To my beloved and loving wife;
I hope this letter finds you well. I am sure that you are likewise concerned about me. As you may be aware, I was recently stabbed. I am healing well from the stabbing. And I am drinking a lot of wine with herbs, which is relaxing, so I suppose there are benefits to having been stabbed.
I have dismissed the maesters who were to attend you. Concerns about their loyalties have come to my attention. The Dragonstone guards will attend to their disposal. Septa Gianna can remain, and she will find other attendants through the Faith: fortunately, since he agreed to our marriage, the High Septon has nearly as much at stake here as we do. Be cautious in your trust otherwise.
Things have been difficult. I know that. People have been stabbed. But I can give you protection and security, not just for yourself, but for the children, too.
Jon arrived back at court a few days ago, and will travel down to Summerhall with us. He keeps watching me as if I am going to leap onto dragonback and fly out to Dragonstone to visit you. Paranoid bastard. In fact, when you think about it, that is literally what he is. I really do not understand why he is always so morose. I don't go around like that, and I was stabbed not long ago.
Let me think: what news of the court will you have missed? Aside from the stabbing, of course.
Martyn Lannister is the talk of King's Landing after defeating two Kingsguard in single combat. They were fools, of course, but the minstrels don't know that and they are already drafting songs. Since he is now exonerated, I have had no choice but to confirm him in his Lordship and host him at court. What an insufferable ass. Every time he talks I pretend that my wound – the wound from being stabbed - is paining me and I have to lie down. Eventually he is going to do something that offends the kind of person who holds grudges.
After Varys' death, I am without a master of whispers. I would like to ask my cousin Sarella, but given recent bad relations with that side of the family, I'll wait a while before making that decision. I'm sitting around recovering from the stabbing, so I've been reading his files myself. They are fascinating. Did you know that I met your sister Arya at the Inn of the Crossings? She was calling herself Nan at the time. I had no idea. Varys really should have told me. And better: she's been knocking boots with a blacksmith! Not that I blame her – I've seen the man, and he doesn't talk much, but makes up for it in other ways. Very Nice.
Out of curiosity, why is there what appears to be a small weirwood tree in the Godswood? And what is wrong with it? Every weirwood I've ever seen has been white, but the trunk of this one is black. Jon refuses to answer my questions about it (I'm starting to suspect he doesn't like me), but he looked very worried when he left the Godswood. Perhaps it needs to be watered more?
Arianne has vacated the Queen's chambers. I hope you will like the new decorations. As you are likely to spend a great deal of time there. Davos and Garlan, by which I mean Jon, suggested that you establish a household on Dragonstone after the wedding in the Sept, but that is impossible. I want you with me. I like living dangerously.
Being stabbed is remarkably painful, if you were unaware.
Aegon
Sansa:
As her waistline slowly vanished week by week, the miserable symptoms of her early pregnancy had subsided. Waking up in the mornings and not wanting to clutch a basin and spew out one's guts was a glorious feeling. Being nice to people who would plot one's death in a heartbeat was not.
Margaery Tyrell's smile didn't falter as she took the jewel case from one of her attendant cousins. "I was so amazed when Garlan told me," she said. "I mean … it is a lovely thing, but so unusual. I had no idea what it was."
I miss Tyrion, thought Sansa. We could barely make cordial conversation over dinner, but by the Gods he was wonderful when people he hated were around. Like the Tyrells. What would he say here … "The woman must be blind, stupid, or lying. And her eyesight seems excellent."
As Margaery had said, the Star of the North was an odd gem. It was huge, bigger than Sansa's thumb nail, and had been set in a heavy silver chain to bear the weight. Sansa remembered her mother wearing it only on the most formal of occasions. In colour it was barely recognizable as a sapphire at all; it was a smoky blue, and would ordinarily be little more than a curio. But the extraordinary thing about it was the six-pointed star that appeared in its depth when it reflected light.
Margaery dropped her gaze, a pretty flush staining her cheeks. "I'm just glad to be in a position to return it to its rightful owner," she said. "I'm so sorry that none of the other items came to me. They must have been sold by Cersei Lannister."
"You were never given any diamonds?" Sansa asked.
