Chapter Text
Her lord husband touches her hand and urges her to eat. She doesn’t want to. What does she have left to live for with Mother and Robb now dead, their bodies desecrated? She is nearly alone in the world. Arya could be alive, somewhere, but it isn’t likely. The truth is either terrible or boring, and it seems only terrible truths are left to her now.
She spends hours on her knees in the godswood. She doesn’t pray, spending her stolen solitude thinking through her circumstances. There is no one left to fight for save herself, and she isn’t sure that’s a worthy enough reason to survive. What use is a stupid girl? Were she alive her lady mother would want her to. Father would. The dead have no desires.
Joffrey is as cruel as he is handsome. They call it the Red Wedding and have it reenacted in front of her. He searches her face for her pain but he finds none. It is no worse than her own imaginings. Here, there is laughter and wine. In her mind, there is only her mother’s cries and rasp of death, the splash as her body hits the river.
Later, she goes to the traitor’s walkway. None of the guards are here; she could just slip away if she wishes it. It is a long fall but shorter than the one from the broken tower at Winterfell. She could survive and be crippled, more at the Lannister’s mercy than ever, not even able to shift away when they hurt her. For a moment, she wonders if that would be better. Let them hurt her. Let them make her feel something other than this loss.
She sees Bran and Rickon’s burned bodies. Her father’s head cleaved from his. She could die here and now, and they would sing a song for her and her dear dead family. A song about the Lannisters’ dominance over their enemies. She cannot name this thing in her that lifts her jaw and stiffens her spine. She only knows that this is not how she wants to die: the last of her house, tossing herself off some wall in despair.
Her death will mean something, if only to herself.
She walks the halls of the keep. Ages ago, she was as she is now, unafraid and hopeful that she might see a blonde-haired Lannister. She is found by Joffrey after a time. She need not force her limbs to stop their trembling now. She lets herself shake before him and spares a glance at her guard as if in search of protection. There will be none, she knows.
“There you are, my lady,” he says, coming closer. “I’ve been looking for you. Now that your traitor father and brother are dead, I really think we ought to make amends, don’t you think?” He is within reach now and wastes no time touching her cheek, trailing a finger across her lips.
Her lips part of their own accord, and her tongue licks them wet. Softly, for his ears alone, she says, “All I’ve ever wanted was to please you, Your Grace.”
She wonders that he does not see it. But his lust-filled eyes are focused on her lips. His breath catches. Then, he takes her hand and puts it in the crook of his elbow. “And I did promise you a Lannister baby. I doubt my uncle can perform the task, small as he is.” He laughs at his own jape.
She does her best to look pleased and grateful as they walk to his chambers. She presses her body against his while he bars the door shut behind them. He kisses her lips, and she turns her face, letting his have her neck instead.
Her hands are swift to take down his sword belt. “My king, shall I take down my hair for you?”
“Yes, yes,” he pulls back to look at her. “Take it all off.”
She smiles and bows her head. “Of course, Your grace.
The hairpin is ornate and gold, befitting the wife of a Lannister. The shaft is long as a knife and as small as a needle. Her hair tumbles onto her shoulders. He reaches his hand up to touch them, and she turns her face toward it, bringing him a step closer.
It digs into the palm of her hand, but she does not mind the pain. While he is distracted, she lifts the arm with the hairpin and brings it down towards his head. It strikes him in the eye, and he cries out. So loudly that someone must be coming. He drops to his knees, hands coming up to push her away but his fumbles are easily withstood. She leans her full weight onto her arm, driving it deeper into him until his movements cease.
His remaining eye is blank in death, like her father’s. She tilts her head. The smile has not left her lips. There is blood on her hand but less than she thought. The wound is bleeding still, slowly. There is a splash of blood on her gown when she pulls the hairpin from his eye socket.
She unbars the door.
Cersei has the guards beat her bloody. Tyrion cannot stop it, though he does try. She weeps. And she laughs. There is shock for she knows that they are hitting her harder than they’ve dared before, but there is no pain. Blood running down her nose into her mouth, she laughs.
She’s no longer allowed the luxury of a comfortable prison. They bring her to the dungeons where she cannot escape or perform any other treason. Her cell is dark and dirty without a seat. She sits on the ground and closes her eyes. She thinks of Arya’s mulish expression, stabbing at the table. Of Rickon’s giggle when she touched her nose to his. Of Robb’s fingers fast on Bran’s stomach, making him shriek with laughter. Even of Jon holding her to him with one hand, the other holding a stick, declaring himself Prince Aemon the dragonknight. Of Mother brushing her hair. She will spend her last night remembering home.
A sound startles her awake. She feels weak with exhaustion, and her body aches. Whatever stayed the pain from her is gone now. She hopes that it is time for her execution but it is still dark. She waits silently, her breath shallow.
“Lady Sansa.” Tyrion. A torch gives just enough light to make out his face. His sellsword is with him. He brings the light closer to take a look at her. “I - I’m sorry that I could not stop them from hurting you, my lady.”
