Chapter Text
The crimson cloaked singer watched the festivities with a look of vague amusement. Perched upon one of the many benches he watched as the pampered lords, fat from good food and wine, feasted and merrily danced into the late hours of the night. He was singing along to the music, nursing a goblet of watered down wine. The lords and ladies implored him for song after song - so unused they were to singers this far north, they admitted. He recalled bawdy songs, heroic songs, and songs that were sure to appease the Stark family. At the end of one rendition he was drawn forward and presented to the noble family, and he sunk into a deep mocking bow that they mistook for mummery.
Lord Eddard Stark greeted him from his high seat behind the dais. Unlike the other lords he was quenching his thirst with plain water. “My eldest daughter is fond of singers. Indulge her, if you would be so kind.”
Two girls sat at his table but right away he guessed it was the one tucked close to her mother’s side. She was gazing at him in such wonder that for a second he thought wickedly about revealing his true self and watching, undoubtedly, as her face crumpled into disdain.
“Certainly, my lord. Would the young lady care to hear of poor sad Alysanne? Or Brave Danny Flint?” He strummed a loose note carelessly. “Or something else. A tune about her Little Flower, mayhaps? Or the naughty Dornishman’s wife?”
The boys at the table all chortled but the girl only blushed. “I would hear something beautiful, if it please you.”
Once more he dropped into his bold mocking bow and struck up the tune to a playful song of love and beauty. When he was done he was rewarded with a broach of seawater pearls for his efforts and the girl turned around to talk with a brother, the singer dressed in red at once forgotten. He thanked the lord and resumed his seat, although this time his light-hearted gaze was instantly drawn back to the dais.
She was no northern lass, that much was clear. This daughter of Stark was a proper young lady with all the charms and courtesies her high birth could afford her. Her face was all delicate sweeps and flushed cheeks; her lips a pouting pink rosebud, her almost bottomless blue eyes wide and innocent, her high brow fine. He could see plainly that she was made for silks; meant for southeron sunsets. When she laughed she did so politely, drawing a dainty hand up to her lips as though she could barely contain her mirth. When she stood to dance he saw that her figure was slender and pretty but it looked no good for enduring the harsh winters ahead. No doubt old Stark planned to marry her off below the Neck to a summer time family where all her wishes and desires could come true. A pretty ending for a pretty lass.
At ten and thirteen she was already a beauty but one day she would be magnificent. Best of all was her hair; long tresses of auburn so warm that beneath the candlelight it looked almost red. It reminded him of roasted chestnuts, of copper and cinnamon. Utterly kissed by fire.
The singer wondered if maidens high born into privilege were extra lucky?
Such a prize would be hard won. She was the eldest daughter of the honourable Lord Stark who knew full well the dangers facing impressionable young Stark girls. He kept her close at hand in the castle and never once in all his days of spying had this singer seen her venture far. She would no doubt be fully proficient in the womanly arts of music and needlework but her knowledge of the world outside was in its infancy. Such a plum prize was all too tempting to a wildling who believed that the greater risk, the greater the reward. The man who could steal Sansa Stark from beneath her great father’s nose would be a hailed above the Wall as a hero.
So he decided he would steal her. Tonight, if it were possible. The cold snows might be the death of her but perhaps there was some steel beneath that pretty face? She would need it.
He waited until the castle was asleep before sneaking along the silent halls towards her bedchamber. A guard was positioned at her door but he made quick use of the sharp dagger he kept tucked into his boot. The lad was already half asleep and so he took them utterly unawares, slashing his throat simply for good sport. Slipping inside the chamber was also easy, but there was a certain slyness to it all that brought a fiendish joy to his heart. He crept to her bedside and, without even realising it, froze in his place.
She was asleep, obviously, but laying so peacefully that she looked like she could be made from stone. The moonlight drifted in from the open window and fell across her so perfectly that he had to wonder if it wasn’t purposefully done. The skin above her nightshift was as white as snow and as she breathed her chest gently rose and sunk like a lightly ebbing wave. Her plump lips were slightly parted and her hair looked almost black as it fell across her pillow in scattered curls. It seemed almost a shame to wake her up and ruin this perfect scene of innocence.
He was about to shake her shoulder when her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she simply looked at him sleepily, her eyes still cloudy with dreams, but then he watched as those same blue eyes widened, realising at last that this was not her father come to give her a goodnight kiss or a brother to check she was safe. She swallowed visibly. “Who are you?” she whispered.
She should be screaming, he thought. She should be shouting for help. Not asking me who I am.
“My name is Mance. I’m here to steal you, my lady.”
She sat up and the blankets pooled at her waist. Her eyes flickered to the door and he was unsurprised to see panic there. In the moonlight her bright eyes seemed to almost shine.
“Doubtless your father has warned you about the dangers of being abducted.”
She licked her lips and he saw that she was trembling. “But why?”
“Because your lordly father is an enemy to my people. Taking you will show him and the rest of Westeros that the Wall means nothing. Because for hundreds of years your people have hunted my people and it's time we got our revenge. Because you are beautiful and your hair is kissed by fire. There are many reasons, lady, you may pick one.”
Before she could reply he tore the blankets off her bed and used his knife to cut them to strips. He used one to truss up her wrists. “I don't wish to harm you but I cannot have you panic and spoil my schemes,” he explained. “Forgive me but I must gag you with the other. If you scream during our escape the guards will be sure to hear and I'll have to kill them.” She said nothing throughout the process though her eyes flashed when he threw her warm blue cloak around her shoulders. He only chuckled, “you’ll thank me for that later. It’s cold where we’re going - very cold.”
He opened the window wide and beckoned for her to wrap her arms around his neck. She seemed to understand then that they were going to climb down, and she desperately shook her head. “If you don’t hold on you will fall, and perhaps break your neck.”
Reluctantly she put her little arms around his neck. He felt her face pressed against his back and once he was sure she was holding tight enough began to climb out of the window. As they descended he heard her moan into the gag but it was safe enough as long as he wasn’t startled. He had climbed the Wall three times now and was no stranger to it – besides, she weighed hardly anything. As soon as they touched the ground he threw her over his wide shoulder and hurried towards the stables to steal a horse.
He wanted to laugh; it was almost too good to be true. The daughter of Winterfell, the darling daughter of Lord Stark, was bound and flung over his shoulder. Lord Stark would wake up the next morning to find her bed empty and send out search parties that could never hope to find them. The servants would be sure to find the knife left purposefully on the bedside table, its handle unmistakably crafted from mammoth bone. Only a wildling could own such an object.
And once they were over the Wall there was nothing Stark could do.
He might venture to the Wall with his trail of guards but he would never risk taking them further. The land beyond was hostile and unknown to him; it would be certain death to any of them. He would have to retreat to Winterfell empty handed to face his tearful wife and hot headed sons. Perhaps they in turn would come, their auburn heads filled with youthful bravado and spirit, but those pampered lordlings would be no match for the deadly wilds.
Besides, he thought, as she aimed a well placed kick to his stomach. She was a plum prize for any man.