let no man steal your thyme || for xlilxmissx

[lady vri]

Come all ye fair and tender girls
Who flourish in your prime
Beware, beware keep your garden fair
Let no man steal your thyme
Let no man steal your thyme…

Icy blue eyes opened slowly. Shireen was… singing. Stannis had never heard her sing. The quiet girl that was his daughter sat before the hearth on a worn rug looking down at the charred, glowing logs burning with bright flames. Her thin hair fell around her face and shoulders like straw, bare feet sticking out from underneath the gray wool dress. Her tiny hands held a small book between them. The pages were frayed and the spine nearly broken. Stannis recognized it nonetheless.

“Where did you get that?” His normally hard edged voice was quieter, almost gentle when he spoke to the girl. She paused, her tiny head rising before she turned it to look up at him. Stannis sat on the far wall in an old chair, nearly a man’s height between them. Shireen’s large, doe like eyes shimmered in the firelight.

“In Mother’s room.”

Stannis huffed softly. Selyse had been dead for nearly three months now. She was… ill. Stannis never concerned himself much with her care once they arrived at Castle Black and it was true that he had not asked what ailed her. Melisandre swore to cure her. He left it at that. But the woman who bore his daughter died shortly after settling in. Sickness of the blood, someone muttered but he didn’t know if it was true. Melisandre tried to twist the death… She tried to bend it and shape it. Stannis did not care. He had not loved Selyse for years. As callous as it sounded, what did he care how the priestess interpreted her death? Yet it did not stop there. She spoke feverently of a sign for a sacrifice and king’s blood… she spoke of Shireen. It was a step too far. The Red Woman burned with all that existed of her god.

The flames were struck from his banner. The idols were destroyed. The farce was over. Stannis Baratheon had sworn long ago to never put any stock in the gods, new or old or enveloped in flames. Had he ever truly thought that was the Warrior of Light? When he looked in Melisandre’s flames… Anything was possible. But those flames showed less and less, and letting that woman guide him was like walking uphill through knee deep snow. One step forward only led to two steps back. Now he walked a much simpler path.

“Your mother took that book with her everywhere.” Shireen needed to hear things like that. She needed to know. “Keep it safe.” His daughter nodded slowly and then turned her attention back to the small book. Stannis felt the corners of his mouth twitch. An almost comfortable quiet settled over father and daughter while the fire crackled and spit embers. It would not last for long, however, for a matter pressed the king into speaking once more.

“Shireen… Do you like Sansa Stark?” The girl nodded her head in agreement, not looking up from the book whose pages she turned gingerly with her thin fingers. Stannis shifted in his seat and leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees. “I mean… Do you get along well?”

“She’s nice. She says hello whenever we see each other.”

Stannis’ jaw tensed. He barely knew how to tell the Stark girl and now here he was trying to say it to his daughter. “How… How would you feel about her staying with us?”

“Isn’t she staying with us already?”

“I meant permanently.” That caught Shireen’s attention and she glanced back up through her stringy hair at the man she called father.

“But… doesn’t she want to go back home? The Starks come from Winterfell. We’re going to King’s Landing.”

“King’s Landing would be her home.”

Shireen tilted her head slightly and her hair moved, exposing a piece of the grayscale that marred her face. “Why?”

Stannis inhaled sharply through his nostrils and sat up straighter. “She would be my wife. Her home would be my home.” He saw his daughter’s eyes widen slightly but otherwise there was no visible indication that the older man could use to discern whether or not she found the news favorable. Then slowly, she hung her head, setting the book aside.

“It’s because I’m not a boy, isn’t it? You need a son.”

The king wet his lips quickly. “You will always be my daughter… But yes. I need an heir.”

Shireen said nothing more and Stannis could not find the words to say what he wanted, so after several long moments of discomfort, he rose from the chair and walked over to the door. In the threshold he paused and regarded his daughter once more but she still refused to look at him. After a second of hesitation, he tapped the doorway with his fingertips, whispered a soft, “Goodbye,” and then left.

It was mid day at Castle Black and the Night’s Watch was bustling around the keep. They paid Stannis little attention as he walked the ramparts. His men were scattered amongst them though most slept in tents just outside. His commanders stayed in the keep…

They were the same commanders that brought the reality of Stannis’ situation back to him after Melisandre was dealt with. Stannis was a king without a son and without a wife to give him one. Shireen was… she could never be Queen of Westeros. He lacked soldiers and the few he had left were battle weary and on the brink of desertion. A solution was needed and quick. His late wife’s brother suggested that Stannis legitimize the bastard Jon Snow. As Jon Stark, he would be the perfect instrument to win the allegiance of the Northmen who had fought under Robb Stark and now were being brutally oppressed by Roose Bolton and whatever inbreed child king that crawled from Cersei’s womb she chose to put on the Iron Throne.

But Jon refused. He’d taken vows, he said. Admiral as it was, Stannis still thought that the boy had made a serious mistake but there was nothing more he could say to change his mind.

That was when the she-wolf arrived.

Sansa Stark rode right up to the gates of Castle Black, looking for her half brother. Jon was all too eager to cover her in the blanket safety of the Night’s Watch but he was reminded that the brothers in black took no side. Sansa could not stay there. Instead, Jon approached Stannis. With all their brothers dead and Jon refusing to be legitimized, she was the rightful heir to Winterfell. She could rally the North and give Stannis her bannermen. Tentatively, Stannis agreed to take her into his court but had yet to name Sansa as Lady of Winterfell, instead delegating to her the task of endless needlework and prayer as a lady without titles or lands waiting for his decision.

