Chapter Text
“Please,” Sansa whispered into the roots of the weirwood. “Please, keep my father safe.”
As always, there was no reply save for the faintest whisper of the tree’s leaves in the breeze. Compared to Winterfell, Riverrun’s heart tree was thin and wispy, but it still stood out against the oaks and willows that made up the rest of the grove, its leaves as red as blood as they stood in stark contrast to the blue sky.
It was a beautiful day, but Sansa found that she could hardly enjoy it. Good weather meant that Father would make good time and he and his army marched to meet Jaime Lannister in the west, but little more. Was the sky also cloudless far to the north, in Winterfell, for her younger siblings to enjoy? Was it pleasantly warm in King’s Landing, enough to keep Robb and Jon comfortable? It was impossible to know, and the uncertainty tore at her heart.
Before she’d left Winterfell, Sansa had preferred to worship the Seven. It was mostly because they had been Mother’s gods—the South’s gods, where she was to live once she married—and they still held some comfort to her. But the sept was always crowded with people now that the army had left, mostly women and children praying for the safety of their husbands and fathers, and they stared at her whenever she came to light a candle. The godswood was quieter, and now that the northmen were gone only a scattered few came to worship here.
And there was something calming about being alone with nature like this. Sansa felt scared all the time now, and it was only in the godswood that that fear would abate, even just a little. Even her dreams weren’t the escape they used to be—all Sansa dreamt of now was running through the forest with horses all alongside her, hunting prey that was still some ways in the distance, and it brought her little peace.
Still, she couldn’t stay here forever. When Sansa stood, her knees ached from kneeling for so long, and she stretched them as best she could. A raven had perched in the branches of the tree while she’d been praying, and it cawed at her as she smoothed her dress and left. If she hurried, she could make it back to Cedrik’s room before he went down for his nap and spend some time with him before her lessons started.
Sansa had never disliked her lessons before, but the world had lost its savor after Mother had died. Now that Father had left, she felt trapped on top of it all, stuck doing simple needlework while her family’s lives were threatened in the outside world. All she could do for her father and brothers now was pray, and that hardly felt like enough.
The courtyard of the keep was alight with activity in the late morning, which had become the norm over the last few weeks. Edmure had left a small defense force at Riverrun, and the castle’s castellan, Ser Desmond Grell, had them run drills every day. As she made her way back to the inner keep, where the Tully’s quarters were, she saw that they had stopped in their work, clusters of young men whispering to each other and glancing in the direction of the main gate.
That was unusual. She could hear men shouting, but it was usually loud with this many people around, and enough people were speaking that Sansa couldn’t make anything out. As she rounded the corner, though, her curiosity got the better of her, and she approached to better see what was going on.
Two of the Tully guards were at the center of a growing cluster of men, dragging what looked to be a prisoner between them. The other soldiers around them were jeering and laughing at the man. Sansa couldn’t see him well from her position, but he was clearly wearing Lannister red, a horse draped in similar colors trotting behind the trio. Both horse and man were filthy, smeared with what looked like mud and doused in water for good measure.
“What’s going on?” Sansa asked a passing man-at-arms, and he shrugged.
“Looks like some of the men found a Lannister wandering the countryside, m’lady.”
“I wonder what he was doing so far from his army,” Sansa murmured. Last she had heard, the closest enemy force was the Mountain’s raiders, and Edmure had left to fight them at Stone Hedge nearly a week ago. The man didn’t seem to hear her, continuing on with his duties, and she let him go in favor of watching the prisoner.
Finally, she got a good look at him as the guards dragged him a few paces away. He had dark brown, nearly black hair and a patchy beard, and was rather tall. Sansa frowned as she looked at him, something tickling at the back of her mind.
She had seen this man before.
“Take me to any northman!” the prisoner was saying. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the jeers of the onlookers. “They’ll be able to confirm my identity! You must listen to me!”
