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Chapter Text

I

Sansa looked into the face of the mirror and found she was unfamiliar even to herself, even after she had looked upon her reflection for so many an hour.

It had been less than a year and yet she looked so much older, the lines in her face sharper and apparent than they had ever been. Her cheek bones were high and hollow and they had long ago lost the pleasant pinkness that the cold of Winterfell and the pleasure of her family's company had caused them to posess.

She was taller too, a fact that was commented constantly on by the King and the other ladies at court until Joffrey teased that soon enough rumors would begin to swirl around the Kingdoms that she was as tall as Brienne The Beauty. But slender too Sansa was, thereby dispelling the parallels to Brienne, the curves of her body suddenly springing from the lanky shapelessness it had once been into curving femininity, the bow of her hips soft and the soft swell of her breast increasingly apparent beneath the gowns that began to no longer fit.

As she grew older and more beautiful the Lady Regent of Westeros grew more hateful, her rage fueled by spite and jealousy, for each time she looked upon the girl she found herself reminded of the woman she had once been. The Golden Lioness of Casterly Rock, so beautiful that the mummers had composed songs of her, commenting on her golden hair and sweet bosom. But the years seemed to have darkened her gold and glamour and left her face marked with lines, her breast sagged from three children suckling at them, and her stomach thickened by glasses of wine and plates of cheese.

She acted spitefully towards the crimson haired maiden at every opportunity, refusing to commission any new gowns for the girl so she was forced to wear only the gowns she had brought with her from Winterfell so long ago, the fabric too short at her ankles and too tight at her breast. When the ladies at court laughed at her the sound seemed to nourish the Queen Regent. It was one of the few pleasures she was afforded at a time like this.

With her son having taken the head of the Eddard Stark the North had instantly ceded from the Kingdom’s, declaring their rebellion as soon as the first raven had arrived informing them of what had occurred within the Capital. The Young Wolf, as they called him, had risen to take the place of his lord father and under him the North had unified. It made Cersei’s stomach roil to think of it, remembering all too well the role of the North in Robert’s Rebellion.

And her son. For all she loved and cherished him even she knew he was an arrogant, naïve boy. From the minute he had been given his father’s crown he had been cocksure and foolhardy, breaking his promise to the Warden of the North, disrespecting his grandfather before the entire court.

He was growing all the more power hungry, torturing the Stark girl nearly daily, whether it be whipping her before the court or stripping her nearly bare. Cersei’s heart had let out a twang of regret for the girl, remembering all too well the men who had stared so boldly at her all her life and thinking she ought not be treated so. But she dare not contradict her son before the court. He must be seen as strong and firm. Not some green boy who was ordered about by his mother.

Sansa was housed in the Hand’s Tower, a gift bestowed upon her by the King, who had laughed so loudly when honoring her with it that he had choked upon his wine and found it running out of his nose. Each night she sat upon the firm feather bed, thinking of her father. The graying stone, the square window that looked out at the clear sky, the aging wooden table that was still stocked with a quill and a pot of dried ink. The last things her father saw before he was imprisoned.

Within the walls of the Red Keep Sansa felt more alone than she ever had, sure that had it not been for Jon she would have throw herself from the highest window of the Hand’s Tower.

When they had left Winterfell Sansa had been surprised to find another horse saddled and bridled, awaiting the weight of her bastard brother. He had joined the retinue at the last minute, having been asked by her father if he would like to join.

Jon had thrown his trunks onto the pile at the far carriage and made for his horse. He had found Sansa struggling with the hem of her gown, the pale fabric pinned beneath the wheel of the carriage after the horses had begun to inch forward. He had helped her with it, cutting it away delicately; so smooth that she could barely see where the fabric had been broken. Jon had offered his hand, guiding her up the step and through the door of the carriage. He had watched as she settled upon the cushioned seat opposite her sister and when she thanked him he offered a quick nod, disappearing to his stumbling mare.

Sansa’s mind returned often to that moment. It had been so simple. They had both been so innocent, so unaware of the anguish that awaited them in the Capitol. They had even been excited, Sansa to spend more time with the King’s charming son, Jon to train with the best dancing master’s in the Seven Kingdoms, Arya to read through the great history tome’s in the Red Keep’s libraries.

Sansa did not know if Arya had ever been able to read the books. She did not know if she would ever be able to. Cersei Lannister often told her that the girl had escaped and most likely been captured and killed by raiders. Varys had once told her that she had made it out of the city but that was all he knew. For all Sansa knew she was dead. The thought made bile rise in her throat.

Jon and Sansa were allowed little privacy apart and never allowed a free moment together. It was as though the pair could come up with a foolproof plan for world domination in the space it took for their guards to change shifts. They were under constant supervision and though they were given golden foods and golden robes they were surrounded by golden chains, under no less surveillance than prisoners.

Yet they took solace in each other’s company. Even as Sansa sewed quietly with her Septa and Jon flipped through the pages of his book he took comfort in her presence, soothed by the gentle pull of needle through thread, the even breaths she took, even a sharp intake of breath when she poked herself with her needle. It reminded him of home.

With Robb and Lady Catelyn away, Lord Stark dead, and the youngest Stark girl disappeared into thin air; Sansa and Jon were the only Stark’s in King’s Landing. Their own wolf pack- a pack that would survive.

Jon scrounged for any bits of information on his brother. Sometimes the servants whispered of him, speaking of the Young Wolf and speaking of how he rode into battle on the back of a wolf.

At first Jon had laughed at the rumours, finding them instantly ridiculous, and yet the more he heard them the more his heart ached for him. He had been allowed a few moments with his sister and had told her of these rumors, the ache for the wolf she had once loved and lost written plainly on her face, just as she ached for her brother.

When the news of Robb’s first victory over Lord Tywin Lannister’s army had reached the King’s ears he had screamed in fury and demanded that Sansa pay for her brother’s treason. She had been struck so hard by Ser Meryn Trant that she had fallen to her knees, tipping sideways onto the cold marble and gasping for breath. Jon had let out a roar of fury, pushing through the crowd to reach her and had almost been at her side when he had been seized by arms far stronger than his and wrestled backward. Jon could remember it still; able to feel the blood bruise he had received when fighting against his captors, trying desperately to reach her, to protect her.

He had only been able to watch as his sister was pushed to the floor with another swift strike, watch as she clasped her stomach, watched as the King ordered Ser Trant to cut through her gown and corset and leave her nearly bare. The spectacle had only been stopped by the brother to the Queen Regent, Tyrion Lannister pushing through the crowd to order his nephew cease his actions.

He had looked so kindly at Sansa and Jon that for a moment he had though that perhaps not all Lannister’s were bad. But as Robb’s victories continued so did Sansa’s beatings.

With the help of Lord Tyrion and his knights Jon was able to see Sansa more often and was often the one to tend to her wounds. At first she had shied away from him, unwilling for him to see her so indisposed. But after a while the pain was too great and she knew that she needed him.

He laid a blanket over her legs to cease her shivering and peeled away the bloodied fabric of her spoiled gown, careful not to harm her, careful not to catch a glimpse of anything she would not deem proper. Jon flinched when Sansa bit into her rag to keep from screaming as he laid the cool, wet cloth over her most recent bruise. The skin had shaded from milky white to a monstrous purple, the blood bubbling up beneath her skin to form a welt.

“Sansa.” Jon murmured, doing his best to be gentle.

He remembered how she had done it, only a month before when Jon had made the mistake of beating one of the King’s companions in a match. The King dare not flog him, lest he add more fuel to the fire of the Northern armies. But the beating came anyway, Jon cornered as he returned his blunted sword to the training barrack. It had been so severe that he had been unable to neither walk for six days afterward nor sleep on his side for a fortnight.

“Sansa…” he trailed off, wringing the blood from the cloth and watching as the clear water clouded with red. “If I could I would-“

But the door opened and Tyrion entered, his brow furrowed and his stride quick as he crossed the room to her, careful not to look at the Lady’s bare back. His mouth had been set in a line so tight that his lips glowed fiercely white. For a moment he did not speak until finally whispering words that made Jon’s heart grow alight. “It should please you to know that your brother’s army had once again defeated my fathers.” Said Tyrion. “He and Lord Tully have pushed his army back passed Riverrun.”

Sansa grinned widely, ignoring the flinch that crossed her face as she tried to sit forward. “No doubt the King will want to praise me for his victory.” She said matter-of-factly. The emotion had gone from her voice when speaking of the king. She seemed unwilling to give him even the slightest bit of satisfaction in her pain.

Tyrion offered a small smile. “I will do what I can to protect you.” Said he. “But even I am not immune to the King’s wrath.” He offered a short arm, pushing up his sleeve to reveal a long burn; its redness showing it was quite fresh.

Just as Sansa had anticipated she was bid rise by a servant who informed her that the King was calling upon her. Sansa gave a quick curtsy and made herself ready, donning a gown that was far too short and descending the staircase that led away from the tower.

As she approached the Great Hall of the Red Keep it was hard not to lose the hope that she had been nurturing within her, tending to it like a small fire. She had tried to avoid the thoughts that this was the life she was resigned to until her brother would come to their rescue, a life of beatings and laughter and seclusion. It would not change.

And yet it did, so swiftly and suddenly that Sansa had been shocked into submission, phantom pain sweeping across her back from the previous beatings she had received when so blatantly and publically disagreeing with the King.

Sansa had been brought into the Great Hall, crossing thought the groupings of people that no longer tried to hide their whispers and jestings at her expense, and settled into a deep curtsy before the Iron Throne. A tendril of her crimson hair fell over her shoulder, the smell of lavender and herbs lifting to her nose.

The King grinned down at her. His crossbow lay propped against the side of the throne, already bowed and ready but he did not reach for it, as he so often did when Robb had another victory. For a moment Sansa feared the worst, thinking her brother had lost his life on the battlefield.

She took a stumbling step backward, almost falling onto her back in the middle of the hall. She could not catch her breath, her chest heaving beneath her tight bodice. Joffrey seemed to be enjoying the silent spectacle, grinning down at her like she was as amusing as a jester.

“No need to be so frightened.” Said Joffrey. “I King would never harm his lady. Although I suppose you are no longer my lady after all…”

Another spike of pain shot through her. The bruises on her back had yet to heal and she was sure that she could endure no more, her skin having already gone dark as a plum across her shoulders and upper back.

Sansa had already been unkindly informed that the King, in favour of the beautiful Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, was casting her aside. Sansa had not been angry, as many had suggested, but instead she was grateful and overjoyed to be away from the idea of marrying the sadist king.

Joffrey had already made a show out of ripping apart the letters that had come from the northern houses, begging for the freedom of their princess or offering the hands of their sons for marriage.

But a part of her was deathly afraid of whatever marriage the King or the Lady Regent had brokered. Sansa pictured a man four times her age, a man with a hump for a back, a man just as sadistic as the King. Most likely it was to a Northern lord, to try and appease the rebelling clans, and in her mind she recited all of the houses and all of the lords. Most of them were kind and loyal to the Starks. But not all.

Over her shoulder she could see Jon Snow in the crowd. His broad shoulders had stretched his worn tunic too tightly, the laces at his chest pulled so taut they looked like they might tear with one too many breaths. He wore neither doublet nor surcoat and the black fabric of his clothes was faded by sunlight and heat, making him easy to spot in the crowds of people excessively dressed in all the trappings of riches.

Jon did not break her gaze, the tension in his body making it seem as thought he was prepared to break into a run at any moment. He gave her a nod so small it was almost imperceptible and she turned back to the King, somehow feeling stronger, somehow feeling like a wolf not completely alone.

“Come forth, boy.” Said Joffrey, addressing the man many years his elder. Jon walked forward, taking his place at Sansa’s side, so close that his shoulder could brush against hers. Joffrey narrowed his eyes, looking down at them with cocksure arrogance. “Your houses have rebelled against my rule.” He spat, seething. “Like common thieves. Their false king, your brother, leads them. All the while whispering vile rumours about my mother. Treasonous snake.”

Sansa waited for the blow. Ser Meryn stood by the King’s side, watching, his lips twisted in a snarl. His fingers seemed to be aching for the handle of his sword. Sansa wondered why he did not reach for it but after a quick scan of the crowd she found Lord Tyrion’s knight at her back, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, his eyes narrowed and glaring.

“You Starks seem to be fond of rumours.” Joffrey continued, waving a hand to give his words an air of casualty. “And since you seem so fond of whispers I thought I would give you something else to speak about.” A flash of murderous anger passed across his face before being replaced just as quickly with a smile. “I have found you a match.” Said he.

Sansa held her breath and schooled her face into neutrality, a skill she had long ago mastered at the hands of the Lannisters. “What mean you, ser?”

“It is your grace now, cur!” shouted Joffrey. At his side his mother smirked, too deep into her cups to recognise the subtle whisper of insult that had passed over the crimson haired woman’s lips.

“Of course, your grace.” She said, her gaze unfaltering as she bowed her head in apology. “What mean you, your grace?”

Joffrey looked down at her, remembering the days she had refused to eat and thinking how much he missed the hollowness of her face. He had quite liked the look on her.

“The Queen Regent and I have decided that you two shall be wed.” concluded Joffrey.

“Us two, your grace?” she asked, her brows furrowed. She thought it had been long ago decided that she and the King would not be wed. He was already betrothed to another woman, her face visible in the crowd as Sansa scanned the room for Jon, finding he looked just as confused as she. At his sides his hands had balled into fists, the veins in his arms flexed so tightly they resembled bow strings about to snap.

Joffrey seemed to be enjoying the rapt attention the chamber was paying him and fawned in the attention like an animal to the warmth of the sun. “You and Jon Snow.” He finished, grinning from ear to ear.

Several faces in the crowd reacted all at once. Tyrion Lannister’s face hardened, his hand reaching out to hold Bronn back as he made to step forward. Lord Petyr Baelish’s brows furrowed, thinking this to be an incredible foolish plan, one that had certainly never been brought to his attention. Margaery Tyrell looked at her brother out of the corner of his eye and he took a small step towards her, worried a fight might break out.

The rest of the crowd shuffled to look at Jon Snow, who had frozen as stiff and immovable as a statue, only the blink of his eyes showing he was still alive. He looked uncertain, wondering whether he should step forward and fall into step beside his sister. His betrothed. His soon to be wife.

“Your grace I-“ Tyrion begun, stepping out of the crowd.

“Do not interrupt, uncle.” Snapped Joffrey. “I have made my decision and I do not plan on being swayed. Think of it as irony,” he said. “Your family has accused mine of incest and now you shall be whispered about for the same reason.” Another moment of terse silence passed between them. “What say you, my lady? Are you going to thank your king?”

Sansa dipped into a curtsy so low that her knees nearly touched the floor. Her crimson hair spilled over her shoulder, her icy blue eyes meeting his gaze fiercely enough to silence him for a moment. “Thank you, your grace.” She said, her tone so smooth and hard that Joffrey could not respond.

Chapter Text

II

The wedding was planned so quickly that it was less than a fortnight before Sansa found herself being yanked out of bed by one of the elderly serving women.

Before a room full of ladies in waiting and servants she was stripped of her sleeping gown, automatically wrapping her arms around her body to keep from shivering in the cool morning air. Sansa tried to keep track of the movements of the women but could not. She was lost among the hands that pushed and pulled at her, pouring buckets of warm water into the ivory tub that had been dragged into the next chamber, sewing fabrics, bringing out pairs of shoes and gowns of softer materials than Sansa had ever been allowed to wear.

She was shooed into the tub and prodded at continuously by several hands. Her skin was rubbed by a course brush until it was almost red as a pomegranate and almost raw, her feet scraped, her hair run through with a wet comb, her hands massaged.

A vial of lavender coloured liquid had been poured into the claw footed tub and the water began to smell soft and sweet, bubbles forming on its surface that stung Sansa’s eyes as she was pushed beneath the surface.

“Ladies!” came a voice, sharply. Sansa blinked water out of her eyes until her vision came swimming back. Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter stood at the door of the bathing chamber, the elder woman looking matter of fact, with her hands akimbo and her lips pursed. “What on earth is happening here?” she asked. “Are you bathing her or trying to flay her?”

The women had instantly jumped up to greet their new Queen, curtsying deeply and looking ashamed with their actions. Sansa was able to get a better view of them all, recognizing Taena of Myr at the head of the party. She had been the one doing the ordering and now looked sheepish, her cheeks glowing pink. She looked almost innocent, though Sansa knew her relationship with Cersei well enough to know she was anything but.

“It is this girl’s wedding day and you treat her so callously?” continued Olenna, looking angrily at Taena, who had yet to rise from her curtsy. “You ought to be ashamed of your actions, lady. Take your leave.”

“But my la-“ Taena began.

“Take your leave.” Olenna repeated, the famous tart tongued rose living up to her name. “Now.” Taena bowed her head to them and shuffled from the room with one last look at the bride to be. “And the rest of you.” Olenna clarified when the rest of the maidens looked uncertain, wondering whether they should follow their lady or stay and complete their order. “Out! Out! Be gone with you.”

Sansa drew her knees to her chest in the cooling water, watching the gooseflesh that ran up and down her arms. She had only held conversation with the Tyrells twice before, one of which was spent discussing the monstrosity of the King.

Margaery Tyrell crossed the room to take one of the seats left unoccupied by the fleeing servants and gently rested her hands upon Sansa’s shoulders. “Sansa.” She said, her voice soft and lulling. “I have never seen someone so sad as you.” She tsked her tongue. “When I am Queen I will change that.”

Sansa gave a soft smile, wondering if that would ever be possible. But she had seen the change in Joffrey already. He had always been malleable and soft and under Cersei’s control his cruelness had only been increased but with Margaery’s soft nature about him he wasn’t, or at least pretended he was not- for Sansa had seen such an act before, so evil.

But Sansa smiled anyway and did not stiffed when Margaery ran her thin fingers through her hair, massaging in a mix of soap and water that ran down her back and made her shiver. Olenna sat at her side, looking down at the girl was eyes so soft it was a wonder they were the same ones that had glared so fiercely at Taena.

“A lovely bride you will make, sweet girl.” Olenna said, brushing her fingers against Sansa’s cheek in the kindest gesture she had received since Ser Illyn Payne had taken her father’s head. “You need not be afraid.” She said. “No more beatings will come about. Not with Margaery at the King’s side and your brother defeating Tywin’s armies left and right. With the Northern Rebellion gaining in traction the King would not dare give them more cause for hatred.”

“So you need not focus on such things today.” Margaery continued. “This wedding it not one you asked for but today will you be a free woman. More free than you have been in months. You may as well enjoy it.”

Sansa nodded. She knew the pair meant well, no matter how much Sansa knew that she could enjoy no day in the Capital, no day that was spent with the Lannisters.

Margaery washed and brushed her hair out, watching as the crimson hair curled slightly as it dried, so long that it fell to her waist in unblemished tendrils. Without asking the Tyrell Rose did her hair in the northern style, leaving it loose down her back save for a crimson plait that lay across the top of her head like a crown.

Sansa was dressed simply yet she shone, for the first time wearing clothes that fit her properly, the fabric fine and well made and glittering in the sunlight. It had been commissioned by Olenna, one of the wedding gowns that had proven unsuitable for Lady Margaery yet fit Sansa with only minimal tailoring.

Sansa was brought to the Sept early enough that it was scarcely midmorning, not yet the time that she would normally break her fast. Cersei Lannister stood at the head of the crowd, awaiting Sansa’s arrival, and she smiled when she saw the girl, her grin so dazzlingly beautiful that had Sansa not known the woman she would have thought nothing so beautiful could be so cruel.

She greeted the bride with a brush of her lips to Sansa’s cheek, her kiss pillowy soft and false as fool’s gold. “Good morrow, sweet girl.” She said with an air of kindness Sansa had not seen in months. “Are you pleased with the outcome of your wedding?”

The Sept had been decorated minimally yet the simplicity made it all the more beautiful in Sansa’s eyes. A few ribbons curled from the ends of the columns, a sparkling cloth led up to the head of the room, and a pair of golden lanterns emit a pool of golden light where she and Jon would soon be standing.

“It is quite lovely.” Commented Sansa. “Lady Margaery was kind to spend such time and effort on me.”

This time Cersei did not miss the slight and her hand tightened on Sansa’s almost crushingly, until her skin shone white and the bones in her hand began to cramp. But both women only continued to smile and did not miss a step as they ascended the long corridor until she reached the door to that marked where Sansa would stand and await the beginning of the ceremony.

There were only a few guests in attendance; just enough to prove that the marriage occurred and was true and was not yet another Lannister lie. As one of the Septa’s opened the door Sansa caught a glimpse of the chamber that awaited her. Among the aisles of people she saw many unfamiliar faces, staring haughtily back at her, as though they were just about to spit or whisper something nasty. Many of them had been the same people to smile at her and bestow kind words upon she and Arya when they had first arrived in the Capital.

The only familiar face Sansa saw was of Lord Tyrion, who smiled at her from his place beside Ser Bronn and tried his hardest to look cheerful, bobbing his head in her direction before the door was pressed closed again.

The ceremony began with a loud swell of music. Sansa had been left alone in the room and did not know when to enter the chamber, peeking anxiously around the door before entering the room. Half a hundred eyes stared back at her, clearly having taken notice of the cue she had missed and her for having missed it.

It had been seven months that she had spent in the Capital since the death of her father and yet Sansa had never felt so alone as she did as she descended the aisle without a guide to give her away. And yet a moment later she would have prayed to be alone again, for Joffrey stood sharply from the crowd and crossed towards her, the ridiculous sword he insisted upon wearing at his hip clanking like a hammer against stone.

He grinned at her as he lay her arm over his, pressing close enough to her that he could smell the soaps in her hair and the mint on her breath. Jon stood at the end of the aisle, watching as she approached him. It was clear Lord Tyrion had dressed him, for his clothes were much the same and yet far finer, the fineness of the cloth apparent from just the way it shone in the flickering candlelight.

Tyrion looked out at the pair. His eyes flickered across Sansa, thinking how lovely she looked now that she had resumed eating, the soft, ornamental glow returning to her skin at once, the flesh pale as cream and disrupted only by a light dusting of freckles from when Margaery had bid they take a turn about the gardens.

The gown she wore was clearly intended for Lady Margaery, sewn into the colours of the Tyrell house and curling with ivory and gold leaves and gilded roses. Her hair hung loosely down her back save a single plait of crimson hair that wound across the crown of her head. As soon as he saw her there was but one thought in his head and from the way Bronn bristled at his side Tyrion knew he was not the only one thinking such a thing.

Sansa looked a true northern bride. She was all high cheekbones and blue eyes and fire kissed hair. She was just as her mother had been so long before and just as Lady Lyanna before her. And Jon was no less resplendent in Northern dress than Sansa, looking as tall and strapping as his father.

Joffrey gave a sardonic bow as he bid goodbye to Sansa at the end of the aisle and as he pressed a kiss to her cheek Tyrion could see his tongue dart out to graze her cheek. Such insolence.

The Septon performed the ceremony without hitch and, although quite quick- as though his sister did not desire there be space for anyone to object- Sansa and Jon were repeating the words after they were bid.

“I am hers and she is mine.” Said Jon, his hand upon that of his sister’s.

Tyrion had long struggled with the thoughts of whether or not to tell the man of the whispers spreading like wildfire across Essos and Westeros. The Lannister Lord knew now of what to make of them, nor knew he who to trust. Certainly he knew he could not trust Lord Baelish nor Lord Varys. Sansa had yet to trust him completely, so he knew that if he were to tell her she would think it another Lannister plot and the distance he had made such an effort to brooch would grow again. But he did not blame her. Joffrey had been crueler to her than any man should be to any lady- and then some.

“I am his and he is mine.” Repeated Lady Sansa.

Tyrion was sure there was no greater monotone than that which enveloped their voices as they spoke. The crowd waited with baited breath for the kiss that sealed their marriage and as Sansa pressed her lips to Jon’s Tyrion heard a snicker and without even turning to look knew it belonged to the King. He had gotten his wish after all. He had once again humiliated the Stark house.

The feast was so meager it felt cruel to call it such and Sansa decided it would have fared them better to address it as a wedding meal. And still she ate little, eating only bread and soft cheeses and a single chalice of wine to calm her aching nerves.

It was a welcomed relief to have Jon beside her at the high table, even if Cersei and the King were on her other side. They did not speak- for fear of being heard and for fear of adding awkwardness to their relationship. And yet each time he adjusted his position and her leg touched hers or he moved to take a bite of food and his elbow brushed against hers, Sansa found herself comforted.

And it was all gone again quite suddenly. From the moment Joffrey had thrown himself to his feet and announced they would be partaking in the bedding ceremony Sansa so dreaded she could feel the food in her stomach begin to swirl. She had already once been stripped before all of the court and did not desire for it again. And yet what could she say? Even as a married woman and a princess in her own right she was a prisoner. She could say nothing.

At her side she felt Jon go rigid as a steel bar, softening only when she made to rest a hand on his forearm. It was as though his anger was sapped away in his body and yet his eyes did not change, watching as she was lifted and carried away and she was disrobed piece by piece.

Jon’s eyes followed her shoes as they fell one by one, the stockings that were pulled so forcefully they tore at the seams, the bodice that was unlaced and pushed aside by ungrateful hands, the gown that was unclasped and- when it did not move quickly enough- cut with a dagger at the laces, slipped down around her waist, leaving only her smallclothes. Sansa sat resigned, steeling herself against the tears that threatened to come at the shame of it all and Jon recognized the look as one she had long ago mastered.

Jon cared not when it was his turn, feeling the pieces of clothing fall apart with almost relief- knowing that all the falseness was nearly gone from him. Lady Taena and Megga Tyrell, who giggled and blushed bashfully at the sight of him without tunic, laid him at the door and he did not open it until all signs of them had disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

Jon pressed the door open and slipped inside, turning the lock until he heard a sharp click. Sansa had not sat, standing in the midst of the room in nothing but a thin shift, the gooseflesh that rose on her arms not yet disappearing.

She watched him for a moment, the temperament of her eyes eyen and cool, so sharp a blue that they seemed to look right through him. “It is done.” Said Jon. “You are under my protection after this moment and the King shall never again lay a finger upon you.”

Sansa nodded. Her hair had been pulled free of its braid on one side, hanging across her neck like a feather. Without being asked Jon made towards her, his callused fingers making quick work of undoing the rest of the plait, as he had done so many times before.

His fingers ran through her hair, feeling it soft as silk against his skin and no less deep a colour. Jon bent forward to lay a kiss upon the back of her head, taking a deep breath of the lavender he knew she had bathed in.

“You smell so sweet.” Whispered he, his voice muffled by her hair. His hands had fallen to her shoulders, warm and rough but no less welcome.

She turned towards him, looking into his face as though she was trying to memorize it to recall for later memory. “The King believed me to be reluctant.” She whispered, scared that their secret would be discovered after so many months of careful planning. “Even Lord Tyrion seems to not know what to believe.”

Jon smiled, feeling her cheek rest against his, his nose bumping gently into hers. Her breath was sweet and peppery and in his arms her body curved like a bowstring.

They had never been so free to be together, let alone to touch so plainly. It had only ever been reduced to simple looks, bobs of the head, soft, shy smiles. But her mouth was on his now, her lips parting to accept his, her tongue running down the length of his bottom lip from corner to corner.

It was intoxicating. It was exhilarating. He felt as though someone could burst in at any moment. He knew at least half a dozen servants listened at the door. How lovely it would be to put on a show for them.

“Have you received another letter?” Sansa whispered, her voice so low even he had difficulty hearing. She had turned her mouth right to his ear, petrified all the way to her core that they might be heard.

“Yes.” Said Jon.

“And has she?” Sansa asked. Her eyes had gone wide as saucers and just as deep, the arms that wrapped around his neck frozen in time, halfway between pulling away and embracing him deeper. “Has she returned his raven?”

“Yes.” Jon repeated. He was nearly vibrating with excitement. It had been nearly a week since they had had a moment together and since then he had no opportunity to convey the news to his wife. “She’s written Robb. She said the raven was almost lost on the way to Meereen but she was able to reach it. Robb writes that her armies are even larger than he could have hoped.”

Sansa could hear blood rushing in her ears. Her legs were cramping from standing on the tips of her toes so she would properly be able to kiss him, as she had awaited for so long. But she did not care. She hung on Jon’s every word, praying he continued.

He licked his lips and her eyes followed the gesture, finding it almost too tempting to resist. “He writes that she has yet to amount enough proof to accept the claim.” He finished. Something inside Sansa deflated almost immediately. “But-“ he continued quickly, seeing disappointment flash across her face. “She says that if there is a chance. Even the slightest. That she will come for me. She will come for us.”

After so long Sansa hated to hope. She hated to even hold out hope for the King or the Lady Regent always squashed it. But this was theirs and theirs alone. Hope could not be squelched so soon.

Jon took her face in his hands, his thumb brushing away the tear that course down her cheek and touched the corner of her mouth where only his lips should be. “Winter is coming, my darling.” He mummered, kissing each of her cheeks as softly as was possible. He could taste the course salt of her tears and the sweetness of her perfume all mixed in one. “Winter is coming. And with it, fire and blood.”

Chapter Text

III

Morning came in a flurry of movement and voices so loud it would be an insult to whispers to call them such. Before Sansa had even risen and washed the feather bed she and Jon had slept upon the previous was stripped, every square of fabric thrown into a basket where it would no doubt be inspected by half a hundred eyes for sight of Sansa’s broken maidenhood.

She and Jon had risen early to set about the task of readying the room. It had been a heart wrenching pain to pull herself away from him come morning, unfurling his arms from around her body and detaching her head from where it had nuzzled so closely into the crook of his neck. She missed him almost instantly, finding herself having fallen into love with the way his skin smelled and the way his dark hair was slightly frayed at the nape of his neck from where it had rubbed against his pillow.

Yet it had to be done. What was between them must stay that way. Nobody could know what had transpired the night before. Not even Lady Margaery. Not even Lord Tyrion.

They could not know how each of Jon’s kisses had been hungry and rough with desperation, enough to make her feel the need to faint, held upright only by the hand that fell to the curve of her back, his fingers splayed out across her spine low enough to graze the curve of her bottom. Or how her thin fingers had nearly ripped open his tunic in an attempt to drag it over his head, her nails scraping his skin and making him emit a growl so low that it made her tingle from toe to finger.

By the time Jon had been carried to the chamber Sansa had already closed the double doors that led to the narrow balcony of his chamber and drawn shut the curtains with a snap of her wrist, making it so not even a sliver of light nor a look from a peeping eye was able to pass through.

Lord Tyrion had been told many of the peeping holes in the corridor and in the other rooms and had transferred his knowledge to Sansa over the previous months- prompted by Sansa little by little so he did not grow suspicious of her intentions. A flowerpot here, a stack of books there and Jon had covered each of these holes so they could not be reached. Nobody had shared their moment. It had belonged only to Jon and Sansa, as so few things did.

The sheet Sansa had lay upon was smudged, ever so slightly, with a red streak. It was not much, but Sansa had been riding since she was old enough to walk and that would be anticipated by Grand Maester Pycelle and Cersei Lannister when they poured over the fabric later that afternoon.

And indeed it had been. The golden haired Lady Regent had looked quite disdainfully down at the fabric, squinting in the low light of Pycelle’s chamber, struggling to see evidence of the girls broken maidenhood. “The Princess is a skilled rider.” muttered Pycelle, holding the sheet up to the light. “If I am not mistaken the same occurred when you and the King consummated your vows.”

For a moment Cersei went still, frozen as though a bucket of icy water had been doused over her head. Even after so many years that lie still made her mouth go dry. She had been lucky that Robert had been too drunk to notice when she drew the blade from his belt across her thigh and let loose a streak of blood that would symbolize the maidenhood broken long ago by her twin.

“Yes.” She breathed, wishing no more to broach the subject.

Her son had gotten his way after all. The Stark girl was humiliated, so ashen faced at her own wedding feast that an onlooker might have mistaken her for a funeral attendee. From her other side Cersei had seen that the girl had eaten little, her stomach probably churning, her innocent body uneducated in the ways of love making and therefore dreading the bedding ceremony.

Cersei could almost feel sorry for the girl. When she had entered the chamber come morning she had found her huddled in the bed, her knees brought to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She had seemed so frail. So small. So much like Cersei herself on the morning of her own wedding, when Robert Baratheon had left to go on a hunt and left her feeling alone and foolish and bruised from his rough hands pawing at her the previous night. Looking down at the sleeping girl Cersei had thought that perhaps she would have been kinder if Sansa’s father had not tried to have her son killed.

Sansa had jumped when the blankets were pushed away from her, the rush of cold air against her skin making gooseflesh instantly flutter across her arms. She had seemed confused for a moment, looking around the unfamiliar room as though she was not quite sure where she was, her red rimmed eyes blinking in the light.

“Good morning, little dove.” Cersei had greeted, the expression on her face closer to a sneer than a smile. She looked smug, folding her arms. “Sleep well?”

Sansa looked up at her and Cersei felt her mouth twist. Even disheveled, even with crimson hair half matted, half standing out in every direction, even with swollen eyes and puffy lips, she was enough to make a man of the Night’s Watch forsake his vows.

A knife of pain ran through Cersei, sudden enough to make her breath catch. Blood pounded in her ears as Maggy the Frog’s words came bounding back to her. There shall come another. Younger and more beautiful.

Sansa looked up at the Queen Regent, the pink at her eyes a pretty contrast against her watery blue eyes. “Yes, your grace.” Sansa returned, tipping her head in a bow. Her crimson lashes were long enough to curve against her upper cheek when she blinked.

It was enough to driver Cersei mad. Without saying another word Cersei snapped to the serving girls to strip the bed, watching as they did so, the flash of red cloth coming instantly into view. Only then had Cersei’s hatred abated. Only then did she allow herself to speak again.

“Where has your husband gone off to?” asked the Queen Regent, seemingly innocent. I might as well call him her brother, she thought, her smile widening the wickedness of her thoughts. If only Lord Stark could see her now.

Sansa shook her head, looking down at her hands as she pulled the frayed ends of her nightdress through her fingers. “I do not know, your grace.” She said. “Mayhap he is training with the knights in the barracks.”

“Perhaps.” Cersei replied.

A maid lifted Sansa’s torn gown from the marble floor where it had been tossed and laid it into a basket. Cersei could almost picture the scene in her mind, Jon’s bastard hands tearing at the girls smallclothes, ripping until he was met with flesh, all pink and puckered. Younger and more beautiful. Cersei’s mouth twisted again, attempting a smile. “Perhaps.” She repeated before sweeping from the room in a sway of crimson fabric.

Sansa allowed herself a breath to clear her mind. She knew exactly where her Lord husband was. Before he had left her in the morning, sweeping down to press a soft kiss to her brow, he had told her where she could find him. He had whispered to her that if he was lucky he would have the opportunity to strike the King once more into the dirt.

But Sansa dare not share her knowledge. She was to make the Queen Regent and all the rest of the court believe that Jon had no interest in her nor did she have an interest in Jon. She could not let them know that she was empty when he was gone.

All those months that she and Jon had been together, lost and alone and scared. When the King had hoped to deepen the chasmic divide he thought ran between them he had only brought them closer together.

They had been quite foolish at first. Even in their deceit their interests had been obvious. Charged moments had passed between them almost daily. Even in the midst of complete silence, even in the midst of a thousand people, Jon reaching forward to refill her glass before Sansa had even taken the last swallow, Sansa placing such careful sutured into mending his ripped tunics that her stitches were almost a work of art, the way they followed each others movements with rapt attention, gazes so fierce they were almost predatory.

It was no shock when suspicions had mounted to a point that even the King had taken note, dragging them before the court and demanding to know whether or not they were meeting in secret. He had thought them to be planning an overthrow of his oppressive regime. He had been correct.

But from then on they had resolved to delve deeper into their ruse. They had abandoned the moments they had once been able to steal together, ignoring each other as completely as if they hated each other. To act disinterested was one of the most difficult undertakings of her life.

Sansa rose from the bed and stripped quickly before washing. She was not bothered by any of the servants, most likely due to Lady Olenna’s words the previous day, and was allowed peace as she rinsed the morning’s stress from her skin and rinsed the perfume from her hair that Margaery had rubbed in the day before.

As she stood from the tub she could not help but feel different. She was a wife now. Jon’s wife. She may have been in secret but she was still in rebellion against the crown, rebellion against the boy who had ordered Ser Illyn’s blade come down on her father’s neck. And she felt different. Strong and powerful and dark and different.

With Sansa’s wedding having just passed the Capital was still gearing up for that of Lady Margaery and the King’s. They were to be wedded in just under a fortnight, the betrothed couple still in the process of picking flower arrangements and courses to be added to their staggering menu of fourteen dishes. From what Margaery had told Sansa her grandmother and the Queen Regent had clashed at nearly every turn, Cersei remanding duck where Olenna wanted hen. And when they were finally able to agree Joffrey often did not, his demands as outrageous as they were numerous, ranging from the fabric his seat was to be made of- olive coloured pressed silk- to the pattern of silver his royal spoon was to be made of.

All the preparation had made the city a buzz of excitement and discontent, half the citizens gathering their most expensive gowns and surcoat and the other half scrambling to find something to feed their children. The mix of emotions made the air within the city electric- spoiling for a fight, roiling for any excuse to find an output for such deep-seeded frustrations.

And it was not long before it came to a fever pitch. Joffrey and Lady Margaery had invited the newest couple to attend them as they picnicked near the harbour, knee deep in curling grass that made their bare ankles itch. The abundance of fresh air and sunlight in the field had caused more than a thousand flowers to bloom, of so many colours and variations that Sansa could scarcely comprehend them all, the pollen in the air making her eyes swim.

Even with the King’s unwelcomed company the meal was no less than pleasant. After a few days locked within the castle Sansa enjoyed the breeze that ran through her hair and whispered through the lightweight gown she had donned this morning. At her side Jon sat, picking through his plate of potatoes and pushing away the peas- doing his best to remain dour even though Sansa could sense he was enjoying the day as much as she.

Instead of riding or taking the King’s litter it was suggested they walk by Lady Margaery, who desired to stretch out her legs after sitting for so long. Walking through the outskirts of the city the streets were empty. Sansa had not spent much time outside the Red Keep before her imprisonment began and was therefore unable to see how unusual empty streets were in a city so densely packed with people. At her side she had felt Jon tense and the air go rigid, the silence deepening and widening until she could not hear a sound.

It happened so fast that she had been unable to comprehend it for a minute. She could only see Jon pushing the King onto his back and forcing him to keep his place with a firm hand on his chest, her husband shouting for the guards that had wandered ahead at the start of their walk.

Margaery screamed, a hand flaying out to grab Sansa’s, holding her close as Jon forced them both behind him, drawing his sword. It was only then did Sansa realize the screams of terror did not belong to the Queen but to the King, who fumbled for the short sword at his waist with unpracticed hands, and braced himself against the wall.

It seemed as though within the space of a moment a hundred bodies had surrounded them, weapons drawn, faces contorted in masks of rage that barely scratched the surface of the fury within them. They screamed at the King. They demanded food, clean water, clothes. They demanded to know why the King could have fourteen courses at his wedding feast but they could barely afford bread.

The Kingsguard was too few and too far apart to contain the mob of swarming bodies. They began to throw things. A bottle smashed against the wall near Sansa’s head and broke, spraying her with liquid. Joffrey brandished his sword like a little boy with a stick- just like Theon used to do when they played Knights and Maidens as children. His eyes were wide and wild. Jon was shouting. Someone was screaming.

Margaery held Sansa tightly in her arms, the crimson hair girl cradling her head in her hands as she remembered all too well the last time she faced a crowd such as this, suddenly remembering the desperate look that had been in her father’s eye as he looked at her. And now Jon faced them. To think of him- so reminiscent of her father in look- gone too. Taken from her. it was almost enough to make her faint.

As suddenly as the riot had begun it was ended, the uprising squashed by the influx of a hundred knights- headed by Ser Loras Tyrell. It was as though Margaery had called for him inaudibly, for when her eyes came across him she looked suddenly at peace, her arms tightening around the scared girl in her grip, her lips moving to whisper words of reassurance. Her brown eyes had watched as Jon fended off the men who leered at them, joined by Loras and his knights until the mob was broken apart, running for their lives or having had their lives taken by the glinting edge of a sword.

“Sansa.” Said Jon, sheathing his sword so his hands were free to lift his wife into his arms. He looked down at her, brow furrowed, watching her lift the corner of a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “You are safe.” Said he. His voice was lost in the commotion, the shift of armor, the call of voices, the angry tirade of the King. “You are safe, now. I’ve got you.” Sansa wondered how even in the midst of a crowd as large as this they were able to be so completely hidden.

Chapter Text

IV

The entrance hall of the Red Keep was buzzing with exhilaration, so many people sweeping in and out that Sansa had long ago lost track of them. Her arm had long ago begun to ache, the grip Margaery kept on it enough to make the blood cease to flow and icy cold pins and needles replace it.

They were safe now, a couple in the midst of a sea of red capes. There were three hundred knights surrounding them on all sides, swords drawn, as though a field of peasants was on the verge of parading into the most guarded homestead in Westeros on a whim.

Yet Margaery did not release her arm.

It had been months that she had been weighing and measuring the actions of the Queen, judging her for genuineness. Sansa found herself, at one time, both completely enthralled by and completely uneasy around the woman. She owed her more than she could say, for when Margaery and her grandmother were at Sansa’s side the golden lioness was tamed if not neutered. Lady Margaery had been kinder to Sansa than any in King’s Landing ever had, save her husband.

But Sansa had long ago learned not to trust every person who offered a kind smile or pretty words. If she had learned that lesson years ago she might never have found Joffrey so endearing. She might never be in the Capital. Her father might still be alive.

At her side Margaery looked so frightened, the fear etched on her face making her look years younger. “I thought-“ she said. Her voice and hands matched in the ferocity of their shaking. “I thought they were going to…”

“Shh…” Sansa urged, wiping her face with the handkerchief Ser Sandor Clegane offered. During the riot one of the peasants had been cut down just in front of her, a sword run through his stomach. Sansa had been spattered with a mist of blood that absorbed into the fabric of her once clean gown and spread like wildfire, her pale face reddened by it. “We’re safe.” She said, smiling softly and taking the girl’s hand.

Jon kept us safe, Sansa wanted to say to the girl at her side. If Jon had not been there we would be dead. The King is a coward. He did nothing but scream like a banshee for help that did not come. If Jon had not been there our blood would run down the streets of the city and decorate the dock of the harbour. Like the people wanted.

And yet she said none of it, having learned to school her sharp tongue into submission when the first beatings had come. Only a fool would say every thought in his head on a whim. And the King was the greatest fool of them all.

Margaery jumped when the doors to the side chamber were thrown open, the stained mahogany slamming against the stone of the wall hard enough to loosen the knob. Without looking up Sansa knew who would soon be taking credit for the dent now in the wooden door and the King entered in a haze of bellowed orders and angry shouts.

Without addressing anyone he made a beeline for Margaery, kneeling before her and taking her cold hands, finally liberating Sansa from the firmness of her grip. “My lady!” said the King. As he had crossed the room he had sheathed his sword, the blade as clean as though it had just been forged. “Are you well?” he asked, his blue eyes wide and startled. “Are you hurt? Have they-“

Sansa’s eyes searched for Jon, paving her way through the crowds of faces she did or did not recognize, but she could not find him.

For a moment she was gripped with fear, paralyzed with it, her breath catching in her throat and making her cough. She was afraid she had left him behind. But it couldn’t have been. Jon had been just a step behind her, assuring she would be safe. She was sure she had seen him, her eyes having found the blunted edge of his sword coated red.

“Sansa?” Margaery asked. Her voice suddenly came swimming back into focus. She was leaning forward, chocolate brown eyes taking in Sansa’s pale face, her parted lips, her eyes as they watered and blinked back tears. It was a moment of weakness, one that seldom occurred but was no less appropriate. Especially before the king. She knew how much joy it brought him and had long ago vowed to never shed another tear for him, no matter how hard Meryn Trant struck her.

The King leaned towards her, looking visibly surprised when Sansa shrunk back from him. “Lady Sansa?” he asked. “Are you hurt? You’re…you’re crying.”

She met his gaze, looking into his eyes and finding whatever kindness he exuded outwardly did not reach them. “I am well, your grace.” She said, holding his gaze until it was broken by the King turning back to his betrothed.

Sansa’s heart leaped into her throat at the sight of Jon. He strode into the chamber looking as tall and gallant as a northern knight, the sword in his hand dripping rubies of blood and his curling black hair mussed by the stresses of battle.

Even through a room of three hundred knights Jon’s gaze fell immediately to Sansa, his eyes finding her through the raucous of shifting armor and sheathing swords and the mishmash of voices that all called out to him at once. They said he was a hero. But he knew that all he had done was slaughter innocent peasants whose only grievance was the King’s opulence versus their hunger.

Joffrey, who had looked up at the commotion, jumped to his feet. The sound of blood rushing in Sansa’s ears was almost deafening. Her hands tightened into fists in her lap, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm hard enough to leave the imprint of crescent moons on her skin.

She anticipated something awful. She waited for the blow to come that would take Jon from her just as the King had taken everything else. Yet the only thing the King took was Jon’s hand as he lifted it into the air, his palm smudged with blood, sweat, and mud from when he had been pushed into the dirt for defending Margaery from an eluding threat.

Joffrey made to speak but was interrupted by yet another barging entrance, this time from the eldest Lannister. The dramatics of her actions were magnified by the emotions on her face, the golden haired maiden looking horrified as she threw herself to the floor at Joffrey’s side, taking her son’s hand and demanding to know whether he was injured.

Joffrey snatched back his hand fiercely enough to nearly throw off her balance and send her careening backwards and he fixed her with a look that was nearly venomous. “Pull yourself together, mother.” He spat. In the space of a breath the mask of kindness he had put in place slipped away, revealing the cruelty only Sansa had seen just a few moments before, and he looked down at the woman who had given him his life as though she were the most disgusting creature in Westeros.

Cersei’s thin face flushed pink with embarrassment, the blush reaching her neck and chest, visible through the low neckline of her crimson gown. She gave a short nod and moved silently to the side, taking a seat offered by one of the knights and folding her hands delicately in her lap. Sansa hated her. Sansa pitied her.

“Snow!” called Joffrey. Sansa wished she were standing beside her husband, able to congratulate him without fear or apprehension. She wished she was not standing on the complete opposite side of the room from him and she was able to take his hand and press a kiss to his bloodied lips.

Jon Snow looked up at the King, folding at the waist in a proper bow. He took a step towards Joffrey and, upon closer inspection, Sansa could see his tunic was spattered in strands of gooey blood, eating away at the fabric until beige was dyed ruddy crimson. “Yes, m’lord?” he asked. When Sansa blinked a drop of blood ran down her cheek, giving the impression of a crimson tear.

King Joffrey took a swaggering step toward the man and reached out a hand to rest it on Jon’s broad shoulder, thumbing the bloodied fabric between his fingers. “You were very brave today, Snow.” He said. A hush had fallen over the room. The kingsguard hung on his every word and Joffrey knew it, the drawl of his words inexplicably lengthy. “You saved my Lady, that is not something I take lightly.” His eyes flicked to the sword at Jon’s side, a line of crimson liquid from the edge of the broad sword bleeding through the leather sheath. “And with a blunted sword at that. You are a true knight, Snow.”

Cersei’s blue eyes flicked up at Sansa, a flash of uncertainty crossing over her face. It was a strange thing to see the lioness so tame, shrinking back against the bench, her fingers twisting in the folds of her gown.

