AN: Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire
Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things
We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark
Chapter IX – Sansa
The Hand's Tourney is just as Sansa remembers. She's again seated beside her Lord Father, in the stands erected to the left of the King. She remembers watching the varied Knights in her last life, as they rode forward, stopping before the King to remove their helms and bow. In this life, her eyes subtly wander over the crowd. She's acutely aware of who's seated behind her, his voice is overtly loud to her ears and his wit just as biting as she remembers as he mingles with other Nobles in the stands, she restrains a scowl, his proximity making her skin crawl.
Sansa catches the eye of Willas Tyrell as he ascends the stairs beside her with far greater difficulty than he had just days past, when they spoke. She offers him a secretive smile, small, almost unnoticeable, and wonders again, just how much he exaggerates his injury. With so many eyes in Kings Landing she understands why he would, a crippled heir is no threat… an able-bodied heir to a family who refused to bow at the end of the Rebellion, well that was another matter entirely. Willas returns her smile with the same subtlety as he passes, climbing the few steps more to lower himself into a seat aside his youngest brother's lover.
"Where is Arya?" Sansa allows herself to be distracted by her Lord Father's question, she's amused as she watches him shift uncomfortably in his seat, searching for Arya in the gathered crowd. He reminds her of Rickon then, the babe she remembered could never sit still.
Sansa sets a hand on his arm, and he looks to her, understanding crossing his eyes as she offers him a tiny smirk. "Peace Father, she's at her dancing lesson, I do say she's rather enjoying them."
Edward smiles, and gently clasps her hand. His smile is open, honest in its offering to her, and she has no worry that his smile is hiding a promise of a knife in her back. Jon's smile is much the same she recalls, so warm after so long outside in the cold.
Her eyes resume their wander, and catch upon the gleaming armour of Ser Loras Tyrell. He was kind in their last life, and she would have abided Margaery's plot to have her married to the Knight of the Flowers, had Tywin Lannister not interfered. She would have been safe in Highgarden, though unhappy she knows now, for Loras could not have loved her in the way she wanted. He looks much like his eldest brother she notes, and finds herself juxtaposing the two, Ser Loras is pretty, Sansa decides, as he stops before her with a blooming red rose. Willas however, is beautiful.
"Thank you Ser Loras." She accepts demurely, hiding her amusement as his eyes alight on a spot above her head, before dropping back to her. It must be nice, to love someone so. Her eyes follow him as he rides forward and gives the King an elaborate bow, and watches his smirk widen as The Mountain's horse throws his head, restless, hot for the white mare Ser Loras rides. Sansa eyes him critically. She remembers denying Ser Loras would do such a thing in her last life, still so enamoured with the belief that all Knights were honourable creatures, watching him now though she understands and doubts even her honourable Jon would face The Mountain without an advantage.
"Our brother is the last surviving trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen... Jon, is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."
Sansa's gaze is drawn to The Mountain, and she finds herself unable to look away, her brother's words haunting her as she watches the black stallion stomp, kicking up sand in every direction. She remembers Oberyn Martell, and his conversations with Tyrion when they believed her out of earshot, she remembers his devastation, when speaking of his sister Eliaand her children... murdered, on Tywin Lannister's orders. Bile rises in her throat as she recalls Joffrey's gleeful description of Aegon and Rhaenys' deaths' at the hands of Tywin's men, her heart hurting as she realises that Bran's revelation... meant Rhaenys and Aegon were as much Jon's siblings as she.
"A hundred Gold Dragons on The Mountain!"
Sansa stiffens, Littlefinger's voice sets her blood aflame, and she resists the urge to pull her skirt aside and reach for the dagger Jon presented her before she left Winterfell, and embed it in the traitorous man's throat.
"I'll take that bet!"
"Now what will I buy with a hundred Gold Dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish Wine? Or a girl from the Pleasure Houses of Lys?"
"You could even buy a friend."
The joust begins and ends in much the same way as Sansa remembers, with The Mountain's steed landing on the railing, and Ser Loras victorious. Men with gold on the outcome rise in outrage and exultation and Sansa hears Renly Baratheon laugh at the Mountain's failure.
"Such a shame Littlefinger, it would have been so nice for you to have a friend."
"And tell me Lord Renly, when will you be having your friend?" Sansa hears Petyr sit, and refrains from the urge to remove each of his fingers in the slowest manner possible as he rests his hand on her shoulder and leans toward her. She feels his breath on her neck and she's reminded of the forceful kiss he pressed against her lips before he sold her to Ramsey Bolton. "Loras knew his mare was in heat, quite crafty really."
"I would like to see you ride against The Mountain without any of your tricks." Sansa answers, relieved when he releases her shoulder. She can feel his eyes still upon her, and knows he's got that same calculating gleam in his eye as when he told her he dreamed of ruling the Seven Kingdoms... with her at his side.
