Chapter Text
‘Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you’ - A Game of Thrones
The mornings following Lady’s death dawned bright and clear, but all the beauty of late summer could not lift Sansa out of her misery. The back-and-forth sway of her mare as they plodded along the kingsroad left her thighs sore after an hour, and her stomach felt all a roil though she’d barely touched her breakfast. Beside her rode Father and beside him, Arya, still sniffling after her butcher’s boy, even though her wolf was only lost whilst Lady was dead, dead, dead and lost forever. If only she’d been good and ladylike and done her duty and not run off to play at knights, Sansa thought, Lady would still be alive. She’d told herself that she didn’t care about the butcher’s boy, cried it into her pillow after their audience with King Robert and Queen Cersei. Yet later that night she’d dreamt of Mycah, with blood running down his cheek, blood from Joffrey’s blade, and when she’d looked down, she’d seen Lady lying on the grass, only it wasn’t Lady, but a wolf pelt and she’d woken with a silent scream.
“They cut Mycah all to pieces,” Arya had hissed at her whilst their horses were being saddled. “Jory and the others were speaking of it at table. They said—they said—”
But then she’d gone very red in the face and Septa Mordane had to lead her away.
Sansa had gotten the truth of it from Jeyne. Vayon Poole’s little girl had not stinted on the details. “Sandor Clegane rode the boy down and cut him from neck to navel.” Sansa picked at her embroidery, an idyllic pastoral scene, and concentrated on breathing in and out. “Afterwards, the queen invited him to dine with her and the prince.”
“And my father?” Her voice was a squeak.
Jeyne shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Father hadn’t defied the king when it came to Lady either; he’d protested, begged even, but in the end, Lord Stark had gone to his duty with Ice in hand.
Afterwards, at dawn, Sansa had snuck out to the gatehouse, where they were keeping the remains. Lady’s corpse looked odd, her tongue lolling out at an awkward angle, her beautiful golden eyes dull and lightless; flies crawled over the direwolf’s neck, where someone had clumsily sewn Lady’s head back onto its stump. But her grey fur was still glossy from its last comb, and the pretty ribbon Sansa had tied about her forepaw yesterday was there, spattered with blood. Sansa heaved a gasping breath: she wanted to rage at the Seven for what they’d willed, but the tears would not come. Perhaps no more remained to be shed; her heart had died with Lady.
Sansa wrapped her arms around the direwolf, burying her face in the fur, a final embrace. In the songs, the knights always paid homage to their loyal steeds after their falling in one battle or another. Lady was no horse, but Sansa fancied that made little difference were love was concerned.
Only Lady’s fur smelt odd, and the muscles underneath were stiff and cold as the Lands of Always Winter. Sansa jerked back with a cry as the scent of mouldering rot filled her nostrils.
She didn’t notice that a halt had been called for lunch until the mare she was riding whinnied nervously below her. Sansa dismounted, feeling her blisters keenly, and was just about to head off when Septa Mordane took her aside.
“Have I done something wrong, good septa?” Septa Mordane had taken her a little way off to a sunlit glade, so that they could speak privately. Sansa only saw her septa at mealtimes now; the rest of the day, Septa Mordane rode with Queen Cersei and Princess Myrcella in the wheelhouse. The queen was very anxious to see her daughter’s education continue, despite their travelling.
“No,” Septa Mordane said slowly; she’d a look on her face that Sansa didn’t like. “But I’ve noticed you’re no longer travelling in the wheelhouse.”
“I prefer to ride.”
“The queen enquired after you this very day, Sansa. Said it wasn’t healthy for a girl your age to have been allowed a wild animal in the first place,” the septa continued, and Sansa flinched, thinking, she wasn’t wild, she was good and pure, and they murdered her. “What’s important is that her invitation to you is still open, despite Arya’s foolishness. It would not do for you to neglect your duties, Sansa, you are to be queen. It would bode ill if you offended your future good-mother.”
Sansa made noises of agreement, but she didn’t want to ride with the queen. She didn’t. Queen Cersei had looked so very triumphant yesterday after the king had forced Father’s hand, and in the dark of night, when she lay abed with only the distant susurrus of the Trident for company, Sansa could admit that some part of her hated Cersei and her stupid, drunken, fat king of a husband. Lady hadn’t had to die. She was a good wolf, like Sansa was a good girl and Nymeria was a bad wolf, like Arya was a bad girl; in the songs, it was always the ones like Arya who suffered for their mistakes.