It was Davos Seaworth who suggested taking her as his wife. As optimistic as it was to believe that the North would rally to her if she was put in the seat of Winterfell, what the North really needed was a lord to govern and rule with a firm and steady hand. Sansa was still a girl… But a girl with plenty of childbearing years left in her. If Stannis would wed and bed her, she could produce the son the king needed. And he would be the one to call the Northern banner houses to arms in her name and the name of her father, Eddard Stark, and her brother, Robb Stark.

The idea of taking such a young girl as a wife, however… Stannis was no fool. He knew he was not the Knight of Flowers. He was a man over twenty years her senior, a widower with a daughter near her age. Why would she want to marry him? Ser Polbrook made the crass suggestion that he give her no choice in the matter. That made Stannis’ stomach turn. Resorting to such tactics were… unpleasant. But perhaps necessary. Stannis could not definitively say he could not do it. Yet.

So he mulled over the choices before him for two days. This was the third day. This was the day he was supposed to make a decision, or so he told himself. Stannis sent word that morning that he wanted Sansa to meet him in the Lord Commander’s quarters after the midday meal. If he was going to ask for her hand, he would do it properly and do it in front of her family, at least the one person she had left.

Dressed in drab black with his sword belted around his waist, Stannis Baratheon, flanked by two of his Kingsguard, approached the large oak door with a scowl on his face. His jaw was set as he was announced and stepped through into the room after the door was opened by none other than Jon Snow. At first glance he did not see Sansa anywhere inside… He must have arrived first. Stannis watched Jon close the door and walk back to his desk, though he did not sit. Rather, he absently spread papers about on his desk, making Stannis all too painfully aware that Jon was uncertain about what his sister would say when Stannis asked his question… And that was enough to put a seed of doubt in Stannis’ stomach. It did not have time to fester, however.

There was a knock on the door.

 

[xlilxmissx]

The boy found her on the ramparts, arms clutched tightly about herself though she looked anything but cold. Sansa Stark, all pale skin and auburn tresses blowing wildly in the cruel Northern wind, was a statue wrought in flame. No true Stark shivered against the howl of winter. They stood proud, in solemn greys and defiant black, till Summer broke or they froze in place forever. Guardians of the North, keepers of the old ways, stubborn to the end.

Twice, the boy had to call her name – her title – before she broke whatever compelled her to stare blankly into the horizon as if searching for a sun that never rose this far north, this deep into a winter that had barely begun.

“My Lady—Lady Stark!”

She frowned, almost smirked, before catching herself and turning near-transparent eyes to the trembling messenger. He could not be that much younger than she, but, well, she was a woman married and now the head of the noble House of Stark. Is it a wonder she saw everyone as children?

Lannister. She almost corrected him. She was Lady Lannister now, wife to the Imp who was likely dead or rotting in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. Sansa drew in a breath, summoning the air of resigned indifference that had been her cloak since Robert Baratheon died and took order and peace and all hope to his selfish grave.

“Speak,” she said, her voice carrying clearly where the lad's had been swallowed by the frigid air.

“You are summoned, my Lady. The King waits for you at the Lord Commander’s quarters.”

--

Jon opens the door, a deep line between his brows. His brown eyes, so much like her lost brothers', her sister's, her entire shattered family's, bears a message she could not read as he ushers her into the room, leading her to a chair drawn close to the warmth of the hearth. The raging fire, hot and inviting and almost a little stifling, was a luxury she knows he would not have indulged in if he had not been expecting her.

He should not have bothered, but how could he have known that Sansa who used to love nothing more than to curl up by a fire could not get enough of the brittle cold now that she had finally found her way back to it? The cold meant snow, and snow meant home.

She does not sit but instead gives a curtsy to the King, curt but shallow, almost impatient, and passes a glance between the two men. One stands taut, unreadable, while the other worries his glove, so obviously uncomfortable. Jon had aged with his new station, but he looks more a child now beside the battleworn Baratheon than he had ever been to Sansa.

“My Lord,” she greets one of the Kings of Westeros, carefully acknowledging him without granting the title he had conferred upon himself. That her own father had conferred upon him, she reminds herself with more than a touch of bitterness. Eddard Stark died because of that claim, lost his head for declaring Stannis Baratheon the rightful king, and now here that king was, standing before her, with an inevitable demand she was surprised it had taken him this long to lay at her feet.

 

[lady vri]

Sansa blew into the room like the frozen air of the North blew over the great ice wall that Castle Black was nuzzled up against. A flurry of snowflakes accompanied her yet they were melting by the time they reached the floor. She is cold, just like the snow. Her hair was nearly the same color as the fire and Stannis could have sworn that it set alight those Tully blues set into her pale skin. She was undoubtedly the spitting image of her mother. Though he never met Catelyn Stark in person while they were young, he’d heard of her beauty from his brother Robert after he attended her and Eddard’s quick marriage.

“Lady Sansa,” he mumbled a little louder than a loud whisper, his jaw grinding together. “I’ve summoned you here today…” The words were hard to make with his sluggish tongue. This plan was insane. Almost heinous. Still he pushed onward, covering up his hesitation by taking two steps toward her, ending up in the middle of the room.

“I’ve summoned you because there is the matter of your inheritance. As I am sure you are well aware, there are no legitimate male heirs of your father’s blood.” He glanced back at Jon. “Your half brother has refused my offer to name him as your father’s trueborn son in the absence of your brothers. He cites his vows,” Stannis grumbled the last bit, clearly unhappy, but he turned back to Sansa, locking eyes with her and holding a heavy, steady gaze. “Which leaves your father’s daughters. You are the eldest and the only one that is believed to be alive.” Jon made a small sound behind the older man but Stannis ignored him; Arya Stark had not been seen in nearly a year and a half… She was dead.

