Work Text:
The wolf, whose eager eye followeth the sun,
The brilliant god, unto the girding sea,
Is Skaull; but Hati, great Hrodvitner's son,
Goeth before the softly shining moon.
1851 English translation of The Song of Grimner
The Dornish sun was unforgiving. It heated the earth even in winter. At midday, the sandy dunes of the desert and the cobblestones at the market square burned the soles of her gilded sandals. From time to time, the sun vanished behind a bank of wintry dark clouds, calling for rain that never came, but the respite was short-lived and insufficient. It brought forth a stinging heat that reddened her skin until it burned. In the short weeks they had spent in Dorne, Sansa had discovered that few things could be more unpleasant than a sunburn. Her skin had peeled, hard and parched like the desert that surrounded them, and the itching had grown unbearable, until her fingernails were covered in blood in her attempts to soothe it.
The golden veil of fine Myrish lace she wore did little to protect her from the merciless weather. Yet the sun that haunted Dorne during the day didn't stop the cold from taking residence in her bones at night—she covered herself with thick furs and embraced Brienne, seeking her warmth, but even then she shivered in a way she'd never done inside the walls of Winterfell. The castle had been built over natural hot springs that heated its walls, its halls, and its chambers. One could walk barefoot on the snowiest nights and not feel a chill. Even in the Eyrie, where the towers turned icy with the arrival of snow and frost, Sansa had been able to take refuge under her furs and warm herself in a well-heated chamber. She had never slept outside before, at the mercy of the elements.
On the road, before they reached Sunspear, Brienne always tried to find a place with a roof to spend the night, but sometimes it wasn't feasible or secure. Most often, they had to sleep beneath the open sky, huddling together for warmth. Still, Sansa was from the north; she could deal with the cold. It was the suffocating sun during the day that left her sweaty and thirsty, cold and hot at the same breath, tired in a way she'd never been before, not even in the humid summer of King's Landing or the bitter autumn of the Vale.
She felt it now, walking through the market, a point of constant heat at the back of her neck as she looked at the busy stalls. Sweat trickled down her temples to her neck, resting on her collarbone like pearls on a necklace. After so long beneath the sun, her soft veil felt too hot—an oppressive weight instead of a helpful shadow. Yet she didn't dare to remove it, since the dye she'd used to cover her auburn hair had long run out. It was now short and cut unevenly, more apt for the appearance of a peasant than a lady, but it was still the hair of the Tullys. The hair of Sansa Stark.
(Alayne had been left behind at the Vale, with the man who named her and a splash of blood.)
Not many knew Sansa Stark was in Dorne, and she’d rather keep it that way, at least until she spoke with Doran Martell, the ruling prince. She could see his captain, Areo Hotah, tall in the distance, watching her like a living statue. His gaze never strays far from me. She’d been allowed to walk through the beautiful market on the outskirts of the palace as she waited for an audience, but not without protection—Areo Hotah had taken the burden, since Brienne was still healing from her fight against Ser Balon Swann.
She lowered her head and fiddled with her dress as she studied a big river pike at the fish stall. She was wearing a simple gown of ivory linen, with vines and purple grapes embroidered around the sleeves and bodice, and it was the most beautiful dress she’d seen in ages. Even at the Vale, Alayne Stone had to wear modest clothes, proper for a bastard daughter.
But I am no bastard, she thought. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell.
The wide-brimmed straw hat she’d used before to hide her identity while traveling had been an ugly, sad thing, but far more effective when shielding her from the sun than her current garments. She didn’t miss it, though. She hadn’t worn anything beautiful in so long she had almost cried at the feeling of silk and linen against her skin again—finally allowed to ditch her peasant clothes and wear something more refined. The servants had drawn her a bath, too. Hot water mixed with rich perfumed oils and rose petals. She'd soaked in there until the water was ice cold.
She looked up at the palace, its towers cutting into the sky like reddish needles. The harbor welcomed trading vessels from the Free Cities, and merchants from all kinds of places were known to make their stops there. She'd never seen a market quite like this: the stalls were almost piled on top of each other, bags of spices that Sansa had never seen before open to the wind, filling the air with a strong, spicy smell. Jewels glittered in the sunlight like fireflies at night, and the fabrics of the clothes seemed to possess every texture, from the coarseness of wool to the softest samine.
It smelled of sea salt and fresh fish, and the market seemed to move with the sea tide, the floor dancing under her feet. There were many Dornishmen in the shops, most with brown skin and dark eyes, though a few were blue-eyed and blond, as Sansa had learned was common near Yronwood. Stony Dornishmen, they called them, for they lived in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains, and had the most Andal and First Men blood. There were also many people coming from the other side of the sea: men with green beards and blue mustaches that spoke the common tongue with a heavy accent; women with tattooed skin and ringed fingers that veiled their faces and smiled only with their eyes; sellswords with golden armors and shaved heads that spoke in a language she didn't understand at all. She saw an old man with a pink beard and blue eyebrows eating the head of a raw fish in a single bite; a tall man covered in scars handing a beautiful sword to a big-boned woman; a dark-skinned dancer with golden bracelets who removed the veil covering her face to kiss a smiling girl in the audience. Sansa blushed and looked away. It was alien and intriguing at the same time.
"My lady?" Podrick Payne asked behind her, fidgeting. He was tall for his age, as was Sansa, but he was a timid boy. It had taken him a long time to cease stuttering in her presence. "Is something wrong?"
She'd been looking around for far too long. Sansa smiled at him, and Podrick blushed.
