Chapter Text
Oberyn Martell was watching her. Sansa pretended not to notice him, kneeling as she was before the heart tree. Only a very disrespectful man would disturb her at prayer, and she knew Oberyn to be a more cunning man than that. Sansa knew he had questions for her, since it was now evident that she was the most likely candidate for being the ‘Red wolf’. She had hidden behind her brother’s matching hair colour, but with Leaf’s false revelations, Sansa knew it was glaringly obvious she was the writer in question.
She wondered how much longer his patience would last, or if he would request an audience with her via her father. The fact that he had not already done so told her how enthusiastic Oberyn was of Ned Stark sitting in on their conversation.
He does not trust my father yet, because of his ties to Robert Baratheon, she thought.
At long last, when she could no longer feign dedication to the gods, Sansa clambered to her feet, brushing dirt and leaf litter from her skirts. She met two liquid black eyes, carefully assessing her every move. Wondering if she was skittish Northern flower, apt to run from him, or a girl more akin to his daughters, prepared to stand and fight.
Hallis Mollen was waiting for her at the same entrance to the godswood she had walked to the heart tree from. She had begged for a moment alone with the gods, claiming that none would dare to harm her before them. She hoped it was true, but knew how volatile Oberyn could be in regards to his sister’s honour. She wondered if he wished to revenge himself upon House Stark, for hiding the babe Rhaegar had disgraced Elia in order to gain.
Sansa approached the Dornish lord, a man far taller than her due to her young, girlish form. Her chin was held high, channeling all she had learnt from Cersei on how to stand among men and command them.
“Prince Oberyn, you have questions for me.” she stated, prim and orderly, placing her hands neatly on the lip where her skirt met the bodice of her dress.
“Indeed I do, Lady Sansa,” he replied, equally quietly.
Somewhere nearby, a raven cawed, a warning to be cautious, for they were in a very public place, and could not afford to be spotted speaking alone.
“Not here,” she whispered, eyes intently shining through the early afternoon gloom.
The sky was covered with thick gray clouds, casting a shady pall over them both, drawing long shadows from the stems of each tree branch.
“Do you know which of these towers is named for my brother?” she asked.
Terse, Oberyn nodded once, sharp and serious, patiently waiting for her to continue.
“Join me there tonight, one hour after dinner concludes.” Sansa demanded, “We will speak this night, and this night only. Come alone, and bring all your questions, for I will not flaut my Father’s ruling again for you.”
Oberyn offered her a deep bow, mayhaps recognising the dangerous situation she was putting herself in.
Sansa said nothing more, drawing up her hood and marching along the dirt track that passed for a path through the godswood, back to safety.
*
“Absolutely not, Sansa,” Theon hissed, when she told him of the plan, “Your Father might actually take the lash to me, if he discovers I have allowed you to do this.”
“We are not wed Theon,” she reminded him, “You do not allow me anything, yet. I am resolved to undertake a conversation which cannot be put off any longer, and I would have you with me.”
Theon frowned, utterly unconvinced. They were in the glass gardens, Theon seated on the low wooden bench while Sansa carefully pruned a holly bush.
“I don’t like it,” he insisted, “The Dornish are bloody crazy, Sansa.”
Sansa grinned up at him teasingly; “And the Ironborn are all pirate savages, apparently.”
Theon glared at her, unamused. Sighing heavily, Sansa set down her small pruning clippers.
“Theon, dearest,” she began, “If you won’t accompany me, I shall be forced to ask Robb. He will tell Father, and then we will all be in trouble, when Father throws the Martells out of Winterfell for defying the decree he just issued.”
Theon folded his arms, pouting, but Sansa could see that she had convinced him, and smiled to herself as she returned to her work. But she didn’t get long to enjoy it, as Bran came rushing toward them, hopping with excitement.
“The Manderlys are coming!” he shrieked, “Sansa, Sansa- the outrider says Jon is with them!”
Dropping her clippers, Sansa sprung to her feet.
“Are you certain?” she asked, but Bran was already rushing off, screaming for Arya.
Thrilled, Sansa shared every ounce of Bran's joy. She threw her most winning smile at Theon, who was blinking in surprise, wringing out his ear to clear it of Bran’s high-pitched yelling. She took hold of his arm, and together they made their way to the courtyard.
Arya and Nymeria were already there, her sister hopping from one foot to the other in nervous energy.
“Do you think it’s really true?” she demanded as soon as Sansa was in sight.
Sansa shrugged, unable to say, but her heart soared and she knew it must be true. Father had told the Manderlys to delay setting off until Jon returned, but he had granted them leave to march to Winterfell without him, if they risked arriving too late.
Bran came skidding toward them, Summer hot on his heels, Robb and Rickon in tow. Their youngest brother was seated on the eldest's shoulders, kneading and tugging on Robb’s hair in excitement. Robb winced at a sharp pull, reaching up to untangle Rickon’s fingers from his curls. From thereon holding onto his tiny hands, instead of letting them wander free.
The wait seemed unfathomably long, but at last the men in Manderly green began to stream through the gatehouse, followed by a familiar rider clad in dark blue and the fox-fur maroon cloak Sansa herself had made.
“Jon!” yelled Arya, rushing forward. Sansa caught hold of her arm before her little sister could get herself trampled by a horse in her enthusiasm.
Jon leapt down from his palfrey confidently, a broad smile on his face. He was bronzed by the sun, his hair cut shorter than Sansa had seen it in years. Ghost trotted up beside him, proud and regal, his gleaming fur silky and bright. Sansa released her hold on Arya then, and their sister raced forward to leap into Jon’s waiting arms. She hung about his neck like a babe, and Jon pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her tight. Once, Sansa had done so herself, and it warmed her heart to see her sister able to do the exact same, in far less woeful circumstances.
