He'd promised Jon Snow he'd assist in liberating Winterfell from the grip of Bolton insanity. The Stark family had been good to a miserable refugee from a country not too far from their own, even if said miserable refugee had a price on his head large enough to shame a dragon's horde. Thus Hawke had promised, if ever he was needed, he'd fulfill his word and repay the family's kindness.
Which now saw him here, in the Wolfwood just beyond the field leading to Winterfell, awaiting the coming dawn. It was cold, but Hawke had been born and raised in Ferelden, the armpit of the world (according to many of his friends back home), and had endured much worse climates than this. The spell he was planning to use was a tough one, and required the utmost concentration - a syllable out of place and he ran the very real risk of killing not only himself, but several others in the surrounding vicinity. That much magic gone awry was a danger to everyone, alas.
But Jon, Sansa, and little Rickon were counting on him, so Hawke closed his eyes, took a breath, and cleared his mind. Even though the sun had risen, and he could feel and hear the thunder of hooves as armies took the field, the mage nevertheless turned himself inward, focusing on expanding his heartbeat, letting it fuel his muscles, change his body. The magic 'caught', and Hawke gave himself over to it, falling into his inherent power willingly, eagerly.
Twenty minutes later, just as Jon, Sansa, and Ramsay were exchanging insults in the middle of the field, a tremendous roar split the cold morning air, and from the trees burst a massive black dragon, clawing at the skies for height and immediately banking hard for the armies assembled before the fortress. Its red eyes blazed, and a gout of white-hot fire burst from its gaping mouth, instantly engulfing a phalanx of horses soldiers in a storm of hell.
Sansa had been waiting nervously for this confrontation. She still had pain from what had been done to her sometimes, phantom pains and terrors in the night. Seeing Ramsay Bolton in front of her smirking and saying that he wanted her back had her seething but she decided to be cool about it. They had their own weapon, after all.
Just as Hawke explodes across the field as a dragon, Sansa gives Ramsay her best smile.
"Don't worry. I won't be coming home with you tonight. You'll be coming with us, won't you? Such a shame, really. All those soldiers you planned on having me and here we are, a field of fire."
Jon looks pale and like to jump on her horse to clamp his hand over Sansa's mouth but instead he nods to her and her own mount turns, heading back toward their camp and safety before he dismounts and trusses Ramsay up to bring back. He wants to kill him but he knows it'll be more painful if Hawke does it. Besides, he can still beat him in the castle bailey and he does, throwing him to the ground and pounding his fists into him over and over before Sansa gently touches his shoulder.
"Dungeons, Jon. He doesn't deserve such an easy death." Sansa kicks at Ramsay's blood and mud spattered face with her boot.
"Perhaps I shall flay you, Ramsay Snow? All the places you used your knife on me and on Theon? Would you like that?" Ramsay looks visibly horrified and Sansa smirks at him. "Don't worry. We'll come up with something."
For now, though, there were things to do. The assembly of lords crowns Jon king which both does and doesn't surprise her. She's the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark, yes, and Rickon the trueborn son but Jon is a battle-king and that's what they want. Sansa takes stock of the stores and eventually takes leave to see after Hawke since he'll be weak after having cast such a spell. She carries a tray with her and raps at the door lightly before entering.
"Do not get up. I brought you something to eat if you think you can manage."
Performing that particular spell always put him on his ass for a good two days afterwards. And he felt a decade older every time he woke from it, feeling the aftermath of such powerful magic deep in his bones. He knew there'd be a little more white in his dark hair, but it wasn't of any real consequence. The important thing was, Rickon and Sansa Stark were safe, Jon Snow was still alive - or so Hawke hoped - and despite the reaction towards magic in this Maker-cursed country, no one had barged in clamoring for his head. Yet.
A soft knock at the door brought him out of his mild doze - Hawke dimly realized he'd been relocated from the ditch in which he'd collapsed, and pray Maker this was Winterfell - and his blurry vision eventually made out Sansa's lovely features as she stepped closer, bearing what smelled to be heaven on a plate.
Aware of his manners, Hawke did manage to sit up, groaning as every bone, tendon, and muscle protested that unwise folly, but he forced himself upright and made it to the edge of the small bed before giving up.
"...Lady Sansa," he rasped, giving her a lopsided sort of smile. "I take it the battle's won and we're all heroes?"