“Why should you care? I killed your nephew. Hateful as he was, he was still your blood.”
“And you are my wife. I swore to protect you, and I mean to.”
“Yes, and we’d best be quick about it if you’re going to get her out of here ‘fore the guards come,” Bronn interrupts. He opens the door to her cell and goes to Sansa’s side. He is not gentle in his haste to have her standing.
A muffled whimper, and Tyrion admonishes, “Careful.”
She breathes through the pain and follows him out of the cell. She had thought she would die tomorrow. Instead, none of them talk as they lead her through a passageway out of the Red Keep. The summer’s nights are cool, and she shivers. They hear guards on the other side of walls as they tiptoe past. When they make it outside, Tyrion holds a finger to his lips.
They wait.
A shadow moves towards them. Bronn’s hand grips the handle of his sword. Tyrion stands in front of her arms out. The moonlight brings the form into focus. It is a knight, tall with blonde hair. A woman knight. Tyrion turns to her.
Tyrion turns to her. “Lady Brienne was your mother’s sworn shield. She will protect you.”
Sansa ducks her head, knowing her face s still covered in blood. What true knight would want to protect a killer?
The lady knight moves to kneel before her, but Tyrion mutters, “There’s time for that later when you’re clear of here. The further away you are from King’s Landing when Cersei discovers Sansa gone, the better.”
“Come, Lady Sansa. It is a small distance to the horses,” Lady Brienne says.
Sansa takes a step toward her. Since Joffrey executed her father, all she’s wanted is to go home. To be given a chance at last feels like a dream come too late. She doesn’t trust it. She looks back at Tyrion, finding his eyes. They are kind and sympathetic as they’ve always been. His smile is sad but she finds no hint of deceit on his face. She takes a breath and follows Lady Brienne into the dark.
Before they turn a corner, she turns back. Tyrion stands with his sellsword watching her. Her eyes narrow minutely in question, and she resumes her pursuit.
Lady Brienne apologizes to her for the necessity of their haste, unable to stop to tend to Sansa’s wounds. They and her squire should ride until daybreak and only stop then to water the horses. Sansa only nods. They ride east, not north. She doesn’t question it. Cersei will send soldiers in every direction looking for her but most will be sent north.
When they stop, Podrick helps Sansa down from the horse. The blood has surely caked to her face along with dirt from the road. She is bruised and ugly, but he still blushes when she thanks him. Her thighs cramp from riding for hours. She stumbles to the river. She splashes water on her face once, twice, before scrubbing vigorously at her hands and face. She is finally sure that no blood remains on her skin when Lady Brienne approaches her. She turns and stands, warily.
Lady Brienne kneels before her, her sword at her feet. “Lady Sansa. In commitment to the vow I made to your mother, I offer you my service. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”
Sansa stares down at her. She knows the words; even if not for Septa, they are in all the best stories. Instead, she asks, curious, “were you with her when they killed her?”
“No, my lady. Your mother had already sent me south with Jaime Lannister to trade him for you and your sister. She loved you both very much. She defied Robb to save you.”
Her nose stings with the tears she holds back. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”
Sansa remains hidden while Podrick gathers supplies and food for their journey. Lady Brienne stays with her, her hand coming to her sword at every rustle in the dark. She is fierce and watchful, and Sansa misses Arya terribly then. She would be thrilled to see a lady knight and have so many questions for her. She would be begging Father to allow her to train.
“Where do you think we should go, my lady?”
She leans further into the bark at her back. No one is home for her to return to; the Boltons hold Winterfell and the North. There are enemies at every side. She knows Lord Manderly died along with her family. She knows Robb murdered a Karstark. She knows her uncle, the Blackfish, is missing, and Uncle Edmure a hostage to the Freys.
“To Stannis Baratheon,” she says finally. “My father supported his claim to the throne, and with my brothers dead, I am the heir to Winterfell. He cannot hope to secure the North without me.”
“I have heard that he is headed north to the Wall.”
Where Jon is. She hasn’t thought of him in ages. She thinks of his dour look, eyebrows perpetually down while the rest of them played. A smile plays at her lips. “To the Wall then.”
The journey there is long and hard. Her horse throws a shoe. Lannister guards find them; Lady Brienne kills them all. They sleep in turns, always watching, always wary. They trust no one. Sansa keeps her hair, bright and recognizable even with the lack of oils, underneath a shawl. They ride under the cover of darkness. It is rare for them to feel at ease enough to share a story from their past.
She learns that Podrick is new to Brienne’s service, that the Red Woman controls Stannis Baratheon, that a shadow with his face killed his brother. Brienne saw it, and Sansa believes her. Still, she says he is the only one they can go to. Jon is at the Wall, but he has made his vows to the Night’s Watch. He cannot abandon them for her in the same way Robb could not trade the Kingslayer for two girls. He will remain true to his vows in the way Father would. Her claim to the North is all she has to bargain with now.
