Chapter Text
Sansa
“My lady, will you wear any jewels?”
The maid’s question dragged Sansa from her thoughts. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror of her vanity. Her hair had been brushed until it shone like copper, and plaited simply in the Northern style she had long preferred since leaving King’s Landing. Her maids had dressed her in a gown of deep grey brocade, so dark it was almost black, trimmed with cloth-of-silver. It was severe, and made her look pale. It also made her look older than her eighteen summers, and more capable than her trembling hands revealed.
“No jewels,” she replied, remembering that she had been asked a question. She wanted to appear ladylike and noble, but jewels seemed frivolous. Sansa doubted they were appropriate for the situation, but, then, she wasn’t sure. She had never been in a situation such as this before.
What exactly does one wear, when they surrender to their foes?
The siege had dragged on for nearly two weeks. Those two weeks had been fairly secure. Casterly Rock had never been taken by siege, her husband had often told her, and no castle was better prepared for such an ordeal. Towering above the sea as a natural fortress, Sansa did not have any qualms about the keep’s defences falling to the sellswords encamped outside its walls and moored on the waters below.
Starvation was their true enemy. Tyrion had left with as many Lannister men as he could raise not a week before the siege had begun, to make for King’s Landing. Joffrey had sent a letter pleading for assistance, after the news that a Targaryen fleet was sailing for the capital.
No one, apparently, had noticed that part of that fleet had separated from the rest to head westward. Whoever led the mercenaries currently waiting them out, Sansa couldn’t help but think he was clever. He had found them poorly guarded and with emptier cellars than was needed to feed an entire castle, plus the smallfolk from the town below the walls that Sansa had called up after the alarm had been raised.
She herself had not eaten in a whole day. It would only get worse, she knew. The pleas for help that she had sent from the rookery, those that weren’t shot down by arrows, had yielded no answers in the past fortnight. Tyrion’s last missive had arrived ten days ago, detailing the similar events occurring in King’s Landing. A whole fleet of ships had blockaded the Blackwater, and the city itself had been set upon by Dothraki screamers and Unsullied soldiers. No help was coming, and so Sansa had to make a choice. Surrender the Rock, and most likely her head, to the army outside the walls, or starve.
It had taken a walk down to the kitchens, where she had found an errand boy sobbing with hunger, which had made the decision for her.
I am a Stark, she told her reflection as she stood from her mirror, the maids scattering from her vicinity as though she had some sort of plague. I am a Stark, and I can be brave. If only this once.
She had called her master-at-arms earlier that morning at daybreak, and told him her request. She wanted an audience with the sellsword captain. The Golden Company, the most expensive sellswords in Essos, would surely not turn down such an opportunity? She would offer them the castle, the whole West if need be. Better than watching everyone starve. She had never been courageous, but she wasn’t cruel. Even after everything, she hadn’t become Cersei.
In true sellsword fashion, the captain of the contingent currently laying siege to Casterly Rock refused to walk through the gates to treaty with her. She must go to him, as he had told the master-at-arms. Sansa wasn’t fool enough to do so alone. Twenty of the strongest fighters remaining in the castle were arranged to flank her as she rode into the camp astride her grey mare. She might have been going to negotiate her surrender, but Sansa refused to do so looking anything less than a lady.
One of her maids finally had the courage to speak. It was Elyse, the one she was fondest of. A little older than Sansa, she stood wringing her hands slightly, an expression of concern written on her face.
“My lady,” Elyse began, “what will you say to him?”
Sansa had been wondering the same thing, but she wasn’t about to admit her uncertainty in front of the Lannister women surrounding her.
“I will do all that I can to ensure the safety of everyone in the castle,” Sansa told her, meaning every word. It didn’t stop her stomach from clenching tightly in fear. It would be a harder thing, she knew, to ensure such safety for herself. They would likely want to make an example of her, remove any threat to their conquest of the Rock. That may come by the removal of her head. The idea made her throat constrict.
Elyse was not satisfied by her answer. “But my lady, what of yourself? These men are sellswords, mercenaries. Is it wise to enter their camp? You are beautiful, and so young… they may try to hurt you.”
The possibility had not been lost on Sansa. Everyone thought her a stupid girl, but she had guessed what might be requested of her when she went to meet with the Golden Company without much difficulty. If she gave in to the fears such thoughts inspired, however, they would all be lost. So she merely forced her chin a little higher, giving herself a final cursory glance in the mirror. She truly did look like a lady. A frightened one.