"We didn't have a battle. The men you didn't kill outright pledged fealty to House Stark. We hung some, we accepted some back - depends on what they said and how I felt about their honesty. Be careful," she says, a little stern. "You're tired and you don't need to hurt yourself."
She brings the tray to his bed, though, and sets it across his lap before sitting at the edge of the bed so they might talk. She is grateful for him and what he's given for Winterfell and she's glad that it hadn't killed him in the process.
"Ramsay is in the dungeon. Jon beat him half to death and I threatened to flay him but honestly, I don't know how we're going to kill him. I just want it to hurt the way it hurt me. And Rickon."
Well, that was good news. Of a sort. At least there hadn't been an over-abundance of carnage and death, a needless loss of lives on both sides. They were going to need every last man to face what was coming from the far North, Hawke knew. He'd seen himself what the Rangers and the Free Folk feared, and the Starks were right; Winter was Coming.
Hawke congratulated himself on not devouring every last scrap of food on that tray like a starving brigand, but he did eat quickly, mumbling his thanks around mouthfuls of fresh, warm bread. The news of Ramsay wasn't surprising; the bastard was a traitor, a sadist, and an all-around waste of good oxygen, in Hawke's point of view.
Swallowing his last bite of bread and cheese, Hawke cleared his throat and nodded at her. "I'm just glad the three of you are safe, Sansa. Winterfell is going to need the Starks, before this nightmare is over." One of his eyebrows gently quirked. "What does Jon say about the Bolton's demise?"
"He's glad for it, naturally, but Jon is a man of few words. He's just glad to know his family is safe. He's been crowned King in the North, by the way. We've declared independence, of a sorts. About time, if you ask me, but I worry about Jon. It's going to be hard for him."
Sansa knows that Jon will have trouble in the days to come and she wants to help as much as she can. She only hopes they can win in both the great battle and the smaller ones of politics and words.
This time, both of Hawke's eyebrows went up when he heard this news. "King in the North, oh? Well, that's a...grand eminence, indeed." He foresaw trouble ahead, but then, when didn't he? "Somehow I doubt the southern folk are going to be all too happy about these little details. And there's a far greater enemy coming from our other side, Sansa." His care-worn countenance grew grim.
"I'm...tired. But that's to be expected. I'll be back on my feet here...shortly." Provided he could find them, elusive bastards that they were. He anticipated them to be resting on the floor, but one never really knew, with feet. "Thanks for the breakfast, by the way."
Then his gaze sharpened, and he gave Sansa a once-over, herself. "How are you feeling?"
"It gets better every day," Sansa says. She doesn't like to talk about things in specifics, necessarily, but it's no secret that she does still have pain - both physical and emotional - after her year with Ramsay. She wants to think it'll be better when he's dead but she thinks the only thing that will help is time.
"My skin's healing but the scars hurt," she says. "It helps that a giant dragon just killed all his men, though. I wish I had some sort of power. I can't wield magic or a sword. All I have is my mind and my words and my pretty face. I don't think they're nearly as good in a fight even if they're good in other ways."
Sansa pats his knee lightly. "And you're not getting out of bed. The Maester said you needed to rest and I'm the lady of this castle. You're resting."
Hawke wasn't entirely sure that was all of the truth; he'd seen trauma victims before, and what Sansa had suffered at Bolton's hands definitely counted as trauma, and then some. He had his own ideas about what to do to the disgusting bastard, and he intended to offer them all as soon as he could stand up straight.
Which, about that...
"Then I suppose I'd better do as the Lady says and get my sorry ass back in bed, hm?" But faded blue eyes were twinkling, a gentle tease. "But seriously, Sansa, do you plan to let me sleep away the winter? I'm not that tired, darling girl, I promise."
He shifted, winced, then eased back down again. "There's bloody well too much to be done around here. Your brother is definitely going to need some advice about how to deal with monarchy, and then there's Bolton to sentence, and ravens to send...oh, bloody hell, I can hardly think straight..."
Against her better judgment, Sansa colors a little at darling girl and tries to shake it off by being indignant that he's trying to get up so soon after exerting himself so much on behalf of her and her family. She puts her hand on his left shoulder, pushing him back to the bed.
