For Blood and Wine are Red

Chapter One

Why do I do this to myself? I'm hopeless. I also simultaneously freaked out both my husband and a visiting palaeontologist by bawling my eyes out whilst writing this, so, yay me I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. The idea for this one came from YouTuber Littlefinger from their video The Direwolves.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

"He doesn't mean Lady, does he?" She starts to shake from head to toe. "No, not Lady, Lady didn't bite anyone, she's good!"

"Lady wasn't there!" Arya barked out, more wolf than girl and this time Sansa is thankful for it. "You leave her alone!"

She turns to her father then, begging, "Stop them, don't let them do it, please, please, it wasn't Lady!"

She is crying when her lord father calls to the king, "Is this your command? Your Grace?" The King gives Father a look that she has no words for, and leaves with his Kingsguard.

"Where is the beast?" The Queen queries.

"Chained up, outside, your grace."

With a smile that could almost be pleasant, the Queen turns to the Kings Justice. "Ser Ilyn, if you wouldn't mind?"

"No," Father interrupts. "Jory – take the girls to their rooms. If it must be done, I'll do it myself."

"Is this some trick?"

"The wolf is of the North. She deserves better than a butcher."

It is all she can do to hold in her sobs, but she finds the strength to gasp out, "Father!", and when he stops and half-turns to look at her, she says, "Let me say goodbye. Please."

Arya has a tight grip on Sansa's arm, and she uses this to centre herself. Her wild sister had known what was coming for Nymeria – if only they had both thought of Lady, this wouldn't be happening. Jory has a hold of each of them, a steady grip on her left shoulder that she has known all her life. It tightens when they are outside, for the Hound and his massive destrier are walking past them with the butcher's boy slung over the saddle like a bloodied bag of potatoes. Arya makes a pained, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat, and now it is Sansa holding onto her.

"He ran," The Hound answers their father's query. "But not very fast."

Both daughters of Winterfell are crying when they reach where Lady has been chained, holding each other's hands like they had when they were small, smaller even than Rickon is now. They both fall to their knees by the Direwolf, wrapping Lady in a hug tight enough to muffle their sobs. It is Father's hands on their shoulders now, Jory hanging back to give them all privacy. When he says, it's time, Arya pulls back first.

"Do you have to? The King never gave the order!"

"But the Queen did, sweetling. I must."

"The one that passes the sentence should swing the sword, that's what you always tell the boys!"

"They do things differently in the South." Father says slowly, taking Arya's chin in hand to make her listen. Sansa is staring into Lady's eyes, committing everything she can to memory. "At least this way, I can make sure that Lady will be returned to Winterfell, and not skinned for the Queen's chambers." The last is breathed, so quietly that Sansa almost doesn't hear it.

She hates this. This was supposed to be such a grand adventure, this was supposed to be a wonderful start to the rest of her life, and now she feels as though half of her soul is about to be torn away from her.

"If they die," Sansa whispers, voice choked by tears. "Then you shall bury them yourselves."

Tears stream down Sansa's face, and she can't do anything to stop them; Lady licks at her cheeks, whining in concern. "Give me your dagger, Father. And tomorrow, please, might I petition the King to take Lady home?" Her voice breaks, but she keeps her back straight and her eyes steady, even if they are too blurred to really see clearly.

"No, Sansa, you can't –!"

"She's mine," Sansa hopes the Gods forgive her for interrupting her lord father, but she needs to stay steady. "She's my responsibility. I am a Stark, and we keep the Old Way."

Father cups her cheek, and gives her a watery smile back. "Aye, sweetling. You are the blood of Winterfell."

He hands her his dagger hilt first, and Sansa twists the handle round and round her palm to try and know the sensation of it. She must remember everything that happens here this night, for she is a Stark, and they do not turn their faces. She shuffles closer to Lady to give her one last hug, and whispers in the wolf's ear her love and that she's sorry. She needs to look Lady in the eye; she owes her that much. Father wraps his hand around hers, repositions the dagger and together they move the blade to Lady's throat. Sansa swipes at her tears to clear her eyes, and then they jerk the blade together. Lady's blood flows thick and hot over her hand, stains her dress as the Direwolf gives an aborted yelp and collapses against her mistress.

