They had just turned along a path bordered by rose bushes when two figures appeared ahead of them, walking toward the garden gate. Sansa recognized Arthur at once.
Arthur wore a simple silken black doublet with a silver trident stitched across the breast. The dark cloth made his hair seem brighter than ever; in the afternoon sunlight it shone like molten gold.
Beside him walked his cousin Wylla. She wore a gown of sea-green silk, and her hair dyed green fell loose about her shoulders. Without helm or armor she looked far removed from the fierce archer who had stunned the crowd at the tourney. Today she seemed almost beautiful.
As they drew nearer, Arthur inclined his head in a graceful bow, a smile touching his lips. "What a beautiful sight the gods have blessed us with," he said. "The winter and the summer maiden together beneath the sun."
Sansa felt heat rush to her cheeks.
Beside her, Margaery laughed brightly. "Charming as ever, Ser Arthur," she replied. "I wonder how many women you have wooed with those honeyed words of yours."
Sansa blushed even deeper. Margaery spoke to him so easily, teasing him as though they were old companions. Sansa had known Arthur nearly all her life, yet she could never bring herself to speak so freely. Mostly because whenever he smiled at her she found herself suddenly unsure of what to say.
Arthur laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. "You wound me, milady," he said. "I speak no sweetened lies, only the truth, like all poets do."
Wylla snorted faintly at that, folding her arms across her gown. "A poet now, cousin?" she said. "Last week at the feast you were claiming to be a singer. Before that a tourney champion."
Arthur cast her a sideways glance and smirked. "A man may have many talents, Wylla. You would have known that too, had you tried to learn something other than stabbing."
She rolled her eyes, though a hint of amusement touched her mouth.
Margaery watched the exchange with clear delight. "I am beginning to think the tales about you may be true after all, Ser Arthur," she said lightly.
Arthur spread his hands in mock modestly, "All of them true and more besides."
Margaery and her companions laughed brightly, Sansa smiled at Arthur's jest too.
Only Wylla groaned and said with a crooked grin,, "Ser Arthur the vanquisher of the mountain, victor of tourneys and poet of the seven seas, sounds too good to be true if you ask me."
Her tone carried a hint of mischief, as though she had become tired the boasts she heard too many times.
Margaery laughed again and added, "Mayhaps you are right, my lady. This may be one of his other tricks to charm helpless maidens."
Sansa could not help but laugh along with them. For the first time in days, the tightness in her chest eased. Beneath the warm sun and the rustling leaves, the laughter of the others seemed to wash her worries away. For a little while at least, she did not think of her father lying pale and silent in his bed.
Arthur pressed a hand to his heart in exaggerated offense. "Such slanders to my good name, I cannot abide," he declared. "I must challenge thy champion to a duel to defend my honor."
His tone was playful, yet he spoke the words with a mock solemnity that made Sansa snort softly. And before Margaery could answer, Sansa heard herself speak. "Is that another one of your tricks?"
Arthur looked at her in open disbelief. For a heartbeat the garden fell quiet. Even the breeze seemed to pause among the rosebushes. Sansa felt her stomach drop. Oh dear, she thought. Perhaps I should not have said that.
She opened her mouth to mend the moment, but before a word could escape her lips the silence broke all at once. Margaery burst into laughter, bright and uncontrollable, pressing a hand to her mouth as though to stifle it. Wylla doubled slightly, clutching her belly as she laughed aloud, almost falling to the ground. Behind them the Tyrell cousins joined in, their giggles ringing through the garden.
Even Septa Mordane's stern face softened into the smallest of smiles.
Arthur laughed the loudest of them all. He wiped at his eyes as though tears had formed there and shook his head at her. "I can't believe you'd betray me, Sansa, after all we've been through."
Sansa's cheeks flamed red. "I'm sorr—"
"Ssh, don't apologize," Arthur said at once, raising a hand gently. "I was just jesting, my lady."
His smile held no reproach, only amusement. Relief washed over her, and she found herself smiling brightly in return as the others continued to laugh.
"See, cousin, even one as pure as Lady Sansa has seen through your tricks," Wylla added breathlessly between laughter.