"Stay where you are. My brother has me to give him advice, for what that's worth, and Bolton isn't going to be sentenced. We're going to kill him. We just haven't decided whether or not to do it publicly or privately. I can send ravens to anyone you want to send them to. I will tie you to this bed if you try to get up again, Rowen Hawke."
She means it, as well, and doesn't move from his bedside. For right now, it seems he needs someone to mind him and keep him from pushing himself far before he's ready. Of course, she's got a tendency to do that too.
"Besides. The longer you're in bed, the longer Lord Baelish doesn't get to see me. He's not coming in here. You can turn into a dragon."
To be honest, Hawke wasn't too surprised when Sansa insisted that he stay his sorry ass in bed and recuperate from that astonishingly amazing feat of magic a few days ago. Hell of it was, doing that particular parlor trick was getting harder and harder, and knocked him a little further out on his ass each and every time. But it'd been necessary, and had saved a lot of lives, so Hawke knew it was worth it.
And now, he'd be infinitely smart to just stay put and let this adorable, lovely woman fuss over him, because honestly, when was the last time anyone gave a damn?
So Hawke just laughed lightly, shaking his head in resigned agreement, and flopped back in bed, one arm beneath his head and the other falling...somewhere. "All right, Maker take you. I'll stay put, but only for so long. If I don't sleep, I swear I'll run mad imagining all of the horrors waiting for me just outside of that door."
Hawke winked at her, cheeky despite his exhaustion. "Including Littlefinger, Maker save us all from that oily snake's forked tongue."
"Well, the sicker you are, the longer I have to stay in here. So rest and I'll hide in here and no one has to deal with Baelish. I have to keep him around so the Knights of the Vale will stay," she says. "But I don't have to like whoring out my smiles as if I care about him."
It feels like that, most of the time. She'd trusted Baelish once, caught up in his spell when she'd been terrified and too young to deal with so much trauma and loss. That had ended swiftly when he'd sold her to Ramsay and extricated himself to the Vale so he didn't have to see the results. Still, she has to keep his favor if she's going to keep his men so for now, she has to make him think she'll suffer his attentions.
"Do you need anything? Water? Wine? Something else to eat?"
"Sansa," Hawke chided her gently, mouth twisting with mild exasperation. "Do you trust him out there, sneaking through your house and subverting your people? The man needs to be watched, at the least, and set on fire at the absolute best." He lifted one hand and gave a lock of her hair a gentle tug. "I know you don't care about him." Hawke snorted. "I can't imagine anyone who does. He's so slippery he gleams under the right light."
Then he sighed. "Just some cold water would be wonderful, but no wine, please. Alcohol is the absolute last thing I need right about now." More than able to hold his liquor, Hawke just became...opinionated when his tongue loosened too much. "But if you need a place to hide," he grinned up at her and patted the blanket beside him, "feel free."
"Oh, trust me, I have someone watching him," Sansa says, mouth tipping up a bit in a smile. "While you were asleep, my sister decided to return home. She's a shadow, a trick of the light. He won't even know who's watching him and stealing his ravens before they go out. He'll just think he misplaced them."
Sansa wouldn't be hiding in here if someone wasn't watching Littlefinger but she doesn't want Arya to be common knowledge yet. She trusts Hawke to keep his mouth shut, though. She pours him cold water from the ewer across the chamber and brings it back to him.
"My brothers don't know she's here or alive. Keep her our secret for now because she's our best weapon until we need to use her publicly." Sansa doesn't balk at his invitation to stay, though, and removes her slippers so she doesn't dirty the bedclothes with them. She still has her stockings, after all, and she's atop the blanket. There's nothing untoward about that.
"Now, what do you want to do with your day doing nothing?"
Anakin had never been to Scarif before this assignment, but he'd spent the last week or so studying up on the planet's history, ecosystem, resources, culture, and population. The youngest Solo had taken his mother's request to heart, despite what his uncle had to grumble about it. But this Senator's family was a long-time supporter of democracy and the Republic, and her planet, in fact, had been one of the first liberated out from beneath Imperial rule. So yes, death threats against a family of such galactic importance were going to be taken seriously. At least, according to Her Highness Ambassador Leia Organa Skywalker Solo, they were.
So the Princess's youngest, already a Jedi Knight, had been dispatched to offer Senator Stark protection, and, if possible, discover the source of the threat and remove it. Anakin had also poked lightly into a few of his family's underworld contacts, just to see what came back. So far, nothing, but he was patient. He could wait.
