War is an indiscriminating pain. Those of all races, sex, age and class feel it's wrath. War does not spare its hand for men, women, or children, not for kings, princes, princesses, noblemen, not for the just, or the unjust. All feel it's wrath. War is an inevitable evil that has its seed planted in every man and woman. Even the holiest of hermits have this inclination to turmoil, though they spend their lives and efforts on denying their own, natural-born nature. Every man has greed in his heart. Greed for something he does not already have. Even the most blessed of men and women want something they do not or cannot obtain. Men have limitations, and he cannot control everything, but he will always have the desire to. One man, one family, one house will want to control the Seven Kingdoms. Every family fights for that right. Every house through some means or another has found a claim to the Iron Throne, and in the name of the smallest right, they will butcher children, rape women, and burn villages. This minuscule right of theirs gives them enough comfort to sleep at night after widowing women, and orphaning children. Winter, it seems, has already come for most.
The location of the Iron Throne, in King's Landing looked strangely at peace. The golden sun filtered through the clouds, illuminating the sand-colored rocks, bringing warmth to the castle and surrounding city. For now, the city of King's Landing lay still and quiet. Very few outbreaks of violence or riots had happened since King Joffrey had ventured into the city. But thanks to his soon-to-be wife, Lady Margery Tyrell, she had somewhat pacified the masses with her beauty, kindness and tenderness. For now, that is. But ravens brought news of violence from across the Seven Lands. Since the head of Ned Stark left his shoulders, chaos began to spread. An honorable man, not afraid to speak the truth, not afraid to die. And many of the men who were loyal and true to him died that day and days after. The Stark's sigil rang true through the hearts of Northerners.
Winter is coming. And Winter had come to many of the Starks since that day, when the Lord of the Starks was beheaded in front of his own children, Arya and Sansa Stark. Arya had since gone missing, and Sansa was left alone without family or comfort. All reminders of home, all promises of safety, the warmth of the Winterfell walls, it was gone. And soon, it wouldn't just be gone for Sansa, the very stone of Winterfell would be destroyed, burned to the ground.
But there were signs, hints of a caring hand for Lady Sansa. The first sign of an anonymous protector came the day after her dire wolf Lady was slain. She would find, in her private chambers, a small envelope, inside was a
a miniature silver wolf. It was small enough to be hidden away in a pocket. It was a simple trinket. On the envelope were the words, "Lady Stark" in black ink. Perhaps it was a play on words. Whoever it was, they had taken the time to learn and remember the name of Sansa's slain companion. Stark became a name of betrayal around king's landing. And the Lady Sansa was called by her first name, not her sirname. However, the anonymous protector would leave trinkets, gifts, poems, all addressed to Lady Stark. Soon after her father's unjust execution, she received a silk hanker chief, with a simple, grey S embroidered in a corner of it, within an envelope entitled Lady Stark. And every so often, she received a plate of fresh lemon cakes—her favorite treat. She would always know it was from the same person, because whenever a gift was left, either in an envelope, or with a plate of lemon cakes, a small slip of parchment would read, in the same hand-writing, "Lady Stark." Even when news of her red flower blooming, she was given a small bottle of wine. She seal was unbroken, and with a silk string tied to the neck of the bottle was the slip of parchment with her name on it. Once her marriage to Tyrion Lannister took place, the messages still came.
The day of the news of the Red Wedding, there came no gift, no trinket, only a letter reading,
"Umber remains loyal to you, Lady Stark, Queen of the North."
The dawn was a beautiful orange and red one, and the thick beams danced golden against the sea, across the broken wreckage of Blackwater Bay, causing Baeorn Snow to wake from his not-so deep slumber. He knew that today was going to be dangerous, and more difficult for him than the days before. King Joffery and the Lady Margery were to be wedded today, and much planning had gone on the festivities. A most modest amount of gold had gone into this wedding, much to the amusement of Lord Baelish, who was, at one point, the treasurer of the realm. Now, he was gathering his things and getting ready to leave for the Vale, where he was to be wed to the Lady Lisa. Baeorn smirked to himself as he secured his leathers which fitted to his body beneath his armor. Once he was dressed and armed, his long, brown hair pulled back from his face, beard combed, he took his place outside the door of Peter Baelish's cabin. Here he would guard it until his master exited. For now, all that had to be done was waiting. Their ship blended in easily with the rest of the broken ships around them. Once they got to setting sail at night, no one would notice. All of the attention would be within the city walls.
