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Sansa is to be betrothed to the heir to the iron throne, before she falls from her horse and is crushed by it, breaks both her legs in such a way that she will never walk again.
The betrothal is withdrawn, as are all the other offers of marriage.
It is Arya now, her parents say, who will be the daughter whose marriage makes a good alliance for House Stark.
Arya who does not want to marry; who wants to be a knight, a soldier, a wild thing.
Sansa will not allow her own injury to harm the hopes and dreams of her sister. She must find herself a husband who will take her as she is, crippled.
A fourth son, a cripple like her, perhaps even a bastard of a good house.
But how, when she cannot travel to King’s Landing, to the seat of schemes and marriage plotting; when she is stuck here?
*
Her brothers carry her around Winterfell. Her own bastard brother Jon works with the Maester to build a chair with wheels, which fits a sled too, so that she might go where she wishes.
Robb, competitive as ever, gets the horsemaster to fashion her a special saddle.
Her mother cries the morning she first tries the saddle. Tells her she is a stupid girl to be getting back on a horse and then begs for forgiveness for cursing her so.
Arya is her fiercest champion in her endeavour to ride again.
Sansa herself is as frightened as she has ever been of anything to get on a horse again but she knows she must not show it.
She has not slept all night in terror and she vomits after her first ride, hiding in the godswood in her chair, and apologising to the gods for staining the ground.
*
If no one is available to help her out of bed, or move from her chair to a seat, Lady helps her. Lady sits her bulk down next to Sansa and lets her clamber over her, rest all her weight on her.
Lady grows the largest of all the direwolves because, Arya argues, she knows that Sansa needs her; because she wishes for Sansa to ride her one day.
But, since this vision from a song is unlikely to come true, and Sansa has no desire to squash her direwolf, Sansa must learn to ride a horse again instead.
And soon she learns that her special saddle harness – and the way it keeps her in her seat, locks her to the horse until she unties herself with help from others – allows her to ride in a way that no one else can, with a fearlessness and a flair that the old servants of Winterfell say brings her aunt Lyanna to mind. It is as if she is part horse, that the horse and her are one, like the wargs of old.
The horse that injured her was killed for startling at something unseen in the woods, despite Sansa’s wish that it be spared.
But her new horse is a Dornish sand steed, that she has named Star.
A horse her father gifted to her once he had seen how well she could ride in her special saddle; paid for with, she fears but never asks, the money that might have been used as a dowry were she to marry a prince or a great lord.
A horse whose pedigree her brothers are jealous of but which, in their heavy armour, they could never hope to ride. But Sansa’s saddle has been made light and slim to fit the horse, and she herself is hardly a weight upon its back.
Sand steeds are known for their stamina and she thinks of that often when is astride Star; thinks that if she let him, her horse would run and run and take her far from here, take her towards adventures and travels, towards lands she can only dream of.
*
When she is astride Star she is the same height as a man, a suitor, might be astride his own horse.
She is not in a chair that he would loom over, or a chaise he must perch awkwardly beside.
It makes her feel more confident; the thought of meeting someone like that.
Of being able to ride away if the man is rude or cruel to her.
She has heard horrible things about herself since she first got injured, mostly from visitors to Winterfell who do not know yet that she has brothers and loving servants that will beat anyone who insults one of Winterfell’s favourite daughters.
She has heard that she is useless, a girl without a future, a dead end.
Men look past her or, worse, look at her like they might look at a wounded animal, as if she is prey.
Her cunt may not work but her mouth will, she heard one man say to his friend, and laugh like he said the very best jape.
She is vulnerable. She will be vulnerable to any husband, to a husband’s family.
Perhaps she will be left to wither and die once she is married, forgotten in some tower room.
But a marriage is a marriage, an alliance between houses, and it will save Arya and help her family, no matter if she does not survive long in it.
She was born to be a good wife, to make a good match, and she will not let this twist in the gods’ plan dash her own.
*
She tries to make herself desirable.
What does she have to offer? She has a good writing hand, a good memory and knowledge of other houses.
She has all the time in the world now, she thinks, to learn enough to fill her mind to the brim with knowledge, to become useful.
She is beautiful, and will remain so for a long time since she will not have children to age her.
She can sing; and she asks her father to bring a singer, a harp teacher, to Winterfell and practices until she loses her voice, until the callouses on her fingers are thick like the hide of an animal.
