fic: the maiden in the tower (6/?)
Title: The Maiden in the Tower
Chapter Five: Back to the Beginning
Rating: Hard T (this chapter), M (whole fic)
Warnings: Allusions to canon sexual abuse, suicide/suicide ideation
Word Count: 3,579
Characters and Pairings: SanSan, Jaime/Brienne, Petyr Baelish, the Elder Brother, Bran Stark, Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow, Lady Stonehart and co.
Summary: There's a story that the smallfolk tell about Sansa Stark and the night she threw herself from the Eyrie. Westeros is six years into winter, and two unlikely people find their way to the Vale where they find out an unlikely truth about the night that Sansa Stark was supposed to have died and the light that can be still be seen shining from the Eyrie. WIP.
---
If the Elder Brother was surprised to have one of the last daughters of House Stark brought in front of him shortly after breakfast, he did not show it. (To his credit, Arya thinks.) Instead, he simply sits behind the table he has requisitioned as his desk, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.
Arya tries not to bristle when he addresses her as my lady.
"Well then, my lady," he says. "Gods be good. Are you sure that you are up for this kind of journey?"
She tries not to bristle at his assumptions of her… capabilities, as well.
"Yes, Brother," she answers. "I wish to accompany… Brother Sandor on his… quest to rescue my sister from the Eyrie. I am most certain it will be arduous, but it is a journey that I wish to undertake."
"Certainly," the Elder Brother replies. Ayra searches his face for any inclination that he is humoring her, or patronizing her. "It is your sister, and you seem to be a most capable young woman, if you've managed on your own all this time. And Brother Sandor has told me of your time… travelling together."
Arya stiffens. How much has he been told? "I… see."
The Elder Brother smiles kindly. "Do not think that you will find judgment here, my child. We all do what we must to survive, and the Gods will forgive us of that. They brought you two here, together, didn't they?"
Arya finds that her jaw is stiff when she tries to answer. "So do you think that this is… our penance? Or something?"
The Elder Brother sifts through sheaves of parchment on his desk, but she thinks it is not in avoidance. "If that is how you wish to look at it, my lady. It's not up to me to interpret the signs the Gods give you. I can only decide what my life means." He removes a letter hidden between two pieces of thickly-bound vellum, unfolding it. Looking up at her, he smiles again. Kindly.
Some part of his expression, his eyes perhaps-honest, and honorable-remind Arya of her father. She wants to be able to trust him. But she does not know if she can. "Either way, one must remark upon the second chance this meeting has given you."
"Yes," Clegane says, speaking for the first time since awkwardly explaining her presence. Arya wonders just how much he has changed. "And what you spoke of, before we… parted, yesterday?"
"To business. Of course."
Arya looks at Clegane. While the subservience is not new, it's still absurd for her to see him dressed in novice robes. "What business?"
It's the Elder Brother who answers. "I thought it best to find out the most of the circumstances surrounding the Lady Sansa's… captivity, before sending Brother Sandor, and now you, of course, up the Eyrie. Lest you find anything… untoward. It is best that we understand the situation to our fullest extent."
"Littlefinger found out she wasn't a maid and the marriage couldn't go through, so he locked her in the tower and told everyone she killed herself. What else is there to know?" The Elder Brother's smile changes though. Arya purses her lips, fisting her hands into her skirts. "What?"
"We do not know what went on that night. Lord Baelish did not want very many people present for the nuptials…for reasons I have yet to discern. I am not sure if you are aware, but the household of the Eyrie had been here at the Gates for over a year before the wedding was to have taken place. The party that went up for the wedding was very selective, and I am still not sure as to why Lord Baelish wished it to be that way, or why he wished to host the wedding at the Eyrie in winter… I have guesses, of course…"
"But?" Ayra prompts.
"But half of the party that went up to the Eyrie four years ago is dead now, including the intended groom and his Aunt, and those who came down the mountain are, of course, either lying about the events or were not present for your sister's supposed death."
"And who was present and is lying, then?" she demands.
"Lord Baelish, of course. and Lord Corbray, Baelish's bought man, were both in the tower when your lady sister 'jumped.' Along with Corbray's men, they were the only ones in the tower."
"And no one thought to check," Arya seethes, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid. Clegane shifts his weight over by the window. "He what, locked the bloody door behind him and what, everyone just fucking believed him when he said that Sansa killed herself?"
The Elder Brother smile turns facetious. "That was my line of thought, as well."
"So?" she breathes, flicking the word out from between her teeth, from somewhere behind her canines.