Sansa stared at him for a long moment. I know you, she thought, trying desperately to remember how. I know you, your voice… you sound like—
“Jory?!” The name escaped her mouth in a shrill screech, and the prisoner’s head turned in her direction. Once she saw him head-on, it was unmistakeable; the beard was new, but that was Jory Cassel, one of her father’s men who had gone south as one of Robb's guards. “What are you doing to him? Let him go!”
The jeers suddenly ceased, and though the guards didn’t follow her orders, they were surprised enough that Jory was able to yank his arms out of their grip. Sansa saw that his hands had been bound with rope in front of him, and her heart stuttered in her chest.
“My lady,” Jory breathed, his eyes widening when he saw her. Sansa lunged forwards, tugging at the rope around his wrists. Her fingers only slipped over the coarse hemp, and she gritted her teeth in frustration.
“Get this off of him!” She nearly shouted at the guard closest to them. He stared at her for a moment, and in a flash of rage entirely unbecoming of a lady Sansa wanted to hit him. “This is Jory Cassel, the nephew of Winterfell’s master-at-arms! Free him at once!”
The guard swallowed, but after a moment took his knife and did as he was told, sawing through the rope in awkward, jagged motions. Jory rubbed at his wrists, reddened and bleeding in some places, and sighed.
“You are a sight for sore eyes, my lady,” he said quietly, dropping to one knee. “I come with news from King’s Landing for your father.”
“Not now, Jory,” Sansa replied, unable to keep the worry out of her voice. Jory looked horrible. He was dressed in ill-fitting Lannister clothes, ripped and bloodied in some places, and it was clear he hadn’t bathed in some time from his matted hair and general stink. As he rose, he swayed a little. “You need a maester. Was there anyone else with you?”
For a single, heart-swooping moment, she let herself hope that Robb had come with him. Perhaps there had been some daring escape from the capital city, and Jory and Harwin had been able to escape with her brother and bring him home. But Jory only shook his head, sending that flicker guttering into a searing disappointment.
“Not anymore,” her father’s guard said, and was cut off by another man’s voice.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ser Desmond Grell’s shout cut through the throng like a steel blade, and the onlookers parted to let Riverrun’s castellan through. He was an old man, but his strength had certainly not left him, his sharp brown eyes only softening when he saw Sansa. “Lady Sansa, what are you doing here?”
“This isn’t a Lannister soldier,” Sansa replied, guessing at the story he would have been told. “Your men wouldn’t listen, but this is Jory Cassel, who is sworn to the service of my father. He was sent to King’s Landing as one of Robb’s guards.”
“Is that so?” Desmond’s eyes sharpened again as he turned to the guards that had brought Jory in. They snapped to attention, and the one who had cut Jory’s bonds answered with a shaking voice.
“We found him wandering the countryside a half-day’s ride south of here, my lord, in Lannister clothing and with a Lannister horse. When he said he was Lord Stark’s man, we thought—”
“That he was lying?” Desmond crossed his arms. “Lying he might have been, but I certainly wasn’t informed of his claims. Last I checked, it isn’t your job to decide if a man is truthful or not. Off with you all; I’ll decide what to do with you later. You—” he gestured at the nearest onlooker. “Inform the maester he has a new patient, this poor man looks half dead.”
“Thank you,” Jory sighed, knees buckling, and Desmond stepped forward to give him his own arm to steady himself upon.
“My sincerest apologies for the behavior of my men, they’re on edge with the war on,” he replied, glancing at Sansa afterwards. “I am Ser Desmond Grell, Riverrun’s castellan. You are certain you know this man, Lady Sansa?”
“Yes,” Sansa nodded fiercely. “Jory’s served my family since before I was born; I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“Very well, then. I suspect you have a story, son, but wait until Maester Vyman has seen you before telling it. When was the last time you ate?”
“Nearly four days ago,” Jory grunted as they made their way into the keep. “I’ve had some water and berries on the way, but I tried to get here as quickly as possible. It was difficult, since I did not know the area. In that way I was fortunate your soldiers found me.” He tugged at his tunic with his free hand. “Though perhaps the hunger made me forget what I was wearing.”