"I was lost in thought," she told Podrick as she scanned the spice stalls, curious. Brienne had a hard time with the strong flavors popular in Dorne, but Sansa and Podrick quickly took a liking to them.
Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye: a blue silk veil that shimmered in the sun at one of the cloth shops. She approached it in wonder. At close, she could see the white pearls woven into the fabric, creating an intricate design that gave form to a four-legged animal. A wolf, she thought.
"Does m'lady like the veil?" Asked the woman behind the stall with a melodic Dornish drawl. She was short and stout, her skin a russet, reddish-brown, her curly black hair adorned with painted embellishments. She dressed in soft green silk, and when she smiled, her teeth looked slightly uneven.
"It's very beautiful," Sansa acknowledged. She caressed the fabric with her fingers; it was so soft it felt like water.
"I sell the best silk in all of Dorne, I do," the seller boasted. "You won't find anything better than this, I promise you that!"
"It must be expensive, then," Sansa said. Brienne had started her search for her with purses full of gold and silver, but the journey had been long and perilous, and it didn't seem to have a clear end. Not even here, at the other side of the realm, could Sansa trust they’d find true help. They would be short of funds soon enough if they weren't careful.
"It's worth its price, m'lady! A beautiful highborn girl like you should cover herself with good silk, and I sell the best!" Before Sansa could react, the merchant leaned over the stall and took her golden veil. A rush of air went through her hair, which was sticking to her forehead and neck in wet clumps, and then the woman covered her again with the blue veil. "See? Doesn't she look much better?" She asked Podrick, who was loyally by Sansa's side.
"Um," Podrick said eloquently, blush rising in his cheeks. He wore a green velvet doublet that matched his pointy fern hat.
"Not a smooth talker, I take it?" The merchant raised an unimpressed eyebrow, her long golden earrings shaking heavily over her shoulders. "A man who can't compliment his wife should not call himself a man at all, if you ask me."
Sansa smiled politely. "He's my brother, not my husband. You are very kind, but I truly don't think we have enough coins."
She removed the veil a little sadly. She’d never had to think about money before she ran away from the Vale. She resented it as she put the borrowed veil back over her head, hiding from the sun's stifling heat that followed her like a pair of vigilant eyes. Even when she was disguising herself as Littlefinger's bastard, she could wear fancy gowns and elaborate hairstyles. Nothing could be as pretty as a lady's wardrobe, of course, but it was still far better than the black woolen pants and the worn cotton shirt she’d been stuck with for so long.
Now she wore beautiful garments again, but they weren’t hers. It could be taken as easily as it was given.
"A brother!" Shouted the merchant as if she had never heard the word before. "I had three. One died in the cradle, another went lost in the desert, and the last one decided to join the Targaryen prince in his call to war. None of them could tell the difference between true silk and satin. You can't trust a brother on matters of beauty."
That caught Sansa's attention. "The Targaryen prince, you say?"
"Aegon Targaryen, he claims to be! The trueborn son of our beloved Princess Elia." She leaned over her silks again and added in a whisper that was still too loud: "I say it must be true, if Princess Arianne has shown him her support and let him marry her cousin! My brother was convinced, I'll tell you that much. It's time for the Lannisters to bleed, he said," she roared, laughing. "Listen, I hate a Lannister as much as any well-bred Dornishwoman, but I dare say they have bled already. Not that many of them left, now. Only the whore queen and her whelp, and she's surrounded in King's Landing. She won't last long."
They'd heard whispers about the Targaryen claimant near Tumbleton, after a month and a fortnight on the road. At first, Brienne had intended to take them to her father's seat at Evenfall Hall. You'll be safe there, she'd said, as Sansa tried to wash the blood under her nails in the freezing water of a small creek that ran down the Vale of Arryn. The dried blood in her dress was a lost cause. My father will grant you his protection, I promise.
Would you stay at Evenfall with me? Sansa had asked, unsure. The thought of parting from her protector left her uneasy. She didn't feel brave enough to trust another Lord, after what happened.
(A dead boy and a dead man. Blood of both on her hands.)
Of course, Brienne had assured her. I swore to your lady mother I'd keep you safe, and I will.
However, Aegon Targaryen's return from the dead had changed their plans. He'd quickly taken over the Stormlands, conquering Griffin's Roost and Storm's End, and then he'd made his way north towards King's Landing with the help of his Golden Company. And Tarth, where Evenfall resided, and Brienne had grown up, was the first to fall in their conquest. Brienne still didn't know if her father had survived the attack.
The only safe place, suddenly, wasn't safe anymore.
"They say he married Elia Sand, the fifth daughter of our Red Viper!" The merchant went on, clearly eager to gossip. "Another Elia destined to be queen, but we won't let this one suffer the same fate as the first one, I promise you that, m'lady! This one will live! That's why my brother left with Lord Yronwood's army."
The Red Viper. Oberyn Martell. She'd meet the man in King's Landing. He was handsome and daring, and the beauty of his dark eyes struck her. It feels like a lifetime ago. Now he was dead.
He'd had many daughters, yet he'd never married. This Sansa knew.
“He must love her a lot,” Sansa smiled, letting the merchant believe she was more clueless than she actually was. “It’s not every day that a future king elopes with a bastard girl.”
After all, if House Martell wanted an alliance against the Lannisters and Tyrells, why not offer their own trueborn Princess? Princess Arianne was unmarried, as far as she knew. Why would a claimant to the throne ever accept such a lowly offer?
