SANSA
The glittering host left King's Landing in the glow of morning sunshine. Sansa rode through the Dragon Gate on a sweet-tempered grey mare, familiar to her; some kindly soul had found her old mount in the royal stables. With wagons of supplies and an army of men afoot, the horsemen could not ride at breakneck pace, so she had time to keep glancing backward. The high walls of pale red granite and the soldiers streaming through the gate stopped her from seeing the city men at work, but she could hear them. The ring of hammers and the shouts of taskmasters mingled with the grunts of labourers lifting wood and stone. New houses were rising amidst the wreckage of the old. The scars of the Battle of King's Landing on the substance of the capital were healing.
Other scars were not. Sansa wished the pace were faster. No matter that Renly ruled it now, to her this would always be Joffrey's city, the place where that cruel boy had delighted in the murder of her father and the ruin of her dreams. She hoped never to return here.
While Sansa, as a royal ward, rode near to the king, not all of his host followed him along the kingsroad. Among the last of the soldiers to go through the Dragon Gate, a company of mounted men went somewhat to the right of the kingsroad, and a smaller company, also ahorse, went to the left of it. Both had many standards flying, but, excluding the crowned stag of Baratheon that pranced above all, the one in highest honour for the group on the right was the black and yellow striped banner of House Beesbury, while House Shermer's copper nails flew above the left company.
Both Reachlords, Sansa noted, and Branston Cuy in King's Landing is a Reachman too. King Renly prefers to have his own stormlanders with him, as many as he can, for his campaign against Lord Tywin. She supposed there must be some significance in that.
When all those who would depart from the city had done so, Renly Baratheon wheeled about on his fine white horse and rode to meet his lords commander. In this sunlight the king's green plate armour shone as brilliantly as the gold antlers of his helm, so resplendent that it hurt her eyes to look at him. But Sansa knew it was adornment. Beneath the exquisite gilding there was only steel.
"I entrust to you a great responsibility, my Lord of Honeyholt," the king said clearly, loud enough to be heard from where Sansa was. "The crownlander lords to the north of the river Blackwater have shown little of the troth that they pledged to my dear departed brother Robert. They have forgotten their loyalty." A flash of perfect teeth. "Remind them."
Warryn Beesbury bowed his blond-maned head. "Your will be done, Your Grace."
Renly acknowledged that, then turned. "My Lord of Smithyton, you too are entrusted with a task. Most of the crownlanders to the south of the river have acknowledged their rightful king, but the lords of Massey's Hook seem to believe that their sheer distance from Storm's End and from King's Landing permits them to plot treason without fear of justice. They will learn from you, my lord, that it does not. I charge you to lead your host to Massey's Hook and return the bannermen of Dragonstone to the king's peace."
Perestan Shermer, an ageing man once as handsome as his Rainbow Guard son, inclined his head to the king. "Your Grace honours me."
"I do." The king turned to his men. "As we speak, the bastard usurper's hirelings are tormenting my people. For that, my friends, what shall we serve them?"
The ground trembled beneath the stamping of boots. "Death!" roared fifty-thousand voices from fifty-thousand throats. "Death to lions! Death to lions! Renly, Renly, Renly king, Renly king!"
Renly Baratheon basked in their regard, permitting it to go on for a long while. At last he raised his right hand, a short simple gesture. Thus at once fell silence.
"So be it. We make our way northward, with all haste. We've a lion to catch."
And so they did.
'All haste' for an army of this size, Sansa discovered, was not very hasty. Many of the king's men were not mounted, and the wagons that bore their provender were slower still. She would not complain. Lord Tywin Lannister had to take a host of foot with him too; and if what she had heard at King Renly's court was anywhere in the vicinity of truth, Lord Tywin's host was pitifully paltry next to the unfathomable immensity of this one.
Lord Perestan led his soldiers away, turning around to cross the river. Every man of them was ahorse. This smallest host soon disappeared from Sansa's sight behind the city. The other, Lord Warryn's, following the Rosby road, was and would remain visible. It comprised thousands, she was sure. How many thousands? She could not say. To Sansa's inexperienced eyes, it did not look much smaller than the host that Kevan Lannister had led to King's Landing ere Joffrey was dethroned.
