Tap … tap … tap

Sean stared down as knights and lordlings crossed the Middle Bailey in ones and twos and threes to gather less than discretely by the side of the Royal Armory. Forty or so men, all wearing their finest, stood in a loose circle about his chief aide. The Great and Smalljon next made an appearance with all the subtlety of an avalanche. Even the actor could hear the huge bull's bellow of greeting to his fellow conspirators through the thick glass of the bedroom window in the Maidenvault. Sean snickered in amusement as Olyvar raised his hands in the vain hope of reining in the giant.

Tap … tap … tap

'Oh, that's interesting,' he thought, spying old Ser Stevron standing in the middle of another, smaller group of men, each wearing his house's sigil on their surcoat. The agreeable, but still deadly snaked, seemed to be in charge of running interference for anyone trying to crash the invitation only party. A finger lifted off his greying beard to point towards the kennels and off went his grandson to intercept an overly inquisitive hedge knight. The actor smirked and chuckled as Black Walder spun the interloper around and kicked him in the arse. The man stumbled, but didn't fall; then, upon straightening up, sought the pommel of his sword as honor demanded it. Unfortunately, where before there had been only one Frey, there were now suddenly four as various cousins or uncles or great somethings had come to stand ominous and united beside their kin. "The Freys have their uses," Sean muttered.

Tap … tap … tap

He leaned up close to the pane in order to get as good a look as he could. 'Y'up. Still there,' he confirmed. A clump of white and grey clad men congregated, angry all of them he imagined, by the main entrance to the Maidenvault. And at the front of them, remarkable by the great sword, over large for his size, slung over his shoulder, the thick mop of brown-red hair atop his head, and the ridiculously oversized wolf close by his hip, stood Robb. 'Probably grinding his teeth as hard as Stannis ever does.' The men of Winterfell had been expressly forbidden by their lord in partaking of the lottery, such as it was. "But father, t'was our House's honor the Lannisters' curs besmirched by their …," Robb heatedly objected. "Which will make the gift of our letting others return a token of our honor to us bind those even tighter to Winterfell," he interjected. Protestations began to rise out of evident frustratoin. "Only a fool could think Starks lack for honor. This is about ruling, Robb" he explained calmly. "Trust, and watch." Robb frowned, but at least knew enough to not complain again. 'Still so much to learn, son,' he thought, not even noticing how he referred to the young man who looked nothing like himself.

Tap … tap … tap

"I wondered if he'd come," Sean said to the empty room. Coming round the corner of the armory, obviously having just descended the serpentine stair from his lair in the White Tower, walked Roose Bolton, a companion, and the pale man's shadow Steelshanks. The companion turned to say something to the traitorous fuck head and the actor caught sight of a bronze horsehead badge, a Ryswell. He'd made sure they were high on the list. Their house and the Dustins hadn't responded as vigorously to Robb's calling of the banners as most of other Northern houses had. He squinted, trying to see which one of the three brothers it was. He sighed, giving up once the trio merged into the bigger party of men. He wondered what his lords would make of him once he helped some maester discover 'glasses'. His missing hand wasn't the only part of his body that had started to fail the fifty one year old lad from Yorkshire; fifty two soon enough. He supposed crude lens might already exist somewhere in George's ass backward shithole, but he sure as hell hadn't seen any so far. "Bastards," he suddenly snarled.

tap … tap … Tap … Tap … TAP … TAP … TAP!

A half dozen Queen's Men stood off a bit watching the gathering intently. He could see Stevron rubbing his beard debating what to do. The fire lovers weren't close enough to warrant special treatment, but neither were they so far away as to not make their presence an obvious annoyance, if not an outright challenge. At last the aging heir to the Twins made a decision and off went Ser Perwyn to investigate, so it would be diplomacy instead of intimidating violence. They were the 'Queen's' men after all. Much as he'd hoped the Red God's cult around Stannis would break up with the tragic, accidental death of their Priestess – Sean snickered – too many of them had been drinking too long already from Melissandre's fiery Kool-Aid. At least Selyse Baratheon who apparently was trying to carry the torch of her mentor had all the charisma of a constipated nag. "Give it time," he chuckled. "Give it time."

"Give who time, Ned?" Cat asked, breezing into the bedroom. "And for the Seven's sake, please stop playing with that," she lightly chastised.