"Well," Margaery replied laughing, "now that your secret has been exposed, Ser Arhur, I advise you to retire from courtly life in disgrace."
Arthur smiled along with them and all the while watching Sansa warmly. She fidgeted beneath his look and could see mischief creeping into his expression.
"Lady Sansa of House Stark, now that you have made an eternal enemy of me," he said solemnly, "I shall reveal your dark secrets too. I'm sure everyone would love to hear of Florian the Rabbit."
Sansa went pale. "NOO!"
Her cry escaped before she could stop it.
Margaery's eyes lit with delight at once, and Wylla laughed again.
"Tell us, Ser Arthur," Margaery urged, leaning forward eagerly. "If you do, we may forget your sordid actions."
Sansa felt a wave of desperate embarrassment rise within her. "Please don't, Arthur," she begged.
Her voice was softer now, almost pleading. She could only imagine how dreadful it would be if he truly told them. The Tyrell girls would never let her forget it. The court would laugh at her at every turn.
Arthur tilted his head, as if considering the matter very seriously. "Hmm," he said. "It is quite a tale."
Wylla folded her arms, grinning at him. "You cannot dangle a story before us and then keep silent, cousin."
"Yes, do tell," Margaery added with a bright smile. "What is this tale of Florian the Rabbit?"
Sansa covered part of her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers in mortified suspense.
She hated that story. Arthur had given her the rabbit on her fifth nameday, a tiny grey creature with long ears and curious red eyes. She had named it Florian, after Florian the Fool from the songs, because it had seemed a gallant name for so soft and gentle a creature.
At first she had adored it from afar. The rabbit had been kept in a little wooden hutch in the yard, where she would watch it nibble greens and hop about the straw. But the first time she had tried to hold it, everything had gone wrong. The rabbit's red eyes had stared at her so strangely, and when it twitched its nose and bared its small sharp teeth she had shrieked and dropped it at once. The creature had bounded away across the yard while she fled in the opposite direction, near tears.
Robb had found the whole affair endlessly amusing. For days afterward he had taken to carrying Florian about the castle, setting the rabbit outside her door or hiding it in the corridors where she would surely pass. Once he had even placed the creature beside a plate of lemon cakes.
Each time Sansa had yelped and run the other way while Robb laughed himself breathless. In the end Father had grown weary of the nonsense. The rabbit had been delivered to the kitchens, where Gage the cook turned it into a stew for supper. Sansa had refused to eat a single bite.
Arthur looked from one expectant face to another before finally returning his gaze to Sansa. His expression softened then, and the teasing glint in his eyes faded. "Well," he said slowly, "perhaps another day."
He gave her a small conspiratorial smile. "For now, I shall spare the lady of Winterfell."
Sansa let out a quiet breath she had not realized she'd been holding.
Margaery shook her head with mock disappointment. "You are too kind-hearted, Ser Arthur."
"Or this might be another one of my tricks," he replied lightly and winked at Sansa.
The laughter rose again around them.
Margaery smiled at Sansa, her eyes bright with amusement. "Now I shall spend the rest of the day wondering what terrible secret this Florian the Rabbit might be."
Arthur laughed softly at her distress. "Worry not, my lady," he said kindly to Sansa. "I will keep your secrets."
The teasing glint faded from his eyes then, replaced by something more serious. "Now let us go. My physician says your father may wake soon."
Sansa blinked. For a heartbeat she scarcely understood the words. "Truly?!" she asked.
Arthur nodded. "Truly."
Margaery clasped her hands together. "What wonderful news!"
"Aye," Arthur said. "It is the gods have blessed us with good fortune."
The thought of her father waking filled Sansa with sudden warmth and relief. For five long days he had lain silent in his chamber, pale as marble while the maesters came and went with their solemn faces. Perhaps now everything would be well again.
"I must go to him," she said quickly.
"Of course," Margaery replied at once.
"Thank you for the lovely afternoon," Sansa said, dipping into a graceful curtsey. "I shall remember it fondly."
"And I," Margaery said, smiling warmly. "Give my well wishes to your father when he wakes."
