Chapter Text
You won’t find Father down there, you know.
Sansa frowns at the statue of her father, chewing over her sister’s words from earlier that day. Arya had caught her stealing away to the crypts after supper–a habit she now indulges with growing frequency–and attempted to deter her with the blunt, almost cold declaration.
“I know that,” Sansa had insisted, a bit wary. Arya’s detached attitude is peculiar to say the least; but then, Sansa has changed, too. Everything has.
Winterfell isn’t the safe haven of her childhood, not anymore. It is almost unrecognizable after the rounds of destruction and repair, with new defenses on its perimeter and new faces housed under its roof. It is an entirely different place without her mother and father, without the sound of Rickon’s laughter and the glow of Robb’s smile.
But for everything they have lost, there is something new to try and fill its place–stronger and higher battlements to the Northeast, unfamiliar lords and ladies populating the halls, and new responsibilities on Sansa’s shoulders.
So while she knows better than anyone that her father’s spirit isn’t waiting to greet her in the solitude of the crypts, Sansa retreats there anyway for a rare respite from the clamor of the court and the obtruding eyes of its people.
Down here it is dark and damp, and a few years ago she would have been frightened by such a macabre setting. Now, it is the only place where Sansa can find some peace and quiet, where she can be alone without any weapon shipments to approve or Winter rations to calculate.
Even after all she has been through, though, standing before Father’s statue–however poor the likeness–sometimes erodes at her resolve.
I miss you so much. Winterfell needs you more than ever. I need you.
She cannot help but wonder what the great Lord Eddard Stark would think of her now, ruling in his stead as Lady of Winterfell. She had never been groomed for it. She was meant to be the wife of some high lord, raising his children and keeping his household. Father had wanted that for her.
When you’re old enough, he’d vowed, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, gentle, and strong. Sansa cannot imagine such a future anymore. She had once dreamt of finding that man, a valiant knight like someone from the songs, who would whisk her away from the dull North to a fantastic life full of passion and adventure.
Now her dreams are replaced with nightmares that are all-too-real, and she hopes only for the strength to keep four walls around Jon’s subjects for one more day, to keep food in their stores and wood in their fires. It affords her a new respect for Father, learning all that he had managed every single day.
The pack survives, he had said to them once. Sound advice. Without Arya and Bran, Sansa doesn’t want to imagine what might have become of her with Jon away in the South and Baelish circling her like a shadowcat stalking its prey.
But their pack is smaller than before, and she finds that even during her busiest days, she is as lonely as she has ever been.
She gazes steadily at Father’s statue, trying to fill in the sculptor’s gaps with her own memory, to visualize the lines of his face. He had often been a dour man, her lord father. But his grim expression had easily given way to smiles and laughter, an exuberant sort of joy he reserved just for his family. There is nothing in the world that Sansa wouldn’t give just to see him again, chuckling behind his hand when Arya arrives late and caked in mud to a feast. Nothing she wouldn’t trade for the simple pleasure of letting her mother brush her hair at the vanity in her old room.
It is only when her vision goes blurry before her, the light from the torches distorting into a fuzzy, orange glow, that she realizes she is crying. It seems senseless to weep for them now, after all that has happened. But she was never allowed to mourn them properly, and it is more trying than she imagined, being back in her home–their home–without them in it.
Sansa removes her leather gloves with a sigh. Tucking them away in her cloak, she raises her fingers to swipe the tears from her eyes, collecting herself. She ought to be getting back soon, and as lady of her house, the last thing she needs is to show weakness to the dissenting lords.
Before she can make her exit she hears approaching footsteps, the padding of boots on the moist earth echoing throughout the dark chambers. A figure heads toward her from the hall at her right, bearing a torch that casts bobbing shadows against the walls and ceiling with every step.
Her chest clenches with panic at the sight. The appeal of the crypts has always been their distinct lack of people who might intrude on her introspection, and Sansa is wholly unprepared to be observed in the act of weeping and hiding when she should be overseeing the castle.
As the visitor draws near, Sansa recognizes him as Brienne’s squire, Podrick Payne. Of all the inhabitants of the castle who might come calling, Podrick is perhaps the least threatening. But that does nothing to temper her frustration at being interrupted in such a state, and by the time he steps up alongside her before the statue, she’s bristling with anger.
“My Lady,” he greets her, his voice soft and hesitant. He walks a bit bow-legged, no doubt the result of riding on horseback day and night on the journey home from King’s Landing. There are still snow flurries melting in his dark hair, as if he’s come straight from the saddle to her side.
“I see you’ve had a safe journey,” Sansa observes dryly, looking away so that Podrick might not see her tear-stained cheeks, the red in her eyes.
“Ah. Um, yes, My Lady. Lady Brienne sent me to notify you that we’ve returned.”