“Thank you, your grace.” Said Jon, gruffly, clearly at odds with his desire to protect Sansa and his desire to run the King through with his blunted blade. He bowed his head, giving a quick look to Sansa, his face looking gaunt and hollow.

“I’m not finished yet.” Joffrey continued. Even though Jon stood almost a full head taller than the King Sansa still felt uneasy. Joffrey was fresh from a fight and was most likely spoiling for an outpouring for his anger. At these moments he usually chose to physically let it out on Sansa’s back, by way of Meryn Trant’s fists.

Sansa waited for the blow to fall, waited for the cruelty to shine through the mask of kindness Joffrey managed to exude. “Kneel.” He said. Jon hesitated. “Kneel, Snow. I am not going to take your head off.”

Joffrey belted out a laugh; as though his jest had been the funniest he had ever heard. Following the prompt of their lord the rest of the knights in the atrium began to laugh until soon it felt as though a noose of laughter enveloped her, squeezing and squeezing until Sansa thought she might choke on it.

The walls echoed with peels of laughter, the only two who were reasonably allowed to retain their grave faces being Sansa and Jon. At her side Margaery dropped her hand onto Sansa’s and though she smiled politely at the jest of her betrothed, the tenderness of her grip on Sansa’s hand signaled her dissent.

At the start of Joffrey’s words Sansa had seen Jon stiffen, so slightly, so insignificantly that the untrained eye could mistake it as a breath. But Sansa knew. She knew him well enough to recognize the imperceptible squaring of his shoulders and jutting of his jaw. Even from so far away Sansa knew that if she walked towards him and looked into his face she would see his pupils had widened and dilated to the size of marbles.

“Aye, your grace.” Jon breathed. His sword hand flexed. A casual onlooker could mistake the motion for relieving a cramp after lifting the heavy training sword. Yet again Sansa knew the truth. She recognized the desire to strike Joffrey because she had the same inane desire every time he blinked an eye or took a breath.

Joffrey unsheathed his sword in an untrained motion, the bare blade catching the light that filtered in through the columns of the Red Keep’s façade and blinding her temporarily. As the King came forward his motions were clumsy and as foolish as he was and the only reason no snickers followed his boastful swagger was because every knight in the room knew he would cut out their tongues for it.

The King lowered the flat side of the blade onto Jon’s shoulder, saying: “I dub thee, by the King’s own hand, Ser Jon-“ Joff paused, seeming to realize for the first time that by knighting Jon he was guaranteeing land unto the man he had once accused of treason and locked in the cells beneath the castle for nearly a fortnight. He continued, “Ser Jon-“ Joffrey looked triumphant, a flare of colour rising eerily into his cheeks. “Ser Jon Stark. For your bravery on this day I shall give you the thing all Westerosi bastards desire. A proper title.”

Jon looked up at the King. He had composed his face into a mask of calmness, though Sansa could see the storm raging just beneath the surface. “Thank you, your grace.” Said he. His voice was hollow.

Jon had thought the worst had come, and yet, as the King continued he realized that his most shameful moment had not come until now. Joffrey grinned, all teeth and tongue and vile words. “Now, Ser Jon Stark, take your lady and claim your first bedding as a true knight and a true Stark!”

The Kings words drove another round of applause running through Sansa’ ears, loud and vicious as thunder. Without another word Jon crossed the room and took Sansa’s hand, pulling her roughly to her feet. She had been so used to Jon’s gentle caresses that the motion surprised her, her feet twisting so that she fell into Jon.

He caught her, though his arms were solid as iron and when his knees did not bend to absorb the bulk of her weight, she slammed into him. Air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh, a burn harsh as fire spreading through her from the sight of her injured stomach.

Jon did not pause to ask if she was well, knowing the eyes of the room and the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He only stood, his callused fingers closing around her upper arm and dragging her to her feet before pulling her bodily down the corridor. She could hear laughter follow her. Sansa knew it was all for show and yet she could not cease the burn that spread across her face, alighting her cheeks and neck.

They did not speak until they reached Jon’s chamber and Sansa had pressed the door closed, nimble fingers knowledgably sliding the lock into place. She drew a shaky breath, her fingers lowering to undo the laces at the breast of her gown. An arm moved to encircle her from behind, resting crosswise against her chest sp that he was able to rest a hand on her shoulder, holding her firmly to him.

“I thought you were dead.” Sansa whispered, resting her cheek against the back of his hand, her chin brushing the ridge of white scar that rested there. “I thought that-“

She heard her voice break, felt her bones as they suddenly turned soft as silk and folded backwards into Jon’s tight embrace. She pressed her eyes closed, feeling Jon’s lips move to brush a kiss across each of them, light as a feather tip.

“I am not dead.” Jon whispered. His breath tickled, his cheek pressed flat against hers, the weight of her body suddenly seeming unimportant. The blood on her face had begun to dry and itch and as Jon pulled away she could see it had spread to his face as well, flaking off like powder.

He gave her a firm look, his bloodied shirt the colour of rust. “We need to get you in the bath.”

Slowly he peeled away her gown, one strand of fabric at a time until she felt her bodice give, the cream coloured lace springing free from its knot to spread like the wings of a butterfly and fall away from her. Jon pushed her skirt down around her hips, kneeling before her to unbuckle the clasps to the stockings at her thighs, rolling them slowly down until they met the gown that had pooled at her ankles.

He looked up at her, his dark lashes wet, his bloodied lips parting. “I would have slaughtered them all.” He said, sitting back on his heels. “If it meant saving you.”

Taking her hand Jon led his wife though the door to the adjoining chamber. The claw footed tub had been filled this morning but went unused as Sansa was dragged out of bed by one of the maids and summoned to the Queen Regents table without time to bathe. She gasped as she felt the icy water lap at her bare skin as she slid into the tub, the clear water instantly becoming murky red.

Jon sank to sit against the ivory tub, his fingers dragging through the darkening water, teasing as they brushed lightly against her thigh. Sansa looked up at her husband, the ends of her damp hair dripping with water and darkening significantly. “You’ve got blood all over you.” she commented. A pale foot curved through the water as it lifted to lay against his shoulder. Jon looked down at her, sitting beside the tub, his dark eyes following her movements with rapt attention.

Understanding her meaning Jon kicked off his boots and lifted his tunic over his shoulders, letting the despoiled fabric fall to the floor. Sansa’s wet finger reached up to take hold of the laces of his breeches, the water from her fingers eating away at the fabric until a misfortunate watermark spread at the waist of his breeches. He gave her a playful look as his fingers replaced hers, pushing his breeches down over his hips.

Though the ivory tub was not built for two it housed them quite comfortably, Jon’s legs spreading to sit on either side of her body. She leaned back against him, able to feel the ridges of his muscled stomach clench and relax against her body, his arms draped loosely around her.

“I saw you.” Sansa whispered. Jon lifted a bar of soap to lather her arms, watching the blood run off her skin like paint. “I saw you…when you saved him. The King, I mean. They would have killed him, we could have been…” she trailed off.

Jon returned, kissing her temple as she leaned her head against his chest, “If I hadn’t…we wouldn’t be here. If they had gotten the King, we would most likely be in the black cells right now. They would have asked why I had not done anything.”

“I know you’re right.” Said Sansa. “All the suspicion mounted against us...I know you did the right thing for us. But I just can’t help but imagine how it would have been to watch them tear him apart.”

Jon chuckled. His mouth found more interest with the lobe of Sansa’s ear than any words and silence reigned around them, only the occasional splash of water or bird chirping reaching their ears.

“There are no secrets in this city.” Sansa said, doing well to ignore the gathering heat that bloomed in her belly at the feel of Jon dragging his teeth lightly down her neck. “I am sure that Lord Baelish or Lord Varys heard whispers of such a thing.”

“And they did not stop it?” asked Jon. His hair dripped beads of dark water, winding against the nape of his neck like curling vines against the outer walls of the Red Keep.

Sansa gave a gentle moan when Jon resumed the position he had established, the tip of his tongue brushing across the line of her collarbone. “I think not.” Sansa whispered.

She had spent many months of her stay in King’s Landing with Lord Baelish. He had always been kind to her, telling her often how strong her resemblance was to her Lady mother, when Catelyn Tully had been her age. At first Sansa had misinterpreted his kindness, remembering the day he had sat beside her at the King’s tourney and told her the story of Ser Sandor Clegane. But as the Capital slowly tore her naïveté from her Sansa realized it was not kindness at all but lust.

For nearly a year Sansa Stark had been locked in the Red Keep. The King had sought to punish her, to deprive her of those things that she had become accustomed to. And so, instead of writing letters and finishing needlepoint patterns and reading the history volumes she had so loved, Sansa watched and listened and studied the people of the Capital.

Sansa could still remembered the day that Lady Tyrell had appeared before the court, having joined Ser Loras and Ser Baelish in the Capital after the death of Renly Baratheon. She had been so kind, lovely and innocent as a spring flower, easily pulling the King into depths of her rapture. And as the months passed the spell some said Margaery had cast on him was not weakened and she was still able to cause the King to champion any cause she saw fit.

Cersei had once told Sansa that a woman’s best weapon was the one between her legs. At the time Sansa had found her words vulgar and shocking but as the days within the city slipped passed and the memories of Winterfell seemed farther and farther away the notion did not seem so completely foreign.

Sansa was often present for the Queen Regent’s meetings with the high Lords or Septon’s or well-known knights of Westeros. She had passed many days watching as Cersei adopted the same mask of kindness her son had inherited, seeming so completely genuine that if Sansa had not known the woman better she might have fallen victim to her charms once again as well. Her dazzling smiles, her golden hair, her laugh as sweet as honeycomb. It was all as false as fool’s gold. And yet no man had ever rejected the Queen Regent’s proposals, enthralled by her kindness and her beauty and her sweet words.

As Sansa had grown within the walls of the Red Keep she had shed the extra pounds of softness that her body still possessed from her years of girlhood. She had grown taller and leaner. The arches of her cheekbones grew higher, her crimson hair longer, the pout of her lips fuller, the curve of her waist softer and narrower. She was as beautiful as the golden lioness herself. And she was able to use her charms just as well as the woman.

Lord Baelish had been the subject of the first and the most powerful of her dalliances. His lust was marked as plainly on his face as his eyes and nose. Sansa could recognize it with each and every look he sent her way, each time his pupils widened, each time his tongue flickered out to run across his bottom lip. In a different life Cersei Lannister herself might have called Sansa a fool for not using the man to her advantage.

It had begun innocently enough. A kind word, a charming smile and the flattery she had bestowed upon Lord Baelish had morphed slowly into a core of confidence that he brandished whenever he was around her. Petyr was intrigued by the prospect of impressing her and worked at it often, speaking out against the King before the court, disagreeing with matters that Sansa herself had hinted at disagreeing with.

Sansa knew the man well enough to know that there was no plan made in the city that he was not aware of. From the women of his brothel to the peasants that he paid handsomely for information, Sansa was sure that he knew of the people’s planned rebellion. Yet he had done nothing to quench it nor to warn the King of its existence. He had allowed Joffrey to enter the city- and perhaps his death- without warning.

“Has Lord Baelish said anything?” Jon asked, running his callused fingers through her hair, gently pulling free the knots that had formed when she had been thrown against the wall in the city.

“No.” Sansa said. “Not to me. I don’t think he would be so foolish. He thinks I am too naïve to play the Game.”

She could feel Jon grin as he pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder, the course hair of his short-cropped beard scratching her lightly. “Then he is the foolish one.”

Sansa smiled and turned to face him in the bath, her body slipping into his lap with minimal adjustment. She laid her arms about his neck like a wreath and pulled him close enough to steal a kiss in the cold, murky water. “Ser Jon.” she whispered, peppering his jaw with kisses. “Ser Stark.” She could feel his muscles shift as he smiled. “Ser Targaryen.”

Sansa could feel him stir in response, the weight of her body in his lap causing the friction that had already been between them to mount. Suddenly Jon’s face fell grave, so serious that Sansa had wondered if she had said anything wrong. “Do you still have the dagger I gave you?” he asked.

Sansa nodded, cocking her head to the side. “Sewn under the mattress.”

He looked at her, ignoring the pulling feeling at the bottom of his stomach. “I want you to keep it there. Should anything befall me I-“

“No.” said Sansa firmly. Her hand closed so tightly two of his fingers cracked. “No. If the Stranger should try to take you from me then he will face my dagger too. You will not leave this world without me, Snow.”

His face broke out in a smile, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “Aye, my lady.” His eyes drifted briefly to her lips, his dark lashes batting against his cheek.

Sansa smiled as she looked into his face, reaching up to brush a rogue curl behind his ear and thinking how lucky she was to finally be able to do so. “I believe King Joffrey ordered you to claim your first bedding as a true knight.”

“I care not for the orders of the King.” Jon said, his eyes swimming with mirth. “But if my Lady commands it...”

Her blue eyes glittered just as Robb’s did. “Your lady does.” She could feel his breath against her cheek as he closed the space between them to bump his forehead lightly against hers. He was teasing her, brushing his lips so lightly against hers that when he pulled away her body automatically followed, her forehead bumping his chin.

Jon shifted her weight in his arms; pulling her flush against him, water lapping at his body as he adjusted himself. “Aye. As my lady commands.” Said he, kissing her.

Chapter Text

V

Sansa looked out at the churning waves beyond the harbour. The water was brackish, the winds rising by the sun and causing the tide to follow, blue-green water spilling over the dock and onto her feet. The sun had already risen high into the sky; the heat of it causing sweat to roll down Sansa’s spine and into the waist of her blue gown, another notch of sweat dotting her brow.

She had stood upon the dock for so long that its movements had caused dizziness to rise within her. At her side stood Jon, hard faced and still as stone, though the paleness of his skin led her to believe he too suffered from the same sickness as she.

But they dare not flinch nor falter before the Queen, whose anger had grown unmanageable the previous week, as she awaited the departure of her only daughter. Myrcella was to leave for Dorne at the sun’s break and yet Cersei’s sadness had postponed the event until midday.

Sansa had always dreamed of Dorne, the books Tyrion shared with her speaking of the kingdom with such adoration that it made her ache to taste the spice of it’s food or feel the wicked heat of the sun on her back. Although within the walls of the King’s Landing she wondered if anywhere else in the world could be so hot.

She watched as Cersei reached out to take the hand of her daughter just once more before she was whisked away, only to be given such a fierce look from the King that her pale hand froze midway to Myrcella’s before dropping back to her side. She had not even been able to graze the girl’s soft skin just one more time, a small token of her love.

Sansa’s heart tightened in her chest. Of all the Lannister’s Myrcella and Tommen were the only innocent- as sweet and kind as any children could be, so opposite from their mother that at times Sansa found it difficult to fathom Cersei Lannister had birthed them. Sansa had no doubt that when he arranged the match between Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane of Dorne Tyrion had nothing but the best of intentions. He had nothing but great love for his family- especially his niece and nephew- no matter how cruelly he was treated by their mother. Sansa knew he would rather take his life than ruin that of Myrcella’s.

At the start of the day Taena of Myr had offered the Queen Regent a few words in hopes that they would offer her semblance of peace. “Dorne is a lovely land.” Said she, the smile on her face as warm as the sun above. “I am sure Myrcella will be happy there.” When the Queen had made no response the daft woman continued, Sansa watching the exchange as though she feared the Golden Lioness might tear the woman’s head from her shoulders right then and there. “I have heard whispers that the Prince Trystane is handsome, as well. Any children she might bear-“

“That is enough.” Said Cersei, eyes as wet and green as the waves that swelled before her. “Leave.”

Taena had seemed taken aback, smile faltering on her full lips. “My Lady I-“

Cersei had turned; so curiously calm that Sansa had held her breath. Her eyes had narrowed to slits, her top lip pulled up in the sneer that Sansa recognized at once. “The next time I wish for your unsolicited advice I will ask for it.” said she, continuing: “Leave my presence at once or you will be forced.”

After that encounter there came no other voices to offer solace. Tyrion’s face had hardened until it was as firm as the steps he stood upon, his eyes watching over the boat that rowed towards the harbour, fighting the current as it was borne towards them. He said nothing, offered nothing, only watched as the boat came closer and closer.

The sloshing of water and whimpering of Myrcella were the only sounds, along with the occasional scatter of pebbles along the beach as one of the guests shifted their weight. It made Sansa heartsick. She was sure she would fare no differently if it was she departing from Winterfell, watching as her parents faded away on the beach along with the life she had led for the duration of her years. She had always been kind to Sansa, inviting her to sit with the group of ladies Myrcella surrounded herself with, offering tea cakes and conversation and asking for Sansa’s help with her sewing, even though Sansa knew her hand was impeccable. She was at no fault for the cruelty of her mother not her eldest brother. And yet the Gods had punished her.

Perhaps Taena was right and the girl would find solace in Dorne, away from the riches and rottenness of her family. Perhaps the rumours were even correct and Prince Trystane was handsome. Sansa hoped it was so.

A Septon chanted prayers, his raised hand absently swinging a censer of burning incense, the stink of old herbs pouring through the gilded metal to perfume to air around her. At first it had only made Sansa’s nose wrinkle but after so many hours it was enough to make her stomach cramp with the stink of it.

“Goodbye, Myrcella.” Offered Cersei weakly, watching as her daughter took the hand of a Dornish emissary and boarded the small boat, waving gently at the gathered group. When the girl did not respond it was clear that Cersei’s farewell had not been heard, her voice swept away by the salt wind.

One by one the crowd began to dwindle as Myrcella’s boat faded from sight, the vast Dornish vessel set far from the harbour, its orange sails glowing in the sunlight, the massive sigil sewn into the fabric visible from even so far away. Sansa watched as the boat met the ship, so far that she could not see whether or not Myrcella had yet to ascend the ladder on the side of the ship. King Joffrey was the first to go, followed soon after by the Hound and Ser Trant, whose dark eyes slanted to look at Sansa through the space of his visor.

Cersei whispered something to Tyrion as he turned to go, his grim face unchanging as he listened. He only gave her a hard look and resumed walking, ascending the steps after the King with his knight in tow. The many maids and servants who had hoped to prove their devotion and loyalty by seeing the Princess off departed, as did Jon, who left without an audible farewell, only a firm not to show he saw her at all.

“My Lady.” Said Margaery Tyrell, curtsying delicately to the Queen as she made up the stairs. Cersei Lannister did not respond, her eyes unblinking as they watched the once immobile ship as it turned, sails spreading wide as they caught the wind, before it began to disappear in the direction opposite from the harbour.

Soon the only people that remained were Sansa and Cersei. For all that she hated the woman Sansa found her feet were rooted to the ground, unwilling to budge nor let their Lady walk back up to the castle. The crimson haired woman opened her mouth several times to speak but found the words caught in her throat like a ball of air she was unable to breathe.

“I-I am sorry.” Said Sansa finally. The Septon had been the last to go, taking with him the stink of the incense he had burned. His chants of prosperity and happiness had disappeared with him and although Sansa had looked forward to the peace of silence she now found it unsettling.

As Cersei blinked a tear rolled down her cheek and across the side of her lip, the salt tasting the same as the air she took a long breath of. She had made no effort to respond for a moment and yet, as soon as Sansa had curtsied gently and turned to leave the Queen Regent be, Cersei rounded upon her.

“Sorry?” she whispered. Her hand rose into the air as though she meant to strike Sansa, the girl more than familiar with the feel of the former Queen’s hand across her cheek. “Sorry?” she repeated weakly. Her hand fell back to her side; all fight gone from her voice. She seemed empty now; her eyes glued to the horizon though the Dornish ship had long ago disappeared.

Taking the cue Sansa curtsied and moved back up the steps, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to pretend she could not hear the Queen Regent sobbing just behind her.

Almost at once Sansa was pulled back into the whirlwind of planning for the wedding of Margaery and Joffrey. Olenna, who had not been present on the beach, came upon Sansa as soon as she returned from the harbour, smiling back at the girl after Sansa bid her good morning.

“It’s good afternoon now, I suppose.” Said Lady Olenna, sighing. She offered her arm for Sansa to take, the crimson haired girl knowing she had no other option but to take it. “That dreadful event took all morning. I cannot say I do not feel for the Queen Regent. I too was witness to Mina’s departure. A mother never recovers from the absence of her child, I tell you.”

Sansa smiled in response, unable to think of anything but her own mother, who had seen the absence of all of her children, save Robb. And the death of half of them. She coughed to shield the whimper that came out of her, hoping that the Lady of the Reach did not see her wet eyes.

As Sansa and Olenna met Lady Margaery on the veranda and the women chatted animatedly about the events and plans of the King’s wedding Sansa let her mind drift far away.

Last night she had dreamed of Robb, the image of him in her mind just as she had last seen him, soft and sweet faced, bits of fat still clinging to his cheeks from childhood. But the longer the dream stretched the more different he became until soon he was a mirror image of the boy Sansa had once known, now made a man by death and blood and Lannisters. She knew he must have changed as vastly over their time apart as Jon had, imagining his dry, gaunt face, his crimson hair paled by sadness. It made her heart ache to think of him that way, instead of with snowflakes melting in his hair.

Sitting at her side Megga Tyrell told Sansa one of the rumours often whispered about the man, having found the lack of gossip in their current conversation boring. “He rides into battle on the back of a direwolf.” The girl had whispered, her dark eyes alight with the intrigue of gossip. Margaery’s cousin had flinched, almost looking pained, her voice dropping to a decibel so painstakingly low Sansa had to crane her neck to hear. “They say he can…that he can transform into a direwolf. They say he is mad.”

Sansa could have laughed then. She had turned, expecting to find Jon on her other side, face flushed with a smile as he laughed at the ridiculous of the rumour. But she had seen only Margaery on her other side, looking down at her with sudden concern, her brows knitted. “I’m sorry, Sansa. We should not have said anything.”

Sansa shook her head, chuckling. “Robb isn’t mad.” She said. “He’s…” She smiled softly, remembering the many days they had spent together at Winterfell, so close in age and look that they had often been mistaken for twins. Kissed by fire, their father had often said, as he reached down to run his fingers through their crimson hair. A Northern saying. Sansa’s face hardened. “He’s a traitor.” She finished.

Megga nodded absently along before adding, “My Lady you should not speak of such bad things when planning her wedding.”

Margaery said nothing, the look in her eyes sympathetic as she gazed at her. “He-“

A set of approaching footsteps interrupted the Future Queen, whatever words she might have said drowned out by the shifting of armour that meant the Kingsguard was approaching. Ser Arys rapped quickly on the side of the gilded awning. “I am sorry to interrupt, your grace.” Said he, folding into a bow. Megga eyed him curiously, turning so the low hem of her gown was at a better angle. His gaze shifted across the women slowly, his mouth hanging slightly open, before ending up on Sansa. “Lady Sansa, the King wishes an audience. At once.” He added, as though Sansa was unfamiliar with the King’s biddings.

She was instantly overcome with fear, flooding her body from toe to chin like ice. “Of course.” Said Sansa, pushing herself to her feet. She curtsied to Megga and Margaery and followed after the guard, who walked patiently at her side.

“I do not know what he wishes.” Said Ser Arys.

Sansa looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He stood a head taller than her, thick with muscle and strength beneath his onyx armour, the open visor of his helm revealing a handsome, kind face. He had always been gentle to her, even when burying his fists into her belly; Sansa’s screams enough to distract King Joffrey from the lightness of Arys’ strikes.

“I…I have not heard anything from my brother’s.” He continued. Robb’s victories were usually the reason for her beatings before the court. Usually an invitation to the King’s court was enough to have her shaking with fear but now he could not hurt her. She could almost smile at the thought. She was not under another man’s protection and Joffrey could not beat her. Rather, he could not have another man beat her upon his order.

“Thank you, ser.” Sansa replied, keeping pace at his side.

They walked slowly, passing the long corridors Sansa had become so familiar with since her arrival in the Capital. Still, even with the promise of safety, she still dreaded pulling at her stomach like sickness at the thought of coming before the King.

Sansa slipped through the open door of the throne room and at once the hall was rendered quiet and stiff, a hundred eyes on her as she walked forth. Unsettled, Sansa shifted on the balls of her feet, the rustle of her skirt and shuffle of her feet the only sound in the vast chamber.

“Good afternoon, your grace.” Sansa greeted. King Joffrey was lounging back in his seat, his eyes narrowed to slits as he watched her from across the room. At his side was the Queen Regent, her face ashen and dull, her eyes holding no pleasure even at the prospect of Sansa facing Joffrey’s humiliation, a hobby she had taken to liking long ago.

“Lady Sansa.” Said the King. His wormy lips pulled into a sneer, shifting his weight in the great Iron Throne so he was able to look at her more closely. “I am glad that you could finally join us.”

Sansa drew closer, the crowd parting for her as she approached the Throne. “I am sorry your grace, I was with Lady M-“

He waved a hand. “I care not for who you were with, Lady.” He spat. “I care not for anything to do with you, at the moment. Your brother on the other hand-“ Sansa gasped audibly. Her fear must have shown on her face for the King’s sneer nearly morphed into a smile.

Sansa suddenly felt the need to double over, the pain in her chest so great that it nearly made her retch. She was sure the King was about to inform her of the death of her brother for the look on his face bore nothing but pleasure. She tried to prepare for it, tried to steel her face and square her shoulders and brace herself for the news. She tried not to show any weakness. But her face betrayed her, her cheeks reddening, eyes watering.

Joffrey seemed to be relishing in her misery, not speaking until he had sucked up every ounce of her suffering. “He still lives, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He added cavalierly, the pause between his words making her choke out another breath, half relieved, half horrified by what would come next. “Quite opposite actually. He has won another victory in a battle against my grandfather.”

Sansa stared up at the King, counting the swords that were melded into the throne so she might not have to meet Joffrey’s eye. “I…I am sorry, your grace. My brother is a traitor and a-“

“Enough.” Joffrey waved her away. Sansa was panicked by Cersei’s lack of participation in the conversation, her eyes continuing to stare at her feet and nothing else. “I’ve had enough. I called you hear to answer for your brother’s latest treasons, Lady.”

She had heard the words before, so many times that as soon as he uttered them her body began to react without her permission. At once her knees weakened. Sansa shook her head. Her eyes cut to Lord Baelish, who sat upon an ebon bench behind Joffrey, but despite her knowledge of his lack of love for the King’s behaviour both he and Sansa knew he could not interrupt the King. “Your grace, whatever my traitor brother has done-“

“Done?” he asked. “He has killed nearly a thousand good Lannister men. His wolves have torn the skin from their bodies and feasted upon it like beasts in heat.”

Sansa could only watch as the King spoke, knowing the punishment would only worsen with each interruption. Joffrey stared down the bridge of his nose at her, smirking. “On your knees.” He ordered. Sansa did not respond. “I said, on your knees.”

The stone was cold beneath the layers of her petticoats she wore, her skirt bunching beneath her knees as she sat. “I am sorry, your grace.” Her voice faltered, the colour in her cheeks fading. Joffrey liked the look of fear on her. “I had nothing to do with the actions of my brother he-“

“From what I heard you and the Traitor of the North were quite close.”

Sansa gave him a questioning look. “He is my brother, your grace. We spent our days in Winterfell-“

“I have no interest in how your spent your days, Lady Sansa. I only care about the men your brother has slaughtered.” He said.

And what of the men you have slaughtered? Sansa thought, staring up at him. Her eyes were defiant, holding firm on the eyes that mirrored Cersei Lannister’s, though they were not nearly as light and far crueler. She realized her mistake, cursing herself for being so foolhardy. It had been so many months within the Capital that she had spent learning patience, every one of her moves practiced, her every word marked, her behaviour unassuming.

She tried to open her mouth, tried to apologize. But it was too late. “Ser Meryn-“ called the King. Sansa pressed her eyes closed, all too familiar with would come next. She had been a fool to think the beatings would stop now, she had been a fool to not realize why Jon was not present. “Perhaps we should show the lady what I mean.”

“Aye, your grace.” Agreed the knight. Where Ser Meryn had once stood Ser Arys shifted on the balls of his feet, his lips pressed firmly together to prohibit him from speaking out against the King.

Petyr Baelish stepped forward, kneeling at the King’s side to whisper something in his ear but he was forced aside, the unspoken threat of the drawn crossbow at the King’s side looming too dangerous for the man. Even Varys came forward, the man who had pledged before Jon and Sansa both that should their plans be found out he would disown any interest in them and offer no support. But the King could not be dissuaded.

The first blow came in the place Ser Meryn Trant always began his beatings with, his fist pushing deep enough into Sansa’s belly to make the food she had broken her fast upon nearly rise to her lips. She let out a gasp, wishing she were strong enough to take her punishment without giving the King his reward of being witness to her suffering.

The blunt edge of Trant’s blade struck her back at an awkward angle, pushing her body forward into his fist yet again. She whimpered, folding at the waist as she fell to the floor, gripping her wounded shoulder.

Without pause Meryn Trant struck her again, though this time she was not lucky enough to endure the flat side of the blade. The wetness of blood beaded through the small part of the fabric that had not torn under the pressure of his blade, a small river as it ran down her spine.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open, the sound of the brass knobs slamming the stone walls grating as it sounded through the chamber, echoing like the screams of the limping girl inside. Jon strode forward, so filled with fury that his body had blanched hot. The hair curling at the nape of his neck was tied back by a leather, causing him to bear an uncanny resemblance to Sansa’s Lord father.

He stood at Sansa’s side, the hand he offered closing around her forearm as he pulled her to her feet. The hard muscle of his body braced her, keeping her from slipping back to the ground, the pain that swept through her body leaving her heaving. “What is the meaning of this, your grace?” he seethed, his words muffled by the clenching of his teeth. He watched the King without blinking; awaiting an explanation for the reason his wife was nearly curled at his feet.

“Your brother has killed a thousand of my men.” Said Joffrey, bristling under Jon’s firm gaze. The man stood a full head taller than the King and even as Joffrey sat upon the raised dais Jon’s stature was impressive, the set of his shoulders and the firm clenching and unclenching of his jaw giving Joffrey pause.

“And is Lady Sansa responsible for this?” questioned Jon. Sansa was impressed by the evenness of his tone, having expected rabid violence from him instead of subtle aggression. “Directly responsible?”

Joffrey’s eyes flicked briefly to his mother, finding her unchanged from her previous stupor.

For a moment he looked as though he might reduce the sentence Meryn Trant carried out on the woman when he shook his head, as though to clear it, and threw himself to his feet. “Do you dare speak this way to your king?” he demanded, the finger he pointed at Jon shaking with frenzy. “You should be on your knees beside her begging for my forgiveness!”

Jon did not respond. Meryn Trant and the Hound drew their swords, the clatter of metal being pulled from scabbards echoing through the chamber like rain on a roof. “I said…do you dare spea-“

“What is the meaning of all this?” came a voice.

Looking over her shoulder Sansa could see Lord Tyrion making his way towards the head of the room, his small form parting the crowd with ease, Ser Bronn and Tyrion’s manservant Podrick at his back. Tyrion stared incredulously at the King, his eyes sweeping over the scene before him, from Sansa- relying almost completely on her husband to stay upright, to Jon- his fingers aching to curl around the sword at his belt, and finally to Joffrey- who had shouted so voraciously that bubbles of spittle had risen to his lips, flinging into the air as he spoke. A few members of the Kingsguard reined the people of the court back, as though expecting violence to ensue at any moment.

“Well?” repeated Tyrion, when to answer came. The King looked uncertain, his eyes slipping once again to his mother. “I am waiting.”

Tyrion was the only man in Westeros bold enough to speak to the King in such a way, especially when Joffrey was so deep in the throes of fury. “Might I remind you that- while beating a woman is shameful on its own, that Sansa is no longer yours to do with as you see fit? By your own hand she was wed, before the eyes of Gods and men, and brought under the protection of another man. A man whom you celebrated yesterday and wish to execute today? For what crime? Defending the honour of his wife?”

Bubbles of spit rose once more to Joffrey’s lips as he spoke, taking a step towards Tyrion before seeing Bronn’s hand drop to the pommel of his sword and reconsidering. “Lady Stark is a traitor, no different from that of her brother, who has slaughtered a thousand men in combat just a fortnight ago!”

Tyrion looked impressed. “I had no idea Sansa was capable of witchcraft. Able to clone herself into another being and travel thousands of miles to fight at Robb’s side and then return before morning. Quite impressive, Lady Stark.” Bronn offered Sansa a hand, helping her to her feet so that she could stand beside her husband more steadily.

“Uncle you-“

“-would you truly be so foolish as to execute Lord and Lady Stark?” asked he. “To bring down the sword upon their heads is to bring it down your own. You would strengthen the Northern cause by doing so. Give them even more of a reason to think you their enemy instead of offering a reason why they should trust you.”

Considering this, Joffrey frowned, looking briefly back at Sansa as though suddenly rethinking the previous beatings he had instructed Ser Meryn give her. “Are you truly so foolish to do so?” Tyrion repeated. “Your execution of Ned Stark is what led to the Northern Rebellion after all.”

It was the final nail in the King’s coffin. He took a step back, falling heavily into the seat of the throne, a mixture of white-hot fury and adoration behind his eyes. He rested his chin upon his hand, his eyes returning to slits so low that only his iris could be seen. “You may go.” He said finally.

Sansa let out a breath of relief, wishing her legs had not long ago given out so that she would be able to leave the chamber with as much confidence as Lord Tyrion had entered it. Without giving the King the opportunity to change his mind Jon bent to lift his wife into his arms and swept her from the chamber, glaring at anyone who dare to meet his eye.

Chapter Text

VI

Jon Stark’s body nearly vibrated with rage as he carried his wife back to their shared chamber, Tyrion close at his heels. Sansa could feel the hatred pulsating through him, every ounce of blood that rushed through his veins fueled by a deep detestation for the King and the Lannister house. He did not open his mouth for fear that the words he had barely managed to restrain would spring forth. He did not even respond to Sansa’s light prodding, her words only making the clench of his jaw grow tighter, so taut Sansa feared it might snap like an overdrawn bowstring.

As they worked through the halls the servants they came across bowed their heads out of respect, doing their best to avoid Jon’s angry eye, while still craning their necks for a sight of the injured girl in his arms.

“Mind your manners!” snapped Bronn, when one of the lesser knights stared openly at the girl, his eyes catching her bare back from where her dress had been shorn by Ser Meryn’s blade. The man reached for the pommel of his blade, the motion casing the knight to lower his head and walk off.

Tyrion had ordered Podrick to call upon Maester Qyburn, despite Sansa’s immediate protests. “Your would must be attended to, my lady.” The youngest Lannister had offered softly, looking up at her as he struggled to keep pace beside Jon. “It will be quick.” Pausing to think for a beat he then continued, “we will not leave you alone with him.”

Sansa nodded hesitantly. The pain was causing her to see spots behind her half-lidded eyes, every jolt of Jon’s step causing a bolt of pain to run through her.

She hated the Maester. She had seen his potions and his jars of vile, sticky things. Cersei had once told her that in his chambers he had a collection of human tongues that he dried and crushed to a powder. Sansa had thought the woman japing, and yet she had not been so sure.

His hands were always cold. Cold as death against her skin as he poked and prodded under the guise of healing. The chains he had forged always rattled against his chest when he moved, an empty promise of safety and confidence she was not sure he provided.

Podrick Payne returned with the man in tow, the leather satchel of medicines and herbs he carried jingling at his side and causing the small table Jon had taken as a desk to creak when he placed the bag upon it. The Maester’s eyes flicked briefly around the room, surprised by the lack of possessions furnishing it, as though, for just a moment, he had forgotten that Jon and Sansa were prisoners of the crown.

“What ails you, Lady Stark?” the Maester asked.

Qyburn’s salt and pepper hair had been slicked back by perfumed oils that wafted more strongly to her nose the closer he came, the smell of green mint and something bitter overpowering as he bent to examine her bleeding leg. He tried to ignore the sets of eyes on his back, shifting uncomfortably under their gazes. The last time he had been with Sansa there had not been nearly as much supervision.

A few moments prior Tyrion had asked Ser Bronn and Podrick remain outside, the men taking the unofficial order to guard the door with pride. Bronn even let his hand drop back down the handle of his sword, a silent challenge to anyone who might try force their entrance. As Sansa made to lift the hem of her gown so that the Maester could fully see the extent of the injury Tyrion turned his back toward her, an attempt to maintain her dignity.

Qyburn gave her leg a hard look as she pulled her skirts above her thigh, his cold fingers running briefly across the skin that had already began to blanche purple and green, dots of blood bubbling beneath her skin like small jewels. “It will take time to heal, I am afraid.” The man said finally. His eyes were on hers, his hot breath on her face. “But it should not ail you for long.” He looked quickly over at Jon, whose gaze was resolute, before he continued. “If you would not mind turning on your side so I may inspect your back.”

Sansa hesitated. Qyburn had always been able to justify his advances, claiming the hand that hesitated on her thigh was gauging the blood flow to the area, the eyes that trailed down to her lips were checking their colour. He had never outwardly tried to take advantage of her, for fear that Cersei might favour the girl’s words and believe them. And yet the idea of his hands upon her bare skin made her cringe, even with four men at her back.

Before the window Jon’s arms were crossed over his chest, his muscles of his arms purposefully bulging. His eyes were unwavering as they followed the Maester’s every movement, his ear attuned to his words. Save the soft rise and fall of his lithe chest the man was still as a statue, his face a deep, stern gray that brought Lyanna Stark’s statue in the crypts of Winterfell to mind.

Sansa gave a short laugh, drawing the attention of both Jon and Tyrion, as she thought now of Daenerys’ letters. It was said that Lady Lyanna was Jon’s true mother. Late at night, as she brushed Jon’s hair from his sleeping face and gazed upon it, she thought of the statue. When they were children they had so often ventured down to the crypts, innocent fingers tracing every curve of Lyanna’s statue, placing feathers or flowers at her feet. Sansa’s fingers must have followed the curves of her face a thousand times, and yet now she could not think of it, no matter how deeply she looked upon Jon’s.

“Are you in pain?” asked the Maester, surprised by her laughter. He rooted around in his bag for a moment, producing a small olive coloured bottle. “A few drops of milk of the poppy should ease your pain.”

“I am well, ser.” Assured Sansa, the lie on her tongue drawing wary looks from both Jon and Tyrion, her pale face clearly showing the wear of pain across it.

“I am afraid your gown is ruined.” Qyburn commented absently. “I may need to cut away a bit more so I can bandage the wound.”

Jon made to step forward but Tyrion stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, a silent motion for the Maester to continue his work. Sansa wished she was able to lie on her stomach but the pain was too great to bear and she was forced on her side, facing away from where Tyrion and Jon stood. In the end she was glad for it, the angle of her body crooked so she was able to hide her face, Jon and Tyrion unable to see the tears that welled in her eyes at the feel of Qyburn’s touch.

The gash from Ser Meryn Trant’s blade was not deep enough to reach bone, but had yet bled so deeply that the rear of her lavender gown looked as though it had been dipped in a bed of crimson dye. From the way he had carried her Jon’s hands were wet with it and it mattered not how he had tried to wipe the blood away for it only streaked, leaving his hands red and tender from the roughness of the cloth he had used.          

“No sutures are required.” Qyburn hummed absently, he pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. Trant’s hand had trembled as he lifted the blade, leaving the wound jagged and uneven, thinner on one side than the other. “Are you in pain, lady?” he asked again. Sansa shook her head. Another lie.

She had not cried before Joffrey and she would not admit to pain in the presence of Cersei’s servant when in truth the soreness of the wounds made her eyes droop closed, tired enough that though the pain loomed over her she could almost feel it begin to ebb away.

She wondered if he had given her milk of the poppy after all.

When the Maester was done with his assessment he left, bowing quickly to Jon but hurrying away with only a few words. Most likely he was headed straight to the Queen’s chambers to whisper to the Golden Lioness whatever he had uncovered about her.

Tyrion bowed. “My lady, I will leave you to it.” said he. “The Maester has left milk of the poppy, should your pain worsen. Ser Bronn has offered to stay behind should…” he trailed off.

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa replied. Her weariness was written plainly on her face, the bruises under her eyes having deepened almost to purple.

He paused. “I…have one more thing.” He said. “News of your brother.”

The room was filled with the staunch silence of held breath, Sansa so starved for information that she was practically ravenous. “Speak it.” said Jon, his eyes widening larger by the second. They feared the worst. She feared Tyrion was to say his army had won another battle but perhaps Robb himself had succumbed.

“Your brother has been injured.” Said the Imp, his voice gentle. “Yet he still lives. News has reached the Small Council that Renly Baratheon has been slayed by a rogue knight in his own camp. It is said that half of his forces have joined the cause of your brother…the other half have joined my father’s army.”

The pain that had welled in Sansa’s chest at the thought of her brother’s death left her body in a woosh of breath. She was glad she was sitting for she was sure her legs would have given out beneath her, the thought of Robb lying injured, but alive, being the most welcomed news she had received since Daenerys’ last letter.

Jon had been so busy looking upon the allayed face of his wife to bid farewell to Tyrion, not even noticing the man had slipped away until he heard the click of the lock as the door was closed behind him.

Jon knelt at her bedside, taking the hand she had laid across her lap. His shoulders slumped forward, his eyes falling closed as he let her fingers brush across his cheek. “Jon?” she asked, concerned, her thumb brushed across his bottom lip. He was so still Sansa wondered if he had heard her. “Jon…” she murmured, sitting forward so she could meet his gaze. His dark eyes were glossy and wet, unable to meet hers and turning to stare down at the furs she had laid over her lap.

He pushed himself to his feet so suddenly that Sansa jumped, letting out a yelp- half from the pain in her tender belly, half from surprise at his sudden actions. Jon mopped his face with his hands, his eyes suddenly focusing on the uneven redness of the blood that had now begun to dry and flake from his skin.

His face was ashen; cheeks splotched red and white, his eyes wet with tears that continued to well angrily in his eyes. “I almost…” he began, letting out a long sigh. “Killed you.”

“If Tyrion had not been there and I had been able to do what I wished I could do to the King…we would both be dead now. Our heads would be beside father’s at the castle gates.” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Jon swallowed hard, the lump in his throat only growing the more he spoke. “All of our planning. Our patience…it would have been for nothing.”

His face screwed up, a pair of tears falling from his eyes to run down his cheeks, catching at the corner of his lips so that the taste of salt filled his mouth. “I would have killed you if…I’m so sorry.” He choked out.

Sansa did not feel the tears in her eyes until they sprung free, their path uneven as they rolled down her cheeks to her chin. She pushed aside her skirts, pulling free the conjoined laces at the meeting of her hips until the fabric loosened and fell away. Clad in only bodice and under skirts she crossed the room, bare feet padding against the hard stone until she stood beside Jon at the window, watching as he drew the curtains closed with a snap of his wrist.

“Look at me.” she said. When Jon made no response she repeated her order, more forceful now. “Look at me.” Her hand had lifted to take hold of his chin, manually turning his face until he was forced to meet her gaze, wet, red eyes on wet, red eyes.

“You did nothing wrong.” She said, firmly. Jon made to pull away but she held his chin tightly enough to hold him in his place. “You did nothing wrong,” she repeated. “I won’t have you thinking otherwise. I’ve been beaten before.” Jon flinched at her words. “I am strong enough to bear it, I promise you. We are strong enough to bear it. We have each other now. We can survive as long as we have each other.”

Jon stooped to sit at her feet, his arms draped loosely around her middle, his head on level with her belly. He pressed a kiss there, so feather light that she could barely feel his touch. Though her thin shift he could see the dark bruise had only spread and deepened in colour, purple enough to resemble plum dye on her skin.

She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling the dark curls spring through her fingers, smooth as silk and sweet smelling. His eyes raised suddenly, pearly teeth bared like a wolf about to devour its prey. His hands were at her hips, holding her still, his eyes so bright and deep that she could not break his gaze.

“We will go back to Winterfell.” Jon Stark said. There was no question to his voice. Sansa opened her mouth to make audible that that was what she desired most in the world, but Jon continued, uninterrupted. “I will take you back. I care not for anything or anyone that stands in our way. I do not care if I have to destroy mountains and cities and kingdoms to do it. I will take the life of every Lannister from here to Casterly Rock if it means keeping you safe.” He said. “I will fight at her side and I will take it. I will take it all, for you.”

Sansa bent to kneel at his side, her arms taking him into her welcoming embrace. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him how vastly she loved him, how deep her desire to return to Winterfell was, how greatly she wanted to take the North at his side. But she settled for kissing him, deeply, unabashedly, fiercely, claiming his lips as he planned to take the North.

On the morning of her wedding Margaery Tyrell produced a gown so beautiful that Sansa was awed by it. The embroidered pattern of roses was so detailed and perfect that it made her hands hurt to think of sewing it, the fabric practically shimmering under the bright sunlight. The bodice clasped tightly to her body, trailing down her legs loosely and whipping about in the salty wind as she moved through the gardens. It was not an unusual style for the future Queen, the fashion of low bodices and loose hems spreading through the Capital and all the way to Highgarden, where Margaery told Sansa that the fashions of loose cottons and detailed designs was commonplace.

Sansa had readied herself in the morning as she always did. The ivory tub in the adjoining room had been filled with lukewarm water, the scent of roses wafting up from the steam. Sitting at the side of the tub Jon trailed his fingers through the water, gazing upon his wife as she brushed her fingers through her hair, the water having left her crimson hair gone dark.

“Margaery’s cousin brought a gift for you this morning. Along with her apologizes for the King’s behaviour.” He said, eyeing the pinkish water. “Megga said that Margaery will try her hardest to curb his anger once they are married.”

“I hope she is able.” Said Sansa. “Although I fear he is too far gone to control. The King once told me that as a gift Joffrey gave him a litter of unborn kittens he had cut from one of the kitchen cats.”

“Evil bastard.” Muttered Jon, fishing through the water to take her hand, watching beads of water run from her flesh as he kissed her upturned palm. “Even if she is unable I promise you that I will not allow you to be harmed again. Not while I live.”

“Shh, my love.” she whispered. “We might as well enjoy the wedding while we can.”

The previous night Sansa had laid out a gown that she had worn half a hundred times. The fabric was so worn that it had faded from bright rose to a dusty, dull pink, the bodice having been cut and sewn larger by Sansa when her body had ceased to be the flat plain it had once been and grown more full.

Margaery’s gift hung on a peg in the wardrobe, catching her eye as soon as she entered the room from the bathing chamber. The fabric was shimmering in the light, the colour of the sea just outside her chamber, much in the style of Margaery herself. It was beautiful, the fabric far softer than the scratchy material of her old gown.

Shae helped her dress, doing up the opal buttons at her back until they were fastened to her neck. She had expressed deep surprise at Sansa not donning her corset for the occasion but Sansa had long ago given up on the garment, especially with her belly still so tender, and the fit of Margaery’s gifted gown did not require one to be worn.

As the days had turned to weeks the gash on her back healed and thinned, the bruise on her belly had shaded to become a dull, sickly green, still so painful that Sansa could not put any pressure upon it.

Sometimes Sansa was overcome with emotion, having become so used to caring for her own injuries that Jon’s presence nearly pushed her to tears. She was so thankful for Jon, who helped her in and out of the bath when Shae was not present, who applied fresh bandages to the healing cut on her back, and gently scratched it as the healing made it itch.

But at night, in the privacy of their own chamber, in the pure darkness of candle-less night, Jon could take her in his arms, pepper her face with kisses, and whisper sweet words into her ear as she was lulled into asleep.