“Well, you’re safe now,” Desmond reassured him, though he was frowning, his brow furrowed in thought.
Sansa could not help but echo him. How had Jory even gotten here? Last she had heard he had been a prisoner of the Lannisters alongside Robb and Harwin. How had he escaped? Why was he wearing Lannister clothes, and where did he get a horse?
She didn’t voice her questions for fear of Jory’s health. He kept up with them well enough, but he had to lean on Desmond’s arm as they went up the stairs, and the whole way he limped and gasped for breath like he had run a long ways—which Sansa supposed that he had, but it still worried her.
Maester Vyman was waiting for them by the time they reached his chambers, ushering them into his solar with a furrowed brow. He draped a blanket over Jory’s shoulders, ushered him to sit on a bed, then went and fetched some tea that sat boiling upon the small fireplace. Jory took the proffered cup as if it were a gift from the gods themselves, and after a moment, the maester poured a cup for Sansa and Desmond as well, bidding them to sit while he gathered his things. Sansa moved her chair over to Jory’s side, pressing her knee against his in an effort to keep him close.
“We’ll have to be careful, introducing new foods to your diet,” Vyman said as he laid a hand on Jory’s forehead, then inspected his head and neck. “I was told you have gone several days without eating, and being too quick to consume after a famine such as that can be dangerous. I have a servant bringing up bread and salt for now.”
“Even that sounds heavenly,” Jory admitted, pausing to drink.
“Are you injured?”
“Some bruises and cuts, but nothing that requires urgent attention. It was a miracle I escaped as uninjured as I am.” At the end, Jory’s voice tapered off, and he stared into his cup for a moment before his eyes hardened and he returned his gaze to Ser Desmond. “They’re a warning from the Lannisters, though it was not the message they meant to send. I was originally sent to Riverrun as part of a diplomatic party, bearing peace terms for Lord Stark.”
“A diplomatic party?” Sansa asked, shocked. But Jory was the only man here!
Jory nodded while Desmond sighed deeply.
“Tyrion Lannister had decided to return me and Harwin to Lord Stark along with a peace offering,” Jory continued, returning his gaze back to the cup of tea. His knuckles were turning white from where they were clutched around the rim. “Beric Dondarrion led the party, and we were accompanied by Thoros of Myr and Lancel Lannister, to name the most important of the lot. There was little trouble on our journey… until half a week ago, when we came upon a village the smallfolk called Lambswold.”
“I see,” Ser Desmond said, his brow somehow furrowing even further. Sansa glanced between them, lost, and the old castellan elaborated. “Lambswold is a Bracken town, child. The Mountain was raiding there by the time Ser Beric’s peace party would have passed through. Hopefully Lord Edmure will have driven them out by now.” To Jory, he added: “Lord Stark sent Lord Edmure south to deal with the Mountain several days ago.”
“Would that they had arrived before us,” Jory whispered into his cup. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he took a steadying breath and turned to Sansa. “What happened next is a bloody tale, my lady, not meant for delicate ears.”
“I shall stay,” Sansa declared before any of the men could shoo her away. In her sinking heart she already knew what had happened. “Hearing it is better than being left to wonder.”
Desmond studied her for a long moment before dipping his head in acceptance. Jory hesitated for longer, he too eventually nodded.
“It was past nightfall by the time we arrived at the village,” he continued. “It was in the process of being sacked by the Mountain. The sight…” his voice trembled a little. “It is one thing to hear of a man’s crimes, and quite another to see it. The village was burning. The men and boys were being slaughtered, the women and girls…” he trailed off for a moment, glancing at Sansa. “Were taken. I suspect they were already quite drunk at that point, considering what happened next.”
“I would have assumed that Ser Beric had enough sense to turn the other way,” Desmond grunted. “There was nothing he could have done. Not with so few men, and not to the Mountain.”
