fight like gods. asoiaf

THIRTY TWO/ THIRTY THREE

XXXII
SANSA
"a ruined fantasy"
⚜️

That morning, as she rose with the soft light of the sun, Sansa woke with a song in her heart. Sleepily, she peered from the window in the tower, watching as Lord Beric formed his men, their banners waving a gentle wind. She could see Lucella down by the gates too, watching with her arms crossed and face pulled into a stern glare. Sansa waved but the girl did not see, and as she pulled away from the window, Sansa forgot all about it.

"Where is everyone?" Arya asked as she walked into the empty Tower. She was still dirty from her dance lessons, her hair ruffled. Sansa had worked out by now, that it was most certainly not dancing that Arya was doing at odd hours of the day, but this time she didn't comment on it. "Did father send them to hunt down Jaime Lannister?"

"They all ride with lord Beric to hunt Ser Gregor Clegane," Sansa said, thinking of the day she'd spent watching her father in the Lord's hall, sitting upon the Iron Throne instead of the King. The night before, she'd stayed up late with Jeyne discussing it all. "Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor's head on his own gate or will he bring it back here for the King?"

Septa Mordate looked horrified, her spoon discarded in her porridge bowl, her mouth hanging open for a moment. "A lady does not discuss such things over breakfast. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you've been near as bad as your sister."

Breakfast had ended in arguments and tears. Sansa waited until she was in the privacy of her room to let them fall. Her dress was stained with blood orange and her face had turned blotchy and ugly. It did not take her long to cry herself to sleep.

At midday, the Septa woke her with a knocking on the door. "Sansa, your father will see you now."

"Lady," Sansa whispered into the emptiness of her room. She had dreamed she was running through the forest as her wolf, whining into the daylight as if she knew something was coming as if she knew she was being stalked by something bigger. But Sansa had remembered she was a direwolf- she was Lady with her long, white teeth and gleaming, golden eyes.

Father was sitting at the table in his solar when she arrived, redressed and with a sullen smile. He looked stiff with his injury but patted the spot beside him so she would sit as the Septa went to fetch her sister. As soon as Septa Mordane had left the room, Sansa lept to blame Arya for everything. For spoiling her the special, ivory dress the Queen had given her, for being so horribly wretched.

"Enough, Sansa."

Sansa quietened quickly, looking down at her hands. Ned was using his Lord's voice.

"I'm sorry, Father. I was wrong and I beg my sweet sister's forgiveness," Arya said, finally looking up from her feet and the floor.

Sansa stared at her sister with wide, startled eyes and suddenly, she felt embarrassed. She thought of the gardens, of walking through them with Lucella Clegane as Arya danced around a cat in front of them.

"I did not call you here to talk of dresses," Father said, drawing the girls' attention away from each other. "I'm sending you both back to Winterfell."

"You can't," Arya yelled.

This was something that the sisters would agree upon. Eddard noted upon the fact.

"Please don't, father," Sansa finally moaned. "I didn't do anything wrong. I don't want to go back."

It seemed a cruel thing, to let Sansa have a taste of the south, of the capital. She loved it all: the beautiful fashion and beautiful people; the tourneys and the grandiosity; the endless supply of lemon cakes. She had met too many people. Made friends she could not yet leave.