fight like gods. asoiaf

THIRTY SIX

XXXVI
SANSA
"The Kingswood"

Sansa woke to the sound of hooves.

At first, she thought she was dreaming, for her sleep had been thin and broken, filled with half-images of her father's face, her sister's laughter, and the sound of steel. But when she opened her eyes, there was only blackness and the damp press of earth. She pressed her cheek against her knees and held her breath. The sound came again, clearer now, the steady clop of hooves and the faint murmur of men's voices.

They were too close to the Kingsroad.

Arya was already awake, crouched like a cat with her eyes wide and bright, alert in the dark. Lucella moved with the sharp, decisive motion of someone who did not allow herself fear, only caution. A finger pressed to her lips was all it took. Sansa's heart stumbled painfully inside her chest. She wanted to pray aloud, to beg the Mother for mercy, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

The men's laughter floated through the trees, rough and careless. She could not see them through the darkness, but she imagined the gleam of gold cloaks in the moonlight, the sneer of Ser Meryn's mouth, the cruel twist of a man's smile.

Lucella motioned sharply, and they went deeper into the wood, further from the road. Roots caught at Sansa's skirts, branches snatched her hair, but Lucella would not let them stop. She drove them forward with quiet urgency, her jaw set tight.

The forest closed in around them, thick and black and endless. Sansa's legs ached, her feet burned. She had thought herself strong once, walking the galleries of the Red Keep for hours at her mother's side, sitting her courtesies straight-backed until her shoulders throbbed. This was different. This was endless mud and wet leaves, a night that seemed never to break.

"Lucella," Arya hissed after what felt like an eternity, "we've gone far enough. They're behind us. We should stop."

"No." Lucella did not look back. Her voice was low, but it carried. "Not yet."

Arya groaned in protest, but followed. Sansa said nothing. She had no strength to argue, only to stumble after them with her hand clutching the torn fabric of her skirts.

She tried to think of Winterfell- of the warm blaze in the great hall, of her mother's cool hands, of the direwolves tumbling in the snow. But every time she reached for those thoughts, her mind betrayed her, showing her instead the black steps of the throne room, her father's face pale and grim beneath the torchlight.

He would not have bowed. He would not have begged.

Sansa's throat closed tight. She had asked once- pleaded with Joffrey, pleaded with the queen- that her direwolf's life be spared. But Joffrey was not merciful, no matter what he had whispered when he had kissed her hand. And the queen's eyes were green stone. Cold. Unmoved. This was no different.

Her father was dead. She had not seen it, but she felt it. She could taste the truth in the way the guards hunted them, in the way Lucella's mouth tightened every time Sansa asked if he lived. Even Arya, for all her wildness, had not yet understood. She still carried hope like a sword she could swing, sharp and unbreakable. But Sansa knew. She felt it the way she felt the ache in her bones, the blistering rub of her shoes.

Her legs gave way beneath her at last, and she sagged against a tree. Bark scraped her cheek, damp and rough. She let herself lean into it, her chest heaving. Her breath steamed in the night air.

"I can't," she whispered.

Arya turned, her small face drawn in a frown. "You can."

Sansa bit back her moan. Instead, Sansa closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the tree's trunk. She whispered the basic prayer words Septa Mordane had taught her long ago, when Winterfell had still been her whole world.