The Lords of Westeros were grumbling. Their shoulders were tense. Their conversations were muted. They favoured whispered curses to their nearby advisors rather than to one another, but everyone could hear snippets of everyone else's conversations, turning the entire crowd of men into a bee-swarm of annoyance. Distrust hung in the air like the scent of cheap wine; irritation clung to them with all the ill-fitting darkness of their armour and woven tunics.
But Terras, for one, was having a splendid time.
"Trust a woman to make an entrance," Edmure Tully stated, dusting invisible dirt from his gloves. He, apparently, still had not gotten over the fact that the entirety of Westeros wanted a celestial being trapped in a boy's body as king instead of him.
Yohn Royce didn't take kindly to that remark, and it showed in every line of his grey, ageing face. "She's not just a woman. She's a Queen. And you'd do well to remember that."
"Must be nice to be a Queen," came the terse, cutting reply of Yara Greyjoy. Her eyes then slid in Terras' direction. "Or a prince."
There was an unspoken ending to that sentence. Must be nice to be a Queen or a prince who fucks her. The implication was clear in the iron of her eyes. But Terras merely smiled and pretended he hadn't heard her, keeping his eyes on the gates of Highgarden, where they were all eagerly awaiting Sansa Stark's arrival.
She was two days late, much to the chagrin of all parties involved—Bronn had already twice threatened to cancel the whole affair and go to War with the North over the slight, only half-jokingly—but Terras couldn't help but watch the horizon with a mixture of anticipation and admiration.
Sansa Stark had a flair for the dramatic. What a wonderful thing to discover. Another thing they had in common.
Just then, as the snarking and sniping reached its crescendo, Tyrion appeared, flanked by a handful of guards. The King himself had not deigned to attend this summit, but Tyrion assured them all he was here to negotiate in good faith on Bran's behalf for the good of all parties involved. If this had been a real summit regarding Dornish independence and not a thinly veiled contrivance by Tyrion to get Terras and Sansa in the same room again, Terras might have been offended that the man thought so little of them. Surely he realised that they know he didn't even know the meaning of the words "Good Faith."
Still, Terras didn't object to the man's running of the summit for two reasons: One, it was better him, a man who could be tricked or lied to or manipulated than the Three-Eyed Raven. And two, it meant that Sansa Stark was the most senior person at this little gathering.
"They're coming over the ridge just now," Tyrion said, taking his place at the front of their little group. "Oh, Come on, everyone. At least try to look alive."
"Hard to do when they're marching so slow. I'll probably be actually dead by the time they get here," Bronn groaned.
The squabbling escalated again from there. Terras kept his gaze on the horizon. He, for one, didn't blame Sansa or begrudge her any lateness. These men and men like them had kept her on the edge of a string, dancing to their tempos and to the tunes they played all her life. For once, they would have to wait on her.
Terras would do the same thing once he was the leader of a Free Dorne. Perhaps, in the future when they were both free leaders summoned to a summit like this one, they could meet somewhere, together, and drink wine in the shade of an overgrown tree, laughing at how stupid everyone must have felt, waiting on them. Of course, she'd have to support a Free Dorne, which didn't look very likely at the moment, but when it came to Terras' fantasy life—where some of his dreams included he and Sansa on the twin thrones of Westeros, raising direwolf pups and warm-blooded children with perfect auburn hair, where the bones of everyone who'd ever raised a hand against Sansa lined the Dornish desert of banishment—logic or the infuriating strictures of reality rarely ever played a role.
"It is of the utmost importance that this childish sniping comes to an end. Peace with the North is our top priority."
Tyrion shot him a look, one Terras did not return. He and Sansa would win a free Dorne without Tyrion's help or his machinations. At least, that was Terras' hope. Peace through an alliance with The North was preferable to war…But he would still go to war if it was necessary. Doubt about Sansa's trust in him crept into his mind.
…Only to disappear the moment he saw her.
Just as the sun crested beyond the Outer Ridge, the Northern caravan appeared, with Sansa Stark leading the charge. Red hair flowed in the wind behind her; her silver gown clung to her body like freshly polished armour. Her crown glinted in the sunlight, brighter than any sword and giving her the appearance of being crowned by wild flames.