The Sept had been so spectacularly decorated that Sansa could not fathom it was the same hall she and Jon had been wed at just a few weeks before. Crimson fabric unspooled from the tops of marble columns, drifting in the low wind that drifted through the doors of the Sept, the salty air of the harbour filling their noses with a course breath of freshness. The Septon entered the chamber dressed spectacularly in golden fabrics, his beard close-cropped and shining with the perfumed oils he had brushed through the hair. He used a silk cloth to dab at the sweat that sprung to his brow, the table that housed half a hundred flickering candles at his side causing jasmine scented heat to waft through the air.

Sansa and Jon had been placed in the midst of a crowd made up of people she disdained most in the world. At her left was Tywin Lannister; standing almost two heads taller than her and so stony faced that Sansa was sure if a stranger looked on they might not know he was witnessing the marriage of his grandson.

At the foot of the steps that led to the raised dais where the Septon sat Cersei Lannister, who had not fully recovered from the departure of her daughter a fortnight prior. She was dressed proudly in Lannister colours, the beaded head of a lion sewn into the sleeves of her gown, a not so subtle statement of supremacy over Olenna Tyrell, who wore the glittering green and gold of House Tyrell, a swirl of gilded roses embroidered onto her back.

The chamber was buzzing with excitement at the royal wedding. A hundred royal families were crammed into the Sept so tightly they resembled the cramped fish that were dragged into the harbour by a fisherman’s net. Most of them were of lesser families that had long ago pledged their loyalty to the Houses Lannister or Tyrell and had been invited to the wedding and allowed to partake in the massive feast and celebrations as a reward for their devotion.

Joffrey Baratheon entered the hall in all the pomp and circumstance Sansa had anticipated. His arrogance was plain on his face, the crimson doublet and surcoat he was enveloped in made of pure silk, a thousand Lannister sigils sewn into the garment, so small that each one was about the size of Sansa’s finger nail.

The King crossed the room with such cocksure arrogance that even Tywin Lannister bristled, a short scoff under his breath audible to Sansa as she was so close at his side. His crown had been polished, the jewels at the ends of the gilded peaks glittering in the candlelight as he passed, the smile on his face only growing as he caught sight of Sansa, his eyes drooping quickly to the low collar of her gown. She was suddenly overcome with gooseflesh under his hot gaze, his green eyes lingering on the ridges of her collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts barely visible with the V shaped bodice. Jon stiffened at her side, only calmed by the hand she pressed to his forearm, just briefly enough to calm him without amassing any suspicion from the Lannister hoard they were a part of.

All at once the crowd turned to look back at Margaery Tyrell as she appeared, like a goddess enveloped in the bright sunlight that shone through the open doors of the chamber. She walked arm in arm with Mace Tyrell, her free hand slightly stooped to take hold of her long train so it would not wrap around her legs as she alighted from the long staircase.

A sharp intake of breath filled the room as they caught sight of the lovely bride, clad in pale green, her train decorated with a dozen fabric roses so detailed Sansa wondered if they were real after all.

She descended the aisle slowly, passing Sansa and offering a small but sincere smile, one that did not reach her eyes as she caught sight of Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent standing at Sansa’s side, and looking morbid as though she attended a funeral.

The Septon orchestrated the ceremony without a hitch, the crowd overcome with cheering and applause as Joffrey took hold of Margaery’s cheeks and brought his face to hers. The kiss was neither soft nor romantic, the way his thick lips crushed against hers far too firm to be seen as anything but dutiful on her part and excitable on his.

Sansa and Jon clapped on with the rest of the crowd, watching as the new King and Queen of Westeros took their first turn about the room, hand in hand, Margaery Baratheon grinning as happily as though her lips had not just been mashed against her teeth.

“The ceremony was beautiful.” Commented Sansa as the Sept emptied slowly. She was uncomfortable with the silence that enveloped them when all the other groups still sitting in the Sept chatting animatedly.

“Yes.” Said Tyrion Lannister, who had stood before them during the ceremony. “I have never seen the Septon so sober.”

Jon laughed. “He certainly was not so during our wedding.”

“Lady Margaery is a lucky woman.” Said Sansa. “His grace will surely make a good husband.”

Tyrion fixed her with a glance that showed half suspicion, half pride, finally adding. “As good a husband as he is king.” They all shared a laugh then, the dull pain that throbbed in Sansa’s side a painful reinforcement of the truth of Tyrion’s statement.

Chapter Text

VII

When the ceremony ended the trickle of people from the doors of the Sept finally thinned enough for Sansa, Jon, and Tyrion to join them. The path from the Great Sept of Baelor to the castle had been cleared of all people and was lined with half a hundred armed brothers of the Kingsguard, lest there be a repeat of the day of Margaery’s picnic.

Tyrion accompanied the couple as they moved from one location to the next, leaving behind the Sept in favour of the gardens where Olenna Tyrell and Cersei Lannister had organized the wedding feast.

Sansa fanned herself with her hand. The gown Margaery had gifted her lacked the cover she was used to, the Southron heat beating down upon her shoulders like flames. When Sansa’s handmaiden had first helped her into the gown Sansa had found her face flushed with embarrassment. Though the sleeves fell to her wrists the gown was backless, the collar of her bodice low enough to nearly reach her ribcage.

“You look lovely.” Shae admired and then added, “You look like Lady Margaery.”

When Jon had seen her his eyes had rounded to be the size of saucers, choking on the wine he had drawn from his chalice. “You look…” he began. “I am glad Lady Margaery has popularized this style.” Sansa grinned and kissed her husband lightly, taking the arm he offered and quitting the chamber.

Her love for the gown had only grown when she had seen hatred burn in Cersei’s eyes when the Queen Mother had caught sight of her. She was unsure whether or not the woman had hated it more because it showed Margaery’s spreading influence or because Cersei’s gown did well to hide the growing width of her waist instead of display it proudly.

“Sansa!” called a voice. The crimson haired woman turned, finding Tommen Baratheon running towards her, the grin on his face so pure and innocent that it was a marvel he shared the same blood with Joffrey and Cersei. Sansa bid Jon and Tyrion continue without her, waiting until the young prince caught up with her. “I wanted to thank you.” He said, breathless, his cheeks glowing red from the exertion of his exercise.

“Thank me?” Sansa asked.

“For your nameday gift.” Said he. “I’ve named him Ser Pounce.”

Sansa smiled widely. She had found the kitten in a litter one of the kitchen cats had produced, the little cat small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, so dark a black that he would have disappeared into the night air if his eyes did not glow so brightly yellow. “I am glad you like him, your grace.”

“He’s lovely.” Continued Tommen. “He sleeps on my pillow beside my head and purrs. He’s so warm at night I think I do not even need my furs.” He babbled excitedly. He paused then, looking up at Sansa before offering his arm, a flush darkening his cheeks even more. “May I escort you to the feast, my lady?”

Sansa accepted his offered arm and they continued on together, listening to the way he spoke of Ser Pounce and all the tricks he had taught him. He even confided in Sansa that when Joffrey called upon him he hid the kitten in the lowest drawer of his wardrobe, scared that the King would repeat what he had done to the kitchen cat all those years ago. “Please don’t tell him, my lady!” Tommen pleaded, looking desperate.

Sansa could not help but smile. Tommen reminded her so much of her own brother, long gone now, but no less sweet. “Of course not, your grace.” She cooed, squeezing his hand softly. “Ser Pounce’s secret is safe with me.”

Tommen beamed at her, swooping into a chivalrous bow and kissing her hand as they reached the gardens. He lingered for a moment, his eyes reaching the still bandaged wound on her bare back. He looked sad, squeezing her hand. “If I am ever King I would not harm you.” He whispered, as though afraid someone might hear. “Or anyone. I would be kind.”

“You would not have to try hard, your grace.” She replied, curtsying. “You are already kind.”

The palace garden had been decorated so fantastically Sansa could almost not recognize it. A hundred tables had been laid among the trees and bushes, cloth awnings laid overhead to block out the heat and shine of the sun overhead. A series of crimson and gold rugs had been laid over the grass to keep dirt and mud from the shoes of the royal guests, a block of wood laid just beneath to keep the tables steady.

In the midst of the area lay a small stage, three long rectangular tables leading away from it on either side, the King and Queen’s place marked with two heavy wooden chairs that bore a striking resemblance to thrones, and a dozen other chairs at the table for the other high guests. Ivory plates and shining silverware lined the tables for the courses that were yet to be unveiled, their numbers rumored to be nearly a hundred.

Jugglers and fire eaters and women so flexible they could fold their bodies in half danced around the tables and chairs, laughter bubbling up from where jesters dressed in crimson told their bawdy jokes. Dancers from the Summer Isles flitted about, pink and yellow ribbons twisting in their hands as they worked, the loudness of music barely able to penetrate the noise of the crowd that had just begun to settle in.

“My lady,” Olenna greeted. “I believe you are seated beside me.”

Sansa was glad with the arrangement of the tables, sensing Margaery’s handiwork at once when she was seated beside Jon, Olenna, and Tyrion, so far from Joffrey that she could barely even hear his voice. Even Cersei and Tywin were on the opposite end of the table from her, their voices but a low drift barely audible over the harpists playing.

The first fifteen courses were served and taken away before Sansa could even count them, eating meagerly, her fork poking around at the berries and cheeses that made up the first courses of the celebratory feast. Margaery was jovial, laughing along with the japes of her husband, feeding him potatoes and meat from her fork and giggling like a maiden when he leaned over to kiss her cheek.

Absently Sansa wondered how Robb fared. It had been over a fortnight since Tyrion had told her that her crimson haired brother was injured. No other news had surfaced. For that she was thankful, for she knew if the King in the North had succumbed to his injuries a thousand ravens would have flocked toward the Capital with the news and Joffrey would no doubt have thrown another feast to celebrate.

She was brought back to reality when she realized Olenna was speaking to her, her voice loud to pierce the sound of a mummers song as he plucked his lyre before the table, his hat balanced upon his knee, catching the coins the king threw at him.

“My lady, are you feeling unwell?” she asked. Several heads had turned at the question, Cersei’s green eyes narrowing as she looked upon Sansa. Olenna pressed the back of her hand to Sansa’s brow.

Sansa felt her throat hitch, her cheeks warming under the gaze of so many people. Even the King and Queen had turned their attention to the girl. Jon dropped his hand upon hers beneath the table, the gesture hidden by the crimson tablecloth that had been laid over the wooden table.

“I am feeling hot.” She lied. “I fear I have not gotten used to the heat in the Capitol quite yet.”

Olenna nodded, accepting her answer, and lifting a hand to beckon one of Margaery’s cousins over. “My dear girl, please bring Lady Sansa a chalice of cold water.” She asked of Megga, the girl curtsying quickly and disappearing back into the crowd of Volantine jugglers

“My lady.” Called Joffery, over the heads of his grandfather, mother, and brother. Sansa felt dread pitch through her body like the heat she had lied about feeling.

“Yes, your grace?” she asked, turning her attention towards him. Her hand tightened on Jon’s, gripping his fingers so tightly she could see him flinch. Her body had barely healed from the last time the King had called her to attention and she was not sure she could take it, especially not before a crowd of three hundred guests.

Joffrey’s green eyes flashed maliciously. “Have you and Ser Stark consummated your marriage?” he asked abruptly.

Many voices seemed to die away all at once. Sansa could feel eyes on her, hot and wet and waiting for her reply, hanging on the King’s every word like they were watching a great play. Even Tywin felt the awkwardness of the situation pierce his stern exterior; his head turning toward Joffrey in an attempt to extinguish whatever flames Joffrey was adding fuel to. “Your grace I believe it is not the time for such questions.” Said he, his deep voice firm.

Joffrey waved him away. “Answer the question, my lady.” He said, adding: “I am only concerned for your wellbeing.”

“We have, if it pleases your grace.” Said Jon, answering for his bride. He looked so dethatched and brooding that if Sansa had not known how much he had truly enjoyed the act she might think him as disinterested as he gave off.

Joffrey smiled smugly. “It does please me, Ser Stark.” He lulled. His eyes flicked back to Sansa, shining with malice. “I only ask as perhaps Lady Stark is with child and that is why she feels quite ill.”

The crowd held their breath. Sansa’s heart dropped in her chest, beating so strongly she could not swallow the lump in her throat. In the throng of conversation-less guests she could see Prince Oberyn Martell looking back at her, his dark eyes hard. She recognized other faces. Megga Tyrell, Petyr Baelish, Arya Oakheart, Sandor Clegane, Shae, Addam Marbrand, all of whom looked at her and though their expressions differed they all seemed to bear the same intrigue.

“Perhaps, your grace.” Sansa said finally, her mouth dry as ash.

“I only ask because after tonight my lady might fall with child as well.” Joffrey continued, pushing aside his plate so he could cross his feet on the lip of the table. “Perhaps you could offer her some tips.”

“Perhaps, your grace.” Repeated Sansa weakly. The thought of the King consummating his marriage with Margaery made her ill, the sickness in her stomach only growing until it gnawed at her, making it her turn to push away her plate.

As the King lost interest in her the crowd turned slowly back to their conversations and their courses, leaving Sansa to return to her conversations with Tyrion and Olenna.

The wedding feast would have been a pleasant affair if Joffrey had not been present. The crowds were laughing and cheering at the pyromancers, at the fire breathers, at the jugglers who tossed plates and chalices into the air and caught them with grace. The servants were passing out plates of soft cheeses and toasted breads sopping wet with sweet jam, fried tarts, almonds mixed with cream and sliced strawberries so red that they resembled a woman’s rouge. Yet Sansa ate meagerly, her stomach twisting with anxiety at the thought of whatever Joffrey’s next stunt may be.

Tywin Lannister gifted his grandson a large broadsword of Valyrian steel- instantly recognizable to Jon and Sansa, whose father had once been the owner of the blade. Joffrey marveled at the sword, proclaiming it ‘Widow’s Wail’ and slicing it through the air like he was carving away at invisible enemies. Sansa’s face was hard, the sickness in the pit of her stomach so great that she could not bring herself to applaud along with the rest of the crowd. It had been her fathers, one of his proudest and most valued possessions, melted down to forge a sword for the boy who had beaten and humiliated its former owner’s daughter.

Without even looking at him Sansa knew Jon felt the same, his throat dry as he watched the King cleave the blade through the air before the cheering crowd. Sansa remembered Joffrey’s first sword, Lion’s Tooth, and nearly smiled at the memory of Arya throwing the blade so deep in the Trident that Joffrey had been unable to fish it out. She hoped one day soon Daenerys would do the same to Widow’s Wail.

After Joffrey opened the remainder of his gifts and claimed half of them unfit for a King- including a leather bound book of royal history Tyrion had spent months searching for, which he promptly chopped to bits with Widow’s Wail, and grimaced as the handspun tunic Sansa had sewn, that she and Jon had gifted him.

“Uncle!” Joffrey called suddenly, his voice nearly a scream to reach over the uproarious crowd. The conversation Tyrion had been having with Olenna Tyrell trailed off at once, though his head did not turn to face the King. “Uncle.” Joffrey repeated when Tyrion did not react within seconds.

“Yes, your grace.” Snapped Tyrion, turning to look at the King with a gaze that could have curdled fresh milk. The youngest Lannister realized his mistake within seconds; the look on the King’s wormy face enough to show some sort of punishment would soon follow.

The King crossing the dais to stand just between Tyrion and Sansa, lifting his arm lazily. Splashes of liquid hit Sansa from where she sat as Joffrey turned his chalice on its side above Tyrion’s head, the pour of wine painfully slow. She watched silently as it spilled down the man’s head to dribble down the back of his neck, eating away at the silk of his doublet until the cloth darkened to the colour of blood.

Cersei giggled cruelly. Tommen looked pointedly away. Tywin only watched the scene unfold, his expression deadpan.

Margaery held out her hand to her husband calling, “It’s time for my father’s toast!” said she cheerfully.

But Joffrey ignored her, looking at Tyrion with such deep hatred in his eyes that Sansa was glad she was not on the receiving end of his glare. “How can I toast without wine?” he questioned. Silence stretched across the entire garden as once again the crowd became enthralled with the King’s dramatics. “Uncle, you will be my cupbearer.” There was no questioning to his voice.

“Of course, your grace.” Tyrion said, feigning a smile. “You do me a great honour.”

He rose from his seat, making his way towards the King and bending to lift the chalice Joffrey had purposefully dropped. Olenna watched the spectacle; her lips pressed tightly together, no doubt commenting internally on how improper it all way. In the crowd Sansa could see Varys’ frown deepen to a grimace. Margaery looked visibly torn between trying to feign happiness and expressing her discomfort.

Tyrion poured from the carafe of chilled wine, sweetened with Dornish honey and Meereenese sugar, until the King’s golden chalice brimmed with the crimson liquid. He handed the cup to Joffrey, watching as the King glared down at him, thin lips curled over white teeth. Cersei and Tywin watched on, frozen in time by the scene before them. Jon’s knee bumped Sansa’s lightly as he adjusted himself in his seat, made ill at ease by the awkwardness. Sansa could not help but think if Jon had not saved Joffrey’s life so many weeks ago it might be him the King had named his cupbearer.

A long pause stretched over the gardens, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves as the wind raked through the trees. “Kneel.” Joffrey said finally. There were no other conversations, no other voices to draw attention from the horror going on at the head of the tables. Tyrion did not move, his arm still extended towards the king though his hand was now empty. “Kneel.” Joffrey repeated, his voice barely breaking through his seething teeth. “I said…kneel.”

“My love!” Margaery called, her cheery voice ringing through the gardens in such a way as to break everyone from their stupor. “The pie!”

In the midst of the seventy-seven courses and the spectacle Joffrey had orchestrated the servants produced a massive pigeon pie, so large that it took eight men to carry it and lay it out upon a rolling tray before the King. Margaery grinned, watching as her husband pushed himself up from his seat and unsheathed his sword, using it to slice through the pie.

Sansa jumped as a dozen live pigeons flew from the pie to massive applause, the crowd politely ignoring the way Joffrey’s sword had sliced through three of the birds and left a matt of feathers and blood behind. Sansa applauded, ignoring how comically foolish Joffrey looked with the blade he had named ‘Widow’s Wail’ as though he, nor any of his blades, had ever seen the light of battle and thinking perhaps it was the first time a Valyrian steel sword had ever been used as a serving knife. If only her father could see his prized Ice now.

Women in pastel dyed gowns handed out plates that contained slices of pie and polished silver forks. Sansa took hers with a nod of thanks, looking out at Tyrion from the corner of her eye.

The Imp of Lannister looked ashamed, his cheeks flushed red, the wine that had been poured over his head dripping from the ends of his hair like rubies. He avoided her eye, turning to look down at his booted feet or at the torn pages of the book he had gifted Joffrey as they flew away in the wind. He had turned to go, freezing when he heard his name being called by the very voice he had hoped would not address him again.

“Uncle!” the King said, his voice commanding. He took the forkful of food Margaery fed him, her smile widening as he stroked her cheek with the backs of his short fingers. “Where do you think you are going?”

“I had hoped to find a dryer tunic.” Tyrion said, the short laugh he gave hollow.

“You are my cupbearer, remember?” Joffrey continued, ignoring Tyrion’s words. “So serve me my wine. This pie is quite dry.”

Tyrion nodded silently, filling Joffrey’s chalice once more with the wine in the carafe that the serving girl had left on the table before his father. He avoided the gaze of Cersei Lannister as she glared down at him, the smirk on her face the only one that seemed genuine. She seemed to be enjoying the show, watching as her son snatched the golden chalice away from Tyrion and took a long, loud gulp, the excess wine dribbling down from the corners of his mouth.

Joffrey Baratheon grinned, apparently vastly pleased with himself for humiliating Tyrion so greatly, and took another swallow of wine. He coughed once, waving away Margaery when she began to gently pat his back. He coughed twice more, gripping his chest. “Your grace?” Tyrion asked, stepping forward. “Are you unwell?”

“It’s…nothing.” Joffrey said between hacks, struggling as he reached for his half empty chalice.

Cersei looked up at her son, a flash of concern crossing over her face. At first it had seemed as though he was clearing his throat, perhaps a glob of phlegm caught in his throat from the rich cheeses he had just eaten, but as the seconds trickled away and he continued to cough it looked definitively as though he was choking.

Tywin rose to his feet as his grandson continued to choke. At his side Margaery looking horrified as she cried, “He’s choking!” loud enough to cause the musicians to suddenly stop playing, leaving the air to be filled only with the sounds of Joffrey’s choked spluttering.

Jon got suddenly to his feet; pushing his chair backwards so suddenly it toppled over. Tywin followed suit, moving to shield Tommen’s eyes from the spectacle.

“Help him!” Margaery cried again.

She reached for her husband, letting the plate of pigeon pie fall to the ground as she took hold of him, her palms open as she patted his back forcefully, trying to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. Running to her son Cersei pushed the bright aside with enough force to nearly knock her to the ground, reaching Joffrey just as he fell to the ground.

His smug face had morphed from milky white to a deep, violent red and now continued on to shade purple, his stubby fingers clawing at his throat.

“Idiots help your king!” Olenna shouted.

The crowd was riddled with gasps and voices that called for help. Ser Arys and Ser Meryn ran forward, kneeling at his side, slamming hands upon his back, prying open his mouth, planning to dig for whatever clogged his throat. Fighting against their grasp Kin Joffrey flipped onto his stomach, vomiting a mouthful of wine and pie, his spit so filled with blood it had gone cerise.

“Joffrey!” Cersei screamed. She watched helplessly, knowing all too well that just two weeks prior she had watched her daughter leave her and now her son followed suit. Joffrey continued to heave, his spluttering mouth gasping for air that would not reach his dying lungs. “Help him! Somebody help your King!”

But there was nothing to be done. No sooner had Ser Arys began to beat again upon the King’s back in an attempt to dislodge whatever was caught in his throat than Joffrey stopped choking. His body shook like he had come down with a bout of shaking sickness, save the hand that rose ominously to gesture towards Tyrion, who had bent to take hold of Joffrey’s spilled goblet.

Cersei followed his hand, her tear streaked eyes settling upon Tyrion with so loud a scream that Sansa jumped. Jon had taken her into his arms, trying to turn her face away from the violent, angry death of the King. Half of her wanted to press her eyes firmly shut and pretend she had not seen the man retch mouthfuls of watery blood, while the other half wanted to turn and stare at the King until every last ounce of life had drained from his cruel eyes.

Joffrey’s eyes and nose had begun to bleed in equal measure, his purple face only growing a deeper plum by the second, as no air was able to penetrate his lungs. Margaery was crying, Olenna holding her tightly in her arms. Women in the crowd were sniffling, men whispering prayers to the Gods to keep their King safe in the afterlife.

With one last spluttering half-sob-half-cough Joffrey’s body went limp as a sheet of wet parchment, collapsing in his mother’s arms. She sobbed, her cheeks glowing red with anguish. “Take him!” Cersei screamed, looking to Tyrion, whose hand still gripped the empty chalice like it was the only thing holding him rooted to the earth. “He poisoned my son. He poisoned your king! Take him!” she screamed at the crowd, begging anyone who might listen to follow her order. “Take him!”

Sansa could only watch in horror as the man she was sure was innocent was thrown to the ground and held down by Ser Meryn Trant with a knee at his back, holding him firmly in place until more of the Kingsguard had rounded on him. They dragged him bodily down the garden path, the man’s screams of protest audible even from so far away.

Sansa buried her face in Jon’s shoulder, unwilling to draw any attention to herself in the chaos the King’s death had created. Joffrey laid on the ground, still as stone in his mother’s arms, her violent screams so loud that Sansa’s ears popped once and began to ring with the echo of the sound.

Margaery was crying into her father’s collar, Loras and Olenna standing on either side of her as though to protect her from whatever might be lurking around the corner. Sansa could not help but notice that the name of Joffrey’s sword had come to fruition.

Chapter Text

VIII

Cersei Lannister had to be dragged away from her son by Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Osmund Kettleblack, wailing so loudly that the nest of blue jays in a nearby tree flew off. She screamed for the men of the crowd to capture her brother, although the Imp of Lannister had already been arrested and imprisoned nearly ten minutes before.

Tywin Lannister took his daughter in his arms, feeling her balled fists beat against his chest as she struggled, wailing. Joffrey continued to lay on the floor before the trio of tables, so utterly still that had it not been for his bloodied, purple face it might seem as though he was sleeping. Tommen was crying silently, turning in the arms of his governess, whose tears matched the boy’s.

“He was poisoned!” Cersei screeched, golden hair flying in the gust of wind that rippled through the garden, bringing the smell of jasmine to their noses pleasantly. The eldest Lioness looked almost accusingly at Margaery, pointedly ignoring the way the bride’s face glowed bright red and tears splashed across her cheeks as she curled tighter into her fathers arms, Mace Tyrell looking as confounded as he usually did. “He was poisoned!” she repeated, screaming.

The Lioness commanded that the guests leave at once and not a voice rose to argue, three hundred guests all filing from the gardens at once, a riot of people forming. Over their heads Tywin barked commands. Olenna continued to console the heartbroken bride that wept in her arms. Jon took Sansa’s hand and led her from the emptying garden. Her blue eyes fell on Tyrion’s empty seat, the feeling of guilt bubbling within her like sickness.

As they walked up the path in silence a group of knights pushed passed them, Tommen’s familiar blonde head bobbing amidst them in horror, his eyes wet, his small face looking scared. Sansa felt for him. No matter how cruel Joffrey had been he was still the boy’s brother and with all the love in Tommen’s heart Sansa knew he must feel some for his brother.

Again Sansa thought of Robb. She thought of her mother, imagining the woman sitting beside Robb’s sickbed as she had done with Bran so long ago. She wondered if the woman had yet heard of Sansa’s marriage to Jon. No doubt word had reached the Northern regime and Sansa found herself oft wondering what they might think of her now.

Sansa suddenly felt her heart drop. The King had forced their marriage. But the King was dead. Tommen Baratheon would be crowned soon enough and he now possessed all the power needed to annul their marriage. He would think he was doing the right thing, protecting Sansa from the shame of marrying her own blood. And Sansa would never be able to express her lack of desire for such a thing.

Night fell around King’s Landing all too quickly. From the window of Jon and Sansa’s chamber they could see the city was quiet, no raucous laughter, no noise from the city taverns or brothels. While she was sure the people had no great love for the King that had commanded his guards to slaughter them for throwing mud it was likely the city was teeming with Kingsguard, patrolling for any one who might have information on the King’s poisoner and scouring the streets for any who might disrespect the memory of the dead King.

In the chaos that had enveloped the Red Keep so completely Jon and Sansa had been asked to remain in their chamber. Shae brought them a tray for dinner, silver cloches covering the steaming plates of chicken and mashed potatoes. But neither touched their plates, so consumed with worry that they were suspected of the King’s murder that they were unable to stomach even a single morsel.

“He has always been kind to me.” Sansa whispered. She broke apart a crush of bread and tried to force herself into eating it, knowing the bland food would quell the storm of sickness in her stomach. “So many times he stopped the King from…”

“We owe him much.” Said Jon. He paced the room repeatedly, the heavy fall of his booted feet on the tile almost melodic after his hundredth time crossing before her.

Shae had been unable to bring any news of Tyrion, promising that she had heard nothing of the youngest Lannister. Sansa imagined the man trapped in chains so many floors beneath, confined to the black cells where her father had once been kept prisoner. When Sansa had asked Jon about them he had described the dark cells as so foul that he could not even speak of them without becoming riddled with gooseflesh and shivers.

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor rang twice on the hour to mourn the death of the King, the loud sound alerting Sansa to how quickly time was passing before them. soon she lost count of how many times she had heard the bells clang in the highest tower of the Sept and forced herself to retire to bed, crawling beneath the furs of the featherbed and watching as Jon continued to pace.

She called for him to join her but Jon shook his head. He worried they would be accused of conspiring with the Imp. He worried he and Sansa would be arrested and left to rot in the black cells or thrown down before Ser Illyn Payne to rest their heads on the block just where Eddard Stark had rested his.

Soon Jon could no longer resist the sting of the tiredness behind his eyes and the allure of the made bed. Kicking off his boots he crawled beside his wife, feeling her body shift to curve against his. Even in her sleep a slim hand lifted to take his, their entwined hands laid against her chest so he could feel the beat of her heart against the back of his hand.

It felt like seconds that he had been asleep when Jon sat bolt upright, shocking Sansa so deeply that she let out a gasp loud enough to rouse half the Capital. Her hand fumbled for the long stemmed candle she kept on the table beside the bed, Jon reaching for the blade sewn into the bottom of the mattress.

Jon Stark unsheathed the blade in one fluid motion, brandishing it in the darkness. His body had twisted to force Sansa behind him, the blankets twisted about her legs like clinging vines. She continued to struggle with the half melted candlestick and the worn flint, digging painfully into her palm as her nerves caused her to grip the sharp rock far too tightly.

The chamber stretching before them was pitch black, the moonless night leaving the room so dark it seemed as though no light could ever pierce the darkness. Sansa’s heart pounded in her throat, her eyes trying to no avail to adjust to the light, the flint resisting the effort she put into striking it.

A disembodied voice called forth and Sansa felt Jon’s shoulders give, his arm lowering the blade back to his side. “Lord Varys?” Sansa spoke into the darkness, unsure.

“The very same.” He drawled.

The room was filled with an arc of golden light, Lord Varys seeming to have more luck with the flint in his possessions, its newborn flame coming to life in his hand like a pyromancers trick at Joffrey’s wedding. The oiled head of the Master of Whispers come into focus, his eyes hard as he looked down upon them from where he stood at the side of the bed.

“What is going on?” asked Sansa, fearing the worst. Jon’s jaw had been wired shut by nerves, the muscle flexing sternly as he looked out at the man.

Sansa rose from the bed, the thin shift she wore causing her to shiver in the cold night air, the cloak she laid about her shoulders doing little to alleviate the gooseflesh that puckered her skin.

Varys set the candle upon Jon’s abandoned writing table and watched the flame flicker in the windless chamber, speaking evenly: “There is a boat in the harbour that will take you to Riverrun if you wish it.” Varys said evenly. There was no trace of humour nor hesitation to his voice. “Lord Tyrion is to be tried for regicide. Within a few hours he will be found guilty unanimously and executed without a second trial. During this sham of a trial the Queen Dowager will accuse you of co-conspiring with her brother. You too shall be found guilty and executed without a second trial.”

Her chest concaved so tightly she heard a strangled gasp emit from her, her eyes widening to stare at the man. She made not to question him, knowing the words he had spoken did not ring false. Sansa was sure that while she and Jon had slept soundly Tywin Lannister had called the Small Council to order, where they had most likely discussed the calling of a trial and planned the outcome, knowing no one would dare speak out against their falsehoods.

Jon’s mouth had suddenly gone too dry to respond. He only waited for Lord Varys to continue, looking out at his bothered wife from the corner of his eye. “Robb Stark’s army has reconvened with that of Lord Hoster Tully’s in Riverrun while he recovers from the injuries he sustained in battle. The ship will bring you to the Reach within a fortnight.”

“I don’t understand.” Jon said, shaking his head. It was clear they were not being freed from the grasp of House Lannister, the whisper and urgency of Varys’ voice proving it was another of his masterful plans.

“I do not have time to repeat myself.” Varys said. “There is a very thin time frame with which this plan is able to be executed. Gather your things at once and ready yourself to sail. You must be out of the Capital tonight or you never will be.”

Sansa looked at Jon, swallowing dryly. Although he knew Varys had proven to be a trusted ally in the past, conveying the messages of Daenerys’ letters to them in secret, half of him feared trickery. He worried that as soon as they were to leave the chamber they would be overcome with guards that would cut them down or drag them to the black cells below.

When neither Jon nor Sansa made to move Varys repeated himself, rolling his eyes. “You must be out of the Capital tonight or you will never be free again.” he said, partly slower. “You will die.” He added, as though hoping to shock them out of their collective stupor.

Sansa dressed quickly, throwing on her warmest gown and wrapping a cloak around her shoulders, tying the laces quickly at her throat. She had no possessions to pack, the only thing of value she owned being the gown she had worn to the King’s wedding, which she had no qualms about leaving behind. Jon fared no differently; throwing his tunic over his head and slipping his feet into the boots it had seemed he had just kicked off. They were ready to leave at once, surprising even Varys with the speed with which they had readied themselves to depart.

At the door Varys turned back to look at them. “You must do as I say without question, is that understood?”

He watched as the husband and wife that stared back at him, nodding before they slipped through the door he held and followed the man down the long corridor. The hall was without illumination, the torches that had once burned brightly mysteriously extinguished, another one of Varys’ many manipulations.

Jon gripped Sansa’s hand all too tightly, worried they would be lost to Varys in the cloak of such heavy darkness. The trio moved stealthily, turning down halls and passages never before known to them with such ease that Sansa wondered how many others lay hidden within the Red Keep.

She was glad to find they came passed no others, not a single guard nor servant in their sight as they followed the path Varys laid, twisting through the castle in so many different directions that she lost track, knowing if he were to leave them now they would be lost to the world.

Varys stopped walking so suddenly Sansa plowed into him. “Down you go.” Said he. His shining head bobbed as he kneeled, prying up one of the stone tiles up with his fingernail and revealing a small hatch, only about the size of a wine barrel.

Looking down into the depth of blackness that lay in wait below the tile Sansa felt her stomach twist with nervousness. “I’ll go first.” Pronounced Jon, trying very hard to sound brave, to sound bold, to sound like the prospect of climbing down into the bowels of the castle did not fill him with icy cold fear. “To catch you if…”

Sansa bobbed her head in acknowledgment, watching as Jon planted his feet on the notches of the ladder she had not seen until that moment. “Quickly now!” Varys urged. Sansa watched as her husbands head faded into the shadows, so ominously slow that it made her feel the urge to retch. She bit her lip, feeling her teeth pierce the soft flesh of her lip when Jon’s booted foot slipped on the wrung of the ladder and he nearly fell, the coppery taste of blood running into her mouth.

“Go now, dearest.” Said Varys, holding her hand as he helped her down into the hatch. “To the harbour. The ship flying green sails. The capital will know you by sight, you need not even say anything.” When she opened her mouth to speak he continued, as if sensing her words. “We will see each other again. I promise.” He said, a small smile at his lips. “Now go! Go!”

Sansa planted her feet on the top wrung of the ladder, her hands closing around the cold steel as she climbed so far down she wondered how many floors they had passed. She could hear Jon’s heavy breathing below her, her heart clasping in her chest when the sound faded below the voices that drifted over from the adjoining rooms they climbed between. He sounded so far away Sansa had the urge to climb more quickly, but the tiredness of her arms and legs would not obey her command.

Her foot hit ground suddenly, shocking her system so completely that she felt a spark run through her from toe to head. Sansa jumped when she felt Jon take her hand, his palm familiar as it moved against hers, pulling her along the dark space after him.

“Where are we?” she whispered, deathly afraid they were not alone in the darkness.

She imagined herself in the crypts of Winterfell, where she and Jon had been lost before, the flame of their candle extinguished by a rouge wind. They had been so scared, clinging to each other in the darkness, running as quickly as they could towards the staircase that opened up to the atrium of the Northern castle.

“Below the castle.” Jon returned. “I think.”

“How far below?” Sansa was afraid to hear the answer.

It was a painfully long while before a spot of light opened up at the end of the passage and the sound of the ringing bells of the Sept filled her ears. Sansa held tightly to Jon’s hand, keeping pace easily beside him as they hurried through the city. The streets remained empty, out of respect for the dead King, even Littlefinger’s brothel curiously quiet.

Jon tripped on a loose cobblestone and fell, the skin on his palm peeling back against the hard crag of stone. He did not rest, pushing himself back to his feet.

Sansa had never realized how little she knew of the Capital. It had been months since she had first gone exploring with Arya, Jon, and her father and that felt like a lifetime ago. Since then she had only been allowed to take leave of the castle with an armed escort, who was more of a threat to her than a comfort.

They were desperate to reach the harbour but so completely turned around that Sansa saw them circle the same empty tavern three times before she stopped them. Above her head she could see only a few familiar buildings, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the route she had taken to see Myrcella off at the harbour.

“Come.” Said she, taking Jon’s hand and pulling him along behind her.

The cloak she had thrown about her shoulders was made of thick, heavy wool, the sweat that dripped down her brow moving to run down her temples and back, seeping through her gown like water. She was breathless but she dare not stop.

Sansa feared enemies were waiting around every corner. Even with the King’s death she knew that half of the Kingsguard would jump at the opportunity to strip and beat her again. She dared not stop, no matter how great the desire to rest was and she knew Jon fared no differently, sucking in heaving breaths and gasping with exhaustion.

The harbour came suddenly into sight from behind a collection of grey stone buildings. The street was as ominously quiet as the others had been, the usual collection of men and whores that gathered around another of the cities brothels having dissipated out of respect for the dead King or out of a lack of desire to be arrested by the city guard that should have been patrolling. She wondered if Varys had something to do with the lack of patrol. She wondered how greatly his influence actually spread.

They reached the beach, booted feet digging up sand that had grow clumped and wet after a spray of rain had fallen earlier in the night. Shells broke beneath their feet as they ran, moving towards the dock that stood at the end of the coast.

They were so close now that the feeling of impending doom only grew. She had been close to freedom before. Margaery had once tried to arrange an engagement between Sansa and Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, but the Queen Regent had rejected the match at once, the King acting as her father to deny the betrothal.

Running down the dock their booted feet slammed against the wood as loudly as the iron bells of Baelor’s Sept, Sansa worrying that they would be heard. “The green sails!” Sansa called hurriedly when she felt Jon stall, his eyes searching as they found the abundance of ships at the end of the dock.

Lord Varys’ word proved once again true for as they reached the raised platform of the ship they need not even speak a word for they were pulled immediately on board.

The deck of the ship was teeming with activity, men moving to adjust sails, push back the mast and tie the rigging; hands jumping to pull the boarding platform back onto the deck at once. Without pause Sansa recognized the dress of many of the sailors as Dornish, the faded yellow tunics proving they had spent many days under the sun. At first she was confused, looking again at the jade green sails to assure she had boarded the correct ship.

A man in a crimson tunic approached them, taking Sansa’s hand from her side and pulling her forward. Jon made to protest but was interrupted when the man spoke, his accent heavy and unfamiliar. “You must hide.” Said he. “Below deck.” He pointed to a set of double doors half hidden by the moving mast, the brass knob swinging in the heavy wind. “If the ship is stopped, you must hide. Beneath grain sacks are best.” He said. “Or within the spare sail. You must keep quiet until we are out of the city.”

He pulled open the doors and ushered them through until once again they were enveloped in a blanket of complete darkness. Sansa walked behind Jon, the arm she laid around his waist keeping his body close to hers.

Two single candles lit the entirety of the cabin, doing little to beat through the heavy wooden core of the ship. It was sparsely decorated, a set of rectangular cots lining one of the walls, the small rooms separated only by deep purple curtains, a set of small tables and a single chair. Two rounded windows were set into the walls, their glass having been eaten away by seawater and left milky instead of clear, barely able to be seen through.

Beneath her feet she could feel the ship shifting against the churning waves and the heave of the sail against the wind, propelling the vessel forward. Finally she allowed herself a moment to celebrate.

“We are leaving the city.” She whispered. She was free of Joffrey and his influence, free of the golden lioness and her golden father, free of the palace where she had been beaten and stripped and nearly raped. She would soon see her brother, soon she would feel the embrace of her mother, and meet the queen she had yearned for for so long.

Jon kissed her softly. She could feel wetness on his face, not realizing the tears were hers until he reached up a hand to wipe them away, kissing the apples of her cheeks and coming away with salt on his lips.

Suddenly she felt anxiety swim through her stomach, making her go as rigid as a drawn bowstring. She pulled away from his embrace, looking startled. “Lord Tyrion…” she said. “Varys said that he was going to be executed.” Jon did not say anything. “I wish…I should have done something. I should have told him to drop the goblet or to run away while he could.”

“There was nothing you could have done.” Jon returned, holding her shoulders so he could look in her face. “Perhaps Varys has an escape plan for him as well.”

“I hope so.” Said she. “Of all the people in the Capital he was the only one kind.”

The sudden lurch of the vessel signaled they were all at once sailing, leaving behind the city that had been so cruel. In response her knees wobbled as her legs threatened to give out beneath her.

Suddenly she turned, her ear quirked to pick up the sound she thought she had heard. The floorboards of the ship creaked beneath them, the sound signaling the presence of another person, the pull of the wind against the glass windows loud.

Sansa felt her lips quirk. “Is it truly you?” she called into the empty chamber. Jon’s head turned to follow hers, unsure.

Tyrion’s face loomed, Sansa’s legs moving to take an automatic step backward. The darkness where the man was hidden had done well to shield him from sight, his eyes hard as he suddenly stared back at them, appearing from behind the very barrels the sailor had bid they find. Sansa stifled a gasp, her eyes finding a face that although familiar, was now covered in blood.

Chapter Text

IX

At night Sansa Stark dreamed of Riverrun. She had been to the Riverlands only once before and it had been too many years ago to remember the details of the trip. They had traveled by carriage, Arya and Bran too small to endure the trip on horseback, and Rickon not yet born. Their lives had been so simple then, uninhibited by wars and armies and Lannisters. They had still been together at Winterfell, the palace that had once been their heaven now their hell, occupied by a house that had so firmly betrayed their family.

It was Tyrion who had conveyed the news to Sansa. At first she had been confused, unable to understand how the Starks could have been betrayed so by their own bannermen. “The Bolton’s have seized Winterfell.” Said Tyrion on one of their many days of travel. “Most likely your brother is unwilling to sacrifice the men or his army to take it back. Not when Tywin’s army looms so close.”  

In truth Sansa understood his reasoning. But part of her wanted him to march back North, take back Winterfell, and slay the Bolton’s so completely that the house would die then and there.

Boredom struck Sansa on the fourth day of their travel. The previous days she had been overcome with joy at the prospect of being freed from the Capital and the clutches of the Lannisters. She had stared out the cracked glass of the window, watching as King’s Landing faded farther and father from her until she could no longer see it. Until she could no longer even see the dark waters of Blackwater Bay, reminding her of the night she had watched as Stannis Baratheon’s army flooded through the city and tried to seize it.

“You don’t have to keep checking.” Called Tyrion. “Nobody is coming after us.”

“But they did.” Reminded Sansa.

The green sailed ship had left the city easily, slipping away into the darkness of the night without hesitation. Sansa had been anxious, standing by the sad excuse of a window for so long that her legs cycled passed pain and moved to be without feeling. She bit her bottom lip so firmly that she began to feel the skin break beneath her teeth, blood running through the cracks of her dehydrated lips and into her teeth.

The ship came to a staunch halt, stopping so suddenly that Sansa was knocked off her feet. She fell forward, her legs having lost their feeling so long ago that she was unable to catch herself, her chin hitting the wooden floor so hard that she bit into her tongue, her mouth filling with blood instantly.

Jon was at her side, lifting her to her feet. “Hide.” He said. Sansa was confused, her legs vibrating with the feeling of pins and needles, a spill of blood running down the corner of her mouth. “Hide!” he repeated when she did not respond.

When the trio had lit a few more candles they had discovered the cabin was occupied with more than just cots and a few barrels of wine. A stack of grain stood as tall as the roof of the cabin, secured with frayed beige ropes, and leaning against the wall. A large casket of wine lay on its side beneath the window, as long as Sansa was tall, a large metal anchor lying beside it for its new owner to pry it open. Boxes had been carried in by the sailors the day before they had boarded the ship, unsecured so that they shifted from the right side of the cabin to the left each time the ship hit a large wave.

“Hide!” Jon hissed again. Tyrion had disappeared into thin air as though by magic, most likely finding his hiding place between the barrels once again. The only place large enough to house them was in the wardrobe, which was too obvious a place for them to hide in, or within the casket.

The husband and wife looked at each other, dread flooding into their faces like pallidity. Sansa knew at once what had to be done and set about it, spitting out a mouthful of blood and setting about to working. The iron anchor dug into the side of the wood easily and she used her body weight to force it down, prying open the wooden casket with little help from Jon.

She looked inside, the cabin instantly filled with the sweet scent of honeyed wine as it nearly sloshed over the side. Sansa nodded at Jon, knowing by sight that there would be enough space to house them both.

He offered her a hand, helping her into the casket quickly. She threw off her cloak and forced it beneath her, the weight of the wet garment seizing her neck like it was attempting to strangle her. The red wine ate away at her gown instantly, staining and eating away at the dryness until she was sopping wet from toe to neck.

For all the sweetness to its scent it was bitter as it came into contact with her mouth, the sea of wine shifting as Jon moved to lay beside her, his callused hands taking hold of the casket’s wooden lid and laying it over them. The wine soaked pair was overcome with darkness, the lid only allowing a small crease of light and air to fill the space. With both their bodies occupying the wooden cargo the wine had nearly raised high enough to kiss the lid, overcoming them so completely that only their lips and noses rose out of the water.

It burned Sansa’s eyes like flame but she was too frightened to close them, fearing that she would not be able to see an enemy approaching. Her body began to cramp, her legs tangled with Jon’s in the small space, her arms held tight across her chest. She imagined Cersei Lannister ripping the lid from its hinges and standing over them, laughing madly as she ripped them from the casket and threw them into the black cells. She imagined Tywin Lannister’s stern face staring back at them from above, smirking at the sight of his enemies.

The heavy sound of footfalls was present overhead. Sansa let out a small whimper, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep the sound from repeating. Jon’s hand soon joined hers, a comfort instead of a hindrance, its presence only calming her as it laid across her downturned palm.

The honeyed scent soon became acrid, sickness rising in Sansa’s belly as the smell permeated such a small space, filling her nose without break.

She ached for the salty air of the rest of the cabin, the window able to open just a crack so that she could stick her nose out and inhale the freshness. King’s Landing had always smelled of unwashed bodies and urine, even shit if she were to be so crass. When she had first arrived she had found the city to be filthy, instead of the dream world she had imagined in her mind. It had been so different from Winterfell that she would have hated it on sight if she had not been so blinded by her love for Joffrey and the beautiful Queen Regent.

Jon’s hand had tightened on hers when the footfalls came nearer, the familiar creak and shift of the wooden floor of the cabin proving someone stood just beside he casket.

Through the crack in the lid they were able to see shadows moving, the wine sloshing against the wooden crate to blind them temporarily. The pain was immense, wine soaking into her eyes and nose and into her mouth beneath her hand, seeping in through the cracks in her fingers.

She wanted to cry, so overcome with fear and pain that for a moment she ached to return to King’s Landing, though the thought quickly faded from her mind when she realized what such a thing would entail. If they were to be captured by the Lannister’s now it would spell certain death. There were no qualms in her mind about it. Cersei Lannister would accuse them instantly of her son’s murder and they would be hanged or face Ser Ilyn Payne’s sword and soon after Sansa would see her father again.

The coldness of the wind made her shiver though Jon’s warm body was pressed against her so completely. She could feel his hip pressed beneath hers, the metal of his belt digging into the skin of her lower back. His other arm rose silently through the pool of wine to wrap around her shoulder, bringing her closer to him, a silent attempt at comfort. His hand tightened again as through the slit they could see the shadow moving closer.

“How long is this going to take?” asked a voice, loudly enough so that, although muffled, the sound pierced the wooden casket. “We haven’t got all day. Got shipments to make. People waiting. Unless you’re going to pay me for all this wine that’s sitting around?”

“We’ve got to check every ship.” Returned a second voice, sounding familiar. “Queen’s orders.”

“What’s the Queen want with a cargo of wine?” the first voice said. “Although from what I heard I guess she does have an interest.” He laughed.

“Bite your tongue!” the second voice snapped. Sansa pictured Ser Borous Blout, the worst of the Kingsguard, the fattest and rudest of them all. She could still feel the imprint of his fists on her back. “The King’s just been murdered. We’ve got orders to search every outgoing ship.”