She can embroider and she gets ambitious in the designs she dreams up, squints by the light of candles to work long into the night.
*
And then, a few years later, with Arya still unmarried despite the flood of proposals from other houses who wish to align themselves with the Starks, Sansa gets her chance.
There is to be a tourney near the Twins to honour Daenerys, the new ruler of Westeros who has saved them from the cruelty and madness of the Lannister queen.
There are to be tourneys in several different corners of Westeros, one after the other, and the tourneys will bring with them the gifts of gold and food that the new queen wants to give to her people.
The tourney near the Twins will be the closest to Winterfell. Sansa might travel there in the carriage with only a little discomfort.
She finds she does not have to go to great lengths to persuade her parents to let her attend. They are indulgent of her, their eldest daughter.
And they are eager to meet their new queen, to take a measure of her and kneel before her, as her father has already done on his trip to King’s Landing to swear fealty.
Her mother will remain at Winterfell with Rickon but the rest will travel with Sansa.
It is only Arya that dares whisper to her sister about Sansa’s plan to find a husband.
The others do not speak of it. They do not want to dash her impossible hopes, to be cruel to her; when they have all seen the ways she has tried to perfect herself (she, who they already think perfect) – the singing, the harp playing, the embroidery, the reading and learning, the riding.
*
She meets Prince Oberyn Martell on the first day of the tourney, as she sits astride Star near the Stark tent, looking over the grounds and at the people hurrying to and fro.
“Do you have a wheeled chair, my lady?” he asks, once he has greeted them formally.
She fears what he might say next, whether he might hide a jape in his words. For she has heard that the prince has the fiercest wit.
“Only my dearest brother, Prince Doran, he has a chair,” he adds, “and I thought I might get my Maester to send you the plans, should you wish it.”
He has not ridden over here to mock her but to be thoughtful.
She should not have judged him so. As she is often judged by the reputation that precedes her; that she is without her wits too, dashed away in the fall from her horse.
“I do,” she says, stroking her horse’s mane. “Mine own brother helped build it. But you are very thoughtful to offer, my prince.”
“I should have guessed you would be well-equipped, with this fine saddle you use.”
“I can get my horsemaster to send your brother a letter describing its construction, if you like?”
“That would be wonderful, my lady. And so kind.”
“Only as kind as you thought to be, my prince,” she corrects him and he smiles so warmly at her.
“You have been resting here a while, my lady. Should you, and your sister, and a guard of course, like to ride in the woods with me?”
She feels Arya kick gently at her ankle but she needs no nudging from her sister.
“I should like that very much, my prince,” she says.
“Please,” he says, “call me Oberyn.”
*
She meets other families that evening, and in the days that follow; other men.
But she is not impressed by any of them, or their courtesies, least of all Harrold Hardyng who seems to attempt to lure her into some kind of sordid meeting before she firmly rejects his advances.
The men are not impressed with her either; their eyes glide past her as if she is a tree or a tent. Their faces flush when she speaks to them and they quickly find excuses to leave any scant conversations she is able to begin.
But Oberyn finds her several times a day, greets her with a smile and talks to her as if they are now good friends.
He introduces her to two of his daughters who have come to the tourney, Obara and Tyene, who treat her warmly too.
He speaks of his paramour, Tyene’s mother, Ellaria, who has not journeyed from Dorne and is currently with child; another precious daughter, he can only hope.
Obara reminds him of Arya and when she remarks thus to him he says he has noticed the same thing.
Arya tells Sansa that Oberyn is very old. But she also says that she is sad that he has not entered himself into the tourney because she has heard that his skills with the spear are beyond measure. That she should like to spar with him one day, and win.
When Sansa reports back on this conversation it makes Oberyn laugh and he tells her he shall send her a spear that fits her for Arya’s next birthday, a secret gift to bring a smile to the face of the wild Stark daughter.
Sansa’s father mentions Oberyn to her only once; touches on his age and his many daughters, his paramour.
Sansa hears his warning. She is not a fool.
But Oberyn is kind. And she longs dearly for more friends.
*
“I have watched you, my lady,” Oberyn says one morning two days before the end of the tourney, as they sit astride their horses after a race through the trees so exhilarating she almost shouted out loud and forgot to act a lady, “and it appears that you are popular with chivalrous young men.”
She wants to snort at the lie, but she knows that he means it kindly, that he is not mocking her.