The morning sun caressed the gorgeous colours of the standards and surcoats of Lord Warryn's host and danced upon their steel helmets as they rode. Yet the greater army from which they had come did not seem diminished. Nigh the totality of King Renly's host, foot and horse alike, remained at his side—so many that Sansa could not perceive a noticeable difference.
For most hosts, to send away as mighty a company as Lord Warryn's would have been a substantial commitment of the host's strength. For King Renly's host, it was a detachment.
The touch of fear, like ice-cold water dripping down her back, had become a familiar feeling. Don't let Robb fight him, she prayed, to old gods, new, whichever god would heed her. Let him understand that some wars can't be won. Let my brother live. Please.
Onward they rode along the kingsroad.
It was a ghost of the journey she had taken on the same road, going the other way. In some sense it was eerily similar. Sansa was given every comfort. She dined well every night; the king was generous with the bounty of Highgarden. When they set up camp by the side of the kingsroad at nights, she slept on a feather mattress in a green pavilion that was never distant from the king's. There were amiable servants all around her, cheerful and courteous, to attend her every need. There was none of the hostility with which she had been treated since the Lannisters turned against her lord father and made the Starks their foes.
Only, she knew that she was still a captive. As kind as Renly and his court may be to her, there were to be no sunlit rides away from camp at her leisure, not only for fear of enemy soldiers. She would not be let free to leave her place at the heart of the Baratheon host. King Renly kept many times more soldiers at his side than old King Robert had. And for all that these southerners spoke her more gently than the court of Joffrey and his westermen, they were not northmen. They were not and would never be her people. Three Starks had come south on this road, herself and Arya and her lord father. Two were gone. The Lannisters had killed her father, and Arya… Arya… could she…? No. She must face the truth. Likely they had murdered Arya too, on the day they took the Red Keep, and left her dead in a gutter somewhere in the hope that none would know of their sin. Not even Jeyne Poole had been spared; she had disappeared from Sansa's chamber one day, never to be seen again. When Sansa had asked about Jeyne, the king had sent forth his men to search, and afterward he had told her with pity that, among the captives held by the Lannisters, there were none who answered to that name.
Three Starks had come south from Winterfell. One lived to go north again, alone, to a castle sacked and despoiled. No illusion cast by royal splendour could conceal that.
One morning, near a fortnight after his host left King's Landing, the king and queen gathered their lords and well-born knights to their side ere they set out on the road. Ladies, too. There were many highborn women of the stormlands and the Reach here, as well as Queen Margaery, having come all the way from Highgarden where the king had had his coronation.
They met on a patch of smooth earth where the royal pavilion, now uprooted for the march, had stood at night. Beneath a blue sky dotted with white wool-like clouds, finely dressed ladies gleamed in gowns of every colour, brandishing husbands on their arms. Many were fair, but none could outshine Margaery Baratheon, who shimmered in silvery lace so delicate that it looked like it would not stand to a harsh gust of wind. She stood straight-backed and confident, meeting the eyes of any, at her leisure, fearless. It had been a long time since Sansa had borne herself like that.
By contrast to the queen's dazzling dress, the man on her arm appeared drab. Clad in black velvet and strangely solemn, King Renly was armed but unarmoured. He had to appear as a man of battle, Sansa thought, though he did not need the reality of it. Why would he? Who of his enemies could get this far? There was nothing to fear in the midst of the mightiest army in the world.
Renly Baratheon had no raised platform, but he was tall and broad, and all who had not already been regarding him turned when they heard their king's strong voice. "We shall resume the march shortly, my friends. Fear not on that account," he told them. "Two riders reached us last night, with tidings that ought to be shared with you. Some are sweet, others bitter."
The lords and ladies of the south exchanged glances.
"We are your devoted servants, Your Grace," declared a young knight whose name Sansa did not know. "Not even the miserable defeat on the Blackwater sufficed to break our loyalty, and we went on to fight and win the Battle of King's Landing in your royal name afterward. Bitter as these tidings may be, I believe I speak for us all when I say we will serve you faithfully despite them."
A chorus of "Aye" rang out from around the clearing.