She looked far more beautiful—and far more dangerous—than Terras remembered. His heart pressed wilfully against the cage of his ribs, threatening to break out and gallop to meet her.
Through clench-jawed smiles, the Lords and Ladies of Westeros muttered their disapproval at such a display with every step she took closer to the castle…Or they not-so-gently those people to kindly shove their opinions up their noble asses. Terras stayed out of it, but Alcander, who stood behind him as a member of the Dornish delegation, couldn't help but release a low whistle.
"That's the Queen of the North?"
Terras nodded, not trusting himself to speak of Sansa in such mixed company. If he was going to gain Dornish independence without manipulating Sansa, then he needed to play his hand closely and carefully, especially where she was concerned. The Westerosi were vipers and information was their venom.
"Oh, Brother," Alcander muttered, shaking his head. "What do you think she'd want with you?"
The joke was nearly enough to break the tension tightening Terras' chest. Almost. When Sansa arrived and dismounted, she approached Tyrion first.
"My Lord Tyrion. I can see you know how to welcome a Queen," Sansa said, her face betraying nothing.
"Only the best for you, Queen Sansa. May I present the rest of the Westerosi delegation—"
But Tyrion didn't get the chance to perform his first ceremonial duty—the naming of the Counsel. Instead, Sansa removed her gloves, exposing her hands to the Southern warmth. Terras surveyed her with guarded interest. How did she feel being here, facing down a group of men with dubious intentions and eyes on controlling her throne? How did the hot Southern sun feel against her strong Northern skin? When would she look at him, and show him those piercing eyes he'd been dreaming about since the night he met her?
"Yes, Tyrion," Sansa intoned. Only a small smile lurking at the corner of her lips gave away her amusement. Terras had to wonder if anyone else even noticed what a good time she was having. "My memory is good enough to recall the names of people I saw not three months ago."
Tyrion blinked, but recovered with an uneasy smile. Yes, Terras thought, You're right to be frightened of her. "Very good, Your Grace." Shall we show you and—" He took in the sight of two women who had dismounted and found their way to Sansa's side—a dark-haired woman whose long locks could not conceal a map of angry scars drawing silvery lines across her face, and a lady knight Terras recognised as Ser Brienne, the one who'd been named to the first King's Guard of Bran. "—You and your delegation to your chambers?"
"We'd be obliged. We'll all wish to rest after our journey and change before the feast tonight."
"Feast?" Bronn queried, practically choking on the word, his eyes bulging. It seemed that no one had informed the Master of Coin how much money this little summit would be costing him.
Sansa had a light, easy way of sending these men to the edges of madness. Terras wanted to learn her every secret.
"You're entertaining a Queen, Lord Bronn." She then nodded to Yara and Terras in turn, but her eyes barely brushed him, leaving him craving more. "And possibly two more sovereigns, a Prince of Free Dorne and Queen of the Iron Islands. Did you plan to solve the King's control over the South and the Seas by starving us all?"
Bronn opened his mouth. Tyrion stomped on the man's foot and began leading Sansa and her small delegation away towards the castle. "We'll be feasting tonight, Your Grace. Pleasure before business and all that. Now, shall we—"
Tyrion was taking her away. Too fast. Terras' body moved before his mind had fully consented. Stepping forward, he was ready to speak to her again as they had in their letters—all sharp wit and slightly concealed feelings. But no sooner had he taken that first step towards Sansa than Ser Brienne intercepted him, moving abruptly into his path and withdrawing her sword halfway from its hilt.
Terras had never had the misfortune to meet a dragon before, but he was almost certain the look Brienne gave him in that moment was cold enough to freeze Dragon Fire in mid-air. His blood chilled. Brienne only uttered one sentence at him, through clenched teeth.
"You forget yourself, Dorne."
"Yes, of course," he said, not wanting to enter Sansa's space if she did not want him there. He offered the knight a slight bow, but she'd already caught up to her mistress before Terras could mutter: "Forgive me."