“Yet there is the matter of your marriage to Tyrion Lannister. Given that you were a hostage to the eldest of Cersei’s incestuous brood, it would be within my power to declare the marriage invalid and arrange for a septon to annul the vows that bind you to the dwarf. I am sure that this would please you…

“The only reason I have not yet done this is because there is something else that I must discuss with you… Your elder brother, instead of recognizing my legitimate claim and the only valid claim to the Seven Kingdoms, declared himself King of the North, something that I know you conflicts with your father’s beliefs. I know you know that he asserted my claim. I know that is why Joffrey had him put to death. These two men, your brother and your father, no doubt have influenced you… I just do not know which has influenced you more. If I were to name you Lady of Winterfell and give you back your ancestral keep and lands, you could very well follow in your brother’s footsteps and turn against me. As amusing as it would be to hear your fellow northmen styling you as Queen Sansa I of the North, it is not something that I would look kindly upon.

“Then again… Your mother believed in duty and honor, just as your father did. It could be that you would be a strong ally once you regained control over the North. My small council has discussed with me at lengths about what is to be done… The solution that I believe is best might be startling, Lady Sansa.” That he believed was best… Stannis swore if he ever had to say those words again he’d eat his breastplate. “To ensure your allegiance and loyalty to me, Lady Sansa, I extend the gift of marriage… You will become my wife, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Lady of Winterfell, provided that a septa finds no fault in your maidenhood and a maester finds no Lannister seed growing in your belly.”

 

[xlilxmissx]

The words were perfunctory, and the man said them as if he was reading from a script. Sansa saw through his faked air of confidence, listened to the strategic inflections into his tone, allowed the barely-veiled insults, the reference to her farce of a marriage and the -- oh, what did he call it? A gift? She hoped her eyes, locked so firmly with his, did not betray her because, by the Seven, she almost laughed to his face despite the open neutrality she forced her features into.

Oh, he would give her this gift, would he? The king without a castle, whose army was almost, almost completely grounded by the snow that, even know, was thickening on the unforgiving ground. He believed he could strong arm her into yet another marriage. Have her spread her legs to some septa of his to prove her worth, her damned purity.

Her palm itched. She wanted nothing more than to feel the sting of this man's cheek reddening her hand. She would have done it, too. Slapped him, if she thought she had the strength to stop there, to keep from reaching for the poker or for Jon's sword so that she could stick it into the bastard before her before turning it into her own breast. Let all this end in blood as they were, all of them, determined to make it end.

It was a fantasy she was familiar with, one she had grown accustomed to. It played in her head in a near endless loop. At King's Landing, before all her enemies. In her unconsummated marriage bed where the Imp laid in drunken misery. In Littlefinger's slippery, disgusting embrace. She wanted them all dead, and her with them.

But her daydreams were just that. In the end, she always took the insult, the beating, or whatever other humiliation these men - these lords in whose hands her fate had somehow been placed - deemed she deserved. And Stannis' gift-- oh, she would take that too, of course. Because, he was right. She was the last of her line and Jon... Jon was no Stark.

"Of course, my lord," she says simply, with a clarity and finality that he, with his long speech and warring honor, could not muster despite his claims to sovereignty and kingship. She raises one gloved hand, offers it for him to shake or hold or kiss or however kings close deals that involved wedding women half their age. She keeps her glassy eyes on him and, for once, is glad for the height that made her tower embarrassingly over the men she had been betrothed and married to. She only needed to raise her chin a little to hold the King's gaze.

 

[lady vri]

A pregnant beat of silence passed through all three persons standing in the small room. That was… unexpected. Sansa agreed readily to the prospect of marriage. There were no concerns, no attempts at politely declining what most might see as a powerful arrangement. Technically, Sansa was the lady of her house. With her brothers dead, the honor of leading the Stark household, and whoever still claimed loyalty to them, fell to the young redhead standing before her. The decision was hers to make.

However Stannis was all too aware of how he’d worded the proposal. In reality, Sansa had no choice. It was either marry him or resign herself to a life of near non existence. Anything that was left for her in Winterfell would be taken from her. She would be a lady with noble blood but no claims. Seemed that her time spent in King’s Landing had done her some good; she was not the same naive little child he’d seen giggling over knights at the Hand’s Tourney… But she was still a child.

She offered her hand, the delicate doe-skin gloves encasing what he could only assume was the same pale skin that covered her face. Slowly, Stannis extended his hand and with a surprisingly amount of gentleness, he relieved her arm of the strain it took to hold that small hand in midair. The rough skin of his palm caught on the soft glove but it did not stop him from bending over at the waist and thin lips pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her hand before he retreated. And so it was done.

“We will be leaving the day after tomorrow,” he announced, straightening back up and looking back up into Sansa’s steely gaze. “Your things will be packed. We are to ride south and gather support on the way to our destination.”

“What will that be?” Jon piped up from behind his desk and Stannis regarded him over his shoulder for a moment before uttering a single word.

“Winterfell.”

A king needed a castle. He needed a foothold to take back his kingdom. Jon looked a tad surprised; he probably thought that Stannis would spend more time preparing an army before heading straight into the Bolton maw. Truth was, Stannis knew that his plan was flimsy at best. In order to woo the Northern lords, he would need Winterfell. He could only hope that with Sansa by his side, as his betrothed, those that were encountered on the way would join forces with him but he would never get the entirety of the North without that grand, central keep.

Turning back to Sansa, Stannis made to leave. “I am sure that you would like to take the time you have left and spend it with your brother… And I have business to attend to. Until we meet again, Lady Sansa. Lord Commander,” he nodded to both Sansa and Jon, then turned on his heel to leave, the silence as he closed the door behind him nearly deafening.

 

[xlilxmissx]

Sansa did not miss the fleeting surprise that passed, almost undetectable, across the King’s features. If she dared look at him, she knew that her brother sported the same confused look. Did they expect objections from her? Denials? Pleas that she be allowed to cower in some forlorn corner while Westeros descended into madness? She was sure she would find herself thrown there any way when this all ends, discarded when she was no longer of use, perhaps when the North was firmly in someone's grasp, whether in this King's or another's. She had resigned herself to the fate long ago, so what of it if she decided to play at war while walking her fated path?