“Well hurry it up then. We’re to reach Qarth before the moon turns.” Said the first, lying so easily for a moment even Sansa was unsure if she had boarded the correct ship. "But not if we keep having delays like this. Are you going to open every barrel and every casket?”

Sansa’s body stiffened. Jon’s hands turned to fists at his sides. “If I want to.” Replied the second voice, chortling. There was a long pause, footsteps crossing the floor to reach the other side of the wall.

Sansa’s hair tickled her neck as the wine made it billow around her, sticking to her brow uncomfortably. Jon’s eyes burned, his head dipping backward so he could take a large gulp of wine, feeling its warmth spreading through his body happily before the heat of it took root in his belly. Silently he signaled for Sansa to follow his lead, watching her throat bob as she swallowed, her cheeks burning pink but her shoulders nevertheless relaxing into his arms.

“Any fing else here?” called a new voice. Sansa took another gulp of wine, her stomach so tightly wound that she thought she might burst with the nervousness. “This all it, eh?”

She assumed the first man nodded for there came no response. “You’re free to go.” Said the man Sansa assumed to be Ser Blout, his fat body causing the floorboards to creak loudly. “Get on with you.” He snapped. 

Even after the footsteps had retreated Sansa and Jon did not move, so rooted to their place that it seemed time had frozen them. Sansa was too afraid even to breathe properly, her breaths shallow and silent as she sucked them in, the lip that had split during her fall stinging as it came in contact with a spray of wine.

Sansa jumped and nearly let out a shout when the lid of the casket began to shift, glad for the pair of hands over her mouth. Tyrion blinked down at them, his dark eyebrows lifting. “They’re gone.” he said, looking down at them.

He offered a hand, helping Sansa out of the casket first before Jon followed. Her cloak hit the ground with a splat, useless to warm her as she shivered in the cold sea air, her gown so completely soaked with wine that it seemed to grow twenty stone in weight.

Jon shrugged out of his tunic and kicked off his wet boots, pushing them across the floor with his toes before he began to wring out his tunic. Sansa smiled slightly when she saw Tyrion cup his hands and lay them into the casket before bringing the small pool of wine to his lips.

“It seems you got the good hiding place.” He said absently, an attempt at humour that Sansa was glad for.

She undid the laces of her gown and watched as the fabric fell to her ankles, slapping against the wood loudly, leaving her in nothing but the smallclothes she had gone to sleep in the previous night. She was thankful that Tyrion averted his eyes out of politeness but knew it could not last. It would take hours for her now burgundy gown to dry completely and he could not avoid looking at her for the entirety of it.

It was more than an hour before a sailor rapped lightly on the door to the cabin and entered when he was bid. “Close one, eh?” he asked lightly, smiling at the trio. “You all are a wanted bunch.” He caught sight of their panic stricken faces and backtracked slightly. “You are safe aboard this ship.” Said he. “Nobody will give you up to the Lannisters, no matter how great the price.”

He looked at Sansa, clad in naught but a thin layer of silk, shivering as she sat on the edge of the cot. He said nothing, turning on his heel and disappearing back up the steps to the deck before reappearing a few moments later with an armful of fabric.

“I’m afraid I’ve only got men’s clothes, love.” he said, tsking his tongue sympathetically.

Sansa thanked him. “Anything is better than those.” She said, pointing to the gown she had hung over the side of one of the crates. “And thank you.” She said, catching his hand as he turned to go. “For protecting us. We can’t begin to repay you.”

The man smiled widely, a few of his teeth having gone black from disuse. He nodded firmly. “The north remembers.” Said he, his eyes shining. He lingered a moment, looking at Jon and Sansa before he turned and left them alone in the cabin.

Sansa looked at the clothes he had brought, finding a large tunic and a pair of worn breeches with a cloak so large it seemed like so swallow her but she donned the clothing without complaint, using the belt Jon offered to fasten the breeches at her waist after they fell to her ankles when she first put them off, making Jon snort with laughter.

She laid the cloak over herself like a blanket, unaware of how tired she was until donning the fresh, warm clothing. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she had fallen asleep, waking up a few hours later curled upon the hard cot despite having fallen asleep sitting on one of the barrels.

Sansa sat straight up in her cot, gasping for breath. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, filling the cabin with light that had yet to shift from white to yellow, symbolizing it was well before noon.

Sleep had left her disoriented, her hands balling to fists at her sides as she lurched to her feet. Having not yet found her sea legs she swayed on her feet, reaching out to take hold of the rusting iron brazier for balance, her chest continuing to heave as she attempted to catch her breath.

The men of the cabin looked up at her, confused, sitting across from each other at the small table that had been crammed into the cabin below the deck.

While she was sleeping Tyrion had washed his face, the blood that had been spattered over his skin melting away to leave him fresh and smelling of the salt water he had bathed in. “Bad dream?” he questioned, his mismatched eyes following her as she crossed toward them.

She looked her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her hands. “I just…dreamed we were still in King’s Landing. You were…I saw you…die.” She whispered, as though if she said the words too loudly they might come true.

Tyrion smiled softly. “Lady Stark you flatter me.” he said. “But I fear death would not be bold enough to take me yet.”

Sansa smiled to herself, turning to sit in her husbands lap after finding the third chair had long ago been broken by a previous passenger, the seat of the chair splintered to plywood and sticking up jaggedly at all angles. “I see you bathed.” She said, eyeing Tyrion.

“Aye, m’lady.” Said he. “One of the sailors brought down a pail of water while you slept. There is some left, although I don’t think you would want to use it now with all the blood mixed in.”

Sansa considered this, nodding. Her hair had dried while she slept but it stank of honeyed wine, the smell of anise and cardamom making her stomach turn while at the same time making her ache for food. The last thing she had eaten was a slice of pigeon pie that she had picked at, so many hours before, and a few gulps of wine from the casket.

“I think it’s time you told us about the blood.” She said, eyeing Tyrion’s now clean face. “And who is belongs to?”

Tyrion took a long breath. “For this conversation I had hoped I would be far drunker than I currently am.” He sighed. “But I suppose I ought to get it out of the way now.”

Jon listened as Tyrion began his tale, regaling the details of another murder that had shaken the Capital as greatly as the King’s death. The blood had belonged to Tywin Lannister, whom Tyrion had impaled with a series of long stemmed arrows from the crossbow that had hung on the wall of the Hand’s chamber. Sansa knew the exact one well, having seen it many a time while she sat with her father when the tower had still belonged to Eddard Stark during the reign of Robert Baratheon.

Perhaps the final insult- besides the fact that Sansa’s lady-in-waiting and Tyrion’s lover had been found by the man in Lord Tywin’s bed- was that on his way up the ladder Tyrion had found out the truth of his wife’s fidelity. While too deep into his cups and willing to regale the story of his greatest heartbreak the youngest of Tywin’s children had once told Sansa of his first wife. As he went on Sansa could only grow increasingly heartsick, especially now, as she sat across from Tyrion on her cot to find out the tale did not end with Tysha’s expulsion from the city.

Tyrion had grown less stony faced and more pink, his eyes welling, despite how desperately and angrily he wished away the tears. Sansa’s heart panged in her chest at the sight, having become so accustomed to the sight of the man with biting wit in his mouth and a glare in his eye that the sight of tears made her sad.

“He just kept saying…” Tyrion said. Jon handed him a cup he had dipped into the cask, the crudely made cup brimming with purple wine, which Tyrion gratefully accepted. His story paused for a moment as he wiped the excess wine from his lips before continuing. “He just kept calling her a whore.” He said. “I can hear him. Where do whores go? Where do whores go?” he slammed his fists down on the table. “She wasn’t a whore. She was…she was the only woman who ever treated me kindly. Besides you,” he added, upon looking at Sansa, a smile soft on his quirked lips.

On the fifth day of travel Sansa was hit with a bout of seasickness so strong that she could not shake it. Her face had turned a sickeningly green colour, her cheeks glowing bright red beneath her wet eyes. The world seemed to be turning on its side, spinning before Sansa’s very eyes, no matter how still she stood.

The ship rocked, the waves of the Trident brackish from the storms that brewed overhead, the white clouds going deep gray with the heaviness of rain that threatened to fall at any moment. The whip of the wind was firm and unrelenting, pulling the ship forward so quickly that Sansa could not even cross the floor of the cabin without losing her footing, keeping her confined to her cot for nearly a week.

She could stomach neither a crust of bread nor an ounce of water, vomiting so many times that she felt weaker than she had during the month long fast she had taken to silently voice her protest over her father’s execution. To pass the time Tyrion recited bits of poetry or pages of historical volumes he had long ago memorized, sitting at her bedside to assure she would not choke on her vomit while she slept, careful to scoot away from the bucket that lay on the floor at his feet to contain her stomach sickness.

Her favourite stories were of Brandon the Builder and Nymeria with her thousand ships, Sansa making Tyrion repeat them so many times that it was a wonder he did not scream at her, regaling the tales half a hundred times before Sansa finally awoke one morning to find no sickness in her belly.

She was half starved, having been able to stomach nothing but air for just under a week. Sansa dressed quickly in her borrowed clothes and made across the cabin, ascending the steps to the main deck where Jon and Tyrion had taken to spending their time.

Since escaping the Crownlands the trio was freed to spend their time above deck instead of cowering in the dark cabin or within the cask of wine Jon had purposefully left the without its lid in case it was necessary for them to hide once more inside. The sailors were kind and more than happy to be followed around by Sansa’s curious eyes, breaking their fast or supping while gathering around Tyrion, anxious to hear his stories of the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

“They’re all loyal to the Northern cause.” Tyrion told her one night, just before they retired to theirs cots for the night. “They love your brother. And they love you.”

His words had not proved false. During the day the men nearly tripped over each other in an attempt to spend time with the Lady Stark. Some of them juggled or told stories she was sure were not quite true, inviting her to dance with them as a few of the sailors plucked at their harps or sang the mummers songs she had long ago heard in King’s Landing.

She liked those night’s best, her bare feet spinning along the deck of the small ship, her laugh rising in the air like wind as her body moved gracefully between those of the sailors. She kicked her feet up, pulled into their arms as they lifted her into the air, as carefree and worriless as a bird. It had been ages since she had been so free nor nearly half as happy, so long that she feared she might never feel such an emotion again.

Sometimes she thought about the Capital. The Queen Regent had lost far more than her beauty for with the murder of two of her children, the death of her father, and the absence of her brothers she had never been so truly alone. Half of Sansa felt sorry for the golden lioness. Half of her wanted to laugh at the great irony that the woman who had once taken so much from Sansa now had so much taken from her.

Sansa stood beside Jon at the prow of the ship, looking out at the fading sun at the point where horizon kissed sky. “We could keep sailing.” She whispered. “Sail all the way to Essos.”

Jon smiled fondly at the thought of his aunt. “We will meet her soon enough.” He said, kissing her brow. “For now I am more interested in our nearer family.”

He dreamed of Robb and Catelyn almost every night, half of them dreams so pleasant that when morning came he fought hard to return to sleep, half of them foul enough to make him awaken in the midst of the night with an icy sweat beading on his brow. He feared the boy he had left at Winterfell would no longer accept him. He feared Robb might not even recognize him, no longer the soft faced, brooding boy he had once been at Winterfell.

When he had told this to his wife she had teased him gently commenting that this was true for Jon was not a soft faced, brooding man. “I jest, my love.” she cooed, her hand lifting to brush his hair from his face. It had grown long and unruly while at sea, his growing beard course beneath her mouth as she kissed him. “Robb loves you. You are his true brother, whatever your blood may say. He must miss you as the sun misses the sky and the flower misses the rain.”

It seemed the fear of rejection was not Jon’s alone. They were nearly a fortnight into their journey when Sansa roused Jon by shaking his shoulders violently, pulling him from a dream where Catelyn Stark had struck him hard enough across his face to send him falling backwards, his body suddenly shrinking back into what it had once been when he was a boy.

“It’s Tyrion!” she whispered hurriedly. Jon’s eyes struggled to adjust to the lack of dream behind them, his body languid and awkward as he tried to get to his feet, falling backwards onto the hard cot once. “Hurry Jon!”

Tyrion was curled on his side in the cot on the opposite wall of the cabin, struggling so violently at first Jon feared the man was seizing. His mouth was bleeding; his teeth having bit nearly clean through his bottom lip, the blood having soaked into the rough pillow he used like a pool. Sansa struggled to light the torch hanging in its brazier, the flame coming to life so suddenly that Jon jumped.

“He’s dreaming I think!” Sansa said. “But Jon he won’t wake up! I’ve been trying for a few minutes.”

Tyrion’s eyes moved beneath his heavy lids, jerking back and forth as his body continued to shake. Jon bent forward, taking hold of the man’s shoulders and trying to rouse him to no avail. “We’ve got to hold him.” Jon said. “He’s having a fit.”

“He hasn’t been eating.” Sansa said worriedly. “Or drinking much I don’t think.”

Jon’s head snapped towards her when he heard the sound of ripping fabric, the hem of her tunic torn to her ribcage. She wrapped the cloth around the stem of the candle tightly, bending to her knees at Tyrion’s bedside and pushing it into his mouth forcefully, struggling to get the candle passed his teeth.

“Nor sleeping.” Said Jon. The Lannister man spent much of his nights on the deck of the ship, watching the water lap at the bow of the ship, though Jon knew his eyes were too far away to see it.

Tyrion’s teeth were biting relentlessly upon the candlestick and Jon was glad for the fabric she had thought to nestle around it, for if not Tyrion would not have a mouthful of wax. “Hold him.” he instructed. “Careful not to put too much pressure or you could hurt him.”

It was only a few minutes more until Sansa felt Tyrion still beneath her hands. He breathed heavily, Sansa rushing to the table to pour him a cup of water from the warming flagon before holding it up to Tyrion’s bloody lips carefully.

“I’m sorry, Ned.” He whispered, catching Jon’s hand and pulling him closer. Tyrion was crying, something Sansa had never seen before and made her feel as unsure and nervous as the sight of her own mother crying. “You told me to protect them. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush now.” Sansa said, smoothing back his golden hair. He shivered when her finger brushed across his scarred nose, Sansa bending to tuck the dark furs around his body. “Go to sleep. You need your rest.”

Tyrion protested for another moment before sleep finally overtook him and he feel into a rest so deep he did not wake for two and a half days, causing Sansa to worry greatly. He seemed to have inherited her sea sickness, his pale face turning molded green and sweaty, his eyes glassy when he struggled to open them.

“The sailors miss you.” Said Jon, sitting at his bedside. “They’re all asking me if I have any stories. I hate to tell them the only stories I have is how many cobblestones are in the locked wall of my bed chamber in the Capital.”

Tyrion laughed weakly, accepting the sip of water from the cup Jon held to his lips. The gash that had been self-inflicted was beginning to heal, though it caused great pain every time he pressed his mouth closed. “The capital says we should be arriving in Riverrun in two days.” Jon continued. “Sansa is very excited.”

“I am not.” Said Tyrion tiredly, stifling a long yawn. “Robb Stark will lightly execute me.”

“Nonsense.” Said Jon, waving him away. “I know Robb. And I know that he will be grateful to you.” Tyrion scoffed but Jon continued. “Tyrion- you saved Sansa’s life more than once. You saved her from beatings. You saved her from humiliation and shame. And from what you said you saved Lady Catelyn’s life as well.”

Tyrion did not respond, his dehydration and cut lip leading him to a life of great silence, and a few moments later was lulled back into sleep by the rocking of the ship.

The last few days at sea Sansa grew so anxious to reach her destination that she paced ceaselessly, so much so that Jon was sure she was going to wear thin the sole of her boots. She did not even sleep more than a few restless hours, standing at the prow of the ship for hours on end, staring out at the sea as though if she squinted hard enough she could see Riverrun.

Even Jon became nervous, dreaming at night of his Lady Mother’s homeland. The Riverlands seemed so far away and unfamiliar that he could not picture it, no matter how many details Sansa and Tyrion tried to fill in, having read a volume about the Southron castle while in King’s Landing.

“Mother said it was beautiful.” Sansa said, her voice dreamlike, her blue eyes on the horizon. She shifted on her feet, the borrowed breeches she wore bunching at her knees and ankles, more than three sizes too large for her, and the tunic she wore rolled up to her pale elbows. She had braided her crimson hair intricately at the base of her head like a crown, even in a man’s clothes looking no less a Northern Queen. “And in the summers is blooms with flowers and trees. So much green it seems like winter has never even come.”

The water of the Red Fork was so clear a blue that Sansa could not help but gaze at it in wonder, leaning so far over the railing of the ship Jon feared she would tumble over. When Tyrion, still in the throes of the sickness that had caused him to look permanently green, was well enough to stand from his cot and ascend the stairs to the deck he joined her, pulling a chair to the side of the railing and listening as Sansa pointed out the slithering fish and beautiful houses of coral that broke beneath the prow of the ship.

Over her shoulder she could hear the sounds of clashing metal and knew that Jon was once again training with one of the sailors. Her husband had been so happy to train, uninhibited by fear of harming one of the Lannister men, that he had nearly vibrated with excitement, gripping the hilt of his blade tightly enough to make his knuckles blanche white as fresh parchment. The captain had allowed Jon borrow his sword, the blade forged carefully but without the skill Sansa had become used to seeing, the iron heavy and inharmoniously crafted so that each time Jon reached out to strike he was nearly forced off balance.

In the three weeks they had been at sea- slowed from Varys’ initial approximation of a fortnight by a series of steady storms that had slowed the vessel significantly- Jon seemed to have increase in skill. His hands grew more callused, sometimes so sore from holding his blade that he could not even lift his fork without flinching, the muscles in his arms more firm, his chest and shoulders tightening with the strength it took to lift the blade he had been given by the captain.

Sansa had just bent forward to point out a school of pink scaled fish, a chord of rope looped around her belt to keep her from losing her balance and tumbling overboard, Tyrion spoke. “Look there!” he said, standing from his chair. Sansa followed his gaze, blurting out a gasp so loud that even from across the deck Jon and the other sailors turned.

Riverrun had appeared in a fluff of clouds on the horizon, the sun that blared down upon them making it difficult to see anything more than green and blue splotches. The ship seemed to be moving through molasses as it approached the city. Sansa had half a mind to run screaming into the captain’s cabin and demand he sail faster.

As the ship drew closer Sansa could see a thousand navy coloured tents pitched around the walls of the castle, the bustle of soldiers apparent even from so far away, even the sound of the men was able to be heard from miles away.

Absently she wondered how many knights Robb had left. Cersei Lannister had once told Sansa that Robb had barely enough knights to plow a field but Sansa had always known it to be as false as the smile Cersei so often set upon her. She knew their side of the war to be better stocked with knights, Robb’s army coupled with that of the Blackfish, half of the deceased Renly Baratheon’s, the men Walder Frey had supplied, and soon enough they would be joined by Dany’s Unsullied. The thought made her stomach twist with excitement.

The ship docked in the harbour, so painstakingly close to her mother’s ancestral palace that Sansa felt the urge to dive into the water and swim to it. But she could only watch helplessly and anxiously as a series of small fishing boats emblazoned with the Tully sigil beat towards them.

And all at once Sansa could see Robb Stark, standing proudly at the prow of one of the boats, his hair copper and his eyes bright as he looked upon the ship, seeming as anxious as Sansa was. Her heart was suddenly so full with love that she thought it might burst, Jon at her side, Robb at her front, her mother somewhere in the castle. And she could only smile, so overcome with emotion that she was unable to speak.

Chapter Text

X

Time slipped passed Sansa Stark as she watched the boats beat towards her. Since they had docked it had begun to rain, the harsh wind whipping at her hair and her clothes, the spray of rain like a thousand stinging needles against her skin. But neither she nor her companions moved from their place at the side of the rail, watching the series of boats draw ever closer.

The ocean frothed as waves crashed around them, the harsh crush of the waves nearly able to push them off course if it had not been for the strength of the rowers that sat on either end of the small boats. Robb drew closer, so sluggishly that Sansa could have cursed time for passing so slowly.

“Come along, m’lady!” called the Captain. The storm brewed overhead, a strike of lightning causing her to stumble, temporarily blinded, on the slick deck of the ship. The rain fell harder now, a sleet of icy water so thick Sansa could barely see through as she followed after the man. Her cloak was sopping wet and whipping at her ankles, a roll of thunder ripping through the sky, her booted feet clumsy and slipping.

A ladder had been tied to the main mast, hanging so long that Sansa could not see its bottom wrungs, the course rope disappearing into the churning water. The boats had arrived by the time Tyrion swung his leg over the railing and began his descent of the ladder, clinging for dear life to the rough rope. Jon volunteered to face the climb next, his dark hair plastered to his brow by the rain that beaded and dripped into his eyes blindingly.

“Thank you.” Said Sansa, taking the hand of the Captain. “For everything. I fear I cannot thank you enough, ser.”

The man smiled widely. “You need not say another word, m’lady. It was my pleasure to carry you on my ship.”

Tyrion called up to her, his voice half lost among the storm, bidding she come down the ladder. With a few more grateful words to the Captain Sansa did as she was told, her boots wet and sliding against the ladder as she traversed down, down, down. Robb’s boat seemed so far from her, the men staring up at her nervously, as though expecting her to fall, their legs carefully planted in case it was necessary to catch her falling body.

Sansa’s arms trembled with the stress of holding on so tightly to the ladder, the wind forcing the ladder, and her body, against the wide of the ship jarringly. She let out a sigh as she touched down in Robb’s careening boat, for just a moment feeling relief, before realizing the small boat was no safer than the ladder.

She looked up at her brother. He looked so similar and yet so vastly different. It was as though his body and all of his most recognizable features had been stretched, the boy she had left back at Winterfell having disappeared into the man that stood before her. His auburn hair was made dark by the rain, the same shade as hers, falling into his eyes and blinding him as he took a stumbling step towards her. He stood as tall as Jon, his shoulders broad and strong, his chest firm beneath her head as she gratefully accepted his embrace, melding into his body as she had so long dreamed off.

They were thrown off balance as a wave knocked against the boat and Sansa fell backwards, Robb’s weight pushing her down so she was unable to catch herself before she fell in a heap among Jon and Tyrion’s feet. The butt of an oar had struck her side, so sharp that she could instantly feel a bruise forming at her ribcage, the rain cold as snow and sharp as pinpricks against her skin as she lay on her back in the cramped quarters of the boat. But she only laughed, so overcome with love that no injury in the world could have taken her smile.

Time returned to its normal pace as the trio of boats turned around and made back toward the castle. Sansa gripped tightly to the side of the boat, the rocking of the vessel dangerous beneath her as the wind and the rain and the waves slammed into them.

She was aching for the warmth of a fire, the long nights she had spent in the ship’s cot causing her to be warmed only by blankets and a shabby fur throw instead of the fire she so longed for. Her stomach churned, having long ago grown tired of the grisly meat and hard breads the Captain supplied, desiring nothing more than a cup of spiced wine and a bowl of warmed broth. But most of all she ached for the embrace of her mother, the woman’s soft, comely body beneath her arms, the scent of her perfume and the soaps she washed over her skin when she bathed, the comfort of her red hair.

She then thought of Jon, looking at her husband out of the corner of her eye. Lady Catelyn knew nothing of his true parentage. Unless much had changed since they lived together at Winterfell the auburn haired woman still thought Jon the product of Eddard Stark’s philandering and though she had never mistreated the boy she thought a bastard there had been no warmth to her behaviour around him. Sansa swallowed hard, knowing tonight would be a long night of explanations.

They grew closer to the castle, even in the heavy rain the yellowing sandstone shone, water sluicing from the walls and trailing into the filled moat. High above their heads Sansa could see movement from the battlements and a moment later the Water Gate creaked loudly and was pulled open, the metal portcullis red with rust and dripping heavy drops of foul smelling water down upon their heads as they passed under it.

The graying clouds had left half the castle deep in shadows, the highest towers of Riverrun standing tall enough to seem like they grazed the sky. Sansa wished she had a moment to admire it all but the rain had left a chill in her bones so deep she could not shake it, drawing her cloak tighter around herself though the sopping fabric did little to warm her.

Her boat found the shore with a jerk, Sansa thankful she had found a seat or she would have fallen again, the sudden presence of the hard sand jarring. Five hands reached out to help her step over the side of the boat and onto the sand and she grabbed blindly at them, feeling hard fingers beneath her palm and knowing she had met no familiar palm.

So long at sea had left her legs weak and shaking and the bruise her hip had taken caused her to fall, the weight of her heavy clothes doing little to aid her. Compared to the hard wood of the ship’s hull the sand was far too soft, shifting beneath her booted feet like the ground was tumultuous with quake, and she was unable to release the hand she had taken, holding tightly to it as she walked forward.

The rain had left her blind as well as wet, the castle nearly disappearing in the torrential downpour that engulfed her small group and she once again thanked the Seven for the hand she held for she might have walked straight into the moat if she had not held it.

Sansa squinted behind her many times, as though afraid if she did not turn around Jon, Tyrion, and Robb would suddenly disappear and leave her once again on her own. She was not sure she could stand it.

When the Water Gate fell closed behind them she could feel the ground rumble beneath her feet. In dry weather patches of dust often rose into the air but was now pounded down by the rain to make heaps of mud that splattered against her skirts and squeezed through the fabric of her boots to settle between her chilled toes.

Her journey had been so long and arduous and yet she was sure these were the most difficult moments of all, so close to warmth and food and family that every second she was not among them felt like agony, her feet trudging through the mud slowly, struggling to keep up with the rest of her retinue.

After what felt like ages she crossed through the atrium of the castle, instantly flooded with golden light and a wave of warmth that ran over her body from head to foot, such heavenly relief she almost collapsed. A servant was at her side, hands fluttering at her neck to undo the knot of her wet cloak, pulling it away from her body so another rush of heat could overcome her. A few faces expressed surprise at the sight of her in a sailor’s clothing instead of a gown but no voices came up to question her, a welcomed relief for she was sure she had no effort to waste explaining the need for fresh garments.

“Sansa?” at once the voice rose, piercing through all the others. Sansa spun, turning to the foot of the stairs, her eyes going wide. Catelyn Stark was recognizable almost instantly, rising from the men with her red hair, a dark streak on an otherwise pale canvas. Her voice had been even, more even than that of Sansa’s when she tried to reply but all that came out was a gargle of words from the base of her throat. She could only nod, her ears hearing the sound of her Lady mother’s footsteps as she crossed the atrium and pulled Sansa into the longing embrace she had so long awaited.

“Mother...” Sansa whispered weakly. It was the last thing she remembered.

When Sansa Stark awoke she found herself tucked so tightly into bed that for a moment she could not move, paralyzed by a layer of blankets and furs so thick that they felt like the weight of another person. She sat up. Her head was throbbing angrily, pain in her temples growing rapidly the longer she sat straight. Her eyes were sore, her lips dry and parched, her mouth moving automatically in a bid for water.

For a moment she was struck with fear, thinking she had never left the Capital and it had all been a lengthy, cruel dream of freedom but as her eyes cleared and she was able to look around the room she recognized, or did not recognize, her surroundings and knew she was no longer in the Red Keep.

Several paintings of unfamiliar faces hung on the crimson-papered walls, the chamber more lavishly furnished than any Sansa had ever slept in since she had left her childhood home. Opposite the bed sat a large writing desk and satin cushioned chair, to the left a set of twin doors, paneled in glass and reflecting a bright light into the room that overlooked the rain-less landscape.

Pushing aside the blankets Sansa realized with a jolt she had been changed, her too-large breeches and tunic swapped for a cotton nightgown so soft that it was like cream beneath her palms. A moment later she breathed a sigh of relief, remembering once again that she was in Riverrun and probably employed several ladies-maids who had done the task.

Her bare feet padded across the carpet, the throbbing in her head slowly being relieved, though the ache of hunger in her stomach only grew. Turning the knob Sansa snuck out a look before feeling incredibly foolish for doing so. She was no longer a prisoner. She was no longer in hiding. She was a princess. She was free.

“My lady!” said a voice. A yellow haired maid smiled at her, blue eyes dancing. “Your mother will be so pleased to hear you are awake.”

“I am pleased.” Sansa tried to respond but her throat was so dry and scratchy that no words came out.

“I will fetch something to eat and drink.” The maid said quickly, disappearing around the corner.

Sansa was overcome with the desire to explore the unfamiliar castle, a pastime she had once so loved when first arriving in King’s Landing or back at Winterfell, but she felt suddenly so weak that she dare not risk fainting again and moved quickly back to her bed.

She could not help but wonder what was occurring in the Capital. The King was dead. The Hand of the King was dead. The Queen Regent was mad and the Queen reigning on her own…or was she still the Queen if Joffrey was dead? No, Sansa knew, her brow furrowing. Tommen would be King now. Young, sweet, ever innocent Tommen, who would rule with a soft fist and a litter of kittens at his side. It made Sansa sick to think of something horrid befalling the boy as it had his brother.

The yellow haired woman returned with a tray of plates and glasses, introducing each item as Sansa’s gaze fell upon them. “The Maester asks that you try a bit of broth and wine to see if you can keep it down. If you are able for more than an hour he says you are free to eat what you like. The cooks had a feast prepared for you before…”

“Before?” Sansa urged. She could only remember fainting in her mother’s arms and nothing else until she opened her eyes only a few minutes before.

“You fainted, m’lady.” Said she. “The Maester said you had caught chill from the rain and the conditions of the ship.”

“Oh?” Sansa said, brow furrowed. “I feel…” she shook her head. “How many hours has it been?” she asked. “I want to see my mother as soon as possible. I just got here, how could I be lying about?”

The woman looked confused, her turn for her blonde brows to furrow. “M’lady you have been asleep for six days.” She said. “We have been at your side to…the Maester believed you would not survive.” She said, eyes downcast. “He called the Septon to bless you before you…”

“Gods.” Sansa breathed. She had not felt sick. Not until she had reached the boats that had met her escape ship. “Where are my…friends?” she was unsure of what to say. Should she address Jon as her husband or her brother? Tyrion as her friend or the traitor who had once been abducted by her mother?

“King Robb is meeting with Lord Bryden this morning and I believe Lord Tyrion has accompanied him. Lady Catelyn is in the Sept, as she has been each day since you fell ill. I have sent another maid to fetch her-“ she added, seeing Sansa’s worry. “And Lord Jon in sleeping as well. He, too, came down with illness.”

“How does he fare?” Sansa breathed. She could not stomach the idea of making it so far and losing her love now.

“Well.” Said the maiden. “He is eating and walking quite well.” She said. “Once I take my leave I would tell him of your condition, he has asked many times.”

Sansa nodded. The maiden had said that Tyrion was with Robb. But how could such a thing be? The Lannisters were sworn enemies of the Starks. Robb would hate the man, especially if Sansa had not been conscious to tell him of the man’s bravery and kindness to her. Perhaps Jon had?

Her head was spinning, the hot broth she sipping settling low in her empty, rumbling stomach, the cup of tea burning her palm as she held it too tightly. “I would like to see him.” she said.

“My lady you are too weak.” Said the maid. “You should not trouble yourself.”

The door opened in a hurry and Catelyn appeared, kneeling at Sansa’s bedside and taking her daughters hands. Her face was pink and puffy, the evidence of tears in the drying spots on her cheeks and the redness of her eyes. “I thought…” she said, her voice as hoarse as Sansa’s had once been. Sansa’s handmaiden moved her tray to the side so Catelyn could sit beside her daughter, Sansa resting her head against her mother’s shoulder. “I thought you would die. Like…”

Like Bran, Sansa thought. “I feel well.” Said Sansa. In truth her head was spinning, half with dizziness, half with the thoughts of all the words that had gone unsaid, of all the kisses she had not given, of all the worried thoughts of Jon she hid from her mother.

“You do not look well.” Said Catelyn, tipping her chin so Sansa would meet her eye.

“I feel…”

All at once Sansa was overcome with everything she had so long tried to hide. She could feel all of the faded bruises and thin cuts that peppered her body, all of the words Cersei and Joffrey and Tywin had spat at her, all of the pain that settled in her chest at the thought of her father and her brothers and her sister. She could feel the longing for Winterfell and the ache to be once more knee deep in snow, the desire to once again embrace her father. The shame of her wedding and the embarrassment of being stripped before the court, the way the common people had screamed at her and tried to harm her.

The tears came at once, burning the backs of Sansa’s dry eyes, and running down her cheeks, soaking into the collar of her mother’s gown as she lay against her side. She cried for Bran and Rickon, who had been so young the last time she had seen them, and for Theon, their betrayer. She cried for Arya and the fact that she had never been able to atone for the words she had once said to her.

Curled in her mother’s arms, her face splotched angry red and wet with tears, Sansa felt like a girl again. A knife of pain twisted in her belly, knowing that when she was a girl she had been able to run into her father’s welcoming arms and bury her face into his chest, and now she never would again.

She took a shaking breath, remembering the last time she had seen her father, his hair matted and dirty, his neck exposed for the edge of Ser Illyn’s Payne’s blade, his eyes looking up to meet hers. She had been flooded with all the words she knew he would have said if he had been able. I love you. I want you to be safe. Take care of your sister. I wish I could have saved you. But he had been unable to say any of it, only to let out a small sigh just before the executioner’s blade came down upon him and everything before Sansa’s eyes went black.

“My dear,” Catelyn whispered, pressing a kiss to Sansa’s warm brow. “What have they done to you?” her voice broke, the pain in Sansa’s heart only growing at the image of her mother’s crying face.

Sansa opened her mouth to speak of it but found the words would not come. Even before Jon she had not been able to share the full extent of her pain at the hands of the Lannister’s and the King.

“They were…” her tired brain could not come up with a word, so tired she could not put much effort into the lie she whispered. “…cordial.”

Her mother’s face showed her obvious skepticism but she said nothing, accepting Sansa’s answer with a simple nod of her head. A tendril of long red hair came uncurled from its braid and fell over her shoulder, tickling Sansa’s nose. Catelyn smiled softly, her Tully blue eyes iron hard and mischievous as she held Sansa’s gaze. “The Lannisters will pay for what they have done to us.” She said firmly. “They will pay for it, my darling. With fire and blood.”

*****

Robb Stark poured over the great map of Westeros, his tired eyes squinted as he looked down at the coloured pieces that marked the assorted armies of their enemy houses. He had not slept in two days, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his sister’s ship. Each time he laid in his bed he was overcome with worry, his nervousness nearly driving him to sickness, unable to tolerate even the smallest portions of food for days.

He had ached for them for so long. Sansa and Jon, the two he had been closest to in the world, Sansa who bore his look, long auburn hair and pale skin, Jon who bore his heart, the brother he had never truly had. A bastard, he thought. But not truly.

Lord Eddard Stark had died before he professed the truth of Jon’s parentage, without even telling his Lady wife or the son of his sister, a woman who he had once loved and lost just as Robb had loved and lost Sansa. But unlike Robb, Eddard had been unable to save his sister. The thought haunted Robb like a specter as he tried to rest his weary body each night.

And for Sansa to fall ill so quickly after reaching Riverrun. It was as though they were cursed with misfortune, the maester of the castle refusing to allow Robb to visit the sick girl, lest he succumb to the illness as well. “In your weakened state you might not be able to resist the illness…” the maester had warned, his old hands shaking as he inspected Robb’s injured side. Robb did not bother to argue, his mouth tired of spouting the words “I am well” so many times each day.

And Jon too, struck by the same sickness, confined to his chambers, so weak that he could not bear even a spoonful of hot broth, no matter how his stomach rumbled for food. It was days and days that passed without word, Robb pacing his chamber so often he might have worn thin the carpet beneath his boots, caught between visiting his mother in the Sept and making arrangements for the army at the gates of Riverrun. He found himself standing outside the door to his sister’s chambers, as though she could feel his presence through the door, as though he could heal her with just his company.

When she was well enough to stand and eat he could have kissed her, so overcome with joy that even the pain of his injury seemed to succumb. She was speaking again, peppering his face with kisses and looking over him as though she had never seen him. He supposed he did look different now. Older. The boy he had once been left behind at Winterfell.

She looked older now as well, the gangly limbs she had once possessed fading back into the soft, rounded hips and flat stomach that made the men of his camp whisper. Her legs were long and shapely beneath the plain gowns she dressed in, its hem mud splattered from the dirt that had been turned to muck by the downpour of rain as she crossed the grass to his tent.

Sansa hugged him each morning and though she was taller now she stood not quite as tall as he and Robb was still able to look over her head, smiling at the thought of how she truly was his little sister. He tried not to think of how much he longer for Arya, with her hair a mess and her boots caked with mud. He could only rest easily in knowing that she was with father now and Eddard Stark was surely mussing her hair as Robb and Jon used to do.

“I feared you would hang him.” Sansa commented, looking out at Tyrion as he stood outside the open flaps of the tent, speaking to one of the men she did not recognize.

Robb shook his head. “I owe him much. Before he fell ill Jon was able to speak on his behalf. He staked his honour on his claims of Tyrion’s kindness to you.”

“As I stake mine.” Sansa said firmly. “If it was not for Lord Tyrion I would have been beaten far worse, stripped far more, abused far longer at the hands of the King. He was the only one who defended me. Who protected us.”

“The men think I should not allow him in my tent.” Said Robb. “They think him a spy.”

“A spy wanted for treason.” Reminded Sansa. “Wanted for regicide and patricide and the murder of his own nephew. He is no friend of the Lannisters. Not anymore.”

“But he would not betray them still.” Said Robb, gesturing to the map before him. “He knows their movements. Their plans.”

“As do I.” said Sansa. Robb’s brows drew together automatically. “I spent many months studying under Lord Baelish and Lord Tyrion. I am well versed in the military strategy of the Lannister’s and Baratheon’s. With Joffrey and Tywin dead and Jaime Lannister a sworn member of the Kingsguard only Kevan Lannister remains to lead their armies. Margaery Tyrell was to marry Joffrey Baratheon and forge a bond between their houses but with the King’s death before the consummation of their marriage I assume Lady Olenna will arrange to have her marry Tommen Baratheon instead.”

“He is but a child.” Said Robb. “I do not think the Lady of Lannister would agree to such a thing.”

“She can and she will.” Said Tyrion, strolling back into the tent. “My sister is a proud woman but she is also a smart woman. Without the Tyrell army their forces will be cut nearly in half, easily overpowered by yours even without the Tully army. She would not be so foolish as to refuse the offer Olenna will most likely give.”

Robb nodded. “The numbers of the Reach are rumoured to be near fifty thousand.”

“Plus sixty thousand men from the Westerlands and the Crown.” Supplied Tyrion. The numbers only made Robb look grim as he added more red pieces onto the map, his eyes narrowed.

“What are our numbers?” asked Sansa. She was filled with dread, half of her unwilling to hear what Robb would say. Even with Daenerys’ armies would they have enough men to take on the crown? And if so how long would it take the Dragon Queen to sail from Essos to join their cause.

Robb looked down at the map, Sansa following his gaze slowly. “Forty thousand, not including Aunt Lysa’s bannermen. They are riding from the Vale and should arrive soon.”

Forty thousand. It made Sansa’s stomach turn. She thought of Daenerys’ last letter, the promise of fifty thousand men hollow and empty, so far away that Sansa could not even imagine it.

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, to try and reassure her brother, to offer a few kind, calming words. But instead she could only stare out at the map, her eyes moving from Dorne all the way to the Wall and everything in between, the coloured pieces marking the armies of the crown, of the Lannisters, even of Stannis Baratheon and Euron Greyjoy, whose numbers were low enough that Robb need not worry about them now.

Sansa heard a peak of sound outside the tent and looked up just as Jon ducked into the crimson tent. He looked pale and gaunt, the sickness having taken the same toll on him that it had upon Sansa, his weakness visible in the slowness and unsteadiness of his movements. His eyes lingered on hers, dark and shining, his lip twitching as it lifted into a smile that made heat rise in her cheeks.

In his hand he clutched a piece of yellowing parchment, so tightly it was as though he was afraid to let it go. “What news?” asked Sansa hopefully. She hoped the parchment bore promise of more men, perhaps from Dorne, who had yet to pledge its allegiance to the Capital and the family that had ordered their Lady and her children butchered.

Jon’s smile only widened, his urge to take Sansa into his arms and spin her like a dance partner only growing by the second. “News from the Queen.” For a moment Robb was confused, thinking the man addressing the Lady of Lannister, wondering how she had managed a letter to the man. But as he continued the pieces of his words slipped into place, Robb’s stomach twisting with nervousness and excitement. “She writes that her men have been readied for battle. She is to sail for Westeros at once.”

Chapter Text

XI

Robb Stark’s face was written with weariness, the bruises that lay beneath his eyes so deep it was as though he had been struck. At night he did not sleep, lest he dream and once more be overcome with the night terrors that had plagued him for so many months.

The weight he had lost was beginning to be noticeable, the meals his menservants brought him often being taken away untouched, the only difference from the time the food was brought to the time it left the chamber being its lack of steam. He had no taste for food nor drink, no matter how many times the castle Maester urged him to eat, claiming the food would give his body the strength it needed to heal, he could not bring himself to follow the order. Tywin Lannister’s army was at bay for now, at a loss without its commander to lead the troops and had returned to Casterly Rock for instruction, leaving the Riverlands free of enemy troops.

But the promise of more enemy armies loomed close, Robb knowing that with the marriage of Margaery Tyrell to Joffrey Lannister the Tyrell army would be soon joining that of the Lannister’s. Another thought to plague him each time he tried to close his eyes.

He was thankful at least to have his sister and brother returned to him, their presence more than a comfort to him. Even when they were not in his direct presence, just knowing that they were near him…it gave him great comfort.

“Robb?” called a voice.

Sansa’s head poked around the corner, a silent bid for entrance, which he accepted with a nod. He offered her a seat, pulling the cushioned chair away from the desk and setting it opposite his. Even now, even having looked upon her for nearly a fortnight he was shocked by her appearance. She looked so much like their mother, tall and long limbed, though her crimson hair was darker and far longer, wrapped in a thick cord that hung to her waist. Yet though she looked older she also looked weary, anger twisting in Robb’s gut each time he thought of the horrors she had endured. Even Jon had not had the stomach to tell him of it, making Robb all the more filled with fury.

She was slight under his arms, the embrace he offered gratefully accepted by her. Tyrion had told him of the lack of food on the ship, nothing but hot gruel and greasy meat with the occasional fish thrown in. But he was sure it was more than that. Perhaps the Lannister’s had not fed her properly. As much as Robb hated them for it he was reminded of Jaime’s imprisonment and the lack of food that had gone his way.

“I wish to speak to you.” Said his sister. She looked tired, her cheeks gaunt and her eyes hooded and weary.

She looked troubled and her hands twisted in the skirt of her gown, as they always had when they were children. He could remember the night they had spent in Lyanna’s crypt, staring up at the statue as though they expected it to spring suddenly to life. But morning had come without motion from their aunt and their Lady Mother had been furious, having through the worst when Robb’s governess had found his bed empty in the midst of the night. Sansa had twisted her fingers then too, standing before her mother and father, guilt written on her face as plain as her eyes and nose.

Robb nodded, gesturing for her to continue. “It’s about Jon.”

Within the previous fortnight Robb’s world had been turned upside down more than he could count. First news had come of their escape from King’s Landing, next a raven had reached Riverrun with word of two deaths, the King’s and Lord Tywin’s, and only a few days later one of the scouts he had bid patrol the surrounding forests reported movement in the Lannister army. When his sister and brother had finally reached the Riverlands they had come down with a bout of sickness so troubling that the Maester had bid Robb make his goodbyes. He had spent days sitting at their bedsides, watching their sleeping faces, praying that they would soon wake. He could not find the words to express his happiness when they had, so relieved that he had nearly fainted, though he supposed that may have been caused by the lack of food he had consumed the previous few days.

And then the letter had come. News from the queen, Jon had said. But Robb was not sure what business Cersei Lannister would have for him. Unless she supposed to take over the armies of her father or write to ask for a truce. But his half brother had not meant the Lioness. No. He had been referencing the Dragon Queen of Meereen. The Queen with silver hair and eyes the colour of undyed amethysts. The Queen the mummers called the most beautiful woman in the world. The Queen whose armies bore three dragons. She is to sail for Westeros at once.

And as shocked as Robb had been then it was nothing compared to the way he felt after Jon had delivered the news of his true lineage. Catelyn Stark had sat in her solar, face hard and lips pinched as she listened. Robb had tagged along with Jon and Sansa, leaning against the jamb of the door as they spoke, half of him fearing the tale would change since they had regaled it to him.

When Jon had finished speaking the Lady of Riverrun had sat in her chair for nearly a quarter hour before speaking, her Tully blue eyes wet with tears, the lips that had once been pinched becoming twisted. “I…I am a fool.” She whispered, burying her face in her hands. “To think Ned would…” she pressed her fingers to her temples, her eyes pressed so tightly closed that the wrinkles on her brow had doubled. Her voice shook, tears falling down her cheeks. “For years I thought…I was so cruel. To a child.”

“Lady Stark-“ said Jon.

“No.” said Catelyn. “Please do not try to dissuade me. I deserve whatever torment I have been put through for what I have done to you. For all that I said to you. A hundred apologies would not matter. A thousand apologized would not matter. One day I will find a way to apologize truly, but today I fear is not the proper day.”

And now Sansa sat before him, the set of her jaw clueing him in to what would soon come. Another day, another secret unexposed.

“I am married.” Said she. “To a man the world thought was my brother. And I am in love with the same man.”

Robb looked back at her. His stomach twisted and all at once the memories of Winterfell flooded back to him. Sansa had followed the lead of her mother, though not quite to the same extent. She had not been cold to Jon, as Catelyn had, but they had never shared more than two words, at least before they had followed their father to the Capital. With Arya gone and Eddard Stark butchered they had only each other. The lone wolf dies, he thought. But the pack survives.

At once pieces began to fall into place. The way Jon sat at her side during every meal, moving to refill her glass before she had even uttered a word to any of the servants. The way he escorted her to her chambers each night after they finished their supper and was absent for many minutes before returning to Robb’s solar. How their eyes were always soft and knowing as they looked upon each other, all of their secret smiles and whispered words, and all of Jon’s newly mended tunics.

“I…” Sansa began. Her shoulders were shaking, her lip trembling as she spoke. She seemed so small then, the little girl that had left him behind at Winterfell. “I do not want you to stop loving me because I am married to Jon.”

Robb drew back, shocked, his brow knitted. “Sweet girl…” he whispered, moving from his chair to kneel at her side. He reached out to take her hand, his eyes not missing the wisps of silvery scars that covered her left palm. The Tully blue eyes that looked out at him matched his own, watering and clear, blinking back tears that threatened to fall. “Nothing in this world or the next could stop me from loving you, Sansa.”

*******

Sansa pressed closed the door to Jon’s chamber and slid the heavy iron lock into place with a grating, metallic sound. Jon sat at his writing desk, looking at her over his shoulder and setting down his quill. He smiled slightly, setting down his quill and pushing himself backward, the sound of chair legs scraping against the marble floor filling her ears.

Sansa returned his smile, the weight that had settled over her shoulders and upon her chest at the knowledge that she was keeping a secret from the brother she had once grown used to professing all of her secrets to. Even as she had gotten older and Robb had traded his play sword for real ones he had still been the one she had turned to for her troubles, for her heartache, or what other girlish problems she had once cried over. The thought that she had deceived him had nearly left her sick to her stomach.

She crossed the room, her bare feet padding against the cold stone until she stood before Jon’s chair, looking down at her husband. Her fingers twisted through his dark curls, lovingly brushing them out of his face. She cupped his cheek lightly, feeling the pressure of his face as he let it fall into her hand, the course hair of his beard brushing against her palm. Her pinkie fell, dragging against his bottom lip, feeling the hot breath he exhaled. Desire stirred in her belly like an uncoiling snake, her body shifting to fall into his empty lap.