"So," he continues. "I had a… friend, look into the departed Lady Waynwood's accounts, and I was given this letter." He references the parchment in his hand at last. "Which details that your sister failed the exam given to her by the Septa. Lady Waynwood was not in the room for the exam, one of her maids rushed to her to inform her. Lady Waynwood, still thinking your sister was the baseborn daughter of Lord Baelish, was then going to renegotiate for a larger dowry, when she heard yelling from Lord Baelish's solar between Baelish himself, and your sister, who had donned her bridal cloak, which was naturally made for a Stark… which was when all the pieces fell into place. Your sister pleaded briefly with Lady Waynwood for help, but she was… confused, obviously, and without all the necessary information and without actual proof that she was, in truth, Sansa Stark. At which point, your sister fled the room and Baelish and Corbray gave chase."
Arya sighs, scrubbing her face with her hands. She closes her eyes and feels the snow beneath her paws, the wind pushing at her fur. "And when they came back, they told Lady Waynwood she had jumped."
"Yes."
"What was the point?" she asks angrily, sinking into the chair in front of the Elder Brother's desk.
"Pardon, my lady?"
She growls. "The point. The point of Littlefucker locking my sister in the tower. The point of… only bringing a few people into the wedding activities. Of having the wedding at the Eyrie. Of everything."
"Only the Gods know for sure what game Lord Baelish is playing, my lady." She looks up, intending to fling another insult at him, before suddenly and without warning, the visage of Sansa rises up in her mind and chastises her for being rude to someone who is trying to do her a service. Be a lady. Seven Hells. She gestures to the Elder Brother to continue, a vague look of what she hopes to be apology on her face. "But I think Lord Baelish keeps her in the tower in the hopes that one day, word of Lord Tyrion's death will trickle in with the ships from Essos, and he will be able to marry your sister himself."
"Why?" she asks, eyes bulging. Clegane swears softly under his breath, and Arya glances at him askance, something like camaraderie building between them. She still has misgivings of him, of course, but with five years between their last meeting and now… She wonders what advice her lady mother would have given. She is a direwolf, yes. She can be a lady, too. It would do Sansa no good to isolate their friends.
"Lord Baelish is a very… twisted man. Very paranoid, now, with the Others coming from the North and greyscale from the south. Very much is outside his control, and it has made him mad," he begins, carefully choosing his words. "But, through your sister, were Lord Robert to… die, Lord Baelish could claim the North. And with your Uncle Edmure and his family under Lannister control, he could also finally lay a full claim to the Riverlands. And with the prosperity he has brought the Vale, and Harry Hardyng's son still in his infancy…"
"And more than half of Westeros will be under his control. If the Others and the greyscale are ever defeated. So he'll rule the ruins of Westeros," Arya finishes, deciding to try to be… measured, perhaps. "But still why, with the wedding…"
"If anyone knows, and'll tell the truth of it," Clegane finally chimes in, "it's your sister. And she's not talking to no one unless we get up there to ask her."
---
It is day again, and so she has only herself to speak to, and only her echo as a reply. Sometimes she imagines a companion for herself, sometimes Jon, or Arya, her mother, or Randa, even Mya or sometimes even some faceless, nameless specter, but for the most part, she doesn't bother with the façade anymore.
(And Sandor Clegane, she adds, silently even within her own mind. You fashioned yourself Sandor Clegane a time or two, even after the delusion broke.)
And Cersei, and Joffrey. Petyr. To rail against, when she was angry. (And she was angry. Oh she used to be so very angry.) The maid must think her insane. Sansa wonders if she reports that to Petyr. Good, let him think me out of my wits. It can only do me a service.
She wonders what she would say to the real Sandor Clegane, the one down there, right now, at the Gates. He had frightened her so very much in King's Landing, but he had saved her all the same. Not a knight, but more knightly than most of those who had sworn their lives to knighthood. And yet, so very, very angry.
She thinks she might understand, now, the anger. Had she been able to, the first year in the tower she might have drank. More than she did, pouring bottle after bottle of Dornish wines down her throat. Anything to muddle the pain, the shame, the harrowing terror of being trapped here, forever. Until the maid stopped bringing them, and she spent sweaty, shaking days flashing between hot and cold atop her bed. But still so angry. Sansa barely remember tearing the lantern from its post, scattering glass and hot oil to the stone floor. Pitching her belongings at the barred window. Screaming until her voice was gone. Anger, red and hot and mean, yelling herself hoarse at the maid who came and went in silence.
