Chapter Text
Chapter: How Things are Wound
Sansa:
“Do you think we folded it properly?” Sansa asked Jeyne. She peered at herself in the mirror.
They’d followed the instructions from the Meereenese maid as carefully as they could. After all, what was the point of wearing a tokar if you couldn’t do it properly? She wanted to pay a little tribute to Meereen, and such efforts could be undermined by the slightest mistake. The instructions had been clear that the garment needed to be tight, or it might unravel.
But this … she had specified a tokar appropriate for a young, unmarried woman. What had arrived was a length of soft, clinging silk in white and silver. The material was far thinner and more sheer than what she had seen on the Ghiscari representatives at court, most of whom were on the elderly side. Even Lady Lyria’s garments were dignified, usually made from beautiful brocades, perfectly draped.
I don’t want to look a fool in front of Lyria. She didn't like looking a fool in front of anyone, but Lord Tyrion's mistress was especially cultured and learned, and did not suffer fools easily. Lyria was Meereenese as well. What if I ended up insulting her?
Jeyne watched her from the back, steely-eyed as always. She started chewing on her lower lip.
Sansa felt her heart sink. “Does it look wrong?” she asked, looking at herself and the beautiful fabric sadly.
Perhaps she shouldn’t wear this tonight. The festival started tomorrow, and two days and nights of it were devoted to the East. A more appropriate occasion for this garb. This evening, though, was an informal get together for the royal family and their closest inner circle. Sansa had wanted to surprise Daenerys with her little tribute to the people of Slaver’s Bay. But she’d already tested the waters a bit with her Dornish dress -- an outfit that Jon told her had drawn the ire of some of her Northern suitors. While her cousin told her this with a smile and a laugh, Sansa didn’t want to go too far and shame the both of them.
She so wanted the dinner to go well. Trystane will be there. The anticipated annulment had just been formally announced. Her Dornish suitor would be free to pay her court openly. Her stomach fluttered. At court less than three moons, she thought. What a whirlwind this has been.
“Turn around and look at yourself from the rear,” Jeyne said.
Sansa did as directed. She could clearly see the outline of her backside. She gasped. No Westerosi garment would ever cling to a woman’s behind. The lady’s bosom might be displayed, but never, ever, one’s rear.
“Too much?” she asked Jeyne, expecting a yes. Her giddy excitement was beginning to be replaced by sadness. She had envisioned having fun tonight, making Trystane fetch and carry for her while she held up her pretty fringed garment. But she trusted Jeyne’s judgment. She would have to change into a dull, ordinary Westerosi dress.
Her friend stared for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, sod it,” Jeyne started to laugh. “Keep your prince’s hands away, sit often, and enjoy yourself. It’s too late to change now anyways. Let’s go.”
Sansa put her hands to her flaming cheeks. Both of them descended into giggles and they exited the bedchamber hand in hand. Sansa was reminded of their childhood, whispering secrets to each other over stolen cakes like sisters. Mentally, she thanked her little brother for urging her to come to court.
But their laughter was ended once the turned the corner. All at once, Sandor stood in their way, hooded, his eyes peering out coldly. He looked her up and down.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you brainless little fool?”
Sansa’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in years. When he had come to her all those weeks ago, Sansa had made a few conditions: he must stay hidden, he must not kill anyone, and he had to be courteous. “I will not tolerate you trying to scare me anymore, Sandor Clegane. I’m not a little bird anymore, I’m a direwolf, and wolves have no use for Hounds. You will act like a true knight, understand?” He’d nodded and agreed. So far, he’d kept his word.
Sansa straightened her back. Though she kept her voice soft and her mouth smiling, her tone was firm. “I am going to attend the king and queen’s dinner.”
“In that… sheer little sheet?” he said, his tone gaining an edge. “With your arse on full display for everyone to see? Do you want have half the men in the Keep grinding their cocks on you the second you bend over? Or those Northerners of yours taking a blade to them for it? What in the Seven’s name are you thinking?”
Sansa’s eyes flashed. “I will be dining tonight with a king, queen, princes, and the highest lord in the realm, among others. Men far too sophisticated for such behaviour---“
“Oh, aye, the Imp has always been so known for his refinement and restraint. And here I was thinking you actually wanted your marriage annulled.”
Sansa fumed. He’d been doing so well. Yes, Sandor had been a little too close for comfort sometimes, too omnipresent. Yes, he acted like every man in the Keep was an enemy. Yes, if he had his way, Sansa thought, I would be spending every moment locked away in my chambers until the annulment was passed. But he’d not forced anything. He had been a calming presence on her escort. Despite the fights he had broken up, he’d yet to really hurt anyone. And as pervasive as his presence could be, it could also be a comfort. She knew that with him there, nothing and no one would dare harm her.