"They’ll sing songs about them in the years to come, that is true!” The merchant agreed with her. “Although I reckon it's not that big o' a deal for a king; he can legitimize any bastard he wants. Or mayhaps the rest of the Realm is finally ready to embrace bastards as the true sons and daughters of love, as we do in Dorne. After all, they also say Stark's bastard crowned himself King in the North."
The air left her lungs in one heavy breath. Not this again. She became aware of her heartbeat, pounding in her chest like a drum. Sweat trickled down from under her veil towards her neck, sliding lower between her breasts. It smelled of raw fish and perfume, and the woman had to scream to make herself heard. It was too loud, too crowded, too smelly, too hot. Sansa felt suddenly nauseous.
"Do you refer to Jon Snow?" Asked Podrick. Her tongue was twisted and useless in her mouth; she tasted mint at the back of her throat.
"Whatever his name may be," the woman shrugged. "I don't know much; news from so far up north is slow to come here. But that's what I heard. A bastard queen in the south, a bastard king in the north, and the little Lannister bastard sitting on the Iron Throne. It seems the winter has brought a time for bastards."
"It isn’t true," Sansa said when she recovered control of her tongue. Her chest hurt. "Jon Snow is dead."
She'd heard the news at the Vale, when her name was still Alayne Stone and her hands were clean of blood: the boy commander of the Night's Watch had been murdered by his own men.
He was the only family I had left, was her first thought. And then she'd refused to think about it again. She'd cried enough dead brothers.
"Mayhaps it's another bastard, then."
"That can't be," Sansa said again. "Lord Eddard Stark only had one bastard."
"How do you know? A man who cheats on his wife once will do it twice," the silk seller said wisely, with a shake of her earrings. Sansa resisted the urge to strangle her with one of the perfumed veils.
"I know," she replied, enraged. "Lord Eddard Stark was an honorable man."
"A man's honor shouldn't be measured by how many cunts he fucks," the merchant woman said with a dismissive gesture. "If Stark was so honorable, why was he silent when the Lannisters murdered Princess Elia and her babies?"
"What do you know about what he did or not?" Sansa exclaimed. The sweat slid down her palms when she closed her fists. "It was Ser Gregor Clegane who committed the crime; Lord Stark had nothing to do with it!"
"Aye, it was the Mountain, Gregor Clegane," she said his name like a curse, and then she spat on the ground. "Our Prince Oberyn gave his life trying to deliver justice. What did the honorable Eddard Stark do?"
He lost his head! He was killed! Where is his justice? She wanted to shout. Ser Ilyn Payne had delivered the blow. She didn't want to see, but she couldn't look away. It had been a clean cut, a quick death. Joffrey made me watch it afterwards. His head. It didn't look like him. It looked like nothing. Death turns you into nothing.
She had a scream at the back of her throat and the start of tears in her eyes when Podrick gently guided her away from the stall. The woman seemed to lose interest in them soon enough, but her words resonated in Sansa's ears.
"She doesn't know anything," she whispered, feeling every bit the silly girl she'd been in another life. When she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and her father was still alive. She tried to blink the tears away.
"She doesn't, my lady," agreed Podrick. "She's just a merchant. You shouldn't listen to her words."
She swallowed the lump in her throat as Podrick walked them out of the market. The sun was starting to get low, coloring the sea in shades of purple. A cold breeze made her shiver. Even without the sun presiding over her head like a bright yellow eye, she still felt watched.
"Do you think she was lying, then?" She asked. "About Jon? We’ve been hearing the same stories for months now."
Podrick hesitated. "I do not know, my lady. We heard of his death, but…" He cut himself with a strange look and went very pale. His hair was straight and thin, reaching his shoulders; its color was so dark it made the sudden paleness stand out.
Sansa prompted him: "But…?"
But Podrick only shook his head and said nothing more, speeding up the pace.
He doesn't want to give me hope, Sansa thought as they left the market and walked back towards the palace. But it doesn't make sense for a rumor like that to form unless it’s at least partly true.
Maybe the lie had been that Jon was dead in the first place.
Jon wouldn't do it. If he's alive, he wouldn't crown himself king. He's sworn to the Night's Watch. And he knows it's my birthright, now that our brothers are dead.
But no one knew where Sansa Stark was, did they? She had run away from her home—from the war and the fear and the conflict—looking for a safe place that didn't seem to exist.
Maybe it was an impostor. Someone pretending to be Jon, like the girl who had pretended to be Arya and married Ramsay Bolton. Brienne said she'd been put there by the Lannisters. This Jon might be an impostor, too.
The impressive figure of Areo Hotah received them beneath the palace’s triple arch, clad in his shirt of copper scales and a mottled sandsilk cloak of dun and gold. As always, the captain of the guards kept his longaxe close to his body, ready for anything. Despite the fortnight they spent traveling together through Dorne's desert, Sansa barely knew anything about him. He was a man of few words and even fewer opinions. Lady Obara had been slightly better company, though her manners were unpolished and she was far too quick to anger. Sansa hadn't made a friend of her, despite her many attempts.
She missed the easy friendship she'd shared with Myranda Royce at the Vale. Even more than her, she missed Jeyne Poole, her dearest friend from Winterfell. She often wondered if she was still alive, somewhere.