Until the dreams came, as she lay on her bed, out of her mind with sick.
Seven Hells, she had thought she had gone mad.
But Sandor Clegane never had anyone. Not even the dream of an older brother, like Jon. No, he had Gregor, and then the Lannisters, who only built the image of the beast, and pardoned the real monster, painted him as a knight. A paragon of virtue.
Still wasn't right to hold a knife to my throat, Sansa thinks, wrapping a delicate hand around her neck. But I might forgive him for it yet.
She laughs. Not that it means much.
She might as well do what she can, from here.
She briefly wonders what Sandor Clegane would do if she wrote to him, asked him to come rescue her from her tower. But what would she do? Where would she go? She is not safe from Petyr, and they would have to pass through the Gates, and how would they even get down, without Mya and her mules?
It's a niggling thought though. He had once offered to take her away. Promised to never let anyone hurt her.
Sansa laughs again, the hollow space between her shoulders echoing, making her head hurt. She swings her feet out from her bed, weakly rises. Four years in the tower. Not much walking to do, here. Try as she might but…
Her first steps are wobbly. She's not so weak as she cannot stand, or walk, but there is an adjustment in the mornings, or after sitting for a long period of time.
Crossing the room with all the grace of a newborn colt, Sansa clumsily seats herself at her vanity, working her fingers into her recalcitrant calves before flexing them under the tabletop. Routine. Routine is important. Routine is what gets her out of bed, keeps her from pacing her room like a caged animal.
Another laugh.
(The room has wrought strange humors from her, but not madness. Yet. Perhaps Petyr wants her mad, like he did to her Aunt Lysa.)
Next is her hair-a fine horsehair brush with a dollop of lavender oil, her auburn waves detangled gently. Lemon juice and sea salt, on her hands and feet. Citrus and rose water on her face. A dab of perfume behind her ears, on the pulse points of her wrists. And then she stands, jerkily, pulling herself her feet again to cross to her wardrobe, legs less weak but still stiff and graceless.
Sansa dresses herself-grey stockings, white linen shift, blue woolen dress. Her bridal cloak hangs uselessly, as white and perfect as the snow in Winterfell, and as much of a dream of Winterfell. Some mornings she allows her hands to reach out to it, brush the backs of her fingers down the velvet. Of all the things that Petyr had promised her, it was Winterfell that she had wanted the most.
She sighs. And she will have it. But what will be the cost?
Her skin is perfect. Porcelain, alabaster-all the words Petyr had used to describe her were flattering. Her hair is curled, easily tamed. Auburn. Eyes Tully blue. With every passing year, Sansa is surprised with just how much she comes to resemble her mother.
Cat, Sansa thinks. He called me Cat. I wonder how… nicely Petyr would have treated me if I looked more like a Stark, more like Arya. Alayne had brown hair, though...
She chastises herself, some distant, measured voice in her head rebuking her for nim-gazing.
She is in this tower. These are her circumstances. There is no point in entertaining fantasies.
No, she thinks suddenly. No one has hurt me. No one at all…
Laughing again, she sits at her desk. The sooner she replies to Jaime, the better.
Dear Ser, she begins, plucking a weight from one of the open tomes to hold down the long, narrow, piece of parchment.
I thank you for your continued assistance to the North. I pray that these supplies will see us through while White Harbor builds trade relationships with the East, much as the Vale has done. Any efforts that you as Lord Regent and a Lannister could put forth in the name of the North, a vast member of your realm as I'm sure you remember, to help foster a lucrative and mutually beneficial relationship with the Braavosi merchant fleet would be immensely appreciated. I may not remain a Lannister, but I do know how to pay my debts.
And as to the issue of my marriage… I fear that an annulment would only prompt Lord Baelish to marry me himself, and I do not wish to be forced into another political marriage. If you are able to secure men willing to bid a clandestine winter trip to the Eyrie, then, of course, the circumstances would change. Even still, it is best that as few people as possible know of my survival. Lord Baelish, I'm afraid, has eyes and ears everywhere in this kingdom, and a company of men leaving towards the Sky Gate would most assuredly raise his attention, and this realm does not have the greatest luck with "hunting" parties.
Like I said, Ser Jaime, I am comfortable here. As comfortable as possible, and the interests of the North, in the North, are my main concern. Do not worry about my safety while the North starves, while the Others slaughter my people.
You did not mention Aegon in your last letter. Is he still in the Stormlands with the man claiming to be Jon Connington? Have the Dornish continued to treat with him? Is he a Targaryen pretender, as you have thought?
