Chapter 6: Summer ~ Sansa

Sansa startled, as Tyrion and Brianne jumped from their chairs. "Take her!" Tyrion ordered Brianne who already had her sword out of its sheath. Yara flung her hands in the air and did not move or rise from her seat.

"Stop," Sansa ordered them. She stared hard at Yara. "What do you mean kill me? Why me?"

"Not just you, Your Grace. All of them. Everyone on the Great Council, and the king too." Brianne yanked the smaller woman from her chair and shoved her against the wall. Yara gasped but did not resist. "He means to send assassins—the greatest in the world to murder each and every one of you. They are plotting and planning as we speak. When it's done the kingdoms will be in chaos and the North will be vulnerable again."

Tyrion moved around the table and stood in front of Yara. She looked down at him as he pierced her with a murderous look. "How do you know this?" he spat at her. "How do we know this isn't a diversion?"

"Your Grace," Yara said directly to Sansa, struggling under Brianne's hand, "my brother, Theon fought for your family in the war against the dead. He gave his life for your brother. I would not dishonor his memory by conspiring against you."

The mention of Theon made Sansa's heart soften, but her eyes stayed steely as ever. "To speak your brother's name will only invite me to recall how easy it is for members of your family to betray members of mine." She thought of him at the end: just as much wolf as he was kraken. "Tell me how you've come to know this plot."

Yara nodded. "One of them got greedy—they came after me as well—that wasn't part of the plan. To overthrow me, Joron has to pay the Iron Price—he must kill me himself. But this little freelancer didn't understand that." Yara pointed to her neck and Brianne loosened her grip slightly. Yara pulled the strings on her shirt and pulled it aside to reveal a fresh gash cutting across her chest just below her throat. "I took his secrets before I served him to the Drowned God."

Tyrion shook his head. Sansa could see in his face that he didn't trust this woman, but he wasn't willing to bet Sansa's life on it. "We can have him arrested. We can send some men to ride for Pyke and put the little bastard in chains."

"You could," said Yara, "if you can find him. But the contracts have already been paid—going after Joron right now won't save any of them."

"Why did you come here then?" Sansa asked. "Warning me won't save you."

"Maybe not," Yara said, "But if my people are so easily swayed—I can't return to Pyke. If it isn't him it will be some other bastard, cousin, uncle. The Old Ways never let a woman rule the Iron Islands—they never will again."

Brianne turned to Sansa, "Let us lock her up, Your Grace."

"No," Tyrion said. "She's committed no crime that we can tell. We should all stay together. Let's keep her close, but not betray that their plot has been discovered until we can root out this would be assassin. If she speaks true, they will come for Sansa first—as an independent kingdom the North does not benefit from the king's peace; they'll think the queen alone in the world." Yara and Sansa exchanged a look, and then Sansa nodded her acquiescence.

"Your Grace, you need protection at all times," Brianne said. "Permit me to stay with you in the night."

"Thank you, Lady Brianne. I accept," Sansa noted a relieved glace between Tyrion and Brianne. To Tyrion she said, "You must write to Bran and give him a warning at least—"

"Raven's can be intercepted, my queen. I will reach His Grace another way." And with that he spun to the door, his cloak whipping behind him.

The castle was in nervous spirits; though, for several days, the peace was not disturbed, and when it was, it was not an assassin who had them up in arms—Quintyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne, had arrived.

Curiously, just before the Prince's arrival, Tyrion had disappeared from Winterfell without a word as to where he was going or when he thought to return. Perhaps they are the same person, Sansa mused. Her brilliant dwarf in the body of the Dornish Prince. She smiled at the thought. A perfect sort of man. But the amusement did not last. The truth was, Tyrion's sudden departure left Sansa feeling hallow. Even though they had not spoken in confidence since the first day of his arrival some weeks ago, even though they had scarcely been alone, and even though he'd set her aside, and proclaimed to her that, no he did not, could not, imagine a world in which he might love her—Sansa halted her thoughts. Be fair lady—he did not say those words.

As his presence gave her comfort, his absence made her feel anxious. But he did not feel the same for her, and it was not for her to force the matter.

The prince, on the other hand, doted on her. That first day he was all easy flirtation and presented her with gifts of Dornish wine, spices and gems. She received his attentions well enough, but the prince was obviously used to a more enthusiastic sort of woman, and her tempered response was not lost on him.

"My lady," he whispered to her as they sat together in the evening the day after his arrival in front of a grand fireplace in her outer quarters with servants and Lady Brianne keeping close.

"You are addressing a Queen, sir," Lady Brianne spoke from the corner of the room, "the proper address in 'Your Grace.'"

The Prince grinned, "Of course. Your Grace, are you quite well?"

Sansa smiled politely, "There is no need for us to be formal here, Lady Brianne. And thank you, sir—I am well. You have met us at a tense time here I am afraid."

"Ah, yes," Quintyn said, his eyes flashing something akin to arousal, "There is to be a murderer in our mists, yes?—very exciting!"