“Shut your mouth, Dog!” Jeyne snarled, furious.
Sandor glared at Jeyne. “Keep out of this, freak. You of all people should know the risks when a girl tempts a man too far—”
A second later, Sansa had torn off his hood, exposing his burned flesh. Another second later, she’d slapped him with all of her might. It made a sharp, ringing sound, and Sansa was willing to bet that her hand took more trauma than his face, but she didn’t regret it. Say what you will to me, but not Jeyne. Never.
Sandor stepped back, eyes wide.
All of a sudden, she felt her heart flutter.
“I just… I just want to keep you safe, Little Bird. They all… They all want to take you, use you, can’t you see that? They want Winterfell. They want House Stark. They want your teats and your cunny and your pretty red hair. But they don’t care about you. They care about Lady Stark, not… Not… Not you, Little Bird. They’ll hurt you, break you to take what they want. All of them. Even that Dornish prince of yours, even if you don’t see it. And I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”
“Sansa,” she said, eyes welling up, “I’m Sansa. I’m not a little bird. And you’re wrong. There are people who care about me.” She took Jeyne’s hand, and Jeyne squeezed back. Sansa took strength from that, even as she could feel tears starting to run down her cheeks. “Is that so hard to believe? That maybe me, maybe Sansa, not Lady Stark but Sansa, might be able to make others care about her? That maybe I’m worth enough that more than just one person could love me and want to see me happy?”
“It’s not about you, Little Bird. It’s them. It’s them. All those rotten, filthy… They can’t see anything but themselves and what they want. You’re too good for them. Too good for them all. And they’ll try to ruin you, as they always have, try to make you as bad as the rest of them. But you’re not. And you have to… You have to be protected. From all of them.”
Sansa swallowed. “I went many years without you, Sandor Clegane. And I survived. And I can and will continue to do exactly that. And, if you want me to do that without you, I will.” She felt her lip tremble, and fought back tears.
“Don’t think she won’t,” Jeyne said, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her mistress. She gave Sansa a long, hard look. “Go on ahead, my Lady. I’ll handle him. If you cry any more, you’ll be all red-eyed when you meet the king and queen.”
Sansa looked at her friend, dubious.
Jeyne’s face was resolute. “He won’t hurt me.”
She saw Sandor pale at that. Jeyne ignored him.
“I can handle him. Sandor and I need to have a little talk. Go.”
Sansa sniffed and took one step, then another. She felt ridiculous in her tokar, taking tiny shuffling steps, holding up the end. But with each step she felt like she was leaving her past behind. You went too far Sandor. I’m not your little bird. I’m not.
But sometimes I still feel like I am.
She rounded the corner. When they could no longer see her, she leaned against the wall, and buried her face in her hands. All I wanted was one good night.
The Lady of Winterfell looked towards the royal chambers, and duty. Instead, she turned another corner, then cut through a small chamber, going back the way she came. She’d become good at hiding and sneaking in these halls years ago. Soon she was back outside her own chambers. She crept up to where she had left Jeyne and Sandor, keeping behind a convenient drapery.
To her surprise, Sandor was sitting on the ground head in his hands. Jeyne was sitting beside him. They were both quiet, and Jeyne had her hand on Sandor’s shoulder. There was a long silence. Sansa was about to give up and go when Jeyne finally spoke.
“That could have gone better,” she said. There was no rancor in her tone.
Sandor let out a deep sigh. “That girl hasn’t changed a wit. Neither have I, apparently. It went all wrong. Years of prayer, and she has me all twisted up in a couple of moons. But I have to get through to her --”
“Do you?” Jeyne said sharply. “You’ve been lurking around her like … some kind of spectre. It is unseemly. People are starting to talk. And if you think no one will recognize you, or think to ask questions about who the seven foot tall hulking horse’s arse with the burnt face is and come up with one name … well you’re more of a fool than I think you are, and that’s saying something.”
Sandor scowled. “We’ve talked about this. She’s in danger, I can feel it. She needs me.”
“Maybe.” Jeyne said slowly. “I told you what Lord Tyrion said.”
What did Tyrion say? Her heart quickened, And why didn’t Jeyne come to me?
But Sandor just nodded. “The Imp’s no fool.”
“But ….” Jeyne took a breath. “Maybe you want her to need you. You can’t keep living in those days when she was a prisoner of the Lannisters, when you could speak to her whenever and however you wished. She’s a great lady of the realm. Not the likes of you or I. And soon she’ll wed a great lord. You can’t keep her in a cage, no matter how you might want to. She doesn’t belong to you, Clegane. I know you can’t accept it, but it’s true.”