"You are admirable, my leal friends," the king said, blinking as if to thwart tears. "Would that all the realm were so. Very well. The first rider came from Lord Warryn at Duskendale. He informs us that Renfred Rykker has opened his gates and warmly welcomed our valiant comrades in arms with a great banquet, toasting their honour and the victory they won at King's Landing. Lord Renfred has offered his apologies for his absence there—I'm told he spoke of Rosby and Stokeworth, the bastard usurper's allies in the crownlands, standing in the way between Duskendale and the capital—and pledged his allegiance to our cause."
A cheer arose from among the gathered men and women. "Hail Renly!" they shouted, and "Renly, Renly king!"
Still, it was less hearty than one might have expected for tidings as sweet as these. The surrender of Rosby and Stokeworth had been expected. The elderly Lord of Rosby and the even older Lady of Stokeworth were both hostages in the capital, kept in good comfort but by watchful guards as price for their loyalty to Joffrey. House Rykker of Duskendale, strong and thus far uninvolved, was another matter indeed. The northern crownlands were falling into King Renly's hands like a pear so ripe it broke off at a slight touch of its tree.
That gain was another iron nail in the coffin of House Lannister… but all of them were awaiting Renly's other tidings, those that he had said were bitter.
"The other rider," said the king, "came from Lord Branston at King's Landing. He spoke of a raven from Sunspear." There was a sharp intake of breath. "Prince Doran says he has finished conferring with his advisers on the matter of the bastard girl the Imp deposited in his hands."
Ser Donnel Swann, the broad and burly heir to Stonehelm, stepped forth. "It should be no shock that the Dornish prove perfidious," he proclaimed. "We of the marches know that well. We have fought them many times before. Their dishonour is no shame on you, Your Grace. Give the word and we'll send them scurrying back to their deserts!"
Some of the younger men and the marcher lords cheered at this lustily and loudly, but most of the lords and ladies were silent. Grim resolve was more in evidence than eagerness. If the Dornish truly marched against the king, this war might be much prolonged.
"Your boldness does you credit, Ser Donnel," Renly said, "but here it is unneeded. Prince Doran has decided not to declare for an abomination born of incest. There is history between House Martell and House Lannister. The bastard girl is being escorted to King's Landing as we speak by a party of armed men, led not by Prince Doran—for he pleads his gout—but by his brother the Red Viper, to pledge Dorne's spears to our cause. All that he asks in return is justice, and I would have given it to him regardless. Gregor Clegane, Amory Lorch and Tywin Lannister will all lose their heads, as they should have done sixteen years past. What manner of monsters in the shape of men are they, to murder a princess and even children?"
What? The Dornish are coming to join him? Of all the things Sansa had expected the king might mean, that was not even on the list. Stormlanders and Reachmen had no love for Dornishmen, an enmity born of thousands of years of spilt blood, but surely they could not consider it bad news to gain such a powerful ally in the war.
The others seemed to be as confused as she was. "I beg Your Grace's pardon," said Robert Cordwayner, Lord of Hammerhal, "but none of those tidings are bitter."
Sorrow was written plainly on Renly's face. "I beg my lord's pardon. They are. My lady of Oakheart, I—"
Arwyn Oakheart interrupted him in a trembling voice. "Arys?"
Arys Oakheart. Sansa remembered a courteous, comely young knight of the Kingsguard, Robert's as well as Joffrey's. He had nevertheless obeyed whenever Joffrey commanded him to hit her, but he had spoken her gently elsewise, which made him one of the least cruel of her tormentors. And she recalled the day of the great riot of the cityfolk of King's Landing, the day when Ser Arys had sailed away to Dorne with Princess Myrcella.
The king said, "I am sorry."
Sansa had never seen the short, slender, soft-spoken Lady Arwyn so enraged. "House Martell must be punished for this!"
Beside her, Lord Mathis Rowan put a hand on her shoulder. "My lady, the Prince of Dorne is pledging his spears to us. We dare not spit in his face. Be reasonable—"
Lady Arwyn twisted away from his hand. "Reasonable?!" she roared. "A pox on that! They murdered my son!"
"A son who served the usurper," said Randyll Tarly.