As he approached the family's private landing dock, he gave over his ship's control, letting the traffcon engineer guide his X-Wing in safely. A check of credentials, a word to R4 to await him in the hangar, then Anakin bowed his oblige to his escort, and followed the protocol droid further into the large residence. His first "bodyguard" assignment. This was going to be interesting.
Sansa has never been threatened before. Her parents had both given their lives in the Rebellion, yes, but she and her family had never been harmed directly by the Imperials. Her uncle had stepped up after the deaths of their parents and spoke for House Stark and surrendered, biding their time, and when the Rebellion liberated the galaxy the Starks of Scarif were one of the first to pledge their support to the New Republic.
Sansa isn't the eldest of their family but Robb and Jon have no head for or desire to be in politics so it was she who carried on that legacy. She'd been elected at fourteen as a local representative and continued in public service until she'd become Scarif's senator in the Galactic Senate two years earlier. She likes to learn by listening twice as much as she speaks and it has served her well until now.
Now, though, Scarif is a tinderbox and there's enmity between some of the rival political houses and House Stark and Sansa has had threats on her life. She hadn't wanted anyone else to come in, thinking that Jon and Robb would be protection enough, but the two of them had told her that declining an offer of Jedi protection was a death sentence. She'd sent a message to Arya who had come back on holo with her helmet off, for once, and told her she was an idiot if she wasn't accepting a Jedi. When Sansa had pointed out that Arya could come back, her sister had laughed.
"I make it a point not to keep people alive. I'd make more money off you dead. Business is business and I don't mix it with family."
So without any other options, Sansa goes down to greet the Jedi personally. If he's going to be guarding her, she ought to be the first person he meets when he disembarks.
"You must be Anakin," she says, extending one of her hands out for him to shake. "I'm Sansa."
A little surprised to meet the Senator outside of the House proper, Anakin turned his puzzlement into a smooth bow, taking the offered hand politely.
"Senator Stark," he replied formally. He was his mother's son, after all. "I'm Anakin Solo, Jedi Knight assigned to your security protocol." Straightening, he added, "I also bring greetings from Her Highness, Princess Leia Organa Solo, and her continued good wishes for the health and prosperity of House Stark." A brief pause, then, "Thank you for meeting me. Here."
His mother hadn't really given him much detail on the Starks, other than what was public record. So, when it was required, Anakin always fell back on diplomacy and protocol, as his mother had taught all of the Solo children. But regardless of good manners, he still had a job to do.
"Might I suggest we continue our conversation indoors?" He aimed for what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile.
"Of course. I'm not going to make you stand out here. I just thought if we were going to be working together, I ought to greet you down here instead of have someone find you and bring you to me. I'm not the kind of person who likes a lot of ceremony unless it's politically necessary to have it."
Sansa is happy for the greetings from Princess Leia, as well, and she mentions it as she starts to walk Anakin back into the actual house. It's a lengthy walk to where he's going to be staying anyway so they'll have plenty of time to talk.
"I'm glad for the greeting from your mother, as well, and I hope you get a chance to express my gratitude to her. My whole family told me that you coming here was an honor I should just accept but I didn't want to have to put anyone out by sending a Jedi to protect me. My brothers said it was foolish not to accept and when I called my sister, she reminded me that she's a bounty hunter and not a bodyguard. Maybe I should have just hired her to assassinate my enemies, yes? I probably couldn't afford her, though. Dark Sister is an expensive investment and she doesn't give family discounts."
With the death of Joffrey and his family and genuine dearth of nobles of any real worth among the Regency Worlds, the title of Empress had fallen to Sansa whether she wanted it or not. As such, she became a woman expected to marry instead of one who could choose a life that she wanted and everything had simply become more complicated as a result.
She'd been betrothed to Ramsay Bolton for a short while before hastily breaking off contact. What happened remained a secret (at least from her) but she knew there had to be gossip going around nonetheless. She still had to marry lest Bolton try his luck again and so she found herself in the unenviable position of having to seek out a new marriage when the idea of marriage and children terrified her.
