The Red Woman had a habit for wandering around in the dark and cold, appearing in unexpected places at oft-inconvenient times. He rode hard and made quick time, running his mount at a canter. The daylight had not yet fully begun it's advancement by the time he arrived, just a purple smudge on the horizon.
...
She awaited him by the gate in the cold, wrapped in a bearskin so large it made her look rounder than Sam. A half-blind horse was beside her, shaggy-grey and not quite yet dead. Both gelding and girl had breath that frosted in the air, filling it with mist.
"You have enough food?" Jon asked.
Val patted a saddlebag with a gloved hand. "Hard breads and cheeses, oat cakes, all sorts of salt-meats, and some wine. I'll not starve, even if times may turn lean." She eyed Jon warily. "I swear, Lord Snow, that I will return. With Tormund or without him."
"I should hope so," Jon said. "Else it'll be my head."
Val nodded, and together they set off. The road beneath the wall was winding, narrow and cold enough to freeze one's feet. The gates opened one by one, the guards offering a curt bow to Jon but openly gawking at Val. When they emerged on the other side, Val paused to gaze at the land before her. There was the snow-covered plains that just a few months ago had played host to Mance's army, and then the haunted forest beyond. Jon turned to look at the girl.
Val's golden blonde had turned silver in the dying light. Her cheeks had turned the colour of milk in the cold. Her gaze looked worried. Scared, almost.
"You need not do this, my lady," Jon said. You staying might save my head, Jon thought, though he knew that was not the real reason.
Val laughed. "You take me all this way before the light of the morning and then offer me mercy here." She shook her head, taking a bracing breath, letting a chuckle blend into a stoic courage. "No. I will not leave Tormund to die. It is not so bad, anyways. I know those woods better than any black-cloaked ranger. It holds no ghosts for me. And the air tastes sweet besides."
Jon's tongue felt numb and dry. "All I can taste is cold."
"This is no cold," Val said. "When the Others come, when it hurts to breathe, then it will be cold."
Jon nodded, sobered by the thought.
"You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the supplies, the blades beneath my fur - both the steel and the dragonglass - and for the taste of free air. It is good to be away from the Red Woman." Val's look soured. "I don't trust her. Fire is a fickle thing. Nobody can know which way it'll blow."
"I'll be sure to keep an eye on her," Jon said. "And you don't need to thank me - bring me the Giantsbane and I'll consider us even,"
Val smiled and cast her eyes again out to the forest. "This is farewell, then." She looked back at Jon, their breaths mixing into mist in the air between them.
Jon felt the temptation, the urge there. Not since Ygritte had he looked at a woman this way. He could not help but note her features. Had Stannis made his offer here and now, Jon didn't know if he would have been able to refuse. Winterfell and this woman. But that notion lay buried beneath dark thoughts and the stiff chill and the hunger growing in his belly. He let the moment slip away, not trusting himself, and simply nodded his assent. "I'll watch for your return."
Val almost seemed disappointed. She nodded back, mounted her horse, wheeled it's nose north, and set off at a trot.
Jon watched her go, letting the worries leave his mind for a moment.
He watched her shrink in the distance.
He watched as the woods swallowed her whole.
And before he turned back, he offered the Old Gods a silent prayer for her safe return.
...
( Sansa POV )
Sansa could not help but flinch when the blade fell.
That Petyr would be executed had not been in doubt for days. His trial had been swift, and his conviction unanimous. Not even his supposed allies dared stand with him. His attempts at convincement fell on deaf ears. One by one, all those whose favour he'd worked so carefully to win turned around to condemn him. Neither Nestor nor Lothor spoke up to object on behalf of their employer. The murder of a Vale lady could not be so easily forgiven, would not be so easily brushed aside.
Not by the Vale lords. Not by her.
Yet his more desperate pleadings of innocence still rung in her ears. He's a liar. A liar. A liar and a murderer. Not that she'd minded when he'd murdered Joffrey. Not that she'd even really minded when he'd killed Lysa. Aunt Lysa was going to push me through the Moon Door. Both times, Petyr had acted to protect her.
Sansa felt sick. Shame and rage and fear and sorrow swirled within her.
Yet she was too far gone now for regrets. Even as her gut clenched and writhed and her heart raced so fast she thought it would run out her chest, Sansa stood fast and joined the chorus in condemnation. She had no choice. She had committed herself the moment she'd uttered those first tearful, thoughtless words. It was him.
Even as she secretly wept in her chambers till it felt like her eyes would fall out. Even as she kept Arya's letter tucked tight to her breast like an invaluable treasure. Hoping with all that she had that the last bit of family she had left in this world wasn't a well-crafted trick.
When she closed her eyes, she saw Petyr, gaze chock full of longing, eyes red with the pain of betrayal, rage bubbling in his gut, heavy irons about his wrists. He only wanted to fuck you, Sansa reminded herself. Because you looked like your mother. He wanted to make you a whore. To rape you. Like Jeyne.
It was that thought that allowed her to keep her stomach as they dragged Petyr off into the cells, a doomed man.
Yet the method of his demise was hotly debated. Many advocated for the Moon Door, for him to suffer the traditional fate of scoundrels in the Eyrie. The same fate he had condemned Lady Lysa to. But the letter, arrived by exhausted raven at the eleventh hour, had sealed his fate. The king demanded his head.
The task fell to Lord Yohn. It was his hand that did the deed. The head was quickly collected and buried away in a wicker basket, out of sight of Sansa's churning stomach, and the discussions promptly began as all the Lords Declarant retired to the solar. The chattering began as soon as the men were seated, and Sansa listened half in a daze as she tried to force the image of Petyr's head from her mind.
He's not father, she had to remind herself, though for a while he'd been as good as one to her. He's not father. And Lord Yohn is not Joffrey. It was no use. Only a distraction could quell her unease.
"Are we agreed on the issue of succession?" Lord Yohn asked.
"Of course," Lord Belmore wheezed. "We all knew you'd be Lord Protector in any case."
Lord Yohn nodded gratefully. "Till Lord Robert comes of age."
"And you'll have the privilege of raising our young lord, eh?" Lord Hunter cracked a smile. "Any luck and the young Lord Robert Arryn will think of you the same way Robert Baratheon thought of his foster father."
"That brings us neatly enough to the issue of the crown," Lady Anya interjected.
Lord Horton Redfort huffed, shook his head and scowled. "What of it? We ought not be bending the knee to that boy on the Iron Throne. Stannis is the one true king."
"Stannis is all but beaten," Anya said, shaking her head. "Winter will hit the North harder than anywhere else. Even if Stannis is victorious against the Boltons, it doesn't mean his cause is hopeful. The Iron Throne has Arya Stark-"
"And we have her sister," Horton pressed.
"Aye," Yohn ground out. "But the Iron Throne has food and supplies as well. Enough to avert famine. When he offers the northern lords a choice, who do you think they'll choose? We might have avoided the worst rigours of war, and our stores may be full to bursting enough to feed us, but add the burden of another kingdom's worth of mouths to that and I think you'll find our larders quickly run dry. And the northerners get a Stark either way.
No. The Boy King offers us forgiveness. We would be wise not to spurn it. That does not mean we need make common cause with Lannisters, but we are better off not making them our enemies yet."
Lady Anya nodded sagely. "Glad to see you've got some sense."
"And then there's the question of how he knew," Sansa spoke up, the words bubbling up to her lips. She had been preparing for this moment the second she had laid eyes on the letter.
...
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