Not Ned looked down in surprise at the piece of dragonglass he'd forgotten was in his hand. He immediately stopped tapping the point of the rough knapped obsidian into the now heavily pockmarked window sill. He grinned at his wife, not at all embarrassed at being caught in a display of nervous energy by her.

"Wisdom Hallyne won't be back from his Guildhall any quicker with an answer no matter how hard you try to dull the tip of that arrowhead Harl shaped for you."

"Hhhmmmmnnnn, if I may, your ladyship," the actor mimicked in close approximation to the Pyromancer's stuffy, nasal voice. "the essence of fire flows through my veins. It should not take much effort to determine if there are any … hhmmmm … unusual qualities to be found in this … hhmmmmn … dragon named glass."

Cat laughed lightly at his jest. The man had oozed an oblivious sense of professional arrogance in his conversation with them the previous day, for all that it was the Lord of Winterfell's men keeping the still irate smallfolk of the city from storming his guildhall to give the pyromancers a taste of their own burning medicine.

"What took you so long, my lady?" Sean inquired. "I saw Sansa leave over an hour ago to join the Queen."

"While this isn't Winterfell, I am still Lady here and the servants require guidance if you expect things in the Maidenvault to continue running so smoothly you never notice all that's being done every day for you and your banners."

Her tone was mostly light, but with a hint of iron under them. He didn't mind her 'setting him right' in the least. Now a response like that from Georgina would have set off a ferocious row between the two. "Sansa looked lovely," he responded.

Cat smiled as she walked over to the armoire. "She wanted to wear that ruby broach the Queen gave her, but when I showed her the two amber pins, she knew your intention immediately and cried 'Lady.'"

Sean chuckled softly, imagining her excitement as she buttoned the gemstones into the eyes of the direwolf embroidered on her gown. She would never be beautiful, that bastard Joffrey had stolen that forever. But when the scars faded, the actor, well versed to the importance of beauty in his trade, thought she had a chance to grow into a compelling, appealing enough look. It would all hinge on the strength of her blue eyes. "She's staying brave," he said, sounding as much question as comment.

"Like a wolf pup. Still unsure of herself now and again," the auburn haired lovely responded while gazing at the modest rack of gowns hanging within the wardrobe. The last week the seamstresses had been working overtime to garb Sansa in fine clothes becoming of a modest, but wealthy young lady in waiting to the queen; thus the Lady of Winterfell had no new courtly gown to wear to the coming coronation, not that she minded in the least.

"Here, let me," not Ned whispered in her ear, having quietly snuck up behind his lady. He raised his hand to the top hook at the back of her dress.

"I can call the maid, if it's too much trouble."

"Not at all," he said huskily. 'I've been unsnapping bras one handed for thirty years. This I can do.' "Besides, I'd much rather be the one to help you get naked, than some doughty old maid." And to prove his point, after he unclipped the hook, he started nuzzling the back of her neck.

They hurried down the stairs and swept quickly out the entrance of the Maidenvault. Without having to break stride, a plethora of impatiently waiting knights and banner lords and even a few Crownlands' ladies already smartly attached to House Stark immediately swooped in and around him and Cat. None of them looked particularly happy, but none dared say anything to him. 'I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!' He couldn't help it, a Cheshire Cat sized grin spread uncharacteristically across his ice schooled face. Sean didn't doubt for a minute that all the servants were already gossiping about them. Then his imagination got the better of him. "Why are you late Lord Stark? Such disrespect is unbecoming from a Lord Paramount to his King," Stannis thundered righteously from atop the Iron Throne. "I beg your Grace's pardon, but I was shagging the MILF in the North and the time simply got away from me." "If only you'd tup ME that hard, Stannis, then we might make a baby." Selyse nagged from the shadows of Sean's darkly humorous day dream.

"My lord?"

He turned to look at Cat, who was calling to him. She looked gorgeous, face healthfully flush and hair not quite pristine; a long tress here and there bobbing free of the restraining pins in the sunlight to accentuate the lifeforce flowing through her luscious body. 'There's a bit of a naughty inside of you Cat, ain't there girl?' "Yes, my lady?"

"Ser Olyvar," and she tilted her head to indicate the person walking the other side of him. "He's been calling you."

"Oh, Ser Olyvar, my apologies."

"Think nothing of it my lord. Important doings today. Much must be on your lordship's mind."

