CLOSED | au | USURPERS of the VALE

[weirwood]

usurpers of the vale | A U as high as honor. family duty honor. winter is coming. the north forgets. move or be moved. SANSA STARK IS MISSING ROBB STARK IS DEAD PETYR BAELISH IS MERCIFUL

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[discrowned]

[ you are a dead man, petyr baelish had told him and robb's expression had twisted in a bitter smile. baelish could have saved his words. robb knew he was dead. he'd died in walder frey's hall, when his men had been slaughtered and his lady mother's throat slit and his direwolf beheaded. the memories are colored red, all blood and pain. afterwards they'd thrown him to the side and sent ravens and he'd laid still as they delivered him into the jaws of the lions.

cersei had promised him a torturously slow death in a sweet tone.

it was expected. what wasn't expected was what came before it, when she'd ordered him dragged through the streets. crowds had come by the thousands to see the young wolf muzzled and chained, bleeding through his bandages and stumbling into the dust and dirt of the road. they'd called him traitor and worse, and robb was glad his lord father was dead, so he would not have to see his son brought so low.

he'd not expected deliverance, but it had come for him anyway and now the thought of it tightened around his throat like a noose he could never cut. robb stark was no lannister, but he paid his debts. petyr baelish had snatched him from between the lion's jaws and now robb had no choice but to roll over and show his belly, swear obedience and fealty. it was the honorable thing to do, when someone saves your life.

the scars he bears from that day are reminders, reminders of his failure and his losses. they are reminders of the reason why he no longer sleeps, only sits awake, silence crushing down upon him--no matter how hard he listens, he shall never hear grey wind's howl again--until he grows so tired his head drops onto his chest and he snatches a few hours of dreamless sleep before jolting away again.

we must make you unrecognizable, petyr baelish had told him, and robb had sighed. he did not need to be told what was to come, though he dreaded it with every passing moment. he sits waiting, tugging on his curls. he'd not done that since he was a boy, too young to know how easily the best laid plans of men could go astray.

tully curls. his lady mother had loved them, twisted her fingers through them before tipping robb's face up for inspection and deeming him clean enough to sit at the high table by his lord father. theon greyjoy had pulled on them more than one, when they were tumbling along the stable floor, careless as puppies, only concerned with besting the other. and now they would be gone, and he a stranger, even to himself.

but robb stark was a dead man, and it was fitting that even this died with him. all that would be left were auburn curls, swept into a fire and burned to ash, as if they had never been at all. ]

[weirwood]

[ The road to the Fingers is long and tedious, the way made wet and churning with mud by a dogged downpour of rain. It follows them for a good part of a week. For days on end, the sun hides, blotted out by the thick pall of stormclouds overhead; and at night the wind howls, crying the names of the dead against the windowpane, filling the curtains with blustery ghosts that keep Sansa awake at night and brimmed with tears.

But even though their progress is hounded and miserable, Sansa makes every effort to be lovely when she presents herself in the mornings to her brother (soon to be a stranger) and Lord Baelish (soon to be her father). It is what is expected of her, what she knows how to offer, her only strength (if it can be called strength at all). A lady's armor is her courtesy and though the Lannisters are leagues behind them, Sansa cannot think of a time she has needed it as much. To those who have eyes and who have kept her counsel, there is no question that Sansa still stuffers. But she has learned how to suffer with loveliness, which is as good a repayal for her life debt as she can muster.

At the end of the sixth day the rain stops.

Come walk with me, sweetling, Littlefinger tells her and, of course, Sansa does not say no. He had risked everything — even his own head — to save her from the Lannisters' clutches and rescue her brother from the Red Keep's crushing jaws. And all out of love for their dead mother, out of loyalty to a long-gone childhood. It gives Sansa pause as she dips her head low and curtseys.

Come walk with me, sweetling, Littlefinger tells her and Sansa's reply is gracious. ]

It would please me greatly, my lord.

[ (Her brother lives. The North remembers. Sansa knows she will never be able to say no. Not now, nor ever again.)


—


When she returns not an hour later, her cheeks are flush (they will think it the wind) and her gaze is low and avoidant. She sits with her Littlefinger, now Petyr (her father) and then excuses herself when it comes time for him to look to his letters. Quickly she dips, her bow perfunctory, and then she is gone — gone back to the modest room that has been provided at the inn, gone to hide until she is needed again.

Gone to find Robb. ]