The Game of Cyvasse

The Winter Rose

Sansa Stark

A tingle of dread gripped Sansa as wildfire spread a green carpet over the river, hurling fiery emerald tears at the city walls. A blinding blaze dazzled her eyes, a dance of light and shadow, a grand mummer spectacle that swallowed King's Landing whole, turning darkness of the night into light of the day in a heartbeat. She saw a wall crumble, bricks leaping high as sparrows, vanishing in a foul mist. Aegon was there, fighting... his wounds..., she turned her head to the interior of the maester's tower. Heat shimmered even up to the high balcony where she watched the horror, followed by a snowstorm of soft ash, tiny grey flakes drifting like summer snowflakes. The worst came last, the acrid stench of burning, a harsh assault on her nose; wood, stone and flesh mingling in her nostrils. People were burning down there, drowning in the scorching tide of the river, in winds of steam.

"Your fear is unfounded, my lady, the odds of victory are in our favor. The situation may have deviated from the original plan, but fortune has not forsaken us," the voice of Haldon the halfmaester soothed her. She wished she could believe him, see the world with his calm, save for butterflies raging in her stomach, denying her any respite. The rest of the night she spent alone, tossing and turning on the bed, as shouts reached her chamber, cries from afar, the clashing rang of steel. If only I could sleep, wake to the relief of victory, if one comes. For a brief moment, she considered going to Haldon once more, to plea for a drop or two of milk of the poppy. Be brave, you must be brave, she consoled herself, softly humming the tune of Jonquil and Florian the fool.

"A fool in iron motley, no knight of noble birth," she repeated the same verse three times, the rest of the words eluded her, lost in the chorus of steel, that claimed the city of King's Landing, creeping ever closer. Lord Stannis is coming, stern and unforgiving, a dark thought overshadowed the joy of the sweet dancing song.

"He longed to be her faithful knight,...", Sansa swallowed a lump of fear, looking at the golden embroidery on the canopy above the bed. The curtains hid the windows, yet the smell of burning and the ash on the wind seeped through the cracks, giving her a headache. The air was stale, heavy with stench, it melted into sour taste to her tongue. Please gods, she prayed to the heart tree, give him strength, give us dawn, give us light. Please gods, old and new, she united north and south within herself. As she uttered the last word of her prayer, the skies broke in thunder, answering her plea with a downpour, a cover of sound to hide the battle.

"...disguised as a fool," she misspoke a verse, in relief, as cheers erupted all over the Red Keep. A living joy resounded from every corner, a scream that could only herald victory. Sansa ran out of her chamber to see it, fleeing to a space full of song and jubilee.

"What are the news, how fares the king," she asked a small cupbearer who was happily skipping through the corridor.

The boy grinned through crooked teeth, "A victory, m'lady, it is a victory. Stannis is dead, slain by ser Loras in single combat". Once, another girl might have smiled at such tales. Mangled corpses, blood spilling over grass, cries of men too young to meet the Stranger; Images of the Redwood hill came to her, a grim sight of pain, a wound on the soul, the place never to heal.

Dawn came without a wink of sleep, thick black smoke billowed to the south, where the wildfire defied the rain, hiding the Kingswood in a wall of ever-moving darkness. Layers of ash covered the roofs of King's Landing, tinting the red tiles in a grey hue, giving a false impression of winter, from a distance. The air was unpleasant, of ash melted by rain, keeping most folk inside their homes. The first thing on her mind was to find Aegon, to assure herself he was alright.

Sansa made her way through throngs of men in ash-smudged armor clogging the halls, "Where is his Grace?", she asked Serjeant Mole.

"I know not, m'lady," a toad-faced man replied, a bloody rivulet running from his brow, over reddish skin, peeling off like orange. Most of the soldiers bore burns like that, parched and painful, broken.