But life was not a song and Sansa almost burst into tears at the thought.
“Sansa?” The septa peered down at her, squinting at her crumpled face. “What’s wrong, sweetling?”
“I miss Lady,” Sansa said, and then began to cry in earnest. Septa Mordane took her into her arms, and for a while everything felt almost like it used to.
When she was done, the septa gave her a chuck under the chin, smiling kindly. “Travel makes grief a tiresome affair.” And then she was back to her usual stern self, eyeing her critically. “Do remember to change into your lovely blue silk before we enter the city, dear. It would not do for you to be presented at court in black of all colours.”
Sansa had donned the blackest gown her servants could find before they set out, determined to honour Lady’s memory. She’d heard Ser Meryn tittering over it with Sandor Clegane, and afterwards Renly Baratheon himself asked her, “Still can’t believe my nephew was bested by a girl. Are you mourning his dignity, by any chance?” as she was mounting her horse.
By the time Sansa returned to camp, lunch was all but finished and she had to eat what leftovers remained. Most of Father’s men were off to see to their duties, so she was surrounded by strangers. Sansa was always on her own, now that Septa Mordane was so busy with the princess and Father was so busy being Hand. Sansa wondered if he knew that his daughters were alone and then felt upset all over again.
“Not so cheerful now, are you wolf-girl?” Sansa jumped at the sound of the Hound’s low rasp of a voice. She turned around, dread pinching within her chest, and looked upon his terrible face, twisted into a frown as he beheld her. “Not so cheerful,” Sandor Clegane repeated, “after our gracious queen saw to your Lady.”
Sansa felt her eyes prickle with tears again. I’ll tell him to go away, she resolved, before she recalled that a lady’s courtesy was her armour, and so instead what came out was: “You knew her name?”
The Hound let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Would be hard not to, with how Joffrey’s been crowing about her.”
He didn’t use his title, she realised, feeling uncomfortable. “Crowing?”
She scarcely knew the man that served as her prince’s sworn sword, but somehow, she did not miss the peculiar mix of disdain and amusement that crossed his face as he spoke of Joffrey. “Oh, aye. Found it amusing that Lord Stark was the one to do the deed.” I will not cry, I will not cry, a lady’s courtesy is her armour, I will not cry. But then: “He was still after that wolf pelt. When I told him the wolf was to be sent north, he looked fit to burst with anger right then and there.” Sandor Clegane smiled; the left side of his face was a mass of ropy scar tissue and hideous black flesh, and it wrinkled obscenely.
Sansa stood abruptly: she could taste the food she’d just eaten in the back of her throat. She couldn’t stop thinking of the way Joffrey had been smiling yesterday, when Father went forth to do his duty. She didn’t wish to think of the way Joffrey had smiled after Lady’s death.
“If you’d excuse me,” she said stiffly, turning aside, before the Hound swept her arm up in a grip both firm and painless.
“What? Don’t like knowing what Joffrey is?” Sandor Clegane said, and somehow Sansa knew that he knew, those sullen eyes of his seemed to gleam with such pity and then he came closer, until she could smell his bitter breath. “And you to be his queen.” He tutted. “Best to go in knowing.”
“Good ser, I must—"
“I’m no knight,” Sandor interrupted, tightening his grip, “and I piss on chivalry—all knights are killers, girl. Your septa didn’t teach you that, I’d wager.”
Sansa was suddenly afraid; there was a dark storm brewing in Clegane’s eyes. “Prince Joffrey is good and true,” she said slowly. Septa Mordane had never taught her any courtesies for words like the Hound’s. “My betrothal to him is an honour,” she added, feeling stupid, but what else could she say?
“Oh, you’ve been honoured all right,” the Hound said, his raspy voice alive with mirthless laughter, but all the same he let her go.
His laughter was still ringing in her ears, when Arya caught up with her outside the makeshift stables. “Why were you speaking to Clegane?” her little sister demanded, looking ever so grubby in her mud-stained leathers.
“What’s it to you?” Sansa went up to her mare’s stall and ran her fingers through the horse’s brown mane. “Have you been spying on me?” she added, just because she knew it would annoy her.
“He killed Mycah,” Arya snapped, grey eyes alight with rage. “You can’t talk to him anymore, he’s a murderer!”
“I don’t wish to speak with you.” And she didn’t wish to think of Mycah. Cut him from neck to navel. “Go away and stop warbling about your stinking little butcher’s boy.”