“I don’t think she belongs to me!” Sandor growled.
“Yes, you do. That’s why you’re always calling her Little Bird, no matter how many times she tells you not to.” Jeyne shook her head. “She has a name.”
“A cage… I tried to get her out of the bloody cage! She wouldn’t come with me! I wanted to keep her safe! But she refused! I was ready to drag her out of that burning city, kill every little shit who tried to lay a hand on her. But she… she wouldn’t… I was a fool, I frightened her.”
“Is that all it was?” Jeyne asked. “Sansa spoke of that night, but …” There was a note of dubiousness in her voice, as if Jeyne had not believed everything she had heard. Sansa frowned.
Sandor let out a sob. “I prayed. To all the seven, the Mother for her mercy. I was drunk, and half-mad with the fear. There were fires, and men burning… I demanded a song, told her to sing for me with a knife to her throat.”
Sansa’s mind flashed back to that night, and she felt her breath catch. She remembered. The fires and the fear. Ilyn Payne’s face and Cersei’s mocking words. Running back to her room, barring the door … and then Sandor was there. She felt her breath catch. On my bed. No.
Jeyne drew breath sharply. “And then you forced a kiss on her?”
“What?” His head jerked up, and he looked stunned. “No! I wanted that. That and more. But I swear, I never kissed her.” He shook his head. “I prayed for forgiveness. I thought I had been redeemed. Or that I could redeem myself by making her safe, the way I should have.”
Sansa felt her stomach jump. But I remembered a kiss. I remembered that, and a bloody cloak, and that I trusted him never to hurt me. He was the one person in King’s Landing I could trust. The only one. She’d thought differently before, thinking her Florian was more trustworthy. But that turned out to be a lie. Only Sandor…. Right? She felt so lost.
Jeyne let out a snort. “Clegane – did you have the brains of a hound that night, as well as the helm of one?” Her tone was crisp. “You wanted to drag her across the Seven Realms with armies of madmen everywhere and Lannister men trying to track you down. Remember the prices on your head? And you wanted to drag her through the woods with no one else around. What if one night you decided the Mother’s Hymn wasn’t enough? What if one night you decided to enlighten her as to what you really meant when said you wanted a song?”
“No,” the man sobbed, clutching his face, “I would never, ever force anything on her! Not on her. Never her.”
“Are you sure?” Jeyne looked dubious. “The man you were then? I’m not. You’re not well, Clegane. Maybe you’re not The Hound anymore, but you’re not a well man. This has to stop. You want to keep her safe? So do I. But she’s not going to let you if you act like this. If you don’t let her live her own life. You can’t… You can’t base everything in your life around her. It’s not right. You’re pushing her away. You’re pushing everyone away. You’d promised to act like a gentleman, but tonight you didn’t. You broke that vow. How can we trust you not to break your promise not to hurt her?”
Sandor glared at Jeyne. “If there was ever a true vow I’ve made, it’s that one.”
Jeyne sighed. “You’re a brother. You swore your life to serve the gods themselves. You swore yourself to the Faith, the same Faith that has fostered and cared for you for years. But the one true vow you’ve made is the one to her? The girl whose name you can’t even say? Don’t you see why that doesn’t work? You’re placing your little bird above the Seven themselves, and your little bird doesn’t even exist. Sansa exists.”
Jeyne turned and got on her knees then. She placed a hand on either side of his face, her fingers resting on his scarred flesh as surely and gently as the unscarred part of him. “Sansa, not your little bird, Sansa. The Little Bird is gone, as gone as the Hound.”
He pulled away and buried his face again. “She’s the one good thing in this shit world, and I can’t let the last bit of good in this world be hurt. Not anymore.”
Sansa felt her heart ache. As good as it felt to know she mattered that much to someone, the loneliness of such a statement wounded her. That’s not true, she wanted to scream, that’s not true at all!
“She’s not the last bit of good in this world, Clegane. Shut up.” Jeyne reached over again, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up at her. “There are many good people, good things. Maybe if you spent less time fixating on her, you’d notice them. Sansa didn’t just come from nowhere. She’s good, most of the time, I’ll grant you. When she’s not being silly and mooning over a good body and a head of curls.
Even in her distress, Sansa shifted. That was unfair. I fantasized about this idiot, too. I am not so shallow as all that.
Jeyne continued. “But there were things that made her that way. People who made her that way. Maybe it’s time you started recognizing that. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair to anyone, and especially not to her, if she has to be the one good thing left to you. And it’s not fair to you either, because before long, you’re going to push her away, and then you’ll be so warped, you’ll have truly lost the ability to see any goodness at all.”