I pray for the Queen's health, and for the life of her child. And for the life of the king.
Sansa hesitates, thinking on Sandor Clegane. He had once been the Lannisters' dog. Surely knowledge of his location could be of use to her. Jaime would have to care…
A strange feeling arises in Sansa, and she shakes her head. No. The Hound is dead. And even so…
No. It would not be right.
Her quill hesitates over the parchment.
But it could be of use to her. And to the North. If she betrayed (would it even be betrayal?) his location to Jaime, it would only further bring Lannister interests into the Vale. Lannister men could bring arms against a deserter, even one who had broken his vows (but he made no vows, a little voice reminds her) five years ago. Six, if Sansa does the unforgiving math. Jaime would want to collect his debt.
And Sandor Clegane most surely could buy her something for the North. She would have to tell Jaime she was in contact with… someone. The Elder Brother, even, perhaps, to clear up the spectacle of her exam, and he had betrayed the information to her in correspondence.
And yet… Sandor Clegane had stuck out his neck for her, she understands that. Understood it then.
I could keep you safe.
It just… feels wrong.
And the Lannisters will be ousted from power soon enough.
Sansa Stark
Lady of Winterfell
She had touched his cheek. He had been so gentle with her. Never… hardly ever with his words, but he had been… gentle. Had shown the capacity for it, for kindness beyond what the Lannisters might have seen in him. What everyone had seen in him, the Hound. Perhaps the world hadn't tamped all of it out.
Sansa bites down on her lip, staring pointedly at her letter to Jaime Lannister.
Perhaps she has another missive to write.
---
"And so… Bronze Yohn, is of little assistance," Arya replies. She had handed over the letters she had pilfered from Littlefinger. "I'll put these back. I'll… find another maid, to become."
"You... you were the…" The Elder Brother's eyebrows rise.
Arya smiles smugly. "Maid. In the room, yes, when you met with Lord Baelish yesterday. It was my... talents that have brought me through this winter, Brother. But yes. So do you believe it was Littlefinger, behind Bronze Yohn's injury? So he couldn't accompany the wedding party up to the Eyrie?"
The Elder Brother considers it. "It's quite possible. To what end, though?" He pauses, eyes scanning the other letters from Alayne to Littlefinger. "It says here that Lord Nestor Royce was quite disgraced that he was not given an invitation-the Lady Randa had told her. Sansa inquires as to why they slighted Lord Nestor."
"Sweetrobin wasn't going up, either," Arya says. "For the wedding. Because of his health. Sansa writes here, just a week before the wedding that his health had declined significantly."
"That, I can answer," the Elder Brother replies, rubbing his forehead.
"Littlefinger meant to kill 'im."
The Elder Brother looks to Sandor, whose face has turned to a shade of controlled anger, before nodding wearily. "I believe he meant for Harry to ascend to Lord of the Vale upon his descent from the Eyrie, yes. I believe he wanted… a show."
"How so? And why make the Royces stay behind?"
He coughs, collecting the letters back into a pile before sliding them to Arya. "You remember what order these were in, how they were tied?" She nods. "Lord Baelish is partial to theatrics." It's the the only answer he can give.
For a minute the only sound in the room is the shuffling of paper as Arya collates the letters into their original order.
"So when do we leave?" Clegane asks, at last, hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
Arya looks up expectantly.
The Elder Brother is not surprised at the inquiry. "As soon as possible. Noon, preferably. I've been given supplies from Lord Baelish. He is under the assumption that a contingent of Brothers are heading out to minister to the poor some ten miles West. I am sending a contingent, of course, but you will be going East. Head out with them, and then-"
"Double back around the Gates. Horses?"
"Stranger." The Elder Brother and Clegane share a look that speaks to many discussions over the naming of the destrier. "And the lady may take one of the mares belonging to the Faith. But you will both need mules to make it to the top. The supplies you will need will be marked. I will escort the party to the edge of the village."
"I'll need clothes."
The two men look at her inquiringly, Clegane's lip curling. Arya can see him holding back the quip.
She scoffs. "I'm not climbing any mountains or riding any horses in this skirt. I'll need leathers. And you know, riding boots?"
"Right, will you need-"
"Assistance? No. Just time."
The Elder Brother nods. "Right. Well then. Noon?"
"We're best to not be in each other's company until then," Clegane rasps, mostly to Arya. She nods. She turns to leave. "And girl?" She pauses. "You'd best not look like a girl when I see you next."
Growling, Arya stalks out of the room.
"Shut up, Brother."