“The prince will see you now,” Areo Hotah nodded at them in greeting and walked them inside. The pink marble floor was cool under her feet. The oval arches of the palace gates opened onto an immense garden, with green, tall trees providing shade. Sansa heard children shouting and splashing in the distance, a sound she had grown accustomed to in the few days she had spent in the Water Gardens. The blood oranges filled the air with a sharp, sweet smell. Some of them had fallen and burst open on the floor, their juices staining the pale pink marble like blood from a wound. Sansa lifted her dress to walk over one, careful not to ruin her borrowed clothes.
She didn't know much of Doran Martell, the ruling Prince of Dorne. He was old and bedridden, the lesser version of his daring little brother, whom they once called the Red Viper. He spent his days in the Water Gardens, surrounded by screaming, playing children and the sweet smell of fruit. Rarely was he seen at Sunspear, the seat of his House. Others ruled for him, they said. They called him weak and compliant and cowardly.
Rumors are unreliable. Petyr had said that rumors could be a starting point to analyze an opponent, but they were never a trustworthy source. She'd have to reach her own conclusions and act accordingly.
I can do it. I'm not alone.
Podrick walked a few steps behind; his long-legged stride sounded nervous, but Sansa didn't turn around to look. There, at the end of the long corridor, waited Brienne. She was still pale, the old scar on her cheek an ugly red. In place of a gown, she wore men's breeches and a calf-length linen tunic, cinched at the waist with a leather belt, Oathkeeper secured there. She kept a hand on the sword pommel in a gesture Sansa recognized well; Brienne liked to touch Oathkeeper when she was nervous, it gave her confidence.
Does it give you courage because it is made from Valyrian steel? Sansa wondered. Or because it reminds you of the dead man who gave it to you?
She walked quickly towards her, extending her hand. Brienne grabbed it with her left, interlacing their fingers. Her hands are as big as the Hound’s. Sansa loved holding hands with Brienne; her fingers were always warm and firm, calloused from the sword she wielded to protect her.
“Why are you here?” Sansa admonished lightly. “You should be resting.”
With her free hand, she looked for the bandages that covered Brienne’s ribs under the clothes. Balon Swann had broken two with a kick before Areo Hotah and Lady Obara stopped the fight.
Brienne released her hold on Oathkeeper to catch her wrist carefully, halting her attentions. Stubborn, Sansa interlaced their fingers again.
“I feel better,” Brienne said. “I wanted to be here.”
“Well,” Sansa sighed—she couldn’t lie and say Brienne’s presence didn’t make her feel better, “do try not to overexert yourself.”
Brienne nodded solemnly, but her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. She has such extraordinary eyes. Sansa shook her head, trying not to blush.
I have to focus, she reminded herself. I can’t let this distract me.
Ahead of them, the captain of the guards guided them to the balcony where the prince of Dorne rested beneath the shade of the orange trees. He doesn't resemble his brother, was her first thought. Doran Martell sat with his legs propped up before him, covered by a beautiful Myrish blanket of reds and browns. He was old, with heavy bags under his eyes and grays interwoven in his dark hair, though he seemed more burdened by sickness than by age. Below, in the fountains and the pools, the children played games in the water, naked as on their name day.
"Prince Doran," Sansa bowed before him; Brienne and Podrick tried to emulate her awkwardly. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. We are very grateful for your hospitality."
"Lady Sansa. Lady Brienne," he greeted. His voice was tired, his presence unassuming. But his eyes were bright and intelligent. He looked at Podrick. "And you…"
"Podrick Payne, my lord," Podrick said, barely stuttering. Sansa was proud of him.
"Ah, yes. Forgive me, age and sickness had taken a toll on my mind." He smiled wanly. It sounds like a lie. His eyes were piercing like a hawk's. "It is my pleasure to welcome you to Dorne, especially after such a long journey. You are very far from home, my ladies. I do hope Obara and my captain were well-behaved on the road. I know my niece can be overbearing."
"She was delightful company. As was your captain." A lie, but a well-meaning one. A lie was not so bad when it was meant kindly.
"I'm glad to hear that. Ser Balon's poor behavior towards you was regrettable. He was a guest in these lands, and he should never have tried to kidnap you. Please, sit." Wicker chairs with soft cushions had been arranged on the balcony. Sansa sat neatly, Brienne at her side; Podrick stood behind them. In front of them, a small table was filled with food: dates stuffed with honey, puddings decorated with cream and sugar, lemon cakes shaped like suns, spiced honey biscuits, blackberry tarts, and sweet rice with pistachios. "I confess, I wasn't expecting to find the Lady Sansa Stark and the Maid of Tarth wandering these lands, especially in such turbulent times."
"Things were more turbulent up north," Brienne said. "We were hoping to find safety here."
"I see," Doran Martell looked at them with eyes clouded by pain, his swollen hands resting on his belly. "I'd like to say you found it, but it would seem that war has finally reached Dorne."
Sansa bowed her head slightly and took a lemon cake from the table. "We heard about your alliance with Aegon Targaryen. I'm happy for your niece. I pray she has a prosperous marriage and that the war is over soon." She paused, then added: "I was also very sorry to hear about your brother's passing, my lord. He was an impressive man; I was lucky enough to meet him briefly in King's Landing."
Before I disappeared after Joffrey's murder, and your brother was killed trying to defend my husband in a trial by combat. Would he ask her about that? Should she mention Littlefinger?
No, he was better left in the past. Unmentioned. Unnoticed.
As if he never existed.
The prince grimaced. If it was in response to the pain of his limbs or to her words, Sansa could not say. "Thank you for your kind words, my lady. Allow me to extend my condolences for your losses as well. Mayhaps the folly of youth will serve to bring justice to our families, if nothing else. We've both suffered plenty at the hands of the Lannisters and Baratheons, I'm sure it will be a relief to see an end to their reign."