Sandor’s eye flickered downward, his mouth twisting. “You don’t understand, you don’t---“
Then Jeyne’s hand clenched, and she looked for a moment if she wanted to slap him, just as Sansa had done. “Don’t you dare suggest for one moment that I don’t know about the awful things in this world, Sandor Clegane. You think I don’t know?”
Sandor looked suddenly stunned, his gaze meeting Jeyne’s once more. He looked suddenly smaller, and almost cowed. Sansa found herself staring as well. It was like watching a lapdog savage a mastiff. He never did that for me.
“You miserable bastard, you look at my face and tell me I don’t know. Those scars on your face came from your tormentor. But this?” She pointed to the hole where her nose once sat. “This is the price I paid to get away from mine. And as my nose froze and shrivelled and broke off of me, I cried, but still knew that this was far better than what I was running from.” Jeyne’s voice shook. “I would have lost a nose, an eye, and both my ears to get away from my husband. And do you know how I got away? Someone helped me. A man who looked sixty at twenty. A man who had almost every bit of himself cut away. A man who had killed children and betrayed his best friend. But I still saw the good in him. And that’s why I’m right here, right now, talking to you. Because I looked at a turncloak called Reek, and I asked him to take me away from the monster who was hurting us both. And he did.”
Sandor looked pale. “I’m sorry. I wish … I’m sorry for what happened.”
Jeyne nodded. She cleared her throat. “He’s dead now, by the way.” A stranger would never have heard the tremor in her throat. “The man who saved me. Theon. That was his real name. Theon Greyjoy. He died at the Wall, fighting the Others. And I’m still here because of him. And I can never tell him thank you.”
She made a face, and turned her head away. After a moment, Sandor raised a huge hand and put it on her shoulder. He said nothing, but his face was softer, less anguished. “I’ll mention him in my prayers, girl.”
“He didn’t follow the Seven.”
Sandor shrugged. “Man who helped me said it will all come to the same in the end. And girl? I’m sorry I called you a freak. And I’ll think on what you’ve said.”
Sansa turned away, and made her way towards the royal chambers by a different route. She felt lost. Sandor will see sense. He has a good heart, if he listens to it. Jeyne will see to it that he does nothing improper. But perhaps… she wondered if she should send him away, for his own sake. I misjudged so much. Misremembered. I thought of him as the Kingsguard, the true knight working to keep me safe. But perhaps that was a mistake as well. I have put too much trust in him.
Once again the Battle of the Blackwater came to mind. Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes again. Quickly, she tried to dash them away. I’m in no state to dine with the royal family.
A shadow cast over her then.
“Lady Stark?”
Sansa looked up to find Henrick Flint, heir to Flint’s Finger, standing in her path. She forced herself to smile at him. Henrick was one of the better looking of her honor guard: dark haired, young, slim, and quick. He liked calling her a “Winter Rose” and “Princess”, something she’d laughed about up North and began discouraging once they got south of Riverrun. He had honoured her wishes.
Henrick behaved himself better than some of the others as well. He comes from a good family, she thought. His father had died fighting for the north in Robert’s Rebellion, and his older brother perished at the Red Wedding. But for all his troubles, he always seemed to have a smile and a ready quip.
Now he frowned, and produced a handkerchief. Sansa took it, and dabbed away at her cheeks. She was mortified.
“My lady, where is your escort? What are you doing here?”
The question was rather bluntly put, but Sansa decided to just pretend nothing was amiss rather than explain the embarrassing circumstances. “I am making for the royal solar, the king and queen are hosting a little get-together.”
Henrick looked at her garment, and blanched. “In that … sheet?” His eyes trailed downwards, and he looked even more shocked. He looked back to her face, seeming to be forcing himself to keep his eyes above the neck. “Was this the king’s idea to make you dress like this? Or his cousin’s? What did Prince Jon say about this?”
Sansa wrinkled her nose, heart sinking. “It’s not a sheet,” she said indignantly. “It’s a tokar. The garb for Meereenese nobility. It’s a tribute to our eastern brethren.”
“Eastern brethren?” Henrick’s eyes flashed. It seemed to annoy him. “You’re a Northern girl. You belong in Northern clothing, in the North, close to your true brethren.”
Sansa began to lose her patience. Tonight had been nothing more than a disaster so far, and she wasn’t more than a hundred paces from her quarters. She was so very tired of men telling her what she should do and where she belonged. It was times like this when she felt she really understood her late sister. “I think it is for me to decide where I belong and how I should dress. My true brother agrees. You remember Bran, the Lord of Winterfell? He rules the North, and I obey him. No one else.”