As Arya slid gracelessly down to stand on her own feet, the Stark children and Theon crowded round Jon, not waiting their turn, but instead crushing their wayfaring brother with a many-armed embrace, until Jon was laughing, smothered by affection. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw the Manderlys watching in confusion as the bastard of Winterfell was welcomed home with such genuine love, and a distinct lack of courtly decorum.
From somewhere behind them, Sansa heard Mother clear her throat in disapproval. But Sansa ignored it, too busy reassuring herself that Jon was safe and whole. He had managed to travel all the way to Essos and back without being set upon or engaging in battle with anyone, and for a Stark, that was very rare indeed. Eventually though, they began to wriggle apart, and Sansa stepped back, still beaming, radiant with happiness. Somehow, Rickon had succeeded in crawling from atop Robb’s shoulders into Jon’s arms, and he wriggled about, getting comfortable, hitched atop Jon’s hip. Thus, Jon gave their Father an awkward shallow bow, having to compensate for Rickon’s weight.
“Welcome home, Jon,” said Father, “And welcome to Winterfell, my lords. My steward, Vayon, shall show you to your rooms in the guest house. I’m afraid I must apologise, but some of your household will have to be housed in Winter Town, for Winterfell is almost at full capacity. I’m sure you understand this is meant as no insult.”
“Indeed, it’s entirely understandable, Lord Stark,” said a robust man, that Sansa knew to be Lord Manderly’s eldest son and heir, “We are most honoured to be here, at this grand occasion for the North, and take no umbridge.”
Sansa could see Wylla hovering behind Vayon Poole, and when he began to lead the Manderly household away, she hurried to greet her father and sister, to eagerly catch up. Sansa assumed they would all begin to filter indoors after them. But her breath caught when she turned back to Jon, to find a familiar, eerie shade from the past was approaching him.
Though she appeared somehow younger than Sansa had ever seen her, her burning red eyes and dangerous smile were unmistakable. Sansa's breath caught in her throat, and she was motionless, transfixed. Utterly unable to understand how such a change could have occurred. How was it possible that she, of all people, could be here?
Jon gave them an awkward smile when the Red Priestess stood beside him, resplendent in her blood-coloured dress. Even with no furs to keep out the chill, she seemed perfectly at ease, elegant and poised.
“Lord Stark, may I present-”
“Lady Melisandre of Asshai,” Sansa finished, quite unable to help herself.
Jon frowned deeply, turning to look at her in disbelief.
“Aye,” he said, “But how did you know? I never even mentioned her name in my letters.”
Theon clapped him on the shoulder, in an effort to make light of the situation.
“A lot of odd things have happened since you’ve been gone, mate. Best not to question it all too closely, lest you start to go mad,” Theon advised firmly, his eyes flickering meaningfully toward the myriad of strangers milling about in the courtyard, untying packs from the horses and leading them to the stables.
Jon swallowed, eyeing Sansa suspiciously. But she was too busy meeting the burning red gaze of the Lord of Light’s most ardent follower, to take any note. The red woman met Sansa's perplexed look with a steady, confident countenance.
Father cleared his throat to dispel the awkward atmosphere.
“Asshai is a very long distance away, my lady,” he said, “How did your travels being you to our home?”
“I go where the Lord commands,” Melisandre announced, as zealous as Sansa had ever heard her.
“Which Lord?” Father repeated, baffled.
Melisandre’s smile became condescending, as she surveyed the unbelievers before her. “The Lord of Light. The one true god to whom we all owe allegiance.”
“Lady Melisandre is a Priestess of the Red Order,” Jon added sheepishly.
“Indeed?” said Father, unimpressed. “I am sorry you have travelled so far, only to be disappointed my lady. But Winterfell is almost entirely full, due to a gathering between my lords. I cannot rightly turf any loyal bannerman from his rooms, for an unanticipated guest. But there are many places to find lodging in Winter Town-”
“Lady Melisandre can stay in Robb’s Tower,” Sansa blurted, before she had rightly thought it through.
Father gaped at her, horrified that Sansa would invite a guest to remain in his castle, that he obviously did not welcome the presence of. Beside Robb, Theon was staring at her as though Sansa had lost her head. She supposed she must have, when she remembered she had asked Oberyn Martell to meet her in that very same place, only a few hours past. Sansa swallowed thickly, unable to take back the invitation now that it had been spoken.
“With my lord father’s permission, naturally,” Sansa finished lamely, wincing.
Father sighed, supremely irritated with his trying children, whom he could do nothing but continue to love and protect.
“Lady Melisandre, should you prefer, there is a spare room in… Robb’s Tower.” said Lord Stark, “It is to be the wedded chambers of my daughter Sansa and her husband-to-be, Theon. Sansa who so generously offers it has the keys. I am sure she would be glad to lead you there.”
Lady Melisandre curtseyed deeply, revealing much of her pale decolletage, much to Mother’s disapproval. Sansa saw her wince as the strange, foreign Priestess accepted their hospitality. Hallis followed at a distance, as Sansa lead their new guest to Robb’s Tower, pulling the key from beneath her dress, where she kept it on a chain about her neck.
“Robb is the name of your brother, is it not?” Melisandre asked, bestowing Sansa with a gentler, less seductive smile than the ones she had flashed about the courtyard in front of the men.
“Yes,” Sansa replied, “Robb oversaw the extensive repairs this tower needed, to be habitable again. So it was named for him.”
“How industrious,” Melisandre purred, as Sansa unlocked the door to the ground level, wondering how she was going to sneak Oberyn past cunning Melisandre, when night fell.