"As did many," Lady Arwyn retorted. "Does that justify murder? All the highborn westermen and crownlanders whom we took captive at King's Landing would disagree."
"The Whore of the West wouldn't," Lord Randyll said dismissively. "Alester Florent neither."
Before he finished speaking, Lady Arwyn said, "Arys's deeds were never half so heinous as—"
"Ser Arys was no Gyles Rosby. He didn't only serve the abomination to avoid death, isolated in King's Landing when the Lannisters seized the crown," said Ser Edwyd Fossoway. "He would be liberated and reunited with us if so. He swore his life to the bastard's false Kingsguard."
Soon all were speaking at once.
"As traitors deserve—"
"His Grace would have been more—"
"You heartless—"
The king's voice cut through the babble like an axe through ripe cheese. "Enough!"
There was a short silence.
When tempers had cooled and his bannermen were quietly awaiting his words, the king spoke. "It so happens that Ser Arys, ere his death, was told of my intention for the bastard girl whom he accompanied. He knew she was to be sent to the capital to join the silent sisters there, under my eye, that she may raise no more rebellion. He was told, too, of my command and his lady mother's that he must cease serving the bastard usurper. Both she and I wished that he return to King's Landing alive and enter the true king's service. Ser Arys refused those commands. He died to stop the bastard girl from being sent to us. Some consider the abominations pretty, I am told. Mayhaps that was the cause of it—"
"You dare—?"
Renly's voice rose. "Yes, I dare! That is the best of your hopes, Lady Arwyn. For if that is not what I choose to believe, why, then I must believe that he defied your order because he was a cold-blooded traitor, serving the abomination Joffrey. Or, worse, that he did not defy you at all, that he was a faithful son, and that you deliberately pledged House Oakheart's strength to the rightful king whilst ordering your youngest son to serve the abomination, lacking all true loyalty, hoping to be favoured no matter who won the crown."
"Is that Your Grace's accusation?" Lady Arwyn found a whit of icy composure. "It's treason, then?"
"No." The king's voice quietened. "I don't wish to accuse you of that, unless you force my hand. You are gracious and noble, my lady; I don't believe you a traitor. I choose to believe that Ser Arys went against your wishes as well as my own, when he raised his sword and died faithless in defence of an abomination."
Whatever solace Arwyn Oakheart took in the king's forgiveness for herself was undone by the slight to her son. She looked around the clearing, seeking support from her fellow ladies and lords. She did not find it. Some, such as Ser Donnel Swann, seemed sympathetic but did not speak in favour of her. Most met her gaze with nothing but hardness in their eyes. Sansa judged they did believe, and resented, that Lady Arwyn had wanted her son to fight for Joffrey against them, in order to have one foot in each camp.
The Lady of Old Oak quivered with scarce suppressed wrath, yet she dared not give voice to more defiance. Through gritted teeth she said, "With Your Grace's leave."
The king sighed. "My ladies, my lords, sers, you are granted it."
They marched on, for that day and other days. Lady Arwyn and her remaining sons did not dare to take House Oakheart's men away from the king's host. It was three days after that announcement, on another sunny morning, that the king and queen sent word for another gathering. The ladies and lords and highborn knights of the south congregated around the royal couple, who were surrounded by their companions, the queen's colourfully clad ladies-in-waiting and the king's even more colourfully clad knights of the Rainbow Guard.
"Welcome, my friends," said the king, favouring them with a dazzling smile. "I shan't keep you long. We have a sweet tiding indeed." He turned to his wife. "Margaery my sweet?"
Every eye in the clearing fell upon the queen. She was brown of hair and brown of eye, slim and pretty, and it occurred to Sansa how young she was. Maiden be kind, she's no older than Robb.
Despite that, there was not the least tremor or hesitation in Queen Margaery's voice when she said, "I've had two moons pass without my moon blood."
A moment's pause, to comprehend—then all the knights and lords and ladies were calling and competing to be heard. The king and queen stood there for a while, smiling, taking in the exclamations of delight, until the queen said, "Thank you all for your well-wishes. My husband's faithful Maester Jurne will give me and the babe the best of care, as befits the heir to the crown of the Seven Kingdoms."