"I will." Sansa answered. Septa Mordane murmured her thanks as well, gathering Jeyne beside her.
With farewells spoken, Sansa and her companions turned back toward the castle. Arthur walked with them along the garden path, the guards falling in behind as they made their way back.
They hurried back to the Tower of the Hand with hope quickening their steps, yet when they reached her father's chamber nothing had changed. Lord Eddard Stark still lay unmoving beneath the heavy blankets, his breathing slow and labored while the physician kept watch nearby.
Arthur spoke quietly with the physician for a time, asking careful questions in a low voice. When he returned his expression was gentle, "He still sleeps," he told them. "But that is a good sign. He will wake soon. I promise."
Sansa tried to be content with that. At least Father still lived. The thought was a small comfort.
Arthur stayed with them through the evening. For a while he spoke with Arya in the solar, though Sansa did not know what passed between them. Arya had refused to speak with almost anyone these past days, yet she seemed calmer when Arthur was near.
Later they all shared supper together. The meal was simple, bread, stew, and a little wine, but Sansa found it strangely pleasant. She had invited Arthur to remain when he made ready to depart. For some reason, she felt safer when he was around. She thought he might refuse but he accepted with an easy smile.
"I will send Wylla ahead to my manse," he said. "If your father wakes tonight, I would not be far."
Wylla only shrugged when he told her, though she gave Sansa a quick nod before leaving with Arthur's guards.
When the hour grew late, Sansa rose. "Good night, Ser Arthur," she said politely.
"Good night, my lady," he replied and headed into the guest chambers.
Sansa returned to her own rooms, but sleep would not come. She lay awake for a long while staring up at the dim ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night. The wind murmured softly outside the shutters, and somewhere a guard's footsteps echoed along the stone corridors.
At last she slipped from her bed and wrapped a cloak about her shoulders. The halls of the Tower were quiet at that hour. The torches burned low, their light flickering against the walls as she made her way toward her father's chambers. Alyn stood guard before the door. After Jory's death he had been made captain of their household guards. He was a broad man with a weathered face and kind eyes, and he greeted her with a small smile when he saw her approach. "What are you doing up so late, little lady?" he asked softly.
"I wanted to see him for a while," Sansa replied.
Alyn's smile turned sad. "Forgive me, my lady. The Grandmaester gave strict orders not to disturb his lordship's sleep."
Sansa hesitated. For a moment she almost insisted. Arya would have done so without a second thought. But she could hear Septa Mordane's voice in her mind, reminding her how a lady ought to behave.
"Very well," she said quietly, turning back.
"Wait," Alyn called after her. "Come here, my lady."
She turned. He pushed the door open a little and stepped aside. "Have a look. Looking ain't disturbing."
Sansa smiled gratefully and slipped closer.
Through the narrow opening she could see into the chamber. A single candle burned upon a small table, its light casting long shadows across the walls. Her father lay upon the bed, half-buried beneath a heavy blanket. His breathing came slow and heavy, and his face looked thinner than she remembered. The strong, stern lord of Winterfell seemed terribly frail lying there so still. Her heart clenched painfully at the sight.
Nearby the physician had fallen asleep in his chair, his chin resting against his chest while he kept watch. For a moment Sansa simply stood there, looking at her father and wishing she could help him somehow. The sight made her eyes sting, and she felt very close to tears.
"Sansa."
She was startled when the voice had come from behind her. Turning, she saw Arthur standing a few paces down the corridor. He wore only a plain linen shirt and breeches, as though he had been roused from sleep. His hair was loose and uncombed, falling about his shoulders in soft disarray. In the dim light he looked far less the shining knight of the court and more like the boy she had once known at Winterfell.
"Would you like to paint?" he asked.
The simple kindness of the question made her throat tighten. For a moment she could not answer. Then she wiped quickly at the corner of her eye and managed a small smile. "Yes please."
Arthur returned the smile gently. "Come then," he said. "I have already stolen the solar for our mischief."
Sansa glanced once more through the door at her sleeping father before stepping away. Alyn gave her a small nod as she passed. Arthur led the way down the quiet corridor toward the small solar they had used the past few evenings. A pair of candles burned there already, their warm light falling across the table where parchment and paints had been laid out.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked lightly as he took his seat.