The young knight might have smirked.

Arya, skipping nearby in order to keep up with the fast pace, did snicker.

"And?" not Ned inquired, ignoring his daughter; finding that salacious rumor did fly faster than ravens' wings, though in all likelihood it was simply the result of one or ten too many "Oh Neds" Cat had loudly moaned.

"It went mostly well, my lord."

"Mostly?"

"When Lord Umber failed to draw a lot, he threatened to pull off Ser Ronnel's arms in order to win his."

"That must have gone over well," he snorted. His banners were a touchy lot. He was surprised his dalliance with Cat hadn't been interrupted by the vigorous sound of steel.

"Cooler heads prevailed, my lord. Lord Bolton suggested that an equitable arrangement might be made between Last Hearth and Goldgrass."

'Cooler? Try paler, or eviler, for Christ's sake.' "Silver? Gold?" he asked with a scowl. He didn't at all like the idea of the gift of Sansa's honor being bought and sold.

"No, my lord. Final payment was a sword, a set of armor, the Kingslayer's horse – which the Smalljon acquired somehow after the Whispering Woods, and a particularly prized long haired northern bull."

Sean stared hard at Olyvar.

The young knight simply shrugged. "Some suggested that in his dotage, the bull was becoming too much for his lord of the Last Hearth to handle in bed."

Sean couldn't help but laugh. "Who's dotage? The bull's or Greatjon's?"

Ser Olyvar smiled. "Lord Umber asked the same question and all agreed it was the bull's."

Sean laughed even harder. "So for that the Greatjon gets to …"

"Not the Greatjon, my lord. His son. Lord Roose pointed out that Lord Smalljon will likely have more years left to him dealing with your lordship's children than Lord Umber will with you, so why not let the son garner the honors.

Not Ned nodded knowingly. 'What the hell mischief are you up to Roose, you tricky, pale faced, shite?' "Alright. Good job arranging everything, Ser Olyvar. And be sure to thank your kin for assisting."

"I will my lord. And Ser Stevron also passes on his thanks to you," Olyvar replied. Then he lowered his voice for not Ned's ears only. "And my brother said to tell you he enjoyed your mummer's farce immensely."

Sean's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Ser Olyvar, you didn't?"

"No, my lord. But when there's chicanery a foot, if a Frey isn't in the middle of it, chances are better than middling one will smell it out."

'Damn,' he swore to himself.

As the trumpets blared and the Queen's procession 'finally' made its entrance at the far end of the throne room, Sean wondered that perhaps he shouldn't have exerted himself so vigorously earlier. Though the Winterfell contingent had technically been late arriving, earning him a brief scowl from the very same man he had set on the Iron Throne, the actor soon found that life at court very much mirrored the first rule of the sound stage: hurry up and wait. His feet hurt from the damned new shiny boots. His thick, long, Winterfell grey cape weighed a ton. He didn't remember the cape feeling so heavy on set in the heat of Malta and Mexico for Troy. 'I bet Christian wore some ultralight polymer crap; and he's more than a decade younger than me,' he thought jealously. 'They probably just CGIed the fucking thing,' he decided. His legs were about to start trembling he was so damned tired; and not a single canvas chair sitting just out of the shot for him to plunk his sorry Yorkshire arse down on.

A low murmur of dissatisfaction rumbled up out of some quarters in the vast hall, adding a discordant bass note to the higher pitched brass horns.

Not Ned's head snapped to see what was happening. "Damnit!" he hissed. Pages inserted throughout the procession were carrying brilliantly lit torches in some sort of homage to the Queen's bloody Red God ... and the Queen, 'blast her,' had exchanged her bland taste in gowns for a vibrant crimson one. Reluctantly he dragged his eyes off the spectacle, not pausing to spy out Sansa, to see the High Septon's reaction. The portly bastard, who was sharing the Iron Throne's platform with the Starks and Tullys, looked positively dyspeptic. 'This'll all go tits up if a holy war starts. One thing for Robert to have a drunk, fighting Red Priest as a pet, another thing altogether to have a Queen who spits in the face of the Seven.'

Wooosh!

"Fuck," he whispered.

Apparently several of the ladies in waiting had thrown some sort of powder on the torches and now they blazed even higher and redder.