Without another word, Terras stepped back, watching as Sansa and Tyrion walked towards the castle side-by-side. With every step she took away from him, he prayed a single thought. Look back at me. Please, look back at me, Sansa.
But the Queen of the North did not answer his silent prayers. At the great rose-carved doors, though, she stopped short and nearly turned her head back towards the assembled parties. Terras' heart caught. Call to me. Say anything. Say my name—
"Yara Greyjoy. Will you walk with me?"
The leader of the Ironborn's face almost betrayed her surprise. But then, she nodded and rushed to the Queen's side. And then, they both disappeared from view, disappearing within the walls of the castle.
The yard was still full. Lords, dignitaries, Maesters, all crowded around and talked, giving each other orders and insults. The crowd was very much all around him, and yet, Terras really felt quite alone.
Sansa had turned back to say something to Prince Terras. But before she could manage it, doubt wrapped its hot, sticky fingers around her throat—what could she say to Terras Gadrios that wouldn't ruin everything?
If she let her heart rattle its way out of its cage and speak for her, even if she only said something vaguely polite, everyone would believe that anything she did was because of him. If she supported Dornish independence, they would say it's because he fucked her. If she didn't, they would say she was angry because he wouldn't.
And if she had turned around and said something needlessly cruel to him…Well, no matter what Brienne had said to her this morning as they made their final approach to Highgarden—remember, my lady, to watch yourself…your mind, your kingdom, and your heart—she just didn't want to be cruel to him. She didn't have the cruel in her to even try and aim it in his direction.
No. She had a plan. A plan that would eventually lead her to Terras, but not directly. A plan to a more free world stopped first at Yara Greyjoy's feet. She needed to stick to that plan if she was going to leave this place with the safety and sovereignty of The North in tact.
It wouldn't be easy. But she would do her best. She would not return to Winterfell a failure. Not with so many people counting on her.
Easily, she dismissed Tyrion. And she ordered Jeyne and Brienne to walk a safe distance behind them, so she and Yara could speak in confidence. This would be the hardest conversation Sansa had here at Highgarden. It was the one she dreaded the most. But it was necessary. For all their sakes.
And for Theon's memory. He owed it to him to see his homeland—and his sister—freed.
"Your Grace," Yara said, by way of greeting.
It was clear she wasn't particularly thrilled at being summoned.
"Yara," Sansa answered.
"Well, whatever it is, get it over and done with."
Sansa peered at the woman through the corner of her eyes, and was surprised by how much of Theon she saw there. The ache in her chest at the sight of Theon's eyes in another's face almost knocked the wind from her lungs. She kept her gaze to the floor of the courtyard corridor after that.
"I know it must have been you who let Theon return to Winterfell," Sansa said.
"And he got himself killed for all my kindness."
As much as Yara played at being the hardest woman in Westeros—and she probably was, by Sansa's estimation—Sansa recognised that hardness. It was the same game she played at when she wanted no one to know how she truly felt. Emotions welled up deep within Sansa's breast.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
"Your Grace, if you're going to be Queen, then you'd better not go around showing weakness like that to just anybody," Yara said, squirming under Sansa's softness. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of her sharp words, lessening their blow.
Sansa wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her riding gown. Only one traitor tear had managed a daring escape. She'd done so much crying over Theon that she almost forgot how to recognise when the tears were coming. She sniffed. No more tears. You're here to honour Theon's memory. He wouldn't want you to cry. Not anymore. Not when you have the power to do something besides cry.
"Well, maybe I'm not talking to just anyone. Maybe I'm talking to the right-wise ruler of The Iron Islands. Without Westeros."
Yara's attention was fully in hand now. She matched her pace with Sansa's. Skepticism was written in her every muscle, but Sansa knew what a woman looked like the first time someone believed in her. Complete faith that they were lying to you, but complete hope that they weren't.
"You intend to support my claim to free the Iron Islands?"
"If you make such a claim, I am interested. With Dorne's independence at hand, we have an opportunity to squeeze Westeros. You by the sea, me in The North, and the prince of Dorne to the South. Three allied, but independent, strong kingdoms holding them from every direction could keep Westeros at peace forever."