“Let them try,” she said. “I will not be cowed by common thieves.”
Her maids did not look convinced, but Sansa could not find it in herself to care as she left her chambers. Every step she descended on her way to the courtyard seemed to tremble dangerously beneath her, as though her legs would give way in fear. They did not, however, and she mounted her horse in the yard with as much dignity as she could muster. Several of the smallfolk she had brought into the keep had come out into the yard to watch her go. She was a Stark, and they had no love for her, but she would keep them safe regardless. My father would have done the same. He was an honourable man. Perhaps I will finally be worthy of him.
Sansa wondered if she would be seeing him soon.
Their ride into the sellsword camp was short. The master-at-arms led the retinue, with Sansa’s mare walking behind, surrounded by guards on all sides. The horse was a skittish creature, but the sudden introduction of so many new noises and smells made her even more nervous. Sansa had to grip the reins tightly to stop the mare from tossing her head about, and prayed that they would make it to the captains’ tent before she could be thrown into the dirt. She feared if she fell, she would not have the courage to pick herself up again.
Sansa was acutely aware of the eyes that followed them as they picked their way along the wider paths between the tents. Hundreds of men, swarthy from the Essos sun, jeered at them as they passed.
“It’s the Imp’s whore,” someone shouted, and laughter erupted around them like thunder. Sansa kept her gaze straight ahead, on the point where the horizon lay, shimmering slightly from the smoke lifting from the camp.
I am a Stark. The words were a litany in her head. She prayed to every god known to her that she would remember them when they saw the captain. I am a Stark. Not the Imp’s whore, not a Lannister or a fool. A Stark. And I can be brave.
“Their tent is ahead, my lady,” the master-at-arms, Haye, informed her. “I will dismount first, and I will lead you inside. Five men will accompany us. The rest will be stationed outside.”
“Do you expect trouble?” Sansa asked him quietly, the words sending ice through her veins. We are vastly outnumbered. If the sellswords did decide to attack, they would not stand a chance.
Haye gave her a small shake of his head. “No, my lady. We are here to surrender, and the castle will remain steadfast even if they kill us. They have nothing to gain from an attack. They have the upper hand already, and they know it.”
His words made sense, but they did little to ease the knot of fear that weighed on her stomach. Following Haye’s lead, Sansa slid from her mare, approaching the entrance of the tent on trembling legs. The master-at-arms pushed the cover aside, and they stepped inside.
It took a few moments for Sansa’s eyes to adjust to the dim light within the tent. It was larger than any of the others they had passed on the way, with low chairs set in the centre. Racks of weaponry were lined against the walls, and overstuffed cushions had been thrown haphazardly on the rugs that covered the floor. There were more people inside than she had been anticipating. Three men were sitting on the low chairs, clad in armour and looking at her with interest as she entered, followed by her guards. A fourth man stood further back, sharpening a sword. The glint of the metal made Sansa’s heartbeat race, and she looked away quickly. Be brave, she cautioned herself, though every instinct was screaming at her to run from the tent while she still could.
Forcing herself to look each of the men in the eye, she was also acutely aware of the women in the tent. She’d heard of camp-followers before, whores that travelled with armies to service the soldiers, but it was another thing to see them standing quite contentedly half-naked in front of her. Several of them flashed her a wry smile, and Sansa let her gaze sweep over them as though they were not there.
“Which of you is the captain?” She heard herself asking the four men sitting before her. They exchanged glances, and one of them gave a soft laugh. He didn’t look much older than herself, with olive skin and green eyes. Perhaps he would have been handsome, if it weren’t for the fact that he had been trying to starve her to death.
“The commander isn’t here,” the green-eyed man told her. “He is not a sociable man, and thought it best that I take care of the negotiations as his second-in-command.”
Sansa blinked in surprise. The sellsword commander, who she supposed was the same thing as a captain, had called her into their camp to negotiate, and hadn’t even bothered to attend. If she wasn’t so afraid she might have been angry.
“We don’t wish to drag this out, Lady…” a second man, this one older with grey streaks through his long brown hair, said. They didn’t even bother to learn my name, either.
“Lady Sansa,” she finished for him, with more courage than she felt. “And I wish for a quick solution also. I have come to surrender Casterly Rock to your company, provided you agree to my conditions.”