Baeorn sensed a stirring on the other side of the wooden door. He straightened his back as the door opened, and out walked Lord Peter Baelish in his fine silk clothing. Without a word he continued down the hall and up to the main deck, Baeorn following closely behind. Baelish climbed to the top, and spoke with the captain is his raspy, thin voice,
"Everything is ready, I assume?"
Baeorn turned his head and looked up at the golden city above them. He subconsciously pressed the palm of his hand to the hilt of his sword. He felt uneasy. It was going to be dangerous. He was used to being close to Sansa, having her in his sights. Lately, with Littlefinger's scheming, it had been easy for Baeorn to be near Sansa, since, after all Littlefinger ordered him to keep an eye on her, and give him news as to how she was doing. However, Littlefinger wasn't the only one concerned with Sansa's wellbeing. From time to time, he would catch a glimpse of Tyrion's bodyguard. Baeorn believed he had never been spotted, but he couldn't be absolutely sure. Baeorn noticed Sansa found solace in prayer. Many times he would find her knelt in a prayer garden. He would linger amongst the pillars, watching her, vacant face, tortured expression. He saw her wipe her tears with the embroidered silk he left her. He would disappear before she could look up.
Now was the time for him to truly prove his loyalty to her and her family. He knew that having Sansa at the Vale was not much safer than having her at King's Landing. It kept her out of the reach of Ceresi, but leaved her vulnerable to Baelish. Baelish... Baeorn's stomach twisted sickeningly. He knew Littlefinger's desires. That twisted little worm. He saw the way he slithered to and fro, gaining the poor Lady Stark's trust. Becoming her friend, tightening the noose around her young, pretty little neck. Baeorn could only imagine what might happen once she was under his devilish wing at the Vale. What would happen when Lisa wasn't looking? Baeorn would be standing guard at Littlefinger's chambers, and what would happen within them? He feared he may not be able to protect the Lady Stark much longer without revealing himself. She had to be taken away from both King's Landing and Peter Baelish. Partly why she must come to the Vale with them. The Vale was far from King's Landing. While there would still be threats there, there wouldn't be as many as there were here, especially once the Purple Wedding ended. Baeorn prayed to the old gods and the new that perhaps Lisa would distract Peter enough for Baeorn to steal Sansa safely away before he could get his hands on her, but he couldn't be so sure. After spending a few days at the Vale, Baeorn would know more about how to execute his plan. But for now, getting Sansa from one danger and into another was top priority. And this time, Baeorn wouldn't be able to protect her. It was up to someone else, up to Littlefinger and his puppet. And it made Baeorn altogether uneasy.
Baeorn had been in King's Landing for over a year, and this whole time, there was almost no visible fruit to show for his loyalty. But now, it was the time for harvest. He hoped that the small seeds he planted for Sansa would soon become a blossoming trust when he revealed himself to her. She may have already guessed who he was. He had, on several occasions addressed her as Lady Stark, even after her wedding. She was a smart girl, and Baeorn knew it. He had been sent to King's Landing by Lady Catelyn Stark to watch her family as well as keep a watchful eye on Littlefinger, hence his position at his side. Posing as a bastard Snow kept Beorn from the suspicions of Littlefinger. Arya had slipped between his fingers, and Lord Eddard had been beheaded right before his eyes. And his head was now displayed on a pike. Baeorn had managed to have Eddard buried, he pulled a few strings, made a few threats, left a few marks, but it was done. He had the body secretly shipped back to Winterfell, so he could join his ancestors in death. However, the head of the honorable Eddard was left for the dishonorable sport of the child king. Baeorn would pass the display of heads from time to time with Littlefinger. Each time he would lift his eyes up to Lord Eddard Stark, and each time he made a promise to himself. He would keep Sansa safe, if it meant he had to lose his own head. Winter was not coming. Winter had come.
As the sun rose over the tips of the horizon, so did she, much to her great regret. With the climb of the sun, Sansa's eyes opened to draw her from the heaven of sleep and drag her into the waking world she so despised. Life was precious and cherishable, something her mother had taught her many years ago, but in the endless eons it had been since she arrived in King's Landing the young woman was beginning to question what life meant, what it was. She glanced over to her sleeping husband, the scar across his face illuminated by the sunrise, and turned her gaze out toward the glittering balcony once more. Sleep had not come easily to her but she cherished it all the same, and when each morning came with a rude awakening she was reminded of the hell that surrounded her.