Sansa suffered the rest of the King’s announcements, only barely caught off-guard by his nonchalant revelation that they would be marching to her childhood home sooner than either Jon nor she could have anticipated. Still, though the girl had been the one to offer her hand, she could not still the faintest trembling of her fingers when he took them in his calloused palm. At least he was kind enough to pretend he did not notice and, with the gruff brusqueness that matched everything about him, Stannis Baratheon was gone.

It took all of Sansa’s strength not to collapse where she stood when, finally, she was left alone with Jon.

“Sansa—“ he began but did not seem to know what to say. He would give her shelter here if she asked, she knew. Her contempt and indifference towards her half-brother rivaled only that of her own mother’s, this much had always been clear, but Jon would be loyal to her line to the end. While the Lord Commander might have defied the king’s offer for legitimization, Jon Snow would succumb to dishonor and defy thousands of years’ worth of the Watch’s neutrality if he thought for one second the last of the Starks needed him to rescue her from a betrothal to yet another Baratheon.

“Wine, Lord Commander,” she supplied in place of all the words she could have said to Robb, to Arya, even to her little brothers, but never, never to this man before her whose blood she might share but whose name will forever mark him a bastard. “Please.”

--

They drank in almost silence for most of the night, until she could adequately fool herself into believing they were still the young children who huddled by the fire so long ago. Jon, for his part, did not send her away or leave her alone, as if he too was more than happy to sit in silence with the young woman who reminded him of days long gone. Ghost stumbled in at some point and Sansa would have wept then if she had not been so lost in the fantasy of being home. It was freezing cold, the soft heat of a direwolf curled against her leg, and in the haze of her sleepy drunkenness, her wearied brother looked almost like the father who laid his life down for his unshakeable honor.

--

Two days passed in a blur. She spent most of it in seclusion, the first because of liquor-induced illness and the second lost in all the preparations for the journey ahead. She had little in terms of possession, but two servants had been sent her way anyway, along with guards who fetched, sent messages, and provided whatever other service the future queen required. A septa, too, came on the arm of a maester, though she had no idea where Stannis managed to find either. She dutifully bore their examinations with as much dignity as she could muster, though if her eyes looked a little redder hours after, well, she could easily blame that on the biting dry air or overwhelming exhaustion. Farewell to the gruff, decrepit court at Castle Black was brief. To her surprise, Jon embraced her and, despite her determination to keep her expression blank during their goodbye, she shed her own tears in the privacy of her carriage as it sped her from the only family she had left.

 

[lady vri]

For Stannis the last days at Castle Black were long. Even if his army was in tatters, it was large enough that moving it required a mind skilled at logistics and planning. Luckily his Hand, Davos Seaworth, was the right kind of man to assist him with the task as large as it was. While it was true that Selyse and Melisandre had never been keen on the idea of a man bearing Davos’ common blood was given a seat of prestigious power like that as the title of Hand to the King, Davos had more than proven himself to Stannis. He was perhaps the only man besides Jon Snow who had ever refused him as king… And Stannis counted on that honesty.

Packing up the large tent city and gathering supplies was difficult. The Night’s Watch did not have much to spare but Jon gave them what he could. With Sansa travelling with them, Sannis knew he would not skimp and allow his sister to suffer any more than she needed to. Luckily Old Town was not far and Stannis was certain he would be able to talk the locals into bartering. They saw little in the way of coin but he still had some left in his coffers to spare.

Along with seeing to his men, Stannis was quick to secure the betrothal. Both a septa and maester travelled with his host, though neither was adapted to the cold and stayed out of sight. Yet both were called to examine Sansa and both reports given carried ‘good’ news: Sansa was still a maid. His bride was untouched. Neither Tyrion Lannister nor Joffrey the Bastard had not touched her. It was a relief to know in some ways but the news also proved troublesome. Rather than let Shireen learn of the betrothal through rumor, Stannis told her himself. He could not tell if she was happy or not. She was close to Sansa’s age and just recently lost her mother, but there was little reaction other than a soft, obligatory congratulations and a curtsey.

The morning of their departure, Stannis watched as Jon Snow embraced his sister a final time… Perhaps the last time. Sansa kept the features on her face stoney and distant. Stannis believed that she learned that expression down in King’s Landing during her time as a hostage… It would have been a grand tool, essential for her survival. At least there were no tears that he could see. A soldier helped her into the second carriage, Shireen in the first, and then shut the door behind her. There was a last check of the wagons and then, with Stannis at the head, the host began to march out of Castle Black and onto the King’s Road.

By midday the sun was at its highest peak but the air was still freezing. Men shivered violently but pressed forward. Stannis could barely feel his fingertips in the gloves he wore and flexed them to try and relieve the dull ache of pain that the cold caused in his bones. He could see his breath puff out in a white cloud in front of his face every time he exhaled, the warm mist blowing back into his face providing the sweetest bit of relief before the icy air circled back round and hit him hard.

They were only halfway to Old Town before the call was given to dismount and rest. No tents were pitched; this was not where they would sleep but only where they would dine on a meal of salted pork and mealy bread. If the host pushed hard, they would reach Old Town by the time the sun set, though it would leave them little time to ready the tents. The men would endure, Stannis believed. The further south they marched, the warmer it would get. Winter’s grasp never quite reached the Crownlands and those lands near it… At least when they reached Winterfell there would be a chance to really rest as soon as the Boltons were ousted.

First he tended to Shireen, ensuring that her cider was warmed over a small fire so she would keep warm, as if the quilts were not enough. Then he went to Sansa’s carriage. The rapping of his knuckles against the door were quick before he called out, asking if she had all she needed.

