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First Sansa is introduced to the burning eyes of the queen who sits ponderously on a gold-edged throne, bright red skirts spilling from her lap like blood. Her milk-white fingers tap the arms of the throne listlessly as Eddard Stark, still dusty from his travels from Winterfell, summons his eldest daughter forward. Above the pretty flurry of pale green silk, the girl's face is serene and beautiful, as always, pale skin and auburn hair flowing in shining waves to her waist, her steps deft as a dancer's and her curtsey elegant as she dips before the throne.

"Lady Sansa," says Queen Cersei, her tone more pleasant than her eyes. "The beautiful Lady Sansa . . . you will do well at court, I am sure. See that you attend properly to your dances and graces – and remember as future queen you must always smile." She bares her perfect white teeth in demonstration to the girl and extends her hands, one gripping her wine cup. Sansa steps back at the queen's nod and Eddard Stark presses forward the dark-haired girl at his other side. A small girl, barely up to his shoulder, dressed in exquisite blue silk, long black hair curling splendidly to her hips. "And you," the queen murmurs, meeting the girl's steady blue gaze. "Who is this, Lord Stark?"

Eddard bows his head stiffly to the queen, noticing with dismay the enticed stares of the milling courtiers surrounding her, and with anger the look of pure lust in the Kingslayer's evergreen glare.

"Adela Stark, Your Grace," says Eddard, his voice reluctant. "My niece, daughter of my brother Benjen Stark."

Stepping forward from her uncle's side, Adela is a small trail of blue blooming in a court of blood-red garb. Her steps are easy and light, though her heart is pounding, and she can manage only the smallest bending of her knees as she comes to a stop before the great trembling throne. She keeps her head up, and her blue eyes drift from the queen, to the young prince, and to the golden-haired stranger she recognises beside the throne, before flitting back again.

"Ah, the raven," purrs the queen with wine-stained lips. "I've heard many tales of you. Your beauty precedes you – as do all the men wanting to fuck you." There is a collective gasp from the crowd. Eddard pales, but Adela's eyes do not flinch from the queen's. "Daughter of Benjen Stark . . . but who was your mother, little raven?"

Adela's chin rises and her stare glows with quiet defiance as all around the throne room falls silent.

"My mother was a whore, I have no shame in that," she answers, her voice quiet and clear in this hall of kings. "Many men love many whores." As she says it in that velvet tone of hers, her bright blue eyes mark out the empty Iron Throne behind the queen and her meaning is clear. There is another murmured gasp. Queen Cersei's eyes look fit to explode. Adela watches as the milk-white fingers turn red as they grip hard onto the arms of the little throne. The room fills with nervous chat, and Adela feels a growing sense of unease. Stupid girl, she chides herself, so full of self-pride and pomp you've offended the queen before she's even said your name. Hidden from prying eyes, Adela's fingers knot nervously into her skirts, but her gaze remains clear and confident.

Finally there is a burst of laughter from a few of members of the court who can hold their amusement no longer and it soon grows until the hall is full of the sound.

Queen Cersei dismisses the Starks with a look of fire and a flick of her wrist and Adela can barely stop herself from skipping through the crowd and running into the shelter of the great stone corridor flanking the hall. She leans against the nearest wall she finds, feeling the coolness of the pink stone seep through her silken dress. Her chest rises frantically with her panicked breath and takes several moments to slow. When she looks up from her slippered feet, she meets the reassuring grey eyes of her uncle.

"Well played, little one," he says, mirthlessly but with a smile. "But try not to embarrass the queen so publicly again – she is not one to trifle with." He looks about him and straightens up. "I have business to attend to, the king is due back from his hunt soon. Sansa is back with the septa, but I haven't seen Arya since we arrived. Think she's wandered off exploring." He smiles again, a glimmer of humour returning to his eyes. "Perhaps instead of embroidering with the septa, you can try to find Arya for me."