"So we have," she agreed. The folly of youth? She nibbled the lemon cake. It had a spicy cinnamon flavor that she was not used to. "Forgive me, my lord, but may I ask what has become of the Lord of Evenfall Hall? The news we heard on the road was unclear about his fate, and Lady Brienne has feared for her father's life ever since."
Brienne was tense and silent on the chair beside her. Sansa wished to take her hand between hers to give some comfort. She took a honeyed date from the table instead.
"I'm afraid I do not know," the prince answered sadly. He's lying. His face was perfectly composed, but she felt it in her gut. House Tarth was powerful enough. If its lord were dead with only a missing daughter as heir, any important person in the realm would know about it. "News hardly travels by sea, these days. And ravens, well… Even the sky has become haunted now, as you've heard."
Was he trying to redirect the conversation from her question? It was well done, but it only made her more wary. Why would Doran Martell want to keep the fate of Brienne's father to himself?
He's allied to Aegon Targaryen. If his Golden Company killed Lord Selwyn Tarth, Brienne would be against him. He doesn't want us as adversaries.
The thought left her uneasy.
"The dragon?" Asked Brienne. "Your captain told us about it. He said it flew over Oldtown."
A green shadow big enough to hide the sun, leaving a trail of death and ash.
"I would not have believed it from another source, but Obara and Areo don't lie." He extended a shaking hand and took a small biscuit from the table. "We live in difficult times, indeed. War and blood at every corner; monsters coming from the sea; and now, dragons at this side of the world, without their master in sight."
"I—Isn't their master Aegon Targaryen?" Podrick asked, confused.
Doran Martell shook his head slowly. "Their master is a queen. But nobody has heard from her in some time… or from the men who should be with her." He frowned and glanced at the children playing below, his eyes watering, the biscuit forgotten in his hand. "Nevertheless," he said, his gaze still far away, "there is nothing we can do about the happenings at the other side of the world. But it's precisely these uncertain times that call for unity."
He glanced back at her. His eyes, Sansa thought. He has his brother's eyes. They were not the eyes of a feeble man.
"Forgive me if I speak too plainly; I am old and tired, and my patience for endless chatter has thinned. I never expected to find you at my door, but it is a pleasant surprise, and I rarely encounter that. In the long story of the Seven Kingdoms, our Houses didn’t have many opportunities to establish a deep relationship. We are too far from each other: the Martells, guarding the south, and the Starks, guarding the north. This encounter might be a sign from the gods to change that. Mayhaps it has come the time for our Houses to help each other in destroying our common enemy, as well as protecting each other from any other enemy that may come." His voice was hoarse, as if it were hard for him to speak for so long. "It's with that spirit that I wish to offer you my youngest son's hand in marriage, Lady Sansa. You and he are close in age. It would be the first marriage between our Houses in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and it would secure an alliance that neither the Lannisters nor the Tyrells can hope to match."
Her stomach dropped. So this is his angle.
"Lady Sansa does not wish to wed," Brienne was quick to come to her defense, but Sansa would have preferred if she hadn't. No matter how harmless he looks, this is a cunning man who plays to win. We have to be careful.
"It could be merely a betrothal until you are both familiar with each other."
"I…" Her voice cracked. Don't be stupid, now. Keep control. "It is a very generous offer, my lord, but I thought Prince Trystane was betrothed to Princess Myrcella."
Doran Martell raised an eyebrow. "Cersei Lannister had no intention to honor that promise. She blames us for the death of her second son, and Queen Myrcella has declared Dorne an enemy of the Crown. Her mother's words, for sure, but that hardly matters now."
Of course they are no longer betrothed. They are enemies now. That was a stupid thing to say. Her hands were sweating.
"It doesn't matter," Brienne said. "I'm sorry, my lord, but Lady Sansa would prefer no talk of marriage."
You sweet fool, Sansa thought, her heart aching. We can't reject the prince of Dorne like that.
"Truly? I do not mean to force you, of course, if that's something you don't want." Is he lying? Is he telling the truth? "I merely thought it would be a good opportunity for us both, if what Lord Manderly says is true."
"Lord Manderly?" She repeated stupidly. He was the Lord of White Harbor, and he had fought with Robb.
"He has written to the Major Houses of the realm with astonishing news. Apparently, he's found your brother Rickon alive and has declared him Lord of Winterfell. He calls for the annihilation of House Bolton and the restitution of House Stark."
Blood rushed into her ears. Rickon? Alive? No. Theon Greyjoy had killed him. He killed Bran and Rickon and burned down Winterfell. She remembered hearing of their deaths in King's Landing. She wouldn't believe it, at first. Theon would not do that.
But he had.
It has to be another impostor. Rickon was too little; any toddler could pass for him.
"Rickon Stark?" Brienne sounded weary. "How is that possible?"
"Apparently, your brothers ran away, so Theon Greyjoy killed some innocent farmers and made them look like them," said Doran Martell. "That’s what Lord Manderly said, at least."
Sansa didn't remember much about Lord Manderly, but she’d met him as a child, once he came to Winterfell to talk with her father. He might have met Rickon, too. Could he be telling the truth?
"And Bran?" She asked. "Does he say anything about Bran?"
"No, my lady, he only talked about Rickon."
"And what has become of Stannis?" Brienne said, voice hard. "Last we heard, he was battling the Boltons."