"Not one." Margaery's chin lifted defiantly. "I brought many jewels with me to King's Landing, so there was no need. The Reach is the wealthiest of the Kingdoms. What would I want with stolen jewels from Cersei Lannister?" Her mouth twisted as she said that name.
We all hated Cersei. That doesn't mean Margaery hated the diamonds.
Sansa put the jewel back into the case and fastened it securely. It had been intended as payment for one ill-fated betrothal. Now it was going with her into another royal union. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to wear it. No. This is for my daughter, to be her security. Her birthright.
She thought of the girl she had glimpsed so briefly in the weirwood, of the strength in her features. What is to be her fate? Her son's future she could see clearly. The throne, a dragon, fathering heirs, ruling. What is to become of my daughter?
"I am glad we had the chance to have this talk." Margaery said.
Sansa nodded. We do need to talk, you and I. "I did take the liberty of arranging refreshments. The cooks here have managed to make acceptable lemoncakes. I've never asked – do you like them?"
"I love lemoncakes," Margaery said firmly.
She'd probably say that if she vomited at the sight of them. How things have changed.
Margaery's eyes were bright with envy. "Have you been fitted for your crown yet?" She asked, with a small laugh. "I found that such a long, tedious process. Not as bad as wearing it, though. The weight of mine was terrible. I was always so glad to take it off at the end of the night."
Yes Margaery, we are all reminded that you were a queen.
The jewellers had in fact fitted Sansa before she had left King's Landing, although she had yet to see the finished product. Her crown was to be a delicate thing, styled after Aegon's but made of silver rather than gold, and far lighter. There were to be dragons twisting around her temples. Aegon had wanted rubies, she had been told, but he had agreed that they would not shine properly next to her hair. So the gems were to be black diamonds. It would be waiting for her at the Sept of Baelor.
"I'm sorry, if you don't want to talk about the preparations, I quite understand," Margaery said. "I found the lead up to my wedding with Joffrey quite exhausting." Margaery reached out and took Sansa's hand. "Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help."
"There is not, but thank you for asking."
"Just the clothes fitting alone! But then you always have dressed so beautifully."
My life has gone to hell and back, Sansa thought, as she looked down at her sleeve: a vision in fabric and decoration. Perhaps I am Queen of Westeros, perhaps I am the Aegon's whore, carrying his bastards. Septa Mordane's accusing face flashed in front of her eyes. But at least I don't have to worry about looking shabby. After eight years of doing her own embroidery, there was something to be said for that.
"I hope that you have been treated with courtesy by my kin."
"Prince Jon has been a paragon. You would never think he's spent all these years with criminals and wildlings up at the Wall. And I know Lord Arryn quite well, of course, through Myranda. How charming he always is."
Sansa paused. There was a gaping omission there. "And my brother?"
Margaery flushed and bit her lip, although there was a gleam to her eye. "There might have been some unkind remarks about the fate of your dowry, and how you were set aside when I was betrothed to Joffrey. He is very young."
Cold fury swept over Sansa. Rickon, I will flay you. She squeezed the Tyrell girl's hand in sudden sympathy.
"Margaery, I want you to know that you and your husband will be given all courtesies and comforts, both here and at the Red Keep. Although in the circumstances I cannot make any promises, I do intend to make all efforts to protect you from displays of temper like my brother displayed."
"Oh, I don't mind in the least. Your brother is quite sweet. And growing up to be very handsome." Margaery hesitated. "I never had the chance to apologize for what happened when we were girls in the Red Keep."
Sansa looked quizzically at Margery.
"I mean … I wouldn't want there to be any hard feelings if we are to be family. When Jon marries my cousin Alys."
"Marriages can do a great deal to bring families together, in the right circumstances." These circumstances are not those circumstances, Sansa had no intention of allowing Jon to become betrothed to anyone except herself, but it was not particularly in her interests to allow the Tyrells to know that. "Alys is a nice girl."
"She is," Margaery enthused. "Dutiful, accomplished, and very pretty. We are all very proud of her. Bookish – which your cousin isn't - but then Jon is so fond of his friend Sam, the maester. Isn't there a saying that opposites attract?"