---
( chapter four | masterpost | chapter six )
Chapter Five: Back to the Beginning
Rating: Hard T (this chapter), M (whole fic)
Warnings: Allusions to canon sexual abuse, suicide/suicide ideation
Word Count: 3,579
Characters and Pairings: SanSan, Jaime/Brienne, Petyr Baelish, the Elder Brother, Bran Stark, Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow, Lady Stonehart and co.
Summary: There's a story that the smallfolk tell about Sansa Stark and the night she threw herself from the Eyrie. Westeros is six years into winter, and two unlikely people find their way to the Vale where they find out an unlikely truth about the night that Sansa Stark was supposed to have died and the light that can be still be seen shining from the Eyrie. WIP.
---
If the Elder Brother was surprised to have one of the last daughters of House Stark brought in front of him shortly after breakfast, he did not show it. (To his credit, Arya thinks.) Instead, he simply sits behind the table he has requisitioned as his desk, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.
Arya tries not to bristle when he addresses her as my lady.
"Well then, my lady," he says. "Gods be good. Are you sure that you are up for this kind of journey?"
She tries not to bristle at his assumptions of her… capabilities, as well.
"Yes, Brother," she answers. "I wish to accompany… Brother Sandor on his… quest to rescue my sister from the Eyrie. I am most certain it will be arduous, but it is a journey that I wish to undertake."
"Certainly," the Elder Brother replies. Ayra searches his face for any inclination that he is humoring her, or patronizing her. "It is your sister, and you seem to be a most capable young woman, if you've managed on your own all this time. And Brother Sandor has told me of your time… travelling together."
Arya stiffens. How much has he been told? "I… see."
The Elder Brother smiles kindly. "Do not think that you will find judgment here, my child. We all do what we must to survive, and the Gods will forgive us of that. They brought you two here, together, didn't they?"
Arya finds that her jaw is stiff when she tries to answer. "So do you think that this is… our penance? Or something?"
The Elder Brother sifts through sheaves of parchment on his desk, but she thinks it is not in avoidance. "If that is how you wish to look at it, my lady. It's not up to me to interpret the signs the Gods give you. I can only decide what my life means." He removes a letter hidden between two pieces of thickly-bound vellum, unfolding it. Looking up at her, he smiles again. Kindly.
Some part of his expression, his eyes perhaps-honest, and honorable-remind Arya of her father. She wants to be able to trust him. But she does not know if she can. "Either way, one must remark upon the second chance this meeting has given you."
"Yes," Clegane says, speaking for the first time since awkwardly explaining her presence. Arya wonders just how much he has changed. "And what you spoke of, before we… parted, yesterday?"
"To business. Of course."
Arya looks at Clegane. While the subservience is not new, it's still absurd for her to see him dressed in novice robes. "What business?"
It's the Elder Brother who answers. "I thought it best to find out the most of the circumstances surrounding the Lady Sansa's… captivity, before sending Brother Sandor, and now you, of course, up the Eyrie. Lest you find anything… untoward. It is best that we understand the situation to our fullest extent."
"Littlefinger found out she wasn't a maid and the marriage couldn't go through, so he locked her in the tower and told everyone she killed herself. What else is there to know?" The Elder Brother's smile changes though. Arya purses her lips, fisting her hands into her skirts. "What?"
"We do not know what went on that night. Lord Baelish did not want very many people present for the nuptials…for reasons I have yet to discern. I am not sure if you are aware, but the household of the Eyrie had been here at the Gates for over a year before the wedding was to have taken place. The party that went up for the wedding was very selective, and I am still not sure as to why Lord Baelish wished it to be that way, or why he wished to host the wedding at the Eyrie in winter… I have guesses, of course…"
"But?" Ayra prompts.
"But half of the party that went up to the Eyrie four years ago is dead now, including the intended groom and his Aunt, and those who came down the mountain are, of course, either lying about the events or were not present for your sister's supposed death."
"And who was present and is lying, then?" she demands.
"Lord Baelish, of course. and Lord Corbray, Baelish's bought man, were both in the tower when your lady sister 'jumped.' Along with Corbray's men, they were the only ones in the tower."
"And no one thought to check," Arya seethes, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid. Clegane shifts his weight over by the window. "He what, locked the bloody door behind him and what, everyone just fucking believed him when he said that Sansa killed herself?"
The Elder Brother smile turns facetious. "That was my line of thought, as well."
"So?" she breathes, flicking the word out from between her teeth, from somewhere behind her canines.