“Good,” Sansa replies, sniffing and clearing her throat. “And what of my brother and Daenerys Targaryen?”
Pod shakes his head and shrugs.
“I don’t know, My Lady. If they haven’t arrived then I suppose they delayed before their sea voyage.”
She frowns. More bad news. The sooner Jon returns the sooner he can resume his duties as king, and the sooner they can both formulate a plan for facing the threat marching their way from the North.
“Very well,” she nods in Podrick’s direction. “Thank you.”
She says it with the sort of finality that ends a conversation, hoping that Podrick can take a hint and leave her with her dignity still intact. But he doesn’t budge, and Sansa can feel his eyes on her, peering closely through the faint light of the torches.
“Lady Sansa,” he murmurs, daring a step closer. “Are you well?”
“Of course,” she snaps, still tilting her face away from his prying eyes. “You can go, Podrick.”
“You’re crying, My Lady. Is everything alright? Do you need–”
Sansa wheels on him, blinking back stinging tears as her patience snaps like a banner in the wind.
“Seven hells, Podrick, can you please just leave me alone? Go!”
He winces like a beaten dog at that, but still finds the courtesy for a perfunctory bow before taking his leave.
A sharp jab of guilt threatens Sansa then, as Podrick turns and strides away with so much haste that she has to double-take to be sure he isn’t running. After all, it isn’t his fault her family is gone. He isn’t to blame for her years of repressed grief and loneliness. She cannot fault him for trying to do what he was told, as he always does. And Podrick is a decent, even kind man, truthfully.
Sansa’s mind wanders back to a night in the Red Keep long ago, when Podrick had heard her crying after Mother and Robb were killed. He appeared unexpectedly at her chamber door bearing a tray of fresh lemon cakes and a flagon of sweet plum wine. When she had asked if Tyrion had sent him, Podrick had confirmed that yes, it was her lord husband who had ordered him there. But the following morning, when Sansa had thanked Tyrion for the kind gesture, he hadn’t known what she was talking about. It had been Podrick’s own doing all along.
And then there was the day that Brienne had come to her aid when she and Theon had faced a grisly fate at the mercy of Ramsay’s hounds. Podrick had been there, too, fighting–albeit clumsily–to protect her. And when she had forgotten the words to swear Brienne into her service, he was standing by, ready to come to her rescue again.
So the sight of his forlorn, retreating form tugs at her heart, and Sansa calls out to stop him.
“Podrick, wait. Wait. Please.”
He stops short, turns back, and even at this distance she can see the hope and relief on his innocent young face.
“I’m sorry,” Sansa announces, eager to fill the silence, offering him a watery half-smile. “That was unworthy of me.”
“It’s alright,” Podrick assures her, making his way back through the darkened hall. “You’re upset.”
Yes, Sansa muses to herself. And why must that be so shameful? She wears strength like a coat of armor but it gets heavy after particularly rough days, and sometimes she longs to shrug free of it. Podrick seems as safe a soul as any to bare her heart to.
“I am,” she agrees. “I miss them.” She gestures to the crypts around her, the resting place of the bones of her father and little brother, the ghostly memory of her mother, of Robb.
“And it’s hard,” she continues, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. “To carry on as if nothing has happened. To pretend that I’m strong like Mother was, or a leader like Jon.”
“Begging your pardon, My Lady, but you are,” Podrick interjects.
She scoffs, casting him a dubious glance.
“I’m not,” she argues, shaking her head. “You don’t need to say that just to be kind.”
“That’s not it,” Podrick says with conviction. “When Lady Brienne and I were camped outside of Winterfell before you escaped, watching out for your signal, we were there for months. And we heard things. What he did to people. The kind of man he was,” he explains, pausing to assess Sansa’s darkening expression carefully. “To go through that as you did, to endure it and escape … You might not be a warrior like Lady Brienne, but you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
The corners of her lips tug up in earnest at Podrick’s sweet words, even if they are just flattery. But Sansa suspects that shallow compliments are not really his style. He is too sincere, too polite, too wholly good to be so superficial. She feels her throat constricting with emotion, overwhelmed with gratitude for him in that moment; for his tactful omission of Ramsay’s name, for taking the time to lift her spirits even after she had just scolded him like a unruly servant.
“Thank you, Podrick,” she whispers.
“It’s only the truth, Lady Sansa,” he presses on, emboldened by her smile. “And His Grace will be very proud of how well you’ve done when he returns. Lord Tyrion always used to gripe about how hard it can be to placate all of those nobles at court, but you’ve done it so well that many of them want you for their queen.”
“Oh, yes,” Sansa agrees sarcastically. “Jon will be thrilled to know I’m trying to take his place in his absence.”
“But you haven’t,” Podrick protests. “You’re loyal.”