The crowd roars, and Sansa looks, flinching with exaggerated disgust as The Mountain removes his stallion's head with his greatsword, before advancing on Loras. She sees Renly stand out the corner of her eye, Willas clearly wanting to follow him, but restraining himself, his knuckles white as he grips his cane. Sansa's distracted as The Hound catches a blow meant for Loras with his broadsword, the steel of both swords singing as they clash. The King rises and The Hound narrowly avoids his brother's swing, Sansa watching with veiled amusement as Ser Loras thanks him by raising the younger Clegane's hand in triumph, declaring the stoic guard Champion.
The Tourney ends, and Septa Mordane hovers by her side as the stands empty, Sansa finding herself annoyed by the elderly woman's insistence they return to the Tower of the Hand. She makes a point to brush past Willas Tyrell as he descends the stands slowly and obediently follows Septa Mordane from the Tiltyard. Sansa understands now Arya's proclivity for escaping the spiteful woman's lessons, for Arya had never received anything but scorn from the woman who heaped so much praise upon Sansa for her poise and stitching. It bothers her now, that despite her Lord Father's insistence she be allowed some freedom, the Septa is still rather overbearing, and she finds it difficult to remain under the woman's ever watchful eye. With all that occurred in her last life, Sansa has no desire to be transformed into Cersei's perfect little bird, or Joffrey's meek little wife in this life. She wants to be the warrior Jon sees her as, the woman who led men like Ramsey Bolton to their deaths with a smile, and the most powerful player in the game of thrones.
She slips from the Tower of the Hand with little difficulty, the few Stark Household Guards too easy to get by and the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch and the Red Cloaks of the Lannister Guard nowhere to be seen as she traverses the Red Keep to the Godswood. The Godswood here is different to the acres of Sentinels, Ironwoods, Oaks and Ash at Winterfell, this wood is smaller, lighter, filled with Elm, Alder and Black Cottonwood, even the Heart Tree is wrong, there's no bark whiter than bone or leaves of striking vermillion that decorate an ancient Weirwood, instead there's a great Oak, covered in Smokeberry vines and Dragon Breath growing wildly below. Sansa kneels, offering a prayer to the Old Gods, there's something wild about the Godswood, even more so now, she feels a thousand unseen eyes watching her and though she suspects Bran's hand in pulling them back after her dream, she knows it was the Old Gods who allowed the feat.
Sansa makes no move as she hears the rustle of clothing behind her, Jon's dagger is within easy reach should her estimation of his character be entirely wrong, and she rises, turning to face the visitor. There are no eyes here, none of Varys' little birds, or eyes of anyone aside the Old Gods, and he's just as she expected, standing tall, with little weight resting upon his cane, and a curious expression on his face as he looks at her.
She smirks. "I see you got my note My Lord."
He holds the small scroll between two fingers. "I admit I was curious when you slipped it into my hand at the Tourney, more so when I read the contents."
"Tell me Lord Willas, as Heir to Highgarden do you speak for House Tyrell, or just yourself?" Sansa asks.
Willas raises an eyebrow. "I am the next Lord of Highgarden and I will be the Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South upon my Father's passing, when I speak I do so for the entirety of House Tyrell. Who do you speak for Sansa of House Stark?"
"I speak for House Stark, though I will never hold the title of Lady Stark, my word is as good as that of my eldest brother."
"Not your Lord Father?" Willas asks.
Sansa clenches her jaw. She can't speak for her Lord Father, Bran's revelation meant she wouldn't even try, his secrets and his honour may have saved Jon as a babe, but they led him to his death here, in Kings Landing, and she isn't sure she can prevent it in this life... no matter how greatly she wishes to do so. She can't truly even speak for Robb, though she's indicated different to Willas.
"No." She answers shortly and she doesn't elaborate. "Your titles, they were gifted to House Tyrell by Aegon Targaryen during the Targaryen Conquest were they not?"
"As were the titles of House Stark." Willas replies evenly.
Sansa's smile is cunning. "We ruled as Kings long before the Targaryen Conquest, and bent the knee to save our people. We did not rise as from Steward to Lord, as Harlen Tyrell did."
If Willas is shocked by her statement he doesn't show it. Sansa finds herself respecting his stoic façade, and realises just whom he reminds her of. The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell. She imagines Margaery was not the only Tyrell sibling to learn at the matron's heel.
"House Tyrell is underestimated by the King." Sansa says bluntly, amused to see the slightest of cracks in Willas's armour. "The realm thinks House Tyrell benevolent, and they believe that like House Stark, we are utterly beholden to honourable conduct... they are fools. They forget that a rose's beauty often hides thorns, and that Direwolves exist this side of the Wall. House Tyrell is just as cunning if not more so than House Lannister, and I will not allow my family to lose the game of thrones because we would not play." She can feel his eyes follow her as she reaches for the rose she'd tucked into the twisting Smokeberry vines on the great Oak. "House Tyrell remained loyal to House Targaryen through the Battle of the Trident and the Sack of Kings Landing, until Lord Tyrell dipped the banners when my Lord Father came to lift the Siege of Storm's End."
"So tell me, Lord Willas Tyrell, Heir to the Lordship of Highgarden, Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, where do the loyalties of House Tyrell lie now? Does House Tyrell belong to King Robert beholden as he be to House Lannister?" She watches him closely now, gratified as his eyes widen when she continues. "Or do they lie further across the Narrow Sea, with the Beggar King and his sister?"