Oh, nice touch. I wouldn't have thought of that approach.
"The match has things to recommend it," Sansa said neutrally, taking a sip of her tea. "And it is good to know that the Tyrells are happy with the arrangement as proposed, and not attempting to make it anything more. No doubt it must be tempting for you to imagine yourself as Queenmaker, if you cannot be Queen yourself."
Margaery's smile slipped a notch. "I …"
"Jon's suggestion makes me nervous." Sansa put a hand on her belly. "If anything were to happen to my children, he would be heir to the throne. It might be tempting for the ambitious to take advantage of that." There was a dead silence. No, Margaery. I am not as naïve as you think I am. She continued briskly. "But fortunately for all concerned, your brother Willas and I have been corresponding for years. My interests have been north of the Trident, on the whole, and his have been south, but we have learned to communicate well to avoid … unpleasantness. Your presence here is a signal of good faith from Willas."
Margaery's face suddenly went as white as milk.
Sansa stopped. This was awkward. "I'm sorry … surely you knew that you were a hostage."
She had intended this talk as a caution against the Tyrell girl putting any plans of her own in motion. A dose of moon tea, a dram of poison … Those things might still have been in the back of Margaery's mind. But Sansa had thought she'd known risks she was taking.
She felt a rush of pity. They dangled a crown in front of her like a child's toy. Maybe they told her she would always be safe, protected. She probably believed it, too. Now Margaery is learning that those who love her will not always act in her best interests. That is a bitter cup to taste.
"So if my family moves against you to make Alys queen, you kill me?"
"Oh, no, I would never do that." Sansa was genuinely startled and dismayed. Didn't Olenna teach her better than this?
"Then what is the point of holding me?"
Sansa hesitated, but there was no point in obsecrating. It would be crueller to leave Margaery wondering. And it is never too late for a bit of education in the way the game is played.
"Of course I would not kill you. I would kill your husband. Then Loras, and Garlan if I can arrange it. I would offer you in marriage to a Florent. The Tyrells have none of the blood of the Gardener Kings, as you know well. I'm sure that if a marriage to you was secured, they could make a credible attempt on Highgarden."
"Never!" Margaery's eyes were wide with fear and fury. "I would never—I would die first."
"Would you? How would you arrange that? Happily, the situation will not arise," Sansa said. "It is not in the interests of either side for that scenario to play out. The point of having a hostage is so that the need to take action never materializes." Sansa patted Margaery's hand. "You've had a shock, but I'm sure that when you think it over, you will see that I am right, and that there is nothing to fret about. Have a lemoncake. I find them very comforting in hard times."
The ride down from the castle in a litter had been trying, but it was well worth it, Sansa thought. The day was bright, so their attendants had strung up an impromptu pavilion by the side of the bay to shelter them as they ate. There were snails cooked in onions and butter with soft white rolls to soak up the sauce; scallops nearly as big as Ermensande's palm on beds of steamed greens; candied walnuts and strawberries served with thickened cream. Shaggydog and Ghost splashed in the shallows. One of the maids plucked at a lute; the woman was a terrible lady's maid, but a fine musician whose primary duty was caring for Sansa's instruments.
After eating, Rickon announced his intention to swim. He stripped off his clothes and dropped them in a heap. He strolled down the sand. Half way there, he bent over to scratch his foot. Sansa put her hand in front of Ermensande's eyes. Even Lyanna winced.
"Sometimes Rickon looks so much like Jon," Sweetrobin observed.
Lyanna let out a peal of laughter. She gave Sansa and Robin a sharp look, then held out her hand to Ermensande. "Come swim with me. We can wear our shifts," she added at the girl's dubious look.
"I don't know how."
"Wade, then. And I'll show you how when you are ready to learn."
Sansa watched the two girls walk along the beach together. "Lyanna is good for Rickon," she said. "They've both matured this last year. And I'm glad you and Rickon are getting to know each other."
"Rickon is fine in small doses. I was stuck on a ship with them for a fortnight," Robert said with a visible shudder. "They gave each other sheep's grease massages on deck. In the nude. I've seen far more of my cousin than I ever expected to."
