Chapter 112 — A Meeting in the Night
"If this is a trap," Sansa Stark told herself as she stood before the wardrobe,
"then I would rather die than be humiliated again."
She drew on a pale-gray cloak and pulled the hood low. A small table knife—the sort used for carving meat—was slipped into her sleeve. After a final hesitation, she chose the darkness.
The white knight had not appeared on the drawbridge since last night.
In his place, red-cloaked swordsmen now patrolled in slow, methodical circuits.
Sansa kept to the shadows, pressing close to the walls, moving on silent feet. Each time a patrol passed, she froze, hiding until the sound of boots faded, then darted forward again.
Compared to the night before, she moved more deftly now.
Yet the Red Keep felt unnervingly quiet.
She did not know what had happened within its walls last night—but tonight the castle felt like a forest watched by a crouching beast. Too still. Too alert.
That same stillness, however, made her passage easier.
Above, a silver moon spilled pale light across stone, draping the towers in a veil of frost-white glow. Narrow windows along the spiral stairs cast broken bands of light across the floor, wavering as she passed.
By the time she reached the top, Sansa was breathless. She covered her mouth, forcing herself not to gasp, and waited until a patrol moved past the slit windows below.
Then she crossed another shadowed colonnade and pressed herself against the wall, resting.
Something brushed her ankle.
Her heart nearly burst.
But it was only a black tomcat—ragged, filthy, one ear missing. Startled by her presence, it hissed and spat as if cursing her, then vanished into the darkness.
Sansa stood frozen for several breaths, heart hammering against her ribs.
At last she pulled her cloak tighter and moved on.
The air changed.
Damp earth. Fallen leaves. The quiet breath of living things.
She had reached the godswood.
Compared to her father's reverence for the old gods, Sansa had always preferred her mother's Seven.
She loved carved statues and stained glass, the scent of incense and candle smoke. She loved septons in flowing robes, crystal cups in hand, and altars set with mother-of-pearl, agate, and lapis lazuli.
This place was different.
Older. Quieter.
And watching.
Yet at this moment, she could not deny that the godswood possessed a power all its own—something ancient and primal.
Even here, deep within the stone heart of a fortress at the center of the city, one could feel it: the unmistakable sensation of being watched by unseen eyes.
Especially at night.
Perhaps at this very moment, Sansa Stark thought,
the old gods are watching me with a thousand eyes.
She walked among the trees, fingers brushing rough bark as leaves grazed her cheeks.
Tilting her head, she gazed at the moon through gaps in the canopy and prayed once more, silently.
"Please… help me.
"Send me a friend.
A true knight—one who will stand for me."
"Who are you?"
The calm of the godswood shattered as a cool, steady voice sounded behind her.
It carried both youthful clarity and a weight that felt far older than its speaker.
Sansa shuddered instinctively, her heart clenched as if seized by an invisible hand.
Yet in the next breath, she steadied herself. She tightened her grip on the small knife hidden in her sleeve, swallowed, and turned.
A tall, slender youth sat perched on a branch high in the tree above her, one leg hooked casually over the limb as he looked down at the cloaked girl below.
Moonlight filtered through the leaves, draping him in shifting silver. His teal velvet coat caught the light as if faintly glowing, and a golden half-cloak—pinned at the shoulder with a ruby brooch—fluttered gently in the night breeze.
"You're one of the queen's maids?" the boy asked, puzzled.
"Why are you here so late?"
But Sansa scarcely heard him.
She was staring.
Her breath caught, wonder and disbelief crashing together inside her chest. Joy struck her so suddenly she could barely think.
Up in the tree, Podrick Payne frowned slightly.
After seeing the rotting hand brought from the Wall, sleep had eluded him too—that was why he'd come here for air and quiet. He certainly hadn't expected to stumble upon a cloaked woman sneaking through the godswood at night, peering around as though searching for someone.
A tryst? he thought. Bold choice of location.
It wasn't unheard of, even in the Red Keep—though most people were far more discreet.
His thoughts drifted, unhelpfully, somewhere they shouldn't. He coughed and cut them off.
Below him, the woman stared with an expression that shifted from dazed awe into barely contained, desperate hope.
Her voice trembled as she whispered, strained and sharp with urgency:
"Is it… is it you?"
"Me?" Podrick blinked, pointing at himself.
"…No. If you're meeting someone, you've got the wrong man."
Her eyes widened—panic flashing across her face.
"No—no, I wasn't—well, I was—no, someone asked me to come—asked me to meet here, but I don't know who—"
She stumbled over her words, cheeks flushing crimson.
"But… but it must be you."
She stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, and ducked her head like an ostrich hiding from the world.
Podrick laughed despite himself.
"You don't even know who asked you here," he said lightly.
"Don't just grab the first person you see."
He hopped down from the branch, landing silently before her.
"What—were you planning to insist I marry you or something?"
"Ah?!"
Sansa froze, staring up at him, her mind utterly blank.
He waved it off. "Relax. You've mistaken me for someone else."
He leaned closer, studying her. "Do you know my name?"
She shook her head, dazed. "No… but you're my knight. The gods sent you. You answered my prayer."
Podrick sighed.
"You've read too many knightly romances," he said bluntly.
"That little knife won't save you, and being handsome doesn't make someone a hero."
Then he added, almost idly, "Ever heard the name Payne?"
The effect was immediate.
Sansa went rigid.
A pale, pockmarked face filled her mind—sunken eyes, colorless and cold. A tall, silent man with thinning hair and a sword as wide as a door.
Ilyn Payne.
The king's headsman.
The man who had beheaded her father.
Her face drained of color. She staggered back a step, trembling.
Podrick raised a brow. That bad, huh?
He patted her shoulder. "Then you know the name."
"And I," he said mildly, "am Podrick Payne. Same family."
"Captain of the City Watch. A lord of the small council. In service to Joffrey Baratheon and the Queen Regent."
He deliberately let his voice grow colder.
Yet to his surprise, the fear in her eyes eased.
Instead, something else ignited—recognition.
"…You," she breathed.
"Your name… you're Podrick Payne?"
Her voice trembled again—but this time with hope.
Podrick frowned.
Something was wrong.
"Who are you?" he demanded suddenly.
He reached out and flipped back her hood.
Moonlight spilled over a cascade of auburn hair, damp with night air. The scent that rose was not earth or leaves, but something soft and clean.
He knew her at once.
"You're Sansa Stark."
The realization snapped everything into place—the godswood, the secrecy, the terror wrapped in hope.
And Sansa, hearing her name spoken, felt her fear still.
Because if this man—
the one who had stopped the slaughter of innocents,
the one who had sent Janos Slynt to the Wall—
if he was standing before her now…
Then if he was not the knight the gods had sent to save her—
Who else could it possibly be?