Sansa feels like a monster.

She bends over to sob into her wolf's coat once again, feeling Father and Arya and Jory at her back. She hates this. She wants to go home – she's starting to think that they should never have left.

In the far distance, a lone wolf howls in agony.

"I would beg an audience with your grace," She says in the early hours the next morning, face and hands scrubbed clean and a new gown in place. Arya had helped her in the night, had helped her wash and clean Lady too, and carry the body back to Sansa's room where the sisters had shared a bed as they hadn't in many years. Arya had even assisted Septa in arranging Sansa's hair in a fashion that almost resembles Mother's, taking her usual twins braids back and adding another at each temple, twisting all four into a bun high on the back of her head in a Northern adaptation of the Southern courts. She had been the one to steal cosmetics from one of the ladies who had travelled with the court, so that they could hide Sansa's puffy eyes and palid cheeks.

Her curtsy is immaculate, her gown a pale blue that compliments her features and her Northern cloak thick around her shoulders like her own private armour. She still has Father's dagger, and she had Arya steal its sheath so that they could secretly sew it into the lining of her cloak, for bravery. She needs the physical reminder: she is a Stark, and she is of the North.

"Yes, girl, what is it?" The King demands, cheeks full of bread and sausage, and eyes watching the serving maids with a different type of hunger.

"When my lord father, your Hand, brought the Direwolves home he instructed us that they were our responsibility. We were to train them, and feed them, and when needs be, bury them, ourselves. If it please your grace, I beg that you allow me to return my Direwolf's body to Winterfell, so that I may follow my father's instructions."

"Have some manservant do it, girl." The King says dismissively, waving a fat hand.

"We are Starks, your grace," Sansa says politely, firmly, in a tone she has heard Mother use to remind unruly bannermen of their manners. "We keep the Old Way. She is my responsibility. How can I be a good Queen, let alone a decent lady, if I do not do my duty?"

King Robert snorts at her then, looking her squarely in the eyes. "Oh, you're Ned and Cat's daughter, alright! Fine then, girl. Do as you please – but make sure you come back South once you're done, mind! You can travel with the Imp, if he hasn't stumbled off the edge of the Wall."

"Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace," She curtsies again, and returns to her Father and sister to share the news.

"I'll send you home with Septa Mordane and Jory in a cart," Father tells her lowly, holding her hand.

"No," She whispers back. "Arya needs Septa more than I do. Jory will keep me safe."

"Let me go too," Arya begs. "I'll look after Sansa! I promise, we won't fight, and I'll even behave like a proper lady is supposed to!"

Father and Sansa both give Arya a look.

"That is a kind offer," Father says diplomatically. "But I would rather have you here with me. Someone will need to be the lady of our household until Sansa comes back, after all."

"No," Arya says sharply, shaking her head. "You won't need a lady on the road. But Sansa needs me now. And we can give Mother and the boys hugs from you too, promise!"

Father sighs, and asks, "The both of you, Septa, and Jory. And you promise not to fight?"

"We promise!" Both girls say together, earnest.

"Take only what you need, then. It may yet be safer for you to take a ship from White Harbour to Kings Landing, but I will speak with Jory now, and then if you speak with your mother when you return, we should find the safest route for both of you."

"Thank you, Father," they both smile and curtsy, and Arya is even quiet and more-or-less polite for the rest of the meal.

She probably would have stayed quiet for the rest of the day, if Prince Joffrey hadn't chosen to come up to them at the end of the meal.

"My prince," Sansa demurs, nudging Arya with her elbow so that her sister knows to copy her. Arya only gives a stony-faced nod of her head and a flat my prince. Sansa despairs for her sister's manners, but this is still a win compared to what Sansa is used to from her.

"My lady…" Joffrey returns. Sansa tries to appreciate his beauty, but all she can see is wormy lips and the cruel smirk of yesterday. All she feels is numb. "I hear that you are to leave us, already?"

"Only briefly, my prince," She answers, keeping her voice soft to try and hide the rasp from a night spent crying into her pillows. "I have a responsibility in Winterfell, and then I shall be by your side once more."

A look flashes through the prince's eyes, and she tries desperately not to assign a name to it. It is not beautiful. It is not kind. It does not befit a prince from the songs she loves so much. When he speaks, his voice is not beautiful either, and his words sound as though they have been read to him.