And that was all Sansa wanted. Peace. Peace and rest. For everyone. It sounded too good to be true, her offer. If someone had made it to her, she would have scoffed in their faces. Yara did just that.
"And why would you want that? Why would Prince Terras want that? The Iron Islands could be a real threat to you both. We take what we want and what we need."
"It's a bit difficult to sail ships through the snow or in the desert, just as Northmen would die in the South or at sea. We're all too different to be any kind of real threat. And we all have the same goal."
"And that is?"
"We all want to save our homes. We all want peace. And we all want to stop the Westerosi from—"
"Ever fucking with us again?" Yara asked.
Sansa smirked. "I was going to say meddle in our affairs, but yes. Your description is even more accurate."
"Why should I trust you? A Northman killed my Queen."
"A Queen who never would have given you your freedom. I'm a Queen who will."
Yara stopped then. Her boots halted their heavy, indelicate clunking on the stone floor beneath her. Sansa, too, stopped, careful not to let a single one of her emotions betray her.
"You are not the same little girl Theon used to write about in his letters. I can see why he loved you."
Sansa's eyes burned, but she wouldn't let tears fall. Not this time. Not when the words were as true as any she'd ever said before. "I loved him, too."
"He was a good man," Yara said. "Or, he became one, at least. You don't see that enough in this world."
For some damned reason, Terras' face flashed in Sansa's mind. She shook her head to erase him. Yara sniffed and changed the subject, a feat for which Sansa was eternally grateful. Thinking of Theon was a terrible, beautiful burden, just like thinking of Jon. So much love and respect and trust wrapped up with so much pain. Of course, she loved them both in different ways, but the effect they had on her now, when she'd lost them both forever, was the same.
"You know," Yara said, continuing their walk along the promenade, "Now that you're Queen, they'll all be wanting to marry you."
Again, Terras appeared in Sansa's mind. "Every man who ever married me or tried to is dead. Except for Tyrion, who wishes he was. No man will want to marry me and the North doesn't need a king."
"No. I suspect they don't." Respect, hard-earned and new, settled in around Sansa's shoulders. She'd always wanted to rule with love, always wanted people to love her, and yet, she was always surprised when it happened. No, Yara didn't love her yet, but that respect she felt in her gaze was almost as good. Even better, the woman rewarded her with a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. "We could get married, if you like. Shore up our alliance with wedding vows."
Sansa almost smiled in response. "If you're anything like your brother, Yara Greyjoy, then you're too good for me."
Their conversation ended shortly thereafter, as Yara excused herself to tend to her men, leaving Sansa alone with Jeyne and Brienne, who caught up with her. Brienne's return to Sansa had been a happy one, and as she'd walked into Highgarden, she hadn't felt a lick of fear or indecision, knowing Brienne was on her side. But now…Sansa's head swirled with thoughts of Theon…And of Terras. And of the battle they all had before them.
Independence for Dorne was useless—and risky—if the Iron Islands weren't free. They needed the three allied nations together if they were going to keep the peace in this world. But could she trust the prince?
"Brienne…" Sansa asked, staring at a wall of roses climbing up the side of the castle. "Do you think men can be good?"
Without turning away from the small garden enclosed within this rectangular turret of the castle, Sansa could feel both Brienne and Jeyne tense up behind her.
"I know that men can be good, Your Grace. I have seen it."
The distance in the knight's voice meant she was almost certainly speaking of Jaime. Sansa fought the urge to scoff. If Tyrion's accounts of his crimes were to be believed, then Jaime had abandoned Brienne to be with Cersei again. Not exactly the sort of ringing endorsement for Mankind's innate goodness Sansa had been longing for. But Brienne was not finished.
"But if this is in regards to a specific man in particular, then I would advise caution, Your Grace."
Sansa swallowed. This was all a game with very high stakes. And she intended to win. Perhaps she had to admit once and for all—no matter how her heart protested—that his intentions weren't good.
He was going to get what he was after. And he thought he could use her to get it.
Well, Sansa Stark was done with being used.
Another chapter! It's a little bit late because my computer died and I had to write it by hand, but it's also a double chapter because chapter five is coming out right now too! Please review and let me know what you think!