"This babe is a blessing to us," said the king. "Whether a boy or girl, it makes no matter; the babe will be cherished all the same. If it is a princess not a prince, what need we fear? There's time. The queen and I are not, I hope, too ancient."
A gale of laughter swept the assembled men and women. One of the younger knights had the temerity to shout "You soon will be!" and there was more laughter, led by Renly himself.
"By the child I bear, a bond has been sealed between the Reach and the Iron Throne," said Queen Margaery. "The bond of Tyrell and Baratheon has expelled the bastard Joffrey from his ill-gotten power and is restoring order to the Seven Kingdoms. Let it never be forgotten."
Her lord father's bannermen cried out in approval. "Never forgotten!" they shouted, and cries of "Hail the queen!" and "Hail the king!" were mixed with those of "Renly, Renly king!" and "Tyrell, Tyrell, Tyrell!"
"Never let our bond be broken, indeed," the king said when the shouting died away. "For all that, however, don't for a moment think that I've forgotten the proud and valiant lords of my ancestral land, who have rendered good service to me and my kingly brother before me. Long have you fought for my family, deposing the Mad King, crushing Stannis of Dragonstone when he defied King Robert's decree out of greed for a castle that never belonged to him, and driving out the abomination born of incest that slithered its slimy way onto my throne. House Baratheon could ask for no more faithful servants than yourselves. And to that end, I pledge to you what is most precious to me."
A curious murmur ran around the court.
"My brother Robert would have been a great king, if not that the Whore of the West poisoned his mind with ill counsel and sought to keep House Baratheon's true friends out of his court. That ends now," the king declared. "I mean to grant the title of Prince of Storm's End to my eldest son. When he is old enough, there he will rule over all of the stormlands as your liege, living around you and listening to you, till he passes the stormlands to his own son when I walk the Stranger's hall. Henceforth, my leal stormlords, as long as my line rules the Seven Kingdoms, you and your heirs will always be close to the king."
The stormlords were plainly delighted. A dozen different cries rang out, but one soon swallowed up the others and came from every stormlander throat:
"Our king! Our king!" the stormlanders hailed their liege whom they had made something more. "Our king!"
Renly and Margaery Baratheon walked among their bannermen and spoke with them, hearing their congratulations and listening to their extravagant praise and thanking them for their valour, counsel and leal service. The king found time for each, and favoured each with his beaming smiles, the kind that lit up the world around his handsome face and made whoever saw it feel as if they were the most important person in the world to him. The proud and noble lords and ladies jostled for space near the king and queen like cityfolk watching a tourney. Arwyn Oakheart stood aside, unmoved, but Sansa looked at the others and saw that Lady Arwyn was alone in her sentiment. Sansa had no notion of whether the king making Storm's End a royal fief, the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne, was truly so advantageous for the lords and ladies of the stormlands, but she realised it did not matter. What mattered was that, when Renly Baratheon had spoken of it, the wizardry of his words had made it seem like a great favour for them, and they had believed in it. Lady Arwyn would be disappointed if she tried to find allies for her grudge against the king. No matter House Oakheart's anger, the lords and ladies of the south loved well the king that they had made, and they fully intended to finish the task of destroying his foes.
In honour of the little prince or princess, all the men had been granted greater rations for today's dinner, at the queen's command. The march on that day was swift, driven by anticipation. When they set up camp for the night, the soldiers caroused in good cheer, and Sansa saw many toasts to the queen, the king and the royal babe.
That evening, before supper, Sansa disturbed the men whom the king had commanded to guard her. "I must visit the queen," she said, "to pay my respects."
Four armoured southerners walked with her towards the queen, though there could surely be no threat here, in the heart of King Renly's power. They passed many other soldiers on the way, and were waved through without hassle. It did not take long for her to reach a great green pavilion above which the black crowned stag of Baratheon pranced across a golden banner.