“But it seems that none of these men have done enough to win your hand in marriage,” he continues.
Her heart stutters in her chest.
“My brother says that I am similarly hard to please, in my search for a wife. As does Ellaria, who dearly wishes for another woman to join our household.”
He pauses.
She cannot look at him.
His horse steps back and forth and he allows it to turn so that he and Sansa are now facing each other. His face looks as genial as ever, as calm.
“The customs of Dorne must be strange to many in Westeros,” he says.
“Customs are always strange to outsiders but I have heard and seen nothing that truly supports the reputation Dorne, or the Dornish, might sometimes have abroad. A reputation that, I have come to believe, is surely only spread by those jealous of the freedoms Dorne may offer.”
“And what reputation might this be? What freedoms?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
She laughs, and tosses her hair behind her shoulder; feels like a woman, and not a girl, under his gaze.
Confident and sure of herself.
Even desirable, though he does not look at her as a lecher might.
He has called her beautiful; he has mentioned her hair, a unique shade in Dorne; and her pretty voice, when he heard her sing along with her harp one night when he and his household joined hers for dinner.
He has complemented her riding; saying he has barely seen a rider who could touch her for ease in her seat, for natural skill. A kind lie, for certain, since the Dornish are well known for their horses and their skill on horseback.
He has said nice things about Lady, praised her size and ferocity even though it is clear to all who meet her that she is truly the gentlest thing. Lady, who has delighted in his company in return, eager for him to rub her neck and stroke down her back.
He has called Sansa clever, and witty.
He has not ignored her particular injury, but neither has it bothered him; he is used to having a proud brother who occasionally needs assistance.
His hands are strong, and warm, when they have twice held hers.
He has helped her off her saddle once, in the shelter behind her tent where none but the animals in the wood beyond might watch them; held her by the hips in a fashion that was not proper for any man who was not family to do, because she had not called for any of her brothers or servants to help, since she trusted him, since she wanted him to touch her like that, to allow herself to be held by such a man for just a moment.
She is waiting for him to say something else when a royal messenger comes to them.
The queen has need of him immediately.
Oberyn tells Sansa that they will speak again before the tourney ends; bows deeply even on his horse, so that a lock of his dark hair falls over his eyes and she wishes she were close enough to brush it back, to touch him.
*
The Starks are the last family to leave the tourney.
They have waited, though none have expressed out loud the reasons for waiting; but they must now leave.
Sansa sits on her horse and looks around at the marks of the tents on the grass, at the detritus of the tourney, the empty stands that will soon be broken into firewood.
She wished she might have just one more chance to speak with Oberyn; to sit on her horse beside his. To feel the warmth that comes simply from being in his company.
But he is not to be found.
Of course, she wished in her heart, but never dared name the wish.
Of course, she could not help but dream of a husband with a wicked smile and kind, dark eyes.
This tourney was her last chance to make a match with any man. She knows there will no other occasion like it.
She knows that she has tried her hardest, has done her best.
But her best was not enough.
*
She is helped down from her horse and Arya joins her in the carriage to try to cheer her up with long, gory, descriptions of the men who were felled at the tilt, the green boys who made fools of themselves at the melee.
They have been travelling for only a scant hour when the horses and the carriage suddenly stop.
She hears the rumble of other horses galloping closer and then a shout of greeting. The voice of a man.
The voice of Oberyn.
“Am I too late?” she hears him ask. He is panting and out of breath.
“Tell me, am I too late? The queen sent me off an urgent errand. Tell me, please. Has your daughter been promised to another?”
“My daughter?” she hears her father ask.
“Sansa,” Oberyn says and the girl in question clutches at Arya’s hand so fiercely that years later her sister will show her the scar she has carved from one of her fingernails.
“Is Sansa to be married? I have come to beg for her hand.”
Sansa hears herself let out a little yelp of astonishment, feels herself start to cry in a very unladylike fashion.
“It is my daughter to whom you should plead your suit, my prince, not I,” her father says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.
Arya jolts out of the carriage, banging its door open in her haste, and Sansa frantically dashes the tears from her cheeks, tries to compose herself.
She breathes in deeply. Once; twice.
A knock on the side of the carriage and the face of the man she could love peering inside.
“May I come into your carriage, my lady?” he asks with a smile.
Then his face grows serious.
“I have an important question to ask and only you can give me the answer I long for.”
