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When Sansa had first come to King’s Landing she had been dying to see the Harvest Festival done in the glory and spirit it deserved. There was always a large feast in Winterfell, with dancing and games and bonfires. But the North had always seemed so bleak to her back then, childish and naïve as she had been. She could not wait to see the capital light up in thousands of candles, sit through lavish plays and performances, watch the holiday joust, dance among the best dressed ladies and lords of the Kingdom.
None of it had come to pass. There had even been a moment when she thought she’d never see another Harvest.
Instead, the Harvest had come and gone and she had barely noticed its beauty. Nothing had felt beautiful then.
When she had arrived in Dorne, smuggled out by a man she had never met before, told she would be protected but betrothed to yet another man she did not know – though not a Lannister this time – and given up all hope of ever seeing her home or her family again, Sansa did not think of the Harvest. She tried to make herself pleasing to her new betrothed – Prince Quentyn was kind to her, she could not refuse him that – and to her good-sister, the heir to Dorne. She had tried to take some comfort in the Water Gardens and the children who innocently sought her favor. With time, she had thought to perhaps make some kind of life for herself under the scorching sun, protected by sands and mountains and Dornish spears from the horrors of her enemies.
She had not thought of something as frivolous as the Harvest.
It was Quentyn who had brought it up on their daily walk that he insisted on taking and Sansa had begun to see as reassuring and even pleasing. Her fiancé was nice to talk to and he always did his best to listen to her, although Sansa was never certain what she ought to say. She told him that once, that she was afraid of saying the wrong thing sometimes. He had given her an odd, sad look – “I doubt anything you say, Lady Sansa, could be the wrong thing. You do not strike me as someone prone to lying.” That was laughably untrue at this point, although Sansa had never wished to lie. But she thought she understood what he meant, so she had nodded and given his arm a reassuring squeeze. He seemed quite awkward around her sometimes as well. Perhaps they were both frightened of saying the wrong thing.
But that morning Quentyn had looked at her sheepishly but without true anxiety and said, “My lady, I would have thought Arianne would tell you, but like as not she’s forgotten. We’ll be having a feast for Harvest and a masque, as traditional for Dorne. You—would you like to commission a mask yourself? A new dress perhaps. I don’t—I wouldn’t know your measurements.”
She had almost laughed at his blush before catching herself. “What ought I to be?”
“Oh, well…whatever you like, I suppose? Many will wear their house sigils if such fit. Would you like to be a wolf? Grey wool is too warm for this climate, but white lace and silk, perhaps for the dress? I’m not an expert, my sister would know better…”
She had considered that. There was a part of Sansa that yearned to be proud of her family once again, to name herself a wolf. A lady wolf. Lady… That old ache had never passed. How odd it was that she had lost both her parents, all her brothers, her sister too, most like, but she still could not forget her direwolf. Something about the thought made her shy away from playing pretend in this way.
“Could I be a…a bird, instead?” she asked. A bird, a little bird.
“A blue jay like in Oldtown?” Quentyn smiled at her fondly. “You would look stunning in blue. My lady. If I may say…”
This time she did laugh. It had been a while since anyone had sounded so earnest with her.
On the night of the Harvest feast, Quentyn brought her forget-me-nots and blue-yellow flowers the names of which Sansa was surprised to realize she did not know. The last time a man gave her flowers must have been at her first tourney in King’s Landing, when Ser Loras had given her a red rose. She had put so much store in that single red rose, so much girlish excitement. She could not quite muster those feelings anymore; they had been bled out of her by all the grief and fear and cruelty.
But Quentyn looked at her as though she was lovelier than the moon hanging low and pregnant over the sea, making night nearly as bright as day. She did not think any man had ever looked at her like that and it made something in her heart sing softly with a long-dashed hope. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek, her blue jay mask askew. “Thank you, my prince. They’re beautiful.”
Quentyn looked to be a desert cat of some sort, his tunic sandy-yellow and spotted black and brown. The mask he held in one hand had the distinctive ears of a tomcat. “I have one more thing for you, Lady Sansa. A gift for Harvest.” He reached into the basket she had initially thought was simply for the flowers, and out came a small, grey pup. It mewled and licked at Quentyn’s fingers. “I know it can’t… See, you’ve told me of your wolf, the one that died. I don’t have a wolf to give you, and I wouldn’t presume that anything could be the same, but… You seem to like animals, my lady? And she can be loyal to you too, and a comfort. You need not fear her, as she gossips not, only barks sometimes.”
Sansa’s heart skipped a beat, contracted painfully. Unable to say a word, she held out her hands and Quentyn placed the pup into her cupped palms. She was grey and small and very obviously a dog. Not like Lady at all. But something about how the pup looked at her, trusting and already devoted, was just close enough to make something inside Sansa break.
She buried her face into the pup’s fur so Quentyn wouldn’t see her cry.
He understood, though, and reached out tentatively to put a hand on her arm. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have…”
Sansa looked up and shook her head, blinking away her tears. “No, you should. I—she’s perfect, I only—” it scares me that you’re this kind to me. “I don’t have—” She bit her lip, breaking off. “We don’t do gifts at Harvest in the North.”
He smiled tentatively at that. “It’s nothing, really. We didn’t think to tell you and I don’t mind.”
I ought to have embroidered something for him, she berated herself. I’m completely losing all my good graces. The pup, oblivious, licked at her face.
That night, Sansa danced the way she hadn’t since first coming to King’s Landing. Quentyn wasn’t terribly much of a dancer, so Sansa took pity on him now and again to dance with his friends. Ser Cletus was charming and reminded her painfully of Robb sometimes. Ser Gerris was every bit the dashing knight who laughed and japed and begged her for a song.
She wasn’t quite happy and certainly not free. But for the first time in a while, happiness began to seem like something actually possible in real life, not only in a childish song.