“He was my friend, and they killed him because you lied.” Arya’s voice was very quiet, but her grey eyes burned. “You killed him, too.”
Sansa’s slapped Arya across the face almost without conscious thought. The thwack her hand made echoed, and then Arya shoved her roughly to the ground, on top of her, pummelling her all over with those tiny fists. Sansa raked her nails across Arya’s stupid horsey face, and her sister howled, and now she was on top and she wanted to draw blood, because it wasn’t her fault, couldn’t Arya see? It wasn’t her fault that Mycah had died, and suddenly tears were running down her face, and she felt strong hands pulling them apart.
“Stop this, this instance!” Fat Tom towered over her, just as Jory lifted Arya up. He went on one knee, lifting Arya’s face with a finger, and Sansa saw that she had in fact drawn blood, and suddenly she was ashamed…until Arya turned to face her and spat, “Murderer.”
Sansa flushed. “They should’ve have killed Nymeria instead of Lady!” she screamed, voice shrill. “It should’ve been yours, not mine!”
And then Father was there, and his long face was grave.
#
Sansa made sure to dress carefully the next day, in a lovely gown of silver-blue damask with white trim; after all, Septa Mordane had made a point of telling her that the invitation to ride with the queen was still open. She found herself hesitating before she left the cocooning darkness of her pavilion—Queen Cersei had been so wroth, that day she’d found out about Nymeria’s attack upon Joff; what if she was still angry?
Their travelling party had come alive with the morn, men-at-arms and garrulous free riders breaking their fast together, the smoke of their cookfires spiralling up to the sky above. Sansa found herself hesitating again when she glimpsed the wheelhouse. Even from afar it was impossible to miss, a wooden monstrosity, with creaking wheels wide as oaken shields, pulled by four hugely muscled draft horses. I don’t want to go inside, but then she remembered what had happened yesterday and braced herself for duty.
“How many times? How many damnable times have I told you that you must comport yourselves gracefully before others?” Father had scolded her and Arya yesterday after their fight, his thin mouth set into a frozen line; Lord Eddard had marched them both to his tent, and stood before them with his arms crossed. “You are Starks of Winterfell; when you squabbled with each other at Winterfell, that could not shame us. It was our home. But we’re no longer amongst friends. Arya, listen to me.” Sansa’s sister had been muttering under her breath; her head jerked up at Father’s tone. He’d never spoken like that to them. “You must endeavour to put this terrible business with Prince Joffrey and Lady behind you. Now that I am Robert’s Hand, we shall all be watched; what would the high lords think if they saw that you two were at each other’s throats?”
Arya was still mulish. “I don’t care about the high lords. I want justice for Mycah.” She glanced at Sansa. “And Lady, too.”
Their Father sighed, kneeling before them and taking their hands in his own; they were big and rough and warm; when Sansa gave them a squeeze, Father squeezed back. “I will say it now,” Father began, his voice suddenly oh-so-soft, “what happened to Mycah was a foul injustice; Sandor Clegane’s act…there’s no excuse for it.” He looked Arya in the eye. “Sweetling, once we’re settled in King’s Landing, I swear to you that I shall make every effort to bring Clegane to justice.” He shook his head. “The realm can scarce afford the shedding of more innocent blood,” he murmured, so low that Sansa almost didn’t hear him.
There’d been a haunted, hunted look in his grey eyes as he spoke, a look of guilt Sansa realised now. But what for? As long as she’d lived, Father had always been stern and sober and kind, and bannermen from Last Hearth to Greywater Watch came willingly to his hall every harvest to renew their bonds of fealty.
Arya had started crying, her tears mixing with the blood on her face. Sansa had never seen her sister cry so much, nor for so long. She’d glanced at Father, feeling ashamed and noticed the bags under his eyes, the fresh lines of exhaustion carved into his dour face. The stress of his office was taking its toll—she and Arya’s squabbling had no doubt made it worse. By the time that day came to an end, Sansa promised herself that she’d no longer waste their father’s time with childish feuds; she was to be queen one day, everyone said so, best to leave the squabbling to real children, like Bran and Rickon and Arya.
I can be good, Sansa told herself as she knocked on the wheelhouse door, as strong as Mother, as fierce as Robb.
“Enter,” came the queen’s cool voice, and Sansa felt her heart jolt in her chest.