 

[xlilxmissx]

It was this: that Westeros burnt to cinders, but in the cold, harsh plains of the North, the world seemed thoroughly unchanged. The Blackwater had burst into flames. The Starks of Winterfell had all but been wiped into nonexistence. Castle Black had opened its gates to Wildlings and giants and all manners of barbarians. The King on the Iron Throne had died and died again, and Sansa had been betrothed thrice and married once. Yet the King’s Road was just as it had always been, lined on both sides with trees whose age rivaled that of the Wall itself. Only now, a soft blanket of powdered snow hung from branches that had lost most of its leaves and the few dwellings they passed were so obviously abandoned. They would find no inns to house them between here and wherever Stannis Baratheon planned to take them first.

Few noticed the young woman whose Tully blue eyes peered from behind the small, draped window of the carriage that carried the king’s honored guest. For hours, she devoured what bit of scenery she could lay her gaze upon, hungry for the sight of the brutal, untamed land she once could not wait to leave. Only when the scape began to change, to morph into lusher, greener foliage, did she draw the curtain and settle into the darkness once more. She listened to the goings-on beyond her four walls, vaguely picking out pieces of conversation now that her attention was not so monopolized by her longing for the lost North. The men were tired, afraid, but she could not miss the hint of hope each time they spoke of the new addition to Stannis Baratheon’s retinue. Even now, she had refused to truly make sense of what she had agreed to in giving her hand to the king without a castle, yet the thousands that followed her would-be husband seemed to have already begun doing that for her. Would the North follow her, some wondered. Would that be enough to break the hold of the Lannisters?

She was about to will herself into pondering those questions when she caught wind of their destination. Almost immediately, Sansa had to fight the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She knew Stannis was going south but, beyond the Neck, they would be easily recognized and likely slaughtered, offered to the Lannisters and the Tyrells for coin or sport. A wave of terror accompanied the rush of unwanted memories that almost sent her bolting out of the carriage. She would happily lose herself in the forest trying to find her way back to Castle Black before she agreed to travel so close to the borders of her enemies.

Sansa had almost made up her mind to do exactly that when a loud knock broke her from her dangerous line of thought. For half a second, she considered feigning sleep, but immediately thought better of it. Steeling herself against whatever laid beyond the safety of her little cage, she opened the carriage door. The gust of cold air was not unwelcome as it cooled the small space she had been granted. “You cannot take us to Oldtown!” she blurted out just a little louder than she intended.

Her cheeks flushed pink at her unusual outburst and her voice lowered to a softer whisper, though the fear laced it just as potently. “Please, my lord, that is too far south, too close to—“ she grew quiet, unable to name the evil that resided in the Southron lands. “Please,” she begged instead, her body bent forward so that she was looking down at the king, her pale blue eyes searching his while one of her gloved hands, unbeknownst to her, escaped the confines of her cloak and now held to his forearm as if afraid that he would turn away and ignore her.

 

[lady vri]

Sansa’s sudden outburst confused Stannis. He was keenly aware of her tiny hand gripping his forearm tightly. They stared at each other for a set of long, silent moments, only the icy wind between them. There were few footmen around the carriages and it seemed that no one heard Sansa’s plea. Yet the king looked around nonetheless, carefully studying the profile of each man he laid eyes on until he was certain that no one heard her. Then, much to his surprise, he caught the elbow of the arm that held onto him, gently pulling her out of the carriage. Their arms linked, he started to steer her away from the men, almost as if he were taking his betrothed on a short walk to let her stretch her legs. No one would think anything of it.

He was quiet for a long time, jaw set firm and teeth grinding. Then, as they came to stop near a small group of trees, Stannis turned to Sansa at long last. “The reason I set our first destination so far south is because there is only one thing that builds an army… coin. Without it, even the most loyal man falters. If he does not have boots or a tent or food, how can he fight? If your Northmen honor the will of their late lord, your father, then I must have more coin to see to it that they are properly outfitted.”

Stannis huffed, the short white clouds billowing from his nostrils making him seem monstrous. As he suspected, no one was paying them any particular interest. The cold weather might have been a factor; the men were huddles together trying to keep warm and had no time to oogle at their king and future queen. “It’s no secret that I have no land, Lady Sansa. I have few options for raising the coin I need… In Oldtown, I’ve arranged a meeting with representatives from the Iron Bank.” He’d already met with them once before… in Braavos. And he’d only received half the loan agreed upon. The rest would be delivered in Oldtown.

“I know who it is that you are worried about but you need not fear. Much has happened since you left King’s Landing… Tommen is king, Cersei is being held by the High Sparrow, or whatever the man fancies to call himself, and Jaime Lannister hasn’t been seen in weeks. The old lion is dead, your brother and mother’s murderers, both Frey and Bolton, are battling the Ironborn, are Balish is hiding in the Eyrie. You are the last person that anyone is looking for.

“If it will ease your fears… We are riding to Sea Dragon Point, where my ships are waiting. You will join me and a handful of others to sail South. We will skirt Winterfell and cut through the Wolfswood. The Ironborn have lost most of their ships and those that are left are busy ferrying between the Isles and the main land. Same goes for the Lannisport. You and Shireen will not even step foot in Oldtown. We will only be there for a few days… Then we sail back. We will regroup with the rest of my army, what few Northmen we can gather, and then I will retake your home from Roose Bolton…

“Then, after it is all settled, we will wed.”

 

[xlilxmissx]

Sansa Stark moved as if in a trance, her gestures mechanical as she followed the king’s gentle urging. The ache from borne of being in a cramped space for hours barely registered in the young woman’s mind. So distracted was she by the sudden hammering of her heart and the fear that made her hand tremble as it settled in the crook of Stannis’ bent arm. She did not know where he was taking her, nor did it matter to her at this moment.