"Then for your protection in your journey, I pledge my Hound to you, to bring you back to my side even faster, my lady."

"I thank you for your kindness, my prince," she replies politely. "I am sure Ser Clegane will have me back to you in no time."

Joffrey gives an … unkind, unkingly nod of his head, and flounced – flounced! – away. Sansa swallows hard and pushes her plate to her sister. She isn't hungry anymore. She just wants to go home.

They travel back North all the rest of the day, Septa and Arya and Sansa at the fore of the cart, Lady and the butcher's boy's bodies in the back, and Jory and the Hound astride their horses and riding ahead of them. Arya has kept surprisingly quiet the whole trip, not even begging stories off of the menfolk, and it touches Sansa's heart to see just how hard her little sister is trying. This is what motivates her to take Jory quietly aside in the evening, and ask him to train her sister in swordcraft. If she herself were in better spirits, perhaps she would have laughed at the shocked look her request gets her.

"Are you sure, Sansa?" Jory asks her.

"I'm sure. I'll distract Septa and Ser Clegane. See if you can't bring some meat back though, maybe?"

"Aye," Jory says, shaking his head and smiling at her fondly. "We'll see how we go then, little Arya Underfoot and I."

She thanks him and begins her distraction. "Ser Clegane, they say you are one of the greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. Might you share a story with us, please?"

The scarred man eyes her warily even as Septa is scolding her for being unladylike. The Hound interrupts though, with a growled I am no ser, girl.

"My apologies, my lord." Sansa ducks her head, worried suddenly. There is anger in those sharp grey eyes, and it is the anger that she finds ugly and terrifying, not his scars. "I should not have assumed so."

"I'm not a lord either," Clegane growls. "My grandfather was a kennelmaster. I'm just Joffrey's sworn shield."

"Then… how would you have me address you, s – m –." It would be impolite to huff or growl herself, but that is almost what she feels like doing.

"Most everyone calls me Dog, or Hound," the big man smiles at her – a fake smile, a canine's bared teeth.

"And if I called you Dog," Sansa asks him, "would you then call me Wolf? I think not, ser-not-a-ser!"

"Sansa!" Sept snaps then. "A lady does not speak so!"

Sansa tries not to squirm or blush in embarrassment. "Forgive me, my lord. I am not myself – if it pleases you, might you share a story with us?"

Those eyes are assessing both her and Septa now, Sansa sees when she peeks through her lashes. There is an odd twist to his mutilated mouth that she is unsure of, but she puts it from her mind for later, sits back and listens to the not-a-ser tell of when he had been sworn shield to the Queen, and how a ball in the first year of King Robert's reign had gone spectacularly disastrous.

They are all of them so wrapped up in the tale that they almost miss Arya and Jory's return.

"Arya! Where on earth have you been?" Septa demands.

"I was helping Jory catch rabbits," Arya grumbles. "I thought Sansa and I could make Bran something from the hide, as a surprise for when he wakes up."

Sansa very carefully ignores the state that her little sister is in – too many sweat stains and not enough leaves in her hair – and hopes that if she doesn't comment, the adults won't either. "That is an excellent idea, Arya! What shall we make him?"

Arya simply shrugs, saying that she would catch and skin the beasts, and Sansa could do the stitching. Sansa feels that this is a more productive use of their abilities than trying to get Arya to be a lady all of the time, and hopes that Septa will agree.

(She does not. The argument is spectacular, even toned down for Clegane's sake and with Arya already trying her best to behave. Sansa is impressed all over again.

Clegane takes a moment to whisper to her as an aside, "Her I'd address as Wolf, that's for sure. You might be more a little bird than anything, chirping your courtesies so. Like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, repeating all the pretty words they taught you to recite. This septa trained you well."

She freezes with indignation, and spends the rest of the evening ignoring him coldly. She was just as much a Stark as her sister, he would see.)

In the end, the only one who doesn't go to bed angry is Jory, really, and yet when they all awaken and start back to Winterfell in the early hours of the morn it is both Jory and Clegane who are in chipper moods. Septa is perhaps the only female who doesn't resent them for this.