She sat down next to Septa Mordane and Princess Myrcella, the queen sitting opposite them, feeling nervous, wondering if the queen hated her…yet as they began to talk of the court in King’s Landing, Sansa felt the worry ease away.
“My husband keeps a score of musicians, for the many balls held at court,” Queen Cersei told her with a secretive smile, as the wheelhouse bumped along the kingsroad. She looked truly beautiful today, in a light green gown patterned with real cloth-of-gold lionesses that brought out the blonde of her curls.
“Balls?” Sansa repeated, with a girlish gasp.
“Many, each one grander than the next. Joffrey will tell you all about them, the next you talk,” the queen replied, but there was a look in her eye, wary almost. Sansa blinked and it was gone. A foolish thought: the queen looked so achingly beautiful, that Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to believe that she hated anyone, least of all her. Hope filled her heart like hot air. She’s realised that Joffrey’s injury was all Arya’s fault.
And then their wheelhouse came to an abrupt stop with a sickening crunch.
#
Septa Mordane bid her sit patiently beneath a sapling whilst the king’s men saw to the wheelhouse’s broken axles, but after ten minutes of boredom, Sansa wandered off. That was how she saw Arya tiptoeing along the edge of the kingsroad, clad in woollen roughspun, with a basket under her arm. She was trying to creep away under the tree cover, the sneak.
It was a simple thing to follow her; they were in the Riverlands, after all, and the kingsroad was fringed heavily on both sides with trees, gnarled oaks, slender redwoods, towering elms. Sansa would dart between them, always keeping a few paces away from her sister. Once they were far enough from camp, Arya flung off her cloak, and Sansa choked back a gasp. A sword hung from her sister’s belt, a thin piece of steel, small and slender, as though it had been made specially for Arya, sheathed in a lovely leather scabbard. I’m telling Father, Sansa decided immediately. No doubt she’d stolen the sword; Father would be furious.
Feeling supremely satisfied, Sansa continued to follow until Arya suddenly veered off the roadside, into the woods. It was darker here; the leaves formed a canopy above, so thick and twisted that the sun could scarcely penetrate. The trees loomed forebodingly; the dim light transformed their trunks into leering faces and their branches into grasping hands that reached forward as Sansa hurried past, Arya still in her sights.
So, it was a blessed relief when Arya finally stepped out into a meadow. It was noon now, and the sun was high in the sky. Further ahead was a little stream, clear and fast running…
…and Nymeria was drinking from it. Sansa gripped the bark of the tree in front of her, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. It must be a dream, but no, Arya was already beside her. Her sister placed the basket down carefully and then pounced on the direwolf with a fierce hug, showering her grey fur in kisses, and all Sansa could think of was her poor, dead Lady. Arya reached into the basket and pulled out a rasher of bacon, and Nymeria ate right out of her hand, dainty as a well-trained bird. With the beautiful meadow all around them, girl and wolf looked like a scene straight out of one of Old Nan’s tales.
It drove any thought of a quiet get-away from Sansa’s head—all she could see was Nymeria, safe and warm and living, and the unfairness of it stuck in her throat like cut-glass, incapable of being swallowed down. She stepped out from the shadows, shouting, the words spilling out of her like the blackest bile. “You liar!” she screeched, her vision blurry with enraged tears. “Nymeria wasn’t lost! I’m going to tell Father and Septa, and I’ll write a letter to Mother!”
“Go away,” came Arya’s angry reply, but there was no true heat behind it, only caution as her sister glanced up at her warily. “Mind your own.”
“It’s not fair that you get to keep your wolf! You lied to the queen! Traitor!” She glanced at the direwolf, suddenly wary, remembering how Robb had warned them when they’d first been found. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog kills a rat, Father says. She’d been shouting at Arya, and the wolf might’ve taken that for a threat, but Nymeria just flopped down in the mud of the riverbank, her tongue lolling lazily as she rolled around.
“It’s not my fault that Lady died,” Arya murmured, small hands curling into fists, “blame the queen, and Joffrey.” Her sister’s hand curled about her sword’s hilt as she spoke, and Sansa narrowed her eyes.
“Where’d you get that sword?”
“Someone gave it to me.”
“Why would anyone waste good steel on you?” Sansa sneered and then felt a pang of guilt at Arya’s wounded look. “It doesn’t matter.” She turned away. “I’m going back to camp and telling Father about what you’re up to.”
Arya grabbed at her hand. Her sister’s long face was drawn with sudden fear. “Please don’t,” she begged, her voice small and scared, “or they’ll murder Nymeria as well.”