The men laughed more heartily this time. The green-eyed soldier grinned at her as though she were a lackwit. “You really aren’t in much of a position to be giving us conditions, my lady. We have you surrounded, and we know you’re running out of food in that castle of yours.”
Sansa ignored his taunts, curling her shaking hands into fists to steady herself.
“I request,” she began, “that you not let any harm come to my servants, guards, or any of the smallfolk currently inside the castle.”
The man sharpening his sword suddenly lowered it, stepping closer to her. “You have nerve, little girl,” he told her, in a heavily accented voice she couldn’t place. “You ask no small thing of the Golden Company.”
“I thought the aim of a sellsword company was to fulfil whatever request their customer made of them,” Sansa retorted. “Not to kill errand boys and rape scullery maids. If I give you the castle, you will have completed your task. I’m sure Daenerys Targaryen will reward you all handsomely for delivering her Casterly Rock. There is no need for bloodshed for you to get your gold.”
The grey-haired man eyed her carefully. “Wiser than you look,” he commented. Then he turned to the green-eyed man. “She has a point, Allyn. The Dragon Queen dislikes killing innocents. Remember what she did in Meereen?”
Allyn seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he motioned to one of the women sitting on the floor nearby, pulling her to sit in his lap. He gave Sansa a pointed look, as though talking to her with a whore on his knee were a challenge of sorts.
“The request is reasonable enough,” he concluded after a few long moments, stroking the whore’s ebon hair away from her face. “But I must first relay it to my superior. He will have requests of his own, no doubt.” He looked her up and down then, his green eyes lingering in a way that set her nerves even more on edge. “A pretty little thing like you, I think the captain will regret not being here to hear it from you himself.”
The remaining soldier, a large, balding man from the Summer Isles, chuckled lowly. “A redhead, too. He’ll be wanting a bit more than a castle from you, girl, if I know him at all.”
In the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Haye’s hand find its way to the pommel of his sword. She put her hand on his elbow. There was no point in becoming angry over such implications; Sansa had known it would be a possibility that these men would ask for more than her surrender. Though it made her head reel, she would not let Haye get himself killed for something as paltry as her honour.
Allyn took up the joke, eyeing Haye’s glare. “A lovely redhead, indeed.” He turned his head to address a woman standing to his left. “Tansy, my dear, you might have some competition.”
Tansy turned out to be a buxom woman, with freckles across her nose and bright ginger hair. She looked Sansa up and down, as though taking stock of her.
“I don’t know,” Tansy said. “I think I’m more than enough for milord commander. Unless he prefers skinny little highborn cunt, that is.”
The tent was filled with laughter, and Sansa felt her face heat. She wanted nothing more than to bolt from the tent and never return, but she needed to know they would consider her conditions.
“If you will relay my terms to the commander,” Sansa said, fighting to be louder than the laughter around her, “I will return on the morrow to hear your answer.”
Allyn grinned at her.
“We look forward to it, Lady Sansa.”
Night fell more slowly in the Westerlands. Sansa had noticed as much when she had first arrived at Casterly Rock, nearly three years before. The sun burned longer in the sky where it sank to kiss the Sunset Sea, rendering the sky a beautiful tapestry of pinks and golds.
Tonight, though, there was no breath-taking sunset. Clouds obscured the horizon, turning the dying daylight into nothing more than a grey haze to the west. She watched it from her balcony, keeping her gaze resolutely fixed away from the golden-sailed ships moored in the waters below.
Tyrion had often joined her when she had watched the sunset. Ugly though he was, he had always been kind to her. He never asked to claim his husbandly rights, for which she was glad, and he had tried to make her feel at home in the West. Sansa had never had the heart to tell him his efforts were in vain. Her home was many miles north, in a castle occupied by strangers. Her family was dead. She was the last Stark, the weakest of the wolves, and Casterly Rock would never be her home.
Not for the first time, Sansa wondered if her husband was alive. For all she knew, his head could be on a spike on the walls of the Red Keep. Perhaps it was as the sellswords had jeered over the walls; perhaps Daenerys Targaryen meant to feed him to her dragons. She silently prayed that it was not so. A Lannister he may have been, but he had been better to her in the last three years than the rest of his family combined. She wanted him to be safe.
“My lady.” A voice startled Sansa from her recollections, and she looked up to see Elyse standing in the doorway. She had questioned Sansa intensely when she had returned to the castle earlier that afternoon, wanting to know all that had transpired between her mistress and the sellswords. Now, though, Sansa could tell it was something else.