Jory shrugged. “Only the gods know what was going through his mind now. What I can say is that Ser Beric was a good man. Too good. Once he saw the innocent blood being spilled he wouldn’t stand to see it continue. He drove us right into the madness, brandishing his Lannister banner to try and get them to stop. The Mountain refused, and in return Ser Beric also refused to back down. In truth I’m not quite sure what exactly was said, as I was in the back of the party, but their words were growing heated, and then the quarrels started to fly.”
“The Mountain murdered a Lannister envoy? That is a foolish move, even for him.”
“He was drunk, and so were his men. And in the end it wasn’t the Mountain who started it, but one of his archers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just meant to scare us, but he was so drunk that the quarrel went through Beric’s chest instead of across the square. Then it was every man for himself.”
“Did Harwin die?” Sansa asked softly. Jory didn’t look at her when he nodded.
“Until we were delivered to Lord Stark, Harwin and I were still considered prisoners. Harwin’s horse was tethered to Beric’s, and mine to Lancel Lannister’s.” He took a long sip of his tea, then said so quietly Sansa hardly heard him: “I had swapped horses with him just a day prior. I had thought Ser Beric to be better company than a Lannister.”
“There was no way you could have known,” Desmond said gruffly. “It sounds like both Ser Beric and the Mountain had terrible judgement that night. How did you escape?”
“When Beric died, the Mountain decided that all of us had to die too,” Jory answered. “If there’s no survivors, there’s no one to squeal to Tywin about his mistake. He didn’t know an actual Lannister was in the party, and considering how the second quarrel hit Lancel the poor boy didn’t get much of a chance to introduce himself. He was dead before he hit the ground. At that point I whirled around on my horse and took off with Lancel’s in tow. In the chaos I rode fast enough that I avoided their initial search, then I let Lancel’s horse loose as a decoy and took off in the opposite direction. I rode as fast as I could for Riverrun after that.”
“No one else survived?” Ser Desmond pressed, and Jory shrugged.
“I didn’t see them if they did. Like I said, I was at the rear of the party, so I had the easiest escape. I… heard Harwin screaming. I would be astonished if he still lived. But I didn’t go back for him.”
“Gods.” Desmond pressed a fist into his mouth, thinking deeply for a long moment. “By the Father’s grace the Mountain will find his end at Lord Edmure’s blade. If we are especially lucky he already has. That is all I can offer you in recompense.”
Jory just shook his head, still staring into his tea.
“I’m glad you made it to us, at least,” Sansa offered, though her best effort to comfort felt flat even to her. Despite it, Jory smiled a little at her, his eyes hollow.
“You were a sight for sore eyes, my lady. Thank you for speaking up for me. I am sorry to say that I have little to offer to you in return, save that I saw your brother Robb before I left the capital.”
“You did?” Sansa breathed, and Jory nodded.
“A prisoner he still is, and that head wound he sustained was still a bother to him, but by my judgement he did seem sound of mind. The Hand had assigned a Kingsguard to remain at his side, and the King has pardoned him from the accusations he’s laid at your parents’ feet. Robb is being treated as is appropriate for a lord of his station, and I can confidently say that he is safe, if nothing else.”
“What about Jon?”
Jory shook his head, lips thinning. “Not a word. I must suspect that he’s still in the Black Cells, but in my own confinement it was difficult to discover anything that was not approved to reach my ears.”
Before Sansa could reply, the door to the solar opened. Maester Vyman rose to receive Utherydes Wayn, who was carrying the aforementioned bread and salt.
“I met a page on the way here and offered to bring this in for him,” the steward said, setting the platter on the bedside table. Jory’s gaze followed it intensely, and once Vyman nodded at him practically lunged at the nearest roll.
The poor man, he must have been starving, Sansa thought. Even though Jory had said that he’d gone a long time without food, it was something else entirely to see him forget his manners in such a way. He must be hurting more than he let on.
“This is Utherydes Wayn, Riverrun’s steward,” Desmond introduced them, and Jory paused just enough to nod, his cheeks coloring at his rudeness. He didn’t stop eating, but none of the other men seemed to be offended by it.