"So," he continues. "I had a… friend, look into the departed Lady Waynwood's accounts, and I was given this letter." He references the parchment in his hand at last. "Which details that your sister failed the exam given to her by the Septa. Lady Waynwood was not in the room for the exam, one of her maids rushed to her to inform her. Lady Waynwood, still thinking your sister was the baseborn daughter of Lord Baelish, was then going to renegotiate for a larger dowry, when she heard yelling from Lord Baelish's solar between Baelish himself, and your sister, who had donned her bridal cloak, which was naturally made for a Stark… which was when all the pieces fell into place. Your sister pleaded briefly with Lady Waynwood for help, but she was… confused, obviously, and without all the necessary information and without actual proof that she was, in truth, Sansa Stark. At which point, your sister fled the room and Baelish and Corbray gave chase."
Arya sighs, scrubbing her face with her hands. She closes her eyes and feels the snow beneath her paws, the wind pushing at her fur. "And when they came back, they told Lady Waynwood she had jumped."
"Yes."
"What was the point?" she asks angrily, sinking into the chair in front of the Elder Brother's desk.
"Pardon, my lady?"
She growls. "The point. The point of Littlefucker locking my sister in the tower. The point of… only bringing a few people into the wedding activities. Of having the wedding at the Eyrie. Of everything."
"Only the Gods know for sure what game Lord Baelish is playing, my lady." She looks up, intending to fling another insult at him, before suddenly and without warning, the visage of Sansa rises up in her mind and chastises her for being rude to someone who is trying to do her a service. Be a lady. Seven Hells. She gestures to the Elder Brother to continue, a vague look of what she hopes to be apology on her face. "But I think Lord Baelish keeps her in the tower in the hopes that one day, word of Lord Tyrion's death will trickle in with the ships from Essos, and he will be able to marry your sister himself."
"Why?" she asks, eyes bulging. Clegane swears softly under his breath, and Arya glances at him askance, something like camaraderie building between them. She still has misgivings of him, of course, but with five years between their last meeting and now… She wonders what advice her lady mother would have given. She is a direwolf, yes. She can be a lady, too. It would do Sansa no good to isolate their friends.
"Lord Baelish is a very… twisted man. Very paranoid, now, with the Others coming from the North and greyscale from the south. Very much is outside his control, and it has made him mad," he begins, carefully choosing his words. "But, through your sister, were Lord Robert to… die, Lord Baelish could claim the North. And with your Uncle Edmure and his family under Lannister control, he could also finally lay a full claim to the Riverlands. And with the prosperity he has brought the Vale, and Harry Hardyng's son still in his infancy…"
"And more than half of Westeros will be under his control. If the Others and the greyscale are ever defeated. So he'll rule the ruins of Westeros," Arya finishes, deciding to try to be… measured, perhaps. "But still why, with the wedding…"
"If anyone knows, and'll tell the truth of it," Clegane finally chimes in, "it's your sister. And she's not talking to no one unless we get up there to ask her."
---
It is day again, and so she has only herself to speak to, and only her echo as a reply. Sometimes she imagines a companion for herself, sometimes Jon, or Arya, her mother, or Randa, even Mya or sometimes even some faceless, nameless specter, but for the most part, she doesn't bother with the façade anymore.
(And Sandor Clegane, she adds, silently even within her own mind. You fashioned yourself Sandor Clegane a time or two, even after the delusion broke.)
And Cersei, and Joffrey. Petyr. To rail against, when she was angry. (And she was angry. Oh she used to be so very angry.) The maid must think her insane. Sansa wonders if she reports that to Petyr. Good, let him think me out of my wits. It can only do me a service.
She wonders what she would say to the real Sandor Clegane, the one down there, right now, at the Gates. He had frightened her so very much in King's Landing, but he had saved her all the same. Not a knight, but more knightly than most of those who had sworn their lives to knighthood. And yet, so very, very angry.
She thinks she might understand, now, the anger. Had she been able to, the first year in the tower she might have drank. More than she did, pouring bottle after bottle of Dornish wines down her throat. Anything to muddle the pain, the shame, the harrowing terror of being trapped here, forever. Until the maid stopped bringing them, and she spent sweaty, shaking days flashing between hot and cold atop her bed. But still so angry. Sansa barely remember tearing the lantern from its post, scattering glass and hot oil to the stone floor. Pitching her belongings at the barred window. Screaming until her voice was gone. Anger, red and hot and mean, yelling herself hoarse at the maid who came and went in silence.
Until the dreams came, as she lay on her bed, out of her mind with sick.