"You know much for a girl of thirteen." Willas replies, and Sansa recognises the gleam in his eyes, it was much the same as Margaery's as she plotted to marry her to Loras. "Despite your Lord Father's apparent loyalty to the crown you seem to hold nothing but contempt for the King upon the Iron Throne. Tell me why, and I will answer."
Sansa raises an eyebrow, but does as he wishes. "You are a fool if you believe House Baratheon rules the Seven Kingdoms in anything but name. It is House Lannister that presides over Westeros, and they have done so since Tywin Lannister sold his daughter to Jon Arryn for Robert Baratheon. You studied the ruling houses as a child, just as I did, so tell me, has there ever been a Baratheon boy born who was not black of hair?"
She can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, understands the conflict welling in his chest. Sansa's running on adrenaline, this calculated risk she's taken to reveal to be working against the crown in the most dangerous place she could... in the heart of the Red Keep. She's essentially handed her life to him, based on information she'd gathered of his personality in her last life, and what she's learnt so far in this one. If this conversation does not go as she hopes, she's wasted her second chance, and she doesn't believe she'll get a third.
Willas takes a breath and Sansa waits. "I was seven when Robert's Rebellion began, just a child, but I remember Rhaegar vividly. He was kind and noble and I decided that when I was Lord of Highgarden I would follow him, as faithfully as Harlen followed Aegon. But Rhaegar fell, and House Tyrell swore fealty to the new King on the Iron Throne. Forever, Growing Strong." He says and Sansa wonders if she's made a mistake. Jon's dagger is still strapped to her thigh within easy reach and she hopes she won't have to use it here. "King Robert is not the same man now as he was when he won his Rebellion, but he will surrender the Iron Throne no easier than the Mad King."
"The Mad King died laughing, with Jamie Lannister's sword through his chest." Sansa replies sharply. "My brother was thrown from the top of a tower at Winterfell because he saw the Queen fucking her twin, and you expect me to believe that Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, a cruel boy with none of the defining Baratheon features is Robert Baratheon's trueborn son?"
Willas's stoic façade slips, and Sansa knows he believes her harsh words. "By the Gods. Who would you have House Tyrell support Lady Sansa?" He asks darkly. "House Stark?"
Sansa rolls her eyes, again channelling Arya. She offers him the rose she holds, and knows he recognises it as the one Loras gifted her with at the beginning of his ride at the Tourney. "You learnt at the knee of your Grandmother, Lady Olenna did you not? You know as well as I that the current Lord of Highgarden has a soft spot for his youngest son, the Knight of the Flowers. I do suspect House Tyrell will be supporting Renly Baratheon's claim upon the Iron Throne should Joffrey's true parentage be revealed." Willas takes the rose and she gives him a cunning smile. "Do give that to Lord Renly would you, I would hate for him to think he has a competitor for Ser Loras's affections."
"And whom would House Stark be raising their banners for?" Willas asks.
"My Lord Father is honourable, he believes in the lines of succession. I know he would have us declare for Stannis Baratheon, should the worst happen to King Robert."
Willas laughs. "Stannis Baratheon has no business in becoming the King on the Iron Throne. The Bannermen of House Baratheon will not follow him, they have not yet forgotten the Siege of Storm's End, and how many of their children he led to their deaths."
"My eldest brother would no more declare for Stannis than the Baratheon Bannermen would. Robb will declare for the North, and the Bannermen of House Stark will declare for him. Maybe it's time House Stark ruled ourselves again, after all, it was House Targaryen we bowed our Kingship to, not House Baratheon and certainly not House Lannister."
"And would you bow to House Targaryen again?" Willas asks, his smile just as cunning as Margaery's.
Sansa smirks, and watches a light dawn in Willas's eyes as he realises that for all she's revealed she still knows more than she's telling. She pauses beside him as she makes to return to the Tower of the Hand. "Perhaps." She concedes, and drops into a light curtsey. "Good night Lord Willas."
His whispered "Good night Lady Sansa," follows her as she leaves the Godswood, again finding it too easy to traverse the supposedly well guarded halls of the Red Keep. She's settling into her bed, a relieved smile crossing her lips when her door is flung open and a lantern swung into her view.
"Sansa wake up!" Arya shouts, and Sansa rises from her bed easily.
"Arya?" She asks confused, her eyes widening as she spies the crystalline tear tracks on Arya's rosy cheeks. "What is it?"
"Please, come quick, it's Father… he's been attacked."
Sansa's blood runs cold.
AN: Willas returns and Ser Jamie attacks the Hand. Sansa's first foray into the Game of Thrones has begun, and I do believe she's gained her first ally.
Chapter 12 has been rather difficult to write as such I have decided to post this in the hopes it will revive my muse. Thank you to all 112 reviewers, all 300 favourites and all 404 follows, I can't thank you all enough for the response you've had to this story, every notification I get for this story spurs me onwards and keeps me writing. There aren't enough words for me to describe how grateful I am.