“I’ve heard the basics of what happened,” Utherydes said, taking a seat. “You will have your rest, ser, but if there is anything of import that you can tell us of King’s Landing it would be imperative you tell us now.”
“I am no ser,” Jory corrected him, coughing a little to clear the gravel in his throat. He finished the last of his bread, brushing the crumbs off his fingers. “But I will gladly tell all again, and more. My news may be slightly out of date, but I do have some idea of the politics in the court at King’s Landing. It may be of use to you.”
“My lady, I’m sure you have lessons to attend to,” Desmond said, turning to Sansa. She sat up straighter, wanting to protest, but the old knight held firm. “I have let you stay longer than your father would have perhaps allowed, and now I must insist.”
“I am the Stark in Riverrun,” Sansa still tried. “Jory is my responsibility.”
“I will meet with you afterwards if you would like, my lady,” Jory offered. “But Ser Desmond is right. There are some things that must be said that are not for such young ears.”
You let me stay to hear of the battle! Sansa wanted to complain, but propriety held her back. She knew when she was outnumbered. Holding back her grumbles, she stood and curtsied a little, giving her farewells to the four men.
“See me as soon as you can,” she said to Jory, and he nodded in return. At the very least, she was confident he would follow her instructions in that regard.
She did have lessons that day, but the last thing Sansa wanted to do was arithmetic while waiting for Jory, and she had already missed their start anyways. So instead she went to Cedrik’s nursery, letting herself in to see that his wetnurse was in the middle of changing him.
“Good day, m’lady,” Randa greeted her with a smile, pausing in her work for a moment as Sansa nodded mutely in return. “I am almost finished with the little lord, if you would like to take him.”
“That’s alright,” Sansa replied, and Randa nodded. Sansa situated herself on the sofa and watched as the wetnurse took her brother’s feet and wiggled them, making him smile and coo. “How is he?”
“The little lord is very well, m’lady,” Randa replied, swaddling him now. “He’s just as strong as my own boy was at his age. The maester also says he’s very healthy. There is nothing to worry about.”
“And how is your son?” Sansa asked. Randa smiled widely at her.
“Just as fine! My own mother watches him when I cannot, and he has started laughing. I imagine this little one won’t be far behind.”
Sansa nodded, letting their conversation lull in lieu of watching how Randa handled Cedrik. Most of the time, when she wasn’t at her lessons or otherwise engaged, she spent most of her time with Cedrik, and in turn Randa. When Cedrik had been born, Sansa hadn’t given much thought at all to the woman Mother had picked as his wetnurse. It was only afterwards that she had come to appreciate how much work went into raising a babe, and how well Randa performed at her job. She seemed to be truly affectionate towards her brother, attending to his every need and sleeping with him through the night.
Sansa knew she had several children already, including a son who was just a few weeks older than Cedrik, so she supposed that her experience was the reason why. Oftentimes she found herself at a loss over what to do with Cedrik when Randa left to tend to her own family. She couldn’t feed him like Randa could, or know the different kinds of cries babies made and what they meant. Father and Mother both had asked her to care for Cedrik, yet the more he grew, the more useless she felt.
Jory’s arrival and her dismissal from his side only made the ache in her heart sharper. Something harsh was stirring inside of her as she watched Randa work, though she hardly knew how to put a name to it. Perhaps she just wished she could act, though that didn’t feel quite right, either. Was this how Robb felt, trapped in King’s Landing? Sansa could hardly imagine the pain he was in, or how Jon was suffering in the Black Cells. She wished desperately she could rescue them all on her own.
But Father was the one trying to do that, and Sansa had been left behind in Riverrun. Jory was her responsibility, just like Cedrik, hers to care for and to lead. But in reality it felt like she could do nothing of importance at all. Ser Desmond hadn’t even let her listen past Jory’s dreadful escape from the Mountain.
If only I were grown, Sansa thought. Then I wouldn’t have been driven out like that. Then I’d be able to care for Cedrik all on my own.
But she couldn’t, and some part of herself hated the world for that. Sansa tilted back her head and stewed.
It was about as useful as prayer.