He was likely displeased at her outburst and, perhaps, would discipline her away from the sight of his men. She would take it, whatever punishment she deserved for having slighted the rigid, scowling warrior beside her, as long as she was not forced to go back there. Not the Red Keep. She would throw herself into the Trident, cast herself into the Narrow Sea, before she risked such proximity to the Lannister Court. Cersei would surely kill her this time, mount her head on a pike where her father’s had been, but not before extracting every drop of pain and suffering from her body. The grieving Lioness would make sure Sansa begged for the executioner’s ax before the end.

She walked, stiff and terrified, beside her future husband, awaiting the pause in his sure stride and the inevitable strike that, to her bewilderment, never came. Instead, he spoke to her, quietly and with a conviction that made her feel both like a confidant and a child the seasoned soldier was indulging with the details of his plans. Her fingers slid from their perch, thick gloves tracing the worn buckles of his leather gauntlet as he turned to face her. He stood close enough that she had to tilt her head a little to keep his gaze and, for a moment, rendered weak by her sudden vulnerability, she found herself lost in the storm of the solemn king’s eyes. So accustomed was she to the multi-faceted lies of the Lannister court that she instinctively sought hidden meanings behind his blunt words.

But she saw now what the whole of the Seven Kingdoms had mocked and whispered of Stannis Baratheon from the start. The man was terrifying, and just, and stubborn to the end, but he was no liar. He told her the truth, or as much of the truth as he believed would calm her fears enough that she would not go bolting in the night for fear of the long shadow cast by the golden-haired monsters of Casterly Rock.

She was still trembling, she realized, as he revealed what he knew of the fates she had abandoned when Dontos beckoned her onto Petyr Baelish’s boat. “Tywin..” she tried to interrupt at the mention of the only other person she feared more than Cersei. Her voice was a little steadier now, void of the undue panic that she knew laced it in the carriage. “He is dead? How?”

Of all the many things he had revealed, this was the one thing she doubted. Tommen, she knew, was king now. She did not need to be reminded of Joffrey’s grisly death. She still thanked the Seven and the Old Gods daily for that justice. She herself had abandoned Baelish soon after witnessing his cold murder of her Aunt. From Jon, she knew of the North and the Neck’s battles against the Greyjoys. This was the subject that she should be interested in, for, save for the quickly dropping temperature and the threats at the Wall, this was the only struggle that currently touched what was left of her people, but it also reminded her most of the betrayals – the Freys’ and the Bolton’s and, Stranger take him, Theon’s – that killed her family. So, instead, she fixated on the rest of the information Stannis had willingly shared with her.

Cersei was captured, he said, but that did not change much for Sansa. The Queen will corrupt and seduce her way out of her cage sooner or later. But Tywin Lannister dead? Now that was a mercy Sansa would not dare hope for. The knowledge almost made her weak with incomprehensible relief. The rest of his revelations became easier to swallow, and by the time he had explained the rest of his intentions, only a small hint of apprehension remained.

The mention of their betrothal made her suddenly aware of the proximity between them and the familiarity with which she was touching his forearm. She took a step back, a shaky breath she did not realize she was holding slipping in a cloud that warmed the small space between them. “Send your Hand, my Lord.” Even she was not sure if she said the bold words to cover up her discomfort or out of lingering fear. She cleared her throat before daring to advise a general old enough to be her father. “If what you say is true and our enemies are weakened, then send Lord Davos to retrieve the coin while you and I and the Princess gather the North to our cause before the tide turns against us again.”

 

[lady vri]

“The Imp,” Stannis went on to drawl in response to her question over Tywin’s death. It likely had not reached her on the road North. He knew that Sansa left Baelish as soon as she could, for which the king was pleased. That lowborn leacher might have done something indecent with his bride had he time to sink his hooks into the redhead. Still, he had to give the man some credit not only for smuggling Sansa out of King’s Landing but for also executing the plot that killed Joffrey. Only one pretender Baratheon remained, and Tommen did not have the stomach to fight without his grandfather or mother urging him on. He would kneel as soon as Stannis arrived at the gates to the city.

He expected the conversation to be over. He’d explained to Sansa why they were travelling and that her fears were to be put away. Yet she pressed on. He had seen her take a step back, though the still air between them was still warmer than the breeze at his back. Stannis begrudgingly humored Sansa and listened to her counsel. She was willing to campaign? He expected her to sit quietly in the background while he used their betrothal as a sign to the Northmen, calling them to arms despite their losses. They would rally to the last wolf pup if the stories of Northern honor were true. Even so called deserters like the Karstarks might yield when Stannis invoked their sworn oaths to serve the king. They’d abandoned Robb Stark but Stannis was a different man… One not so opposed to the killing of Lannisters, no matter the age.

But Sansa was willing to speak to them. It was… He didn’t think that she would have it in her. These were battle hardened men who followed leaders, not ladies, but like Stannis said, she was the last of Eddard Stark’s children… She was the last of his bloodline, the blood of the First Men. That carried weight. Her Northmen might recognize him as the legitimate king of the Seven Kingdoms but Sansa was the tie that would bind them to Stannis. If she could speak to them herself, call them to honor her late father’s memory and end the bloodshed, then what would it harm? If anything, it would help his cause.

Stannis’ frown deepened as he mulled over the weight of the decision. His meeting with the Iron Bank representative did not require his presence… Sansa was right. Davos could go. The former smuggler would be able to move more quickly by himself with a few men in a smaller ship, making it to Oldtown and back with a far smaller risk of being watched, captured, or followed. And in the meantime, Stannis would be able to take Sansa throughout the North and prove her existence, and subsequently their betrothal, and gather more men for the siege against Winterfell. Luckily for them, most of the houses that still had troops were North of Winterfell; catching the attention of the Boltons was not something that Sannis wished to do. Those houses were also the most loyal to Robb Stark’s cause, and they had family that were killed at the Red Wedding… The Umbers, the Mormonts… They’d fight just for the chance to kill Roose Bolton and Walder Frey but hopefully in seeing Sansa at Stannis’ side would make them kneel and swear fealty much more quickly.