Senator Organa had long been a friend of her family, though, and her son was only a year or so older than Sansa so arranging that marriage had been a relief. Who would come after her knowing she was literally living with a Jedi? Not many. She kept the wedding small and while it had taken a few days to get them settled into her palace, it hadn't been bad. Her husband was fairly reserved and quiet but that was nice. Sansa spent too much time talking as it was. Still, she wanted to know him, so she spent an afternoon hunting him down until she found him in a library.
"Do all Jedi walk around dressed for funerals or is it just you, Ben? Surely the rain on Arkanis isn't that miserable."
Ben looked up from his book. He’d been very hesitant about this marriage from the beginning. He knew he wasn’t what most people would want in a husband. Sure, he had money, talent, and his family had influence but his ears were big, his face was lopsided, and he was shy. And, more importantly, the possibility of him pleasing anyone in the bedroom simply did not exist. But their families were friends and she needed a husband lest she end up with a worse candidate than him so he’d agreed despite his misgivings.
“I… what?” He frowned slightly at the question. “I’m not dressed for a funeral. I’d be wearing a suit if I was.” He glanced down at his clothes. “These are just comfortable. And I like the rain here. It’s… soothing.”
"It was a joke, Ben," Sansa said, shaking her head a bit. He would be difficult to get to know, she thought, but perhaps worth it in the end. More worth it than some other man certainly.
As to his looks, none of that mattered. Sansa wasn't looking for that in a relationship anyway and beauty had only brought her trouble and pain. A plain man might be a kinder man and he certainly seemed kind from what little she knew him.
"Good that you like the rain, though. You'll be seeing an awful lot of it. Every time the sun comes out, we all run outside and cancel everything so we can enjoy it. I was wondering what you were up to and somehow I'm not surprised you're in here."
"Oh, it does a little, but that's the joy in it," Sansa said. "It happens so rarely that we can take the time to go and truly enjoy the break when it comes to us."
She noticed that Ben was blushing and she wondered why, exactly. Sansa guessed it was because he wasn't used to her and a new place all at once and that he'd find his feet soon enough. She wasn't anything to worry about, after all. Sansa might have wolves on her family crest but she was a very, very tame wolf.
"I wanted to ask you something. I don't know if all Jedi can just...tell or anything but I'm Force-sensitive. I don't know how to do anything with it, though, and I don't know that I can do anything with it but I thought if I could, you could try to help me? I feel little pricks of things sometimes and I back away before something spills or keep from running into someone in the hall. I told you, it's hardly anything, but it's there."
“That sounds very nice,” he admitted. “I don’t remember any traditions like that on Chandrilla and Coruscant is just one massive city.”
He honestly wasn’t worried about her biting. Except maybe literally. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready for that. “I’m just… not used to anyone except my family making jokes like that. I wasn’t expecting it.”
He smiled, bright and genuine. “I’d be happy to teach you. Although I’m not really a Jedi. I trained but… that’s not my path.”
"That's true, you're not a Jedi. You're stuck here on a rainy planet being my husband instead," Sansa said, laughing a little. Still, the fact that he would train her pleased her quite a bit. She didn't imagine she would be fighting or anything, that seemed to require a lot of training, but maybe she could actually use the Force instead of it just telling her things once in a while.
"And as to jokes, well. I make terrible ones," she warned. "And since you're in my house, you're going to hear a lot more of them. I haven't had the happiest of lives. Sometimes you have to force a bit of a laugh in order to push past it."
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theladyofwinterfell) wrote2018-10-26 12:40 pm
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Which now saw him here, in the Wolfwood just beyond the field leading to Winterfell, awaiting the coming dawn. It was cold, but Hawke had been born and raised in Ferelden, the armpit of the world (according to many of his friends back home), and had endured much worse climates than this. The spell he was planning to use was a tough one, and required the utmost concentration - a syllable out of place and he ran the very real risk of killing not only himself, but several others in the surrounding vicinity. That much magic gone awry was a danger to everyone, alas.
But Jon, Sansa, and little Rickon were counting on him, so Hawke closed his eyes, took a breath, and cleared his mind. Even though the sun had risen, and he could feel and hear the thunder of hooves as armies took the field, the mage nevertheless turned himself inward, focusing on expanding his heartbeat, letting it fuel his muscles, change his body. The magic 'caught', and Hawke gave himself over to it, falling into his inherent power willingly, eagerly.