Sansa hesitated. She didn’t want Nymeria dead, truly…but if she had lost Lady, so too must her sister lose something. “I have to tell about the sword,” she decided eventually.
“No!”
“It was ever so wrong for you to take it,” Sansa continued; she sounded like Mother now, a proper adult. “Especially because Father’s only bringing you to court so that you can learn to be a proper lady.”
But Arya was no longer listening. Her face reddened, like it had yesterday before she’d started crying. “You’re a horrible sneak, and I hope Joffrey hates you!” she shouted and pushed Sansa hard. She landed in the dirt as Arya ran back into the forest, Nymeria on her heels. When she got up, there was a large stain marring the silk of her gown and Sansa was so aghast she almost cried. She won’t get away with this, she thought and ran after Arya into the woods.
Sansa ran and ran and ran, intent on the figure of her sister up ahead, and afterwards could not say how long she’d been at it; the only thing she recalled was her rage, filling her with strength.
She found Arya doubled up and gasping for breath beside a boulder. “You!” Sansa shouted, her hands already reaching out, but Nymeria bounded between them. She didn’t even bare her teeth, just gave Sansa a look and she backed off.
They were deeper in the forest now, and it was dimmer than ever. Her ears strained, trying to pick out the usual animal sounds that came from the underbrush, but there was not so much as the squeak of a mouse, the slither of a snake, the twittering of a lark. There was something old at the very heart of these woods, and it watched and waited and loved them not.
Goosebumps prickled up and down Sansa’s arms. “Arya we must needs go,” she said sharply. “Father will be wondering where we are.”
“I thought you were angry at me.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore.” She shook her head impatiently. “Can’t you sense it?” Arya just gave her a queer look, as though she were half-mad, but when Sansa turned back, she and her wolf were quick to follow.
It should’ve been a simple affair, getting back to that meadow, but somehow, they made a wrong turn, so Sansa decided they’d double back, only then they ended up in another meadow, with a big broad river running at its heart. Arya gave her another look.
“We’re lost.”
“No, we’re not,” Sansa replied instantly; in truth, her sister was correct, but the knowledge rankled like nothing else. “We simply need to retrace our steps.”
Arya began muttering under her breath—she caught the words stupid and nosy more than once. She’s just a stupid baby; if she’d not wandered off, I wouldn’t have had to see what she was up to. Well, they were both stuck now, and Sansa knew that as the older, cleverer, wiser sister she’d have to get them out. She scanned the horizon—the sun had long since fallen past its zenith. Soon the sky would pinken with its westering rays, the light dying with the dusk. Her stomach rumbled—she’d last eaten at breakfast, picking at her pease porridge and worrying over the queen. That felt almost a hundred years ago.
Whichever way Sansa turned, she saw only the brown of tree trunks, the green of the meadow, the lovely blue of the river which ran clear and deep. We’re never going to leave, she thought, despairing, just as Arya jumped up and said, “There’s smoke!”
“Where?” Sansa said, though she was already following the direction of Arya’s finger. There! A thin banner of smoke unfurled itself across the sky, so distant that Sansa had to squint before she caught sight of it.
“It could be a holdfast,” Arya exclaimed, “and they’ll have to take us in.”
“All we need do is tell them who we are!”
Sansa could saw it in her mind’s eye—it would be a simple keep, its motte-and-bailey wooden rather than stone. When they came skipping up, whatever country knight lived there would escort them back to camp and the safe arms of their lord father; he would be ever so handsome, like the Dragonknight himself, and walk on foot as he gallantly let Sansa ride on his caparisoned courser, or even his destrier—
“Come on!” Arya was already running to the river. “It’s in this direction.”
“Wait!” Sansa shouted, running after her. “We have to be careful!” This was a proper river one could drown in, couldn’t Arya see? But it was no use, she might as well have been talking to a wall of wattle-and-daube for all that her sister listened.
There were stepping stones, large and slick from where the current rushed against and around them. Arya was taking them two at a time, Sansa saw, whilst Nymeria paced on the riverbank, wary.
“Be careful!” Sansa shouted, and though she hated it, she discarded her pretty silver-blue gown. Should she trip, it would only drag her further down into the river. “Arya! Are you listening to me!” She hiked up her white kirtle, preparing to follow.
“Don’t worry!” Arya sounded supremely confident as Sansa hopped from the first stone to the second with only the smallest wobble. “Even Rickon could do this!”