When they arrive at Castle Black, her skin is cold and pale. The cloak alone cannot guard her against the chill. Their words are truer now than ever before; Winter is coming. She sits atop a tired, grey horse. She drops her shawl onto her shoulders. The gates open. The men are scattered in the yard, curious but no one comes closer to investigate. She dismounts her horse and looks around. A movement catches her attention from the top of the battlements.
She breathes in sharply. Jon. He’s grown stronger. His eyes are as dark as she remembers, but his expression isn’t as dour as she expected. His eyes are wide, fixed on her as hers are fixed on him, while he walks down the stairs. Her mouth parts. There are mere feet between them, and something unnamed in her shifts. Her arms reach for him first. But his are firm around her, nearly overlapping. He squeezes her so tightly, her heart unclenches. He smells of sweat and woodsmoke. She nuzzles her face into his neck and breathes him in.
Jon protests that she should be able to bathe and eat first, but she is taken to Stannis Baratheon dirty and hungry. The assurance of her allegiance matters more than her comfort. She curtsies and remains down until he bids her rise. A woman with hair a red darker and closer to brown than Sansa’s stands at his side. An older man stands at the other. Davos Seaworth, she is told.
Jon is at her back and Lady Brienne beside him. “Your Grace,” she acknowledges.
“I knew your father. He was an honorable man. Will you support my claim as he did, or will you follow your brother, the usurper?” His face is stern.
She is only a girl with traitor’s blood. “I have only my claim and my name. I have no armies to contest you with nor the desire to. My brother’s hand was forced when Joffrey took my father’s head. I have avenged him and can do what honor demands.”
He grunts. “Your name is enough to rally the North behind you,” he says.
“That may be, but it is not safe enough to even travel to my bannermen, Your Grace. I took only my sworn shield with me when I escaped King’s Landing. It would be so sweet to be home yet wishes cannot make it so.”
“I will root out the Bolton betrayers from your halls and return your bannermen’s keeps to them. When I restore you as Lady of Winterfell, the North will follow you. And you will bend the knee.”
Her hair is in a single braid over her shoulder. She allows gratitude to mark her features, a smile to move her lips but she only meets his eyes for a brief moment, too conscious of the Red Woman’s eyes on her. “That would make me very happy, Your Grace.”
He says nothing of her marriage. Perhaps, unless she falls pregnant, he will not see it as a hindrance. For now, her name is enough to secure her safety here.
Jon walks her to chambers near his own. He has a bath brought up for her and then soup and ale. She feels stronger now that she has washed. He stares at her as she eats, as she details the circumstances of Father’s death, separating gossip from the truth for him. He tells her how he almost left his post to join Robb’s army when he heard the news, of mercy killing Mance Rayder, and the real war between the living and the dead beyond the Wall.
Then, “But what happened to you, Sansa? Were you treated well? And what of Arya?”
“I haven’t seen Arya since before Father was arrested. If the Lannisters had her, they would parade her before the court. I can only hope that she escaped and is safe somewhere far away.”
“Is that what they did to you, parade you?”
“Every time Robb won a battle, they brought me out to pay for it. They beat me. They humiliated me. They married me to the imp. But I am alive. It’s more than can be said for our brothers.” She takes another sip of her soup. He watches her still; she turns the bowl in her hands. Her eyes drop for this part, not out of shame but fear. “Tyrion helped me escape. He was always kind to me, but Joffrey… I have bled for him. I have cried and begged for him. It was never enough; he always wanted more. He would have hurt me and took until there was nothing left if I hadn’t killed him. Maybe not that day but someday.” She moistens her lips, forcing her gaze up. “I know it isn’t how Father would have done things.”
The furrow is back in his eyebrows, but his eyes are kind, always kind and earnest. “I don’t care that you killed Joffrey,” he says. “I don’t care what you did. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Thank you, Jon.” She sets her soup down and turns to face him fully. “I know what you’ll say, but I have to ask. The Night’s Watch is sworn to have no loyalty to any house. I won’t be able to stay here long. I’ll ride with King Stannis to gather forces, but eventually, I’ll go home to Winterfell. When I do, will you come with me?”
His eyes turn sad then, and she knows his answer. How she wishes it was different. He is honor bound to stay and fight for the Night’s Watch, and honor is everything to a Stark.
“That’s not the only reason.” His hands rub themselves against each other. “The Night’s Watch are undermanned as it is, more so now that we’ve been attacked by wildlings and the dead. And they’re not going to stop coming. The Realm will never be safe — you’ll never be safe — until the Night King is defeated. I have to stay and fight.”
“And die.”
He leans back with a sigh. “Aye, if I have to.”
The fire crackles, and she watches the colors dance. There are no words for a moment. Then, “I’m not afraid to die either. If it’s quick, I imagine there’s no pain before it’s all over. What I fear is dying before I have what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
Her eyes shift to his. “Vengeance.”