Chapter Text
If I do not leave, I will die here.
There was, in no reality, a way that she could escape on her own through the city streets. There was no battle to distract, nor valiant knight appearing in her room to whisk her away, and though it was night now, the darkness would conceal more than a lone maid attempting escape.
Robb was still in the Riverlands winning battles against Lannister forces and Stannis Baratheon was mustering support for an attack, yet there was no intelligence as to when that would be. She could of course stay in the capital and wait for rescue, but she could expect the same ill treatment and perhaps worse if she did.
Rescue could be months away. Sansa thought, I’m not so sure I can take much more of this.
Sansa stood in front of her mirror and lifted her shift to trail the tips of her fingers along the darkening bruise at her side. Unfortunately this was nothing new; with each of Robb’s victories, she was called to the throne room and new bruises soon bloomed on her skin. Even the softest strike was enough to mark her pale skin and she feared what would come next. Joffrey had been playing with his new crossbow a great deal lately, and there were rumours Shae had passed on, of girls—bodies—that had to be removed from the King’s Chambers.
They might have been whores, but I know he sees us all the same. Highborn or lowborn. As the King we are his to command, to torture, to kill.
It could be me next.
The only man who could possibly reign in Joffrey was Tywin Lannister himself, and he was not in the capital. Time was running out and Sansa had a terrible feeling that Robb would only arrive in time to retrieve her body. She did not want that sight for him, nor that fate for her.
I have to leave. I must do it now.
She didn’t have the Wolf Blood like Arya. She was delicate and sweet and obedient, singing pretty songs in pretty dresses and thanked Joffrey for being merciful when the King grew bored of ordering his guards to hit her. The Hound, who had not hit her so far, though likely because Joffrey had never ordered him to do so, had always called her Little Bird. He was right — more than he knew. She was not a wolf — something that had always been a point of contention between herself and Arya, their temperaments and interests being almost polar opposites. She had wished to be a wolf once, and she hoped that it was something that had come in time, but a wolf would not help her escape this.
A wolf could run and bite and howl, but a bird could fly.
I am a little bird, and I will leave this place.
Sansa let her shift drop and moved slowly toward the window, each step sending pain shooting through her side. It felt all too easy to unhook the latch and push open the panes, her gauzy curtains fluttering in the warm breeze that flowed into her room, and though it pained her, her slippered feet found easy purchase on the stone sill. She could take nothing with her.
What use did the sea have for jewels and dresses and dolls?
Her bones felt hollow, legs weak as she stood there, feeling the warm breeze tease her shift. Her feet ached inside her soft slippers and her shoulders rippled with pain as she forced them back and stretched out her arms. Sansa looked up at the dark starry sky instead of the sheer drop that hung beneath her high window.
Let me fly. Let me soar amongst the stars. Let the wind take me far from this wretched place.
With every part of her aching, Sansa stepped from the sill, and fell.
*****
The wind was strong and the sea mirrored the dark sky which churned angrily, heralding another storm. Shireen had taken the chance to get some exercise and fresh air before she was once more confined inside. The last storm had hung over Dragonstone for three days and four nights, and knowing her luck the next would last for the same. It was a relief to be out of the castle; like she could finally breathe. There were so many people stuffed in the halls and rooms and meetings, preparing and planning for her father’s assault on King’s Landing. Once there, he would break the Lannister forces and take the Iron Throne.
Shireen walked slowly along the black sands, her guards following at a discreet distance behind. Patchface hummed an odd tune beside her while Edric had rushed ahead to fight invisible foes with the piece of driftwood he’d found at the water’s edge.
Though she knew it was a ways off, the thought of leaving Dragonstone for King’s Landing was not a pleasant one. Though the decoration left something to be desired, the stone dragons often featuring in her nightmares when she was younger, she had a fondness for them which surpassed the opulent luxury of the Red Keep. Dragonstone’s dangers were obvious, open for all to see. King’s Landing was full of false smiles and hidden knives, just waiting for the opportunity to strike. Her father had hated it intensely, which made it tragic that he would claim the ugly chair as his own. It was his right, his duty…but he did not want it, and truthfully, nor did she.
I would have liked being a Lord’s daughter. Even as I am now. Of Dragonstone, or Storm’s End, if Uncle Renly would ever be sensible enough to give it up when he and father meet.
The bannermen of the stormlands should rightfully come to her father’s banner, and yet they supported his younger brother, Renly Baratheon instead. Surely they could see that it would set a precedent for second or even third sons taking over from their heirs? Or was it the numbers and the wealth of the Tyrells that drew them in? Did they see her father on the losing side should he face them in battle, some might even switch sides if they believe the battle might not go their way…
Idiots and cowards all.
A surprised yell caught her attention up ahead. Edric, using his driftwood sword was poking something upon the ground. It was neither stone, nor shell and stood out starkly against the black sands in a bundle of feathers. Shireen hurried toward her cousin, curious at what he had found. As soon as she was close enough to see what it was Shireen let out a gasp.
“Stop it, Edric! You’ll hurt it!”
Shireen batted the driftwood sword away and crouched low, her dress readily soaking up water while grains of sand clung to the hem.
The poor thing was in bad shape. Still alive, but exhausted. It couldn’t have been there long - likely caught in the storm…if they left it there on the sand the incoming tide would drown it, which would be a shame because it looked a pretty thing. Larger than a song bird with strange copper coloured feathers. It struggled weakly against the sand and Shireen’s heart ached for the creature.
However, Shireen was not one to hesitate, and demanded Edric’s cloak.
With a swift, but gentle hand, Shireen laid the cloak atop the bird and scooped it up. The bird squawked strangely but Shireen had safely pinned its wings to the side of its body with the fabric so it could not struggle and hurt itself.
Fascinated that the creature was still alive, and their antics having caught the attention of the guards who now hurried toward them, Shireen and Edric moved quickly back the way they came, wondering whether Cressen would be in his rooms or with King Stannis.