Two of the Rainbow Guard waited outside it, wearing cloaks of green and blue. The green knight she could understand. Ser Cortnay Penrose had been raised to the Rainbow Guard after the death of three of its sworn brothers, fighting for the king during the Clash of the Stags. The blue knight had been part of the Rainbow Guard for even longer than Ser Cortnay, behind only Ser Robar Royce and Ser Parmen Crane the Lord Commander in length of service, and yet she was no knight at all, but a woman. How could a woman be sworn to an order rooted in the Kingsguard, even a woman who was mannishly tall? Sansa was curious as to how that was possible, but held her tongue. Brienne of Tarth may not be a knight but she undoubtedly was a highborn lady, and Sansa feared that she might take offence if she were asked that question.
Lady Brienne stepped forward with her sword in hand. "What is your purpose here, my lady?"
"To give my well-wishes to the queen," Sansa said.
A voice from inside called: "Let her in."
"Then pass," said Lady Brienne. "You only."
Leaving her guards outside, Sansa opened a flap of the royal pavilion. She unlaced her boots and left them in the outer segment, then pushed another flap to come inside. There was no sign of the king; all of those within were women.
"Do take a seat," the queen said briskly, taking Sansa's arm and ushering her to an ornate maple-wood chair, waving away her maidservants. "Have you supped yet?"
"No, Your Grace," said Sansa.
"Splendid. Bess, run along now, tell the cook we'll have suckling pig, portions for two." A girl bobbed her head and ran from the tent. "Danelle, do be a dear and pour some wine for us. Dry red, I should think, from the lower Mander. Not those Dornish sorts—they're far too sour—and Arbour wine, well, the quality is not in doubt, but I prefer to have some variety and it is rather overused nowadays." In what seemed no time at all, Sansa found herself holding a glass. The queen was sipping at hers merrily.
Sansa struggled to keep up. "Your Grace, I don't wish to disturb your meal with the king."
"Renly? Oh no, you need not worry on that account. He's cloistered with a gaggle of lords, speaking of strategies. Men often are. You'll have to get used to that, I'm afraid. No, the two I spoke of for dinner are you and I."
"Thank—thank you for the honour—"
"You're most welcome," the queen said, "and you're welcome to return here. You are, after all, the Lord of Winterfell's sister, and the daughter of our dearly beloved late lord Hand. It's fitting that you should be treated according to that station."
Speaking to the queen, Sansa decided, was like speaking to a hurricane. You could not grip it, you would just get carried away, and it spat things out at great speed at unforeseen moments. She settled for "Your Grace is very kind", which sounded safe.
"It's good of you to say so." Queen Margaery took another sip. "I hope you like the wine."
"I do, Your Grace." It was excellent wine, Sansa admitted to herself, though very strong; it made her feel warm and ungraceful. She was glad that she still had her chair.
"And your pavilion? As comfortable as you could wish?"
"Oh yes."
That line of questioning continued. All of this had grown decidedly out of control. When Queen Margaery paused to give a kind word to one of her maidservants, bringing in a lovely tender piece of pork that made Sansa's mouth water, Sansa seized the opportunity to say: "I came to congratulate Your Grace on the conception of the royal babe."
"That," said Queen Margaery. "Yes, I thought so. Thank you for your courtesy. That deed was not so difficult as to deserve congratulations, only tedious."
Mother's mercy! Sansa flushed.
"You do turn such a pretty shade of pink. It's quite endearing. Had you not given much thought to the matter before? It is part of a lady's duties."
"I—I—I didn't—" Sansa groped for words like a blind woman. "My lady mother spoke to me a little," she at last resolved to say. "I thought the bedding was supposed to be pleasant."
"It is for some," the queen said. "Others call it painful. I found it neither; truth be told, it felt more messy and embarrassing than anything else. I suspect it may depend on who your husband is. Some men enjoy the deed greatly and lie with women whenever they can. Other men don't and need to be persuaded to partake in it. My kingly husband is one of the latter sort. Mayhaps it is different with the former."
Overwhelmed at last, words failed Sansa. She was so mortified that it was as if she was lost at sea.
There was a while's silence, during which both of them ate and drank and the queen studied her from above. Their seats were of similar craft, and the height difference between them was not too great, but Sansa felt it keenly.