Seven Hells, she had thought she had gone mad.
But Sandor Clegane never had anyone. Not even the dream of an older brother, like Jon. No, he had Gregor, and then the Lannisters, who only built the image of the beast, and pardoned the real monster, painted him as a knight. A paragon of virtue.
Still wasn't right to hold a knife to my throat, Sansa thinks, wrapping a delicate hand around her neck. But I might forgive him for it yet.
She laughs. Not that it means much.
She might as well do what she can, from here.
She briefly wonders what Sandor Clegane would do if she wrote to him, asked him to come rescue her from her tower. But what would she do? Where would she go? She is not safe from Petyr, and they would have to pass through the Gates, and how would they even get down, without Mya and her mules?
It's a niggling thought though. He had once offered to take her away. Promised to never let anyone hurt her.
Sansa laughs again, the hollow space between her shoulders echoing, making her head hurt. She swings her feet out from her bed, weakly rises. Four years in the tower. Not much walking to do, here. Try as she might but…
Her first steps are wobbly. She's not so weak as she cannot stand, or walk, but there is an adjustment in the mornings, or after sitting for a long period of time.
Crossing the room with all the grace of a newborn colt, Sansa clumsily seats herself at her vanity, working her fingers into her recalcitrant calves before flexing them under the tabletop. Routine. Routine is important. Routine is what gets her out of bed, keeps her from pacing her room like a caged animal.
Another laugh.
(The room has wrought strange humors from her, but not madness. Yet. Perhaps Petyr wants her mad, like he did to her Aunt Lysa.)
Next is her hair-a fine horsehair brush with a dollop of lavender oil, her auburn waves detangled gently. Lemon juice and sea salt, on her hands and feet. Citrus and rose water on her face. A dab of perfume behind her ears, on the pulse points of her wrists. And then she stands, jerkily, pulling herself her feet again to cross to her wardrobe, legs less weak but still stiff and graceless.
Sansa dresses herself-grey stockings, white linen shift, blue woolen dress. Her bridal cloak hangs uselessly, as white and perfect as the snow in Winterfell, and as much of a dream of Winterfell. Some mornings she allows her hands to reach out to it, brush the backs of her fingers down the velvet. Of all the things that Petyr had promised her, it was Winterfell that she had wanted the most.
She sighs. And she will have it. But what will be the cost?
Her skin is perfect. Porcelain, alabaster-all the words Petyr had used to describe her were flattering. Her hair is curled, easily tamed. Auburn. Eyes Tully blue. With every passing year, Sansa is surprised with just how much she comes to resemble her mother.
Cat, Sansa thinks. He called me Cat. I wonder how… nicely Petyr would have treated me if I looked more like a Stark, more like Arya. Alayne had brown hair, though...
She chastises herself, some distant, measured voice in her head rebuking her for nim-gazing.
She is in this tower. These are her circumstances. There is no point in entertaining fantasies.
No, she thinks suddenly. No one has hurt me. No one at all…
Laughing again, she sits at her desk. The sooner she replies to Jaime, the better.
Dear Ser, she begins, plucking a weight from one of the open tomes to hold down the long, narrow, piece of parchment.
I thank you for your continued assistance to the North. I pray that these supplies will see us through while White Harbor builds trade relationships with the East, much as the Vale has done. Any efforts that you as Lord Regent and a Lannister could put forth in the name of the North, a vast member of your realm as I'm sure you remember, to help foster a lucrative and mutually beneficial relationship with the Braavosi merchant fleet would be immensely appreciated. I may not remain a Lannister, but I do know how to pay my debts.
And as to the issue of my marriage… I fear that an annulment would only prompt Lord Baelish to marry me himself, and I do not wish to be forced into another political marriage. If you are able to secure men willing to bid a clandestine winter trip to the Eyrie, then, of course, the circumstances would change. Even still, it is best that as few people as possible know of my survival. Lord Baelish, I'm afraid, has eyes and ears everywhere in this kingdom, and a company of men leaving towards the Sky Gate would most assuredly raise his attention, and this realm does not have the greatest luck with "hunting" parties.
Like I said, Ser Jaime, I am comfortable here. As comfortable as possible, and the interests of the North, in the North, are my main concern. Do not worry about my safety while the North starves, while the Others slaughter my people.
You did not mention Aegon in your last letter. Is he still in the Stormlands with the man claiming to be Jon Connington? Have the Dornish continued to treat with him? Is he a Targaryen pretender, as you have thought?
I pray for the Queen's health, and for the life of her child. And for the life of the king.