Sean held his breath, waiting for the next unpleasant surprise to drop. Selyse Baratheon, for all she seemed to be doing to help Sansa come out of her shell, was a hard headed bitch according to both the books and the scuttlebutt from the Red Keep. If she had something planned, he'd have to stab her through her miserable, small, flame loving heart to stop her. And … ?

Nothing.

Without further incident the Queen, sans crown, proceeded to the foot of the stairs to the Iron Throne's platform and stopped. Sansa and some devilishly cute Targaryen blonde attendant came over to handle the backside and train of their mistress' dress.

Sean felt the tension begin to drift out of him.

Selyse went to one knee a bit awkwardly, then proudly raised her hit with an ugly stick of a face to gaze high up at her husband atop the menacing Iron Throne. "Azor Ahai reborn, your servant has come as you commanded," she declared in a tone that dared any to gainsay her.

'Son of a bitch!' Sean's skull started to throb. He needed a stiff drink, badly, very badly. Beside him, he felt Cat stiffen in shock.

Stannis stood slowly, the Iron Throne deadly sharp. Carefully, yet with a regal aura, the King descended one of the symbols of his power. Upon reaching the base, young Devan Seaworth, looking splendid in his squire raiment prominently decorated with House Baratheon's crowned stag, stepped out of the throne's shadow holding a velvet pillow.

"Arise Selyse Baratheon, and come accept that which is yours by right of marriage," the King charged his wife.

The queen rose and took the three steps up to the platform. Little Shireen slipped out from amongst the ladies in waiting to follow her mother. Sean and the others lowered their heads in dutiful acknowledgement of their royal status as both passed by on way to the King.

Selyse Baratheon was not attractive, but she was tall, very tall; over six feet and almost a match for her husband's six two or six three. Standing directly in front of Stannis her gown cloaked his figure, except for his broad shoulders, while the back of her head hid his face; only the crown, Robert's crown, the traditional crown of Westeros stood clearly visible perched on Stannis' bald dome.

"I, Stannis Baratheon, am the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," he intoned with deadly seriousness. "Selyse Baratheon, as my wife, you are Queen. This crown is yours."

The King turned and picked up from his squire's velvet pillow a circlet of red gold adorned with points in the shape of flames. Firmly he placed the crown on her mouse brown hair.

"One realm, one god, one king. Your Grace, in life and in death, I am yours, always," the Queen loudly proclaimed with an almost sexual fervor mixed in to her harsh tone.

For a split second Sean thought the metal flames atop Selyse's head sparkled and glowed with life.

Then Stannis turned his wife around to face the rest of the throne room.

'Shit.' "The Queen!" Sean yelled, almost missing his mark. His banners took their cue and cries of "The Queen!" rung out. The calls were not exactly enthusiastic, but they were sufficient to mostly drown out the Red God bullshit that the Queen's Men were shouting.

As the noise finally started to die away, not Ned bobbed his head over at Ser Jacelyn. Soon spear butts were vigorously, if unnecessarily, pounding the flagstone floor to officially bring the gathering back to order.

Sansa and the rest of the ladies in waiting now climbed the platform steps, well in Lollys Stokeworth's case more waddled, and took station respectfully behind the Queen. The King remained where he was, standing beside his wife

Ironhand also marched up the steps of the Iron Throne's platform in order to announce, "The King will now hold court."

Looking at the one handed commander of the reconstituted gold cloaks, Sean felt his own stump twitch. He wondered what epithet Lord Eddard Stark would someday garner in this shithole's history books. He sincerely hoped something about his rising from the dead or saving Westeros would trump the stupid, brutal loss of his hand.

"Are there any petitioners for his Grace?" Ser Jacelyn bellowed in a voice trained to cut through the din of battle or a crowded city street.

A thin voice cried out, "I would pledge my fealty and that of my House to his Grace."

The Commander of the Watch looked over at the King who bobbed his head in agreement. "Advance, Ser Lancel," Bywater directed.

'Let the mummer's farce commence,' the actor thought viciously.

A low hiss spread through the room as the pretty young Lannister marched up and knelt on both knees before the King.

Spearbutts struck the floor, demanding silence.

Lancel assumed the poise as if he was worshipping before one of the altars of the Seven and then began to speak, "I swear my fealty and service, and that of my entire House, to the one true rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Stannis of House Baratheon. I will ever give wise counsel to the Crown, supporting the aims and ideals of the Realm, as befits one of my station. Thus I, Lancel of House Lannister, swear before the Seven."