“Please, my prince,” she says, “Come inside.”
*
Their first wedding is at Winterfell, in the godswood, Oberyn looking somewhat bemused by these foreign gods but delighted at the pretty picture it makes.
Her mother had been shocked and appalled by her betrothal when she returned to Winterfell alongside her notorious betrothed and his retinue.
Oberyn spent many hours in conversation with her mother, and when he came out of her solar Catelyn’s mind had seemingly been changed and when Sansa was wheeled inside she looked both happy and sad, and said that she would miss her eldest daughter when she was gone to Dorne.
Her mother said that she loved her and was proud of her; that an alliance with Dorne was something no other Stark had been able to achieve; that her husband would be good to her.
“Else,” she had said, half-japing Sansa hopes, “one of your brothers will come and hunt him down.”
*
Their second wedding is at Sunspear, where Sansa meets the rest of Oberyn’s family and his dear brother, the current ruler of Dorne, and Princess Arianne, the next, who has her uncle’s forceful presence.
She meets Ellaria, who is as beautiful and kind as all said she was. Who she hopes she might grow to love too, in this new life in Dorne, where new experiences such as this are open to her.
Her husband gifts Sansa with a copy of her saddle, decorated with golden suns, and two more sand steeds, though he reluctantly agrees with Sansa that Star, who has traveled with her, is the better horse, that he cannot give her a gift to beat her father’s.
She tells him that he has given her a gift far greater than any horse, his love, and he is made bashful for just a moment, at her words.
The warmth of Dorne helps soothe somewhat the ache in Sansa’s legs that has always plagued her, the ache she barely ever admitted to her family for fear they might only pity her.
The colours, the smells, the foods, the life in Dorne fills up her mind and her heart with new wonders.
She can barely catch her breath from it.
Though Oberyn makes sure she rests too, for a given measure of resting.
“Us Dornish spend most of our time in bed, my lady, indolent and lazy, surely you have heard tell of it? So you will do well here,” he had said, with good humour and that wicked smile, when she was laid out in her second wedding bed, when he was supping at her cunt and bringing her to her third peak.
The next morning he had asked her another question she never ever thought she would hear, after that tumble from her horse. He asked her if she wanted to be a mother.
“If you desire children,” he said, before she could reply, “then I will give them to you. You do not need to walk to be a mother.”
It is a dream that she had let die inside of her. Could she retrieve it from the corners of her heart? Could she really be a mother?
The gifts this man wants to give her.
“Perhaps one day, Oberyn, perhaps. I shall think on it,” she had said, and pulled him to her to kiss him fiercely across the plates of their morning meal.
*
One night, some moons into her wondrous new life and marriage in Dorne, they are in bed together, as they are every night.
Ellaria often joins them but she is busy tonight with a new, younger, lover and will invariably come back full of boasting stories about his prowess that will make Oberyn love both Ellaria and Sansa so hard they will almost pass out from the pleasure of it.
Lady, in the lighter Summer coat she has grown to fit her new home in Dorne, is snoring on the ground nearby.
The warm breeze lifts the gauzy curtains of the windows; the rest of the household is long asleep; and Oberyn and Sansa are drunk on love and one another, drunk on the best Arbor wine.
He is inside of her.
He holds her firmly by the hips above him, her legs straight out in front of her on the bed, running alongside his chest and underneath his propped up shoulders.
He always holds her firmly, securely.
But he does not hold her down, does not restrict her. He only seeks to help her.
And it makes her love him so much it brings tears to her eyes.
“There was something I wanted to say to you when we spoke at the tourney, when I saw your uncommon skill upon that horse of yours, when I saw that you rode a Dornish sand steed,” he is saying. “But you were a skittish thing then, my love,” he adds, as he helps her rock above him, as he brings her closer to the sweetest pleasure. “And you were wary of men and their intentions; you would have had the wrong idea of me, of what I felt for you.”
He moves a thumb to nudge against her nub, to drive her crazy.
“But I think if I told you now, it might make you laugh as I wished it would back then. It is a line from a popular song, an old song from a land of famous horseriders. Should you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” she says, “Yes,” she moans, so close to her peak.
“Won’t you save a horse, my lady, and ride a man instead?”
And she screams with laughter, and peaks in one glorious mess above him and he groans and peaks and laughs too and she thinks herself the luckiest girl in all of Westeros, to be married, to be loved, by such a man.