“You ruled the North,” Flint said, his eyes softening. “You ruled it well. Then that brother of yours sent you down here as he approached his majority.”
No. Sansa was shocked. Is that what my escort thinks? “You misunderstand. Bran didn’t send me anywhere, I chose to go. It was necessary, to arrange the annulment. And I have been happy here at court. The Queen has shown me favour--”
“---You could have been a queen. Many of us think of you as our queen, still. Queen of the North in our hearts, if not in title. It’s where you’re meant to be. Your home.”
Flint sort of smiled as he said this, and Sansa decided he was just trying to be charming, to make her feel better. So she smiled back. “Of course I miss home, but Winterfell belongs to Bran, and after him, Rickon.”
“I don’t know about that. Was it Bran or Rickon who reclaimed it?”
No, but that’s not the point. This isn’t Dorne. Sansa was not exactly fond of the disadvantages of her sex, but she did not reclaim the North to upset the traditions there. Even if she wanted to, between rebuilding her ancestral home, fighting a war, and recuperating the immense landmass that made up her family’s lands, there wasn’t exactly room for overturning the rules of inheritance. And she had no wish to take anything from her little brothers. Just as much had been taken from them, if not more. She’d not take yet more.
“It’s Bran and Rickon who come before me in the succession,” Sansa replied, “They are trueborn sons. I am a daughter.”
Flint’s smile died away, and his face was suddenly angry. “You’re a woman, aye, but you’re strong and beautiful and wise. Your sons will rule the North. Your Northmen want their princess back. Their queen. We want to take you home and keep you where you belong. We want our Winter Rose, not a cripple and a maniac.”
Sansa was shocked, and furious. She wanted to speak sharply to him. No, his family is loyal and powerful, and they have sacrificed much for the Starks. Instead she stepped away, feeling vulnerable when she could only take tiny steps in the tight tokar. She forced herself to keep her tone level. “You must not speak of my brothers in such a way. Bran is your liege lord. He is the Lord of Winterfell. Now I must go. ”
“What, and sup with that desert monkey?” Flint hissed. “That Dornish snake? And the Targaryens who are trying to turn you into his whore? Lord Bran might be a foolish boy who wants you gone, and Prince Jon may be blinded by love of his brother the king, but we won’t stand for it. You’re our Winter Rose and we won’t let another southern shit who calls himself a prince take you from us. Not again. The North remembers.”
Sansa backed away a few more little steps. Sounds like there is someone else who wishes to call himself a prince. “Are you drunk, Lord Henrick? You’re frightening me.”
“I’ve had a few cups, Princess, but I know what I mean to say. I can see why you’re tempted to go as far south as south goes. You think the North doesn’t love you.” Henrick came forward. Close. Much too close. She could feel the heat of his body and hobbled back some more. If he noticed, he gave no sign. His eyes were flashing.
“I understand. We real northerners, the ones who have come here for you, we all understand. Your brothers certainly didn’t. Probably that southern blood mixed in. For you, it only affected your looks. I can’t say the same for your brothers. Robb let you languish in the capital instead of trading for you and bringing you back home safe when he could. Rickon’s too mad to care.” He took a step closer. Sansa could smell the wine on his breath. “And Bran forced you to go back to court and is ready to sell you off to some brown-skinned desert animal. Even that bastard cousin of yours has forgotten his northern blood. Aside from you, the last true Starks died with Brandon, Lyanna, and with your sister.”
Sansa wanted to tell him to shut up the second Arya was mentioned, as her sister would have. But her voice seemed to die in her throat. Arya’s wouldn’t have. But she wasn’t her sister, so Henrick kept talking.
“Even your father was too warped by the Arryns, probably why he was willing to sell you to the Lannisters. But we, we true Northmen, we intend to keep our girl safe. Our last Winter Rose.” He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek, then lowered it when she flinched away. “I know you do not love me. I do not intend to presume. But we all love you well, Princess, and we’ll do whatever it takes to keep you where you belong.”
A chill went down her spine. He’s drunk, and foolish. He isn’t a bad man. Why is he saying these things? How have I let things go so wrong? “If you love me well, my Lord, then you will cease scaring me. My family are precious to me. My father. My mother. My brothers. My sister---“ She had to choke back a sob at that. But she strengthened her resolve. Arya you were supposed to be at Winterfell, laughing and playing with the boys. But you weren’t. Now I have to be strong. “--And I will not hear them insulted. My brothers have as much Stark in them as I do, they have the wolves to prove it. My wolf is gone—“
“---Because your father killed her!” That made her voice die again as her heart twisted in on itself. Shut up. Shut up. Don’t talk about it. Don’t. Henrick shook his head. “We all loved Ned Stark, but he was softened by all those years in the Vale. He didn’t protect you like he should have. He was weak, so he killed your wolf. Maybe that wolf you had is dead, but the wolf in you isn’t.”
