Chapter Text
Sansa sees her father’s head being cut off on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. The sun is shining, and she is screaming, screaming, screaming-
Blood spurts, Joffrey laughs, and Sansa faints away.
...
She wakes up on... grass?
Grass and mud , and her gown’s a mess, and-
And-
And she’s alone.
Oh. Gods. Joffrey’s abandoned her, hasn’t he? He’s kicked her out of King’s Landing. Left her to her own devices. Probably hoping she’ll die out here, just like he did to-
Don’t think about him.
But if he wanted that to happen, then she’ll not let him. Sansa is a Stark, like her fath-
Don’t think about him.
-like her brothers and sister. She’ll survive this. She must. She has to, even if all she wants is to weep.
Slowly, she drags herself upright. Her stomach hurts; she hasn’t eaten anything in too long, and there are probably bruises there from one of the Kingsguard holding her back from going to her-
Don’t think about him.
Sansa picks a direction, and starts walking.
It isn’t easy: her shoes are impractical slippers that cause blisters- which she ignores until they get slippery from the blood- finally, she walks barefoot on the side of the road, on the cool grass. But by then her legs are aching and her dress is drenched in sweat. Her throat is parched. She feels numb, detached; even the pain is lessened. Sansa doesn’t even have the strength to feel scared or angry or hateful.
Then she hears the sound of rushing water. It isn’t much; Sansa doesn’t have food, either, but the thirst has become a raging issue, and so she rushes towards the sound until she sees the stream. She doesn’t have anything to drink with- no cups- but if she curls her fingers in and gathers the water that way, it serves enough to sate the thirst.
The rest of her gown gets wet, too, but it’s almost refreshing after so long in the sun.
A sound makes her go still.
She doesn’t know what to do: go towards it or away? Can she rely on a stranger for help? Where will she go?
Joffrey likely doesn’t want her back in King’s Landing. The North’s too far. And how can she trust anyone now, when she’d trusted Joffrey so much and he’d done this to her, to her fath-
Don’t think about him.
But before she can decide whether she wants to hide or not, a man walks through the trees. Her heart starts thundering. He has dark hair; a long face; if he turned to look at her, they’d be stern grey eyes. Sansa’s certain of it.
She squeaks, a little, and he whirls around, almost drawing his sword.
Father.
She stumbles backwards. Father’s face twists, looking horrified, and he reaches a hand out, and Sansa recoils.
Recoils a step too far.
The mud beneath her feet slips into water, and Sansa falls backwards, straight into the water, crying out. Her skirts get tangled in the water so it takes her a minute to get her bearings, then another to break above the water. It’s not too fast of a stream- the water’s shallow enough, all told- but it’s cold, and she yelps miserably, trying to wade her way back to shore.
Warm hands on her waist help lift her out. Sansa goes to thank him and sees his face.
“Father!” she gasps, and turns in his hold, and throws her arms over him before squeezing hard.
Arya’s far more likely to act like this, but Sansa doesn’t care. Not now. Propriety didn’t save you from Joffrey, she thinks fiercely, and feels her father’s warmth, his beating heart, and refuses to let go.
Her father doesn’t return the embrace for a long moment, and when he does it’s a ginger, awkward hold. Sansa doesn’t care.
She has him back when she saw his head cut off.
Absolutely nothing else matters right now.
...
Right, thinks Boromir.
It’s not like life’s complicated enough as it is. Now he’s got a child clinging onto him like a limpet, calling him something that sounds like she thinks he’s her father, between the sobs.
“Lass,” he says patting her shoulder, hoping she’ll stop weeping at least long enough for him to see her face. Right now it’s just buried in his ribs, and she’s soaking through all four layers of cloth he’s wearing. Thinks about what he’s going to say: Are you alright? Can we talk about this? Why are you alone here?
The first has a clear answer, she’s in no shape to talk about anything right now, and the last probably doesn’t matter if she’s willing to tackle strangers and call them her parent.
“Would you like to sit down?”
She sniffles, and so Boromir takes her to a nearby tree and guides her down before getting up to get his packs. At that, the girl makes a high-pitched sound of protest.
“I’m just going to get my packs,” Boromir tells her, forces his voice to turn soothing. “Breathe, lass. I’ll be back.”
She watches silently, barely blinking, and then drags him back into an embrace after he’s brought them closer to the tree, and doesn’t let go of him even when he offers her some food. Finally, finally, she says, “I thought Joffrey- he- he asked for your head.”
“I’m not sure who Joffrey is,” says Boromir slowly, “but it’ll take more than just asking for my head to take it.”
“I saw him cut it off!”
Oh, merciful Valar.
A girl of this age, seeing an execution? Seeing her father’s execution? What manner of land is she from? What kind of a savage land allows that to happen?
“Not my head,” says Boromir.
The girl breathes in sharply. “Oh,” she says.
There’s a world of desolation in that voice.
Boromir sighs. But it would be worse to let the girl believe him to be someone he isn’t; better he tell her the truth before she lets the wound be bandaged improperly.
“I’m not your father, lass.”
She looks up at him tremulously, and the tears look like they’ll start again, though she looks away before they fall. “You look so much like him.” Then, even quieter, curling into herself, “Who are you, my lord?”
“Boromir, son of Denethor,” Boromir tells her proudly, but she doesn’t seem to know the name- or at least, she doesn’t have any visible reaction. “And you?”
“Sansa, of House Stark.”
She is pretty enough; the red hair isn’t often seen in Minas Tirith, but wouldn’t be out of place in Rohan. Perhaps she’s from there- though Boromir’s met Theodred, and he’d not seemed the kind of man to countenance executions that demanded the children watch.
“Well, Sansa of House Stark, to where are you headed?”
“Headed?” she asks, startled. “I don’t- know. If my father’s dead- if Joffrey’s sent me out of King’s Landing- I don’t know where I can go.” Her lip wobbles, but she pulls herself together remarkably well. “The North’s too far.”
“Is your home to the north?”
“No. Well, it’s in the North. You know- Winterfell.” She blinks at him. “I’m a Stark of Winterfell.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” says Boromir. “But I’ll tell you what- I’m headed to Rivendell, and Lord Elrond has enough maps there to drown us both whole. If you deign to accompany me that far, you can see where and how to best get to your- Winterfell.”
“Oh,” says Sansa. “I couldn’t possibly impose on-”
“I’m not in the habit of letting young women wander the wilds unprotected,” says Boromir firmly. “I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, Lady Sansa; we have taken oaths to protect innocents and children, and you are both. No harm shall come to you so long as I am here.”
She doesn’t respond for a long moment; her gaze is far away. Then she says, softly, “I would be in your debt, Lord Boromir.”
Right, thinks Boromir heavily.
He’s lost his horse, and he’s gained a girl. This shall make for either the best or worst of tales to tell Faramir when next they meet. Whatever else, thinks Boromir, as he tells Sansa to sleep and settles in for the first watch, it’ll not prove uninteresting.