Twenty minutes later, just as Jon, Sansa, and Ramsay were exchanging insults in the middle of the field, a tremendous roar split the cold morning air, and from the trees burst a massive black dragon, clawing at the skies for height and immediately banking hard for the armies assembled before the fortress. Its red eyes blazed, and a gout of white-hot fire burst from its gaping mouth, instantly engulfing a phalanx of horses soldiers in a storm of hell.
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Just as Hawke explodes across the field as a dragon, Sansa gives Ramsay her best smile.
"Don't worry. I won't be coming home with you tonight. You'll be coming with us, won't you? Such a shame, really. All those soldiers you planned on having me and here we are, a field of fire."
Jon looks pale and like to jump on her horse to clamp his hand over Sansa's mouth but instead he nods to her and her own mount turns, heading back toward their camp and safety before he dismounts and trusses Ramsay up to bring back. He wants to kill him but he knows it'll be more painful if Hawke does it. Besides, he can still beat him in the castle bailey and he does, throwing him to the ground and pounding his fists into him over and over before Sansa gently touches his shoulder.
"Dungeons, Jon. He doesn't deserve such an easy death." Sansa kicks at Ramsay's blood and mud spattered face with her boot.
"Perhaps I shall flay you, Ramsay Snow? All the places you used your knife on me and on Theon? Would you like that?" Ramsay looks visibly horrified and Sansa smirks at him. "Don't worry. We'll come up with something."
For now, though, there were things to do. The assembly of lords crowns Jon king which both does and doesn't surprise her. She's the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark, yes, and Rickon the trueborn son but Jon is a battle-king and that's what they want. Sansa takes stock of the stores and eventually takes leave to see after Hawke since he'll be weak after having cast such a spell. She carries a tray with her and raps at the door lightly before entering.
"Do not get up. I brought you something to eat if you think you can manage."
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A soft knock at the door brought him out of his mild doze - Hawke dimly realized he'd been relocated from the ditch in which he'd collapsed, and pray Maker this was Winterfell - and his blurry vision eventually made out Sansa's lovely features as she stepped closer, bearing what smelled to be heaven on a plate.
Aware of his manners, Hawke did manage to sit up, groaning as every bone, tendon, and muscle protested that unwise folly, but he forced himself upright and made it to the edge of the small bed before giving up.
"...Lady Sansa," he rasped, giving her a lopsided sort of smile. "I take it the battle's won and we're all heroes?"
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She brings the tray to his bed, though, and sets it across his lap before sitting at the edge of the bed so they might talk. She is grateful for him and what he's given for Winterfell and she's glad that it hadn't killed him in the process.
"Ramsay is in the dungeon. Jon beat him half to death and I threatened to flay him but honestly, I don't know how we're going to kill him. I just want it to hurt the way it hurt me. And Rickon."
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Hawke congratulated himself on not devouring every last scrap of food on that tray like a starving brigand, but he did eat quickly, mumbling his thanks around mouthfuls of fresh, warm bread. The news of Ramsay wasn't surprising; the bastard was a traitor, a sadist, and an all-around waste of good oxygen, in Hawke's point of view.
Swallowing his last bite of bread and cheese, Hawke cleared his throat and nodded at her. "I'm just glad the three of you are safe, Sansa. Winterfell is going to need the Starks, before this nightmare is over." One of his eyebrows gently quirked. "What does Jon say about the Bolton's demise?"
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Sansa knows that Jon will have trouble in the days to come and she wants to help as much as she can. She only hopes they can win in both the great battle and the smaller ones of politics and words.
"How are you feeling?"
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"I'm...tired. But that's to be expected. I'll be back on my feet here...shortly." Provided he could find them, elusive bastards that they were. He anticipated them to be resting on the floor, but one never really knew, with feet. "Thanks for the breakfast, by the way."
Then his gaze sharpened, and he gave Sansa a once-over, herself. "How are you feeling?"
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"My skin's healing but the scars hurt," she says. "It helps that a giant dragon just killed all his men, though. I wish I had some sort of power. I can't wield magic or a sword. All I have is my mind and my words and my pretty face. I don't think they're nearly as good in a fight even if they're good in other ways."
Sansa pats his knee lightly. "And you're not getting out of bed. The Maester said you needed to rest and I'm the lady of this castle. You're resting."
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Which, about that...
"Then I suppose I'd better do as the Lady says and get my sorry ass back in bed, hm?" But faded blue eyes were twinkling, a gentle tease. "But seriously, Sansa, do you plan to let me sleep away the winter? I'm not that tired, darling girl, I promise."