"Exciting?" came a voice from behind them. A servant boy the Prince had brought filled their cups with wine and Sansa and Quintyn turned to the door. Tyrion strode in and shut the door behind him. "You find a plot to assassinate the queen…exciting?"

"Lord Tyrion—" Sansa smiled at him. She was so relieved to see him, she nearly leapt from her chair and flung herself into his arms. She did not—but the impulse was there.

Tyrion's eyes connected with hers and then flitted to her hands resting in her lap. "Your Grace." He took a deep bow and then turned to the Prince and gave a far more stunted nod before motioning for the servant to pour him a cup as well.

"I find the prospect of killing this man and presenting his head to my lady to be very exciting, yes." The prince smiled. "You are the Imp? I remember you—Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King?"

Tyrion threw back his wine and took a much more theatric bow this time, "At your service."

Sansa bristled at the nickname, but made no move to intervene—Tyrion did not need her protection. Instead she said, "Are you going to tell me where you've been these many days?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Not as yet—I just came to tell you that the King is well and security has been tightened around King's Landing." Both Sansa and Brianne looked relieved, but she simply gave a curt nod.

"Then if that is all, you have told me and so now you must excuse me, my lord. The prince and I would speak in private." Sansa said, dismissing him.

Tyrion's eyes were pained and in the low candlelight a shadow passed over his face that looked almost torturous. But he nodded at her, "As you wish." He shrunk from the room, tossing a distressed look at Brianne on his way out and closed the door behind him. Though, Sansa noticed, not all the way closed.

The prince laughed. "Your half-man seems sullen," he jabbed.

He's not mine, Sansa thought. But what she said was, "Lord Tyrion is a respected member of King Bran's council and he is a welcomed guest in my home. I'll not have him mocked."

Quintyn shrugged, "As you wish, my lady. Anyway, we have more pleasant things to discuss, do we not?"

Sansa pulled herself together enough to smile at him. "It pleases me that you came here. I know the north's proposition might seem odd."

"Not at all—it is very strategic—very smart. If your lords are going to insist you marry, this would be a very beneficial match for both of us." Sansa smiled into her lap. "And," the prince continued, "if it is your aim to never see or speak to your husband for the whole of your marriage, you could not have selected someone further from you in all of Westeros."

At this she looked up at him and met his eyes, to find him smiling down at her. "My lord—"

He waved her off. "Political marriages are difficult I know—and I know you know," he nodded to the door where Tyrion had last been standing. "My countrymen have also been insisting I make a good match. They are very much in favor of this match with you, my lady. But I fear you may not like my terms."

They were negotiating now—Sansa smiled, for she knew she could make short work of this prince if she cared to. She stood up and glanced at Brianne momentarily before crossing over to the chamber door and closing it tight, and then returned to Quintyn's side. "What are your terms then?"

"First," he said, "you should know that I plan to marry for love—or the possibility of love—or not at all." Sansa caught her breath. She was not expecting to hear that, as it was quite the opposite of her goals for any marriage pact. "Second, you should know that I am the last son of the Martell's—our family has ruled Dorne for centuries. Longer than the seven kingdoms, longer than the iron throne. If we were to marry we rule the North and Dorne together, but our sons and daughters will be Martells and they will live in Dorne." Sansa leaned back in her chair and directed her eyes to the ground. "That seems a big ask to you, but it is nothing outside of tradition."

Sansa nodded. "There is precedent," she said, "in Dorne and in the north, for children to keep their mother's family name and live in her family home. Look at your own history, look to the Mormonts of Bear Island."

"When the man is low-born perhaps," The Prince flashed her a smile. "You are talking to a Prince."

"And you are talking to a Queen, my lord." Sansa wasn't shaken, but Quintyn realized his folly as soon as he'd said it. "My family is every bit as ancient and noble as yours. And every bit as in danger of sliding into nothingness," she said to him.

He nodded, his face suddenly solemn, acknowledging that perhaps their interests were not as aligned as he'd hoped. "That is a shame," he said. "I always wondered what it would be like to bed a queen."

"It would have been a delight no doubt," Sansa smiled. "If it pleases you, my lord," she looked up at Brianne but the other woman was trying hard not to intrude. "I fear you are still in danger—even if, or perhaps especially if, you leave here. I would have you stay on for a little bit longer—to keep the farce going until it is safe again."

"Your Grace, if safety is what you seek, I fear that is the farce," he smiled and stood, "But yes. I will stay and play this game. It will be a great gift to my king to keep his sister safe and kill his enemies." He reached a hand out to her, which she tentatively accepted and he pulled her to her feet. "Speaking of," he said, "I have a final gift for you as well." He released her hand and reached into his belt pulling a sheathed knife from it. Brianne leapt forward but the prince held up a hand. "There is no need for that my lady, as he turned the hilt over in is fingers and pressed it into Sansa's hands. She stared at the thing, smaller than a dagger, but larger than a kitchen knife, the hilt was pearl and the blade simple, but perilously sharp. "If anyone attacks you in the night, and your sword is not at the ready," he nodded at Brianne, and took her hand with the knife still in it and mimicked a slice up his own torso, "then you will open them from balls to brain. Do not be afraid."