Sansa shook her head. "I kept thinking he might wake."
Arthur nodded as though he understood. He handed her a brush and dipped another into a small pot of dark ink. "What shall it be tonight?" he asked. "Dragons? Mermaids? Or something fiercer still?"
Sansa settled into the chair opposite him, the familiar smell of paint and parchment easing her heart.
"Perhaps a wolf," she lied to him.
Arthur smiled as he began to sketch. "A fine choice."
They set their boards upon a small table near the high windows that overlooked the yard below. The shutters stood open to the night, and the moon shone pale and bright above the towers of the Red Keep. Its silver light spilled across the stone floor and touched the paints and parchment with a soft glow.
Arthur worked in silence once they had settled themselves. He seemed always to fall quiet when he painted, as though the brush spoke for him better than words. Already his hand moved across the parchment in confident strokes, though Sansa could not yet tell what shape was forming beneath his brush.
Arthur was a gifted painter, his hand steady and sure. With a few swift strokes he could bring a creature to life upon parchment. Sansa had watched him draw dragons with wings like stormclouds, great sea leviathans rising from dark waters, and slender mermaids with hair flowing like kelp in the tide.
Her own drawings were simpler. She favored lions and wolves, the sigils of the great houses she loved best, and winter roses blooming pale against the snow.
"You draw very neatly," Arthur had told her once, smiling as he studied her work. It had pleased her more than she wished to admit.
She turned her own board toward the candlelight and began again where she had left off the night before. The image had lingered in her thoughts for days and now she tried to bring it to life.
It was the morning of the joust. Arthur had come that day clad in armor, blue and green enamel chased with bright silver along the edges. When the sun struck it the plates seemed almost to glow.
Sansa had thought him the very image of a gallant knight from the songs.
He had spoken first with her father, standing tall and easy in the courtyard while the squires made ready the horses. Then he had turned to Arya. Sansa remembered it clearly. Arya had been scowling as she often did when people talked about something she could not hear.
Arthur had bowed lightly before her. "My lady," he had said, smiling, "might I ask a favor of you?"
Arya had gone red at once, as though someone had struck her. For a moment she simply stared at him. Then she sputtered something under her breath and fled the yard at a run, muttering curses all the while.
Arthur and her father had laughed at the girl's wildness.
Sansa had not laughed. She had stood there burning with anger and confusion, thinking why had he not asked her for a favor? It should have been her. She was the elder sister. She was the lady. She knew how such things were meant to be done. Yet Arthur had chosen Arya.
The injustice of it had stung deeply. Before long she had slipped away from the yard entirely, though she doubted anyone had noticed.
She had climbed the winding steps to the outer walls above the godswood. From there the sea could be seen stretching wide and gray beyond the city. Sansa loved that view more than any other in the Red Keep. At Winterfell there had only been forests and snow, but here the world seemed endless.
Sansa had stood there alone, hands clasped before her as she whispered a prayer to the gods. She never heard him approach. Not even with all that armor.
"I apologize for not asking you, my lady. I hope you forgive me. I did not wish to overstep," Arthur said sweetly, "for you are betrothed to our prince."
Sansa felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Of course he was right. Prince Joffrey was her betrothed, her future husband, the man who would one day be king. If any knight had the right to ask her favor, it was Joffrey. Yet the thought did little to quiet the strange ache in her chest.
She forced herself to smile politely. "You mistake me, ser," she replied courteously, though the words felt stiff upon her tongue. "I am not wroth with you. I did not wish for you to ask me. In fact I am pleased you asked Arya. I apologize for how she behaved."
Arthur regarded her for a moment with that quiet smile of his, as though he saw more than she had meant to show. "Forgive me for my presumptions then," he said lightly.
Sansa turned her face toward the sea and frowned, "It is all right."
Arthur stepped beside her at the wall and looked out across the water. For a time neither of them spoke. The wind stirred his cloak and carried the distant cries of gulls from the harbor below.