Jon’s hands curled beneath her, his callused fingers brushing the underside of her thigh and making her shiver, his free hand tracing up the base of her spine to the small of her back. His lips found her throat, his tongue darting out to brush against her collarbone and make her flush so deeply red that her hair seemed pale in comparison.

She was filled with a rush of pleasure, the sense of freedom, happiness, and love filling her so completely that for a moment she thought she might burst. Suddenly Sansa broke apart from his kiss, looking out at her breathless husband and eyeing his heaving chest and the smattering of dark hair that was hinted at beneath the undone laces of his tunic.

“I spoke to mother.” She said. Jon’s eyebrows rose, wishing he did not so greatly desire the acceptance of the woman that had been so cold to him. “And to Robb.” His stomach twisted but found the cadence of her voice gave nothing away. “Although she does not agree with the way we were wed, she has agreed to the marriage itself. Happily.” added Sansa. Jon felt relief wash over him from head to foot, the weight of the nerves that bunched in his stomach lessening with every word before finally dissipating, draining visibly from his face as his crimson haired wife looked down at him. He raised his head to brush his lips across hers; taking in the scent of her flowery perfume and the sweet taste of the wine she had no doubt drunk to build her boldness before speaking to her Lady mother.

“She only asks one thing-“ she continued. Jon felt icy cold anxiety rush through his veins, his body going taut as steel beneath hers, though it was once more alleviated when Sansa’s face broke out into a smile, her fingers dancing across his chest tenderly. “She asks we follow Northern tradition and marry in the Godswood, as she and my father had done. Before the eyes of the Old Gods and of men, the true Gods.”

Jon’s body went warm with pleasure. He had many fond memories of the Godswood in Winterfell, from the days he had played knights and maidens with Sansa and Ary to the times he and Bran had hidden among the crimson leaves and waited for Robb to find them, giggling like the innocent children they were. All at once he was filled with the memories of evading Old Nan’s watchful eye and slipping out into the empty Godswood, sitting on the ebon bench and looking up in to the face of the Heart Tree as though expecting the Gods to appear before him and answer the questions he had so often posed. Where is my true mother? The question he had most often asked. Who is my true mother?

Even if the Gods had appeared to him then and professed the truth of his lineage Jon was not sure he would have believed them. Lyanna Stark, a woman he had never known. A maiden he had only seen built of worn brick and stone, with a feather stuck between her pinched stone fingers. She had always been beautiful, even a statue of embossed stone in the dark crypts of Winterfell, her features enveloped in flickering candlelight he had been able to see her beauty. She was with fine features, soft, rounded eyes, lips that had been quirked into a kind smile, and the same prominent cheekbones all Northern ladies seemed to posses. As Jon had looked into her face he could easily have forgotten Lady Lyanna was a statue instead of a true woman.

And Rhaegar Targaryen. The man who was accused of abducting and raping his mother. A man the mummers sang of as kind and soft-spoken but whom had started a war that ended in ten thousand men losing their lives. A man who bore the blood of Old Valyria in his veins, the same blood that he had passed on to his son.

Jon nodded, a silent acceptance of her mother’s words, and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by a loud rap on the locked chamber door. “My lord Snow-“ called the familiar voice of Jon’s manservant. He cleared his throat, uncomfortably, making Sansa giggle. “And Lady Stark- his grace has asked that you join him in his tent. At once.”

Although Jon was unwilling to release his grip upon the beautiful woman in his lap, but knew he must. He would have given anything for Robb and he supposed sacrificing a few kisses from his wife would be all right.

They dressed quickly, Sansa throwing a cloak over her shoulders and clasping it closed at her neck with a shining silver brooch. Jon smiled at the sight of her, noticing at once the cloak was freshly made and thinking perhaps it was a homecoming gift from her mother. It fell to her ankles, a long cloak of silver velvet heavy with pearls, its back embroidered with a white direwolf. Stark colours, a sight so beautiful it made him smile.

Sansa alighted from the stairs at his side and crossed the castle to the knoll at the front of the castle where Robb’s army had pitched their tents. While it had once been formed by pure grass but the rain that had fallen continuously over the past week had turned it to mud and muck that stuck to their boots and seeped through the leather to squelch between their toes as they walked. The hem of Sansa’s gown and cloak were instantly filthy and she shivered in the cold night air, despite the warmth of her cloak.

The pair picked through the grounds towards Robb’s apartments, the crimson tent standing at attention in the midst of the others. Robb had refused quarters within the castle, choosing instead to live among the men that would give their lives for him. Crossing the lawn Sansa passed many knights that slept beside their king, her eyes squinting to recognize the sigils sewn into the breast of their tunics. She was surprised at the amalgam of different houses represented on the field, both Northern and otherwise. Holt, Poole, Frost, Dustin, Manderly, Hornwood, Mormont, Flint. Even the twin pillars of the Frey’s decorated the field, the house having pledged their swords to Robb after his betrothal to Walder Frey’s daughter three months earlier.

“M’lady.” said many voices, knights stopping in their path to offer quick bows or even just a cursory nod that she accepted with many kind smiles or a few polite words. “M’lord.”

She knew she must trust these men, the knights who had fought and died and been injured all in hopes of returning the North to her brother. And yet she could not. She was no longer the innocent maiden who had sang sweet songs of love and chivalry, blushing and giggling with poor Jeyne Poole at the sight of knights approaching Winterfell, who had felt fainthearted at the prospect of marrying the King’s son.

She knew now that evil was not plain to the eye. It did not come with crooked nosed witches or scaled monsters. Evil came in pretty words and sweet smiles, in chivalry and offered arms. Evil came in all forms. She could thank the Lannister’s for teaching her that.

Weariness was written plainly on her brother’s face as she ducked through the flap of the tent to find him once more pouring over the map of Winterfell, his gloved hand working to push pieces onto the curled parchment as he thought up with new maneuvers or challenges.

Tyrion had retired early in the day, having spent the previous night at Robb’s side, looking down at the map and knowingly moving around pieces. “I do not know my father’s battle plans.” He had said. “But I know my father. I know the way he thinks...thought.” he had later corrected, proceeding to show Robb a number of tactics Tywin Lannister had used previously.

He took his brother and sister to embrace by way of greeting, the smile that came over his face making him look ages younger. “Have you slept?” Jon asked, pouring Robb a cup of hot, mulled wine. The drink steamed in the cold air, reddening Robb’s cheeks from the spice and from the heat of it. “You must.” Her husband continued when the King shook his head. “You are useless if you have not properly slept.”

“A fine way to speak to your King.” Teased Robb, clapping Jon on the back.

Sansa took a moment to inspect the map then. The Lannister pawns were molded red, Stannis green, and the King’s armies’ blue. A close knit collection of pieces over Winterfell were yellow, which she knew at once to be the oath breaking Bolton’s, and another small bunch was gray, Sansa recognizing them as the Greyjoy’s.

Her brow furrowed as she looked at the pieces, the way the armies had moved, curving across the Seven Kingdoms in all different directions. “Why are these here?” Sansa asked, pointing to a grouping of green pieces.

Robb looked where she pointed. “Stannis is sure to attack the Capital. My scouts have reported that his armies are being moved in that direction.”

Sansa shook her head. “He is foolish, then. To attack the Capital again so quickly after being defeated the last time. Half of his army was desecrated by the King’s and he only narrowly escaped capture.”

“Only because of Tywin’s men coming to aid.” Jon reminded. “But they are now being spread over the Riverlands and the Reach to stop Robb.”

“But the Tyrells remain within the walls of the Red Keep. Loras Tyrell is the finest fighter in Westeros, so they say. Though Mace Tyrell has the brain of a bat Loras Tyrell heads the army. He would not be foolish enough to leave Lady Margaery during such trying times.”

Robb frowned. “I have six thousand men at my back and not one could tell me what you just have.”

“Perhaps Stannis is returning to the Stormlands in hopes of finding more men.” Jon supplied. “Even with half of his brother’s army he is sorely lacking. Joffrey once said that many houses will not pledge to him because he has a blood witch at his side. They say she has corrupted half the men to give up their Gods in favour of the Red God. And she takes sacrifices to keep Stannis’ army strong.”

“Did not Brienne of Tarth say that she saw Lord Renly slain by a shadow with a broad sword?” asked Sansa. Her mother had said the very same, having stood just outside the tent so she was able to see two figures, Renly and Brienne, and then three, just before the third disappeared back to two.

“You cannot believe all you hear.” Said Robb. His face was hollow and gaunt, the lack of sleep he had relieved showing plainly.

“About the blood witch I do not know.” Said Sansa. “But I do know Joffrey. He made sure of that. For all that he thinks he is cleverer than all of Westeros he is just another common-minded fool. He was hailed as a hero after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, when the title should have gone to Lord Tyrion. Joffrey did not even leave his bunks until it was absolutely necessary and as soon as he was thrust into the thick of things a man waved a sword at him and he was back inside, cowering with his mother.”

Jon smirked, knowing his words were true. As they had prepared for battle the King had demanded every able-bodied man take a sword and fight. Though he had not assumed so this had included Jon, who was at once fit for plate and armour and given a sword, the first true sword he had lifted since his father was beheaded before the cheering crowd.

Joffrey had not been such a fool as to send Jon far but he had reached the beaches of the harbour, fighting off Stannis’ men with the rest of Joffrey’s armour. Tyrion had been at his side, with his squire and his sellsword, the trio facing down enemies as though there was nothing they loved more in this world, and when it came time for Joffrey to descend from his almighty bunker the boy was placed amidst them. He had looked laughable, so thickly covered with crimson and gold armour that he had not even been able to move his arms or legs. A boy playing in his father’s armour.

And how he had screamed. The first man that had been bold enough to charge him was struck down by the Hound, and several others after that. Joffrey’s sword had not even seen a drop of blood before he turned tail and rushed back into the closed gates of the Red Keep, no doubt to hide with the women and children in their bunker.

“He will not make that mistake again.” said Sansa. “I am sure that he would stay as far from the battle as possible, no doubt under the guise of overseeing his men from afar.”

“And?” queried Robb.

“And,” she said. “That means his men will be under the direction of Loras Tyrell, now that Tywin Lannister is slain, and for all that Loras is a fine fighter he is not a fine strategist. Did you not say your men have told that the Tyrell armies take the same shape each battle?” Robb nodded. “And enact the same tactics?” another nod. “They are predictable. And there is nothing more safe than predictability.”

“For us anyway.” Added Jon, looking proudly out at his wife.

For months Sansa had been kept prisoner in King’s Landing, relegated to second-class citizen and forced to sit among the woman during each meeting of the court or council meeting. But she had learned to listen and such a skill had proved most valuable. The Golden Lioness loved to brag, commenting often and loudly on the skill of her father on the battlefield and the many houses he had slain and defeated. She even told of the ways he had done so, how at the last second of charge his horses had turned this way or that, how they had made a semi-circle around the opponent and rode closer and closer until they were trapped there.

Even Olenna, for all her silver-tongued japes, bragged about her grandson. First it had been few and far between, but after she had tried to broker a marriage between Sansa and Lord Willas she had carried on. By the time their afternoon meetings came to an end Sansa had heard about Loras’ combat training since he was three-and-ten and the many masters-at-arms he had trained with, including a Braavosi swordsman that had taught him how to hold both sword and knife at the same time and strike his opponent in such a way as to crush his hold on his sword and take his life.

And now Sansa was free of King’s Landing and free to repeat whatever she saw fit to King Robb and his tacticians, hoping that if even just a small amount of information was relevant than she had served her brother and her King well.

Robb was smiling, looking down at the pieces on the map like he was on the verge of lifting one to his lips and kissing it. He opened his mouth to speak when he was suddenly overcome with the loud chiming of a bell, the metallic cling filling the air like thunder during a storm. Sansa lifted her hands to cover her ears, the grating sound seeming to reach so deep that she could nearly feel the vibration inside her head.

Robb’s face drained of colour and at once the flaps of the tent were thrown open, a windswept man pushing his way inside. Outside the tent Sansa could hear men rushing passed, a hundred footfalls coming all at once, their shouting almost overpowering the man as he tried to speak. “Your grace!” he called, his voice struggling to rise higher than the ringing of the bell. He was sodden from the rain that had begun to fall and his boots left streaks of muddy water across the rug that had been laid over the grass. He looked panicked, his eyes widening as he looked up at his King, “An attack from the North. A large army bearing Lannister standards approaches.”

Chapter Text

XII

Sansa felt her breath leave her lungs in a rush. She tried to speak, hoping to offer words of encouragement or a blessing to wish her brother and his men safety and luck in battle but she was so filled with fear that the words she tried to vocalize came out as a mere jumble, the sounds lost in the shouting of men and the pounding of footsteps that came from outside Robb’s tent.

Men were at once arming themselves, shedding their common clothes for the armour they had long ago laid to rest. Swords were being drawn, iron singing in the cold air as they were pulled from sheaths and brandished, whetstones dragged across their edges until they gleamed in the night air. The moon shone overhead, pale light streaming through the clouded sky and onto their backs as they moved about the camp, a thousand voices shouting orders, a thousand hands fastening sword belts.

Sansa felt Jon take her hand, his fingers twining through his and pulling her forth, step after step until she was so far from her brother that the kiss she hoped to bestow upon him was met only with air.

“Robb-“ she called. Her voice was cut off by the flurry of movement in the yard that she became suddenly enveloped in. Her brother looked up at her, the smile that lit his face making relief wash over her, and nodded, a silent promise that he would return to her. Even the Lannister’s had told her that he was an excellent swordsman, though the maids also told her that he rode into battle on the back of a giant direwolf. Sansa returned his nod, a silent prayer, a silent embrace, a silent wish fore safety.

The men who had once bowed to her were now pushing passed her without sparing even a second glance, her body nearly getting lost in the throng had it not been for Jon's hand keeping her balanced. The moonlight enveloped castle seemed a thousand miles away, the guards that rushed across the battlements returning to their posts at the guard tower. Their arms strained; making quick work of pulling the ropes that would soon drop the half rusted portcullis and protect the castle from the Lannister siege.

Sansa and Jon tried to move faster but the quicker she walked the quicker her boots sunk into the ponds of wet mud, causing her movements to be slow and off balance. Her heart hammered in her ears, nerves twisted into a firm knot in her belly.

At her side Jon was shouting orders, his voice so filled with fury that Sansa was reminded of the nights he had spent in the black cells beneath King's Landing, beating his fists bloody on the stone walls. That night Joffrey had ordered that she sleep outside the chamber door that led to the torturous cells and she had spent the duration of the restless night with her ears ringing with the sounds of Jon's anguished screams.

Sansa could imagine Lannister troops pushing through the camp and slaying every man in their path until the mud ran red with blood, the grass littered with the dead bodies of Tully soldiers. Her eyes stung with the thought of Robb or Jon lying among them and at once she pushed the thought away, concentrating instead on pushing her way through the group of men before her.

She felt Jon’s hand slip away and turned, half expecting to have lost him in the throng. But instead she found he had been replaced with a trio of Tully guards, headed by her uncle, Edemure, who headed the group. His face was gaunt and hard as stone, his fingers fumbling to adjust the fit of the vambraces clasped to his arms.

“Sansa-“ he shouted, offering a gloved hand that she took with slight hesitation. Jon had fallen a few steps behind, two guards in yellow tunics fitting him for borrowed armor, the metal plate closing at his sides and being tightened by practiced hands. His swordbelt hung at his waist, the sword at his side slapping against his thigh with every step.

She felt the breathe leave her in a rush, feeling suddenly foolish for not thinking that Jon would join his brother in battle instead of taking solace within the walls of the castle. Panic rose in her throat until she felt her breathe grow shallow and quick, fear so deeply ingrained in her bones that she nearly collapsed, thankful for the arms of her uncle as they closed around her shoulders and kept her from being lost among the heaps of soft mud.

"Jon!" she shouted. Sansa could only watch in horror as a shift of chainmail was hung over his head by a pair of strange hands. A hollow breastplate followed, slipping quickly into place, the silver head of a direwolf staring back at her from its place emblazoned upon his broad chest.

Her husband strode to her, separating the men that had engulfed her in their protection as they ushered her towards the castle. "Don't." she pleaded, her voice breaking. She could not help the tears that burned at her eyes, no matter how foolish she knew she must look to the knights around her. "Please don't. Don't go. Come with me.” she begged. “We can be safe in the castle."

Jon bent to kiss her, long and deep. The warmth and softness of his mouth seemed to expel her fear, the sinking feeling dissipating as though she was blowing out a long breath, the armoured hands that closed around her waist pulling her flush against him. Edemure, who flushed and gestured quickly for his men to turn their backs to allow the pair their privacy, did not miss the intimacy of the moment. Sansa let out a breath, the tears that littered her cheeks showed upon Jon's face, reflecting in the moonlight like liquid silver.

"Do not." she said weakly, leaning into the hand that cradling her face. His gloved thumb brushed across the length of her bottom lip, making her shiver. "Do not..." But the will to fight had left her at once upon seeing the look in his eye and as he reached to brush a strand of crimson hair from her face she could only watch, her eyes spreading over his face as though trying to memorize it.

"Do not fear, my love." Jon whispered, his head dropping to rest against hers. Warmth spread across her skin from where he touched her, the sight she gave causing her breath to mist in the cold air around them. "I will come back to you.” Jon promised. “And when I do I will have slain those who hurt you. For so long I could no nothing to stop them. Nothing to protect you. But now I am able."

Her mind was flooded with faces. Ser Illyn Payne. Ser Borous Blout. Ser Osmond Kettleblack. Even the Hound, who had once reported to the Queen of the sudden presence of Sansa’s moon blood.

Sansa’s head bobbed, her heart hammering in her ears hard as the bell that rang through the camp. "M'lord!" called one of the guards, anxious, impatient. Scared. Edemure waved him away, offering one more moment of solace between his niece and her husband.

"I'll come for you." Jon said. "When it is all over." He brushed a tear from her cheek and kissed her once more before nodding to Edemure.

At once Sansa was pulled away. Even as tall as she stood she was hastily lost in the sea of giants, the men around her causing her to lose sight of Jon as she was pulled into the welcoming warmth of the mouth of Riverrun’s castle. She took no more than five steps beneath the Water Gate when she felt it slam shut behind her, the guards no doubt waiting for her arrival before lowering the portcullis and causing her to leave Robb and Jon to the swarm of men and the looming threat of enemy knights.

Jon stood for a moment to watch the wisps of his wife’s lavender gown disappear among the guards Edemure had sent after her, the fabric standing out in the sea of silver and blue that filled the encampment. His gaze traveled upwards, watching as the men in the guard tower worked to draw the iron portcullis closed, sealing the castle to the enemy knights that would soon come upon them, and forming a wall between he and Sansa.

Jon turned back to his men and allowed them to continue dressing him for the battle, their hands at once picking up where they had left off. He remembered the armour Joffrey had commissioned for him to celebrate his recent knighthood, the metal crudely made and ill fitting. It had been too large to properly conform to his body and there was no trace of doubt in his mind that if he had worn such a thing into battle he would be dead within the hour.

“You look a fearsome warrior.” Commented Robb, coming to stand at his brother’s side. At once Jon recognized the armour he had been fitted in as belonging to the man, the direwolf sigil that had been picked into the wrought iron matching the one Robb now wore.

“I could say the same to you, brother.” Said Jon. Their eyes locked and though they were of different colours, both sets of eyes bore the same fatigue, the same apprehension. The same fear.

Robb offered a small smile, at once transporting back in time to be the boy that had once played knights and maidens with he and Arya in Winterfell. He continued, “It’s lucky, you know.” Said he. “That armour. It will keep you safe.”

“Thank you.” Jon whispered.

Robb nodded. He had seen so many battles, worn weary and dull by the thought of yet another. Yet the fear he had once felt did not escape him. Each time, as he stood at the front of his army, he felt the same knot of nervousness coiling in his belly, causing him to feel the need to retch. And as he looked upon the face of his brother he could see the same expression etched across his features.

"I hear whispers that you are a true knight now." Robb said, groaning lightly as his squire tightened his breastplate at his sides, the leather straps digging into his shoulders.

"Aye." said Jon. "A true Stark says the King."

Robb took his hand, squeezing firmly. "A true Targaryen says the Queen." The words made Jon flush with happiness. For so many months he had thought they would have made Robb angry. They had been raised to know Rhaegar as an enemy, as the man who had abducted their Lady and caused her death. They had been raised to know the Targaryen’s as enemies. But now Robb only smiled, the look in his eyes no less pleased to see his brother, whether they were true of blood or not.

Jon was finished being fit for armour in a few more minutes, shifting on the balls of his feet as his body adjusted to the weight of it. The shift of metal was grating to his ears, the last time he had heard such a thing being the Battle of Blackwater Bay, when he had stood beside Lord Tyrion and awaited Stannis’ army on the shores of the Capital.

“Lord Tyrion?” Jon asked.

“Posted near the castle.” Said Robb. “With Lord Bryden.” Jon nodded, turning to look at Robb. He was fearsome indeed, his battle armour shining although it was dented near his side, no doubt from the injury he had sustained during his last battle. The direwolf shone on his chest, gray and white, so bright and strong that there was no doubt in any soldier’s mind who the leader of this army was. His father’s colours.

King Robb turned to Jon, catching him just as he made to turn away with the rest of the garrison as they turned to loop north, where the Lannister army was most likely to attack. “Jon-“ he called. “You do not have to fight here.” He said. “You have fought so much already. I will not order you to do anything you do not wish.”

“And you have not.” Said Jon, firmly. “I will fight beside you, brother. I will fight for you, brother.”

His horse was brought around, the shining coat of the chestnut mare reflecting the moonlight as he slid into his saddle, his boots taking their place in the familiar stirrups. “Then let us go are, brother.” Robb grinned. “And take what is ours.”

A horse was brought for Jon, white as snow, an irony Jon did not miss, its saddle worn but no less comfortable for it. He fell easily into the leather seat, adjusting his swordbelt until it fell properly at his side. His gloved fingers seized the reins, wheeling around until the horse fell into step beside Robb’s. “Winter is coming.” Jon returned, smiling once more at his brother.

Jon was surprised to find Robb’s army so well organized. At once they fell into their ranks, spread evenly across what would soon be the battlefield so no enemy knights would slip between them, moving with so little instruction that Jon was amazed. It had taken nearly two hours to place Joffrey’s army, the men under so many conflicting directions from so many conflicting directors that they would have been fallen upon unprepared by Stannis’ army if Tyrion Lannister had not organized their position. Small as he was, the youngest Lannister had been smarter and braver than the rest of them and though he was not recognized for it Tyrion had saved more than half of their lives.

The Imp rode at Jon’s side now, his plate ill fitting and small as a child’s, but his face morbid. “I escaped the Capital to avoid a fight.” He mused. “Yet here I stand…er, ride. For a man I swore to my sister I would defeat.” He had let out a chuckle then. “If only Cersei could see me now. She might die of shock.”

On the other side of the knoll Jon began to see movement as the Lannister army took shape. At once he could see their organization had improved, even without Tyrion to guide them. He squinted, his eyes following the crimson garbed men, so small and far away they resembled stinging ants.

“My lord-“ called Jon, lifting his head to spot Robb at the front lines.

“Aye?”

He kicked his heels into the horse’s side and trod forward, leaning towards Robb as he spoke. “I know their formation.” Said he. “It’s a pincer maneuver.” Said he. “The same used to defend King’s Landing from the armies of Stannis Baratheon. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.”

“My lord.” Interrupted one of the Tully generals. “Is it wise to trust this man? He has spent many months with the Lannisters. He-“

“I would trust this man with my life, general.” Interrupted Robb. His voice was firm and strong, begging no more interruptions. It was the voice of a commander. “I would trust this man with the lives of all my men, general. And yours as well for perhaps he has just saved it.”

The general bowed his head sheepishly, avoiding Jon’s eye and falling back into line with his men. Robb looked between the Lannister men and Jon for a moment before he accepted his words with a nod, the smallest trace of a smile on his lips.

“General-“ he called back, looking over his shoulder. “Instruct your men not to break formation. Any man who deviates from his position will cost his life and the lives of his brothers, is that understood? They will come at us from the sides. Make sure our shields are strong and our archers are steady.”

“Aye, your grace.” Came a voice.

Jon could only watch as the Lannister army formed their ranks. A question tore at his mind continuously. Who was leading them? Tywin Lannister was dead, if Tyrion’s word was true. Perhaps Tywin’s brother, Kevan, if not Loras or Mace Tyrell. And yet their ranks were the same, the formation of the men organized in a semi-circle, stretching as far as on either side of him as Jon’s eye could see. A pang of fear filled his chest.

He snuck a look at Tyrion, who sat back in his saddle, his small fingers twisting in their reins as he watched his house’s army settle themselves. Perhaps the man was false. The same blood that coursed through Cersei’s veins coursed through his, perhaps bearing the same penchant for falsehood as she.

Soon word came to Robb that the head of the Lannister army wished to organize a truce. The King in the North scoffed. “No truce is to be made.” He said. “I will not relinquish my title. I will not relinquish Riverrun into Lannister hands.” He said, turning back to his scout. “Tell them they can shove their truce up their golden arses.”

The moment Jon heard the beating of the Lannister drums he knew battle would begin. The sound was ominous, filtering through the ranks of men and rising to their ears, a slow, steady signal that men would soon die. Robb stayed firm, riding back and forth before his ranks and ordering they stay steady, the moonlight reflecting on his sigil to make the direwolf look like it was about to ride right off his chest and onto the battlefield.

As though the Gods had read his mind Jon heard a long, low growl and turned in his saddle. The sound was familiar enough to make his stomach churn, thinking of Ghost, locked somewhere in the kennels of Winterfell, having been sent back North by the Lannister’s after Arya’s wolf had bitten the Prince and Cersei had declared the beasts wild and dangerous.

Yet Robb Stark’s direwolf padded through the men like a lethal beast, his stance proud and predatory, his growl a low hum of sound that emitted from his belly. For a moment he stopped beside Jon’s horse and looked up at the man and suddenly it was as though Jon was seeing his own wolf again. His lip twitched into a smile that fell soon enough as the direwolf continued on in his path, stopping only when he had reached his master, Robb’s fingers reaching down to drag through the wolf’s dark hair. Jon could feel his own fingers warm with the memory of brushing through Ghost’s pale fur but promptly thrust away the memory, choosing to focus instead on Robb’s words of encouragement.

“Tywin Lannister is dead!” Robb shouted, his voice carrying through the crowd of anxious men. “Joffrey Lannister is dead!” he continued. “Soon enough all of the Lannister’s shall be dead.” Tyrion made a face, Jon stifling a laugh. “And the Bolton’s shall follow. The North will once again me ours!”

Three thousand voices shouted in agreement, the noise deafening against Jon’s ears, his hands pulling back on the reins of the war horse in case the beast beneath him startled.

Robb turned suddenly, sensing movement. The Lannister army was charging, their horses galloping forward, thousands of voices screaming out fearsome war cries. King Robb drew his sword, brandishing it into the air, the moonlight making a silver glint run off the blade.

The air was filled with the singing of metal as swords were drawn and waved in the air, generals shouting out orders as they called for their archers to draw their bows, their spearman to raise their spears, their riders to prepare to charge.

Jon felt himself brace, drawing his sword from its sheath and feeling the soft hum of the metal as it reverberated in his hand. His last battle…his first battle…he had killed men. Many men. More men than he had been able to count. Men with wives and daughters, men who had drunk wine and eaten bread and looked up at the stars at night. And he was to do it again. For Robb. He would have done anything for Robb. For Sansa, his brain screamed. To protect her from the men that would try to take her back to King’s Landing, to protect her from the King’s cruel mother.

Robb called for the charge and Jon obeyed, kicking his horse forward. The horse was powerful, trained for war by the master-at-arms and instantly pushing forward, her powerful hooves digging grooves into the muddy field and kicking up patches of grass at those men behind him. He slammed closed the visor of his helm, the slit wide enough only for him to see but for no sword to pass through.

His breath was warm, pushed back into his face by the closeness of the helm, and as he rushed head first toward the charging enemy it only grew faster, shallower, more laboured. A flurry of arrows rained overhead from Robb’s armies and Jon could hear the screams pierce the air as the first dead met their fate.

Another rain of arrows. The men around him fell. Horses screamed. Men screamed. Jon raced forward, the wall of enemies only looming closer. A third string of arrows. One whizzed passed Jon’s ear and he ducked, the man that had once ridden behind him thrown from his horseback and collapsing.

He drew their faces back to mind. Ser Illyn Payne. Ser Borous Blout. Ser Osney Kettleblack. Ser Janos Slynt. Angry tears welled in his eyes.

The wall of horses crashed together. Jon was thrown backward, nearly losing his balance but managing to cling to both his saddle and his sword. His arm flung outward, a splash of blood raining over him as his enemy was cut down by his sword. He lost sight of Robb. He lost sight of Tyrion.

A man was running towards him and Jon’s sword cleaved through the air before burying itself in his belly, coming free wet with blood. The knights that had ridden at his side were pushed rearing in their horses, long spears splayed out to catch the opponents who charged them.

Jon let out a scream of fury as a blade sliced at his arm, the clink in his chainmail freeing his inner elbow for injury. Blood sluiced down his skin like water during a storm, filling his left glove and beading through the fabric.

He was thrown to the ground, a knight on horseback pulling back on his reins so sharply that the mare panicked and reared, one of her hooves reaching out to strike Jon’s. Both horse and man were thrown to the ground, Jon rolling sideways just in time to avoid being crushed by the mare. He dug around for his sword in the mud and found it at once, managing to lift it just in time to avoid another blow from a crimson-garbed knight.

His skin stunk of wet, rotting earth, the fabric of his breeches pinned to his legs by the moist dirt. But he fought. He danced through the groupings of men that ran at him, dodging the arrows that thudded into the terrain around him. He lifted a stolen shield over his head, a crudely drawn Lannister lion coming free with an arrow in its eye after Jon used it to block the falling shafts.

His arms ached from the weight of his sword. His legs hurt from the jarring pain of being thrown to the ground. His body was bruised and sore from being struck. Another man ran at him, another man fell dead at the end of Jon’s sword.

His shoulder went limp suddenly. It was bloodied, the shaft of an arrow having punched into Jon’s back when he was unable to lift his shield in time. He let out a roar of pain and reached backward to snap the neck of the arrow so only its pointed head remained, buried so deep into muscle and skin that he had not been able to pull it free.

The sea of men seemed never ending. Robb moved forward, his sword arm beginning to ache, as it always did after so long during battle. His legs were shaking, tired from standing. He did not know how long had passed. He did not know if it had been hours or minutes or seconds. His mind raced, his eyes dancing from opponent to opponent. Suddenly he spotted Jon. The man moved graceful as a gazelle, as though the sword he held was merely an extension of his own arm, the bloodied blade curving through the air almost rhythmically. He had always been a skilled swordsman, even as a boy. But now…

The Lannister army was thinning, the sea of crimson dwindling to a tide. Jon let out a scream, pulling Robb’s attention. “The gates!” he roared. His skin was red with blood that soaked through his tunic and dribbled down his flesh and onto the body littered lawn. “The gates!”

The gravity of the words sunk in and Robb felt dread pulse through him. He screamed orders, rounding up as many men as he could find and demanding they follow him as he pushed through the mud and the bodies to reach the Water Gate of the castle.

Chapter Text

XIII

Sansa looked out over the battle torn landscape from the highest tower of the castle, thankful that even though she was far from it she was still able to see enough of the battlefield to gain a sense of what occurred upon it. Her blood ran cold, the tears that prickled her eyes threatening to fall despite her attempts to keep them at bay.

The chamber was filled with the dull hum of voices as the women prayed for the safety of their brothers and lovers and friends. Catelyn Stark was among them, her voice an echo of their songs, her lips moving absently as her mind filtered elsewhere.

Sansa had taken residence upon the cushioned window seat, her fingers trying in vain to pry closed the glass windowpanes that allowed her to hear the pitying screams that rose from below the tower. She had refused to move, even when her mother had bid she join in on the singing of songs or the reciting of prayers.

She had no mind for anything but watching the battlefield. She was sure she could see neither Jon nor Robb below and yet her heart did not seem to have the same understanding, leaping into her throat at the sight of any man bearing the same hair colour as her men. She feared for Tyrion, who Ser Bronn had told her was once lost on a battlefield and nearly trampled. And for Robb, whom she had loved and lost once before and need not do so again. And for Jon…she could not even bear to think of it.

“Mother-“ she called. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen a blur of movement from behind a thatch of tall trees. Her voice was lost over the chanting voices. The women had locked their hands together, forming a semi circle in the center of the chamber while on the outskirts the small children of the castle ran or played or joined in with the songs.

“Mother.” Sansa repeated, louder this time. At the door Edemure Tully turned his attention towards her, sensing the urgency in her tone and crossing to the window. “Look.”

A swarm of knights had converged upon the Water Gate, a ram so large that even from so far Sansa was able to gain a sense of its size as it pushed against the iron grate. “They won’t be able to get through.” She breathed, shaking her head. Her cousin looked down at the scene, his lips drawn so firmly together they shone white. “They won’t be able to get to us.” Sansa knew the portcullis was strong enough to protect them, locked in its position by a series of massive chains that had been secured by the guards before they rushed into battle. Nevertheless a thought crept into her mind, making the tears at her eyes firmer. “…will they?”

Her uncle swept from the room at once and left the women of the castle with only two guards instead of the three Robb had tasked be there. Sansa’s nerves twisted in her belly, her fingers rising to feel for the cold iron of the blade she had hidden in her sleeve, knowing that if need be she would use it to kill any man who dare aim to hurt her.

Through the castle Sansa could feel the vibration of the ram, the mass of wood splintering against steel, the sound so loud it felt like it could reach all of the Riverlands.

Suddenly her eyes widened, the scream she let out catching in her throat so that it came out as nothing but a strangled sob. “Run!” she managed to speak, the movement she had caught from behind the trees making her blood run cold.

The guards at the door did not heed her advice, running to take the place at the window she had abandoned, the hands she used to grab at them doing nothing to force them away. Sansa threw herself to the ground, managing to take hold of her mother’s serving maiden and pull her down as she slid down the marble floor.

A massive iron mortar lodged into the side of the high tower, showering the cowering women with slabs of broken stone and brick sand that burned at their eyes and throats as it exploded into the air. Sansa let out a shout as a slab of shale crunched against her brow, the arms she had thrown around her head doing nothing to deter it. She swallowed a sob, the warm trickle that ran down her face showing how deep the gash went.

“Run!” came another voice, picking up Sansa’s rallying cry.

Catelyn’s arms were around her daughter, lifting her to her feet as gingerly as she could as the whip of another mortar filed the air, the ball of steel and stone whipping through the air like an arrow. Sansa wondered if the tower was strong enough to withstand the damage but if the aim of the Lannister trebuchets continued to be true she knew the brick tower would not last.

She had begged the women not to light a candle in the bed of the window but they had rebuffed her, lighting a series of candles that did as much to draw the attention of the Gods as it did the Lannisters.

A brazier had been knocked off the wall by the blast of the mortar and its flame had picked through the chamber easily, its heat so sharp that Sansa’s face had reddened instantly, skin singed by the flame.

Sansa felt her mother pulling at her arms but her legs were doing nothing to respond, a brick that had knocked into her calf forcing her to her knees, the pain of the bruise making her nearly collapse. One of the women was screaming, hands grasping at the limp fingers of a body that was buried beneath the rubble of what had once been the tower’s roof.

A child screamed, her yellow hair matted with blood, her small eyes covered with brick dust that Catelyn desperately tried to wipe away. Sansa felt dizzy, nausea pulling at her throat, and the hand she had lifted to her head to staunch the bleeding coming away thick with red-black blood.

A litter of guards had charged up the stairs when they heard the damage and they herded the women from the room, swords drawn, helms pressed tightly shut so Sansa could see nothing of their faces but her own reflection, her own image distorted by the curved metal.

She was ushered through the door, turning at the last second to find a child so small he could barely carry himself on his short legs wadding towards her, his face pink and angry with a welt that ran from brow to nose. Sansa hurried back for him, gritting her teeth against the pain as she bent to take the boy in her arms, his screams harsh enough to make her turn her head away.

The gray clouds that marred the sky had thickened and darkened until they were heavy enough to expel raindrops, stinging her head as they fell upon her, turning her wool cloak in a sodden garment that clung to her arms and shoulders.

“Jon!” cried Robb. Stories below Jon wiped the hair from his eyes, the rain that had begun to fall washing the mud and dirt from his skin so that it ran down his skin in a filthy river. The sword in his hands had gone crimson, though the rain washed it all away, as though the blade was once more pure, not yet having taken the lives of enemy knights.

He heard his brother’s scream and turned at once to find a crimson garbed blur coming at him, a balled fist connecting with his eye and forcing him backwards. Jon let out a cry of surprise and pain, dark spots marring his vision as he tried to blink away the spots, already able to feel a bruise swelling around his eye.

The man ducked forward for another blow but Jon took a step backwards, swinging his blade so that when the men drew his arm back his hand had fallen to lay limply in the mud. He screamed as the flat of Robb’s blade landed upon the side of his helm, forcing it away.

Jon let out a choked laugh, circling the man like a wolf about to devour its latest kill. The man that stared back at him was more than familiar, his wormy lips, pale, grayish skin, glaring eyes. Jon could remember the way he had forced Sansa to her knees, his mailed fists landing on her back in such a way as to make her screams echo through the castle to the chamber he had been locked into.

Janos Slynt’s eyes widened in recognition and he tried to take a step backwards, his eyes flickering from Jon’s face to the blade in his hands. His lips moved, trying in vain to utter an apology that he never got to speak. The butt of a Tully spear landed between his shoulder blades and though he tried to catch himself before falling forward his boots slid through the bed of loose dirt beneath his feet and he slid onto his belly in the mud, his incomplete limb curled against his belly. His eyes went wide and afraid.

Jon could not help but be reminded of the exact position the man had once forced Sansa into, her tear streaked face looking up at the knight just as Slynt’s face looked up at Jon. Robb stared back at him, the King in the North pausing as he wiped his blade clean on the shoulder of the man he had just slain.

“For Sansa.” Jon whispered, his blade drawing back. Janos Slynt’s lips froze in the midst of his false apology and his head leered back once before falling away from the rest of his limp body.

Jon blinked back the rainwater that stung his injured eye, his chest heaving. The weight of the sword made his muscles scream, his arms shaking as they lifted it over his head. But he could not stop. Robb had ordered a retinue of soldiers follow him and their blades made quick work of cleaving a path through the sea of Lannister knights as they hurried towards the front gate of the castle where a massive ram was being forced into the lowered portcullis.

“Down!” a voice screamed. Jon looked up in time to see a storm of arrows falling overhead, his legs dropping into a crouch, his arm shaking as he lifted his shield over his head. An arrow thudded into the wood and halfway through the shield, where Jon’s eye would have been if he had not picked up the abandoned shield.

“My lord!” came another voice. A man rushed at Robb, sword raised over his head, an angry scream on his lips. Robb’s side was bloodied, the crippling gash he had received having been re-opened by the voracious exercise he had gotten during the battle. His face had gone black with mud and dirt which streaked down his skin from the rain, his dark hair sticking to his brow as it stuck to Jon’s.

King Robb was slow to lift his sword as the man swung at him, the legs Robb jerked away quick enough to avoid the brunt of the blow. At once four of his men were at his back, Jon among them, and four swords came down upon the Lannister knight and he was dead before Robb could even blink.

Jon heard a deafening sound and turned quickly on his heel to find the Lannister army had assembled a twin set of trebuchet’s that had launched a pair of boulders at Riverrun’s castle. The first of the stones had missed the castle by mere inches but the second had struck squarely in the center of the tower. His heart dropped, knowing that as he stood- helpless in the midst of the battlefield, his wife was threatened been struck by the mortar.

Jon blinked back the rainwater that stung his injured eye, looking into the sky to follow the path the trebuchet had set. He could only watch in horror as the mortar crashed through the stone of the tower he knew his wife had taken shelter in. The air was filled with the sound of crumbling brick and breaking glass before a plume of smoke rose high into the air, licks of flame crossing Jon’s vision from where it surged through the chamber of the tower.

Part of him was sure that Sansa was safe. Part of him believed that if she was not he would be able to feel it, deep within him, like a sickness or a pain. But the other half ached to know. Even if the knowledge was bad, he had to know.

Sansa hurried down the spiral staircase of the tower, struggling to hold her skirts in one hand and the child in the other, blinking back the blood that ran down from her injured head. She feared tripping, the stone steps slippery from the rain that spilled in through the broken roof and her skirts were long and tangled, clinging to her legs like vines.

Robb had told them not to occupy the main rooms of the castle, lest they be overtaken, and they were therefore unable to seek their shelter in the Throne Room, the ballroom, the Great Hall, or any of the front dining halls. The kitchens were too close to the battle to be any safer than the high tower and the other rooms in the East wing were either filled or were too small to house them all. Sansa reached the foot of the stairs, spilling out into the golden bathed corridor to find the sound and feel of the Lannister batting ram was far stronger the closer she came.

“The Throne Room!” her mother called, ignoring the protests that rose from the small throng of women at the word of their King. Sansa tripped on the last step, her head feeling simultaneously light and heavy, and she would have fallen if the arms of one of the Tully maidens had not linked through hers, holding her steady.

Catelyn Stark went icy cold with fear as the wooden gate splintered before her, a chunk of wood falling forward into the chamber large enough so that she could see the Lannister faces hovering through the hole.

“Now!” she shouted. The spiked tip of the battering ram spliced through the wood, the sound deafening as chunks of wood went flying.

Sansa blinked back blood and tears and fear. She was more than thankful to have removed her bodice while in the tower, having found the clasps too tight to house her nervous breathing as she paced across the marble floor. She had torn off the garment and left it behind before the mortar had struck, the freedom for her chest to rise and fall without obstacle a relief that was more than welcome at this moment.

“Bar the door!” Catelyn ordered as the last woman rushed through the twin doors of the empty Throne Room. The small retinue of guards they had kept made quick work of following her rushed orders, the hall echoing with the sounds of wooden table legs as they were dragged across the stone and used to bar the doors from opening. Chairs were pushed forward, pinning the brass knobs of the door so they could not be opened without the heavy use of force.

Standing back, Sansa could still feel the castle trembling beneath her feet as the ram charged against the front gates and the trebuchet’s launched massive stones at the frontal regions of the castle, missing only three times, one of which Jon was thankful for as it had been aimed directly at the base of the high tower and would surely have crushed it beneath its massive weight and speed.

Jon charged forward. The balls of his feet were sore; his breeches so thickly caked in mud and blood that they had turned from beige into a sickening brownish-red colour, chafing against his legs as he ran forward.

Looking over his shoulder he was able to see that the Lannister army had thinned, the sea of crimson that had once seemed to overtake the knights in Tully blue now dwindling to a few red rivers that were being swallowed by Robb’s men. A large group surged forward, archers and spearmen picking off those who worked the battering ram one by one so that the ram became unmanageably heavy and slowed before stopping, the weight of so many carved trunks and steel rods pinning several men beneath it.

The iron portcullis that had once kept the castle of Riverrun safe behind it was now bent and forced aside, the spiked tip of the ram having pushed through the wooden gate easily so that a widening hole opened like a mouth in the midst of it.

Robb let out a shout as the tip of a spear bunched beneath his shoulder and arm, a spurt of blood dissipating in the chilled air, the wound steaming beneath his tunic. Jon could barely breathe. Though the ram was abandoned Jon was able to recognize a trap from the first moment he and Robb had skidded to a halt before the broken Water Gate. With a series of deafening shouts the Lannister forces converged upon them, swords raised, the rallying words of the Reins of Castamere echoing on their lips before they were cut short as a retinue led by Edemure Tully raced around the far end of the castle and set upon them, the Lannister’s last stitch effort for supremacy at once overtaken.

Jon swung his sword and cut down the pair of men closest to him, their screams startled and angry as they seemed to realize their final effort to exact their vengeance was being foiled. Their eyes lolled backwards, their faces foggy in the rain soaked air, nothing but the stillness of their bodies to show that they had fallen dead.

A man scrambled to push himself through the hole in the gate, a flash of crimson and gold as he disappeared through the gate. Edemure let out an angry cry, ordering his men through after him, trying desperately to signal to the guards at their tower upon the battlements to lift the gate.

Sansa let out a scream as she felt the twin doors of the throne room threaten to give. Not even the weight of the table nor their bodies able to keep them safe of the enemy knights. She could hear their infuriated grunts as their shoulders knocked against the doors, trying to force them off their hinges after their attempt to use the edges of their blades to lift away the brass knobs had failed.

“Robb will come for us!” one of the serving maidens said, clutching a pair of twin girls to her chest. Her face was wet with tears and pale with the knowledge that the words she had just whispered to her children were false. “The King will save us.”

Sansa felt a retch at her lips and forced it away, the sickness in her angry belly doing little to calm her. She wished she had had the sense to accept the bread and wine the women had offered. But the wine would have made her clumsy and she needed every ounce of precision her unpracticed hands could offer, clutching the blade she had pulled from her sleeve and brandishing it at the door.

The women let out a shared scream as the head of an axe buried itself in the door to the chamber, taking with it a large chunk of wood when the weapon was pried away. A hand followed, pale and angry and grasping for the firm lock of the door from the inside.

Sansa was petrified with fear, the gilded hilt of the blade she clutched so sharp against her skin that it drew beads of blood. The Tully guards were shouting to each other, continuing to draw furniture forward so they could barricade the door. Another of the guards was inspecting the window; as though testing the strength of the frame should they need to jump out. But even Sansa knew not a one would survive the seven-story fall toward the harsh stone and sea below. She paused then, eyeing the window, knowing she would rather jump to her death than be returned to the hands of the Lannisters, even if the King was dead.

The Tully knights slashed at the hand, pinning his palm to the back of the door with one of their knives. Blood spurted from the wound and misting in the cold air, Sansa letting out a gasp as it rained down over her, soaking into her already wet skin. She could taste the blood, tinny and bitter in her mouth, dripping down her face in small streaks as she watched the man try to wrench the knife free, her legs taking an automatic step back until she found herself once more in her mother’s arms.

Robb will come for us, she could still hear the woman whispering. Lady Catelyn did not look afraid, her fingers taking the blade from Sansa’s hand and bearing it nobly. “I won’t let them touch you.” She whispered, seething. Sansa remembered when she had saved Bran from the assassin with the Valyrian steel dagger. She nodded, too afraid to even speak.

Jon pushed through the crowd. The arrow he had taken to his back was beginning to sting as it came into contact with the falling rain, digging between his shoulder blades painfully. Edemure Tully let out a shout of fury and fright as he was thrown from his horse by an enemy knight, falling upon three soldiers as he rolled backwards in the mud. Robb tried to run to him but was fallen upon by a group of nine knights, their faces bloodied and twisted beneath their helms, only their crazed eyes visible.

He turned, the men circling him like a pack of lions about to strike a gazelle. The glove of his left hand had filled with blood from a gasp on his upper arm, beads of blood falling into the filthy mud. For a moment they were frozen, the Lannister men and the enemy King. As Robb was just about to strike he saw a flash and a man fell dead, a scream frozen on his lips.