She nods with a wide smile, thankful for his dismissal of her from the sedentary lessons of the septa. She turns without word and finds her way out of the corridor and into the warm air of dusk blanketing a cobbled courtyard. The sky is pink above the Red Keep, a handful of stars already visible. They arrived in King's Landing only a few hours ago and the heat still feels unbearable. The long sleeves of her gown shift uncomfortably at her wrists and the skirts trail behind her as she climbs a set of stone steps she finds at the edge of the courtyard, rising from the suffocating warmth of the cobbles to the cooler reaches of air atop the keep's turrets. She is breathing heavily by the time she mounts the last of the steps and walks out along the red stone of the landing. She feels as if she is mere feet away from the scattering of stars overhead in the darkening sky, and from her viewpoint the sprawling city becomes a swathe of multicoloured brick and stone and wood with lamps of the streets and distant windows beginning to sparkle like fallen stars. She looks distantly from the red walls ringing the entire city to the glitter of the water and beyond. She wonders if the gods are keeping their promise, wonders what is happening at the other end of the empire, in the snow-swept lands of the north.

"I had heard you were returning south with us," comes a voice from behind her.

She turns sharply, surprised by the sudden footfall and murmur from the steps. She watches as the golden-haired stranger comes toward her. Tall, broad-shouldered, as handsome close as he was from a distance. His eyes are emeralds against the gold of his hair. She takes in the white of his armour, the pallid woollen cloak draping his shoulders. A beautiful ghost of gold and white. Her eyes light on his now.

"You are with the Kingsguard?" she asks, her voice rising timidly from her throat.

"I am," he answers, smiling with easy grace and coming to stand beside her. "Beautiful from up here, isn't it?" They turn as one to watch the sky darkening over King's Landing.

"Yes," she says quietly. "And you cannot catch the city's stench."

At this he laughs. A rich laugh, deep and sure, and one she recognises from the throne room earlier. She regards him coyly with a sideways glance.

"It must be a change from your cold northern castles," he remarks. "But Lady Stark seems to think Sansa needs educating in the ways of the south."

"There is little in the way of southern education in the north," says Adela, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Sewing and embroidery, perhaps, and a few lessons from an old septa. But when it comes to singing the hymns of the Seven or knowing what colour gown to wear . . . that I cannot do."

"But if I asked you to loose an arrow into a target fifty yards away," he interjects, his eyes liquid green in the almost extinguished light of the sun. "Or to skin a hare, or to fight a man twice your size and win, why then – "

"Why then I would be seen as being very educated," she finishes, a little smile tugging at her lips. "I have been raised in the way of the north . . . Sansa has not. Catelyn saw to that. Whilst Sansa played with her dolls, and stitched sweet kerchiefs, I was out racing horses with the Stark boys, or sparring with Jon Snow. The only way the townsfolk could tell me apart from them was by my hair." Adela looks off into the horizon. Sansa's as wolf-blooded as any of the Starks, though, Adela adds to herself, she just hides it well.

He exhales softly in answer. "Yet you are both here to learn," he says, looking down at his hands before studying her profile against the setting sun. "When do you begin your lessons?"

His question hangs unanswered for a while between them as overhead the sun's light finally gives way to the dark blue night's sky and the glow of a gold-tinged moon. The air grows colder and begins to flutter through Adela's dark hair. Her lips part.

"It's a fragile universe we live in," she murmurs, her soft voice fracturing the silence. "A strange one too." She looks up at the sky, her eyes reflecting a spangle of stars. "Just think of it. I often do. Just think what makes up our world, and all the little worlds in between that we call our own. The snow and ice of the north, the sand and heat of the south. All the blood and fire in between. The fractures and factions, the simple lives of farmers, the crumbling towers of Castle Black. The extravagance of court, the poverty of the isles out at sea." Her brows knit together. "All in one kingdom, all in one little world."

He makes to reply, but falls fast into silence as the raven-haired girl turns silently and descends from the turret down the narrow stone steps, her footfall muffled by her slippers, and disappears back into the Red Keep. He turns back to starlit city and closes his eyes.

"A strange world, indeed," he murmurs.

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