Stannis turned back to his squire Devan, and now upon the velvet pillow lay a sword that the King picked up. "Arise, Lancel Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. I acknowledge both your oath and the rights and offices to which you are entitled as the acknowledged head of your House."

The youth climbed quickly to his feet.

Stannis extended the sword. "Take this sword, so you may render justice so the Westerlands in your King's name."

Lancel accepted. "Your Grace is generous."

Stannis nodded. "Is there a boon you would ask of me?"

"There is, if both your Graces would be so kind?"

"We may," the Queen regally pronounced.

"My House would be indebted to you if you would accept my brother Martyn as a squire and my cousin Cerenna as a lady in waiting to your Graces."

"Send a raven to Casterly Rock, let your kin know we would gladly see them in our service. Is there anything else, Lord Lancel?" Stannis asked, even happening to sound not so begrudging with his generosity as he spoke.

The actor saw Lancel swallow hard. The boy's face was covered in sweat. 'Go on, you know you have to you weaselly shit.'

"A maiden has stolen my heart …"

Sean, despite knowing what was coming, still almost snorted in amusement.

"… yet her lady mother will not consent to let her marry me. Would speak to her on behalf of my suit, your Grace?"

"Who are this mother and child, Lord Lancel?"

"The Lady Mormont and her sweet daughter Dacey."

"Step forward Lady Maege and present your child to me."

For once the Lady of Bear Island was not wearing something martial, no leather or chain mail but a dress. Still, she looked like an old battle axe. Dacey however, bathed, primped, in a lovely dark green satin dress, and tiny white flowers festooning her no longer tightly braided hair looked quite fetching, even if a tall, strongly built woman wasn't to one's taste.

"Is it true? Your daughter would marry this Lord?"

"Aye, she would, your Grace," Maege answered, before adding, "and bear his brats too." When the chuckles died away, she continued. "But she's my eldest and my heir."

"And after the Lady Dacey, who is next in line?"

"My daughter Alysane, she's not utterly stupid and she has already thrown a litter."

Stannis paused to let his irritation at the part he was being forced to play pass by before he spoke again. "Lady Dacey, would you swear an oath renouncing all rights and those of any of your offspring to inherit Bear Island?"

"To be Lady of Casterly Rock? Aye, I swear it."

"Lord Stark, as Lord of Winterfell, to whom Bear Island has pledged fealty, do you accept this oath?"

"I do," not Ned responded.

"Do you have any other reservations to keep the bear and the lion from being betrothed, Lady Mormont?"

"No, your Grace," Maege answered with a cheery grin.

"Lord Lancel, go join your betrothed," the King commanded.

A roar of mirth and approval filled the air as the young lion sheepishly walked to the bear's den.

Spearbutts hammered.

"Is there another petitioner for his Grace?" Ser Jacelyn inquired.

Not Ned stepped forward. "I would ask his Grace for justice," he called forth in his best stage voice.

"Justice for who, Lord Eddard?" Stannis asked.

"For my House, from those in King's Landing who stained it while serving the usurper Joffrey Waters."

"Bring forth the prisoners!"

Five gaunt but still strong looking men and one old one trudged down the middle of the throne room, poked and prodded by their heavy guard more than a few times to make them move faster. While Lancel Lannister had engendered hisses, these five brought forth a tsunami of violent, ugly cries from the lordlings and knights and ladies of the court.

"Maester Pycelle, you are found guilty of knowing the usurper Joffrey Waters to be a bastard from an incestuous union and willingly serving him as your King in violation of your oath as Grand Maester," the King proclaimed angrily.

"All I ever did I did for the realm," he cried piteously. Three weeks in the Black Cells had not treated Pycelle kindly. Hair had come out in giant clumps from both scalp and chin. The scrawny, Roose Bolton pale legs showing out from beneath the oversize burlap he wore as his only garment wobbled as he stood. Angry red sores and boils gave the only hint of complexion.

"You've been a Lannister lickspittle since the day you came to King's Landing," Stannis snapped. "Your time as Grand Maester is done. For the betterment of your health, I urge you to resign your post and take the Black."

"The Wall would be the death of me," he whined desperately.

"And certain death is what you will receive if you do not resign your post so the Citadel may choose a new Grand Maester. One who actually serves the Realm."