Sansa hesitates, thinking on Sandor Clegane. He had once been the Lannisters' dog. Surely knowledge of his location could be of use to her. Jaime would have to care…
A strange feeling arises in Sansa, and she shakes her head. No. The Hound is dead. And even so…
No. It would not be right.
Her quill hesitates over the parchment.
But it could be of use to her. And to the North. If she betrayed (would it even be betrayal?) his location to Jaime, it would only further bring Lannister interests into the Vale. Lannister men could bring arms against a deserter, even one who had broken his vows (but he made no vows, a little voice reminds her) five years ago. Six, if Sansa does the unforgiving math. Jaime would want to collect his debt.
And Sandor Clegane most surely could buy her something for the North. She would have to tell Jaime she was in contact with… someone. The Elder Brother, even, perhaps, to clear up the spectacle of her exam, and he had betrayed the information to her in correspondence.
And yet… Sandor Clegane had stuck out his neck for her, she understands that. Understood it then.
I could keep you safe.
It just… feels wrong.
And the Lannisters will be ousted from power soon enough.
Sansa Stark
Lady of Winterfell
She had touched his cheek. He had been so gentle with her. Never… hardly ever with his words, but he had been… gentle. Had shown the capacity for it, for kindness beyond what the Lannisters might have seen in him. What everyone had seen in him, the Hound. Perhaps the world hadn't tamped all of it out.
Sansa bites down on her lip, staring pointedly at her letter to Jaime Lannister.
Perhaps she has another missive to write.
---
"And so… Bronze Yohn, is of little assistance," Arya replies. She had handed over the letters she had pilfered from Littlefinger. "I'll put these back. I'll… find another maid, to become."
"You... you were the…" The Elder Brother's eyebrows rise.
Arya smiles smugly. "Maid. In the room, yes, when you met with Lord Baelish yesterday. It was my... talents that have brought me through this winter, Brother. But yes. So do you believe it was Littlefinger, behind Bronze Yohn's injury? So he couldn't accompany the wedding party up to the Eyrie?"
The Elder Brother considers it. "It's quite possible. To what end, though?" He pauses, eyes scanning the other letters from Alayne to Littlefinger. "It says here that Lord Nestor Royce was quite disgraced that he was not given an invitation-the Lady Randa had told her. Sansa inquires as to why they slighted Lord Nestor."
"Sweetrobin wasn't going up, either," Arya says. "For the wedding. Because of his health. Sansa writes here, just a week before the wedding that his health had declined significantly."
"That, I can answer," the Elder Brother replies, rubbing his forehead.
"Littlefinger meant to kill 'im."
The Elder Brother looks to Sandor, whose face has turned to a shade of controlled anger, before nodding wearily. "I believe he meant for Harry to ascend to Lord of the Vale upon his descent from the Eyrie, yes. I believe he wanted… a show."
"How so? And why make the Royces stay behind?"
He coughs, collecting the letters back into a pile before sliding them to Arya. "You remember what order these were in, how they were tied?" She nods. "Lord Baelish is partial to theatrics." It's the the only answer he can give.
For a minute the only sound in the room is the shuffling of paper as Arya collates the letters into their original order.
"So when do we leave?" Clegane asks, at last, hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
Arya looks up expectantly.
The Elder Brother is not surprised at the inquiry. "As soon as possible. Noon, preferably. I've been given supplies from Lord Baelish. He is under the assumption that a contingent of Brothers are heading out to minister to the poor some ten miles West. I am sending a contingent, of course, but you will be going East. Head out with them, and then-"
"Double back around the Gates. Horses?"
"Stranger." The Elder Brother and Clegane share a look that speaks to many discussions over the naming of the destrier. "And the lady may take one of the mares belonging to the Faith. But you will both need mules to make it to the top. The supplies you will need will be marked. I will escort the party to the edge of the village."
"I'll need clothes."
The two men look at her inquiringly, Clegane's lip curling. Arya can see him holding back the quip.
She scoffs. "I'm not climbing any mountains or riding any horses in this skirt. I'll need leathers. And you know, riding boots?"
"Right, will you need-"
"Assistance? No. Just time."
The Elder Brother nods. "Right. Well then. Noon?"
"We're best to not be in each other's company until then," Clegane rasps, mostly to Arya. She nods. She turns to leave. "And girl?" She pauses. "You'd best not look like a girl when I see you next."
Growling, Arya stalks out of the room.
"Shut up, Brother."
---
( chapter four | masterpost | chapter six )