Speak for yourself, but even Nymeria had gotten over nerves and was following; Arya was three stones ahead of them.
“Strong as mother; fierce as Robb,” Sansa whispered to herself as she crossed the rocks. There was only a single stone between her and Arya now. Her hopes rose, like a dove taking flight on the morning wind, as the riverbank came within their sights.
“Think this river leads to the Red Fork?” Arya asked.
“What does it matter?” Sansa shot back, as she crossed from one stone to another with her heart in her throat. The river moved so fast here. If not for the stones, they’d have been swept away like so much chaff.
“The Red Fork joins with the Tumblestone.”
“So?”
“Riverrun lies on the Tumblestone—Lord Hoster Tully, our mother’s father, rules there.” Arya replied, with the same tone of voice she used with Rickon, and it made Sansa want to jump forward and pull her sister’s stupid hair out. “Maester Luwin says—”
Arya slipped on the stone she was traversing. Her arms windmilled as she tried to regain her balance, but it was no use. Arya fell into the river with an almighty splash. A deep thrill of horror such as she had never known before ran through Sansa, as she envisioned Arya’s future as a bloated corpse, fished out of the Red Fork by some peasant.
For the first time in her life, Sansa Stark tasted true fear.
She jumped in after her. Behind her, she heard another splash as Nymeria followed, but she didn’t have time to worry about the direwolf anymore—not when her sister needed her. She couldn’t swim, but all the same she kicked and laid about with her arms. Arya bobbed in front of her, gasping for air as the wild waters dragged her under each time she broke for air. Sansa kicked with all her might, moving forward, but she was too slow, and all she could see of her sister now was her dark mop of hair.
Arya’s going to die, Sansa realised, letting out a plaintive cry, my baby sister—
And suddenly Nymeria was there, paddling and somehow surefooted, though they were in water. She yipped at Sansa, her dark gold eyes all knowing, and grabbed her by the collar of her kirtle with her mouth, dragging her forward. Sansa couldn’t see Arya, couldn’t see her, but then Nymeria let out a growl. She let Sansa go, whilst she was kicking with all her diminutive might, her skirts tangling up beneath her. It was no use—the waters swallowed Sansa and her last thought was, Mother.
#
Sansa was awoken by a slap to her back.
“Get up!” Arya shouted, voice gone high and panicky.
Her body ached in a thousand different places as she sat up, opened her mouth, and then vomited up what felt like a whole barrel’s worth of water. When she finally stopped, she saw that they were sat beside a pool. The smallest waterfall she’d ever seen emptied itself into it, reflecting the morning light above. Arya was next to her, clutching her hand in a death grip. Beside her, Nymeria was ripping apart a rabbit, grey fur matted and tangled. When the wolf looked at Sansa, her eyes seemed impossibly weary.
Morning? “What happened?” Sansa tried to say, but her throat seized with sudden pain and all she could manage was a low croak.
“Nymeria saved us,” Arya explained, seeming to understand. “Somehow she got us both out of the river.” Sansa stared at her. “Don’t look at me like that. I almost drowned.”
“What…else?” Sansa finally managed, though it hurt her throat something awful.
“Then we slept stupid.”
Sansa felt her eyes fill with tears of gratitude. Arya was annoying and boyish and an embarrassment half the time, and Sansa had twice confessed in the sept that she wished she had a different sister, someone sweet and trusting and girlish, but seeing her alive now, Sansa had never loved her more.
When Sansa hugged her, Arya froze and then hugged back twice as hard. She buried her head in Sansa’s neck, her tears hot against her sister’s skin.
#
They’d been walking for nary an hour, when the path they were on veered sharply to the right. Sansa followed with barely a thought—her skull was full of cotton wool, and her stomach sounded half-a-beast as it rumbled with hunger.
Arya saw it first and let out a whoop of excitement, which set Nymeria howling. When Sansa trudged up behind her, her eyes turned saucer-shaped, and she felt for a moment that all the tales Old Nan had ever told them were true.
Before them stood a house. Its windows were glazed sugar, sweet and clear, its walls marzipan, its roof a slab of cake, shingled with sugared berries and candied apples. Sansa spied cream, thick and clotted, between the house’s honeycomb bricks. The door was jelly, the doorknob a fruit turnover. The path towards it was of golden brick; wildflowers were scattered on both sides.
Sansa squinted at them. “Arya, the flowers are jewels!”