She found her strength again.
“You’re right,” Sansa said, holding back the heartache over the reminder of Arya, of Father, of Mother, of Lady, of all she’d lost, “Which is why I protect the pack I have left. And why I will not abide by your slander of my brothers.”
They were interrupted by the rapid padding of feet against the marble floor, the clacking of claws. Sansa knew that sound at once. She turned. Ghost. Her cousin’s direwolf came to her side and stared at Flint with red eyes.
Sansa stepped back some more and twisted her hand in the animal’s fur. “My pack summons me, Lord Henrick. If you’ll excuse me.”
Flint stared at her for a moment, then bowed his head. “As you wish. My lady. My queen.” He bowed, and turned away.
Sansa let out a sigh a relief. He will sleep it off, and be heartily sorry in the morning, she thought, but even her own mental reassurances sounded hollow. Perhaps she should speak to Daven Cerwyn, or maybe Jon, have one of them speak to Flint.
She sighed, and had a moment she wished she could speak to Myranda Royce or Mya Stone. Jeyne and she had no secrets, and Daenerys was fast becoming a good friend, but neither of them were much older than Sansa herself. She wished there was another woman, someone wiser, that she could speak to. For a moment, she thought of her mother. Then she steeled herself. Those days were past. Now Sansa was a woman grown; she had to deal with her problems herself.
She made for the royal chambers, Ghost walking along beside her. Sansa paused for a second a few yards from the entrance to her destination, turned to Ghost and put her arms around him. “Sweet boy, thank you. I wish you could deal with all my troubles so easily.”
It almost seemed like he could, for a moment. Something about resting her face in his fur calmed her so much. She’d experienced a similar thing when embracing Summer, but for whatever reason, Ghost’s effect on her was even more calming. Perhaps it was because while her younger brothers’ wolves were more wild, Ghost was another matter. The animal was not just silent as the grave, but he was well-trained and calm. Like Lady was.
“Trouble, my Lady?”
Sansa turned slowly. Trystane Martell did a little double-take as she did, his dark eyes having been pointed downwards. The tokar. He was looking at my backside. She felt a wild laugh rising in her chest. It had only been a few minutes since she had left her quarters, but she had almost forgotten the sense of daring that had accompanied her decision to don the foreign garb. No. I won’t let jealous men ruin this night.
Trystane certainly looked appreciative. His dark eyes were dancing. Sansa shivered, but in a good way this time. He’s so handsome. She’d stolen a couple of glimpses at him in the yard, when his long Dornish robes were off and he was in tunics and trousers only. She found herself smiling again. This was supposed to be fun. It was beginning to feel fun again.
“Perhaps, but please don’t promise to protect me from it,” she begged him, still leaning against the direwolf a little. Maybe it was all the ridiculous encounters making her feel a little faint. Or maybe it’s the way his hair falls into his eyes.
He wiggled his brows in a mischievous manner that brought a smile to tease her lips. “We’re not promised, nor kin, my Lady. It would be improper for me to make such a vow.”
More the pity, she almost said aloud. But instead she smiled and allowed a soft, wistful sigh. That said enough without being indecent.
Trystane smiled. “And even so, I’m fairly certain you can take care of yourself. One does not survive a northern winter without means of her own.”
Sansa felt her heart flutter. Yes, thank you. “Good. I’m so weary of people calling me a bird or a rose or some other delicate thing.”
“Birds have talons and sharp beaks and they can fly. Roses have thorns. But I think I must trust your companion here,” Trystane nodded to Ghost, “He recognizes you as one of his own, so you must be a direwolf."
“And you? What are you? The sun?” I spent years in the North in winter. I could use some sun.
Trystane glanced around, pondering. Then his eyes softened. “I am only a man, my Lady. A man who may not be able to solve all your troubles, but certainly is willing to offer you his arm and escort you to dinner, if you so wish.”
I wish I could just have you for dinner. She felt wicked and safe at the same time. Despite what they’d said, Trystane could protect her. Being a married woman, being truly wedded and bedded, would protect her. No more suitors waiting with baited breath to pounce. No more uncertainty about where I will spend the rest of my days. I’ll have a babe of my own, a keep of my own, someone to keep me warm at night.
She smiled at Trystane and nearly sighed with relief as he smiled back. And it’s you. Someone who will make love to me properly and treat me well and won’t hurt me. How many girls of high birth are so lucky? An advantageous political match that I actually want.