“What is it, Elyse?”
“It’s Haye, my lady. He says that the sellsword commander has sent his terms for the surrender of the castle.”
“What?” Sansa was confused. She had arranged for them to meet tomorrow morning, to give the man more time to consider her conditions. Did this mean he had rejected them outright? She prayed not. Shivering, though the night air was not cold, she stood from her chair. “What did he say, Elyse?”
Elyse seemed hesitant, and Sansa felt like shaking her by the shoulders in her impatience to know what had been demanded of her. Finally, the servant mustered her courage.
“The commander is willing to accept the surrender of the castle, and the terms you proposed.” Elyse’s voice was precise, as though she had rehearsed the words several times before repeating them to Sansa. “However, Haye said that there… were some additional requests.”
Sansa’s heart, which had leapt at the news that her terms had been accepted, sank again. “Go on,” she told Elyse, before she could lose whatever courage she still held.
“He wishes to divide the contents of the Lannister treasury among his men,” Elyse continued.
Sansa nodded absently at that. Without the castle in her possession, she had little use for the gold stored in its depths. I wonder if Daenerys Targaryen will be happy about it, however.
“The commander also states that you must not leave the castle until Daenerys Targaryen sends for you. You will likely be asked to bend the knee in King’s Landing, should she be successful in taking the capital.”
That, too, had been expected. Sansa no longer cared for the game of thrones. Who ruled the Seven Kingdoms was of no consequence to her. I hope Daenerys does win, Sansa thought suddenly, remembering Joffrey’s cruel laughter. I hope she mounts Joff’s head on a spike, and his mother’s too. I hope the crows peck the eyes from their heads, like they did to my father’s.
“Finally…” Elyse seemed uncertain if she should continue. Sansa gave her a look of acceptance, her body tense as she waited for the last demand. The maid took a deep breath to steady herself. “The commander requests that he spend tomorrow evening in… in the pleasure of your company, my lady.”
Sansa felt a breath leave her chest shakily. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. What did you expect? her mind asked her. He is a man after all. A rough, coarse sellsword no less. The idea made her tremble.
Elyse was looking at her as though she could cry. Sansa couldn’t bear that. I need her to think I am strong, she thought, though she didn’t understand why. I need her to think I can do this, or I will have no courage left.
“I see,” was all Sansa could manage for a few long moments. An evening in the pleasure of my company. Maiden though she was, despite her marriage, Sansa was under no illusions as to what ‘pleasures’ the sellsword commander was envisioning. The thought made her sick to her stomach, but she forced herself to take a deep breath of salt-tinged air. “Well, I suppose I cannot refuse.”
“My lady-“ Elyse began, but Sansa gave her a tremulous smile.
“All is well, Elyse,” she lied. “I… I am glad he accepted my terms, at least. I ought to repay him for that much.”
Whatever restraint the maid had shown until now crumbled away at that. “He asks for too much!” Elyse said, anger entering her tone. For a tiny moment, Sansa was taken aback by her maid’s concern. It had been a long time since someone had cared about her welfare. “My lady, you must refuse him.”
Sansa shook her head, fighting the constriction in her throat that hinted at tears about to fall. “I will not risk his refusing my conditions. If this is how I may keep everyone safe, then I will do my duty gladly as Lady of the Rock.”
Elyse looked at her sadly. “Then you are kinder than they know, my lady.”
The maid left her then, and Sansa stood alone on her balcony, wondering how she would proceed. The situation she found herself in was a frightening one, but she had little choice in the matter. She hugged her arms closer to her body, looking out over the sea.
Perhaps it won’t be so bad, she told herself, trying to feign calm. It is only one night, and then it will be over. She had suffered through worse, Sansa reasoned. She had once thought she would have to give her maidenhead to Joffrey, and he had killed her father. Giving herself to a sellsword captain, a stranger, was not desirable, but at least she had no connection to him. It would make it easier to forget it had ever happened.
Unbidden, something Cersei had said came to her mind, from the night the Blackwater had burned. “Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve another between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.”
Was that the answer to her fears? To think of spending the night with some sellsword as some sort of weapon against him? Sansa wasn’t sure. It did help her calm her breathing somewhat, however, and clear her head. She was grateful for that much.
Her mind made up, she headed for her room. I will need my rest, she told herself, though she knew she would be getting no sleep at all. I have a battle to win tomorrow.