'He'll be a breeze of fresh air compared to Maester Aemon,' Sean thought with a snicker.

"I … I will go, your Grace," Pycelle mumbled in defeat.

"Ser Ilyn Payne, you are found guilty of executing an innocent man. You are sentenced to death for your crime."

"Ahhhg gurgle durl claw chaw," or some such unintelligible mishmash spewed out of the tongue less knight's mouth. The former King's Justice gesticulated and pantomimed to go along with his gibberish.

The King simply stared at him with contempt.

"Seven Hell's, he demands a Trial by Combat!" thundered the Hound.

Sean found the demand predictable, just not the fact that Clegane would speak up on anyone's behalf but his own.

Ser Ilyn nodded in agreement.

"That is your right as a Ser, no matter how vilely you broke your vows," Stannis stated through the scowl on his tight face. "As I am without a Kingsguard to represent the crown, who here will fight for your King's justice?"

'Yes!' Sean held his breath.

A few murmurs started up, but only one voice immediately rang loud and clear. "I will, if your Grace will have me," shouted the Smalljon.

Stannis' eyes narrowed as he surveyed the hall. No other cries to earn the royal approval rang out. "Very well," he grumbled. "Lord Jon, you shall meet Ser Ilyn for Trial by Combat in one week."

"Thank you, your Grace," the Smalljon answered with a cheery grin. His father and the chiefs and captains from Umber lands present in the hall started to pound the big young man on the back in congratulations.

Sean sighed. His plan would work.

"Ser Mandon Moore," began the King.

"Trial by Combat!" he shouted, not even bothering to let Stannis declare the charge against him.

The King's lips went very thin with displeasure at being cut off. "Who here will fight for your King's justice?"

"I will, your Grace," Black Walder Frey proclaimed savagely.

'That's a win whoever dies,' Sean thought.

Soon Roose Ryswell was matched against Ser Preston Greenfield. And then Ser Hugo Vance got Ser Meryn Trant.

'And now you, Hound,' not Ned whispered sweetly to himself, his plan almost complete.

"Sandor Clegane,"

"Trail by Combat, if any of you have the balls to fight me with cold steel," he snarled.

"Your Grace?" not Ned called out.

"Yes, Lord Eddard."

"As the Hound is wont to say, 'I am no knight. I spit on them on their vows.' He is not a 'Ser,' therefore he has no right to a Trial by Combat."

Stannis stroked his close cropped beard. A sign he was thinking an issue over. "He is born of a noble, if lowly house. But your point is taken. What do you suggest?"

"He killed a childhood friend of my lady wife and her sister, Lord Baelish. As a gift, why don't you give the Hound to Lady Lysa Arryn to pass judgement on?"

"You piece of shit, Stark. Littlefinger tried to kidnap your daughter, and I saved her. I remember what you said about Lysa Arryn and Baelish, …"

"Silence!" roared the King.

Wisely the Hound stopped yapping.

Sean could tell Stannis knew he was being played and didn't like it in the least. However, he undoubtedly despised each of Littlefinger, the Hound, and Lysa Arryn; and would gladly see all three dead for their crimes, well, at least the two still left alive. The question was would the political expediency of possibly pulling the Vale to his side outweigh his own narrow sense of what constituted justice.

"Your Grace?" Sansa chirped out meekly.

Sean's jaw dropped.

"Silence," the Queen commanded of her lady in waiting.

"What is it girl," the King snapped.

"The Hound was kind to me, when these other weren't," she said in such a low voice that Sean barely heard her. "He refused Joffrey's commands to strike me. He made sure a maester was always brought to tend my … my wounds. I'm sure I would have died without him. He's … he's a horrible, brutal man, I know; but there is good in him. Please give him a chance for mercy," Sansa finished with a heart rendering sob.

"He killed Mycah," Arya suddenly screeched.

In a flash, Robb grabbed his little sister and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Stannis scratched at his beard even harder, clearly moved by Sansa's words. His eyes moved deliberately between father and daughter, weighing what was right, or perhaps less wrong.

"Then give the cur a choice, my Kingly Husband," spoke the Queen, interrupting the growing silence.

Stannis ground his teeth. "What would it be," he growled.

"The Eyrie or an Ordeal by Fire. Have him walk the coals if he dares."

And as Selyse Baratheon spoke those words, Sean could have sworn she shuddered with pleasure.