“Ser Davos will like the sound of your plan…” Stannis adjusted his heavy cloak. “Though I believe that when you attempt to advise the Hand of the King it should be while we sup. You will dine with us tonight after we make camp in Moletown.” He glanced down at Sansa curiously. “That is if my Lady is willing to speak with a common man?”

 

[xlilxmissx]

Sansa watched the King mull over her words, no doubt unsure of what to make of her offer or of her resolve to see her unexpected plan to the end. She did not begrudge him his uncertainty, would not be surprised if he brushed her off like the inexperienced, sheltered girl that she obviously was. He knew nothing of her save that she was Eddard Stark’s pampered daughter and, apparently, that the Lannisters had been unkind to her. That was hardly extraordinary, and certainly did not make her a strategist of any kind.

As the silence wore on and he did nothing but stare at her with that permanent scowl of his, Sansa’s courage deflated to uncertainty. She felt foolish and childish under his gaze now, shrinking ever smaller as she scrambled for ways to apologize before he voiced his displeasure or, worse, mocked her silly attempt at gaining some semblance of control over her destiny through what was left of Stannis’ army. She knew better, didn’t she? Did not Joffrey and Cersei and Littlefinger teach her her place as an ornament? Spoils of war did not think. They did as they were told, stood where they were placed, loved who they were told to love. Was that was he waiting for? A retraction? A return of the mask of harmlessness that she wore like armor in the Red Keep?

She almost let the words, practiced and bitter, spill from her lips: I am loyal to King Stannis, my one true love. But he finally spoke with the solemn surety she had already begun to associate with the man before her.

Sansa was stunned and all her experience at masking her features was rendered useless if only for a fraction of a moment. “Ser Davos…” she repeated, bewildered wonder and still that hint of worry in her soft voice. She would have questioned the wisdom of allowing her, a child and a woman, to advise the man the king had named his Hand, but that seemed a ridiculous point now since she had just advised the king himself. And had been heard by him, it seemed.

She caught herself finally and, just like that, reigned composure about her like a cloak. She straightened ever so subtly as she considered his question, seeing it for the probing inquiry that it was. Sansa Stark’s aversion to those below her station must have reached the king’s ear. Or was it her obvious distaste for ugly injury that his majesty was curious about? Did he expect her to shrink from the suggestion? Sansa who left Winterfell with her father, her sister, and her direwolf would have. To sit at a table with the Onion Knight and dull, old Stannis Baratheon would have been a nightmare to the child who lied to King Robert to get in the good graces of his queen.

But the woman before him now—she would sit with a thousand common men and just as many scarred knights if that meant she could stay in the North for just a while longer. “If it pleases you, Lord Stannis,” she answered with a small nod and turned so that she was by his side again, her dainty hand laid once again in the crook of his arm. She was ready to continue the pretense of walking aimlessly with her betrothed. “Is it true?” she asked then, letting the subject of their destination rest if he would allow it. “My lord husband murdered his father?” She did not bother to conceal her pleasure at the old lion’s fall, nor did she miss the small bloom of pride, somewhere within her, at Tyrion Lannister’s daring. For all of his faults, the Imp had tried to protect her. She could not forgive that Lannister blood flowed through his veins, but he killed the man responsible for the death of Robb and her mother. That counted for something.

 

[lady vri]

Sansa’s reply was a tad surprising for Stannis. He had heard much of her. As the great houses of Westeros warred and battled, their numbers dwindled. Considering that the North was such an important hinge on Stannis’ plan for regaining control and eventually taking King’s Landing from his imposter nephew, it was imperative that he know about the Stark children. True, it was the Boltons who now held the seat as Warden of the North, but they were not the beloved noble blood that so many Northmen followed to the brink of hell and back. Only the Starks could inspire that level of commitment.

It had been his intention to cajole Robb Stark back into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms with promises of revenge… Then the boy made a fool’s error and crossed the wrong man. With his younger brothers dead, only Jon Snow remained. That was why he made the long trek North. It was surprising that instead of Jon, Stannis got Sansa, but nevertheless, the plan was still in place and somehow, he’d managed to kill two birds with one stone.

So he knew about Sansa. He knew about the events on the Kingsroad and in King’s Landing. He knew that she had gone down there a prim and proper young girl set on marriage to Joffrey, but after the murder of her father, her brothers, and all the abuse, she’d returned to the North someone completely different. Was it for the better? Only time would tell.

“Good,” replied the king, accepting Sansa’s arm and resuming their walk. It had no purpose other than to keep their blood from freezing in their veins and now that the delicate matter of proposals was done, there was no reason to stay outside of earshot from the men.

When she questioned him about the Imp and old lion, Stannis nodded stiffly. “It is true. Though you need not call Tyrion Lannister your husband any longer…” They would have to wait for the official announcement. Stannis was still set on having a suitable fortress under his control before he revealed all his cards. Winterfell would be that fortress and in the main hall, after the bodies were cleared, he would let it be known that he had Sansa, that her marriage was invalid, and that he intended to take her as his wife. All of the Seven Kingdoms would know it then… And the Lannisters would tremble in their boots.

But as far as Stannis Baratheon was concerned, as well as the septa and maester, Sansa Stark was a maiden.

“He is long since buried. No one knows where the Imp disappeared to… He was to be executed for poisoning Joffrey, then someone released him from his cell. Some suspect it was his brother, Jaime, though I doubt the Kingslayer thought that Tyrion would kill their father before he left on whatever passage was secured for him.” Stannis glanced at his betrothed. “The news pleases you… I was not aware that Tywin was a target of your hatred.”