Sansa is seated between her sister and their Septa, and try as she might to get a story to brighten the day, Jory is the only one who indulges her. The Hound seems more interested in a verbal spar, and whilst Sansa appreciates that he is treating her as a woman instead of a child, she also feels that it is too familiar after all his talk of not-a-lord and not-a-ser.

It had taken the Royal Company a month and a half to get from Winterfell to the Crossroads Inn. It takes their little cart just over twelve days.

Twelve days of tension between Arya and Septa, with Sansa desperately trying to distract the older woman and Hound both, so that neither would notice Arya's secret sword lessons. Sansa is fairly certain that she is successful with Septa Mordane, but is only half-sure when it came to Sandor Clegane. He called her sister wolf girl and asked Sansa to tell stories of their family's wolfblood on the regular, a smile twitching away in the burned corner of his mouth. He called her little bird and smirked, too. She had caught him feeding bread crumbs to a mourning dove on the tenth day, when they were camped at Moat Cailin, and he had pointed out that the pretty creature still had claws. She had appreciated it, had given him a true smile for it and accepted it for the truce it was.

When finally they reach Winterfell, they are not met by Mother.

The sisters had half-hoped to see her first, but had known that if Bran was still asleep, then Mother was surely still at his side. It was Robb who greeted them, clearly pulled out of some meeting or another, ink stains on his fingers and a smear over his chin where he must have rubbed it absentmindedly. Theon was on his heels, and both youths were surprised when Sansa and Arya both tackled them in hugs.

The girls shook, and no doubt Robb and Theon could tell, but all were aware of the image that they had to present.

"Where's Father?" Robb demanded, eyes worried and face set in a copy of Father's Lord's Face.

"With the Royal company, still," Sansa answered. "We had to come back, and Sandor Clegane was kind enough to escort us." He still insists that he is neither ser nor lord, and she still insists against calling him Hound, so this is their compromise.

"What brings you back?" Theon asked, voice much quieter than before.

Sansa draws herself upright, holds herself steady and keeps her face blank, breaths, "'When they die, you will bury them yourselves.'"

Robb's face twists in an instant, and Grey Wind at his feet whines. The wolfpup trots to the cart, sniffs around it and throws his head back and howls. Answering calls come from within the castle ⎼ Shaggydog, and Bran's wolf. Tears are clawing their way up Sansa's throat, and she refuses to show this, this weakness in her family home.

I am a Stark, and my strength comes from Winterfell!

"Robb, if accommodation could be made for our escort, I would like to move to the lichyard. Please."

Her brother nods, moves towards the cart himself, clapping Jory on the shoulder before giving the Hound a nod, and quietly expressing his thanks for getting Sansa and Arya home safely, and then gathering the blanket-wrapped Lady. With a hand on each elbow, Theon steps between the sisters and guides them.

"Theon?" Sansa whispers, holding on to her composure by mere threads. "Would you be able to find a shovel for me, please?"

He is not her brother by blood, but that has never mattered before. It matters not now, when Theon takes one look at her face and knows what she needs. He gives her a nod, squeezes her elbow and moves to the stables at a quick pace. Robb speaks with him quietly, before moving to catch up with the girls, Grey Wind at his heels.

"How did this happen?" Their big brother asks Sansa, before seeing her face. He turns to Arya, and her answering whisper is ragged.

"It was my fault. I was practicing sword fighting with the butcher's boy, Mycah. Joffrey found us, and was cutting Mycah's face, so I hit him with my stick. He was going to cut me, too, but Nymeria bit him. I chased her away, so she wouldn't be caught, but we didn't think about Lady. The Queen said that she had to die in Nymeria's place."

"The Queen killed her?" Robb exclaimed. They had made it to the lichyard, now, and Robb led them to the back, where there were trees that could act as a marker for Lady's grave.

"I did. She was mine, and it was my responsibility," Sansa chokes out, dragging in a deep breath. "What's taking Theon so long?"

Twin yips behind them are the only warning the get before Shaggy and Bran's wolf barrel into the back of their legs, the pups jumping up and licking both girls' faces. When they can push the pups away and look behind them, it is to see Rickon flinging himself into their laps. Theon follows him, one hand holding the promised shovel, and the other helping to hold Bran piggyback. Both girls cry out in shock, and Sansa loses her battle against the tears. Their little brother is awake and alive!