Still, she was shaken. I have to get rid of the others, she thought, as Trystane took her arm and she made her way to the royal solar with tiny mincing steps. No more dancing around, trying to keep the bannermen pleased. No more worrying about Sandor and his dire warnings. Time to tell them to leave before they ruin everything. I can manage this.
As soon as the festival was over, she’d give the order. And once the annulment was formalized, Trystane would write to Bran, and soon she would be betrothed. And all this trouble would be behind her.
***
Daenerys:
I am not seeing what I think I am seeing. Daenerys forced herself to keep her jaw from dropping as Sansa Stark glided into the room in a tightly wrapped silver and white tokar, leaning on Trystane’s arm for support, pausing near the door to greet a wide-eyed Jon with a smile, joke, and kiss to the cheek. No. And she looks fabulous. Damnit.
Daenerys had to don tokars frequently enough when dealing with emissaries from Slavers’ Bay, to the point where she had suggested to Aegon that they give up all claims to the domains just to be rid of the blasted things. Her husband had just laughed. But tokars looked far better on tall people, Daenerys thought, looking at the way the garments clung to Sansa’s curves, how the perfect amount of fringe trailed on the floor behind her. When Dany put one on, the best that could be said was that she was in there somewhere.
“Oh my,” Aegon commented, from his seat at Dany’s right hand. Then he flushed, and gave her a guilty look. “I mean …”
Rescue came from Lady Lyria, seated with Tyrion, who whispered something in her ear with wide eyes. “Oh, that isn’t tight at all for a young woman’s tokar,” she said, with a laugh. “When I was her age, my friends and I would go out so tightly wound that we had to be carried. And then when we were out of our parent’s view, we would wet ourselves down so the fabric would cling even more.”
Tyrion’s head popped up like the prairie dogs Dany had seen on the Dothraki plains. “You never mentioned this,” he told his mistress.
“Oh I’m far too old for such fun. But if you are good for the festival, perhaps we can arrange a private demonstration,” Lyria said with a wicked smile.
“Define ‘good’,” Tyrion caged. Lyria let her eyes do the talking. Dany took another long drink. Her Hand and his mistress had never been the subtlest of lovers. But once the announcement was made, they’d lost most of whatever restraint they’d formerly possessed. It could get embarrassing. For pity’s sake, they act live love-struck youths, eager to sneak away and tumble in the barn thinking no one will notice.
Her husband seemed similarly embarrassed by this flirting. He refilled both his and his wife’s cup. As he poured hers, his eyes strayed again and fastened to their guest’s backside when she turned slightly. And he nearly spilled the Dornish vintage into his wife’s lap. Dany grabbed his wrist and straightened it. Another guilty look.
“Enjoying yourself?” The queen asked. She wasn’t. She’d spent the morning throwing up and the Dornish Red was one of the few things that managed to settle her stomach.
“I just want my cousin to be happy,” Aegon said, a bit pompously.
Daenerys gave him a sharp look. “Nothing is settled yet. And the matter is between the two of them--- and Dorne, and the North.” They’re not just people, they’re countries. Dany sighed sadly. “This isn’t just about happiness. After all, I had two political marriages before my sixteenth nameday.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened. “And I make three, is that it? You want to spare your friend the horror of being wed to the likes of me?”
“That wasn’t what I meant.” Daenerys fumed and looked away. If you didn’t take every little comment as an insult, Husband, perhaps you wouldn’t have needed me to secure your throne. She wanted so badly to say this out loud. But one of us has to be an adult.
Tyrion and Lyria exchanged glances. Dany saw them, and knew what they were both thinking. Oh no, they are going to argue again and ruin the festival. She knew they were right. Nothing would be served by fighting with Aegon tonight. Smile. I must smile and make nice.
“We’ve found happiness in our own time, my love,” she said, reaching up to stroke his arm. “Have we not? I merely want others to know the same.”
Aegon gave her a look that said he wasn’t a fool. Then he glanced at her belly. “As you say, my queen.”
You are backing down for the sake of this child, she thought as her husband sat again, eyes still on her stomach, Not for me. Am I just a broodmare to you? She clenched her teeth in anger, and swallowed it along with the wine that had been poured for her. Several minutes of uncomfortable silence followed.
“Oh look,” Tyrion broke in. “We have another guest. Unexpected. Interesting.”
Daenerys looked to the entryway, where Mace Tyrell was fussing over not only his pretty daughter Margaery, as usual, but also over a well-dressed chestnut haired young man clutching an exquisitely carved crutch. The Master of Coin beckoned both young people forward.