Sansa laughed. "You should have seen him when I first got him back from the Wildlings. Think of the hill clans."
"They are so energetic," Robin said. "All that sweating."
"Ruins clothes," Sansa agreed, with a sniff. "And then one becomes smelly." She sobered, and looked out to the water. "What do you think of Ermensande?"
Robert looked down at his plate. Sansa could see the sudden tension in his shoulders. "She's a sweet girl. I don't like Jon, but he did the right thing sending her to me for safety."
"She is a dear little thing. Clever and loyal. She'll flower in a few years." Time to cut to the heart of the matter. "I'd like you to consider a betrothal."
He had seen where she was going with this, likely before the table for their small feast had even been laid. Robert sighed. "We have been scheming to wed me to Wylla Manderly for years. Even if it had not been formalized, the Manderlys make good friends and bad enemies. And Wylla and I get along acceptably well." He shrugged. "She doesn't like it when I look at her breasts, and I won't eat her grandfather's pies, but there are worse starts to a marriage."
"The Manderly marriage was to secure control over shipping trade in the Bite," Robert said. "You know the plan as well as I. Control shipping on the east coast, put a road from east to west through Mount Cailin, encourage the Ironborn to trade not raid, and secure the riches of the Riverlands with the might of the north and the vale. And the Freys get the shaft."
He raised his cup, and she touched it with hers.
"I know, Robin. But … that was all premised on our family controlling the Northern Alliance, and having no ties to the south. Things have changed. It would help the throne if the Vale was connected to the most powerful house of the Crownlands."
"You want to abandon the plan." He shifted. "Sansa, we've worked for years to strengthen the Northern Alliance. The wealth of the Riverlands, the resources of the north, and the security of the Vale, all working together."
"Things have changed. Our family is connected to the future of the Targaryens through my children. And who are you to talk about abandoning the plan? Robert, what were you thinking with this talk of declaring independence?"
He flushed. "We should have thought it out more, I admit. I had intended to talk to you and Jon before raising it. But—"
"But? BUT? You were going to start a war."
"Do you truly expect me to maintain homage and fealty to the man who raped you? What kind of honour would I have if I did nothing?"
Sansa sighed. "Rickon drew his sword and offered to fight for me. Quite dramatically. Were you planning on doing something similar?" She looked out to the bay. I want to think about how beautiful this day is. I want a day free.
Robert's voice was quiet. "Not dramatically."
Sansa looked back. She didn't even see it at first. Laying on the table between them was something that hadn't been there a moment ago. A dagger. It was undecorated, at first glance seemily an ordinary blade. But on closer examination, the black handle was dragonbone, the smoky darkness of the blade Valyerian steel. Her breath caught.
"That blade started a war once before," she said. "You shouldn't have kept it."
"Was my father wrong to defy the mad king, when he demanded he surrender Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon?"
"I'm going to King's Landing. I'm going to stay there. If Jon can do something about Aegon, so be it. But, if not, I will find a way to live with Aegon. I have to." She forced her voice to remain strong. I must be Alayne now. Alayne, whom Robert loves, who he is used to listening to. "He's not so bad. He wrote me the funniest letter –"
"Sansa," Robert interrupted. "I know Aegon, remember? The Vale is close to the Crownlands, and he hunts in the Vale regularly. I know what he is like. And … he's wonderful. When he wants to be. When he turns the charm on you. He says all the right things. But he will never change. He doesn't want to."
She sighed, and looked at her plate. "Sweetrobin—"
"Baelish wanted me dead. You didn't accept that. Just take the knife." Robert said. "You don't have to close off any possibilities. You have choices."
You have choices, Aegon had said, that night at Harrenhal. Sansa shivered, and her fingers closed around the hilt. Robert quietly passed her the sheath.
"I wanted this to be a happy day," she said.
Robert nodded. "I could make fun of Jon some more, if that would help?"
His tone was completely serious. Sansa found herself laughing.
"Sir Gloom and Doom. Lord Fog - because he is thick and grey and rather dense. Prince mopes-a-lot. Prince dark cloud. Lord woe-is-me. The moping dragon …"
And somehow, despite everything, it was a happy day.