"I tell you this because someone must," the queen said. "Your lady mother would speak to you of such things in the ordinary course of events, but regrettably, by Lannister treason, she cannot be with you now. That will be rectified as soon as Renly and I are able, I promise." As soon as you are able if it serves your purposes, Sansa thought, although she was not fool enough to say it. "Till that happy hour, I hope that my company, here where your lady mother stayed, will serve in her place."
"My lady mother stayed here?" said Sansa.
"She did. Lady Catelyn came to speak to Renly when we were upon the roseroad, a while before the Clash of the Stags. In token of vengeance for your lord father's death, he promised her Queen Cersei's head, which is why the silent sisters have that little package you may have noticed—"
Sansa had noticed no such thing.
"—and she watched the tourney wherein Lady Brienne won her place in the Rainbow Guard, but that was it." She turned to one of her maidservants. "Cyrelle, open another bottle of this red. Yes, a whole bottle, I know the Lady Sansa and I won't finish it all. You can split the rest among yourselves afterward." After that jaw-dropping expensive offer, back to Sansa: "Little was gained, I fear. He made her an offer and she departed to convey it to your brother. Still, we were at the castle of Bitterbridge at the time, so my kingly husband granted her the use of this pavilion while he had no need of it. It can't have been much more than half a year past."
Half a year. Sansa imagined her lady mother sitting where she now sat, brushing her hair, as Lady Catelyn had often done when she was small. Her heart ached with longing. It had been much more than half a year since she had seen her mother.
"I've made you melancholy," the queen observed, as Cyrelle poured them both more drink to go with the last of the pork. "I am sorry for that. You'll speak with her soon. Before then, I implore you, be free to ask aught that it please you to know from me."
Sansa listened intently. She did not trust Margaery Baratheon. She recalled well what had happened the last time she had trusted a queen. But if she were careful, mayhaps she could make use of her.
The queen invited her to dinner the next day as well. Sansa attended dutifully. The day after that, she was invited again. This time—the presence of the full Rainbow Guard outside the royal pavilion was a clue—it was not only the queen she supped with, but also the king.
It was more than a little daunting to be almost alone with the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa pried as far as she dared, and between other, more innocuous questions she sought word of her brother. It was now clear that Robb had left the westerlands, she heard, and the king opined that he would have passed Riverrun weeks ago, but which direction had he gone in? Tidings were unclear. Some said north, to fight the ironborn. Some said east, to join with her uncle, Ser Edmure. Some said south, to march against the Reach and make war on House Tyrell. One merchant, she was told, had sworn in the name of the old gods and the new to the sentries of the king's host that Robb had not left the westerlands at all, and that he had led a huge host of a hundred-thousand wargs with slavering jaws to fall upon Casterly Rock.
The king was laughing at that account, saying that mayhaps there had been a huge host of a hundred-thousand cups of ale, when Ser Alyn Estermont of the Rainbow Guard burst into the pavilion, orange cloak fluttering about him. "Your Grace, a party of riders have come here, from Lord Branston in King's Landing. They wouldn't give this to any of the sentries or their captains, only to one of the Rainbow Guard, and they bade me this must be opened by none but you."
King Renly rose to his feet. "You've done well, coz. If I may…?"
A little sheepishly, Ser Alyn passed a letter to his king. Sansa saw a wax seal of six sunflowers, a row of three above a row of two above the last one. It was indeed the sigil of Lord Branston Cuy, and above the unbroken seal someone had hurriedly scrawled 'FOR THE KING'.
The king broke the seal and unrolled a letter within. It was a long letter; she could see his dark blue eyes, so alike to old King Robert's, as they travelled down the page. Those eyes grew very wide. They flicked back to the top and went down again.
"Your Grace?" Ser Alyn said.
The king looked up at him. Shock, disgust and horror mingled on his face. "A terrible deed has been done," he said. "Even for vile traitors against the crown, I can scarce believe such blackest of dishonour to be possible …"
King Renly was the very picture of outrage. It would have been so very easy to believe it. Had they not seen, almost anybody would have done. But she had seen his face just before he looked up at his cousin, while he was reading Lord Branston's letter for the second time. It had lasted for a fraction of a moment, and it was utterly different from the wide beaming grins he bestowed so freely on his followers, only the faintest twitch of lips… but it was unmistakeably the pale shadow of a smile.