Jon pushed forth to break the apart the incomplete circle the enemy knights had formed. He stood at Robb’s back, his sword arm flexed and aching, his skin having washed crimson, his dark curls plastered to his face with water and blood. He looked a fearsome opponent. And yet there was a sidelong smirk on his face as he looked upon the man he had once called brother. Robb was reminded of the days they had spent in the training barracks at Winterfell, day dreaming about the days they too would fight in a way. They had been children then, too overcome with the romantic stories and songs to realize the true hell that was battle. But here they stood, brothers, in all but blood.

Robb nodded and the men launched into action, long swords curving through the air as they cut through the knights surrounding them. The men that had once been at the ram had split up once inside the protecting gates of Riverrun and were now being cut down one by one by the remaining Tully knights.

Jon could hear a scream, distinctively feminine and was gripped with fear. He could hear Robb barking out orders but did not obey, charging forward.

Edemure tripped over the body of a fallen knight and fell onto his back in the mud, missing the edge of a blade that was swung at him by mere inches. He let out a roar, spotting Robb trying to unify his remaining forces, the battlefield once more a sea of blue and gray instead of crimson.

In the Throne Room Catelyn Tully Stark held her blade high, the small scar on her lip blanched white with the effort with which she clamped her jaw shut. She had forced Sansa behind her, the remaining women standing at the far end of their room, hiding behind two of the knights that stood at the door, their swords outstretched. “Robb will come for us,” one of the woman said, a dull attempt at reassurance. “He won’t leave us.”

Jon let out a yell. There were less than a hundred knights that had breeched the castle and yet they continued to slip through his fingers, the guards that flanked him spread out in an attempt to contain the Lannister knights. He was filled with fear and fury, unsure of where Sansa had been spirited away. The high tower was all but destroyed, the stone roof crumbling and falling away into the crashing waves of the southron sea. He knew she would have run. He knew she would not need to be told she must run from the broken tower. But where was she? He tried to listen again for the scream, dully wondering if her mouth had been the one to utter it.

One of the Tully guards fell dead at her feet, the sword that had swiped at his throat leaving him bloodied and gasping for air that would never reach his lungs. Sansa could only stare, having never seen a dying man so close. She kneeled at his side, her arms scooping his arms and pulling him away from the hands that continued to push through the door. “It’s all right.” She whispered, her hands pushing down on his wounded neck. His helm had fallen away, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth moving without words. She cradled his head in her lap, the blood that poured through her fingers turning her hands crimson. “It’s all right. Robb will-”

But the man stopped struggling before she could finish. His body suddenly felt so much heavier in her lap, the fast bleed continuing for far longer than she would have thought. She crawled to her feet, painfully aware of the stickiness of the blood that covered her front. Her stomach churned, her mother’s hands bearing the dagger outstretched before her.

The axe continued to pound at the door, the slabs of wood that splintered over the floor making her jump with each strike. She ached for Jon. For Robb. For Tyrion. She ached for safety and warm bread and to be sleeping upon her feather bed. She ached to be dressed in battle armour and protected from whatever injury the Lannisters would put upon her. She ached for the tactical knowledge to be able to kill the men herself.

Jon kicked down the door to a room at his left and found it empty, the fifth empty chamber he had found as he walked down the hall. Edemure’s bow snapped behind him, his black-feathered arrow striking a Lannister man in the neck and forcing him to his knees. Robb had turned down the opposite corridor and disappeared from view.

Jon knew that the remaining Lannister’s did not stand a chance. The battle was lost to them, the few crimson and gold clad men that still lived desperately seeking to take as many men with them as they could before they met the Stranger.

The half broken door was knocked off its hinges by a footed foot and Sansa jumped, taking another step backwards until she felt the rough edges of the stone wall digging into her back. A broad shouldered man came forth, the wooden pieces of the door crunching beneath his feet, a massive long sword in his hand. He took hold of the guard at his left and forced him to his knees before driving his sword through the man’s chest.

Tyrion Lannister had always been mocked for his stance. His father had given up training him for battle when he was no older than three-and-ten and none of the other Lannister knights even bothered with him, funneling all of their effort into training the Golden Lion himself. Jaime had always been the apple of his father’s eye, tall and strong and broad of shoulder. For all that Tyrion had been ugly and small he never looked uglier and smaller than when he stood at his brother’s side.

It was only when he had stood at the front lines of the Battle of Blackwater that he realized his advantage. He was lost in the sea of bodies, the muted colours of his armour disappearing in the gaining crowd. No one had seen him. No one had found the need to protect their lower bodies.

Tyrion followed the same strategy he had during this battle, his broadsword slicing easily through the weak spots he could see in their armour. Knees, legs, ankles, stomachs. They may not have perished then and there but they could no longer stand and fight.

He felt foolish, clad in Stark armour, bearing a Stark sword, slaying the men he had once fought alongside. But his father was dead and his brother was missing, leaving only the sister that had so often wished him dead. She was sure he was evil. And now, his borrowed sword digging into the back of a man’s legs, he thought perhaps he was.

Catelyn Stark dig her blade into the hand of the Lannister knight as he reached for her, the blade so long it ran straight through his palm and out the other side. He let out a rage filled roar and flayed his arms out, his mailed fist striking Sansa so hard that she stumbled backward, pushed onto her back on the cold marble.

The man crossed toward her, his shoulders hunched, his arms wide so that the Lannister sigil emblazoned upon his chest shone. He reached up to toss aside his helm so his face could be made out. Sansa cringed, crawling backward on her hands until she felt her head collide with the wall. She let out a weak cry, the sound strangled in her closing throat.

“Well, well…” said Ser Meryn Trant. He shucked his bloody glove with his injured hand and tossed it over his shoulder, her eyes following the movement to see the room was being flooded with crimson clad knights. She was suddenly filled with pain and sorrow, knowing the battle had been lost, knowing that somewhere out on the battlefield Jon and Robb and Tyrion and Edemure were being dragged away or killed. It made her sick to her stomach, a sudden rush of bile reaching her lips. “You were always a pretty one.” Ser Meryn Trant cackled. One of the Tully knights rushed at him but was forced aside easily, the angle at which his head turned as he fell showing he would not again attack. “I thought I would never see that pretty face again.”

Catelyn pushed through the Lannister knights to dig her blade into Trant’s back, refusing to stand back and allow her daughter to be mocked by the man that had hurt her. The Kingsguard knight turned, a sneer on his lips, his mailed fist coming down upon her nose so strongly that before her mother had even fallen backwards, blood gushing from her broken nose, she was unconscious.

Sansa screamed.

Jon let out a grunt as he ran down the hall. Tyrion hurried at his side, their ears pricked toward the sound of screaming that echoed loudly down the stone corridor. There were only a few knights between then and the space where the double doors of the Throne Room had once stood. Tyrion looked as worried as Jon felt, the iron set of his jaw clenched so tight that he thought he might break his teeth with the effort.

Meryn Trant pulled Sansa to her feet by the wrist, standing her up so that she could meet his eye. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the glob of spit she lobbed at him, striking him in the eye and surprising him enough that he dropped her. Sansa managed to land in a crouch, jerking to the side so he could not reach her again.

Her mother lay in a heap on the tile, the women corralled into a corner by four Lannister men. The few Tully guards that had remained were dead. Meryn Trant wiped the spit from his face and forced out a laugh. In an instant he had crossed the space between he and Sansa and struck her hard enough to make her teeth chatter and the pain in her head worsen.

“Do not touch me!” she said, her voice firm, even as she sat in a crumpled in a pile on the floor before him, just as she had been in the Capital so long ago.

She could feel something hard beneath her leg and felt around for a moment, fingering the hard shape until she realized it was the blade her mother had dropped. She let out a sigh, allowing herself to once more be pulled to her feet by Meryn Trant. His breath stunk of wine and something rotten, his lips curled back over yellowing teeth.

A long, thundering howl filled the cavernous space of the chamber so that all eyes followed the sound. Sansa lifted her eyes to the space where the door had once stood, Trant’s short fingers digging into her shoulder as he held her firm in his grasp, his gaze following hers.

Jon rushed through the door, the great long sword in his hands shining so bright and white it looked as though it was made of ice. Robb flanked him and with the sword in his hands, the Northern tunic he wore, and the mud that had darkened his hair he looked so like Jon that Sansa was taken aback by it.

Sansa had never seen Jon fight before. It was almost a dance, the way his sword curved through the air, smooth and even, arching high and low until the three Lannister men that rushed at him were dead. He and Robb fought side-by-side, blood covered and breathing heavily. Brothers.

Meryn Trant’s grip tightened on her arm, so firm that she could feel a bruise blooming beneath his fingers. He drew the sword he had sheathed and held it outstretched before him, a silent bid for Jon to come forward. But his eyes never left Sansa’s. “The King will be so happy to see you, love.” said the sweating knight.

Sansa’s lip curled. “The King is dead.”

A momentary flicker of disbelief passed over his face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone, schooled back into neutrality by his smugness. “Well-“ said he. “That’s quite a shame. I suppose I’ll have to keep you all to myself.” Sansa tried to back away but was pinned by his hand, unable to avoid the way his mouth forced its way against hers, the tongue that dragged against her bottom lip trying to force its way into her mouth, slimy as a slug and just as slovenly.

She could see Jon watching them. At once he recognized the man and his anger only doubled, tripled, quadrupled, until Jon was left breathless and frozen with fury, the words on his lips frozen in place. Robb rushed forth to pull him away but was forced to turn his attentions to the slew of Lannister men that occupied the chamber.

“You.” Jon said, his voice low as a wolf’s growl. “Get away from her.”

Meryn Trant chortled. Jon sprang forth, knowing Robb and Edemure were well equipped to handle the remaining enemies without his help. His feet ached but he ran, his arms ached but he hefted his sword in his hands, his shoulders ached from the pain of the arrow but he did not stop. A monster had taken his wife. He could not stop.

Ser Meryn Trant let out a low sound and the hand on Sansa’s shoulder loosened before falling away completely, his bloodied hand leaving drops of crimson blood peppering the ground beneath his feet. His jaw fell slack, whatever words he might have said lost.

Jon’s blade dug into his belly, so deep that the tip of the blade protruded through his skin. Jon’s eyes reached Sansa, watching her blank expression, before his eyes fell to follow the curve of her arm, finding the blade he had given her buried into his side. He could almost smile, knowing the strike was just as he had shown her, between the blades of his ribs so that he would die a slow and painful death.

“The battle’s over.” Jon whispered, pulling his blade free and tossing Meryn Trant aside so nothing stood between he and his lady wife. He cupped her bloody face in his palm, her tired eyes falling closed with relief. His sword clattered against the stone when he dropped it, Jon lifting his aching arms just once more to wrap them around his wife and pull her close. "The battle's over." he said again, his words muffled as he whispered them into her hair. “We’ve won.”

Chapter Text

XIV

Sansa’s hands shook. Her palms had gone crimson, sticky with blood that dripped through her fingers and down her forearms to fall in droplets onto the dirty marble floor. She still held the knife, unable to release it even after nearly an hour had passed them by, her bloody fingers beginning to cramp and tremble from the grip she placed upon the metal handle.

She could still feel Meryn Trant’s slimy lips upon hers, the way his cold tongue had tried to pry through her closed lips. And she could still feel the way her knife had slipped through his flesh and into his side.

Her mother had been lifted gingerly from the floor and taken to her chambers, to be cared for by one of her ladies maids while the Maester of Riverrun attended to the injured knights. Sansa looked to Jon, her sticky hand holding tightly to his, the mix of blood on their palms making bile rise in her throat. He was covered from toe to brow with the evidence of battle, cuts and scrapes and bruises leaving him a bloody tapestry. His tunic was torn, the chainmail he had shucked having left his skin angry scraped in areas from the tightness of the fit. The crook of his right elbow was crusted in blood and his left eye was half swollen shut by a purple bruise, his iris bloody red and sore as he blinked back at her. The sword that slapped against his thigh with each step was flecked with blood.

Sansa did not leave his side. Even as Jon was called away to meeting after meeting, asked to attend to the injured knights or the men that had convened in Robb’s tent to recap the events of the battle, even as Robb’s generals made it clear she was not privy to their conversations she did not budge.

“My lords.” Said Robb, holding up his hands for silence. His hair was matted with dirt and blood, a long cut running across his cheek from where a mailed fist had connected to his face. His lip was broken down the middle and one of his teeth had been knocked away, though it was only visible when he grinned, the gesture made quite goofy by the lack of tooth. “You need not treat my sister so harshly.” He said, his voice firm. “It was her insight that saved countless lives tonight. She is well versed in Lannister strategy.”

Sansa offered a small smile in return, not caring to lift her eyes to the men that had been so dismissive of her just moments ago. She curled closer to Jon, the bloody knife hidden behind her back so Robb nor Jon would try to take it from her.

“You need sleep.” she whispered to her husband. Her voice was hoarse and uneven, trembling from the shock of the battle and the pain that gripped her body. A bandage had been wrapped around her head by the maester, the fresh fabric half covering her eyes no matter how many times she pushed it upwards. She felt light headed, urged multiple times to retire to her chambers but refusing to leave Jon’s side.

“As do you.” Jon whispered back. His lip quirked in the sidelong smirk that made a smile on her face appear automatically until they were grinning at each other as though their city had not been ravaged by enemy knights just moments ago.

It was nearly two hours before Jon took notice of the blade in her hand. His expression changed, his eyes darkening with sympathy, his bruised eye swollen completely closed now. “Sansa.” he whispered, his hand dropping to her side to lift her arm. When Sansa had driven the knife into Meryn Trant’s side he had jerked back and the edge of the blade had caught her hand, leaving a long cut imbedded in the flesh of her palm. “There’s no need for that.” He whispered.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, watery blue and filled with the beginnings of tears. “What if they come for me?” she said. Her voice broke. “What if they come back?”

The muscle in Jon’s jaw flexed angrily as he swallowed. “My love…” he said, stepping so close to her that she could smell the scent of blood on him, tinny and bitter, filling her nose like poison. “I won’t let them. I will kill them all.” He said. The dagger clattered to the floor as she let it go, her blood stained palms laid softly in his. “Anyone who would try to take you away from me…I would kill them all.”

Sansa had been a fool to think Daenerys ascension to the throne would be free of bloodshed. She had been a fool to think that her brother would be safe from the Lannister’s, even with their patriarch and their King dead. But she had Jon and her brother and Tyrion. They all still lived. Even her mother, having been struck so fiercely by the former member of the Kingsguard, was marked only by dizziness and a broken nose.

“I love you.” She whispered, ignoring the salty taste of blood as she pressed a kiss to her cheek.

As they descended the corridor blood and rainwater sluiced off Sansa’s skin and down her sodden gown, the fabric spoiled by the events of the night and clinging to her arms and legs uncomfortably. She ached to rip it away, ached for her feather bed and the comfort of her husband’s arms and to sleep until three days passed.

One of her boots had been lost in the scuffle, her bare foot padding against the cold stone as she walked toward their chamber, having finally been allowed to retire to their chambers. They crossed before the outer gate to find it was being replaced by half a dozen smiths that hammered away at the bent iron, working quickly to work it back into shape. Sansa paused, catching a glimpse of the Stark banners that billowed in the icy wind. She was flooded with pleasure at the sight, knowing that while the direwolf still shone over the broken battlefield, they were safe.

As they walked toward the marbled staircase Sansa heard a familiar voice drift across the chamber and turned, spotting Tyrion standing on the opposite side of the stair. She grinned, a long sigh of relief pushing out of her before she could stop it. Jon had told her already that the youngest Lannister survived but she felt the need to see it with her own eyes. Her tired feet walked quickly without her consent, her body falling to its knees before him and before she could even utter a word of relief her arms had closed around him.

“Lady Sansa.” Tyrion laughed. A long gash ran across his face, having narrowly missed his nose and lips. The bloody gash rippled across his skin from his right eye to the tip of his upper lip but it was shallow enough that she knew it would close quickly although she was certain that it would leave a scar in its wake.

“I am pleased to see you well.” She said. Tears prickled at her eyes although she thought she had shed all of them already upon finding her brother unscathed. “I thought…I was not sure when I did not see you in Robb’s tent.”

Tyrion chuckled, his short arms wrapping around her. “I am more than flattered to find I have elicited so much emotion from you, my lady.” He said. “Embarrassingly enough, I was pinned beneath the body of another man. One of your uncle’s men found me, luckily.” He said.

He beamed with pleasure at the sight of her relieved tears and after another few moments of pleasantries Sansa returned to her ascent up the staircase. Her chamber had been untouched by the violence of the battle and remained as it had when she had left it that morning, although one of the maids had made the bed before the city was interrupted by battle.

The bath had been filled with steaming water but by the time Sansa turned to lock the door behind her Jon had barely made a dent in undressing himself. He gritted his teeth and let out a groan of pain as he bent forward to pull off his boots, the ribs that had been bruised on the battlefield giving him strife.

Sansa ordered her husband stop his pointless attempts at shucking his boots and strode to the window, making to shut the curtains. She let out a strangled gasp, a hand lifting to cover her mouth and stop her from crying out. Before this moment she had not caught sight of the brutality of the battlefield that had become the muddy ground of the castle’s forefront. A layer of fresh rain turned much of the blood and mud to muck but beneath the wet earth layer she could see bodies lying in piles large enough that they could easily have been called mountains. Stark and Tully and Lannister men alike lay frozen in the cold rain, unmoving, the expressions on their faces ones they would bear forever. The air was filled with the screams of injured men and nervous horses, the old maester and his assistants doing little to help the dying men.

Jon was at her side to finish the task, a snap of his wrist closing the curtains and blocking her line of vision. He pressed a kiss to her brow, pulling her close and ignoring the pain the motion caused. “All that matters is we are well and we are together.” She said, her voice muffled by the stiffness of his collar as her face pressed to his muddy chest. He ran his fingers through her hair tenderly, feeling it soft as fresh silk as it fell between his fingers.

A sorrowful smile danced upon his lips as he cradled her, their bodies curled together and thinking such similar thoughts. When he had seen the first mortar strike the tower he had feared his wife would be gone from him forever, lost to the world of spirits and ghosts. And as she had seen the battlefield, foes and friends lying dead or dying, she could only hold him closer, afraid to release him.

The castle was enveloped in silence. Hushed voices pushed down the halls as servants ran to attend to their orders, the ravens that were being released with wrapped scrolls of parchment addressed to the other southron castles squawking as they flew into the wind. The dead were being burned or buried. The remaining men were sleeping where they lay, in beds, upon chairs, some lying on the cold marble as they were too tired to ascend the marble stairs to the guest wing.

Only the men that had been carried to the Maester’s quarters interrupted the silence of the small city. Though they had been imbued by the haze of milk of the poppy they still screamed, the sound echoing through the castle and making Sansa’s skin prickle with gooseflesh.  

Her Tully blue eyes looked up at Jon, reading the lines in his face. He was caked so thickly in mud and blood that any other might barely have recognized him. Jon’s dark hair was matted with blood that had begun to flake and harden in his dark curls, even the dusting of rain that fell overhead doing little to wash it away.

His eyes were bloodshot, the lack of sleep he had gotten the previous night showing plainly on his weary face, though not much of it was visible through the mud and dirt that covered him. His tunic had gone from beige to a sickly, ugly brownish-gray, his skin slick with the snow that had turned the fields of grass and dirt to mud that matted into his beard and the dark hair he had pulled back with a thin leather cord, just as her Lord father once had.

“Come.” said Sansa, drawing closer to him.

She had discarded the top layer of skirts and pulled apart the laces of her bodice until the spoiled fabric fell away, left in a wet pile upon the floor so that she was clad in little but her silks. She was not sure if it had been the work of Jon or one of the many servants but a fire roared in the grate, warming her bare arms and legs and she took her husband’s filthy hand in hers and led him to the bathing chamber.

Sansa could remember the way these fists had beaten down upon Ser Meryn, crunching sickeningly against the man that had spent so many months taking pleasure in his wife’s pain. The water in the ivory tub steamed, the hand she dipped into the water flinching at its heat.

Jon’s eyes drooped closed for a moment, the world suddenly seeming to grow far away. He cared for nothing now, nothing but the flecks of dark blue that came into sight in his eyes as she looked up at him and the dimple that appeared in her left cheek as she smiled softly.

“Come now, my love.” she whispered, her voice a low thrum in her chest.

She guided him into a chair, her hand stroking his back calmingly, the nervousness that coursed through his veins leaving him trembling- though he supposed his great fatigue could have been responsible for that.

Jon could only nod, his lips parting to speak but nothing but a whimper coming out. Her smile was almost warm enough to keep him from shivering from the cold of the room. She kneeled before him, her cold fingers brushing his skin as she pulled off his boots one by one and tossed them aside. Next came his jerkin and surcoat and the bloody tunic she peeled from his skin and over his head, only his breeches and underclothes standing between him and a hot bath.

Jon watched as she worked. His swordbelt had been lost in the midst of the battle, though his sword remained glued to his hand, its pommel having left a long strand of blistering bruises across both palms. Sansa tentatively reached out to take the blade from him, his tired eyes following her movements and watching as she lifted away the sword and laid it gently at the foot of his chair, close enough to him that he could reach it if need be.

Jon swung his leg over the side of the ivory tub and sunk into it, a wave of water running over the lip of the tub and onto the floor. He sunk lower into the water, letting out a low groan as the hot water came in contact with his wounds and his tired body. His head fell backward against the lip of the tub, his eyes half lidded.

A thick crust of blood formed over his left eyebrow, the blood nearly black and so thick it could not be wiped away by her fingers. “Easy.” She bid the man, pressing a cloth to his skin and feeling him jump. No doubt he thought he was still in the midst of the battle before taking in his surroundings and remembering himself. “Fear not.” she whispered gently. Sansa stooped forward to kiss his muddy brow, the scrape of the chairs wooden legs signaling she had dragged it to sit beside the tub. “No man will come for you now. I’ll protect you.” At first he thought to laugh but found no trace of humour in her voice or upon her face and knew she spoke the truth and he did not argue, the way her blade had dug into Meryn Trant’s side nothing less than deadly.

It was ten minutes before she was fully able to wash the blood and dirt from his face, rinsing away the grime and watching as the bath water turned from opaque to a dull, grimy gray. Jon watched her in silence as she worked, taking the cloth and soap to his arms and shoulders, lifting his limbs one by one from the water and bracing them against her belly and lap so she could properly wash him.

The cloth was soft, its feel pleasant against his skin, moving down his arms to his chest, her fingers splayed through the smattering of dark hair on his chest, soap bubbling beneath the cloth as it followed the curve of his stomach and moved downward. If it had been any other day he might have smirked and made some seductive gesture but he was too tired even to speak, his eyes burning with the desire to sleep.

Seeming to read his mind Sansa hummed softly. “Only a bit longer.” Said she, dragging the cloth over his calves and ankles and between his muddy toes. The warm water smelled of roses and other perfumes he had not smelled in years, knowing they were among his wife’s favourites, having before smelled them upon her warm skin.

She helped him stand as she poured a basin of clean water over his body to rinse free the foulness of the bathwater from him before he stepped over the edge of the tub. At once he felt the cold air rush up to meet him, chilling him deeply, and he was thankful a fire bloomed in the other room.

With no clothing of his own Jon had borrowed many of Robb and Edemure’s old things and though the fit of the clothing was a bit snug against his broad shoulders and muscular body it was not uncomfortable. Jon nearly fainted from tiredness as he crossed towards the bed, supported almost entirely by his wife as she dragged him to the feather bed and laid him upon it.

“Stay.” He muttered, feeling her step away after she lifted the blankets over him, his shivering body at once sated and warm. “Stay with me.”

“I’ll be right back.” Said she. “I’ve got to rinse off.”

He fought his fatigue for a moment more, aching for the touch of his wife, for her sweet caress, to smell the lavender water in her hair and feel her kisses soft as feather touches on his cheeks and lips. The bed shifted with her weight as she swung her legs upon it, dressed in a fresh silk sleeping gown, her crimson hair newly brushed and slightly damp from the water she had poured over her body.

She slivered beneath the blankets and curled close at his side, sweet and soft as a kitten laid across the feet of its master. “I am glad you’re safe.” He muttered, his voice weary and gruff. Through his bleary eyes he could see the large gash that ran across her forehead, recognizing the criss-cross of stitches that mended the skin. He squinted and then let out a low chuckle, knowing at once that she had sewn the wound herself, having recognized the pattern of her hand from when she had mended his many torn tunics in King’s Landing.

Her thin fingers reached up to brush the wet curls from his brow and tuck them behind his ear. “And I you.” She whispered. “So much so I can not bear to think what might have happened…” she trailed off, continuing a few moments later. “Hush now, sweet bow. Sleep. You need your rest.”

“I need you.” He muttered.

A pleased look crossed her face, her cheek extended to accept the kiss he placed upon it. His eyes were closed, his voice a low hum in his chest, the sound reverberating through him like a chime through a bell. “All of it was for you.” He muttered. His breathing had slowed, the temperance of sleep taking him into its grasp more fully by the second. “I did it all for you.” He said. A moment passed without speech, so long that Sansa was sure he had finally fallen into sleep. “Sansa?” he called then, unsure, his red eyes opening.

“I’m here.” She reminded, taking his hand and stroking it with both of hers.

“Good.” He drooled, smiling absently. His cheeks were flushed with a mix of pleasure and heat, the temperature of the water having warmed him thoroughly after the battle. He squeezed her hand in return. “I love you.” He said. “The only…good thing Joffrey ever…did…was marry me to you...”

Sansa’s mouth quirked into a smile, the fingers of her free hand reaching down to take hold of the furs that had covered the bed and laying them over their tired bodies. Jon took the hand and pressed a kiss to her injured palm, the ridges of the uneven wound brushing against his lips. He moved to kiss each of her fingers in turn, feeling him flinch against their coldness and tasting salt and soap and something sweeter. Honey perhaps, he mused silently. From her tea.

She made to respond but smiled softly to herself, realizing that her husband had fallen into complete, deep sleep then, the series of soft snores he emitted making his chest vibrate with the sound.

Her ear was pressed to the base of his chest, his heartbeat languid and even as she listened, the slow draw of breath so great a comfort that she could soon feel sleep pulling her into its embrace as well. “I love you too.” She whispered into the darkness, her whispered words faint and sweet and the last thing Jon heard before he fell into an easy sleep.

*****

Blood poured from her belly, mingling onto the hands she tried desperately to cover herself with. She was screaming in pain, gripping her wounded stomach tight as she could. The chamber was dark as though night had touched down upon in the small apartments and the opposite side of the bed was empty. A series of faces hovered over her, watching, waiting, doing nothing to help her as she cried out, reaching her bloody fingers out towards them and begging they help her.

She could feel the pain, deep and constant and so sharp that she couldn’t breathe. She was not even sure milk of the poppy could help her now. And all at once the crowd around the bed had parted to make way for a woman, small of frame but not of presence. Her eyes were sharp and haughty and purple as amethyst crystals, her hair a silvery gold.

Sansa screamed. She tried to crawl backward but the blankets had wrapped around her wrists and ankles like shackles, pinning her down as the future Queen stepped towards her. Daenerys had a knife in her hand, the edge of the steel bloody. Looking down Sansa realized the source of the pain, calling out for the guard, for her husband, for her brother. Daenerys’ face changed to that of Cersei Lannister, golden and glittering and smiling cruelly. Only the knife remained. Next it was Arya. Sansa felt tears prickling at her eyes at the sight of her. She wanted to reach out and take her sister’s hands and refuse to let go. But as quickly as she had appeared she was gone, her face changing so quickly Sansa could not keep track of the faces. Joffrey, Daenerys, Catelyn, Arya, Cersei, Meryn Trant, Cersei, Aerys Oakheart, Cersei, Daenerys, Arya, Cersei, Daenerys.

Sansa let out a shout of fright as Jon’s face came suddenly into view, her eyes blinking back the sudden light that filtered into the chamber. Her husband leaned over her, his brows deeply furrowed, his hand having caught her flailing wrist as she made to strike him.

“What is it?” asked he. “What did you dream?”

Sansa shook her head, a dull attempt to assure that all was well but. Jon did not budge, his furrowed brows deepening. The concave of her chest was wet with cold sweat that ran down the length of her body, the silk sheets laid over the bed sticking to her skin. Her nightgown had bunched at her thighs uncomfortably, the fabric of the nightgown darkened with moisture. “What…what if she thinks you false?” she breathed. “The Queen…”

Jon sat back against his pillows. His bare chest was decorated with a series of bruises in different shapes and colours, ranging from bloody red to deep plum, the largest being the size of a bunched fist. He moved gingerly, every motion of great pain. “She might.” Jon admitted, giving a little shrug. The thought did little to sate Sansa’s nerves, her heart hammering against her chest like a war drum. “But I have given her no reason to think so. I have asked nothing of her. I have asked not for riches or soldiers or her support for Robb’s cause. I have written only of my existence.”

Sansa bobbed her head in response, knowing he spoke the truth. “She sails to Westeros on her own volition, for her own cause.” He said. “I am the only family she has left.” His yes flicked up to meet hers. “Don’t you remember how it feels?”

So lonely and frightening that she could almost vomit at the memory of being shut away in the chamber in King’s Landing. Before she had ever heard the news of her brother from Lord Tyrion, before the King had attempted to amass massive humiliation by marrying her to Jon.

Just at the reminder of her imprisonment she Sansa leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, feeling the slowly healing mark of a cut beneath her mouth. A miss match of cuts ran over his bare shoulders and chest, some thin as a straight razor, some so thick that Sansa feared they should have been stitched. She ran her fingers across his breast, feeling the low thrum of his heartbeat against her fingertips.

“How long have we slept?” she asked, brushing a strand of curling dark hair away from his brow.

His hand curled around hers, his fingers falling between hers easily. “However long I have surely worked up an appetite.” He shrugged halfheartedly.

With another kiss Sansa rose to dress, finding the wardrobe had miraculously produced a series of fresh gowns. She itched with anxiety, desiring nothing more than to part the curtain and look out over the battlefield of Riverrun. But the other half of her was crippled with fear. Each time she closed her eyes she could see the faces of dead men, staring blankly towards the sun, their swords having fallen away from their hands. Lannister, Tully, Tyrell, Stark, they were men. Most of them were innocent. And now they were dead.

Pushing away the thoughts she dressed, donning a simple gown of pale scarlet and descending the stairs towards the castle kitchens.

Part of her was unsettled at the view she came out upon. She was not sure how long she had slept but she knew it was more than a few days. The Water Gate had been completely repaired, the open front doors showing the iron stood at attention as though it had not been broken through however many days earlier.

The atrium of the castle had been swept and polished, the chunks of splintered wood and marble having magically disappeared to be replaced by sparkling red and white flooring. Voices floated jovially through the winding corridors, no longer in the hushed, fearful tones Sansa had left behind when she had ascended the stairs toward her chamber with Jon after the battle.

The kitchen maids flocked around her, pleased to see the crimson haired girl was alive and well. Their faces were wrinkled and kind and pleasant, reminding Sansa so greatly of her old Septa that she smiled, glad that Joffrey was occupying one of the Seven Hells for what he had done to the woman.

Leaving the kitchens with a promise of food one of the women would prepare fresh and bring to their chamber Sansa turned to another chamber.

She knocked gently upon the door, careful not to wake its occupant. When she heard a voice bid she enter she did as she was told, crossing the threshold of the door to find her mother sitting upon a cushioned chair with Robb at her side.

“Mother!” Sansa cried, blushing deeply at the sound of the tremulous crack in her voice. The series of terrible nightmares that had plagued her had made Sansa all the more happy to see her mother and brother were alive and well, though arguing tiredly back and forth as they hunched over the yellowing map of Westeros that had been laid over the table.

“My darling!” Catelyn cried. Her nostrils were crusted in blood, the bruises under her eyes so deep a purple Sansa shrunk back, shocked by the sight. “I am well.” She reassured, seeing her daughters face. “I promise.”

The embrace Catelyn Tully Stark gave was so soft and comforting that Sansa could have cried and sunk into her arms. She could feel all of the nightmares leave her at once, all of the memories of the dead knights at her window, of Cersei Lannister’s cruel taunts, of Joffrey’s beatings, of the way Ser Meryn Trant’s blood had felt as it ran over her hands. She was once again a child in her mothers arms. It had been too long since she was a child.

Robb was in no better a state than Jon, bruised and bloodied, his body bearing a series of cuts that were sure to scar. Even Greywind made an appearance, padding over to Sansa and allowing her to run her fingers through his thick fur. She could almost cry at the memory of Lady’s soft, bristly fur. Even now she could remember the way Jon had bonded so closely with Ghost in Winterfell and wondered what had become of the wolf. She could only hope he had escaped the Northern city before it was occupied by the Bolton’s.

“Sansa.” Said Robb, a few moments later. She had moved to stand on the other side of the table, looking upon the markings on the map. “There is something I have not told you.” His brow was creased with worry, the marking of the unpleasantness of the words he would soon feel.

Her blood ran cold as ice. Her mouth was too dry to speak so she only nodded, awaiting his words. “Lord Bolton has sent a letter.” Robb continued. He held up a yellowing piece of parchment, the broken seal that bore a flayed man showing he spoke true. “Lord Umber has betrayed us.” Said he. “And given Rickon to Ramsay.”

Sansa’s lip twitched. She could feel her knees buckling beneath the gown, her hands closing so tightly into fists that she could feel her nails drawing blood as they dug into her palm. She could not speak, breathing heavily, whatever appetite she had once had gone. “What have they don’t to him?” she stuttered. “Are we sure…can we be sure?”

“Aye.” Said Robb. “A direwolf was found with him, dark of fur but no less true.”

She bit her bottom lip, reading Robb’s face and knowing he had not finished yet. “What else?”

The eldest Stark did not question how she knew his speech had not ended. If the news had been happier he might have smiled, knowing the sister who resembled him so much shared more with him than just red of hair. They were of one soul, their father used to say. Blood of the same blood.

Catelyn’s face had gone scarlet, her eyes sharp red, angry tears falling down her cheeks. Her hair had been let down, falling across her shoulders like it once had when they were at Winterfell and the need for fancy dress had not been present. “They have your sister.”

“A-arya?” she felt a tear drip down her chin and fall to her chest. The space between her nails was stuffed with blood from her palms. “H-how?” she said. “I thought. I thought she escaped the Capital…I thought she was safe…with a bannermen…”

Robb shook his head, his eyes pressed so tightly closed he began to feel the start of a headache blossoming at his temples. “As did I.” he said. “But Lord Bolton writes that a marriage has been brokered between she and Ramsay.”

Sansa slammed her fists down on the table. She had spent many months at Lord Baelish’s side, listening to the stories he told, reading the letters he offered. He had spoken often about Ramsay, describing him as more cruel and sadistic than the King himself, his streak of violence perfectly suited by his house’s sigil.

“What are we going to do?” she demanded. Her voice cracked. “We have to get them back. We can’t let them be…”

Treated like me, she thought. And even then she would have preferred Arya be wed to Joffrey than Ramsay for if the rumours and words of Littlefinger proved true the Bastard of Bolton would surely break her, body and soul. The thought of Arya and Rickon being abused, being beaten and mocked, being flayed. She could not even think of such a thing.

“Please Robb…” she cried. “We have to get them back.”

Chapter Text

XV

At night Jon dreamt of dragons. They were so real before him that even in dream he could almost felt that if he reached out he would be able to run his fingers across their glimmering scales, just as he had once done with Ghost. He had long ago abandoned hope of seeing the white furred direwolf again but yet, as he thought of these three dragons…He knew would see them soon.

The mummers across Westeros sang of Daenerys’ beauty. They said her skin shone like it was dusted with diamonds, milky white and unblemished, even after she had erupted unharmed from the flames of her husbands pyre. Her hair was silver-gold, her eyes glittering amethysts, said the singers as they moved through the streets of King’s Landing, singing of the mystic woman for coins that were tossed into their offered hats. The King had overheard one of these songs as he had crossed the city in his litter and soon after had proclaimed that the next man who spoke of Daenerys Targaryen would be locked in the cells of the Red Keep until they begged for the Stranger’s kiss. And Jon had then heard no more whispers of his aunt.

But in his dreams Jon could see her. As though looking out at the scene through another man’s eyes Jon had watched as Daenerys walked forward, the flames licking hungrily at her bare feet as she emerged in its midst, standing within the burning pyre without even the slightest of flinches. He had been able to watch as the fire had eaten her lavender gown, her pale skin flushed with heat and smudged with ash and smoke. Even her hair, as silver as the mummers had claimed, was burned away.

But she was unhurt, rising to her feet to reveal that in her arms three dragons lay curled around each other like babes just brought into this world. She was not burned nor blistered by the fire as he had feared, instead standing tall and proud before the men and women of her Khalisar. The air had been filled with smoke and screams of the dragons, the sound as real to his ears that even as he awoke, blinking so that his eyes were able to adjust to the impenetrable darkness of the chamber, he could hear them.

That night Jon dreamed as he had dreamed for so many nights before. But instead of looking at the scene from another’s eyes he was thrust into it in his own body, dreaming once more of dragons. He was so close to one of the massive beasts, so utterly close that he could hear the rustle of its scales as it shifted, smell the dull scent of burning flesh as the dragon opened its mouth, emitting a stream of yellow flame from its scaled lips. Jon ran his fingers over the belly of the beast, shocked to find the scales were softer than he had anticipated. He was once again reminded of the way he had once drawn his fingers through the bristly fur of his direwolf.

“Rhaegal.” Jon had called out when he was pulled suddenly from the dream, disappointment sinking like sickness in the pit of his stomach. Lifting his head to face the bright streaks of moonlight that streamed in through the cracks n the closed curtains Jon knew he was once again separated from the beauty that was his dream. He was far from the dark, hooded eyes and soft rustle of scales as the dragon shifted, so completely real that Jon had been able to feel the way the ground shifted beneath his feet as the dragon stepped toward him.

Sansa was at his side, hands fumbling for the unlit candle on the table beside the bed. He could hear the snap of a striking stick catching on a match before the room was flooded with a dull haze of golden candlelight and Sansa’s concerned face loomed into sight.

“What did you dream?” she asked instinctively, her fingers curling through his as though hoping to pull him once more to reality.

“Dragons.” He whispered.

Jon was not able to tell his wife how he had known the beast’s name for the dragon did not speak the language of mortals. But Sansa did not ask. She only sat at his side and pressed a soft kiss to his brow. Her lips lingered over his, hot breath dancing across his face both soothing and exciting.

He did not fall instantly back into sleep, his body aching with the pain of his bruised ribs and the torn muscle in his shoulder. Sansa laid her arms about him, humming before singing softly, her voice as clear and sweet as a chiming bell and he was lulled gently back into a state of half sleep. “Daenerys named him Rhaegal.” Said Jon. “For her brother…” he paused then, his tired brain too slow to comprehend the true reason for the name until that moment. “For my father.”

Nearly a fortnight since the Lannister siege had been lifted from the city Riverrun was flooded with the Southron Lords and emissaries that King Robb had called forth. Sansa was able to watch from the window of her solar, counting the banners as they were carried across the threshold of the city and trying to identify the sigils that were emblazoned upon them. It had been long since she had been able to continue this practice, the last being the week before King Joffrey’s wedding, when the various high born families and royal guests began to fill the city, dressed in every sign of opulence they could manage.

She could see the plowman of House Darry, the seabirds of the Hawick’s, even the silver eagle upon the embroidered banner of House Mallister. She worried what these Lord’s might have to say, how they might react to the presence of the young Lord Lannister at their table or the wedding of their King’s brother and sister.

The workmen and blacksmiths of Riverrun had worked tirelessly since the battle to repair the areas of the castle that had been touched by the siege. At the front of the city the bent iron of the Water Gate had been hammered once more into place and the set of twin mahogany doors that had been broken through by the battering ram were replaced, the fresh, polished wood now standing as a symbol of victory over the Lannister Boy-King, as the knights of Riverrun called Tommen Baratheon.

Sansa had risen early to bathe and brush her hair into the same loose, Northern style she had so recently adopted. She was relieved to be free of the tyranny that were the ladies-in-waiting Cersei had so often demanded twist and pull back her hair in whatever Southron style they thought best. Each time Sansa had looked into a mirror she had seen the tight coils and small plaits that raked at her scalp just one of many ways that Cersei had been able to exert control over her. But she was free of the Golden Lioness now, the crimson hair that fell down her back loosely now a symbol of strength instead of oppression; a way to show at once that Sansa was of the North. That she was a Stark.

Jon, still bruised and sore from the battle and too sheepish to ask the help of a manservant, required his wife’s help to dress. Sansa was careful he did not hurt his bruised ribs as he lifted his arms so that she was able to lay his tunic over his head and push his arms through the sleeves. Her nimble fingers made quick work of tying the laces at the base of his neck, her eyes following the pattern of yellowing bruises that lay across his jaw and the swell of his neck to run down his chest like a mismatched map.

“You look a true Stark.” She smiled, fastening the buttons of his surcoat, her fingers running over the direwolves that had been carved into the metal buttons.

“And you a true Northern maiden.” Replied he. Sansa looked like her mother and brother, crimson haired and blue eyed, tall and lithe. Any man would be a fool not to have his eye drawn to her.

She smelled of sweet perfume and the ends of her crimson hair were not yet dry from her bath, tickling his face as she laid her arms about his neck like a wreath. Jon was not sure he would ever rid himself of the pleasure that came from Sansa’s embrace, a smile reaching his lips each time her arms wrapped around him, her chest pulled flush against his, the way her body curved beneath his hands so perfectly it seemed as though the Gods had fashioned them to fit together.

At Robb’s table in the throne room the Lords of the Riverlands circled the King, their faces grim and set in the same iron-firmness her father had once adopted. Their eyes followed Sansa as she pressed closed the door behind her and took her place in the seat at his side that Robb had purposefully left free. After first extending the chair for his wife Jon sat gingerly in the chair on Robb’s other side, greeting Lord Bryden and Lady Catelyn with a nod.

The meeting was as volatile as Sansa had feared. The Lords who had sworn their fealty to Robb were furious at the attack their King had suffered. They shouted like wild beasts and slammed their fists on the table, scattering plates and goblets and causing the meek serving girls of Riverrun go running from the chamber at the nearest opportunity. But the worst was one of the emissaries sent by a Lord who could not be present.

He was heavy set and beefy, his salt and pepper hair parted down the middle and slicked down by perfumed oils. To show his opulence he wore a glittering golden chair around his neck and a velvet tunic, more ornately dressed than the King himself. He cleared his throat, drawing their eyes. “M’lord asks how it was possible for the Lannister’s to launch a siege upon the keep when their King was just slain.” Said the man, his eyes turning to glare almost accusingly at Sansa. “Perhaps the presence of your sister and her husband-“ He spat the word so roughly it was as thought it had burned his mouth. “-did much to elevate tensions.”

“What are you saying?” asked Catelyn Stark.

The man waved her away. “I speak only to my Lord Robb.”

Frowning, Robb paused before answering. “If you stand to accuse my sister of something speak it now instead of dancing around the subject.”

The man looked caught between speaking truly and facing retribution. “I mean only to point out that the Lady Sansa has come mere days before a siege is launched.” Said he. “How many years spent she in King’s Landing? A ward of the Lannisters. Betrothed to the King. She has befriended the Imp, would she not have a fondness for other Lannisters?”

Sansa could feel the heat of anger boiling in her belly like disease. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, to shout at the man that she had not been a ward. That a prisoner locked within the walls of the Red Keep was no guest of the King. That to be starved and beaten and shamed before all of the city was no honeymoon.

“And news of the King’s death- by poisoning nonetheless, reaches my Lord just days after your sister deigns to return to Riverrun.” He said. “Think you not it suspicious?”

“No.” said Robb. “I think it not suspicious that Lady Sansa seized the opportunity to escape her confinement by the King and travel for weeks to reach the Riverlands. She is no guiltier of poisoning the King than you are, ser.”

“Lord Baelish writes of poisoning and Lady Sansa flees the Capital. What think you?”

“You mistake me, ser.” Continued Robb. His voice was calm but firm, a reminder that he was no longer the hot-tempered boy she had left behind at Winterfell but a man that had been forged from iron and ice, just as Jon had been, just her father before him had been. Robb was a true King, in more than just look. He went on, “My words were not an invitation for you to continue this pointless drivel.” The man opened his mouth but the King in the North did not fluster, did not pause, did not allow even another second of the man’s nonsense to permeate the Southron air. “You will not again insult my sister at my table.”

Sansa squeezed Robb’s knee beneath the table and saw his lips flinch in the hint of a smile she knew he was fighting back. He laid his hand upon hers, his palms rough from so many years of holding a sword, Sansa able to feel the criss-cross of raised scars on his fingers against her skin. He was a different man, she reminded herself again. He was still Robb, the boy she had once played knights and maidens with, the boy who had cried when he had fallen out of the Weirwood tree, the boy who buried his face in his mother’s skirts when he was scared. But he was also a King.

They had broken their fast on rashers of bacon and plates of eggs salted by thick slabs of cured ham. Sansa had noticed how different these Lords were than those who had occupied the small council of King Joffrey. Those men had often gorged themselves on whatever food their grabbing hands could reach. The bottomless amounts of wine the King offered had served a dual purpose, both appeasing the men and causing them to sink so deep into a stupor that they agreed with whatever Joffrey or Tywin Lannister said, often pledging thousands of knights or pounds of gold they did not have. But these Lords did not touch their wine except to wash down their bread. They ate meagerly, more interested in the discussions before them than the plates of food.

Robb looked at Sansa, nodding for her to speak. She cleared her throat, finding her stomach twisted with nervousness after the outburst of the Lord’s emissary. “Tommen Baratheon is kind.” Said Sansa. Every eye was on her and not all were gentle. “He is but a boy of one and ten. A pawn for his grandfather to use in his game. But now that Tywin Lannister is dead I am sure his mother will take over that position.” She added. “Cersei has ached for power since she was a girl.”

“She seizes every opportunity she can get, even if it means causing harm to her son.” Agreed a bearded Lord that looked old enough to be her father.

“No.” disagreed Tyrion at once, before Sansa could speak to. The Lord’s lip curled, as though he was disgusted by the fact that Tyrion was even allowed at the table let alone given leave to speak. “She would never harm Tommen. The one redeeming quality I can attribute to her is her love of her children. With King Joffrey dead she is like to protect young Tommen even more. She will not let him see the light of battle until he is no younger than six and ten, and even then I am sure she will attempt to hold him back, just as she once did to Joffrey. But unlike he Tommen’s will is easily bent.”

“I have received a letter which writes of Lady Margaery of House Tyrell’s betrothal to the King.” Said one of the Lords.

“This word is true.” Agreed another. “The Lannister’s much synch the support of House Tyrell is they hope to win his war.”

“And yet with their support our armies are still not far outmatched.” Said Robb, nodding at his uncle. “The support of Lord Bryden has proved greatly beneficial. Our numbers only grow with each victory as the other lords have seen that we are stronger than we seem. That we have a chance to win this war.”

The Lord’s nodded. “What more do you know of the King?”

All eyes fell back onto Sansa. “As my Lord pointed out earlier-“ said she pointedly. The emissary shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking sheepish. “I have spent many months a prisoner in the Capital. I was able to grow close to Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin. He knows all secrets.” Said she. “From him I learned many of Tywin Lannister’s tactical secrets. The maneuvers he so often uses in battle, one of which was used in the Lannister siege.”

“We were able to protect against it.” said the Blackfish. “I stationed enough men to block their movements and cleave a path down the center of their ranks. We lost many good men, but not nearly as many as we would have if Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion had not warned us of the trap.”

Sansa offered a small smile to her uncle and continued when he probed her. “With Joffrey and Tywin dead and Tyrion fled from the Capital no one remains to advise the King. They will likely reuse the tactical maneuvers thought up by Tywin.”