He shifted, winced, then eased back down again. "There's bloody well too much to be done around here. Your brother is definitely going to need some advice about how to deal with monarchy, and then there's Bolton to sentence, and ravens to send...oh, bloody hell, I can hardly think straight..."
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"Stay where you are. My brother has me to give him advice, for what that's worth, and Bolton isn't going to be sentenced. We're going to kill him. We just haven't decided whether or not to do it publicly or privately. I can send ravens to anyone you want to send them to. I will tie you to this bed if you try to get up again, Rowen Hawke."
She means it, as well, and doesn't move from his bedside. For right now, it seems he needs someone to mind him and keep him from pushing himself far before he's ready. Of course, she's got a tendency to do that too.
"Besides. The longer you're in bed, the longer Lord Baelish doesn't get to see me. He's not coming in here. You can turn into a dragon."
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And now, he'd be infinitely smart to just stay put and let this adorable, lovely woman fuss over him, because honestly, when was the last time anyone gave a damn?
So Hawke just laughed lightly, shaking his head in resigned agreement, and flopped back in bed, one arm beneath his head and the other falling...somewhere. "All right, Maker take you. I'll stay put, but only for so long. If I don't sleep, I swear I'll run mad imagining all of the horrors waiting for me just outside of that door."
Hawke winked at her, cheeky despite his exhaustion. "Including Littlefinger, Maker save us all from that oily snake's forked tongue."
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It feels like that, most of the time. She'd trusted Baelish once, caught up in his spell when she'd been terrified and too young to deal with so much trauma and loss. That had ended swiftly when he'd sold her to Ramsay and extricated himself to the Vale so he didn't have to see the results. Still, she has to keep his favor if she's going to keep his men so for now, she has to make him think she'll suffer his attentions.
"Do you need anything? Water? Wine? Something else to eat?"
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Then he sighed. "Just some cold water would be wonderful, but no wine, please. Alcohol is the absolute last thing I need right about now." More than able to hold his liquor, Hawke just became...opinionated when his tongue loosened too much. "But if you need a place to hide," he grinned up at her and patted the blanket beside him, "feel free."
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Sansa wouldn't be hiding in here if someone wasn't watching Littlefinger but she doesn't want Arya to be common knowledge yet. She trusts Hawke to keep his mouth shut, though. She pours him cold water from the ewer across the chamber and brings it back to him.
"My brothers don't know she's here or alive. Keep her our secret for now because she's our best weapon until we need to use her publicly." Sansa doesn't balk at his invitation to stay, though, and removes her slippers so she doesn't dirty the bedclothes with them. She still has her stockings, after all, and she's atop the blanket. There's nothing untoward about that.
"Now, what do you want to do with your day doing nothing?"
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So the Princess's youngest, already a Jedi Knight, had been dispatched to offer Senator Stark protection, and, if possible, discover the source of the threat and remove it. Anakin had also poked lightly into a few of his family's underworld contacts, just to see what came back. So far, nothing, but he was patient. He could wait.
As he approached the family's private landing dock, he gave over his ship's control, letting the traffcon engineer guide his X-Wing in safely. A check of credentials, a word to R4 to await him in the hangar, then Anakin bowed his oblige to his escort, and followed the protocol droid further into the large residence. His first "bodyguard" assignment. This was going to be interesting.
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Sansa isn't the eldest of their family but Robb and Jon have no head for or desire to be in politics so it was she who carried on that legacy. She'd been elected at fourteen as a local representative and continued in public service until she'd become Scarif's senator in the Galactic Senate two years earlier. She likes to learn by listening twice as much as she speaks and it has served her well until now.
Now, though, Scarif is a tinderbox and there's enmity between some of the rival political houses and House Stark and Sansa has had threats on her life. She hadn't wanted anyone else to come in, thinking that Jon and Robb would be protection enough, but the two of them had told her that declining an offer of Jedi protection was a death sentence. She'd sent a message to Arya who had come back on holo with her helmet off, for once, and told her she was an idiot if she wasn't accepting a Jedi. When Sansa had pointed out that Arya could come back, her sister had laughed.
"I make it a point not to keep people alive. I'd make more money off you dead. Business is business and I don't mix it with family."