“I’m going to need more wine,” Dany said. A full goblet was immediately deposited at her elbow.
This had been a possibility, one she’d hoped wouldn’t become a reality. Mace Tyrell had somehow learned of this occasion and began not so subtly hinting at a desire to join them. “My eldest son is arriving this afternoon to court, Your Grace,” Mace told her over the council table, as if he’d not mentioned Willas’ arrival about a dozen times already over the weeks, “He’s a really brilliant young man. Quite the conversationalist. Perhaps your little get together might be livened up by some of my son’s witticisms.”
They’d tried to handle it delicately. The Tyrells were too rich, too powerful to be refused outright, but they’d dropped hints. I thought the fool had gotten them.
Much to his heir’s apparent embarrassment, Mace was cold to Trystane, all while pushing both his children toward Jon and his cousin-- Margaery toward Jon, Willas toward Sansa. She saw her nephew stiffen a bit. Sansa leaned over and whispered a soft suggestion in Trystane’s ear, her eyes flickering to Jon in concern. The prince of Dorne reluctantly went to go get some wine and Sansa moved closer to her cousin, taking his arm protectively.
Jon seemed to relax somewhat, and for a split second, his eyes went to Dany. The look there caused the queen to smile just a bit. He’ll have some entertaining remarks to share about this in the morning.
Dany wished she could hear what was being said, but the small party was too far away. Not so eager to greet their king and queen. But then, we’re married. She emptied her cup and beckoned an attendant to refill it at once.
Lyria was looking into the gathering. “Sansa … she looks upset.”
Oh, must everything be about Sansa and her damned love life? Dany thought, utterly irritated. She’d been told a few times since she came to court that the affairs of a pretty, highborn, unattached woman would often be a source of interest, but this was ridiculous. I’d marry the woman myself if it would make everyone in my circle shut up about her. She glanced at her husband, who was looking sulky and angry. The lady does hide her ill humor a bit better than my current kingly spouse. Then before she could stop herself, she burst out laughing.
Everyone stopped and stared. Dany felt a bit chastened at their expressions. “Excuse me,” she said, taking a sip from her refilled cup. A long one.
“Perhaps I should go and say something?” Aegon suggested.
“No!” Everyone else snapped in unison.
I miss Drogon. She’d kept off his back for weeks at the urging of every maester and her husband, who sometimes seemed to believe he had a chain around his neck judging by the way he talked down to her sometimes. She of course visited her scaled children, but always under careful supervision. I’ve spent too much time around people and not enough time around my dragons. Even the people she liked were starting to annoy her.
Eventually, the Tyrells were bid to come up and greet them. Dany cast a long, penetrating look upon the heir to Highgarden. He was not a slightly older, crippled version of his brother Garlan, as Dany had half-expected. Indeed, she was intrigued by how humble and shy he seemed. When his father announced him in a loud, booming voice, Willas had the good grace to blush slightly. It was easy to notice, as his skin was so pale. But despite his otherwise slight form, he was broad-shouldered. Not bad-looking, she mused, good hair, sweet countenance, fine smile.
The way they ended up assembling led to the Tyrells being sandwiched farthest from her and Aegon, with Margaery right between her father and brother. Tyrion suggested Willas sit beside Trystane, and Dany nearly strangled him. But the suggestion didn’t end up being as catastrophic as she originally imagined.
Willas did manage to provoke some tension, however. He spoke quite charmingly, as his father had promised, and he spoke to the Lady of Winterfell often. As it so happened, he was very knowledgeable about a number of songs, poems, and books she loved, and shared with her a fondness for animals. Such was the depths of their conversation that Trystane began to lose a little patience, and Dany wondered if her friend was trying to make him jealous.
At one point, Trystane got up from his chair, “Cousin,” he said to the king sharply, “Join me for a drink on the promenade? I don’t want to stand in the way of our charming guests and their conversation any longer.”
Aegon looked at his cousin in surprise, as if to say, You don’t?!
Sansa seemed startled by this, and a look of embarrassment and disappointment crossed her face. She blushed and stared at her lap as the two cousins departed. “Forgive me, Lord Willas,” she said in cowed resignation, “I believe I have caused offense.”
Oh, let the stupid boys sulk, Dany nearly snapped. But she doubted that would help matters. An awkward silence was left until Tyrion broke it with a rude jape about wetted tokars.
Aegon returned soon after, a satisfied look on his face. He leaned in at that point towards his wife. “I feel things may have just grown a bit more secure. Your little friend has just sworn that she’s devoted to him.”
Well, if that’s settled, then she will be as well. And we can finally cease all this nonsense, Dany thought wearily. The end of the festival couldn’t come fast enough.