Arya leaned forward and plucked one. It was a rose with ruby petals; its stem was a thousand tiny emeralds all linked together, flashing in the sun.
Sansa’s eyes roved over their surroundings, searching for something equally wondrous…before her eyes alighted on the rye-bread shutters. Arya was already there and had broken off a piece. Sansa’s stomach clenched as she watched her sister eat. She was used to the soft wheaten bread out of Gage’s kitchens, not coarse rye bread, but that did little to stop her from tearing off a piece. When she bit into the rye bread, syrup leaked out.
She was licking syrup off her fingers, when an old woman leaned her head out the door and asked, “Children? What brings you to my humble abode?”
#
The old woman’s name was Nelly, though she said, “Call me Goodwife Nelly,” as she led them inside the house and to a wooden table before the hearth in the kitchen.
“You live here all by yourself?” Arya asked, looking around with unabashed interest. Everything the exterior of the house was, its interior was not—the kitchen was quite ordinary, with other tables pushed up beneath the windows and piled high with various miscellanea.
“Aye that I do, for many a year now,” Goodwife Nelly said, smiling. Her wrinkled face was homely and honest, framed by a mobcap. Nelly glanced at Nymeria warily. The direwolf had followed them in, and slumped before the hearth bold as you please, before the old woman could get a word in.
“Nymeria, come,” Arya ordered, and the direwolf bounded away into her sister’s open arms. “Your house is amazing. I don’t know how you built it, you look so old.”
“Arya!” Sansa hissed, though her throat seized with the effort. “I’m ever so sorry. My sister has a bold tongue and seldom gives thought to leashing it.”
“That’s all well and good. I enjoy lively girls.” Goodwife Nelly smiled; with a start, Sansa saw she had wooden teeth. “How did you come by my home, children?”
“We got lost,” Sansa answered, at the same moment Arya said, “We walked.”
Sansa nudged Arya under the table, but her sister ignored her, still speaking. “…Father is the Lord Hand of the King, Robert and he’ll be looking for us, and also we’re very hungry.” Her grey eyes went to the pie cooking over the fire. “Can we eat some of that?”
“Of course, poor dearies, you can eat whatever you wish.” Nelly shook her head. “You should never have wandered off in the first place, but children do as they please.”
The prospect of food drove all thought of manners out of Sansa’s mind. Her stomach growled; she slavered and licked her lips as Nelly lifted the pie out of the fire with a damp cloth. When she cut into it, the rich smell of meat assailed Sansa’s nostrils. “What type of pie is it?” Sansa asked.
“Pork.”
They ate their slices whilst they were piping hot—Sansa tasted pepper, cloves, carrots, but it was the meat that she enjoyed the most. Each time she took a bite, the pork would melt in her mouth with a buttery richness. So tender, she thought as Nelly served them another slice, smiling delightedly. The pork was fantastic, truly like nothing else she’d ever had, coming apart so easily, savoury and sweet both. Even Nymeria was enjoying it—Arya had snuck her a piece under the table.
By the time they were finished, the pie was gone. Sansa was tired, so tired, so she got up to stretch but the drowsiness was too much…
Strong hands caught her as she fell.
#
Sansa woke up in bed. For a moment, she thought she was in Winterfell, home at last. Then she opened her eyes properly, and saw that she was in a bedroom, Arya sleeping beside her. Nymeria paced at the end of the room, scratching a wooden door adjoining their own.
There was another door leading out the room, but when Sansa tried it, it was locked. She looked down at herself—she was still in her kirtle, dirty and travel-stained, and her feet were blistered and aching where they met the cool stone. Someone had removed her shoes. Nymeria tugged at her skirts and Sansa glanced at the wooden door adjoining their room. It came open with a simple twist of the knob; beside her, Nymeria started yipping.
It was a larder. A flour ark stood against the wall, over which lay a basket, full of neeps, carrots, bushels of pumpkins and apples and corn. A flitch of bacon was on the sideboard. Somehow, the room was deathly cold, though the nights on this side of the Trident were gentle, balmy things. A small sugar window high in the marzipan wall let in the moonlight, illuminating three metal hooks which hung from the ceiling.
Two rabbits dangled from the first, glassy-eyed and unseeing. A haunch of aged mutton hung from the second. A human forearm hung from the last, crusted in salt, with some of its fingers missing.
Sansa tasted the buttery richness of pork in her mouth, tender with pepper and cloves and carrots.