“Most likely we will be able to prepare against these attacks as we did before.” Said Edemure Tully from the far end of the table.

“If the Lady’s word proves true.” Came a voice.

Heat rushed into Sansa’s face at the words and she looked at the hands folded in her lap. “There is no if, my lord.” Said Jon, visibly stiffening. A vein in his jaw throbbed. “Her word is true. You have seen it yourself, just as I have seen during the Battle of Blackwater. We were able to stave of Stannis’ attacks because of Lord Tywin’s strategy. A strategy we now know.”

More nods came from the throng of men. The meeting came to a close soon after with a few closing remarks from Robb and Bryden Tully before the men filed from the room to attend to further business in Riverrun.

“They do not trust your word.” Said Robb, nervously running his hands through his auburn hair. “The bloody fools think you a Lannister spy. As though you would revoke your own family for an enemy house.”

Sansa nodded. “We must make them trust us.”

“There is no way to force trust, my lady.” Said Edemure, letting out a long sigh. “We can only show them the truth of your words and hope they are then swayed.”

“Most of them have seen it during the Lannister siege but those who were not present do not. Many believe only what they can see and nothing more.” Agreed Bryden. Catelyn Stark’s lips tightened into a worried line, glowing white with pressure.

Sansa thought for a moment. She had spent many months under the tutelage of Petyr Baelish, learning the ways of his actions, the motive of his madness. He so often boasted of his tricks and trials. She had encouraged him, watching, learning, studying him like she had studied the texts of history lent by Tyrion. She looked up, a smile at the corner of her mouth, “I know what can be done.”

“My Lord!” called Sansa, hurrying to fall into step beside one of the Lords who had left Robb’s table. The long corridor was empty, the heat of the day having forced all of the servants and ladies maids to attend to their duties out of the harsh heat of the sun.

Robb had told her a list of names he feared spoke false, agreeing at once as he had seen the merits of her cunning plan. The man stopped, looking confused. “My lady?” Lord Talor questioned. “Has the King need of me?”

“No.” said Sansa, offering a kind smile. It was a trick she had learned from Lady Margaery, who had so often told her the merits of kindness in conversation. “I only wished to apologize. I fear I was harsh when speaking to you in the Lord’s chamber.” She lied. His face was wary, his furrowed brow showing his mistrust of her. “I must admit I am distracted as of late.” Said she, continuing when he nodded, his eyes alight with the prospect of gossip. “With all that has happened with the siege and with my husbands lineage…it has caused quite a stir.”

“Aye?” asked he. He had stopped walking now, his interest so thoroughly piqued that even his mistrust of her could not outweigh his curiosity. “I fear I do not know of what you speak. My Lord and I were under the impression that Lord Stark is the son of Lord Eddard.”

Sansa frowned, waving him away playfully. “Already I have said too much. He does not wish the truth to be found out under such circumstances.”

The man offered his arm then, a dark eyebrow curved, a sly smile on his lips. “My lady Sansa I must assure you that you have my absolute digression.”

Three men Sansa met throughout the day and three lies she told, each as calculated and well crafted as the last. The men were as pliable as she had hoped, drawn in by the careful trap she had laid and that night as she retold the events of her day to her awaiting husband he smiled, commenting that she had become as shrewd as Lord Varys himself.

“What did you say?” asked Jon. The chalice he offered brimmed with spiced wine that made fire bloom like a flower in her belly, his lips glistening with the fruit of a peach that was sweet as she dragged her lips across his.

“Lady Ashara Dayne.” Said Sansa, moving across the room to the waiting featherbed after warming her hands before the fire, the sleeping gown she had pulled over her head velvet soft as her bare skin. “Your mother to Lord Behtn. To Lord Talor I claimed you were the blood of Elia Martell. And to Ser Moris believes your mother to be Lady Rhaella of House Targaryen.”

Jon let out a breath. “You are a master liar, my lady.” jested he, pressing a kiss to her brow as she reached to drag the furs over their tired bodies. Her breath was warm as she left a line of wet kisses across his bruised chest, the pad of her tongue rough as it dragged down the column of his neck.

“How will we find out which Lord is false?” Jon asked, weakly, softly, distractedly. The feeling of her mouth on his was strong enough to draw every thought from his mind. His wife hummed absently, her head had dipped to lay against the crook of his neck, and as Jon peered down he realized she had fallen fast asleep, breathing softly as she descended into dream.

Three weeks later a black winged raven would arrive from the Capital bearing a letter addressed to Sansa Stark. Part of her was surprised by the swiftness of the news reaching her but the other half was pleased to see the familiar seal upon the yellowing parchment. She recognized the mockingbird sigil at once, running her fingers over the wax to assure it had not yet been opened, before tearing open the letter for herself. Sitting at the writing desk in his solar Robb Stark watched his sister walk aimlessly through the room as she read, biting her bottom lip as her eyes passed over the thin, curling script of the water stained letter. Her eyes flicked toward him, a budding smile on her lips.

“We know for certain, then.” Catelyn Tully Stark said once she too had passed her eyes over the letter. She had at first been pleased to see it was Lord Baelish who had written. Memories had come back to her of the warmth of Riverrun in the summer, the days she had spent in the sun with Lysa and Edemure and Petyr, who had always been blushingly enthralled by her.

But she then remembered the truth. How Littlefinger had betrayed her husband, her sister, her house, and suddenly the memories were tainted, the warm days becoming suddenly cold, the long grass they had laid upon turned to ash. For the hundredth time she wished it had been her sword to have marked Lord Baelish instead of Brandon Stark’s.

She spoke again, “It was Lord Talor.”

“Aye.” agreed Robb. He sat back on cushioned stool and read the letter for the seventh time, wondering then if any secret messages lay between the lines of text. Sansa stood at the window, looking out over the grass of Riverrun’s gardens and trying to clear her mind of the memories of Baelish’s involvement in her treatment at the hand of the King.

Tyrion tsked his tongue. He too had read the letter, frowning deeply at the sight of Baelish’s seal. “I am not shocked.” The youngest Lannister commented with a shake of the head. “His disrespect for Sansa was apparent. I am not surprised that he sold her secret to Lord Baelish, most like for a hefty sum. And he will sell it again and again for as long as he can get away with such a thing.”

Sansa furrowed her brow, looking worried, her hands twisting in her skirts. “He cannot be allowed to participate in the meetings of your council. If he has told this secret he has told others…”

Catelyn brought her hand to her mouth, the sharp gasp she took drawing their gaze. She pressed her eyes closed, trying very hard to keep from letting out a scream. “He was present when your ship arrived from King’s Landing.” Said she to the trio of worried faces of those who had escaped the Capital on the day of the King’s wedding. “It was he who told the Lannister’s of your presence here. It must have been.” Not for the first time that week she wished she could once more speak to Ned. He would have known just what must be done, just as he always did. He would be fair and just but swift in his deliverance of justice.

Agreed Bryden Tully, looking grim. “It is the reason their armies launched a surprised siege. We had just learned of the King’s death. The attack came when we were least expecting it.”

Robb sighed, a headache budding at his temples. The lines in his face looked suddenly deeper, graver, giving the impression of someone who was far older than his years. He licked his lips and wondered what his father might have done in his position. Speaking then Robb steeled himself, hoping he sounded as firm and unafraid as his father once had. “I will call him once more to Riverrun to deal with the repercussions of this falsehood myself.”

*********

A figure stood at the head of a ship garbed in crimson and black. Hair flew about her face in the gusts of firm, warm wind, the heat of the rising sun causing the loose fabric of her gown to stick to her back with sweat. She could taste the salt in the air; feeling it coat her tongue and make the thirst that had plagued her for nearly a fortnight only grow. The sunset bathed her in orange light, her skin glowing pink, her hair a deep, dark orange as it reflected the blaze.

The men of the ship were still rising, roused awake by the shrill echo of the bell that signaled the end of night. Arms worked to lower sails and adjust rigging, the woman’s eyes following their movements in curiosity. Coils of heat rolled off the surface of the water, bathing her body in warmth and sweat, her desire for a cold bath only growing.

The constant rocking of the large vessel caused queasiness to rise in her empty belly and even after so many weeks at sea the nausea had not been quelled. The first weeks she had spent upon the ship had been spent with her arms clutched across her belly and a cool rag laid across her head, her sickness not even quelled by the bread or fruit she was offered by her ladies maid.

She shifted in discomfort, her skin dry as ash and peeling away from her bones, the burns she had received from the sun causing her skin to shade from pale as milk to red as the seeds of a sweet tomato. She had not known the sun to be so strong nor so hot, the dancing waves reflecting its rays upon her face as she stared over the surface of the ocean from her place at the prow of the ship.

But it was beautiful. More so than any poem or song could ever convey. She could looked down upon it for hours, standing at the rail of the ship and looking upon the schools of fish that swam beneath her, the collections of multi-coloured coral breaking against the hull of the ship as they passed over it.

Looking out over the water her stomach twisted just the same as it did each time she saw the imprint of land just barely visible upon the horizon. She called over her shoulder to a man at the ship’s helm, unable to tear her eyes from the far off land. “What do you call this place, Ser Jorah?” asked the Princess at Sea.

The man thought for a moment, running his tongue over his dry lips. “The Westerosi call it the Summer Sea, Khaleesi.”

Chapter Text

XVI

Sansa Stark wrote letters for so many hours that when she went to sleep that night her hand was so firmly cramped that she could not unwind it from a balled fist. The feather quill she had bought fresh had split at its tip and the well of ink she dipped her feather into ran dry. She spent the night clutching her aching fist and turning restlessly, wondering how quickly she would receive an answer. It was misery. And yet she awoke the next day and did the same.

She wrote to the houses of the North she was sure swore her brother fealty. She wrote to the Stormlands and the Westerlands. She wrote to Willas Tyrell in Highgarden and Lord Doran Martell in Sunspear. East, west, south, north. She would have written all the way to Sothoryos if it meant getting an answer.

“You must rest.” Said Jon, leaning forward to press his lips to the back of her shoulder. “You’ve been at this for nearly a week.”

Sansa shook her head. Jon had spent the last hour coaxing her into quitting her task and had at last managed to entice her into bed, though she had brought her quill and parchment with her. Her shoulders hunched over her half written letter, her back beginning to ache from the tension of her position, but she did not stop.

“I have to know.” She muttered. Her eyes welled with tears that she hastily wiped away, unwilling to spoil yet another letter with the marks of her despair. “I have to know if it was real. If they really…”

Jon rested his brow against her shoulder, hushing her softly. He was soft and warm, offering the golden chalice he had filled with mulled wine and she took a long draw, feeling its heat spread through her like roots grasping through wet earth. The castle had long ago fallen into sleep, nothing but the occasional patter of feet and the crackling of the burnishing fire in its grate to keep her company as she wrote. The previous nights Jon had fallen into slumber with her still at her writing desk, the promise his wife offered of coming to bed after she finished just one more letter one both knew would not be kept.

Try as she might Sansa had not been able to keep the chamber from flooding with golden light from the candle perched on her table, its flame melting the yellowing wax into a slow moving pool that dribbled off of its holder. If he had been less fatigued by the long days of council meetings Jon might have laughed at the sight of him curled in his blankets like a child, bringing a handful of the furs to his chin to block the light.

Another night he might not have argued with his wife about her recent predilection of staying up most of the night to finish her letters but this night Jon found he was less tired than the others. Before noon the small council Robb had convened had broken for the day in response to the treasons of Lord Talor, who had quickly and completely been cast from the city on pain of death. Supping with Jon the King in the North had addressed about another betrayal, though it had been a far more gruesome affair than that of Lord Talor’s.

Jon had shaken his head, aghast. “Karstark?” he questioned. “Lord Stark would be appalled.”

“As was I.” said Robb, shifting uncomfortably. In truth he did not like to speak of the event or even just recall such a thing. For weeks after his sword had fallen upon Lord Karstark’s exposed neck he had awoken, rigid, each night, coated in sweat and fear, reaching for his blade in hopes of fending off the terrors that hid only in darkness. Sensing his hesitancy Jon had pushed the subject no further and Robb Stark was grateful, looking out on the face of the man opposite him and thinking that blood be damned, for they were brothers after all.

“Sansa…” said Jon softly.

“I just have to. I cannot live on knowing that she could be out there thinking we’ve forgotten her.”

“Arya would know that we would never have forgotten her.” Jon assured. She ran a hand through her loose hair and fell to lay on her back, settling under the blankets and pushing away the roll of parchment with her bare foot. During her months in the Capital Sansa had often thought of her sister. They had been children then, jesting back and forth, calling each other names and pulling each other’s hair. But Arya must have known….must know that Sansa loved her.

The youngest Stark girl had not been seen since the day her father had been put to the block. She had disappeared from the Red Keep, smart enough to know that the troubled hands that had taken hold of Eddard Stark would soon reach for her. Sansa had been a fool then. A fool to think that anything she had done would make a difference to Joffrey. She had betrayed her brother, had written to Robb begging for him to surrender his armies, to kneel before the crowned prince and claim his fealty. A green thing, she had thought…

But Arya had been swept away by the crowds and the Southron winds, never again to be seen within the walls of King’s Landing. Sansa knew at least that Joffery had not gotten hold of her, for the sadistic son of Lannister would surely have taken her head and forced Sansa gaze upon it, just as he had done with those of her father and Septa Mordane. Once these thoughts had pleased her but now they only drove her mad.

Did the She-Wolf of Winterfell still live? Was she hidden well within the walls of a peasant house in the Capital? Joffrey had ordered every building searched when news of his father’s bastards had reached him so surely he had not found the girl. And yet, where could she be? Sansa had received seven letters that claimed to know nothing more of Arya Stark than the words the crown had whispered to them, that Arya Stark was traveling in a retinue towards Winterfell to be wed to the Bastard of Bolton.

Catelyn Tully Stark refused to cry before the public and neither would Sansa. She must be strong as her Lady Mother and as her Lord Father before her. She would never again shed a tear caused by the Lannister’s; she had long ago pledged this. And yet…the thought of Arya sold like a lamb to a slaughterhouse nearly made her break her vow.

So Sansa must do what she could to uncover the truth. Was this bride truly Arya? The reports claimed only that many riders had seen a great beauty bearing brown eyes and brown hair dressed in the Northern style, just as Arya would be. Half of her hated to think of her sister having met the Stranger’s kiss and yet the other half knew that death would be sweet mercy compared to falling into the clutches of the Bastard of Bolton.

“A monster has taken our home.” Sansa whispered to Jon, letting her head fall limp against his arm. Pain bloomed at her temples and radiated down the back of her neck and across her shoulders from so long hunched over her parchment. “And our sister. We must do something.”

“And we will, my love.” returned Jon, callused fingers brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “Robb’s army and Daenerys’ combined will outnumber the Bolton forces three to one. Winterfell will be ours. And after that- Daenerys will lay siege to King’s Landing and Westeros will be free of the Lannister’s.”

A smile ghosted over her lips and she made no response. She allowed Jon to think that she had taken his words to heart when in truth Sansa had long ago learned that tales of brave knights and beautiful princesses did not always end so happily.

**********

Sansa’s fingers trembled as she tied the laces of her cloak at the base of her neck. Sighing in annoyance she undid the knot, feeling a pull at her scalp that meant a few hair had been pulled up by the ball of fabric. She raked her fingers through her hair, the flowery smell of the soaps she had bathed in reaching her nose softly.

Sansa looked at the circular mirror that leaned against the wall, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She remembered when she had been a girl so long ago, sitting before the great mirror of her mother’s dressing table with Jeyne Poole, the girls huddled together as they looked out at their reflections. She had been so taken with the sight of her thinning face and wondering how many months more it would take to rid herself of the childhood fat that clung to her cheeks and chin. Jeyne Poole had always called her beautiful, had told her that she would marry a high lord and wear pretty gowns and fine jewelry, just like her mother.

Arya had always laughed at them, snorting at the way they could have stared at themselves for hours upon end. The youngest Stark girl would rather have spent her time watching her brother’s practice their swords in hopes of one day carrying her own. Jon had told Sansa of the blade he had commissioned for her. He told her that Arya had named the blade Needle and Sansa had felt tears burn at the backs of her eyes, knowing Arya would have loved the sword. Sansa could only hope that she had hidden it in her cases and could take Ramsay Bolton’s life with it.

“Sansa?” called Jon, his fist sounding against the hollow mahogany door to her dressing chamber. She gave a nod; taking a long drink of the ale at her side in hopes that the liquid would bring the bravery she needed to continue on with the day.

Sansa pulled on her riding gloves one by one as she fell into step beside Jon, descending the circular staircase and going through the set of double doors that lead out toward the stables. Their horses had already been bridled and picked and by the time they reached the Horse Master much of the riding party had already found their saddles.

Her horse was the colour of onyx, so dark Sansa was sure that the mare would easily disappear into the night. Robb offered a hand to steady her as she swung her leg over the saddle and settled in, the toes of her boots digging into the stirrups and finding they were far too tight for comfort.

The ride to Ashmark had been long and tiring. Sansa had slept little the previous nights, tense with stress and unable to find a position comfortable enough to lay in for more than a few minutes at a time and, in an effort to not disturb Jon, she had found eventual slumber in the cushioned sofa pulled out on the balcony of their chamber in Riverrun. The Marbrand’s of Ashmark were kind hosts, offering anything and everything the small riding party might need as they journeyed east towards the Crag. They dined the previous night on honeyed chicken and salted crab and the food had sat heavy as stone in her belly, nausea on her lips like rouge.

Faintly she had wondered if she might have fallen heavy with child, the sickness within her such a constant companion that she could not remember the last time she had felt at ease. But she knew it was only nervousness for the coming journey. It would be a long ride to the Crag.

Their retinue was small so as to not attract any unwanted attention. Robb and the Blackfish had remained back at Riverrun to continue on with the small council meetings that Sansa were sure were shortening the span of her brother’s life and Robb had asked Tyrion to remain, so greatly valuing his input on Tywin Lannister’s tactics that Robb could be found in Tyrion’s solar at any time of the day. The King in the North had insisted upon calling up half a hundred guards to accompany the party but after an hour Sansa had managed to talk him down to just over a dozen knights dressed in Tully armour, some still bearing fresh pink scars as evidence of the battle of Riverrun.

At the head of the party Jon rode with Sansa on one side and Edemure on the other. Sansa was almost pleased to find that her uncle was as nervous as she, fidgeting with the horse’s reins and chewing on the end of a wooden pick. Edemure was caught between excitement to see the great beauty of the silver haired queen and fear over whether it was true that she had birthed three dragons. In the back of his mind he wondered whether it was true that beneath her gowns she was covered in scales.

Sansa smelled of sweat and horses and everything in between. Auburn hair was matted to her brow, the riding trousers she had donned sticky with mud and sticking to her legs in the same way that her tunic hung wet with sweat against her back. Her legs ached from so long in the saddle, the tightness of the stirrups making blisters appear beneath the toes of her boots. She ached to walk on even ground again, her twisted ankles cramping.

By the time they broke their path and she was able to descend from her saddle her body was sore enough to make her steps uneven and crooked. She took a long draw from her canteen, the water sliding all the way down her throat and into her belly like icy fingers dancing across her skin.

Sansa was surprised to find that the Crag was not as she had imagined. The castle had fallen into disrepair and Sansa remembered she had heard the rumours from Robb, her brother having told her that the Westerling’s had come upon hard times, the lack of funds taken to maintain the castle causing it to grow worn and old, closer to a quarry than a castle.

Jon moved closer to her. “You do not need to worry.” He assured.

I am not worried, she wanted to say. I am not afraid. But the words could not come, the teeth that bit into her bottom lips holding them back. Her hands twisted in the belt that held up her breeches, pulling the braided fabric through her fingers as she waited.

“Her ship should come to port any time now.” Said Jon. He kept a weather eye on the horizon, staring unblinkingly into the sharp light of the sun as it settled high in the sky. White rays danced over the waves like jewels of salt and water and as she stood at her husband’s side she could see the ripples spread across the ocean from the fish that jumped and danced beneath.

She could remember the days that she had swam in the waters of Riverrun as a child, just before Arya had been pulled from their mother and into this world. The water had been cool and sweet, so cool over her face that she had shivered, even after Robb had pulled her into his boyish arms and close to his chest. They had been almost twins then, young and lanky and bearing the gift of their mother’s crimson hair, whispering funny things into their ears and watching the way the other laughed.

Sansa looked at the water, thinking she could shrug out of her tunic and run out onto the shelf and dive into the water. She could let it rush over her sun streaked skin and through the fabric of her sweat stained tunic. She could sink below the surface and watch as her worries washed away. And just as she considered taking a step forward she saw a smudge of darkness appear on the horizon.

“There must be a thousand.” Said Edemure. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels and letting out a whistle, long and low, as he admired the fleet that Dany had at her back. “More.”

She could see the sails, tall and so bright a white that as the sun reflected off the fabric Sansa could feel her eyes burn. She wondered why the Queen had chosen not to fly her houses banners but realized at once that that would have been foolish for Targaryen banners might attract the attention of the pirates that plagued Ironman’s Bay. She wondered if Daenerys had come across these men. Though Sansa was sure that the presence of twenty thousand Unsullied and three winged beasts would allow them to pass safely through the bay with little interference.

The closer the ship’s came the more nervous Sansa became, her own fear compounded by Jon’s unsettling nervousness. She could feel his agitation and apprehension in every movement, in the way he cleared his throat and in the way his jaw tightened and loosened half a hundred times. Even in how his eyes flicked to give her a sidelong glance, looking out at her from the corner of his eye.

She reached out to take his hand, threading her fingers through his and feeling them tighten around her. He cleared his throat again. The ship only bobbed closer.

Edemure pulled off his hat and held it over his chest, clearly conflicted. He had never met a woman who was not Westerosi before and was unsure as to how to greet her, knowing nothing of the customs of Meereen. He continued to fret as the ships only loomed closer.

Edemure had been right, Sansa thought. There must be over a thousand ships before them. They appeared out of the clouds of mid morning fog that clung to the surface of the water before they were burned slowly away by the heat of the sun. It was like black magic. As though a dark witch had cast a spell and been able to create exact copies of the main ship out of thin air, the vessels identical from prow to stern, not even the most minute of details changed on any of them. She counted them as they came forth. Ten, fifty, a hundred, perhaps five hundred, perhaps five thousand. She lost count once she reached two hundred and fifty.

A set of five or so ships brushed passed those that had made anchor in the midst of the bay and sailed toward the dock of the Craig. They were so close that Sansa could see figures moving about on the deck, barely able to make them out over the glare of the sun and the haze of the fog. She wondered where the Queen was. Whether she would be reclused to her private cabin or on the deck with her soldiers. A pang of ice thudded through her chest as she wondered whether Daenerys would have taken other means of transportation from Meereen.

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes as she peered into the sky. Sansa could feel her eyes water from the brightness of the sun but she did not care, in the same breath anxious to see a dragon and yet paralyzed with fear.

Jon wondered how long a ride it was from Casterly Rock to the Crag. He wondered if any Lannister knights had spotted the massive fleet of unmarked ships and reported it back to their patriarch. Even with Tywin Lannister dead there would be another to take his place. Kevan Lannister, Tyrion had said. He was the rightful choice, as brave and cunning as his brother and yet not quite so cruel. If he was lucky Kevan might already have left for King’s Landing. If Jon was lucky the Lannister house would continue to fall apart from the inside and leave easy pickings for his aunt.

Jon fidgeted with his tunic. He wondered what she might think of it. It was a simple design of white cotton and unbeaded laces, but just over his breast Sansa had worked tirelessly to sew a twisting dragon of crimson and black filigree, so fine that Jon had felt almost selfish to ask his wife to create it. She had not told him that it caused her pain and yet he had seen the way her sore fingers were gentle as they grasped assorted belongings for the next few days and how she gritted her teeth each time she picked up the needle once more.

“She will love it.” Sansa had promised. Her tender fingertips ran over the sigil after he had slipped the tunic over his head, inspecting her work.

“I’m sorry that it took so long to finish.”

“Do not be.” Said Sansa, using her teeth to cut a piece of loose string. Her hot breath pushed through the fabric of his tunic and made goose pimples run down his skin. “I was always good with a needle.” He had seen the way her smile faltered, the images of Arya with her little sword filling both of their minds.

“We will find her.” Jon had assured, closing the gap between he and his wife in one step. He pressed a warm kiss to her brow, his hands against her back so he was able to push her flush against him. “We’ll get her back.”

Men in black were filing out of the ship, coming to stand on both sides of the dock. They carried spears Jon had never seen, foreign in design and wear, their shafts so long and their tips so sharply pointed he wondered how they were able to carry them so easily. A girl came forward and he held his breath, only to realize a moment later that she bore no resemblance to the mummer’s songs. She could not be his aunt, the hair that fell over her shoulders brown instead of silver, her copper skin bright beneath the sun instead of the paleness that the singer’s compared to milk.

He heard Edemure draw a breath and turned back just as a second figure took the hand of a knight to balance herself and came forward. She wore a gown as white as the ship’s main sail, fastened at the nape of her neck by a twin set of silver clasps. She wore a simple circlet of silver, the metal glinting in the sunlight like the edge of a blade. Every eye was trained upon her from the first moment she stepped onto the dock and crossed towards them.

Daenerys Targaryen came to stand before them. She was smaller than he had thought, for the stories and songs told of a woman as fierce as the Gods, whose glare could freeze a man’s heart and whose smile could melt the Wall. She wears her hair like Sansa, thought Jon, long and loose and whipping in the wind. The only difference was where his wife’s hair was red as sunrise; his aunt’s was silver as moonlight.

Jon and Edemure folded into their bows and Sansa into her curtsy, dipping her head. She wondered how they must look to the Queen, sticky with sweat and smelling of horses and heat. Standing beside her Sansa had never felt such discomfort, having traded her gowns for breeches and a tunic, the heat causing her hair to stick to the back of her neck with sweat. The knights that had accompanied them bore the banners of the Stark’s and the Tully’s, the colours such vast difference from the red and black of House Targaryen.

“Jon Targaryen.” Said the Queen. Her voice was soft and sweet as song, the hand she waved gesturing for them to stand.

Sansa snuck a look at her husband, catching the way he stiffened at the name. “Lady Daenerys.” Replied Jon. He tried very hard to keep his voice even, though he felt nothing but tremulous. “My wife-“ he presented. His hand lifted to point at Sansa, her hands so tightly curled into fists that her fingernails bit into her palms. “Lady Sansa.”

The Queen’s face parted in a smile and at once Sansa knew that the mummers were wrong.

The woman was kind, the way she reached out to take Sansa’s hand and press her lips to the woman’s upturned palm tender and affectionate. “I did not think this day would ever come.” Said Dany. “I never thought I would truly meet you.”

Jon nodded. “And I you, Lady.”

Daenerys waved him away. “There is no need for formalities with me. You are my family.” Said she, her violet eyes almost sad as she continued, squeezing her nephew’s hand. “The only family I have left.”

Sansa’s head listed. She knew the feeling all too well, having spent so long alone in King’s Landing that she had almost given up hope of seeing her family again. She swallowed the lump in her throat and thought of Arya. She wondered if the girl felt alone in the world with no hope of rescue, a feeling Sansa had long ago become accustomed to.

A man had stepped forward, standing beside the Queen and bowing. “Ser Jorah of House Mormont.” He introduced. “I believe your house is acquainted with mine.”

“Aye.” Said Edemure. He flushed pink as he spoke, caught off guard by the way his voice had cracked as though he was a green boy again, brought to his knees by a pretty girl and a pretty smile.

Sansa continue for him, sensing his discomfort. “We are proud that your house has pledged fealty to my brother.” She said. “You are among the finest knights in the north.”

The man smiled politely but said, “I am no knight, my lady. Not anymore.”

“Ser Jorah is being modest.” Assured Daenerys. “He is the finest knight in Meereen. May I also introduce Missandei, my handmaiden, and Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied.”

Another round of bows and curtsies followed as they made their introductions and politeness. A few moments passed and Jon opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a loud screech.

Sansa felt her heart drop into her belly, her legs giving out from beneath her. She was thankful that Edemure caught her around the middle, hefting her to her feet and holding tightly to her arm as a great winged beast swooped through the air. It screeched so loudly that Sansa could feel her ears pop and begin to ache.

The dock shook violently as the dragon made to land, its taloned feet so large that Daenerys stood onto to it’s knee. Or what Sansa assumed to be its knee. She had wanted to stand tall, to show the queen that she was brave and strong and that she was not afraid. But she had not been able.

Edemure shrunk back and she followed, stepping back a few paces. She was relieved to find that her handmaiden did the same, turning on her heel to stand behind the commander of Daenerys’ army. Before her Grey Worm did not flinch but Sansa did notice his fingers tighten around the hilt of his spear.

Jon was frozen stiff with fear and excitement, his head tilted to stare upward at the beast as it circled over them. His jaw had gone taut as stone, his shoulders drawn apart in an effort to steel himself.

Sansa took a step backward, wanting to jump away. She could see the beast swing lower, close enough that she could make out the ivy greenness of its scales. In dipped lower and lower until its massive legs pressed down upon the dock and with a jolt Sansa almost lost her footing, thankful for the hands that came out to steady her. Jorah Mormont reached for the Queen, the hand he placed on her back steadying her so that she was not pushed into the water from the force of the dragon’s descent.

It was so close that Sansa could feel its hot breath on her face, the stink of decay and rot filling her nose and making her cringe. Its eyes were red as blood and wider than the palm of her hand, staring out at them as though it was taking as much inspection of the trio as its mother.

Where Sansa flinched backward Jon did not. He moved only to take her arm and keep her on her feet but his eyes did not slide from their place on the dragon.

Daenerys looked impressed, a pale hand lifting to drag across the greenish scales as casually as though she was petting a kitten. The beast was large enough to block out the sun with its magnificent wings, bathing them in much needed shade.

“You are not afraid.” Daenerys commented.

Jon made no effort to neither nod nor shake his head. “Part of me thought…” he began, his voice trailing off. His eyes watered in the sunlight, squinting up at the beast in fascination. He had read and heard the lore of his house, the way that dragon’s grew as long as a ship and as heavy as a ton of unbroken steel. He had even stolen into the depths of the Red Keep with Arya in hopes of seeing the dragon bones. But he had never thought he would truly see a dragon.

The dragon shifted and the wooden dock creaked with the effort of their combined weight, Sansa worrying it might collapse from beneath their feet. “He is called Rhaegal.” The silver haired woman continued. “After your father.”

Jon nodded, ignoring the way the name made his blood run cold. At his side his fingers twitched, as though desiring to reach out and brush across the scales. He wondered what they must feel like, the notion so foreign his mind could not find the words to draw comparison.

As though the beast understood his thoughts Rhaegal dipped his head lower, as though in anticipation of Jon’s touch. Sansa held her breath. Flashes of images rushed through her mind. The dragon’s teeth closing around Jon’s arm, tearing fresh and bone as easily as fabric until her husband was left with nothing passed his shoulder than air.

“He likes you.” She mused. “He does not like many people. My own knight had to try for seven months to get as much attention from him as you have.”

“Can I…” Jon began.

Daenerys tilted her head, her voice lilting. “If he lets you.”

His fingers hesitated as they extended towards the dragon before he retracted his hand and began to undo the buttons that held together his riding gloves. The leather slipped from his fingers one by one until his skin was free to breath in the warm sea air, extending towards the hide of the dragon. Sansa was reminded of the way he had once touched Ghost, tender, affectionate, easy.

His heart hammered in his chest, loud enough that he wondered if the Queen could hear it. Her eyes lingered on the sigil on his unlaced tunic, a hint of a smile on her lips. She looked almost proud. He wondered if that was how his father might have looked at him.

Sansa’s stomach was tight enough to make a heave threaten to spring free from her lips. She held her breath, her hand on the crook of Edemure’s elbow. She had not realized how tight her grip was until he let out a low groan and she realized her nails had left a line of red half moons across his forearm.

Jon’s palm was flat upon the dragon’s scales, surprised to find they were cool and soft instead of sharp as steel blades, as he had anticipated. The dragon’s back was riddled with long spikes of green and red, horrifying to the naked eye, yet so different from what he had thought. The pads of his fingers crossed over the dragon’s back, feeling the peaks of flesh as rough and smooth as the trunk of a tree. His hand drooped slightly to the dragon’s belly, able to feel the inflating and deflating of its softest skin with every breath. This skin was the softest, lustrous and smooth as marble, feeling almost as though it were wet, like the snakeskin gloves Joffrey had paraded before him after his nameday the previous year.

“May we invite you out of the sun, my lady?” asked Edemure, moments later. “The Westerling’s have been kind enough to offer their keep for your uses until we ride for Riverrun.”

Daenerys looked at him and he flushed red, hoping that the blush could be written off as a burn from the sun. “Thank you, ser.” She said. She took a step forward and her legs trembled, a hand reaching out to her handmaiden for support. “I am quite uneasy on solid ground after so long at sea.”

“Will your…” Edemure began, feeling uncomfortable. It was now his turn to grip Sansa’s arm too tightly as they ascended the dock back towards the Westerling’s decrepit keep. “Will the…dragons join us?”

“They’ll be off hunting.” Said the silver Queen. “They’ll keep out of sight, thought. If you’re worried about that.”

Sansa wondered if they would fly out over sea. Perhaps they would terrify some of the Greyjoy pirates in Ironman’s Bay. She smiled slightly at the thought.

“Unless you wish otherwise we will stay at the Crag for a few days so you are able to gather your strength and recover a bit from your journey before we return to Riverrun.” Said Jon.

Daenerys nodded. “I think we could all use the rest.” Said she. “It has been a long journey.”

“How long were you at sea?” asked Sansa, curious. She walked slowly to keep up with Daenerys and Missandei, who were walking unsteadily on nauseated legs, gripping each other as though they were the only thing keeping the other tied to this earth.

Missandei thought for a moment. “A few months, my lady.” She said. “I have seen the moon turn three times.”

Three months, thought Sansa. She had thought the journey from King’s Landing to the Riverlands had been arduous. It had barely been a fortnight before she had been unable to lift her head from her sick bucket, so nauseated that she had been unable to tell which way was up. She could not imagine a few months before making port.

Jon was wrapped up in his own thoughts and had yet to say anything more, walking beside his wife and his aunt in silence. He could still feel the warmth of the dragon’s skin upon his fingers and looking over his shoulder he could see Rhaegal pause before launching itself once more into the air. Its massive wings beat through the air hard enough to shake the rickety wooden dock, the wind it created forcing three of Daenerys’ guards to their knees.

Daenerys followed the movement, eyes following the trio of dragons as they lifted into the air and faded away until they were small as spots on ink on the blue and yellow horizon. “They want to explore Westeros.” Said she absently. “They are curious.”

Ser Jorah Mormont smirked. “Not unlike their mother.”

Chapter Text

XVII

Sansa knocked gently on the mahogany door to Daenerys’ chamber. The sun had already begun to set, casting the sky with a few residual streaks of yellow and pink, the clouded sky darkened with rain and whips of warm, salty wind. She squinted through the frosted glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the set of dragons that flew freely through the skies of Westeros, wondering absently whether or not the beasts had already been spotted, hoping that they would not be harmed if they were.

She turned to look towards the sea of ships that docked at the harbour of the Craig, their decks teeming with the Unsullied and Dothraki that Sansa had grown up fearing. She wondered what her mother would say when she saw these men. What Old Nan might think, having raised the Starks with bedside tales of the wild Dothraki men that raped their women and slayed their men and the dragons that flew through the skies and devoured women and children and men alike. But Sansa knew that not every tale was true. Not all Princes were gallant and not all Queens were kind.

Each morning after they broke their fast Jon excused himself to visit the Maester of the Crag in hopes of finding a raven from Riverrun. It had been days since he had sent a letter to Robb bearing news of the Queen’s arrival, his penmanship rough and sloppy and masked in the falsified code the brothers had adopted when they were children so they could avoid the prying eye of their governess. Or of Theon.

Sansa felt the breath rush out of her at the thought of Winterfell’s former ward, pain like a knife that twisted in her belly at the thought of his betrayal. She pushed away the tears that pricked at her eyes as she remembered her brothers, small bodied and sweet faced, a shuttering gasp rushing through her before she could stop it.

Wiping her eyes quickly on the sleeve of her gown Sansa heard the iron clasp of the door give before it slid open, the soft smile of Daenerys’ handmaiden appearing in the gathering darkness.

“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Sansa said quickly. “I only meant to inquire about the Queen’s health.”

The Dragon Queen had not been present in the dining hall as they supped. Before the start of the small feast Missandei had come before Sybell Westerling to express the Queen’s regrets at having to miss the meal, citing the rocking of the ship during their voyage as the cause of the woman’s failing health.

Missandei looked mournful. “The Khaleesi suffers from seasickness from her travels across the Narrow Sea. She is not able to stomach anything solid.”

“Has she been visited by the Maester?” asked Sansa, concerned. She felt for the woman, remembering her own perilous journey from King’s Landing and the seasickness that had clawed at her belly and made her feel as though death might come for her at any moment.

The girl nodded. “Yes, my lady.” She said. “He says she should be feeling at ease the longer she is upon solid land and the longer she is at rest.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Sansa continued, suddenly remembering why she had come. She lifted the small plate she carried with her, the plain pottery bearing a series of bland foods she had been given by the kitchen maids.

Sansa, who had not known the degree of sickness that the woman suffered from, chose an array of warm breads, bland cheeses, and sweet, died fruits. “I was not sure if the Queen would be able to stomach the food Lady Sybell sent after supper so I brought a few things that I thought might quell her sickness.”

Missandei smiled softly and took the tray. “The Khaleesi will be pleased at your consideration.”

“Of course.” Said Sansa. She turned to leave before thinking better of it and turning back. “My husband is very pleased to be in the company of his aunt. If…if there is anything more I can do for the Khaleesi, please call upon me.”

Missandei offered another soft smile, her brown eyes sweet as vanilla. “I will be sure to do so, thank you my Lady.”

When Jon returned to the chamber his face was ashen and grey, the letter he carried clutched so tightly in his fist that the parchment had crumpled badly enough to cause the ink to peel. Sansa was at once on her feet and even before she had commanded her legs to move they had crossed the room and brought her face to face with her husband.

“Is it Robb?” she asked, fearing another Lannister attack. “Or-“ she swallowed the dryness that suddenly appeared in her throat. “Or mother?”

Jon shook his head, sinking into the chair pulled close before the fire before standing once more and beginning to pace. “News from King’s Landing.” He said simply, offering the letter.

Her eyes skated across the worn parchment, a fist of nervousness digging so deeply into her stomach that she could not breath, collapsing into the seat Jon had vacated. “She…” Sansa let out a shaking breathe, her hand at her chest, feeling the wild, uneven thump of her heart beneath. “She’s dead…”

Jon nodded solemnly. “They were not able to find her body in the rubble. But…after what happened…there would not be anything left.”

Sansa could feel her lip begin to quiver, the tears she had spent so long fighting threatening to jump forth. She bit her lip to keep it still, the teeth that dug into the soft flesh bringing her once more to reality. “I cannot believe it. She is the queen.”

“No longer.” Said Jon. “Cersei Lannister has ascended the throne after…”

After Tommen’s death, Sansa thought. She could not stomach the thought. She could still see his face, the sweet, golden haired boy who had offered her a yellow daisy, whose face had glowed bright pink when he had thanked her for the nameday gift she had given. To think that he had fallen to his death in such a vicious way…it made her sick to think of it.

“At least…” Sansa swallowed. Her lips felt dry enough to crack, all the liquid in her body seeming to have rushed to her eyes. “At least she and Loras were able to meet the Stranger together.”

Jon raked his hands through his hair. “How can she get away with this?”

“Who is to stop her?” asked Sansa, her voice hoarse. “Half of the city’s royalty was just…turned to ash. She is once more unopposed.”

As though the Gods had turned a knob within her Sansa’s sadness was at once turned to anger. Her blood burned hot as flame with unadulterated fury, her fingers twisting in her lap as she stood, the voracity of their pacing surely wearing the carpets thin. Hot tears welled in her eyes at the thought of Margaery’s kindness, Tommen’s gentility, Arya’s fierceness. They were dead now, or would be soon enough.

Jon laid his arms around her in an embrace, her face nuzzled in the space between his neck and shoulder. But she did not cry. She would not allow the Queen to take any more of her tears.

“Remember what you told me?” he whispered. His voice was muffled against her hair, his breath warm against her neck. “On our wedding night.” She could have laughed then, at the idea that their wedding was anything less than horrid.

Sansa pulled away from him. The tears she had held at bay had caused her cheeks to burnish red and her eyes to become glassy. She smirked slightly, her husband’s eyes dark and hooded. “Winter is coming with fire and blood.” The words, despite being whispered, seemed to give them strength, seemed to renew their hatred and anger and allow it to fuel them.

It was six days that they spent among the salt and stone of the Crag. The constant lurching of the ship had Daenerys’ stomach warring, so uneasy that the first few days spent on solid land were comprised of long lays in bed, small crusts of bread, and the occasional fall into the arms of her knight when the weakness grew too vast.

Despite her desire to express thanks to the house that had opened their keep to her for the duration of her stay the Queen’s discomfort was apparent. As they supped the Silver Queen desired to eat nothing more than a meager portion of cold, chilled ale and sweet honeyed bread, the sight of anything more flavoured causing her stomach to violently turn.

Sitting at the head of the table in the dusty dining chamber, Daenerys tried to shield her unease. As a gift Sybell Westerling and her daughter Jeyne had commissioned a gown for the Invading Queen, a simple cloth garment decorated with a sheet of rose coloured guild that swept across the train and around each of the long, patterned sleeves. It complimented her eyes nicely, thought Sansa, sneaking a look at the woman. Despite the straight of her back and the set of her gaze Daenerys’ discomfort was clear. Sweat beaded at her brow, barely visible before the fading sunlight that fell in through the window beside her, her skin sallow and yellow with the effects of her sickness.

After many days on solid land she was once more able to stomach solid foods and as a celebratory measure Gawen Westerling had commissioned a feast grand enough for the King of Westeros- or as large a feast as their small sums could afford.

The long wooden table was littered with plates of soft-boiled eggs and thick slices of fried bread and bacon, roasted meats and heaping bowls of boiled potatoes, bowls of creamy vegetable soups dipped with crusts of hard bread. Even flagons of summerwine as red as blood, so sweet that Sansa could feel her cheeks itch with its flavour as she took a large gulp.

Unwilling to insult the first Westerosi family to lift the banishment Dany had faced since her birth the Queen ate as many plates as she could stomach, commenting loudly and often how delicious each and every morsel was and how long it had been since she had tasted such rich portions.

Daenerys had even been able to keep up pleasant conversation with the other guests as she ate, far more than Sansa had been able to do during her own bout of illness. The Dragon Queen seemed interested in any Westerosi story she could get her hands on, listening in complete rapture as Sansa and Jon entertained her with stories of Bran the Builder and Nymeria Martell. In return the Queen offered her own stories, tales of warlocks from Qarth and Red Priestesses from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.  

Uninterested in embarrassing the woman Sansa had told no one that as she had taken the long corridor across the west wing toward her chamber that night that she had heard the Queen retching loudly into the silver chamber pot the patriarch of the Crag had spared.

**********

It was mere days before Sansa found herself once more stepping into her saddle, her riding breeches pulled high at her waist and tied around her hips with a simple belt. Her booted feet had already begun to ache, the tightness of the leather around her toes leaving them feeling stiff and bruised. But she did not dare show any sign of weakness, not before the Dragon Queen, who had been at sea for months in her journey to reach the Seven Kingdoms.

They departed from the Crag before the sun had even broken the barrier of the horizon. Streaks of graying cloud were pulled across the dark sky, barely covering the twinkle of stars that shone through from behind. It would be hours before the sun peaked and set the sky aflame with light and its heat began to thaw the snow and ice that littered the path ahead of them.

The Lannister-Baratheon forces had been pushed back as far as Ashemark but they dare not tempt the Gods of fate by being careless with their planning, especially not now that their forces had been multiplied by ten. Every few hours throughout the night Jon and Dany had taken turns sending out their rangers, the knights careful as they searched for any residual Lannister spy or any commoner who might sell information of what they had seen to the enemy.

Sansa frowned at the thought, knowing she should have seen such a thing coming. Even now, when House Lannister was half dead and knowing that those remaining would soon follow they still seemed one step ahead. They were infamous for their gold and their deep pockets. A Lannister always pay their debts, the words even more well known than their actual house words.

And now the news of their deep pockets had spread across the Seven Kingdoms until every ear knew that even the smallest, even the most insignificant piece of information on the Stark army could lead to a reward from the Lion Queen.

But the rangers returned with news of no movement, much to their relief. It was as Robb has said. The Lannisters had not yet learned of Daenerys’ arrival in Westeros, for the rumours of her intended attack had been spreading across the land for as long as Sansa could remember.

Sansa could remember King Robert, deep into his cups and complaining loudly to any who might listen that “the Targaryen bitch” would soon arrive in Westeros. “We should have killed her when we had the chance.” He had so often said, his cheeks burnishing red, his lips bubbling with saliva and the remanence of meat he had not properly swallowed.

Even after his death the sentiment was not lost among those at the Red Keep. King Joffrey had been as afraid as his father had been. He paced nervously across the floors of the small council’s chambers, pounding his palms upon the flat of the table in an attempt to get his point across when he thought that the conversation had continued without his input. “Those beasts-“ he spat. “that she has birthed will feast upon our flesh if we allow it.”

Without knowledge of the Queen’s arrival or the numbers of her armies the Lannisters forces would be caught off guard. They would not be able to plan their strategies or mobilize their numbers in time. They would be without plan. They would be susceptible to attack. Just the thought of it made a thrill run through her.

But it would not be long, she knew. Not long before the three massive beasts that flew over their heads and shrieked loud as banshees would be spotted by an enemy eye. The Lannister’s would find out soon enough.

Riding beside her husband Sansa found her eyes reaching towards the sky, wondering where these dragons had gone off. She had studied them carefully the previous days, watching as they hunted, diving in and out of the sea and coming up with mouths slick with seawater and blood, coughing up bones of fish Sansa had never even seen before. At first she had though them too large to take to the land as easily as they could, their bodies slipping into the trees as easily as if they were small as prey.

She was not afraid of them, she found. Despite the tales Old Nan had told them when they were children, of beasts with wicked fangs and a taste for human flesh. Instead she found them mysterious, intriguing, an allure drawn between she and them, from the moment their eyes had swept across her. But she did not think she would ever forget the crunch of bone beneath their teeth after they had trapped fresh game.

Jon seemed similarly captivated, his eyes so often on the sky that Dany teased he ought to sprout a pair of wings and join them. He was like a green boy again, experiencing for the first time the thrills of battle. He was enthralled by the Unsullied, by the Dothraki, by the dragons and the Dragon Queen. When they made camp each night he hardly slept, lying beside Sansa and babbling like a boy, his face flushed, his eyes alight with excitement.

The Unsullied never tire, he told her at night, when their bodies were draw together to stave off the cold. Remember how Old Nan said that the Unsullied could march and march to the Seven Halls and back without stopping even for water.

And the Queen…

She rode on a stallion as pale as her hair, its bright mane dashed through with the same bells and braids that the Dothraki had brought into fashion. So different from Queen Cersei Dany rode at the head of her army instead of lagging behind, the lioness and her pack bathed in silks and cottons, swathed beneath the shade of a gilded carriage or palanquin. Daenerys rode proud and regal, the colours of her house emblazoned upon her chest, and though she wore a gown instead of armour she might as well have been for as fierce as she looked.

