggedness of their combined breathing. He didn’t speak for a long while. The anger in his eyes hadn’t yet cooled, but neither had it turned toward her.

She shivered slightly, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t want to appear weak, but her body trembled in the aftermath of fear—and something else, something deeper that she couldn’t name. 

“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it.  

“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.  

For the first time, she saw something crack in him. A flicker of emotion behind the cold steel of his eyes—so fleeting she almost missed it. Regret? Guilt?  

Stannis didn’t respond at first. His gaze shifted, unreadable, over her. It was as though he saw something in her—something buried deep within the fragile frame before him: that he didn’t know how to address.

His hand twitched at his side, as though it was reaching for something, but then faltered. His fingers were tight, white-knuckled against the hilt of his sword. But then, with a suddenness that surprised them both, his hand moved toward her.

His fingers brushed the side of her shoulder, almost imperceptibly. It was the lightest of touches—tentative, as if he were unsure of how to comfort her. His fingers lingered for a breath, before pulling away and in that instant, something shifted between them. There was no grandeur to the touch, no dramatic gesture. But in the sheer uncertainty of it, in the unspoken promise it carried, it meant everything. When his touch left her skin, Sansa shivered as if the winter winds were within the cells with them.

“Because no one else would.” His voice was rough, weighted with something she couldn’t name.  

Her heart twisted at the quiet truth in those words. 

“You’re not like the others,” she whispered. 

“No,” he admitted, his tone heavy with meaning she couldn’t quite grasp. “I’m not.”  

He turned to leave.  

“Wait! Storm Eyes… please.”  

He froze at the name she had given him, something flickering in his expression before he turned back to her.  

“Why do you care what happens to me?” she asked.  She begged. She needed answers. His actions confused her. Why? Why her, why now? She had been locked in the cell for months, and out of thin air he had appeared. Though the black cells weren’t a luxury, they were almost kinder than the prison she lived in above, in the red keep. There she had been beaten and taunted daily by Joffrey and the queen. Down here, she was forgotten. She was almost accustomed to it before him,  ready to fade away with the wind. The appearance of eyes as vivid as a storm breaking over the ocean had brought her forward, and now, the person those eyes belonged to, pushed through the fade. Saving her not just from the slow and monotonous torture the black cells delivered, but from the men that crept within the dark. 

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, with a weighty pause, he said, “Because you don’t deserve this. And because… I have failed others before. I will not fail you.”  

There was a weight to those words, a promise laced with something she didn’t understand.  

Not just duty. Not just honour.  

Something more. Something that settled deep in her bones and made her shiver.  

Before she could ask what he meant, he was gone, his footsteps echoing up the stone staircase.  Leaving her with so many unanswered questions. 

Sansa sat in the dark, her heart pounding.  

She had thought herself forgotten.  

She had believed she was alone.  

But now, staring at the place where Storm Eyes had stood, she realised something.  

She wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

The torches burned low in the corridor, their flickering light casting jagged shadows along the stone walls as Stannis ascended the winding steps from the black cells. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening, though there was no longer an enemy before him.  Thoughts of a red haired prisoner swirling within his mind. 

The men had fled. He had made certain of that. And yet, the rage in his chest had not abated. It coiled tight, a simmering storm beneath his ribs, refusing to dissipate.  

She had looked at him differently tonight.  

Not with the guarded fear she held for her captors, nor the wary resignation he had grown accustomed to seeing in her eyes. No—there had been something else. Something that unsettled him.  

Hope.  

It had been faint, trembling like a candle’s last flicker in the wind, but he had seen it all the same. And gods help him, he had not wished to snuff it out.  

Stannis reached the top of the stairs and turned down an empty corridor, his boots striking hard against the stone floor. His mind churned. This was a mistake. A foolish, reckless mistake.  

She was not his to protect.  

And yet, when she had whispered, You’re not like the others, something deep had cracked within him, a fissure deepening in the stone of his resolve.  

He should have turned away after the fight. Should have left her in the darkness where she had been abandoned. But he hadn’t.  

Instead, he had touched her.  

A mistake. A weakness.  

And yet—  

His fingers curled at his sides, as if the ghost of that contact still lingered there. She had been trembling, caged by cold and fear, her body curled in on itself. He had meant only to comfort her. That was all. And yet, in that brief moment—when his fingers brushed against her shoulder, when her breath caught, when she looked at him as if she did not know what to make of him—he had felt something shift.  

It was a dangerous thing.  