Robb takes Bran from Theon's back and crouches on the ground, the four Starks collapsing into a group hug. Sansa is not the only one crying, she is happy to note.

"Theon says that Lady died!" Rickon shouts in their ears.

"Who killed her?" Bran demands, fists shaking.

"Me!" Sansa sobbs. She has an arm each around Bran and Rickon's shoulders, her nose buried in baby Rickon's hair. Arya is pressed up tightly against her side and Robb is behind them both, holding them steady, holding them together.

Theon is standing awkwardly apart from everyone, but Sansa looks up at him, holds out one hand imperiously, and gives a watery smile when he takes her hand and squeezes.

The lone wolf dies, she thinks wildly, but the pack survives.

Their tears are spent, Lady is buried, and the Starks and Theon have hidden themselves away in the Crypts with a flagon of wine that Theon had thought to snatch from the kitchens when he went to get fruit tarts for the children to all share together.

"To Lady," Theon toasted, giving the skin to Sansa for the first sip.

"I don't want to touch wine ever again," She says, voice thick still with the tears she had shed in the lichyard.

The older boys exchange too-quick looks, before Robb quietly prods, "Whyever not? Father only ever let's you have one cup at feasts."

"Prince Joffrey and I had been sharing a skin, when it happened. We had gone for a walk, and he told me that I could drink as much as I wanted, as his betrothed."

Another look was exchanged, and this time it was Theon who spoke.

"Arya, you weren't close to the camp when you were practicing, were you?"

"No, I wasn't that stupid! We were a ways away, down the river where noone could see."

"And, Sansa, the Prince was giving you lots of wine, where noone could see?" There was a hard note in Theon's voice, something that she hadn't ever heard before. There is rage writ clear on Robb's face, though, and Sansa feels like she is missing something major.

"Why are you mad?" She asks them both, fear licking up her spine.

"It could be innocent enough," Robb says diplomatically, though his mouth is still twisted down, anger hot in his eyes.

Theon interrupts. "But if a man is trying to get a woman drunk where none may see, usually it's because he wants to take advantage of her virtue."

Sansa feels the blood drain from her face, feels as though she is disconnected from the rest of her body as she stares at her big brothers.

This is nothing like the songs, and she does not like it.

"We are betrothed," She whispers. "Why wouldn't he wait until we are wed?"

"Sometimes," Theon says carefully, eyes faraway like they sometimes are when he is thinking of Pyke, "Men don't want to wait. And sometimes, when they're in a powerful position, they can get away with… certain things, and they think that they can always get away with those things."

The Crypts are quiet, the little boys wide-eyed and Arya as furious as Robb.

Sansa takes a series of deep breaths, eyes closed, before standing abruptly. She stalks to Grandfather and Uncle Brandon's tombs, taking their iron swords and thrusting them, hiltfirst, at Robb and Arya.

Baring her teeth, Sansa rounds on Theon, her father's dagger to hand, and snarls, "Teach us."

"Mother won't - " Bran begins.

"Mother isn't here, is she?" Sansa snaps back. "If Mother was here, Theon would have brought her when he brought you little boys, but he didn't! Where is she?"

"She and Ser Rodrik went South to tell Father about the Tower," Rickon piped.

"Mother thinks that it was the Lannisters who pushed me, and made me fall," Bran added. "And sent the assassin after me."

"Assassin?!" Arya cried. She, too, launches to her feet, grip white-knuckled on Uncle Brandon's blade.

"Teach us," Sansa snarls again, whirling back on the older boys. "We shall stay until Lord Tyrion returns from the Wall, and then sail from White Harbour to Kings Landing. So by the time he arrives, we will know how to defend ourselves!"

They are quiet, shocked, before Theon pulls a chuckle from gods-know-where, and says, "There's a wolf in you after all, Lady Sansa." He takes back the wineskin, toasts her with it, says, to the future Queen of Westeros! And from there, he shows her the correct stance for a knife fight. Robb gets his ankles rapped by Arya's blade when he overcorrects her for her forms, and Bran and Rickon giggle. Though they do not know it yet, this is the happiest their family will be for … quite some time.