They reached Riverrun without trouble, the stress that had built within Sansa’s belly at the thought of attack leaving her constantly looking over her shoulder during the length of the ride. From the moment she had first caught sight of the Stark and Targaryen sigils flapping in the wind the return to her mother’s girlhood home had left her at ease, the furled knot of nervousness in her belly giving before finally pulling free.

At long last their retinue had come across the lowered drawbridge to find Robb awaiting their return at the head of the battlements, so tall and strong that had it not been for the auburn hair that rustled in the gelid wind Sansa might not have recognized him. He lifted his hand in a wave and even from so far away Sansa could see the awe written across his face, as though he had never truly expected to come across the Dragon Queen. His eyes lifted to the sky then, searchingly, watching for dragons. She noted how his hand had fallen to rest upon the knife at his belt.

By the time midmorning came around Sansa was fatigued from so many introductions that had been made, so many friends and siblings and lovers to acquaint- rather quickly, lest they waste any time, as Lord Bryden repeatedly stressed. Not when there was planning to be done.

Despite knowing that no Tully knight would betray the words they spoke within the small chamber the space was cleared out, leaving only those strictly necessary for the laying of plans. With Dany stayed Ser Jorah and Grey Worm, standing at her back, their eyes scanning the room as though uneasy with the presence of so many new faces. Missandei sat beside the silver haired queen, a dutiful scribe, the quill pressed between her fingers making quick work of noting every idea discussed, to be poured over later.

On the other side of the table sat Robb, Sansa, and Jon, their uncles pacing the floor nervously and Lady Catelyn standing beside the window, her eyes sweeping over the rain-drenched landscape as though preparing for battle. Ever since the siege on Riverrun she had not found herself free from worry. She often sent out scouts to parole the land and report back anything they had deemed suspicious, standing beside windows or doors so that she would be first to see any movement of enemy troops. She would not be taken off guards again. She would not lose any more of her children.

Robb bought forth the news that Sansa’s letters had been answered, holding out the parchment for her to take. She held her breath as she read, her eyes scanning the parchment in such great anxiety that it was a few minutes before she realized her stomach was so tightly clenched it was beginning to ache.

Prince Doran wrote to tell her that he had heard no news of the youngest Stark girl but promised that he would send word if that were to change. He also enclosed word of Lord Oberyn of Dorne, who had recently traveled to the Capital and had been able to look about the city for Arya. But again they had come up short.

The second letter bore the golden rose of House Tyrell, the signature at the bottom more than familiar to Sansa after she had exchanged correspondence with Willas Tyrell the previous months. But again his words held little consequence, as there was still no news of Arya.

Sansa felt a gathering twist of nervousness in her belly that signaled her growing belief that Arya truly was betrothed to Ramsay Bolton. She remembered how the perversions of the men of King’s Landing had made Lord Baelish rich. She remembered the way that Baelish had always seemed to know the preoccupations and debaucheries of so many men, many of whom had taken occupancy in Littlefinger’s brothels.

“He has many women.” Baelish had said, whispered to her the truth of Lord Roose’s son, the bastard boy with an insatiable taste for blood.

Sansa had frowned, her fingers twisting nervously in the skirt of her gown. “What does he do with them?” she had breathed, eyes blanched wide with shock.

She felt foolish now, remembering the memories of what a naïve thing she had been before the Kingdom had corrupted her. Baelish had chuckled softly, though the look in his eye had been far from placating. “Sweetling, men think about two things and two alone. Women and power. And you cannot think of one without the other.”

Her face had burned. She had been sure that Petyr was wrong. That the majority of men were not as depraved and mad as he had lead her to believe. She had thought of her father, who had always kissed her mother’s hand and held her in his arms as they slept, of Jon, who had blushed furiously when he had professed to Sansa that one of the kitchen maids had tried to lift her dress for him, even of Robb who was too shy even to kiss Jeyne Poole, despite her obvious affections for him.

Sansa had waited a few days to prod him further. She was curious to learn more about the boy who had pledged himself to Robb’s cause without arousing Littlefinger’s suspicious, for despite his allegiance to her mother Sansa knew that Petyr had the ear of Tywin Lannister. She need not give Joffrey or Ser Meryn Trant another reason to drag her to her knees.

Petyr had raised his eyebrows at her when she asked the truth of Ramsay, the expression on his face obviously wary. “They say he has a taste for human flesh.” He had said finally, both the words he spoke and the tone of his voice making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “As for his women...” he had trailed off. “Your father would not approve of me telling you such things.”

But my father is not here, she had thought bitterly, the looming threat of Ser Illyn Payne’s sword making her throat tight. He is dead and soon I will be too.

Sansa looked up at the man, making sure her bottom lip trembled just slightly to show whatever false fear she bore. It was the first of many lessons Sansa had mastered during her time in King’s Landing. It had, at first, been a struggle to maintain the King’s attentions in a city filled with so many fawning women. It was only a few months of studying the Queen Regent and Lady Margaery that Sansa learned what she must do and like a flautist charming a snake the practice had caused Joffrey to come to her. It was a practice she repeated then for Lord Baelish.

The wariness had waned from his face at once and he had turned his attentions once more to the topic, professing everything about the Bastard of Bolton from bedchamber dalliances to soap preferences. It made Sansa’s toes curl to think of this now, imagining her sister as one of the girls tied to his bedposts.

Sitting beside her brother at the long chamber table she felt her eyes grow glossy with tears, bile churning in her belly at the idea of Arya wed to such a monster.

From beside the queen Ser Jorah Mormont looked uneasy, his thumbs dug into the swordbelt at his waist. “What news comes, m’lady?” he asked, his dark eyes staring down at her as though attempting to read her mind.

Sansa was taken by surprise, looking up at the man. He was more than foreign to her, the only connection she held to him being the proximity of Bear Island to Winterfell. He was a knight and had yet traded his armour for the loose yellow tunic that clung to his broad chest with the sheen of sweat that swept across his skin from his close proximity to the flickering fireplace.

She wondered how he had come to be among Khal Drogo’s Khalisar instead of remaining in the North to marry another High Lady and siring the children that would later rule Bear Island.

“My sister…” she began. Her voice quavered. “She has been found and is intended to marry Lord Ramsay Bolton.”

Lord Bryden scoffed. “Another Lannister ploy, no doubt.”

Sansa agreed. “By marrying Arya to Lord Bolton they would cement the Bolton army to their cause.”

Dany frowned. “Have you any idea when this marriage is to take place?” she asked. Sansa felt foolish for not having realized sooner that Dany too had been the victim of an arranged marriage, both to Khal Drogo and another attempt to a Meereenese lord.

Sansa shook her head. “Word came only a fortnight before to say that she is being transported back to Winterfell.”

The words made her feel hollow and empty. Back to Winterfell, something she had desired for as long as she could remember, something she and Jon had only been able to whisper about when they were sure they were alone. Now it only sickened her. Arya would return to a city no longer hers, to a castle that had been burned and broken and laid siege upon. She would be without father, without brothers, trapped with a man who it was whispered had taken to hunting women for sport.

“We must do something then.” Said Daenerys.

Sansa’s eyes lifted suddenly. She wondered if she had not been paying attention to previous conversation, for this sentiment seemed more than surprising. Dany was not cruel, far from it in fact. She was kind and understanding of her men, stopping to rest them long and often, offering water and food and kind words of encouragement. But to think that she would care, even the slightest, about Arya’s fate…

Sansa shook her head. “We cannot spare the men. We won’t be able to…” she licked her lips, unable to say the words that made her stomach roil. Save her.

Jorah leaned forward, crossing his arms over his burly chest. She expected him to agree with her, to say that they could not separate their men, could not deviate from the cause that was most important. But instead he spoke as nonchalantly as one asking about the weather, “then I will go.”

Silence stretched between them. She could feel the looks of surprise being exchanged, around her. Robb’s leg had ceased bouncing with the nervousness he felt. Jon’s hand had taken hers long ago, but now suddenly felt still.

“The Queen needs you at her side.” Sansa protested. “You are her Hand.”

A smile flickered over his lips. “That is a name I’ve not heard in years.” He said. “And never in reference to me. But Jon and Daenerys are Qoy Qoyi. Blood of my blood, as the Dothraki say. And if I am Hand of the Queen and you are Jon’s wife, we too are blood of the same blood.”

A flicker of a smile came over Robb’s lips. “Ser Jorah, my father spoke highly of yours. And of you. He said the men of Bear Island were worth six of any other knight.”

“He was a good man.” said Jorah, his eyes dark. His cheeks flushed, the consequent straightening of his spine showing his pride. “What happened to him was…”

Sansa hardened herself, her eyes finding sudden interest in the cracks in the wooden table and the untouched food she had been pushing around her plate. On the other side of the room Lady Catelyn clutched tighter to the braided collar of her gown, her face having gone devoid of colour. Seeing the reaction his words had caused Ser Jorah made no attempt to continue but his words hung in the air like smoke, hollow and empty and making her hands ball into fists beneath the table. Her fingernails bit into her palms and as though the pain brought her back to earth she made to speak, only to find Ser Jorah was on his feet.

He spoke to Dany, kneeling at her side. “Khaleesi, if I have your leave to go.”

Dany smiled softly and reached up to twist her fingers through his. “You need not ask, Ser Jorah.” Said she. “You must do what must be done.”

A pair of short legs stepped forward, a voice almost sheepish as it spoke. “I will go as well.” Said Tyrion Lannister. All eyes fell upon him. “Your family has done much for me. It is time that I returned their kindness.”

“It is dangerous, Lord Tyrion.” Robb protested.

Tyrion shook his head, staring back at them through mismatched eyes. “So be it.”

Chapter Text

XVIII

As Sansa watched Jorah and Tyrion depart from Riverrun she could not felt but feel sickness swell in her belly. With them they had taken only six other knights as Jorah promised that a smaller party would better be able to maneuver through the Northern terrain and avoid detection. She supposed he was correct, though if she had her way she would lay a siege of ten thousand men and drag Ramsay Bolton from Winterfell by the fat of his neck.

“Be safe.” She had made Tyrion promise, when they had been swathed in the darkness of night, illuminated only by the light of a single torch. She clutched her small blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering in the cold air that rose in Riverrun after sundown.

Tyrion smiled confidently, his short fingers rising to take her hand. “I promise, my lady. It would be foolish to safely escape King’s Landing only to be killed by a bastard boy.” He squeezed her fingers and offered his best, most regal bow.

“I will not ever begin to repay what you are doing.” Said Lady Catelyn. Her hair was braided loosely, the auburn hairs that had been pulled free by the wind tickling her face. Her eyes glowed in the darkness, glassy with the tears she held precariously at bay. “Ser Jorah, Ser Tyrion. I can only try to express my gratitude.”

“My lady…” he began, shifting on the balls of his feet. His sword swung at his side, slapping lightly against the flat of his thigh with each step. Ser Jorah’s bottom lip tightened, the words he wished to say unable to break forth.

Knowing this, Lady Catelyn smiled softly and took their hands in hers. Sansa watched as her mother sank delicately to her knees and bowed her head to them, the frayed end of her crimson braid sweeping across the tiled floor. She retained the position for several seconds, holding tightly to their hands, her gratitude apparent without even a single word.

Jorah Mormont, the greatest fighter Bear Island had to offer, whose hands were callused by thousands of sword strokes, whose face was hardened and knowing, looked suddenly sheepish. At his other side Tyrion looked shocked by the gesture. Sansa remembered the years he had been spurned by his very own family, treated like an outsider by Cersei, disdained by Tywin. The only person who had treated him with even a semblance of dignity was Jaime, who had disappeared after escaping Robb’s camp nearly a year before.

And with chests puffed with pride and backs drawn straight and rigid the two men departed, their horses kicking up clouds of dirt and mud as they cantered forward. Sansa and Catelyn watched as they disappeared across the bridge, twin figures made smaller and smaller by the distance, until they were gone altogether, nothing but their memories to secede them.

For many weeks it felt as though Sansa was merely floating in a sea of appeasement. In the back of her mind she knew she had been a fool to think that as soon as the Dragon Queen arrived in the Seven Kingdoms her armies would lay siege upon King’s Landing, sweeping away every Lannister knight until Cersei Lannister could be dragged out by her thin, pale throat.

The anticipation in the air was colorable. Each day as Sansa walked amongst the grounds of Riverrun she could feel the eyes of a thousand knights on her back, watching, waiting, as though expecting her to command them to march at any moment.

The Unsullied had taken residence in the thick wood beside Riverrun and the grounds around the castle, intermingling with the Tully and Stark knights until they could almost not be told apart, save the distinct uniform they wore. They were fearsome fighters, the grunts and shouts of pain coming from their training barracks able to be heard even from miles away.

Sansa had taken to watching them during their afternoon sessions. She was amazed by their agility, the long, curved spears they wielded as fluid and swift as though the weapons were an extension of their own arms.

She ached to find a weapon of her own, to take hold of a spare bow or an unheld sword and strike at the training dummies that hung from frayed ropes. Her bloodlust frightened her, the desire to run into the thick of battle and strike down any enemy knight so unlike the teachings she had learned as a girl that it made her feel uneasy.

She wondered what Septa Mordane might say, the woman having instilled the lesson that a woman’s weapon are her words. And Cersei Lannister…the golden lioness had promised that a woman’s best weapon was between her legs. Sansa could have scoffed now, wondering if what was between Cersei’s legs had destroyed the Great Sept of Baelor.

She dare only share the thought with Jon. In the darkness she was emboldened, her head resting upon her sleeping husband’s rising chest, her fingers tracing lightly against the smattering of hair that lay there. It was freeing to know they did not need to shelter themselves, for her to pretend to be shamed by him, as she had been forced to in King’s Landing.

Instead she could kiss him as long and often as she desired, tasting his lips carefully, as though desiring to memorize every crease in his skin, every scratch of his beard, every morsel of sweetness that remained on his lips from the red wine he had drunk.

He reached a hand to brush back through her hair, like strands of silk falling through his fingers. “It won’t be much longer.” Said he. She could see his face illuminated by the moonlight that streaked in through the window. His thumb brushed lightly against her cheek, his callused skin making a shiver run down her back.

She pressed her lips to his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath against her head. “I’m scared.” Sansa whispered. It was nothing she had dare say aloud in front of any other. She had pushed it back to the recesses of her mind, far and dark, to the cold place where all her thoughts of fright and dread remained.

At times she could not even think of it. But it bubbled up regardless, surfacing in dreams and nightmares, the images of her family slaughtered by the Lannisters. Robb and Jon thrown to their knees and beheaded as their father had once been, Dany hanged by a length of frayed rope, Lady Catelyn sent to the Sept to become a septa, Sansa and Arya sold off to some stuffy old lords to be laid down and fucked until they bore enough children to become no longer useful. It made her sick just to think of it.

Jon lifted his head to kiss her temple, “Do not be.”

Their legs had become a tangled cord beneath the heavy furs laid across their feather bed. Sansa’s bare chest pressed to Jon’s, the cold unable to penetrate the warmth the flickering fireplace had created in the dark chamber. Outside the window they could hear the dull hum of conversation from the knights on the moors below, hundreds of tended fires casting the side of the castle in dancing orange light.

“I will not go back to them.” She said, her voice quavering despite the nerve she wished to show. She could feel her stomach tighten, trembling beneath the arm Jon had settled around her. “If we…I won’t go back alive.”

A look flickered across Jon’s face before being quickly replaced with a look that bore the confidence he was trying to exude. “Do not think such a thing, my love.” he whispered. His breath tickled across her face as he pulled her closer, pushing himself on his elbows so he was on eye level with her. “I have seen what Dany can do. The Lannisters will not be able to stop her.”

Sansa smiled. “I know.” She said. “It’s a foolish thought.”

“Nonsense, love.” said he. “After what they did to us…it’s only natural to be afraid.”

But they both knew it would not be much longer now. After so long laying plans there was no margin for error, especially not with the insights of both Tyrion and Sansa to counteract every trap the Lannisters might lay.

Sansa awoke to find Jon milling about the room, dressing quickly, his fingers hurried as they did up the short laces of his breeches. He kneeled before the side of the bed, the hand he placed on her back shaking her softly awake. The room, still cast in darkness, gave Sansa no indication of how long had passed since she had fallen asleep, tired enough to fall into unconsciousness halfway through the conversation she and Jon had been carrying.

“I have something to show you.” He said, trying to squash the smile that pulled at his lips.

She looked at him questioningly, rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, but from the excitement that flickered in his eyes she could tell it was important enough to drag herself out of the softness and warmth of their bed.

She danced toward the wardrobe, dragging the furs out of bed with her and wrapping them around her naked body like a cloak. The tile was like ice against her feet, the boots she slipped into a warm embrace against her cold toes. She dressed quickly and followed her husband down the long corridor, wondering what mischievousness he had gotten up to.

“Where are we-“ she stopped abruptly, her feet following her words.

She stood still as a reed, frozen in time, watching as Jon continued on a few paces before stopping, realizing her footsteps had fallen out of step with his. She had finally grasped where they were headed. “Jon are we…” she trailed off.

He took her hand tenuously and led her forward. They passed through a sea of trees that the darkness had caused to more resemble oblong creatures than leaves and branches. She could hear a long, low growl somewhere in the distance and her hand tightened around Jon’s, feeling his lack of hesitation as he pulled her after him.

Stepping into a clearing in the wood Sansa realized that before she had even seen the beast, she could smell him. The air was perfumed by the smell of burned wood and wet earth. It was almost summery, despite the icy rain that fell around them, and the deep silence was punctuated by the hammering of her heart and the low rumbling growl that came from him.

The air in the clearing was uncomfortably warm, the moisture usually present in the air having disappeared from one step to the next. Sansa tucked her hair behind her ear, wishing she were able to make herself as small as a hare so she could not be seen.

“W-which one is he?” she asked, her voice that of a quavering fool.

Jon stood a few steps ahead and smiled at her over his shoulder. “He’s called Rhaegal.” His hand had come to rest upon the dragon’s hide, as comfortable and familiar as if he had done it half a hundred times. “After my father.”

The dragon had turned to look at them, its eyes lazing languidly over Jon before settling on her form. Perhaps it could sense her trepidation, the way her feet were rooted to the earth and the nails of her fisted hands bit into her palms. She had not been afraid…not before. Not when Rhaegal had been miles away and its attentions had been focused on another. But now…

The beast was as perhaps as large as a cargo ship and though its wing were folded carefully to its back Sansa found they were far more translucent than she would have guessed, shimmering weakly in the moonlight. She was nervous at how close Jon was standing, thinking that if Rhaegal were to snap his jaws once Jon would disappear within them.

He offered his hand to her, hoping to draw her forward. She knew that he would not have brought her here if he was not sure of the dragons’ temperament and she found herself taking a querulous step forward.

Jon lifted her hand in his own and placed it upon the dragon’s back. Placing her fingers down she had expected to find the scales cold or wet but found neither, the dull, throbbing heat of flame having caused the scales to come alight with warmth. It was not uncomfortable to stand this way, pressed comfortably between the dragon and her husband, their hands quietly petting the beast as they had once done to their wolves.

“Come now.” Jon uttered. She could feel his free hand come to rest upon the slope of her him. It was a small comfort to have him pressed against her, whispering small, comforting words into the offered shell of her ear.

Sansa tore her eyes from Rhaegal’s to turn to Jon, shocked by him. “You cannot mean…”

“I can.” He promised.

His fingers pulled through hers, urging her to follow as they watched Rhaegal curl low to the earth with a deep growl, the hair on the back of her neck coming to stand on end. “J-Jon…” she entreated, clutching to his arm in a vain attempt to pull him backward.

“Sansa.” He whispered. The way he said her name made her shiver, his dark eyes sweeping down her face to hold unflinchingly on her lips. Soon his mouth had found hers in the darkness and he claimed her nervousness as his own, the tightness of their embrace making it so that he was able to feel every breath and every shiver that raked through her body. “I-“

Sansa was unable to bring herself to relinquish his lips and her words were muffled by his own mouth. “I know.” She promised. “I know.”

Jon offered a hand to help her onto Rhaegal’s back as easily as he might have help her into the saddle of a riding mare before he joined her on the dragon’s back. His legs had fallen to rest against the backs of hers, one of his arms curling to wrap around her waist, holding them tightly together. Her body had gone taut as a stretched bowstring; so rigid against his own that even without words he could sense her discomfort, leaning forward to whisper words of comfort into her ear.

She could feel the rise and fall of its breath against her as she pressed herself to the flat of the dragon’s back. Her hands closed around the long spiked horns that lined the dragons back as though they were the horn of a saddle and she pulled herself forward until her legs fell between the dip of the dragon’s shoulder joints, finding security in the tightness of the fit between Jon and Rhaegal.

She was glad for the cloak she had donned for from the moment Rhaegal vaulted onto his crouched legs and into the air she could feel the sharp, biting wind whip at every inch of her not covered in cloth. Her hair had come loose from its braid, prickling her neck as it swept across Jon’s face.

Sansa let out a strangled gasp and flattened herself against the dragon as she watched the landscape below fall away, the hand she grasped held as tightly as though it were the only thing keeping her tethered to Rhaegal’s back.

For a moment he was worried, afraid that she was too frightened to enjoy the beauty that was the view of Riverrun from Rhaegal’s back. The first time he had been called upon the dragon’s back it had taken his breath away. Every person had seemed so small and every star so large. Even the hoards of Dothraki who gathered upon the moors of the city were no larger than the small of his nail. The moon had been as large as he had ever seen it, cast in a ghostly yellow light from the still setting sun, and he had been so close that Jon had been sure that if he just reached out a hand he would be able to touch it.

But it was not long before Sansa’s raking shivers had turned to cheers and hollers. She lifted her head high, letting the cool wind rush across her face and blow back her hair. The tightness in her shoulders had given, the rigidity of her posture released until she was as cool and collected as Daenerys herself. But she was not a fool, her hands staying as tightly grasped around Rhaegal’s scales as they had first been.

It was a relief to him, the fact that Daenerys had even offered him a ride upon her Drogon’s back the only secret he had ever kept from his wife. And when he had been given the opportunity to take to the back of Rhaegal…it had floored him. The connection with the dragon had been instantaneous, present from the very first moment that their eyes had set upon each other. It had not been since Ghost that Jon had so fully connected to another beast and while he had no such strength as a warg he was able to communicate in silence with the dragon, calling it forth or setting it out, asking silently if he may ride the dragon this day.

Sansa turned her head to look at him and her face was so beautifully illuminated in happiness and moonlight that it brought a smile to his face as well. He had not seen a smile even flicker across her face in the weeks since Ser Jorah and his retinue had departed Riverrun, the worry she felt for Arya all-consuming in her life.

She felt free, looking back at Jon in pure pleasure. She nodded to him in a show of agreement, silently admonishing herself for having been so afraid and almost rejecting his offer. They moved faster than she ever had before, above the bustle of daily life and the chaos that had enveloped Riverrun since the arrival of Daenerys’ arrival. Sansa knew that they could not be stopped, not by anyone. She could not wait to see the look upon Cersei Lannister’s face when Daenerys struck down the door of the Red Keep and stormed within.

When the time came to return Sansa did poorly to hide her disappointment, cheering only when Jon promised they would ride again soon. Jon and Sansa curled together in the barely drawn sunlight. Dawn broke on the far side of the city, the sun barely visible through the brush of trees around where Rhaegal had landed. The dragon had sprawled across the dewy grass, tired from so long in the air, and without turning to look Sansa knew he had fallen into slumber.

“Thank you, Jon.” she said, pressing his cold hands to her steadily beating heart. She reached to press a light kiss to his cheek, the position of her lips just barely grazing the corner of his mouth, as forbidden and tempting as they stolen kisses had once been. “You always can…” she licked her lips, looking suddenly sheepish. “Thank you.”

He brushed his lips across her knuckles, pressing a long kiss to her open palm. “Sweet girl,” he whispered. “You deserve every pleasure at your disposal.”

*********

A knock sounded through the room, making Sansa jump and messily scratch a line across the parchment she had been signing. “Apologies, my lady.” said the blue clad servant who had appeared in the doorway. He bowed dutifully as he entered the room but his face had gone pale, awash of any emotion except shock.

A knife of icy-hot nervousness pierced Sansa’s chest and she was on her feet before she could even bid he continue. At once every horrible thought had pushed its way through her head. Death, destruction, sacking of cities, forced marriage. She feared that Ser Jorah had been too late to save Arya, that the Lannister’s had sent their army marching north from Lannisport, that her brother had been thrown from his horse as he had once when they had been children, that the sadness and pain in her mother’s heart had finally overpowered her. It made her sick, every thought of torment and heartache pushing in and out of her mind in the space of a moment.

The servant continued, his dark eyes unblinkingly firm on her own. “Lord Robb wishes now to tell you that Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion have been seen in Wendish Town days ago. A raven has come now to warn of their arrival in the city.”

The urgency in his voice galvanized her and she pushing herself from the desk, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. Sansa had kicked off her shoes long before and dare not waste any time in searching for them now, her bare feet padding across the cold tile jarringly.

It was a moment she had so long awaited that she dare not be taken aback by the fact that her brother had not informed her of their arrival in Wendish Town. Sansa had spent so many hours compulsively searching the horizon that she was sure that her eyes had memorized every crack and crevice in the end of the bridge where she had last seen the heads of Tyrion and Ser Jorah disappear. The sunrise and sunset of each day was spent at her window, watching, waiting, worried.

The excitement in the castle was palpable. Sansa could feel the thrill and fear in the air as she swept across the long corridor, finding it was a struggle to keep the pace of the guiding servant. Half a hundred servants had gathered around the open hall windows, the thrill of battle having been communicated as though it had been they who had faced the Bolton army.

Robb and Edemure Tully had taken their places in the atrium of the castle and as Sansa skidded to a halt beside them she wondered if her mother had yet to hear the news. The rain that had plagued Riverrun for the previous days had given way to blind humidity, the moisture in the air so thick that it was nearly tangible.

At once Sansa could feel her gown begin to cling to her back like unsalted ink on aging parchment, the silk dotted with the same beads of syrupy sweat that worked at her brow. She pressed a hand to her trembling belly in an attempt to calm herself but found she was unable, knowing every second that Arya was growing closer.

Sansa could still remember the last time she had seen the youngest she-wolf of Winterfell, the moment burned into her memory as the day King Joffrey had ordered every member of the Stark’s retinue slaughtered like inutile cattle. The girl had escaped the Red Keep, much to Sansa’s delight and Joffrey’s disdain. He had sent a thousand guards to search for her, looking through every flat, every building, every catacomb in King’s Landing, only to come up with nothing. It had pleased Sansa at the time, knowing that the Lannisters would not be able to sink their claws into another Stark. And yet when no news had come of her Sansa had feared the worst.

Her hands twisted in her skirts, waiting for the moment when her sister would be returned to their arms. She feared they would never release her again, not after so long. Lady Catelyn pushed through the double doors of the castle with a jarring crash and ran through them, her skirts a tangle around her ankles, her chest heaving from running down the long corridors in search of her daughter. She let out a raking breath as she came to stand beside Sansa, her bottom lip raw from where she had nervously sunk her teeth into it. On their other side stood Jon, his face pale and ashen, as visibly nervous as Sansa felt.

It felt as though hours passed while they awaited the small party. The heat had their way with them, leaving them sweating and panting and blinded by the white light of the sun. Yet Sansa would not budge. Even if a battle had broken out she would not have moved from where she had planted her feet.

She had been such a fool to act so callously toward Arya. She had been so blinded by Lannister beauty that she had spurned her own family, her own blood. She had chosen Joffrey over Arya. It had been her fault that Lady had been killed and Nymeria forced to escape the city. Arya would never forgiven her and Sansa did not blamed the girl, even now having never forgiven herself for such unkind behaviour. It was Robb that caught sight of their approaching horses and called out a warning, rousing Sansa from the memories that had engulfed her so vastly.

Ser Jorah rode at the head of the party. Sansa was not sure why she had thought the man would have changed in appearance, for he looked no different than he did the moment he had departed from Riverrun- though now his beard was unshorn and his tunic soaked with dewy moisture. Sansa held her breath, eyes searching for the second man she had bidden goodbye to and with a breath of relief she caught sight of Lord Tyrion on a brown mare, the handcrafted saddle familiar to her shrewd eyes.

She rushed forward without even a second thought, her bare feet plashing through the heaps of wet earth that the storms had unearthed. Sansa counted the men, counted the bodies, counted those who had departed the city in search of Arya Stark, and found the party was whole. She felt her stomach roil, wondering if they had been able to breech the Northern city.

“My lady.” Ser Jorah bowed, descending his saddle easily.

His face was grim and Sansa found feel her knees begin to weaken beneath her. They had failed. They had not found her. Perhaps Lord Bolton had already slayed the Stark girl. Perhaps it had all been a foul rumour and Arya had never returned to Winterfell to begin with.

“Have you…” Robb asked tentatively. He had come to stand beside Sansa and she was thankful for the arm he placed around her waist, cementing her shuddering form against his own. The King in the North swallowed hard. “Have you found her?”

“Aye.” said the banished knight. He turned at the waist to look behind him and Sansa was drawn by the sudden movement at his back. A Tully knight was helping a small figure out of the saddle they had previously shared. Beneath a powdery blue cloak the woman’s shape was noticeable at once and Sansa felt gutted at the notion that Arya had become a woman without the guidance of mother or father.

A hood had been drawn far over her head, the fabric waving in the whipping wind as she limped forward. Her gait proved her struggle, her right leg lagging behind, as though no longer under the control of her body. Catelyn let out a quaking breath at the sight, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sob that had sprung forth.

They were not able to speak at first, so petrified by the sight that all words had frozen in their mouths. “A-Arya?” Sansa called. She ached for the wind to blow back her hood and reveal the face to which the limping body belonged. What must Arya look like now? Their father had always told that the youngest Stark resembled his sister Lyanna, and now Sansa’s mind flashed to picture the ageing statue in the crypts of Winterfell.

Returned the hooded figure, “Yes.”

The cloaked woman lifted a hand to push back her hood and they could make out the criss-cross of multiple scars that the back of her hand bore. The sight made Lady Catelyn faint, even in the arms of her brother.

Arya pushed aside the hood of her cloak and at once Sansa could feel every eye in Riverrun was upon the girl. The tip of her long nose had become blackened by the frost of the North, whatever care the Bolton’s had promised her not proving well enough. With trimmed brown hair, eyes large and brown, and parted, pink lips she might have been Arya Stark. But Sansa knew better.

Sansa swayed on her feet, the sight before her had become suddenly blurred by the tears that swam in her eyes. Sweat beaded at her brow, the hand she reached to wipe it away trembling ferociously.

“Sansa?” Robb whispered. His breath was warm and sweet, but his voice seemed further away than was possible for a man who stood so close.

“The…” she breathed. Her voice was barely audible over the moan of wind through the trees surrounding them. Jon had stepped forward to take her other arm, the set of his brow showing his confusion and concern. “The steward’s daughter.”

Robb’s arm had tightened around her until his grip had grown painful against her waist. She opened her mouth to protest but found that her legs had given way beneath her, the only thing keeping her from sprawling across the muddy earth being the arms of her brothers. Her head seemed to have grown to the weight of twenty stone and while her lips parted to take a large breath she could not seem to find any air. Her eyes pressed weakly closed, the last sight before her being that of the old steward’s daughter, Jeyne Poole. 

Chapter Text

XIX

Robb Stark watched uneasily as Jon paced, thinking that the soles of his boots could easily wear thin the crimson carpet stretched over the cold marble tile. The half muffled sound echoed through the room, every step like a piercing knife in Robb’s sore head. The King in the North had taken to the armchair beside the yawning fire, knowing that at any other time the fire’s warmth and the chair’s comfort paired with the overwhelming fatigue that tickled the backs of his eyes might make for a pleasurable nap. But he could not sleep now.

It had been less than an hour since Jon had hurried through the castle halls with his unconscious wife in his arms, laying her upon the feather-stuffed mattress that filled the Maester’s apartments. The Maester had tended to her at once, throwing down the texts and parchments he had been carrying and hurrying to her side. A cold-water drench cloth was laid across her warm brow and a blanket pulled up to her chin before he set about to poking and prodding about her, testing things Jon did not know.

Jon turned, too anxious to take the seat that had been offered, beginning instead to pace across the room. Lady Catelyn watched him, thinking as he paced that with his face cast in the flickering darkness of the Maester’s chamber, his arms folded behind his back, and his lips drawn thin with worry he looked so much like her late husband that it might have been startling had her mind not been so completely occupied with thoughts of her daughters.

Sansa had swayed so suddenly that Robb had barely been able to steady her before she collapsed. Her face had been awash of colour, her Tully blue eyes so hollow that it had cast a knife of pain through her mother’s chest.

And Arya…she almost could not bear to think of Arya. Whatever rumors might have surfaced about the girl had either been cruel falsehoods or the careful execution of a plan that would have had Robb falling into a trap had he returned to Winterfell to claim the girl. Most like Roose Bolton had schemed up such a thing after he had departed so hastily from Robb’s camps with nearly two hundred of Robb’s men. Even now the mere thought of it made his spine tingle with fury.

On the other side of the atrium Robb could still feel the warmth of her body against his, reminded of the fever she had taken when the ship from King’s Landing had first arrived in the Riverlands. He had sat beside her for days, fearing the worst, fearing that she would never again open her eyes. Each time she had seemed so small, exhaling shallow breaths, her arms curled around herself in a half embrace.

The marble pillars echoed the sound of the Maester’s door scraping open and at once they were on their feet. The Maester shuffled out of his chambers, looking dour, and at once Catelyn’s heart seemed to grow so heavy that she could barely stand, leaning against the tall pillar for support.

“She is well.” He said quickly, upon seeing the looks on their faces. “Resting now, but well. As for her fainting spell I cannot say. Perhaps the heat and the rain caused her to fall ill. Has she slept?”

Jon shook his head. She had been consumed with her correspondence, spending each day and night worrying about the return of blank letters and bad news. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was still wet with the remanence of the rain that he had stood under earlier, as they had awaited the arrival of the false Arya.

“Not easily.” Jon responded.

The Maester stepped closer and lowered his voice. “May I speak with you privately?”

Jon nodded, the weight in his belly only growing. His voice was grave as he replied, “of course.”

Once behind the closed door of the chamber Jon could see Sansa laid gently across the bed in the chamber, a light cotton blanket lifted to her chin, and a cold cloth across her brow. She looked as peaceful as the Maester had promised, no sight of pain or discomfort on her face.

The air was heavy with the smoke of burning incense; the half burned sage and lavender pods that turned to ash in the thurible beside the door filling the thick air with sweetness. The window had been propped slightly open, the cool, earthy air swirling around the room and filling his nose with the smells of summer.

“What is it, ser?” Jon questioned. Nervousness clawed at his belly, knowing whatever the Maester would tell him would not be easy to hear. “Is she…”

“When is the last time she bore her moon’s blood?” he asked.

Jon frowned, unsure of where the man was headed. “I’m…not quite sure. Perhaps more than a month.”

“And eating? Has she eaten more or less often than what was usual?”

Jon was raked over with guilt, realizing he had been so occupied with the plans he and Dany had been drawing up and Sansa with her correspondence that they had so rarely spent time together during the sunlit days. It was only at night that they retired peacefully to their shared chamber and lay together in their marriage bed, whispering about the ways they had spent their days and the conversations that had been had.

“I think not.” He said, running his hands over his tired face. “With all that has been going on…she has found less interest in food.”

The Maester nodded ponderously before turning back to Jon, setting down the parchment he had been collecting into a stack. Bluntly he began to speak, “Lady Sansa has fallen with child, no doubt. I am unable to feel the movement of the babe yet so it is likely to be no more than a month, mayhap two.” He said. “From what you have told and what I have heard from her ladies in waiting I think that she has not been taking care of the child, nor herself. Even if she takes no pleasure in food she must eat. And sleep she must, or she will fall all the more ill.”

Jon sunk into a seat that had formerly been occupied by a large, grayish lizard that scuttled away as soon as he moved toward the seat. A child. If his wife had not been laying lifelessly mere feet from him he might have smiled. Even when he had been no older than a child he had desired his own babe, boy or girl he cared not. And with Sansa. In his mind the child was an amalgam of them both, with dark, curling hair and Tully blue eyes or crimson locks and the lanky figure they had both bore as children.

“But she…” he began, almost afraid to hear the answer. “Will she…”

“She is well.” He assured.

He heard a soft sigh and turned back to his wife, finding her struggling to sit up but being weighed down by the blankets and her own bodily weakness. “Sansa.” He whispered, kneeling at her bedside and brushing the wet hair from her brow.

“Jon?” she whispered, a flicker of confusion crossing over her face. She looked around. “Where are we?”

“You fainted, love.” he replied, bursting with the desire to tell her the news. He stroked her cold fingers tenderly, brushing his lips across them. “But you are well.”

“Fainted?” she repeated, “but I…I was…I was not feeling ill.”

“You’re weak now, love.” he continued. Her brow was beaded with small jewels of sweat and her cheeks had grown ruddy from the heat in the empty chamber. Jon looked over his shoulder but found the Maester had disappeared, leaving the moment of celebration to be a private one. “Because…of the baby.”

“The…the baby?” she repeated, disoriented. “What baby?”

“Our baby.”

“Our baby.” She repeated, as though testing out the words on her tongue. She tried to sit up again and this time, with Jon to assist her, she succeeded, looking into his eyes with her own wide ones. “Our…our baby?” she said. “We have…a baby?”

Jon rested a hand on the center of her belly. Beneath the balled cotton of her gown he could feel the ever so slight indentation of a raised belly and felt at once stupid for not having realized sooner. However thin and willowy she still remained it was clear that she had fallen with child.

Sansa’s eyes followed his hand, looking down with brows furrowed. For a moment Jon was gutted as he thought that she was not as enthusiastic as he at the prospect of such good news. With each second that passed she looked more and more alive, the pallidity of her face filling slowly with colour, the bright apples of her cheeks lessening to a soft, glowing pink. “A baby.” She repeated again. “A baby. A baby.”

“A baby.” Jon grinned.

A smile dawned slowly over her face, bringing with it all the joy and happiness of the girl that had once lived in Winterfell, sweet and naïve and full of heart. She seemed at once younger, less bogged down by the cruelty she had endured over the years and the sadness she had felt.

“A baby!” she shouted, her voice breaking with her sudden loudness. Her arms were at once thrown about his neck, pulling him down until they lay torso to torso, cheek to cheek, lip to lip, warm and soft and bursting with sheer contentment.

“I have not bled this month.” She said. “I didn’t think…I mean I thought that…Old Nan always warned that stress was poison to a lady. I thought that all of it had…what did the maester say?”

“He could not feel the babe yet.” said Jon. “So he said it must be one or two months, so far healthy and sound.”

“Do you think it a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t care.” He professed, kissing her fingers. “A boy or a girl I do not care. I will love it every way known, and perhaps a few more not yet discovered.”

Sansa grinned again; her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. It was so different from what Joffrey had once told her. He had said that when they were married she would bear him a son or he would throw the baby from the tallest tower in the Red Keep and come to her bed each night until she birthed a son. It had barely been three days since she had bled for the first time, a girl barely twelve winters with pain in her belly and tears in her eyes. Her only regret since leaving King’s Landing was not being able to spit on the King’s lifeless body.

“I love you.” She whispered, kissing every part of his face she could comfortably reach.

“I love you, m’lady.” Jon returned, kissing her deeply.

Before she as allowed to leave the Maester’s apartments Sansa was forced to promise the man that she would spend the rest of the day at ease, with little excitement and lots of food. Confined to her bed for the rest of the day Sansa was lavished with kisses and kind words from everyone she came across, nearly every servant fighting over themselves to be able to wait hand and foot upon her.

She was brought trays of lemon cakes from the kitchen maids, still warm and aromatic from the ovens, alongside flagons of squeezed juices and fresh boiled tea. Even a plate of stuffed chest pastries that she had not eaten since she was a girl sitting upon her father’s lap.

Sansa was visited by the entirety of her family, the people so quickly procuring blessings and gifts that Sansa began to suspect that had already known her condition. Edemure bashfully recited an old poem that his governess had once read to Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa when they were children, flushed deeply red and looking sheepish as he stood beside her bed and read from a sheet of parchment. Lord Tyrion brought fresh flowers from Riverrun’s forest, bright orange and violet and yellow, and set them in the empty vase beside the window bed.

After him came Daenerys, embracing Jon and Sansa as closely as though they had known each other since birth. She brought with her a vial of sweet-smelling oil that she had brought from Meereen, which she promised would be able to bless the child before it was born.

She pressed a kiss to Sansa’s temple and stroked her hair tenderly. “It shall be the most beloved child in the Seven Kingdoms.”

In the back of her mind Sansa had feared that her mother would not be as happy as they desired but as soon as Lady Catelyn had entered the chamber Sansa knew her fears were not well founded. She entered the room holding another tray of lemon cakes and a plate of sweet-roasted figs for Jon, a grin spreading across her face so wide that her cheeks had already begun to ache.

She enveloped Jon in a wide hug, Sansa realizing then that the news had spread like wildfire through the castle from the very moment that Sansa and Jon had left the Maester’s chamber.

Her eyes were misty and pink but her smile did not falter, even for a moment. “Your father-“ Catelyn swallowed the lump in her throat. “Would be so happy and so…so proud of you. Both of you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Said Jon, looking on the verge of tears himself. He looked abashed as he accepted her embrace, looking all at once blissfully peaceful. “I…I am proud to make you proud.”

A tear fell down her cheek, wiped away by trembling fingers. “Despite…despite my actions before I…” she took his hands and despite her discomfort did not break her eyes from his. “Jon, you always have made us proud and I...I’m so sorry to have made you felt like you did not.”

It was a few days before Sansa was once more free to move about the castle and attending the meetings of Robb’s small council, worried about what she had been missing. But before she had once more joined the meeting in the grand chamber she found herself turning down the long corridor that led to the east wing, her feet carrying her quickly before she would be able to convince them otherwise.

Her clenched fist came down upon the door in a firm knock, shifting awkwardly on the balls of her feet as she waited for the chamber’s occupant to bid she enter.

“Sansa.” Jeyne Poole said, her dark eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I…I wasn’t…”

Sansa nodded, almost unable to bear looking at the girl. She was so different from the friend she had left behind at Winterfell, the cruelty Jeyne had endured at the hand of their enemies so great that for a moment Sansa was glad to have been under Lannister control instead.

“I’m sorry I could not come sooner.” She replied. Awkwardness stretched between them, consuming each girl so completely that it was as though every thought in their heads had disappeared. It was almost like they had never before met. “Have you…” Sansa trailed off, trying to word her sentiment delicately. “Have you been attended by the Maester?”

Jeyne was almost unrecognizable. Her nose was long and thin and the tip had been burned black by the cold, her legs were spindly and whatever injury lay beneath her skirts had caused her to develop a hobbling limp. On the other side of her face her hair had grown long and unruly, covering a set of red-rimmed eyes, deep and dark with the bruises that showed her great fatigue.

“Yes.” Said Jeyne. She licked her lips and all at once burst out in tears loud enough to make Sansa take an automatic step back. “I-I’m sorry S-Sansa.” She said through half-stifled sobs. “They m-made me pretend to b-be her. To say that I was A-Arya. I didn’t want to b-but they m-made me.”

“Jeyne stop!” Sansa said, taking her into her arms. She could feel how truly thin she was from beneath her heavy gown, her shoulders bony and her arms digging into Sansa as she wrapped them around the other girl. “Please, there is no need to apologize.” She stroked her hair tenderly. “I know that you had to do it.”

“T-they made m-me.” Jeyne sobbed. Her wails ricocheted down the hall like a smooth stone against water. “They k-killed him and they s-said I would be n-next.”

“Who did?” Sansa asked, feeling white with rage. “Who killed whom?”

“Ramsay B-Bolton killed my…” she dissolved in a fit of maddening sobs and for a moment she could not speak. “My father. They k-killed him.” Sansa had not asked for anything more but the girl continued, as though speaking for the first time. “Ramsay f-fed him to the…to the…d-dogs when he w-wouldn’t swear his f-fealty to them.” she said. “And T-Theon…”

“Theon?” Sansa repeated, filled with whips of fury. “He let them do this to you?”

Jeyne looked up at her, eyes bloodied red and blinking away tears. “L-let them?” she repeated, as though confused. “R-Ramsay t-tortured him. H-he…he…he…he…” she repeated over and over, as though stuck in a phrase that drove her half mad. “He…he…”

Sansa shushed her softly, stroking her thin back and feeling the ridges and knobs of her weak spine. “Jeyne…” she whispered. “You don’t have to say anything else…hush now.”

Jeyne gripped her arms with a grip far tighter than Sansa would have guessed and pulled her head down until they were eye to eye. “R-Reek saved me. He h-helped me get away when those m-men came for me. Without him I w-would have…he w-would have h-hurt me again…”

Sansa bit back the tears that burned her eyes like flame and tightened her grip around the trembling girl. “Hush now, Jeyne.” She said. “You’ll be safe here, I promise. Nobody will hurt you here. I promise, Jeyne. I promise.”

By the time Sansa reached the small council she was nearly shaking with rage, her hands balled into fists at her side and her lips pressed into a thin white line. More than every she wanted to wrap her hands around Ramsay and drag him toward Jon and Robb and watch as the men carved him to bits. Better yet- she wanted to be the one who did the carving, the knife she carried with her seeming suddenly heavier against her thigh.

When Sansa relayed the tale to the council their faces were as grave and angry as hers, staring back at her in fury. “These men,” Dany began. “Who are they to you?”

“They were Stark bannermen.” Said Jon, spitting the emphasis like venom. “They swore fealty to Robb and during battle turned their swords and ran.”

“Where they later joined the cause of Tywin Lannister.” Robb finished. “It was under his command that they seized control of Winterfell and killed those who did not swear their fealty.”

“Oath breakers.” Growled Ser Jorah, saturnine. “They ought to hang for what they’ve done.”

“And they will.” Dany replied sternly. Her eyes were upon the map laid across the table, its unfurled edges held down by a series of mismatched objects, from candlesticks to a crystal paperweight.

Sansa had known that the Bolton’s had taken siege of Winterfell, but not even in the worst of her nightmares could she have imagined what they had done. And Theon…she wondered what had become of him now.

As thought reading her mind Robb’s frown deepened. “What news of Theon?” he asked.

Sansa shook her head. “Jeyne does not know what has become of him. Not after he helped her escape.”

Jon’s expression had turned sour. “Is it so important?” he asked bitterly. “He killed our brothers.”

Dany’s eyebrows rose sharply. “What?”

Robb was quick to relay the tale of the ward of Winterfell’s betrayal and the future queen’s expression remained calm, though her purple eyes flashed with coldness. “Lady Asha had offered a convoy of a thousand ships to aid my cause, in exchange for the right to rule the Iron Islands and the safe return of her brother.”

Robb licked his lip, frowning. “And did you accept?”

Dany nodded her head. “Lady Asha remained in Meereen with the majority of her craftsmen as they continued to build. I have not received word in many weeks but her last correspondence promised ten thousand pieces of armour and enough weapons to arm every man twice over.”

“And Theon?” Sansa asked quietly.

Each time his name was uttered she felt fury whip through her. His betrayal was absolute, nothing she could ever forgive. But the supplies were much needed, for despite Dany’s unsullied wielding the spears they carried with them from Essos their addition to Robb’s armies caused a widespread lack of armour and plate.

“I will keep my word.” Said Daenerys, resolute. Sansa’s heart churned. “However-“ she added, reading their dour expressions. “From what you have said…His treason is punishable before the crown.”