"Then we know the same," the prince took a small bite of the biscuit and licked his dry lips. He looked exhausted. "Stannis Baratheon has been silent for a while. Some say he died. Some say he didn't. Some say he did die, but his red priestess brought him back to life with a kiss."
Brought him back to life.
"My half-brother Jon," Sansa said, her heart pounding. "Have you heard of him?"
Doran Martell sighed. "I've heard the rumors, aye. He also came back to life and crowned himself King in the North. He marches towards Winterfell with an army of the undead. Or wildlings, the tales vary. I won't deny that there might be some truth in those tales, as there is always some truth to be found in whispers and legends; but you'll have to agree with me, my lady, that it seems unlikely."
Dragons fly in the sky, monsters walk from the sea, Sansa thought. If Rhaegar's son could come back to life, why not my brothers?
"Lord Manderly does vouch for your brother Rickon, however, and wishes for the north to be ruled by a Stark again," he continued. "If our Houses were to be united by marriage, under the command of King Aegon Targaryen, we could destroy House Lannister and help put your brother in his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell."
She was sweating in her pretty ivory gown, under her beautiful golden veil. The sweet smell of the blood oranges made her nauseous. They are past ripe.
"It's a generous offer." No, no, I already said that. "But I fear how it might affect your son's reputation. I do not wish to tarnish him in the eyes of the Lords and Ladies of the Realm; I'm still married, after all."
The prince gave her a curious look. "To Tyrion Lannister, you mean," he said. Sansa could not read his tone. She nodded. "I fear you might be a widow, then. No one has heard of him in quite some time. He disappeared at the other side of the sea, never to be seen again. The Free Cities have been even more ravaged by war than our realm. I doubt you'll see him again."
"Still, without clear proof, a new marriage would be…"
"In your rights, should you decide that," Doran Martell finished firmly. "You were forced into that wedding and into that marriage by your captors, as anyone present in King's Landing at the time can attest to. Any septon in his right mind would sign an annulment."
Petyr had talked about that too, before he died. He'd promised many things, between his schemes and his kisses. He had many great plans for her. Was Sweetrobin's death part of his plan, or was it truly an accident as he said? She was terrified of the answer.
Her mask of courtesies failed her, and the prince must have read her face, because his own expression softened. He raised a hand with swollen, reddish knuckles and fingers as thick as sausages.
"This is merely an offer, my lady," he said. "I would not force you into it, should you oppose it. But I encourage you to dwell on it. This is a chance to turn the game in our favor, finally." He squeezed the biscuit between his bloated fingers, and small crumbs fell onto the Myrish blanket covering his legs. "Haven’t you grown tired, Lady Sansa? Forced to watch your family die at the hands of your enemy, unable to fight back; forced to survive while everyone around you perishes? I understand the feeling: I am the same. That's why I wish to offer you a chance for justice. For your father, your mother, your brothers. For my sister, her children, my brother. They deserve vengeance, do they not? They deserve to be remembered with fire and blood."
It was tempting. What was Sansa to do if she rejected his offer? Wander over the world as a peasant, constantly in fear? Return north on her own, empty-handed and unsure of the situation there, with no one to have her back other than Brienne and Podrick?
I have to protect them too, she thought. We are tired and powerless. We can't keep going like this.
"Other than that, Trystane is a well-mannered boy," Doran Martell continued. "I'm sure you'll get along well. And Dorne is a hard land, but not without its beauties. You could be happy here, I'm sure. Look around you." He raised a trembling hand and pointed to the gardens, to the fountains of clear water and the laughing children. "This palace was a gift from my ancestor, Maron Martell, to his Targaryen bride, Daenerys. She had a difficult time in this land, at first, so far away from what she knew, but she learned to love Dorne well."
It was a beautiful sight, but Sansa had always found beauty in Dorne—she saw a strange likeness between the barrenness of its deserts and the frozen landscapes of the north; a peculiar allure in the emptiness of their landscapes tethered them together.
Still, Dorne wasn't the North: it was hot instead of cold, dry instead of foggy, arid instead of frozen. It didn't change her yearning for snow and wind and rain.
I don't want to stay here, she thought suddenly, with desperation. I want to go home.
But Sansa Stark could not afford to reject such an offer. What would Alayne Stone do in her place? She wondered. How would she ensure her safety in these strange lands while also guaranteeing her freedom? How could she avoid being chained here forever?
"Dorne is a beautiful land," she said with a smile, hoping it was charming. “I would love to ensure a fruitful alliance between our regions, my lord. Don’t take my reluctance towards your son as an insult to him or Dorne, because I don’t intend it that way. As it stands, I am a woman wed. Were your son and I to be married, and Tyrion Lannister were to reappear alive, there would be whispers, and the legitimacy of any children we might have would be put in question. No matter what any septon may say. I don’t wish to bring such disfortune to your House. Fortunately, it seems to me that Prince Trystane is not the only man of House Martell in need of a wife.”
Alayne looked at him through her eyelashes, trying to appear innocent and appealing at the same time. It was a look that Harry the Heir had loved, but Prince Doran seemed unaffected, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“My other son has his own concerns,” Doran Martell said, measured. “Prince Quentyn is not a match I can offer you.”
“Of course,” she nodded in understanding. Her hands were sweaty, and her heart pounded like a drum. He has to like me. Men always like me. Petyr said so. “What about you, my prince?”
Podrick gasped loudly, and Alayne wanted to smack him. Brienne was still as a statue at her side. Alayne had the feeling her protector was fighting the urge to grab her and run away. She wasn’t sure she would mind.