"I will be sailing away again, to the south first, and then to the north." Arthur said after a while, resting his hands upon the stone as he spoke. "Would you like me to bring you something? Or deliver something for you to home?"
Sansa considered that. The thought of Winterfell stirred a soft longing in her heart. She pictured the snowy courtyards, the sound of the direwolves howling in the night, and her mother's gentle voice in the great hall.
"South to war," she said slowly. "How long will that last?"
"No one can be certain, my lady," Arthur replied. "Wars have a habit of lasting longer than anyone intends. But what I do know for certain is we will return home, before the winds of spring blow."
The wind tugged gently at his hair as Arthur looked toward the harbor. The words had pleased her more than she had wished to show. Even now, thinking about it, Sansa felt a small warmth stir within her chest. She lowered her brush for a moment in the candlelit solar and studied the painting before her.
So Sansa had tried to capture what she herself had wished to do that day.
Arthur stood there in his armor of blue and green, gazing toward the sea. She had painted the sunlight upon the metal as best she could remember it. Beyond him she had drawn the curve of the wall and the distant line of the sea. His shadow stretched long upon the stone.
And there, by his side, she had drawn herself, bent over and painting the shadow that fell across the wall. It was a foolish little fancy, she knew. Yet she liked the thought of capturing that moment. Sansa dipped her brush once more and added a final line along the edge of the armor.
Across from her Arthur still worked quietly upon his own piece. The candles flickered between them, as the night went on. No one spoke, not even the guards that stood watch at the walls moved. Only the faint scratch of brush against parchment broke the silence.
At last Arthur leaned back slightly in his chair and glanced toward the window where the moon hung pale above the yard. "We have been at this longer than I realized," he said after a moment. "An hour at least, perhaps two."
Sansa looked up in surprise. "I had not even noticed."
"I believe I have done enough harm for one evening," he said smiling. "How fares your own work, my lady?"
Sansa's fingers tightened around the brush. "I… it is nearly finished."
Arthur tilted his head with interest. "May I see?"
For a moment she hesitated. A strange feeling of shyness crept over her. The painting felt more personal than she had meant it to be, though she could scarcely say why.
"Not yet," Sansa nervously replied, and asked, "What did you paint today, Arthur?"
Arthur smiled and said. "Something for you."
The answer made her blush at once. She felt her heart quicken in her chest. "What is it?"
Arthur rose from his chair and beckoned her closer. "Come and see."
Sansa stood and crossed the small distance between them. As she drew near she caught the faint scent that clung to him, pinewood, steel, and a trace of smoke from the candles.
Her heart began to beat faster still. Arthur turned the board so she could see.
For a moment Sansa could not speak. The painting was of her. She stood upon the parchment clad in the blue silken gown she wore that evening. The artist had caught the fall of the cloth so that it seemed to ripple softly about her. Over her shoulders lay a mantle of snow-white fur clasped with a silver wolf.
Her hair had been painted in soft auburn strokes that caught the candlelight and her face was calm and thoughtful, her gaze turned slightly aside as though she listened to some distant song.
Sansa stared at it, astonished. She had never thought herself so lovely. In the mirrors she was only a girl with red hair and flushed cheeks. Yet here the girl upon the parchment seemed almost… ethereal.
Sansa wondered if she had truly looked like that. Or if this was simply how he saw her.
"You have made me far prettier than I am," she said at last, her voice quiet with embarrassment.
Arthur only smiled a little and said. "I painted what was before me."
Sansa shook her head, though she could not help smiling faintly as well. "That cannot be true."
Arthur did not answer. Instead he studied her for a moment, his eyes thoughtful in the dim light. Then, quite suddenly, he leaned forward and kissed her brow. The gesture was so quick and gentle that she scarcely understood it until it had already happened.
"Your father will be fine," he said quietly. "Now go to sleep, my lady."
Before she could find any words to answer him, he had stepped away. The candlelight caught briefly in his hair as he moved across the chamber. Arthur did not look back and the door closed softly behind him.
Sansa remained where she stood, the painting still resting before her. She realized suddenly that her eyes had grown wet, though she could not have said why. he watched the door for a long moment, listening to the faint echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.