He was not a man prone to softness. He did not believe in sentiment, nor in the foolish notions that weaker men let rule their hearts. Duty. Honour. Justice. These were the things that guided him.  

But as he paced through the empty hall, his pulse thrumming heavy in his ears, he could not deny the truth curling like smoke in the back of his mind.  

He had fought wars for duty. Had endured scorn for justice. Had sacrificed everything for honour.  

And yet, tonight, he had drawn steel for none of those reasons.  

He had done it because the thought of those men laying hands on her had ignited something raw and unshakable inside him.  

Possessiveness.  

The realisation stopped him dead in his tracks.  

Stannis exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if he could rid himself of the thought. Foolishness. He had no reason to feel such away about the Stark girl. Seven hells! Sometimes he didn’t even really know why he was here? Why did he bother with this mission to save her? It was foolish. And Stannis prided himself on not being one to fall to such whims. But that moment those many years ago had branded him deeply. 

His hand still burned from where he had touched her. And his mind still whispered that quiet, damning truth.  

She was his to protect. He would not see her harmed.  

Not again. 

And may the gods have mercy on the next man who tried.  

A sound echoed down the hall, and Stannis turned sharply. A shadow moved beyond the archway ahead. Stannis hand went to his sheathed sword, reading himself. The figure emerged from the darkness, stepping into the dim torchlight.  

Varys.  

“You always were direct, Lord Stannis."

The voice was soft, almost amused, though it held no true warmth. Stannis did not startle. Instead, he turned, hand resting on his sword hilt, his body tense with barely restrained ire. The helm on his head obscuring the scowl on his face.

Varys stepped from the gloom, his silken robes whispering against the stone. "I must say, it is quite the surprise to find you here, of all places."

Stannis said nothing. His glare, sharp as a blade, spoke enough.

Varys sighed as if disappointed. 

"No need for hostility, my lord. If I wished to raise the alarm, I would have done so already." His gaze flickered toward the stairwell. 

"Quite the risk you've taken, sneaking into the lion's den. But then, you've always been a man of… principle."

"I do what must be done," Stannis said flatly.

The Spider hummed in agreement. "Indeed. And rescuing a Stark girl, a former betrothed to your nephew, no less—that is quite the noble endeavour." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "But how, I wonder, do you plan to get her out?"

Stannis clenched his jaw. He had a plan—rough as it was. But now, with Varys standing before him like a wraith, he knew the man was offering something.

"You have a reason for speaking to me," Stannis said, voice edged with suspicion. "Say it and be done with it.”

Stannis remained still, but his fingers flexed at his sides. He knew better than to underestimate the Master of whispers. 

Varys continued, his voice calm, measured. “Did you know, my lord, that those men had orders to leave the girl alive?”  

A muscle in Stannis’ jaw twitched.  

“They were not their to kill her,” Varys went on. “They were meant to scare her. To break her. To prepare her for what comes next.” He paused, letting the words settle before adding, “And yet, you intervened.”  

Something cold unfurled in Stannis’ gut.  

He had assumed the men were acting on their own, taking their cruelty where it was easiest. But this… this was something else.  

“What is Cersei planning?” he demanded.  

A long silence stretched between them.  

Varys' lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "I have always had a fondness for lost little wolves," he murmured.

 "And I have no great love for Lannister cruelty." His hands folded before him. "Let us say… I could make things easier for you."

Stannis narrowed his eyes. He did not trust the Spider. Not fully. But the man had a way of surviving, of knowing things no one else should. No one played the game of thrones as well as Varys. 

"And what would you want in return?"

Varys’ expression did not change, but there was something beneath it—something like satisfaction. "Merely to see where this path leads, my lord. I am but a humble servant of the realm, after all."

Stannis exhaled slowly. He hated dealings made in the dark, hated uncertainty. 

But if Varys was offering aid, denying it could mean his capture and execution, there was no doubt that sansa would suffer the same fate.  And that was not a risk he would take.

A long silence stretched between them before Stannis finally spoke.

"Then do what you will. But if you betray me—"

Varys lifted a delicate hand. "Come now, Lord Stannis. You wound me."

His smile was eerie in the torchlight. "I do believe we want the same thing. For now." 

Finally, Varys inclined his head. “You would do well to keep your little wolf close, my lord. There are greater forces at play than you know.” 

He took a step back, shadows swallowing him once more. “The game is only just beginning.”  

Then he was gone, the quiet settling thick and heavy around Stannis.  

For a long moment, he did not move. Time was running out. And he would not fail her. Not now.

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.