Sansa turns to face him properly now, stunned by his praise. It is comforting and fortifying at the same time, hearing someone support and validate her this way–honestly and without agenda.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Podrick fidgets under her stare, rubbing his free hand at the back of his neck bashfully.
“I - It’s nothing, My Lady,” he stammers. “I just wanted you to know that you shouldn’t doubt yourself. It’s my pleasure to serve under you.”
Inexplicably, Podrick's words summon lewd thoughts to her mind-thoughts of the young squire under her in a most literal sense, the two of them together finding pleasure of a different sort. Sansa's first instinct is a thorough self-scolding for such an unseemly and unladylike response. But the shame quickly gives ways to curiosity, and Sansa cocks her head thoughtfully to the side.
"Your pleasure," she repeats, arching a brow. "To serve under me?"
No sooner do the words leave her lips than Podrick’s face colors redder than the crimson of his gambeson, and Sansa cannot hold back her snort of amusement at his mortified expression. It is the first time in, well, she doesn't know how long, that she's allowed herself to jest and to laugh. It feels natural, relieving.
“Or - I mean, I’m proud to squire for someone in your service,” Podrick corrects himself firmly.
“The honor is mine,” Sansa replies. She is rewarded with a beaming grin from Podrick. A nice grin, she decides. One that warms her from top to toe.
“We’d best get back upstairs for the evening,” she suggests.
Podrick nods quickly, and she collects her torch from the sconce on the wall before heading back toward the entrance.
Sansa stays near at his side as they walk along. Carrying the torch in her left hand, her right dangles close upon his, and every now and again his knuckles brush the backside of her palm. She half expects the jumpy and unfailingly proper Podrick to flinch away and put a more appropriate distance between them.
Instead she feels him wiggling his fingers reflexively, and he clears his throat into the quiet, preparing to speak.
“Can I hold your hand, My Lady?” he asks, his voice unusually high and strained, as though the words are a great burden he’s struggling to lift.
Sansa is taken aback at the strange question. She can’t recall anyone ever asking her permission for such a thing before. Yet the trauma of Ramsay’s abuse casts a pall over her still, and even now–over a year later–she isn’t especially fond of being touched. Podrick is one of the few people aware of what she suffered, and it occurs to her that he is trying to be considerate of that, even as he–
What is he doing?
Taking pity on her? Comforting her? Flirting with her?
Sansa doesn’t know, but reasons that it doesn’t much matter. The thought of holding Podrick’s hand is unaccountably appealing, so she gives him her answer by slipping her palm around to his and taking his hand. He trembles with the barest hint of a shiver at her touch, but his skin is warm and pleasant, and she can feel the rough calluses on his palm from hours of unforgiving practice at swordplay.
Podrick laces his fingers through hers and grips her hand a little tighter, the pulse in his wrist pounding out a nervous beat against her own. She chances a peek in his direction, only to find him already looking her way. The instant their eyes meet Sansa drops her gaze, blood racing to her cheeks. It is foolish, childish even, to be flustered by something so insignificant. She can feel her heart pounding so hard she is sure even Podrick can hear it.
"It's just - I hoped to offer you comfort, My Lady," he offers to fill the silence.
"I . . . am grateful for your company, Podrick."
And it isn't just an empty sentiment. She is grateful for Podrick's presence at her side, and sneaking another glance at him out of the corner of her eye, it is as though she really notices him for the first time. It's not that Podrick is exceptionally handsome. He doesn’t have the fine features or roguish confidence she used to admire in young men like Loras Tyrell. But there is a comeliness in his brown eyes that charms her. He is barely taller than she, but what he lacks in height he makes up for with the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his strong arms. And the longer Sansa peers at him, the more she fancies the soft look of his lips.
As a girl she had ignored him almost entirely, measured him nothing more than a silly boy who happened to share a name with that vile, leering Ser Ilyn. But walking hand-in-hand with Podrick now, there is a giddy flutter in her belly, a tingle where their fingers are clasped.
When they emerge from the crypts she releases his hand quickly lest someone should see them. With the light of the moon and the many torches illuminating Winterfell’s yard, it all seems a bit award now.
“Will you be alright?” Podrick asks timidly.
“I’m much better now, yes,” Sansa assures him. “Thank you.”
“Good evening, Lady Sansa,” he says, dipping forward into a parting bow.
“You as well, Podrick.”
For the rest of the night, Sansa doesn’t once feel lonely or anxious. Lying awake into the small hours, her busy thoughts have nothing to do with quarreling nobles or shortages of grain.
She had nearly forgotten what it even felt like to be excited by a man after all these years living in fear of them. Perhaps that is part of Podrick’s appeal, for Sansa knows he would sooner fall on his own sword than harm a lady. He is a safe bet, but one that still manages to intrigue her.
And when she drifts off to sleep at last, her dreams are fraught with a dark-eyed knight who can do all sorts of things with that stumbletongue of his.