 

[xlilxmissx]

As the plotting drew to a close, Sansa expected to be herded back to the carriages. When, instead, Lord Stannis led her into another slow circle around the temporary campsite, she found herself uneasy for but a moment before his words smoothly drew her away from her discomfort and into conversation. She had very little to say in response to his comment about Lord Tyrion, but the mention of Tywin gently drew her brows together as she secretly wondered how much she could say to the man beside. He claimed to be King and her experience of kings told her to be wary at best, and to run at worst. He was a player in Cersei’s game of thrones, which likely meant that he was a liar like the rest of them. And she had seen far too many proposals fall apart to believe that she would ever become Queen, or that he would protect her as he promised. Yet the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to be of the opinion that Stannis Baratheon was no liar and that he was honorable and just to a fault.

“It was not Joffrey that Roose Bolton and Walder Frey betrayed the King in the North for,” she said simply when she knew she could not stay quiet for much longer without seeming rude. She might not trust him, but that was hardly a revealing statement. How could she be expected to not hate the man who orchestrated the Red Wedding?

As they walked further, Sansa realized that this aimless wandering was… Well, it was pleasant. It had been years since she had been free enough to simply walk. The last time was in Winterfell, certainly, surrounded by her father’s men. Safe and protected. Strangely, while she still did not have faith that Stannis will succeed in his lofty goal of capturing the North and then the Red Keep, Sansa, for the first time since leaving her home, was actually enjoying a walk. The thought was naïve, of course, but she could not help the softening of her features and the easing of the tension from her shoulders.

Bolstered by his generous revelation of the fates of her enemies and his acceptance of her earlier suggestions, she ventured on, “Lord Tyrion is the heir to Casterly Rock with Jamie Lannister still a Kingsguard.” Her words were cautious but her meaning could not be clearer. They cannot use her marriage to Tyrion Lannister now, that much was clear. She must be Sansa Stark if the North would rally to her banner. But if they were to succeed in this fool’s endeavor, If they took Winterfell and marched to King’s Landing… She could claim Casterly Rock, perhaps.

She would burn it to the ground and make Cersei Lannister watch.

 

[lady vri]

Slowly, Sansa was proving to Stannis that she knew far more than he assumed. It was not difficult for him to come to the conclusion that it was Tywin Lannister who ordered the Red Wedding. Tywin was a ruthless man. He’d killed the youngest Targaryens in their beds; why would it be so difficult for him to kill Robb Stark and his mother? Of course, the old lion would never bloody his own hands… No. Before he had his bannerman, Gregor Clegane, and now he had less honorable houses such as the Boltons and the Freys to do his dirty work. There were times when Stannis was convinced that all the suffering in Westeros was because of Tywin’s handiwork.

Her observations also told Stannis that she was not lacking her education. He’d been concerned that her capture in King’s Landing would have dulled her, but somehow she kept her mind sharp. Good. Selyse had been poorly educated, even for a lord’s daughter. She was dull whereas Sansa was proving herself bright.

“That is true for now… However I assume that Tommen’s uncles will quickly pressure him to write off Tyrion from the line of succession. Kevan Lannister will likely be named heir.” Stannis did not know what his bride to be was thinking, but the gears were clearly turning in her head. Perhaps she’d hoped to take revenge against her tormentors somehow… But she didn’t speak of her plans and he would not ask, at least not now. Now was simply not the time.

“Come… You must eat.” He’d realized he’d kept her out in the cold too long as it was; soon they would break the temporary camp and continue on their way to Moletown. Stannis brought Sansa back to the carriage and ensured that she was given some bread and cheese, a small but filling meal that would tide her over until they were able to have a proper dinner that night.

Before he shut the carriage door, Stannis looked up at the young redhead he’d walked around with on his arm, his gaze settled on her soft face. “I shall come back to you when we arrive in Moletown,” he started, then stopped, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If you still intend to dine with me, my Lady.”

 

[xlilxmissx]

Moletown lives up to its name. Half the town is buried beneath layers of dirt in a massive labyrinthine cellar that reminds Sansa of the crypts beneath Winterfell. Restless from hours in the carriage, she is led down staircases and through winding passages into a structure that she barely recognizes as an inn until she finds herself in a chamber much like the one she left in Castle Black. They do not unload her trunks but provide her with a wash basin, a change of clothes, and a woman who helps her dress and prepare to sup with one of the kings of Westeros.

She is clothed in the familiar solemn grey when she meets the Hand on her way to Stannis Baratheon's private rooms. They exchange pleasantries. He is kind and hides his deformity in a glove that makes him appear complete. Sansa still averts her eyes, out of respect or repulsion, even she is not sure. He does not offer his arm in the formal fashion that all lords escorted ladies in the Red Keep. She is relieved. There are very few men whose touch does not force her into a secret panic these days.

They arrive early and Sansa seats herself to the left of where the King would sit, leaving the right to be occupied by the Hand. She tries not to think about how small the moment makes her feel as she waits for Stannis' arrival. Servers enter first, offering wine and tending the already roaring fire. Despite their shared admission of hunger, both refuse to eat before their King. Instead, they talk, openly studying one another, noting wariness and hidden wisdom in the other's conversation.

Ser Davos is surprisingly easy to speak with. He is ridiculously unguarded and is Stannis' man through and through. She finds his lack of lessons in complicated court intrigue refreshing. Sansa allows herself the heated wine and secretly revels in the warmth of the room and the slow - so slow - loosening of the tension perpetually knotting her spirits, but this doesn't last long. When the Baratheon king enters, her back straightens and both she and the Hand rise in formal greeting. "My King," they both hastily say, and Sansa, despite herself, realizes the corner of her lips had twitched in rare, child-like, amusement.