The crease between the prince’s eyebrows got deeper. Sickness and age didn’t make him handsome, but Joffrey and Harry were young and comely, and neither of them had been kind.
“Surely you jest,” he said. “I’m older than your father was. And bedridden.”
“You seem well enough, my lord,” she lied. “A marriage between us would ensure an alliance between our Houses, but not endanger the legitimacy of any future heirs, since you already have yours.”
Prince Doran closed his eyes as if the world was weighing on his shoulders, and he found it too heavy to bear. Alayne tried not to feel discouraged, her stomach twisting in knots. Brienne looked at her with a silent question, and Alayne touched her knee briefly to reassure her. Trust me.
“You are a child,” the prince said. He opened his eyes and looked at her with something that resembled pity.
Alayne raised her head with dignity.
“I am almost six-and-ten, a woman flowered,” she said. “I promise you, you’ll find no issue with me. I’ll be a good wife.”
It sounds too much like begging. She bit her tongue.
Doran Martell shook his head, eyes pained and mouth twisting as if he had swallowed something bitter.
“My prince…” she tried again, but he raised a hand to stop her, so her words remained enclosed behind her lips.
“You’ve made your offer, and I’ve made mine, my lady. Please. Let us rest and think for now. We both need to consider some things. Areo will lead you back to your rooms.”
They left him looking older and sadder, watching the children play as the sun hid behind the horizon; the maester entered the balcony with quick steps, a cup full of liquid in his hands. Alayne had seen her Sweetrobin drink enough milk of the poppy to recognize it, and for a moment she felt almost as sick as Doran Martell had looked.
It was later—when the moon was high in the sky and a small fire warmed her bedchamber—that Sansa explained herself.
“I’d be a puppet as the wife of a third son,” she said, trying to make out Brienne’s face in the gloom. They were entagled in bed under the furs. “If I marry Prince Doran, I’ll be Lady of Sunspear, and that will allow me more power to control my fate.”
She didn’t tell her the other reason. The main reason. Prince Doran is very ill, she thought. He will die soon, and I’ll be a widow without children, free to go where I please. She wouldn’t be chained here.
Yet she didn’t dare to say the words. They were too terrible, and Brienne thought too highly of her. Sansa didn’t want to dissipate the illusion—didn’t want Brienne to look at her in disappointment. She mustn't know. She can’t know what Alayne did to Robert Arryn.
In the gloom, she couldn’t see the blood on her hands, but it was there regardless. It was always there.
I didn’t think he would die. I just wanted him to be calm. She felt like crying, suddenly. Petyr said it was fine to give him more milk of the poppy.
And that was her own fault, wasn’t it? To ever trust Littlefinger.
I had no one else to trust, she wanted to scream. No one else until Brienne found me.
“You don’t need to marry either of them,” Brienne said fiercely, shocking her out of her thoughts. “We can leave.”
“And go where?” Sansa smiled fondly, putting aside her guilt and raising a hand to caress Brienne’s hair as if she were a child.
She hesitated only for a moment. “Braavos.”
“There’s war in the Free Cities; it will reach Braavos sooner or later. And I want to go home. I need to know if Rickon and Jon are truly alive. And you know of my dreams.”
“My lady…”
“I dreamed of Arya,” she said quietly. “She was alive. She was treading through snow.” A long needle in one hand and a bronze-and-iron crown in the other.
“Dreams can be a sign from the gods,” acknowledged Brienne. “But they can be just dreams.”
“Dreams are dreams,” agreed Sansa. “We all walk our path because of them. We came here dreaming of peace. No one was supposed to recognize me in Dorne, yet Ser Balon Swann did. He tried to kidnap me for his own dreams of honor and glory. He could have killed you and taken me to Cersei Lannister or Aegon Targaryen, but Lady Obara and Areo intervened, and they brought us here instead. Now Doran Martell offers us a new dream, one we once thought lost." Justice. Vengeance. Fire and blood. "We have a chance here, I feel it. You need to trust me.”
“A dream of peace.” Brienne sighed and grabbed her hand, interlacing their fingers. “I trust you, my lady. I merely wish to keep you safe.”
“You do,” she said, tender in the darkness. “My lovely knight. My shield and sword.”
She let her hand travel from Brienne’s short hair to her neck, and felt her swallow heavily.
"You should know,” her protector said quietly, “despite my misgivings, it was a very well-handled situation, my lady." Brienne was silent for a moment, then added, "You reminded me of your lady mother, back there."
Sansa felt a sob at the back of her throat. She was glad for the darkness, for the embrace of the woman who had given her loyalty and protection without question or regard for her own life.
"Truly?" She asked.
"Truly," Brienne answered. "She was an extraordinary woman, and so are you. It was an honor to serve her."
Sansa thought of her mother, of her long auburn hair and her soft hands. She didn't allow herself to do it often, for fear that grief would grip her and drag her into despair. I don't have time to think about everyone I’ve lost. The thought was haunting in its enormity.
"I miss her."
"So do I,” said Brienne. "I should tell you, about your lady mother…"
She paused, and Sansa counted three heartbeats before she grew too impatient.
"What?"
"No,” her companion moved back a little, and Sansa’s hand on her neck fell into the bed. “Nothing."
"Brienne?" She called, borrowing closer again, refusing any distance. She had shared her bed with Randa back in the Vale, as highborn women often did, but she hadn’t felt this need for physical contact as she felt for Brienne. She imagined herself constantly thirsty, and Brienne her only source of water. "You know you can tell me anything."