So without any other options, Sansa goes down to greet the Jedi personally. If he's going to be guarding her, she ought to be the first person he meets when he disembarks.
"You must be Anakin," she says, extending one of her hands out for him to shake. "I'm Sansa."
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"Senator Stark," he replied formally. He was his mother's son, after all. "I'm Anakin Solo, Jedi Knight assigned to your security protocol." Straightening, he added, "I also bring greetings from Her Highness, Princess Leia Organa Solo, and her continued good wishes for the health and prosperity of House Stark." A brief pause, then, "Thank you for meeting me. Here."
His mother hadn't really given him much detail on the Starks, other than what was public record. So, when it was required, Anakin always fell back on diplomacy and protocol, as his mother had taught all of the Solo children. But regardless of good manners, he still had a job to do.
"Might I suggest we continue our conversation indoors?" He aimed for what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile.
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Sansa is happy for the greetings from Princess Leia, as well, and she mentions it as she starts to walk Anakin back into the actual house. It's a lengthy walk to where he's going to be staying anyway so they'll have plenty of time to talk.
"I'm glad for the greeting from your mother, as well, and I hope you get a chance to express my gratitude to her. My whole family told me that you coming here was an honor I should just accept but I didn't want to have to put anyone out by sending a Jedi to protect me. My brothers said it was foolish not to accept and when I called my sister, she reminded me that she's a bounty hunter and not a bodyguard. Maybe I should have just hired her to assassinate my enemies, yes? I probably couldn't afford her, though. Dark Sister is an expensive investment and she doesn't give family discounts."
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She'd been betrothed to Ramsay Bolton for a short while before hastily breaking off contact. What happened remained a secret (at least from her) but she knew there had to be gossip going around nonetheless. She still had to marry lest Bolton try his luck again and so she found herself in the unenviable position of having to seek out a new marriage when the idea of marriage and children terrified her.
Senator Organa had long been a friend of her family, though, and her son was only a year or so older than Sansa so arranging that marriage had been a relief. Who would come after her knowing she was literally living with a Jedi? Not many. She kept the wedding small and while it had taken a few days to get them settled into her palace, it hadn't been bad. Her husband was fairly reserved and quiet but that was nice. Sansa spent too much time talking as it was. Still, she wanted to know him, so she spent an afternoon hunting him down until she found him in a library.
"Do all Jedi walk around dressed for funerals or is it just you, Ben? Surely the rain on Arkanis isn't that miserable."
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“I… what?” He frowned slightly at the question. “I’m not dressed for a funeral. I’d be wearing a suit if I was.” He glanced down at his clothes. “These are just comfortable. And I like the rain here. It’s… soothing.”
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As to his looks, none of that mattered. Sansa wasn't looking for that in a relationship anyway and beauty had only brought her trouble and pain. A plain man might be a kinder man and he certainly seemed kind from what little she knew him.
"Good that you like the rain, though. You'll be seeing an awful lot of it. Every time the sun comes out, we all run outside and cancel everything so we can enjoy it. I was wondering what you were up to and somehow I'm not surprised you're in here."
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“Rain is soothing, even on Coruscant.” He set the book to the side. “I’d imagine stopping everything for the sun can get… chaotic.”
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She noticed that Ben was blushing and she wondered why, exactly. Sansa guessed it was because he wasn't used to her and a new place all at once and that he'd find his feet soon enough. She wasn't anything to worry about, after all. Sansa might have wolves on her family crest but she was a very, very tame wolf.
"I wanted to ask you something. I don't know if all Jedi can just...tell or anything but I'm Force-sensitive. I don't know how to do anything with it, though, and I don't know that I can do anything with it but I thought if I could, you could try to help me? I feel little pricks of things sometimes and I back away before something spills or keep from running into someone in the hall. I told you, it's hardly anything, but it's there."
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He honestly wasn’t worried about her biting. Except maybe literally. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready for that. “I’m just… not used to anyone except my family making jokes like that. I wasn’t expecting it.”
He smiled, bright and genuine. “I’d be happy to teach you. Although I’m not really a Jedi. I trained but… that’s not my path.”
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"And as to jokes, well. I make terrible ones," she warned. "And since you're in my house, you're going to hear a lot more of them. I haven't had the happiest of lives. Sometimes you have to force a bit of a laugh in order to push past it."