"I know." Brienne embraced her, kissing her forehead softly. "Another time."
Sansa let the matter rest. She trusted Brienne with her life; the woman had proved her care and loyalty time and time again. She hugged her, content for now, trying not to think of tomorrow and the trial it would be.
I would be happy enough for the rest of my life if every night could be like this.
She felt safer with Brienne in mail and sword. But she also wanted her like this, lying beside her, clad only in her small clothes, perfumed with sweet-smelling oils and rose water, yet with a layer of sweat, iron, and blood sealed into her skin, impossible to clean. Do you think Ser Lothor likes Mya Stone as she is, in mail and leather? Alayne Stone had once asked her friend Myranda Royce. Or does he dream of her draped in silks and velvets? Sansa did not know what Ser Lothor would have liked, or how any man might prefer Brienne. She thought, heady in their proximity, that she wouldn’t let Brienne marry a man who’d force her to relinquish the sword and wear gowns and veils. They must accept her as she is, or not touch her at all. Brienne was older than her, and a warrior, but she didn’t know men the way Sansa did. She didn’t know they could kiss you like a husband kisses a wife in the same breath they call you daughter, or tell you they desire you as you lie under them, trembling in fear. She didn’t know they could offer you the most beautiful smile before cutting your father’s head off. I must protect her, as she protects me. She burrowed closer, resting her head against Brienne’s breast. Beneath her ear, she heard the pounding of a heart, beating as fast as a hummingbird's. She listened to it with her eyes shut, counting the muffled thuds as if it were a song she had to memorize. Don’t be scared, she wanted to say. You are here with me. Sansa didn’t have a sword, only her words and wits; but if a lady's armor was her courtesy, her wits were her sword. I’ll be your sword and shield, she thought, like you are mine. She kissed Brienne’s chest through her linen shirt to immortalize her vow, and she heard her companion gasp softly above her head. She wanted to look into her face and explain what she was doing, but she didn't feel like breaking the spell of silence. Brienne was still hugging her, intimate and real in a way no one else could be, her big hands touching her with a gentleness she'd forgotten between King's Landing and the Eyrie. Between Sansa Stark and Alayne Stone.
"My lady," Brienne said suddenly, startling her. "If I may be bold enough to ask, would you have me?"
Have her? Heat rushed to her cheeks. What does she mean by that? They were pressed as closely as they could; their arms around each other, their legs entangled, only the thin linen of their small clothes between them. Sansa remembered the beautiful dancer from the market, kissing another girl on the lips as everyone cheered. She thought of Myranda Royce and her lewd stories about maids pleasuring each other. Her pulse quickened, and her mouth went dry.
"I—," her voice broke embarrassingly, so she tried again: "Brienne. I might be married soon."
It doesn't count between maids, Myranda Royce had said once with a sly smile. But Petyr had laughed when Alayne told him, and explained that Myranda only wanted to get under Alayne's dress.
"Precisely," the Maid of Tarth said. Precisely?! Sansa thought, flustered. She feared her pulse would never quiet again, but before she could say anything, Brienne broke the embrace to get out of bed. In the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the moonlight that entered through the window and the dying embers of the hearth, she was a tall, stout shadow.
Sansa remembered a night from long ago, when a river had caught fire and a broken hound had asked her for a song, and stole a kiss. He also looked like a tall, stout shadow, hiding in her bedchambers. She'd pitied him as much as she'd feared him.
She wasn't afraid now, as Brienne grabbed her sword and knelt at the foot of the bed.
"I could serve you. If you would have me." Brienne unsheathed Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel singing softly as she laid the sword on the ground. "I swore a vow to your lady mother. She was the last person I served. King Renly was before her. I failed them both, and both died under my watch. I understand if you don't want me."
Sansa sat on the bed, startled. Oh, she thought.
"You want to be my sworn knight?"
"I'm not a knight," replied Brienne immediately. "But I'd be yours, my lady. Whatever you would have me be. I've tried to keep you safe all this time, to honor the vow I swore to your lady mother, but I could swear a new vow right now. Only to you."
"You are the truest knight I know," Sansa said gently. "Doesn't matter if you are not a knight at all. Of course I would have you."
"Then you have me. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
Sansa climbed out of bed, careful not to step on Oathbreaker. Without the furs, the cold bit her skin harshly, but she paid it no mind. Like this, standing on her feet as Brienne knelt before her, Sansa was for once the tallest of the two. She found Brienne's face in the darkness and caressed her softly with her fingers. She felt the rough texture of the scar on her cheek, the softness of her hair.
"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new." She bowed her head, and still holding Brienne's face between her hands, she sought her lips in the darkness, sealing the vow with a chaste kiss. Like knights and lords do in the songs. "Arise."
As Brienne did so, Sansa could not help but smile. How long had she dreamed of a knight kneeling before her, swearing his undying devotion to her, as Aemon the Dragonknight had done with his beloved Naerys? In her favorite songs, the knight was always a comely young man, not an awkward big woman. She found she didn't mind. Brienne was truer and braver than any man she'd ever known. She's my family now, as it's Podrick. I'll keep them safe. I'll take them home with me. Rickon might be alive. Bran and Arya could be alive too.
For the first time in years, she felt alive as well, and full of hope. She wouldn't be trapped here. She was smart and resourceful, and she had people on her side. She would navigate the Dornish court and succeed. She would win the game. She would go north.
She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she was going home.